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meowzfordayz · 11 months

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when you’re going through an episode — mitsuri, shinobu, kyojuro, sanemi, giyuu

Author’s Note: it’s difficult to accurately capture the scope of bipolar disorder in a comfort fanfic, so just know that these preferences barely graze the surface of what it means to have bipolar, and that it’s more complicated and nuanced than fixing a bad day w/ a hug. 🖤 Update: was just informed that BPD stands for Borderline Personality Disorder. 😅 Apologies for my misunderstanding/mistake, but hope this still provides comfort! 🫶🏽

when you’re going through an episode — mitsuri, shinobu, kyojuro, sanemi, giyuu

Kanroji Mitsuri x Reader, Kocho Shinobu x Reader, Rengoku Kyojuro x Reader, Shinazugawa Sanemi x Reader, Tomioka Giyuu x Reader

Word Count: ~1,000

CW: bipolar disorder

Emergency Request Fulfilled: I’ve been so depressed, stuck in the bpd episode for like a week. I can barely will myself to leave my bed

Could you maybe do some female demon slayer characters (Mitsuri, shinobu, lady tamayo, female muzan, etc) taking care of a reader also going through a bad depressive episode?

Emergency Request Fulfilled: hello, i am requesting for an emergency request of maybe the hashiras (esp rengoku) comforting their bpd lover while theyre currently going thru a bpd episode

my bpd has been really bad as of late and my episodes r exhausting me, i just want to be comforted. feel free to write whenever, i adore your writing sm!! thank you

~faqs~

When you’re going through an episode…

… Mitsuri’s talked with you previously to ensure she’s as educated and prepared for your episodes as she can be, but having an outline of how to support you is never quite the same as actually executing it. It’s difficult for her to not take your disorder personally, because she prides herself on being joyful, enthusiastic, and positive; she can only handle gentle rejection so many times before she needs space. That being said, she feels safe enough to communicate her own fears and disappointments, so ~space generally entails you shooing her out of the house for ~an hour to treat herself to bubble tea and sunshine before rejoining you back in the pillow fort (which she always makes because she knows it helps you feel just a little lighter; if it means guests can’t use the living room for an extended period, then oh well). Sometimes she’s successful in coaxing you along with her, fingers interlaced loosely with yours, her smile wide as ever; other times she’s sure to return with your go-to order, plus a few photos of pretty flowers that reminded her of you.

… Shinobu does her best to listen. Whether you’re waking her up at 2am Shinobu, I had a nightmare, calling her on her lunch break I haven’t gotten out of bed yet, or showering while she sits on the toilet lid I’m so tired, thank you for waiting for me; it’s a simple gesture that goes a long way. She knows she doesn’t have to have profound replies, just as she knows how important and special it is that you feel safe enough to let her into your head, especially when she knows how low you’re feeling. It also helps her—gently—interrupt you when you start catastrophizing or spiraling, counter your self-directed negative perceptions, and gauge your overall mood. She rarely offers advice—she knows she’s your partner, not your therapist—but she’s grateful she gets to bring a calm, logical presence to your weighted, preoccupied thoughts. When you smile faintly, eyes almost shining, couch cushion sinking as you scoot yourself closer to her warmth; that’s when she knows she’s on the right track. “I appreciate you,” you murmur, words sweet and apologetic on her skin. “And I appreciate you,” she chuckles quietly, body shifting to accommodate you curling into her, “You make me happy too.”

… Kyojuro does everything with an extra hint of softness. He understands maintaining a sense of normalcy can be helpful, but his chest aches at the exhaustion in your eyes, the halfhearted grip of your hand in his, how you laugh for his sake when he tries to make you smile — not because he actually succeeded. From washing your hair to feeding you bites of lunch, he goes out of his way to ease the process of simply being; to spark joy in the state of living. He knows satisfying basic needs are vital to getting through your episodes, just as he knows eating, bathing, going for a walk can be some of the hardest to do. Tough love isn’t his preferred method, so he opts for: making airplanes sounds while directing a spoonful of dinner toward your mouth, insisting he can’t reach his back to wash it, so, “Please join me in the shower! I need you!”, and claiming his hand feels lonely, “Could you hold it during my walk? I fear holding my own hand does not nearly suffice.” He doesn’t mean to belittle or baby you, but he’ll try anything to see you smile or even roll your eyes — to get to say I love you too.

… Sanemi doubts his ability to care for you. Make no mistake: he loves you, and doesn’t resent you in the slightest. He does, however, feel completely out of his depth. He understands in theory that loving someone isn’t all ease and sunshine, but in practice? He’d do anything to feel your smile on his lips, to have you snuggle further into his chest as he holds you, to hear you chat about your day, your favorite color, how you almost got caught in a downpour — anything, to know you’re ~okay. It takes a while for him to accept that ~okay comes in waves, and that silence on your end is not inherently rejection of his affection and effort. Telling him, “Even if I can’t express it in the moment, knowing you’re here beside me always makes me happy,” definitely helps reassure him that he can do something for you—by simply being him—and caressing his cheek when you think he’s asleep, murmuring, “Thank you for being patient with me, I love you,” reminds him all over again that I love you.

… it’s difficult for Giyuu to support you without feeling low himself. He feels so strongly for you, and is almost too close to provide the steady, neutral responses that seem to help you most. He can always hold you, can always kiss your forehead, touch your knuckles to his cheek, but he can’t always listen — he can’t always bend without breaking completely and utterly for you. Which isn’t to say you’re over reliant on or demanding of him; it’s just hard for him to know how much you’re hurting without taking that hurt into his heart and making it his own. He wants to be there for you, but navigating his boundaries and your needs definitely takes time, practice, tears, and forgiveness. “I want you to be yourself around me,” he murmurs, body spooning protective and cool behind you, “But I’m not the best when it comes to certain parts of you.” Nodding slightly, you clutch his hand to your chest, eyes closed as you reply, “And that’s okay. You can’t be good with all of me, and I’m not great with all of you either. But we both try, don’t we?” “Of course.” “That’s enough for me.” It’s enough for me too he thinks as he kisses the back of your head, grateful for the feeling of your smile grazing his fingertips.

#preferences #modern au #kimetsu no yaiba #demon slayer #kanroji mitsuri #mitsuri x reader #kocho shinobu #shinobu x reader #rengoku kyojuro #kyojuro x reader #shinazugawa sanemi #sanemi x reader #tomioka giyuu #giyuu x reader

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pinkestlittlebutterfly · 4 months

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Servamps are immortal, and lead lives that span far back into what we consider the fogs of history today. Every now and then, however, they leave tracks along the paths they walk, whispers of their presence that can be traced through the centuries, leaving an imprint on the world to this day.

Sometimes this is intentional. Hugh was always conscious of images, and took great care to construct the picture painted of him and his kin in fables and stories and whispers on the street. To be a vampire is to be noble and elegant and a little bit prideful; it’s black velvet capes and charming, fanged smiles and hunting for virgin blood at night, for a dash of purposeful fear to keep away unwanted attention. He’s quite proud of how far his legacy carried.

Sometimes the traces left are accidental. Kuro would never know, but there is a little patch of land in England, a cluster no bigger than a few, tiny villages, where old, weathered grandmothers still tell the young children the bedtime stories of their youth, of a cat and a wolf that walked together at night. The tales have warped over time, embellished with charming detail of the adventures they would have had together, but if Kuro were to listen in, he’d remember those walks with bittersweet fondness.

Sometimes remnants of a Servamp’s life are plentiful, proof of their presence brought into tangible form, to be found and locked away centuries later in the dimly lit cellar of a mansion shrouded in secrets.

Lily spent his immortal life among the noble and eccentric; men with money and time to invest in the beautiful things in life. He mingled with poets and painters, had his fair skin and gold hair woven into songs and sonnets still read to this day, and captured on canvas whenever he did not quite manage to escape another artist looking for a new model. He has been Adonis and Antinuous and Troilus; and once an artist whose advances he rejected named his painting Narcissus. Lily still gets annoyed whenever he lays eyes on it – it was not him who spent hours staring at his face; and he has never had much love for his own beauty.

#servamp #servamp kuro #servamp hugh #servamp lily #i was taking myself very seriously when i wrote this #but my dear friend puff rightly pointed out the inherent hilarity of lily being labelled narcissus by a wounded painter #especially since the guy can't even see himself in the mirror #so the painting is rumored to be cursed but the curse is just lily's bad mood whenever it gets brought up

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neofeliis · 8 months

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You Cannot Have Her

Astarion/Tiefling!Tav

Notes: Durge Spoilers. Remember when we straight up stop living in front of Astarion and the game thought "how twee" was an appropriate way to react? Yeah. I needed to fix that. Enjoy.

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This wasn’t his place to step in. Like she had given him the grace, the push, to face Cazador now was the time for her to face her abomination of a father. Which thus far, she had been doing beautifully. All despite his own anxiety on the matter, watching her face off with Orin brought a swelling of pride in his chest. He knew she could do it, he had seen her do far more wondrous things. What was one more bloodthirsty monster amongst all the rest?

That wasn’t to say his stomach didn’t lurch with nausea every time the Slayer landed a hit. All the logic in the world, all the knowing she had this, was not enough to stave off the fear. And maybe it was just the aura of murder that surrounded them, but he was clenching his fists so tight he felt himself draw blood. The blade hilt in his right hand shook, clattering quietly at his side. Duel be damned, if she downed, he was going in for her.

Astarion would tear down the world for the tiefling thrice over if he needed to. He had been prepared to do it if it ever came down to it; he had decided that sometime along their way.

What Astarion had not been prepared for, in the wake of his swelling pride at her rebuking Bhaal, was for the god to be spiteful. Wasn’t that just the cruelest joke of all? For his bitterness to have been so thoroughly rewritten by her hope for the future, that he would forget the most fundamental truth of all. A truth he had buried deep in his heart.

The gods were nothing but spiteful, and would never take scorn in stride. How ironic, how cruel that the gods would choose now to answer. To intervene. To show their faces. All those years screaming into the void and this was the one that answered a call.

“You refuse me?”

He should have known, gods damnit he should have listened to the chill that crept up the back of his neck. The unholy terror that something was wrong. Everything slowed around him, the edges of his vision blurred and darkened, seeing only Tav and the animated corpse that spoke to her.

“Accept your inheritance, or I will reclaim it.”

Astarion opened his mouth to speak a warning at her back. Where she stood so tall, so confident, but he knew her so thoroughly by now. He saw how she twirled the ring on her finger, so subtly at her side. Her biggest tell that fear gnawed at her heart. Of course she was afraid. Standing before the god of murder? Refusing him?

But she was not afraid enough for what he felt coming. Something he couldn’t articulate as words failed him. His throat dry, his mind so chaotic he couldn’t find purchase on a full sentence if he tried. Something is wrong, something is wrong!

Reclaim it? Reclaim what? She was Bhaalspawn, everything that she physically was, was his. It was by his design, his will, that she existed at all. He made her to be an abomination, a feral creature devoted to bloodshed, and she had spent the greater part of their adventure resisting every bit of that fate. The most wondrous creature he had ever known in his days, lived and breathed by the grace of the murder god.

The realization hit him so hard he saw stars, and a wave of vertigo made the room tilt.

Despite his panic, Tav stood firm. There was a split second, where she seemed as though she might look back to her companions, to say something, but she stopped herself.

She refused Bhaal, and her birthright, a second time.

“You reject my blood, and so I will reclaim it.”

That’s when they all felt it. A shift in the cold, damp air. Heaviness dropped like a hammer as the tiefling doubled over, clutching at her chest, mouth open in a choked cry that died on her lips. In a final act of desperation, she hurled a glance over her shoulder at her companions, wild eyes flitting between each of them before finally landing on Astarion’s panicked face. The look in her eyes, the fearful resignation there shot Astarion through like an icy spear.

She knew. She knew this was a possibility. Tav knew the God of Murder would be cruel enough to take back his power, but if it was to keep the world–keep him–safe from her Urge, she refuted him anyway.

A bloody aura surrounded her, dripped from her in sinister rivulets, moving as a living thing that crawled out of the crevices of her armor. It dripped from her fingertips, it ran over her cheeks, it coursed down her neck. Every bit of it that hit the cold stones raced back to the growing pool in which Bhaal himself called to it.

Everything in Astarion raged, raged against any possibility in which she would suffer like this. But his body felt unnaturally heavy as he lurched forward, trudging against an invisible mire to reach her. “Fight, this!” Speaking was a labor, even, his throat burning at the effort. His hands hit an invisible barrier that met him and thrust him backwards hard enough that he almost lost his footing. She was cut off from him, as her body lifted off the ground and arched backwards limply, the warmth fading from her face, he couldn’t reach her. The fucking bastard had cut him off from her such that none should interfere with the inevitable. Because who the hell was Astarion to a god?

The familiar feeling of inferiority caressed his mind like an old friend. Astarion was powerless, and in his desperation, he turned a pleading, disgustingly pitiful look to their other two companions. The man couldn’t know what he looked like in that moment, but if the desolate look on their faces was any indication, it wasn’t his finest.

They could do nothing, and the other two had seemed to acknowledge that much sooner than Astarion, accepting it even. No, useless! He grit his teeth and let out a feral snarl that he had not known in what felt like an age, and turned back to the scene before them. He would try once more to reach her, to the same result as before, but somewhere he found the strength to hold himself against the barrier now that he knew it was there. A pained scream, bereft of all restraint, tore from him now. Now he found his voice? What good was it now?

She still hung suspended, hung there for a near eternity, until the blood finally stopped and her eyes glazed over. The last drop against the slick stones, and then a beat of silence. The air stilled as an unnatural quiet fell over Bhaal’s temple, and the barrier flitted out of existence at the same moment that her body dropped to the floor. Discarded.

Astarion tumbled forward and dropped gracelessly to his hands and knees in the blood. For a moment, the cooling liquid he suddenly found himself in held all his attention. Was he distracted? Or was he afraid to lift his gaze?

Afraid to look up, slowly, painfully, agonizingly to the lifeless body that laid just a few feet from him. Her chest was still, her face blank. Something brutally honest scratched at the back of his mind.

A broken sound fell from his lips and he crawled the rest of the way to her, pulling her limp form into his lap. They had fallen in battle before, this wasn’t the first time by any means. Their well-stocked spellcasters were always ready and available to turn it back. To keep death at bay.

So why, then, did Shadowheart look so ghostly pale? So lost?

“What in the hells are you waiting for? Use your spell! She’s going cold!” Astarion snapped, his red eyes blazing with a desperate fury.

The cleric flinched, and gave an imperceptible shake of her head. She looked like she was trying to wrap her own mind around something he could not see. Refused to see. “There’s…” she started, her voice cracking, “Astarion, there’s nothing there. There’s nothing to call back.”

Fear rattled through him so hard he felt it in his teeth. “What, do you mean, nothing?” He paused on every word, either trying to restrain himself from wringing her neck until she figured it out or just hold himself together at rapidly fraying seams.

“To revive someone, there has to be a soul to call to. I can’t, I can’t find it. I can’t even sense her anymore,” Shadowheart replied gravely.

Red filled his vision. “Then look harder!” he roared, his voice bouncing off the walls of the dead temple. “You bring her back, Shadowheart! You bring her back to me or this was all for nothing!” Pain cracked his otherwise terrifying visage, and though the cleric flinched at his outburst, she stood firm where she was. Stood there, as her own grief started to manifest on her face.

No, no! You do not get to mourn her, because she is not gone! His mind raged, and he looked everywhere around them, for any solution in this empty space. His gaze landed on the stone skull that had glowed with Bhaal’s presence. Where else was he to direct his fury? “You give her back, you abomination! She was never yours to take; give her back or I swear on my miserable life that I will dedicate everything in my power to making your existence hell! And you best believe I am a professional on the topic!”

Silence.

Try again. “I will hunt you down, I will raze your temples, I will ruin you! Two hundred years of misery I will rain down upon your head!” The malice, the power in his voice cracked. A choking sob betraying the facade he was haphazardly throwing together. Threatening a god? In his own temple? For her, absolutely. “You cannot have her!

His echo faded, drifting off into dark nothingness, and silence fell once more. Nothing but his ragged breaths and the quiet crying of their companions behind them. Emptiness pawed at the door of his heart, knowing the way home. Knowing where it belonged. Eager to make itself at home again as the body chilled in his arms.

Something shifted as another presence entered the space. Instinctively, Astarion whirled on his knees with a snarl, clutching her body to his chest and hunching himself over her.

“Thou hast defied Bhaal, thy liege and father, and in doing so hast earned a place among champions and heroes,” the creeping, ancient voice filled the temple, as none other than their ghostly companion, Withers, strode over to them, as though he had been there from the beginning. “But alas, thy courage was in opposition to the divine cosmology that bound thee to the Lord of Murder. Thou art now faithless, godless, and doomed to wander the Fugue Plane for eternity.”

Another snarl rumbled in Astarion’s chest, lacking the power it had before. “If you have come to just prattle on your cryptic, dusty monologues you will learn very quickly how much restraint I’ve shown to your presence thus far, ghoul.”

Withers ignored the seething vampire entirely. All of his attention was on the body that lolled in Astarion’s grip. He prowled around them in a wide circle, assessing he tiefling. “I will not permit that,” he started again, and the vampire tensed thinking that it was a response, “though all the powers of life and death dictate that it should be so.”

Astarion deflated then, his grip loosening ever so slightly. …What?

Withers stopped then, close, and raised his hand. “I, too, still hold some power, and I invest a portion of it in thee, who hath challenged the gods and now liveth to tell of it,” Something ancient and overwhelming crept into the room now, creeping along the stones like a morning fog. Cool and gentle. “Thy fight is not over, and it is thy fight, for one who can look upon Bhaal and oppose him can survive any crisis,” he clenched his hand into a fist and raised it as an old, powerful magic surrounded it. “So rise, Challenger of Gods, and prepare for battle once more. Death will not claim thee whilst I endure.”

Tav’s body lurched nearly out of Astarion’s hold, surrounded by the glow of Withers’ revival, arching backwards as the power coursed through her. Then, her eyes snapped open, and the most beautiful sound of a gasping breath echoed through Astarion, perhaps echoing through the entirety of Bhaal’s empty temple. The cold desolation in his chest melted all at once, and as she fought for air, his free hand cupped the side of her face and turned her wild eyes to his. “Breathe love, calmly, you’re alright. You’re safe,” he nearly whispered to her, his soul reaching for hers to soothe it into the quiet joy of being alive. It was comical, him trying to calm her when he himself was an absolute whiplashed wreck. But, she was alive.

She was alive.

He would repeat that to himself as many times as was necessary. A daily prayer, to the singular being in this terrible world he believed in.

Tav’s disoriented gaze found him at last, taking several slow blinks to clear away the delirium. “I was,” she croaked, feeling the world swim at just trying to articulate that much.

“Shh, you’re not, and that’s all that matters,” Astarion placed a shaky kiss into her damp hair, feeling her warmth returning to her. Everyone else around them, including the ghostly savior standing there looking like he likely had something important to say, all but disappeared. That could all wait. Here, now, this moment as long as he could greedily drink from it, she was with him. She was alive. “You won’t,” swallow, “leave me that easily.” The waver in his voice betrayed just how much he was afraid to believe that, how he didn’t just a few agonizing minutes ago. The possibility that he would have to live another thousand years knowing this was how it ended was enough to nearly cripple him.

As she curled a weak arm around his bowed neck, pulling as though she could somehow get closer, she seemed to answer his reeling thoughts. “I’m here. Don’t you dare let go.”

#bg3 #astarion/tav #astarion fic #one shot #astarion #listen this scene made me so angry i couldnt not rewrite it. have some angst.#astarion/durge

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galemancer · 8 months

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the dekarios folly

MAJOR BALDUR'S GATE 3 END GAME SPOILERS.

[ short monologue. — first person from gale's pov. — past and present tensing. — angst.]

In the pursuit of greatness, he lost who he was.

Godhood... is lonely.

ao3 link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/50362192

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Victory isn’t the first word that comes to mind at the mention of Baldur’s Gate.

We defeated the Netherbrain, but somehow victory is not the word I associate with it. There is no happiness, only temporary respite. There is no celebration. There is only defeat, because those memories are plagued by the loss of you.

I thought that you would be proud of me.

I thought that claiming this crown would prove worthy enough, man or god alike.

And yet, it seems I have fallen short...

Was I to forgo the opportunity to ascend to greatness? While I stand on the precipice of power, relinquish it? The gods refused to aid us no matter how often we cried, prayed, begged. A mortal with the power of a god to help mortal kind… I could have prevented the pain the Absolute wrought while the gods cowered.

‘Your hubris was your downfall once, Gale.’

Your voice resonates clearly despite all these years past, laden with hurt and fear. I can still see your face, stark as you attempted to keep me grounded. I couldn’t accept your inability to see the potential for good, and I wasn’t to be held back any longer.

I left you distraught, stunned on the docks as I departed. I remember the crease in your brow and the hurt in your eyes, the sparkle I’d fallen so deeply in love with dwindling. I remember my heart pulled back by your pleas, and I almost acquiesced. The restraint of your grip on my hand as I pulled away, silently begging me not to go.

But you let me.

And by the gods, I wish you hadn’t.

For some time after, I sought you in your adventures along the Sword Coast, Tara in tow. “Mr. Dekarios, is that you?” She’d call out, ears perked up in anticipation, saddened eyes turned hopeful as they followed the trails of my magic. She wished to talk to me, to scold me likely, and deservedly so.

In my absence she’d found a new companion, and there was no choice better than you. You were good for each other — two kind hearts to look after each other amidst the aftermath of it all.

She brought you to Waterdeep where you spent time with my mother. I could feel the hesitation in your voice as you spoke upon meeting her, the too familiar features sending you back to the dock. You told Morena the tragedy of her son whose hubris consumed him, under the guise of an ambitious wizard reaching his full potential. Even in my most grave mistakes you spoke of the good you saw in me.

I visited you in dreams, visions, every possible sign besides the blatant, and they remained unanswered. Could you see the glimmer of magic calling out to you by name? Was my existence in your life as this divine being one you wished to reject?

In your deafening silence, I found time to reflect on every decision leading here. The prodigal Wizard of Waterdeep spurned by Mystra herself. He who managed to piece together the Karsus Crown and in turn control the Karsite Weave, at the cost of losing the only real love he’s ever known.

It is sure enough to say that the realization of my own folly proved devastating.

Now every waking moment, I wait patiently for you to summon me, call me out by name so that I may appear in front of you. Waiting in an endless timescape is excruciatingly painful, and yet I continue to subject myself to its punishment. I remain hopeful that some day you would willingly be by my side again as my Chosen, and better yet, lover.

It’s... quiet without you. The pain of your noticeable absence never fails to astound me, and wracks my heart with immeasurable regret. I miss you quite terribly, and yet there is no one else to fault besides myself. Of all the things learnt in our time together, of all the things conquered… the only thing I failed to overcome was my own pride.

And now I’ve damned myself to an eternity without you.

#gale dekarios #gale of waterdeep #baldur’s gate 3 #baldurs gate 3 #bg3 #angst #the dekarios folly #my writing #sorry i lied about my contribution

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jedimaesteryoda · 1 year

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Victarion had been sent by Euron to retrieve Daenerys to be his bride, but Victarion has other plans: he intends to marry Daenerys himself and become king not just of the Iron Isles but all of Westeros. Having spent his entire life being the follower serving others from his father to his brothers, and having failed to win the kingsmoot, he now takes the opportunity to become the leader.

"Where else? The dragon queen awaits me in Meereen." The fairest woman in the world if my brother could be believed. Her hair is silver-gold, her eyes are amethysts.

-ADWD, The Iron Suitor

On wings of song I fly to you, Daenerys, the iron captain thought.

-ADWD, Victarion I

The way Victarion thinks of Daenerys is notably similar to another Westerosi suitor, Quentyn. Quentyn saw himself by his own admission as on “a grand adventure . . . Demon roads and stormy seas, and at the end of it the most beautiful woman in the world. A tale to tell our grandchildren” only for his plan to marry her fall flat. Victarion likewise was sent to retrieve her by his sovereign, and thinks of her as a reward at the end of his long quest.

It’s seen further in his thoughts on her.

But I shall make the dragon queen mine own. She will share my bed and bear me many mighty sons."

-ADWD, The Iron Suitor

And Euron had not made Victarion a gift of her; the Crow's Eye meant to take her for himself. He sends me like a serving man to fetch her. How he will howl when I claim her for myself. Let the men mutter. They had sailed too far and lost too much for Victarion to turn west without his prize.

-ADWD, Vication I

The way he refers to her as “gift” and “prize” shows how before he even meets her, he’s objectifying her. He projects his fantasies onto her as some prize or damsel in distress wanting a big, strong man to come get her to become his trad wife who gives him sons, and just goes along with what he wants without even wondering what she might want.

He’s missing some clear indicators about the abilities and person of the girl he means to marry that are pointed out by Tyrion:

"I know that she spent her childhood in exile, impoverished, living on dreams and schemes, running from one city to the next, always fearful, never safe, friendless but for a brother who was by all accounts half-mad … a brother who sold her maidenhood to the Dothraki for the promise of an army. I know that somewhere out upon the grass her dragons hatched, and so did she. I know she is proud. How not? What else was left her but pride? I know she is strong. How not? The Dothraki despise weakness. If Daenerys had been weak, she would have perished with Viserys. I know she is fierce. Astapor, Yunkai, and Meereen are proof enough of that. She has crossed the grasslands and the red waste, survived assassins and conspiracies and fell sorceries, grieved for a brother and a husband and a son, trod the cities of the slavers to dust beneath her dainty sandaled feet.”

While the submissive Vicarion was handed the Iron Fleet, Daenerys built nearly everything from the ground up. Daenerys didn’t get her dragons, her army or her city by being meek and submissive, but has shown herself to be strong, smart and resourceful and capable.

Victarion will find to his dismay when he finally meets her that Daenerys isn’t some meek, submissive damsel but someone just like his niece Asha who is a strong, proud leader (and smarter than him) not willing to subordinate her goals and ambitions to his.

He had seen the wench wed too, but what of it? She would not be the first woman Victarion Greyjoy had made a widow.

-ADWD, The Iron Suitor

But then where does he go from there? The dumb brute’s ideology is constrained by the Old Way which taught him nothing about diplomacy. What happens if she rejects his offer of marriage? Victarion likely will not give up after having come so far, and when in doubt, he would consult the Old Way or ask what Euron might do.

The Old Way taught him to take things by force, including people. Victarion has taken salt wives before, and he was even willing to kill Dany’s husband Hizdahr just so he could marry her without even taking into account her reaction to such an act, showing a clear lack of regard for her consent. I think should Daenerys make it clear that she won’t marry him freely, it would result in him trying to marry her by force.

"In the Seven Kingdoms, there are tales of dragons who grew so huge that they could pluck giant krakens from the seas.”

That, of course, won’t end well for him. While “at sea the kraken rules supreme,” in the Dothraki Sea, the dragon reigns supreme. His attempts at courting Daenerys will likely end the same way Quentyn’s did as the dragon Daenerys named in the spirit of the husband who protected her, Drogon, will likely deal with this troublesome suitor.

The deeply misogynistic Victarion who abducted women as salt wives and beat them to death for being raped by his brother, dies at the hands of a woman he tries to take by force. Daenerys herself ends up taking his Iron Fleet after having paid the Iron Price of Victarion.

Thus is the fate of any Greyjoy who strives for a crown.

#asoiaf #victarion greyjoy #queen daenerys #daenerys #quentyn martell #house greyjoy #house targaryen #drogon #daenerys targaryen #dothraki

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flower-cage · 1 year

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The Wolf and The Dragon | Chapter Five

by @flower-cage

Once again beta'd by the wonderful @em-writes-stuff-sometimes

Aemond Targaryen x Stark!Reader

Summary: The war between the Greens and the Blacks has begun and the youngest of the Stark heirs is sent on a secret mission to King's Landing. In its course, she will learn to accept the power that was never meant to be hers and the love she never thought she deserved.

Chapter Five: Dragonstone

Chapter summary: Together with the Prince and Ser Criston, in the aftermath of your vile actions, you undertake the final steps in your perilous mission.

Words: 6,157

Warnings: 18+ only; sexually suggestive content, violence, gore, mentions of blood, cursing.

Although this chapter does not contain explicit smut, later chapters will. Minors do not interact.

Your thumbs twist along one another, your leg bounces when you are seated, your digits tap any and all surfaces they can reach. That is how you await an order of execution to come knocking at your chamber’s door - but it never comes. You tense in the short moments the Queen Mother crosses your path in the corridors, awaiting her scolding, her disapproval, but it too never comes. You await snide comments reminding you of your lack of composure, your absolute discourtesy. You await Ser Criston’s animosity and the Lord Hand’s snubbing. You await even the stroke of lethal metal in the hour of the owl.

But none of it ever comes.

As though your deleterious thoughts insistently pursue you through the winding passages of the Red Keep, you walk with a fast gait and a posture inflexible, ears finely attuned to the voices which echo off the thick walls. You hope that your uncongenial disposition will scare away unwanted attention, for you wish not to discover what sentiments the nobility harbors for your terrible acts of incivility. Even when you shudder at the sight of a member of the court, however, it is your shame, not the consequences you expect to suffer, that devours you from within.

“And what the fuck have you just done?”

His words loop in your mind freely, trampling over any other thoughts and manifesting the same ice-cold repugnance that had consumed you at their original declaration. A foul sensation pierces your gut and suffocates you in self-disgust time after time. In all their unfounded malice, his words hold still one accursed truth: you had submitted to the behavior you so passionately condemn, to his infantile eruptions of bad temperament. A pitiful victim to your damaged ego, courtesy of his adamant rejections, you had surrendered to unruly vitriol and inadvertently confirmed his assumptions of treason and ineptitude.

“And when that threatens to fail, you lash out like a child.”

Your own words, spoken in moments of furious passion and etched with spiteful judgment, now mock you seven-fold. If he were a child, what were you?

This enclave of fear against shame that rages within you pitches also cowardice against bravery. In bursts of courage, you find yourself outside his door, in the dead of the night when the dark shields your insecurities from unfriendly eyes, and after hours of peaceful solitude have granted you empowerment. Every time, your fist is the first to rise to the challenge, inches from the dark wood, only to fall back to your side when your heart catches up with your mind and you become frozen with trepidation - or is it shame?

And so, when your head hits your pillows, the brave has already given way to the coward, and your wish for closure and repentance has once more given in to your fragilized pride. When the sun rises each following morrow, it takes you into steering clear of his path, for the light of day too cruelly exposes your humiliation.

You do not see him again on the days that succeed your return from the Neck. You had neither shared words on the flight back, nor when you presented yourselves to the Queen Mother upon arrival. The War Council had not been summoned since your departure, each Lord having now been sent back to their own House seats to set forth preparations for war. Reserved for you is the tormenting task of waiting. Though you try keeping busy with visiting the Grand Maester, looking to be of aid, he quickly becomes exasperated with your insistences and most diplomatically dismisses you.

“I thank you for your dutifulness, my Lady,” he had smiled sympathetically, pushing you gently towards the exit of his study, “I will see you in a few days' time when all of this greenery has turned dust.”

To no avail, you search for books, instruments, arms, anything you could disguise as a critical element for your journey to the ancient island-seat of the House of the Dragon. In the end, it serves to prove only that, no matter your efforts, your mind - insistent in assigning him such high priority - is repeatedly envenomed by the infuriating Prince Aemond. Such are the lengths you take to deviate from his path that it is only at the stables at dusk on the seventh day that you are finally in his presence.

You secure your cloak around your neck, your bow to your back, and your travel bag to the back of your stallion. Ser Criston revises the steps the three of you have diligently delineated and, though it helps mute your far more injurious thoughts, it does not cease them - not when the royal root of your distress stands present.

Reserved as usual, the Prince graces the knight with no more than nods and hums of pure courtesy. He does not look at you, as half the times you have been in his company. And yet, when you envision his commonly fervent looks, you shudder. There was never a balance, a common ground - whether violent or awed, he had only ever cast you ardent gazes. Either he did not look at you, or he attempted to set your soul aflame.

Every part of you tenses in his company, despite his ordinary demeanor. As a measure to remain calm, you focus fiercely on Ser Criston, only to inadvertently heed naught but your own desperate reprimands to cease all thoughts about Prince Aemond.

“I advise we refrain from using our titles,” you hear, managing to catch the last of his directives. “We cannot be too careful.”

Too soon, however, the knight leaves you to retrieve the dragon poison the maesters have concocted, the weapon which will dictate your victory if effective. His back retreats slowly into the receding light and your eyes remain glued to it as much as they are able. Though the Prince refuses still to regard you, you cannot bring yourself to watch anything else now that your chief distraction has abandoned you. How could you not, when he has incessantly haunted your dreams and your musings?

He looks rightfully in place next to his stallion - both graceful, robust forces, one’s white mane complementing the other’s. As he secures his own in his usual method, your imagination paints the picture of his cloak hood forced back by the wind, silver hair flowing wildly like his horse’s, catching moonlight and stealing your breaths.

Whether it is the strenuous passage of time, or the weighty silence, or your flesh, exhausted from the burning and cooling of your greatly fluctuating emotions; whether it is the coward seeking to pretend amiability or the brave wishing to make peace; something compels you to release all your discomfiture. You choose to accept it, whatever it truly is, for it promises to liberate you from your self-inflicted torment. And you take the opportunity in this raw, perhaps momentary freedom to test the waters and evoke the tenderness of which you knew him capable.

“My Prince?” you try. To your surprise, he turns to face you fully, readily. “If I may-”

“My name,” he commands. “You ought to familiarize yourself with it.”

Not unlike most of your exchanges, his eye seeks to hold you, penetrate you, burn through your dignity to force your submission. Even in your resignation, it is against your nature to allow it, to surrender.

“If I may, pl-”

“Say it,” he orders.

In your hesitation, he steps closer - always seeking to subjugate you with his towering presence, always to no avail when you are engulfed by his sharp and sweet scent of sandalwood. With no allowance on your part, your nose draws in more of the air between you, made warm with his proximity and satiating an innate obsession you knew not. His fragrance has become intimately familiar and too quickly synonymous with passion, though you remain ignorant of how this came to pass. It makes your flesh thrum - his scent, his warmth, and perhaps the effort with which you refrain from reaching for him and ceasing the final distance between you.

The thought, the pull, invades you with such abruption you whip your head back in utter scandalization. With eyes wide, mouth parted ghastly, you look at him finally to meet his leering countenance.

“Say it,” he presses still, so remarkably close, voice luring you into obedience.

“Aemond,” you manage a whisper.

The shape of his name on your lips captures his attention, darkening his eye, and his evident appetence goads him yet closer. The width of a single, fine hair is all that separates you, but his energy is so palpable you feel him flush against you. Emboldened by your influence, encouraged by your undeniable cravings, your wayward fingers reach around his shoulders to pull on the bindings that secure his silver hair. A low grunt like a thunderous purr rumbles out of him.

“Your Valyrian hair might denounce us-” you gasp when his hands take your waist. “If I may, please… Aemond.”

The parting of his lips evinces the effect you intended to have when your grip tightens on his strands. He tilts his head further down as you resume your indecent ministrations. Expert and swift is your work, made easier by the lushness of his hair even as your eyes veer to remain locked in his.

It is unclear whether each pull brings your faces yet closer, inch by inch, or if it is you who leans, but soon the intimacy is such that your eyelids become heavy, guiding your sight toward the pink flesh that glistens just out of reach of taste.

“Why do I remain standing?” The question tumbles out in a whisper, unprecedented; your mind incongruous with your heart. You nearly berate yourself for the disruption, though he softly smirks and incites you to elaborate. “Why haven’t I been denounced for my behavior?”

His humming fills your ears to the brim, tingling with its low vibrations and more finely attuning you to him. Even from behind half-shut lids, he contemplates your question, hiding its answer just behind the soft glinting of his eye and stowing it between his lips. A hand lets go of its grip on your body to brush the side of your neck. His calloused digits turn your skin rough in goosebumps as they journey upward, and he breaks away from your gaze to appreciate the pattern he leaves behind. Your chest burns with the toil of constraining your gulps of air, the unbridled beatings of your heart, the anticipation of his every move. Every second is addictive in its raw, ardent adrenaline until his fingers lodge against the curve of your jaw, where days prior they had touched with brutality.

As though he shares your thoughts, his own jaw sets into a stern place you know too well. In the blink of an eye, his face falls back into disregard, and the dizzying spell of attraction is broken. You think he traps something there too, in the taut clench of his teeth, perhaps something he had nearly set free.

“Aemond,” you whisper as he retreats, as your arms fall limply from his shoulders, but the word no longer holds the same effect.

Your every muscle aches when you finally come to a stop. Every inch of skin is covered in a viscous layer of sweat. It gathers on the edges of your brows, at the tip of the fine hairs framing your face. Its droplets roll down your neck, making the path they touch both tacky and ticklish. Your legs more than any other part of you sting from having clung to your horse so firmly. The beast itself huffs violently and you pat its neck, appreciative of its tremendous efforts. Had there been a faster, more furtive way, you would have willingly spared it. When your feet hit the ground, your knees almost give in to fatigue but Shadow’s firm bearing saves you from a disgraceful fall. She too pants loudly in her exertion, though she is quick to vanish between the trees, to no doubt chase after supper.

Indeed, the hour of the wolf merely threatens departure, the sunlight still a couple of hours away from washing over a starless night sky, the crisp, dewy air burning still from throat to chest. In these last moments of darkness, your small company seeks refuge in the woods just off Duskendale, at the exact midpoint of your perilous journey. In a clearing dwarfed by shrubbery, you build a small fire, and you soon sit about it, having fed and refreshed the horses, to share a quiet meal.

Shadow returns to join you, eventually, with a disfigured, unrecognizable creature pierced by her teeth. She settles across from you, on the other side of the fire, and too close to Criston for his liking. He shuffles farther as she proceeds to devour its flesh, blood splattering as organs are brutally yanked from the carcass. He regards his dry jerky mistrustfully, utterly repulsed, and you chuckle when he drops it back into his bag, defeated.

“Anyone else in your family have one?” he tilts his head toward her, untroubled by your amusement.

“Only I,” you tell him. “My father meant for her to be Cregan’s at the time.” You look at your direwolf, ever present, ever faithful, and cannot fathom carrying out this mission without her. More than your protector, she has become your strength, your friend, your home. “But she chose me instead.”

He hums exaggeratedly, knowingly, and raises his brows in a pretense of great surprise.

“I’ve heard a similar tale before,” he over–enunciates, looking unblinkingly at Prince Aemond as if the very emphasis of his gaze would erupt a response.

You follow his train of sight, but the man beside you gapes into the flames with his only eye - the one which remained after his own beast had chosen him. In the dark, they lick his skin rapidly, contouring his acute angles in blood-red hues. His iris glints like a ruby as it reflects the crimson glow and his blushing lips turn ruddy under the blazing lights. And though it paints him truly beautiful, ethereal even, it is a thought you entertain only absentmindedly. Rather, free of any sense of decency, you revisit the images of those lips as they had appeared mere inches from yours. In your mind’s eye, you see every curve and incline, every shade of pink, every fine hair and fading sun freckle.

“Can’t imagine your brother was any pleased about that,” the knight addresses you before you get trapped in a trance. He smiles like he understands precisely what had transpired between the Stark siblings nearly fifteen years in the past - like he had priorly watched the severance of familial bond. “I’m sure it’s been isolating.”

He regards the Prince still, and you understand clearly that he does not, indeed, speak of you. This time, the latter meets his mischievous brown eyes in stern warning.

Cregan had been twice your age the day your direwolf became yours. She was not yet fully grown when she walked out of the Wolfwoods in the company of your father, but in all the majesty of her raven fur and sapphire eyes, she was the amazement of all who had the privilege to lay eyes on her. And yet, all that had been beautiful turned terrifying when your brother approached, and she bared her menacing teeth.

Dark and broad and scruff like a true Stark he was already. Proudly he strode toward her as a king strides to his throne, as if that pinnacle of power had always been his to claim. In your brazen innocence, you swung yourself between them when your father’s fist clenched on his sword. But Shadow did not retaliate against the sudden move. From that day onward your friendship only grew, whereas the bond with your brother never bloomed.

“Not close to your siblings, huh?” Criston’s question is so attuned to your thoughts, for a heartbeat you believe to have vocalized them.

How could you have been? Your sisters had been betrothed and dispatched to be raised by their future families by the time you learned to read. Cregan never forgot the loss of Shadow to you, and your father never bothered to correct his remoteness.

“I have a good relationship with my brother Rickard,” you tell him instead, “despite our age difference.”

Always a diplomat - the Stark brother with the auburn-colored curls and the soft smile - he had slowly though surely assumed the role of the older brother as you grew into your maiden years. If Cregan is known to don the outward, boisterous charisma inherent in a great leader, Rickard possesses the quiet confidence of a mentor, one you cherish greatly.

Ser Criston is the first to drift off after you offer to keep the first watch. He does not show further interest in your upbringing, and you, in your turn, prefer the company of the crackling logs as they char beside you. Evidently, Aemond preserves his quietness, also watching wistfully as ambers leap out of the flames.

There is a mystifying quality to the dark, specifically that which lingers late at night before the break of day. Inexplicably, it promises salvation; it promises protection. It erases your anguish and warrants your vulnerability as it seduces you with the prospect of forgiveness. And thus once more you find yourself yearning for repentance because the night veils your insecurities.

As you often do - as you can never refrain from doing - you watch him. For perhaps the first time you think you see him for all that he is; not a Prince of the Realm, or Aemond One-Eye, the Kinslayer, a second son, a dragon rider, but a man both whole and fragmented. You wonder if the night permits also the naked truths of the world, for under your eyes he has never looked so mundane, so grounded and connected to the physical realm in which you all dwell. There is no pretense of superiority where he simply sits in silence, no violent anger you hear belongs to the blood of the dragon, only a man who gets distracted by the alluring movements of the fire, who tires, who feels. Though to you his beauty and his essence will always be innately empyreal, he has revealed to you in short-lived moments of tenderness that his heart does remain human.

“Aemond,” you breathe, you choose the brave to speak. When he looks at you his eye is quick to soften, and you suspect it is the glittering of your own which elicits so. “I wish to apologize,” you gulp, “for my behavior… of earlier.”

Your clumsiness of speech evinces the burden of your humiliation, but each uttering that is unaccompanied by harsh retaliation frees you of whatever weighs on your heart, compelling you to continue.

“It was most unbecoming of me to defy and- and harass you, my liege Prince. And I greatly regret it.”

He does not grant you a reply, allowing you with his compassionate regard the floor so you may confess in this single moment of defenselessness all that you have previously inhibited.

“But I beg you,” your voice trembles, you grasp his hand where it rests on his bent knee, clutching his fingers as if that might urge him to comply, “to accept me not as your enemy, not as someone who aspires to usurp you of your station or your commendations,” you sniffle, containing your tears as you hold his unwavering, penetrating look, “but as a friend.”

He exhales, then, breaking from your insistent eyes and staring instead at your joined hands as though he cannot bear being the target of anything other than your spite.

“You might realize we have more in common than it seems,” you whisper, leaning in to recapture his attention, “and that’s a good thing.”

His eye meets yours briefly, and he turns his palm in your hold to take your trembling fingers. When his thumb strokes over your knuckles, your breath hitches.

“Why do you insist on my approval?” he murmurs gently.

It takes you off guard, his question, but most jarring is the softness he chooses to maintain. He does not mock your offering of peace, does not take the chance to humiliate you further as you debase yourself. And you find you lack an answer despite the parting of your lips.

“Very well,” he acquiesces, sighing resolutely. “I shall grant you pardon.”

He rises before you can properly express your gratitude, and pulls on your joined hands so that you follow him.

“But only,” there is a glint in his eye you know well to be mischief, and it tugs a smile on your lips, “if you teach me how to beat you… in the dark.”

A relieved chuckle leaves you, and with it does the tension that had tightened the muscles on your shoulders.

“I’m afraid I’ve brought only my bow,” you say, wiping the wetness on your eyes when they threaten to spill over, “for the sake of stealth and secrecy.”

“Funnily enough,” he responds, a smirk widening on his face as he reaches with both hands for the back of his head, “I thought the same.”

In a swift motion, he pulls two fine daggers from his back.

You know you should deny him. From head to toe, your body begs you to lay back down and rest. You know you will regret it at sunset, but when he extends you his beautiful knife, you take it anyway.

“Seldom will you have to fight in complete darkness,” you pant, “even so, if you learn to rely on your other senses, you will have an advantage.”

You deflect each of Aemond’s strikes, a feat more difficult now that you engage in close combat. The blunt side of your daggers meet every few seconds as he quickly learns to retaliate your movements.

“Attune your ears to your opponent’s breath and steps,” you advise him, breaking his quick series of advances with a few of your own, “the reverberations of their sword - all of which will denounce their position.”

“Allow your enemy the first attack, so you may learn their patterns and anticipate their moves.”

“But above all-” you sidestep his next blow, where he expects you to meet blade for blade, to position yourself instead on his blind side. “Beware of your weaknesses.-“

He turns to keep you on his good side - dagger first, torso second - but it is too late; you duck well in advance, anticipating his reaction, and land a swift kick to the backs of his knees, causing his fall.

“For those will be their strength.”

You press the dulled steel to his neck and pin his body to the ground as you had the first time you faced one another in the training yard. And much like the last time, your noses brush when you first settle atop him, and his heated scent, spiced sandalwood made earthy with his exertion, is just as dizzying. He huffs, annoyed at being beaten yet again, but unlike the time he had lunged at you to seek revenge - and perhaps your death - the dim moonlight now reveals a toothy grin. It too traps you in a dazed state of mind and you fail to thus conclude your lesson.

“You positioned yourself on my blind side,” he concludes for you, groaning, “and used my height against myself.”

He allows you neither a response nor a reaction, for just as swift as you had been, he hooks a hand behind your knee and throws his body against yours to take over your position.

“But you forget that I am stronger,” his grin turns triumphant, devilishly triumphant, as he takes in your widened eyes, your parted lips, “and have not yet yielded.”

He holds your wrists to the ground above your head and his torso presses against yours, from his chest to his pelvis, where he kneels between your legs. Your mind has not been freed of its foggy prison despite his abrupt movement, and every point of contact between you is turned tender, hyper-sensitive to his every movement. His position of power where he towers over you, where he pins you at the same time down and against his body, for once electrifies you not with anger but with excitement… with want.

So it is a purely physical reaction when your eyesight descends to watch his flushed lips, making your own tingle with the effort it takes not to lunge and take them. Your insides coil when you go to meet his gaze once again, only to find it, too, fixed to your lips.

It is of their own accord that your eyelids flutter shut when he nudges your nose with his. His cupid’s bow is sharp when you let it pry your lips open, his bottom lip tastes salty when he lodges it between yours. And when his warm, warm tongue slides so slowly against yours, your jaw melts apart, allowing him deeper, allowing you to sink further into your hazy deliverance.

You can scantily reciprocate it - his tortuous, lustful, lewd licks. You can only let him do as he pleases. You can do nothing more than sluggishly burn and melt like molten lava, surrendering to the excruciating strokes of his honeyed, warm tongue. It licks its heat into you as if his very dragonfire is what drips from his mouth into yours, scorching your insides with desire as it descends into your most intimate parts, as they hum in delight. Its every caress is charged with a sensation so delectable your own slick muscle sits soft and still, stunned.

And you love it.

His torso presses against yours - as do his hands, his mouth, his heart. Your legs tremble as they yearn to spread for him further. And when you think you cannot bear any more of his touches, he rolls his body against yours, dragging his stiffened member against your clothed yet craving core. The lecherous movement forces a startled moan from your lips and too soon you both reel back from one another, parting just as easily as you had joined.

He looks at you wide-eyed and mouth parted as if taken aback by his own actions, though he does not take initiative to change your indecent position. His chest moves up and down in accordance with yours.

“My Prince,” you pant, “we shouldn’t-“

You cannot force the words out, for they get trapped in your throat. Your body loathes you. It aches for him madly with its every fiber and it loathes you for driving him away. But your head has finally caught up with your heart, and your Stark honor stubbornly stands its ground, even if hanging by a thread, compelling you to get a hold of your improper desires.

Aemond nods at your plea, slowly then rapidly as if amid the gesture he realizes the insanity of your activities. He helps you to your feet, and you both stand there, avoiding eye contact as dawn approaches.

“Forgive me-” he starts, but you shake your head before he can finish.

“It’s as much my fault as it is yours,” you attempt to appease him, appease the situation. “The rush of peril will do that to anyone.”

He never agrees, not as you walk back to your makeshift camp, not before he drifts off on the ground by your side.

The sun had almost made its way to the peak of its trajectory when Ser Criston relieved you of your appointed duty. You had watched it ascend over the twisted trunks attentively so that your tired eyes remained vigilant, only to fall into deep slumber the very moment it was granted. When he addressed you again, the sunlight was already scarce and you had time but for a stretch and a bite before you departed.

Once more the three of you rode fast under the light of the moon, under the shading of your hoods. As you approached the shores of Cracklaw Point, the winds gained an icy bite which you welcomed to refresh your fatigued muscles. After all, horse riding was merely the first physical adversity you would have to endure in this perilous quest.

Rowing had not been much easier, but at least your legs had gotten a chance at rest. With your wolf guarding the horses ashore, you were free to take to the ocean. The canoe your small party fitted into had been courtesy of the Master of Whispers and his muted men, hidden in the bushes with two oars. The dark waters of the Blackwater Bay shimmered in the light of the stars and, as Aemond had suggested, its waves were not nearly as vigorous as those of the open sea, permitting you a swift sail to the rocky coast ahead.

Most difficult had been securing your wooden vessel to a stony wall that would not part it in half when the waves rocked it back and forth, and climbing the menacing slope with a large bag of dusty poison strapped to your back. You had located an incline shorter than most, but its fall promised fatality all the same.

The Prince had taken the lead, his torso knotted to one end of a sturdy rope and yours to the second, to fix stepping screws and safety cords along your ascent. The motion of the sea had left you less nauseated than this uncertain, upward trek. You envied Criston, who served merely as a grounding weight for the swinging rowboat below.

“Do you see that pointed summit?” Aemond had asked when you finally reached the peak. “‘Tis a volcano. Dragons will often rest at the grassy fields by its base, where it’s warmest.”

When you offered him round, fearful eyes, he chuckled.

“During the daytime,” he added. “At night they’ll seek shelter within the ground. You’ll be safe.”

Thus he had sprinted the opposite way, splitting from you to scatter poison at the very cavernous nesting place of the winged beasts before you could question his surety.

Now, you are beyond ready to leave this somber, humid island. Nothing about it invites you to stay any longer than you absolutely must - not its howling winds, not its steep slopes, and certainly not the looming threat of untamed dragons. You surmise that is what the stronghold of the enemy is supposed to feel like - uninviting. Each second stretches by as you sit on the muddy grass, at the top of a hill, waiting for Aemond to return. You cast a silent prayer for him as your ever-treacherous mind paints pictures of him getting devoured or burnt alive deep within the somber caves of Dragonstone. The thought is one you would have embraced - and even entertained - a few days back, even if deep down you had never wished for his demise. But right now, as the damp chill of the Blackwater is windblown into your bones, you wish for nothing other than his heated touch, his dragonfire.

They don’t astound you any longer - these indecent thoughts that overwhelm you without warning - and you try no longer to escape them or deny their existence. In fact, you delight in their indulgence. You delight in reliving them. The mere remembrance of his lips on yours and his slick tongue slipping between them is enough to protect you from the humid cold.

You spot him when he is halfway up the hill, running towards you, large steps climbing quickly up the slope and braided hair catching the moonlight. You rise to your feet before he meets you.

What does it mean for you? To have admitted to these feelings? You find nothing is of certainty but your craving for him.

“Sorry it took me so long,” he pants when he finally reaches you.

He goes on to comment on the intricacy of the mazes that are the dragon caves within the hills, but you get yourself trapped in your own musings. The humidity sticks to his skin, gifting him an alluring glow, and a drop of sweat unlatches from the fine hairs that escape his coiffure. Attentively you follow it with your gaze as it rolls down his glistening skin, curving around his jaw to move down his neck.

It drives you to thirst.

You take too long to look up when he turns back to you, so when you meet his eye it dons already that vehemence you know so well.

Not a single bone in you wishes to inhibit yourself any longer. You had contained your anger before him only to have it explode monumentally. You had stifled your vilest reflections only to exploit the opportunity of physical violence the first chance given. The control over your luscious musings is fast fading. You are exhausted of all the pretense, the weight of duty and honor, the weight of repression.

“Aemond,” you plead, wishing he would simply understand.

You want to lean as he had, lodge your lips on his as he did, and commit him to taste. But you find yourself rooted to the spot, aching, as instinct fights logic, as desire fights morality. Your flesh burns with the urge to throw yourself in his embrace yet it freezes in fear of dishonor.

Against all odds your hand finds his chest, his own fingers clasp onto your elbow. When you think you can finally break through the invisible barrier that restrains your ardors, however, you spot a distinguishable glimmer of silver at the foot of the hill. Aemond turns to look for the source of your distraction.

“Daemon,” he spits.

The Rogue Prince. He approaches like a villain in a novel, stomping leisurely in the night with his Dark Sister in hand. You know him as well as the entire Realm - the proud, callous, viciously barbaric brother of the late Viserys I, now husband to the former heir.

Aemond pulls out his sharp daggers, his disposition starkly contrasting to just seconds ago when he reached for you so softly.

“Aemond,” you hiss, pulling on his arm in vain. “Let us go - we can make it to the boat in time.”

He hesitates to turn and follow you, but when he does comply, Prince Daemon recaptures his attention.

“Nephew!” he roars. “Did little Luke take your stones as well as your eye?”

You lose him in a heartbeat, to a juvenile taunt no less, as he storms down the hillside to meet his uncle. In your desperation, you take your bow to release an arrow against the older Prince, but it merely catches his shoulder. Though he grunts a curse and breaks it off at the root, it does nothing to deter him. As you raise a second arrow, the Princes meet, and you cannot assume the risk of it hitting the wrong one.

So you run.

Aimless, you dart off to where their blades viciously bounce off one another. And then, just before your very eyes, Aemond falls. As Dark Sister rises above him, glinting, you are drained of all warmth.

How would you relay to his mother you had let him perish?

There is no option, naught to do but to protect him. You don’t think as you holler at Daemon the Rogue, nor when you throw your body against his piercing blade. Though the pain of its cut steals your breath, stinging maddeningly where it opens a gruesome gash beneath your collarbones, shoulder to shoulder, you still land a hit so harsh against his jaw that you are unsure whether it breaks his face or your knuckles. You are happy to watch his head hit a rock hidden in the grass before you too hit the ground.

A guttural grunt leaves you as the pain truly registers. Even in your state of shock, its sting immobilizes your arms, its throb hammering, blinding, deafening. And wet. You are quickly drenched in your own blood. You feel it slide between your shirt and your leather tunic, drip down your sides, pool in the hollow of your throat as it gushes and gushes from within you like the mouth of a river.

“You fucking fool,” Aemond snarls above you, quick to tear his undershirt and wrap it tightly around your wound to constrict the blood loss. You have not the strength to bite back. When he notices this, his incensed demeanor turns desperate.

He carries you over to the cliff you had climbed. Tying your body to his, he makes it to the boat. How swiftly this happens, you cannot gauge. You can no longer comprehend the passage of time.

His chest on your back, his scent in your head, the lull of the sea invite you to doze. Absent-mindedly, you hear Aemond urge you to keep your eyes open. But his voice is too sweet. It too tantalizes you to welcome sleep.

And so you do.

A/N: yay, we're halfway through! I know posting this on a random Wednesday at midnight is a dumb move, but I couldn't hold it any longer...

Taglist in comments.

#aemond targaryen x reader #aemond targaryen fic #hotd fics #hotd fic #aemond targaryen x stark!reader #aemond fanfic #aemond fanfiction #aemond targaryen fanfic #aemond targaryen fanfiction #aemond targaryen x reader fanfic #aemond targaryen #aemond targaryen smut #aemond targaryen x you

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wetcatspellcaster · 4 months

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First of all, thank you so much for all you do! Your work has gotten me through a really rough few weeks dealing with the first anniversary of my mom's death. I'm so excited every time I get an ao3 notification for one of your stories. ❤️

Also I'm a huge Buffy fan and your Ascended Astarion has such presouled-but-in-love-with-buffy Spike vibes I love it. Especially his not understanding why his super romantic gestures of murder and abduction are not working on the object of his affections. I love how frustrated and baffled Astarion is by Rose's refusals. "These things are the *height* of vampire wooing? how's she not swooning?? She must be playing hard to get."

Also every time they get into a physical altercation, it absolutely feels like it may end in building destroying sex. 😏

I did have a question about Astarion's expectations about Rose (which feel free not to answer if its spoilers or you dont feel like it). I know he dumped her after she wouldn't be turned by him post ritual but it seems like he's definitely spent years getting things ready to have her living with him since then with the custom bedrooms and the rose gardens. Did he expect her to come back on her own since then? even after telling her he basically wanted nothing to do with her?

Anyway this was long 😅 but thanks again for sharing your talent and imagination with us. good luck with your surgery! ❤️

Hello anon, thank you so much for messaging me. I use fic writing as a mental health lifeline (and guess what! I have also bereaved a parent in my time!) so I'm glad I can pay that comfort forward to you and anyone else, in some small form. I hope the anniversary and any related feelings that come up pass smoothly.

(also, Ascendent/Spike parallels are such a call out at the particular moment I am in drafting. I think my approach to souls in D&D is very coloured by what meaning they hold in BtVS).

To your question! I'll try to answer as best I can.

The initial reaction and break up is obvious dictated a little by canon, but in my version of events, it's also coloured by the violent/traumatic nature of the Ascendent's 'birth'. On the one hand, Ascended!Astarion is drunk on power and his first real sense of freedom, but on the other, it has come at a dramatic and awful cost that everyone around him witnessed and cannot deny. Also, not to spoil, but I have aligned my reading of the events with the fanon interpretation that a romanced Astarion justifies his desire for Ascendency through Tav, or fear of losing that relationship. So Rose's initial rejection causes a lot of anger and deliberate cruelty, because of the confusion and pain behind it: he did the Rite, partly for her, Rosalie watched him do the Rite and didn't stop him, and now? she's suddenly having second thoughts? When it's irreversible? When he's stuck here, now? And she refuses keep him company?

The anger and pain around that was real, I believe, and causes him to lash out. Hence, the break-up. Much with the way I write the Ascendent in all guises, he does an extremely stupid thing, then commits to the bit and doubles down. Oh, he's dumped her now? He kind of didn't mean to do that, but now he can't be desperate and take it back, so he has to lean in and pretend that was what intended to do all along, etc.

Then she leaves for real? Well, fuck her. He didn't need her anyway - that's why he dumped her, after all. Nothing to do with the trauma, or his mistakes. So then, he commits to the bit, twicefold. He leans in further. Starts to perform the exact life he'd said he'd have without her. Gets new friends, new lovers, an underground network of power, etc. That takes a few years.

Oh. Wait. Why does none of this feel good? Why does it all feel awful???Must be because his girlfriend, the one he did this all for, isn't here (and who's fault was that again? by this point, he's forgotten).

But pride is still a major factor in the way the Ascendent conducts himself, and he can't go to her - he can't look desperate, or unhappy, or like he regrets his decisions. I've used this in a justification of why he never sought her out in places he couldn't pretend he found her by chance, even though he can smell her blood and knows she goes to Waterdeep - he can't be the one to go to her. And she must be miserable, right? He is. So he starts to engineer things for her return, because she'll be the one to cave first, and besides, he's got eternity anyway. He's so patient (lol).

And then, inevitably, when Rosalie continues living her life avoiding him, he's like "welp. I can't go to her (pride), and she isn't coming to me. Time to make her come to me (murderous intent)" and that's how he kills a ballroom full of people. He genuinely thinks what's keeping them apart is the distance, not the element of choice (because. um. we've seen what he thinks of free will). He believes that once they're in the same room together, it'll be impossible for her to resist. He can charm her. He did it once before. And he's not sad or conflicted about it this time. And he's the same person, right?

[author laughs in REDACTED]

So basically, his expectation of Rose was that she would be the one to break first. They both love each other, and she's a nice person. She's the bleeding heart. She's the one who was seduced the first time round.

When none of that happens, he decides to engineer the same set of circumstances in a lab, assuming that forcing her into returning will have the same outcome as her choosing to return (you may notice a pattern of behaviour emerging). So once the Ascendent has created forced proximity and given himself the chance to seduce Tav all over again, he's certain he'll win, because he knows the playbook, and it worked on them, and since he Ascended he's had proof it works on everyone else.

But unfortunately, a successful romance in this scenario relies on Ascended!Astarion not being awful, for 5 minutes which... um.... he hasn't achieved once in this fic, not once.

#asks #anons #lovely words from lovely people #wip: pieces still stuck in your teeth #what is Ascension if not committing to the bit? discuss.#a long ask gets a long answer anon!

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bullet-prooflove · 1 year

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Slow - Joe Velasco x Reader (NSFW)

Tagging: @plaidbooks @misscharlielulu @witches-unruly-heart @kimm4710 @ednastvincent @storiesofsvu @magic-multicolored-miracle @rosaliedepp @cycat4077 @crazy4chickennuggets @cixrosie @themisunderstoodblackswan @im-just-a-mississippi-girl @mysoulisasunflower @kabloswrld @xoxabs88xox @legit9thlunaticwarrior @mydarkestsecretlol @bbyxoo @the-adzukibean @giuls-ver @wooshwastaken @janeaustenlover @justreblogginfics @anime-weeb-4-life @im-just-a-mississippi-girl

Joe had never been one to laze around between the sheets. He rose when the sun did and packed his days with flurries of activity. Only now you were in his life, and he had been spending his nights in your bed, holding you close. You were the perfect fit.

He was tucked around you, his face pressed into the hollow of your neck. His body was responding to you the same way it usually did when he woke up in the morning. The erection he was struggling to hide within his sweats was growing more insistent by the second as his large hand settled on your waist, his thumb lightly caressing the line of your rib cage. His nose chased up the curve of your throat followed by the warm sweet kisses he planted upon your flesh. He loved feeling you against him like this, it felt so right.

You stretched out along the length of Joe's body, your ass coming to rest right against his pelvis creating a delicious friction against Joe's aching cock. He moaned into your ear as you arched just a little more against his hips. Joe's fingers skated across the hem of the large T-shirt that you were wearing. It was his own and it gave him a sense of pride to see you adorned in it. His heated palm caressed your bare thighs.

He was only just getting used to touching you like this. It had been so long since he had been anywhere near intimate with a woman he actually cared about, who brought reassurance with the simplest of gestures. You were used to showing affection, you never hide your emotions and Joe was learning by example. He found it hard to reach out, he shirked away from intimacy because he feared rejection but now he was changing, adapting once more.

You brought Joe's fingers up to your lips, they brushed over his fingertips like tiny butterflies, leaving him quivering with anticipation as your tongue flicked out and teased his large digit. His fingers trailed down the line of your throat, tracing the shape of your collarbone before it glided into the swell of your breasts.

Your hand covered his own, guiding it further down your body. His fingertips grazed over your clothed mound. He could feel the heat emanating from your sweet core, his finger dragged over your clit feeling that delicious moistness through the material. Your entire body arched into his as you let out a whimper. Joe thrust against you gently, grunting into your ear as the fabric rubbed across his leaking cock.

He wanted you so badly it hurt. You hand reached back, threading through his hair and guiding his hot, sensual lips back to the curve of your throat. You were burning up inside, desperate and wanting for him. However, you sensed that you needed to move a little more slowly. Joe wasn't ready for such a full-on emotional experience.

His thumb traced over those rosebud nipples, toying with them as your breathing hitched with delirious excitement. He explored you with agile fingertips and the noise you made when he rolled your nipple between his fingertips, almost made him come right here and then.

His fingers crept underneath the waist band of your panties, his mouth gracing your skin. You tasted like honey, every inch of you was fucking perfect under his tongue.

"Do you want this?" his voice rough with that dynamic sizzling tension as his fingertip tapped your clit, sending waves of ecstasy vibrating through your sensitive nerve endings. "Do you want me to touch you here?"

"Yes." You cried out, your head tipping back onto his broad shoulder. "God yes."

His fingers were already seeking out your most intimate opening, his thumb skated over your clit, stroking the erogenous nub as he listened to the sound of your breathing turn into ragged little pants. The change excited him in ways he could never have imagined, he was showing you how devoted he was to you with each and every single little touch he bestowed on your body.

He slipped a finger inside of you causing her whimper in pleasure as he entered her. His teeth grazed your skin with a love bite as he nuzzled your throat lovingly, moving his finger in slow teasing motions until he found that sweet spot.

Hearing you drawl his name like that ignited every single aspect of Joe's furious possessive instincts. He needed to make you come, he needed you to know that your pleasure was important to him. It turned him on having you wrapped up in him like this. You were riding his finger now, your moans growing louder with the loss of your inhibitions as he stroked you into a frenzy.

Every single thing about you heightening his own arousal. Your movements were getting more and more frantic and knew exactly what you were doing when you ground against his erection. He could barely hold back the tidal wave of euphoria that was building up inside. He was on the edge already, this simple non penetrative contact between your body and his groin was more than he could bare. His grunts were getting louder as he moved in time with the rhythm of his fingers. He was on the pinnacle of pleasure; he could feel it stealing away his breath as he buried his face in the nape of your neck and came with wild abandonment.

Your synapses were blazing at the sound of Joe's climax, exploding like billions of tiny little stars as you called out Joe's name, your body stretching taut against his as the climax built up like the crest of a wave. It hit you hard, your entire body quivering ecstasy as it consumed you.

Joe removed his hand from between your legs, his kisses were gentle now and tender. You rolled onto your back, your gazing seeking out his. There was a world made just for you in those wonderful green eyes.

Joe smiled down at the blissful expression on your features he placed a butterfly kiss upon the tip of your nose before whispering against the soft, flushed apple of your cheek.

"Love you."

Love Joe Velasco? Don’t miss any of his stories by joining the taglist here.

Like My Work? - Why Not Buy Me A Coffee

#joe velasco x you #joe velasco x reader #joe velasco #jose velasco x reader #jose velasco x you #jose velasco

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supercap2319 · 1 year

Text

Baby It’s Cold Outside Chapter 3

A/N: Chapter 3 is up.

It was silent between them.

It wasn’t that awkward silence where you fill it with small talk back and forth, but the comfortable kind. The quiet you get when you’re in your room, comfortably lying on your bed as you watch a movie or listen to music. Tyler’s hands had been tight on the wheel; his knuckles white into the first four hours of their trip. He looked back every mile until he was sure his father wasn’t following them. The barista was surprised his boyfriend hadn’t picked up on his nervous energy. Y/N could smell fear, thanks to his vampire senses, and could hear the slight change in someone’s heart, so Tyler figured either Y/N didn’t notice his uneasiness or he was waiting for the right moment to catch Tyler and confront him on his lies.

Tyler's stomach did knots at that. God, he hoped not. He could handle his father hating him, but Y/N? He would die if he did. The sound of Y/N’s singing brought Tyler out of his thoughts as he watched him sing to the radio song of God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen, but he changed the words to them. Probably, the version he sang with his own family.

“It's Christmas, and the graveyard folk has all come to play. They're going to make a fuss and walk around causing disarray.” Tyler began to chuckle. His first laugh in a while. His boyish features were displayed as Y/N looked at him and frowned. “What’s so funny, Puppy? Aren’t those the words?”

“The words are much different, but I like your version better. Sounds more fun.”

“It is. Remind me to teach you the full song later,” Y/N said.

Tyler smirks. “Deal.”

Y/N looks at his boyfriend as he has his eyes glued onto the road. His smooth skin and his golden brown curls, along with his blue eyes, were dressed in flannel over a white shirt with a brown jacket. Y/N’s heart skipped a beat. His mother told him that her undead heart came to life the moment she met his father, and Y/N wondered if that was the same feeling that he was experiencing right at this moment. A boyfriend who was half normie, half Hyde. His family would be so proud of him. Tyler's head turned towards Y/N, who looked away. Tyler smiled once again. Busted. ��You were checking me out, weren't you, Y/N?”

Y/N blushed. “No…”

“You were!” Tyler cried. “What were you thinking about, mmh? Something naughty?” He couldn’t help how his smile grew as Y/N squirmed underneath Tyler’s teasing stare. “Perhaps, kissing out in the snow? Or maybe handjobs underneath the Christmas tree?” Tyler was surprised those words just came out of his mouth. He was never one for dirty talk. I guess his Hyde side was shining through and through.

The Munster boy looks at him, red in the face, but he smiles. “Sorry, I just forgot how beautiful you are. You’re like those paintings in museums. Absolute perfection. I’m lucky to have you as my boyfriend.” Tyler’s heart did not skip at being called Y/N’s ‘boyfriend.’ Nope, not one bit. The way it rolled off Y/N’s so smoothly that you just had to believe that they belonged together. It just made sense, but at the same time, it couldn’t. Not because of Y/N, no, this was all Tyler’s fault. He couldn’t give Y/N his everything like the other male had him. The curly-haired boy couldn’t even stand up to his father and say Y/N was his boyfriend with pride because he was scared of the repercussions of letting his homophobic dad know that he was very much not of the straight guy variety.

Y/N deserved someone happily out of the closet instead of a closeted, psychotic, curly-haired bartisa with daddy issues. Y/N’s probably told his family about him, and Tyler’s not sure if he’s ready for the expectations or rejections. The young man was so much into his head that he barely registered that Y/N was calling his name. “Uh, What….?”

Tyler turned to see Y/N looking at him, all traces of a blush gone as he glanced at the barista with concerned but hopeful eyes. “I said can we stop somewhere to get something to eat? I’m hungry.” The supplies of soda and chips could only take them so far into their journey, and Tyler was surprised that Y/N hadn't piped up early to ask to stop to get some food. He felt bad. He should have asked. What kind of gentleman doesn't ask if someone is hungry? His face reddened with embarrassment. “Sorry, Y/N, I should have asked if you were hungry sooner.”

“It’s fine. My fault for not asking before, but you looked so insistent on getting to New Jersey that I didn’t want to bother you.”

Tyler flushed even more at that. Y/N did notice Tyler’s off-putting nature in his efforts to get as far away from Jericho as he could, and in the process, he disregarded his boyfriend’s feelings and needs. “I’m sorry. Shit, that was stupid of me.”

“No, it wasn’t,” Y/N said. “You were probably eager to get out of Jericho for a while. It’s okay, Ty. No need to beat yourself over that.”

The sheriff’s son cleared his throat. “Right, so is there a place in mind?” He looked at their gage, and they were close to running on empty. They needed to put some gas in soon. Otherwise, Y/N would be a vampire speeding them the rest of the way. It was a funny thought that plagued the corners of Tyler’s mind. Seeing Y/N caring for Tyler's bridal style as he speeded them to his home in New Jersey. “Well, there’s a diner near a gas station if that’s okay with you?” Y/N looks at his phone’s GPS. Tyler nods his head. “Yeah, that’s perfect. Kill two birds with one.”

Y/N frowns. “A stone? Oh, no, no, no. If you want to kill birds, grandpa says you should use a throwing ax or arrows. More effective.”

Tyler laughed.

Once Tyler guided his truck into the parking lot of the Silver Diner, he and Y/N got out as the snow lightly clung to their jackets and on top of Tyler’s curls and Y/N’s red beanie that he did not steal from Tyler’s room. The door chimed like Christmas bells as they opened it and were greeted by the old-fashioned classic American diner as the jukeboxes played Christmas songs. The place looked like something out of the sitcom Happy Days. With its pink fluorescent lights all around the booths that were red in leather, with miniature jukeboxes at every table. It was awesome.

They walk towards the booths as customers, which consist of regulars, truckers, and tourists, stare at them as they walk past them. Tyler knew why they were staring. Their judgment gazes were the same ones as back in Jericho. Hateful. Fear filled. He briefly wonders if they would look at him the same way if they knew he wasn't one of them. If Y/N noticed their judgmental stares, he didn’t say anything as a waitress approached them. “For two? You and your…. umm… brother want a counter seat or a booth?”

Y/N looked at her, an exciting shine in his eyes. “He’s my boyfriend, ma’am. Not my brother.”

“Oh, sorry about that. I just assumed that.” She looks at Y/N’a green hues. “That’s some mighty fine Christmas-colored hair you got there.”

“Thank you. It’s the hair I was born with,” Y/N smiles as the waitress frowns in confusion.

“Booth will be great, right?” Tyler asks in a hurry to avoid the awkward stares their waitress is giving Y/N.

“Yeah, sounds great!”

They were led through the aisles, and people stared at them as they passed. Tyler put a protective hand on Y/N’s shoulders until he slid into one side of the booth. Tyler slid into the other as he looked over the menu. So many different choices to make as he looks up at Y/N as he’s deep in thought about the food he wants to order. The barista was surprised to learn that Y/N doesn’t have to feed on blood to survive; he could stay on normie food just fine. He only drank blood to keep his vials normal and healthy.

“You know what you’re going to get?” Tyler asked from across the booth.

Y/N looks up at him. “Yup. You?”

“Yup.”

The waitress, Mary, her name tag stated, made her way back to the table, perching a hand on her hip as she held up her order notepad. “You boys ready?” she asked.

“I’ll have your double bacon cheeseburger, please,” Tyler politely said.

“Fries or tots?”

“Fries.”

“And what to drink?”

“Coke.”

The waitress turned to Y/N. “And for you?”

“The same, please. No onions, and can I order your cakes in a pan, please?” It took a moment to register to Tyler that his boyfriend meant pancakes. Mary wrote their order down and looked at them. “I’ll be back with your drinks. Did you want those pancakes before or after your meal, sweetie?” She looks at Y/N, and Tyler’s pleasantly surprised look of bewilderment is gone. Maybe not all normies were so bad.

“After.”

“You got it.” She walks away.

It wasn’t long before they received their food, as they settled into a comfortable conversation that should have been impossible for a normie, well, half normie and an outcast, but it wasn’t like that between them. When they talked, it was like the rest of the world faded away to just them, and there were no labels in their world—just peace and safety.

Tyler felt himself finally relax as he laughed at something Y/N said. His boyish features are on full display, including his dimples too. He honestly left his worries behind him, and now he’s going to enjoy the holidays with his boyfriend. The consequences could suck it. There was an ease that settled in Tyler’s soul when he reached over and stole fries from Y/N’s plate. Y/N didn’t mind, though; he smiled as Tyler munched on his stolen French fries.

“So, who’s coming to your family’s Christmas party? Your uncles from the old country?” Y/N’s uncles, who lived in Transylvania and other places, were coming to the states for Christmas. Y/N nodded. “Yup. There’s uncle Charlie, my dad's twin brother. There’s uncle Phantom of the Opera. He has a beautiful voice that shatters glass. There’s uncle Gilbert from the Black Lagoon and uncle Stefan. He’s from Italy.

“Well, I can’t wait to meet them.”

“And they can’t wait to meet you, too,” Y/N said. “That’s okay, right? I told my family about you, and they’re so excited to see you, Ty.”

“Really?” Tyler asked. “Even though I’m half normie and a Hyde?”

“Of course. Grandpa says I found myself a keeper when he learned you were a Hyde. He practically gave me his blessing for a marriage proposal. He says Hydes are like royalty back in Transylvania.”

Tyler hadn’t expected that answer. He expected to be turned away as soon as they discovered he was a murderous killing machine, but the Munsters liked that quality in a future-in-law. Go figure. The curly-haired boy licked his lips as his blue orbs looked at Y/N. “I hope that I don’t disappoint them. I mean, it wouldn’t be the first time that I didn’t live up to someone’s expectations.” And just like that, the angst is back. Thinking about his father is back in full force as Tyler frowns.

Y/N frowns, too, as he puts a hand over Tyler’s. “Ty, what are you talking about? My family’s going to love it as much as I do. You could never disappoint them or me.” The promise in his boyfriend’s voice was so commanding and powerful that Tyler just had to believe him. That strangers were willing to welcome someone they’d never seen in their home. It was almost enough to make the Galpin boy cry. Almost. “You think so?”

Y/N smiled. “I know so.”

…..

After their waitress brought them their stack of pancakes that they shared down the middle; their diner date was pretty uneventful, except for who should pay for their dinner. Tyler and Y/N both fenced back and forth before it was agreed upon that Tyler would pay for dinner, if Y/N paid for the gas. Once they had left the diner and filled up Tyler’s truck with enough gas to get them to Y/N’s house, they set off once again for the road as they finished the last three hours of their trip.

Tyler drove through the town of Mockingbird Heights as the GPS guided them towards the street of 1313 Mockingbird Lane.

Once they had arrived at their intended destination, Tyler got out of the car and opened the other side of the door for his boyfriend as he turned towards the house and gasped. The house, or mansion a better word for it, was a Gothic Victorian style. The house stands on a property enclosed by a stone wall and the yard is full of weeds and dead trees. Tyler’s never seen a house like this in life before, only in the movies and tv shows. It was amazing.

Y/N successfully grabbed all their luggage in one go thanks to his Frankenstein like strength as he guides Tyler through the gates of his home with a giant ‘M’ on the bars. As they head up the porch towards the house, the barista notices some Christmas decorations on the front lawn. There’s all the colorful and festive lights surrounded by a giant spider web with mechanical spiders. There’s also the snowman getting his head cut off by the executioner at the guillotine. Over and over again. And the rabid reindeers on top of the house.

“Wow, this place is pretty bleak and horrifying,” Tyler said. Then he realized how that sounded and blushed as he stammered out an apology. “Y/N, I’m sorry I didn’t mean too–”

“–Wow, Puppy, that was so sweet of you to say.” Y/N smiled. “My family sure did try hard and to hear you say those kind words about it makes me smile.”

Tyler rubbed the back of his head nervously. “You’re welcome.” Bad and bloody, we're good here. They were compliments.

They stood on the other side of the door as Y/N set their stuff down and knocked. The whole mansion shook underneath Y/N’s fist as Tyler tried to steady his nerves. Any minute now, he was going to be meeting his boyfriend’s family as soon as that door opened. Hopefully, he doesn’t screw things up. Sensing his uneasiness, Y/N grasped his boyfriend’s hand and gave it a gentle squeeze and a small smile. Tyler smiled back.

The sound of thundering footsteps could be heard as the front door opened up to reveal a hulking figure about 8-foot-tall if Tyler had to guess. He had green skin with a square shaped face, a scar on his forehead, bolts on either side of his neck and black hair. He wore a gray coat over a black sweatshirt with pants and giant boots. Probably the biggest shoes Tyler’s ever seen. Despite his monstrous appearance, he had a sunny disposition about him like his son, as his blue eyes sparkled when he looked down at Y/N and Tyler.

He let out a loud braying bellow as he grabbed Y/N into a hug. Tyler could hear the faint crush of bones and he was concerned, but Y/N seemed ecstatic. “Y/N! Good to see you, my son!”

Y/N giggles as he hugs his father back and Tyler hears bones crunching underneath Y/N’s arms. “You too dad!” They separated as Y/N’s father turned towards Tyler. “Oh, and just who is this young man?”

Tyler opens his mouth to speak, but Y/N beats him to the punch. “Dad, this is my boyfriend, Tyler Galpin. Tyler, this is my dad, Herman Munster,” He introduces the two. “He’ll be staying for the holidays and maybe New Year’s before the spring semester.”

Herman stares at Tyler, and he has to fight the urge to shrink underneath his intense gaze. Finally, Herman breaks into a smile as he holds out his hand. “How do you do, Tyler?” The son of the sheriff looks at the outreach hand and grasps it with his own. It’s surprisingly cold to the touch. He shakes his hand as he politely says , “It’s nice to finally meet you, sir,” Tyler says, proud to hear that his voice doesn’t shake or crack.

“Likewise, young man. Though he’s certainly less hairy than the boyfriend I had when I was your age, Y/N.” Herman laughs at his own joke.

“Seriously, dad jokes? Are you trying to embarrass me?” Y/N blushed as Tyler looks at him and giggles. Herman smiles. “Why don’t you both head inside and I’ll take your bags upstairs?” Y/N nodded as he grabbed Tyler’s hand and led them into the mansion.

Y/N led Tyler past a staircase as Herman traveled up said stairs with all their stuff in his hands as the barista was led into the living room. The first thing Tyler noticed were the webs. The whole living seemed to be covered in it, like Spider-Man had a fight here and didn’t clean up after himself. There were candles lit all around with an old-fashioned clock, an electric chair, a tv, and a fireplace with a couch and a coffee table. There was also a giant harp too.

“Hope you don’t mind, but my mom cleaned this place up for our arrival,” Y/N said.

“That’s fine. No problem at all.” Tyler smiles.

From another room, a beautiful and slender woman with long dark hair with flex’s of gray mixed in and greenish skin, wears an ankle-length pale pink gown that appears faded and old, a bat-shaped medallion around her neck as she is accompanied by an older looking man who also has green skin. He wears a tuxedo with crazy curly gray and white hair. They stop when they see the two boys.

“Ma! Grandpa!” Y/N whooshed towards them and hugged them tight as they did the same to him. “Oh, dear, it’s wonderful to have you home for Christmas, Y/N.”

“It certainly is. Especially with the new blood you brought into the family.” The old man looks at Tyler, a gleam in his eyes as in a blink of an eye; he’s right in front of Tyler, grasping his arm. His fangs come out as the curly-haired young man watches him attempt to bite his arm.

“Grandpa!” Y/N speeds towards them and gets in between as he stands in front of Tyler protectively. “You can’t just bite my boyfriend’s arm.”

“That’s right, grandpa you can’t. You didn’t even ask him for permission first.” the woman says. “Besides, Y/N already has a claim over him and will bite him if he so chooses to do so.”

“Ma, I told you, vampires, my age, don't bite people anymore. It's not considered cool.”

“Cool?” the old man asks. “Back in my day, it was the coolest thing about being a vampire and suddenly now it's not? Your grandma would be turning in her grave right now.”

“What are you talking about? She always turns in her grave.” Y/N gives Tyler an apologetic look. “Sorry about that, Tyler. That was very rude of my grandfather.” He glares at the old man.

“Oh, so this is Tyler?” The woman asks Y/N.

“Wait, he’s Edward Hyde’s great, great, great great, grandson?” The old man gasps.

“Yup, he sure is. Ma, grandpa, this is Tyler. Ty, this is my mom, Lily, and my grandpa, Sam Dracula, Count of Transylvania.”

“Hello, there. Nice to meet you both,” Tyler said.

“You too, Tyler. So wonderful to finally meet you in person. Y/N’s told us all about you,” Lily said.

“He sure has.” Grandpa smiles as he pats them both on the shoulders. “He’s a keeper, Y/N. You have my blessing.” He leans close to Tyler. “Catch ya later, your highness.” He walks out of the room.

“Where are Marilyn and Eddie?” Y/N asks.

“Oh, Marilyn is on a date, and it’s nighttime. I suppose I should wake up Eddie from his sleep. Don’t want him wasting a beautiful night in bed,” Lily said.

“Speaking of bed, Tyler and I are going to get some sleep. It was a long trip.” Y/N noticed Tyler trying to hide his yawn.

Lily nods her head. “Of course, dear. I made sure to clean your room with fresh cobwebs and dust.”

Y/N leads Tyler away from the living room and up the stairs, passing his father as they go up and he goes down. “Going to bed, son? In the middle of the night?”

“Yeah, pops, we’re pretty tired.”

“Alright then, son. You and Tyler have a bad night's sleep and sweet nightmares,” Herman said. Y/N nods and kisses his father’s cheek goodnight as he leads Tyler towards his room.

When Herman comes down the stairs, he finds his wife waiting for him. “Oh, Herman, do you really think they should be sleeping in the same room together? You know how boys are.”

“I do, Lily. Because I am one,” Herman says.

“Would you two stop worrying?” Grandpa said. “Y/N’s a responsible young man and he would never do anything inappropriate. Besides, when I was his age, my parents let my partners stay in my coffin all the time.”

“Yeah, that’s because most of them were dead on their feet.” Herman says with a loud bellow.

#x male reader #male reader insert #male x male #wednesday 2022 #tyler galpin x male reader #tyler galpin x y/n #tyler galpin x reader #tyler galpin #hunter doohan x male reader #hunter doohan #the munsters #Y/N Munster

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yokozawass-fan-account · 2 years

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A study on one Yokozawa Takafumi

Okay, buckle up guys cause I’ve been wanting to do this for MONTHS and now is the time and it’s gonna be a long post. It’s time to talk about my sweet baby angel Yokozawa.

As some of you may have figured out already, Yokozawa is my favorite character in the SiH/JR universe. Tbh, he’s my favorite character PERIOD. I mean, look at him :

He’s gorgeous. I could look at him all day long. So what follows is a bunch of observations and theories (that are obviously 100% totally true, as they are mine) that revolve around the character of Yokozawa Takafumi.

We don’t really know much about Yokozawa’s personal life before his first appearance in SiH. We know of his relationship with Takano and their time together in college, but we know nothing of his past that DOESN’T involve Takano. We do have glimpses of informations, like the fact that his parents worked late when he was a child and so he had to learn how to cook and take care of himself and that they might be bugging him about getting married, but it’s always given out in 1 short sentence in the novels with absolutely no details, which makes this statements difficult to fully understand. (for example, it isn’t explicited if he has siblings, tho he probably doesn’t, or when exactly did his parents talk to him about getting married, which means that he COULD have siblings and that his last interaction with his parents COULD be from a couple of weeks to several months before we hear of it, maybe even more than a year). We also learn in an EXTRA (like you gave him 6 novels but you put THAT in an EXTRA, NAKAMURA?!?) that his scowl comes from waaaaaayyyyyyy back into his childhood since he’s been scowling in pictures since he was a child, something that he didn’t realize himself until he saw said-pictures again as an adult.

From his first appearance, what we understand about him is that he’s cold, aggressive, loud and work-focused. In fact, it is implied that it’s what many of his coworkers see in him since they nicknamed him the “Wild Bear” of Sales. His personnality and reputation are so bad at the start of SiH that most of them fear him, and the only coworkers with whom he seems to get along with, outside of Takano, are Henmi (which is honetsly only due to Henmi being a cinnamon roll), Hatori (but it’s more about mutual respect than friendship) and Yukina (who’s not even working at Marukawa and whom he only sees from time to time). He does have cordial relationships with other people, but it’s mostly people who don’t interact much with him or who are unrelated to his own work.

To summarize, he’s a grumpy asshole with no friends (except Takano but we all know it’s basically like having no friends at all) (sorry Takano kinnies, i love him too but you know I’m right) And we, readers, are expected to hate him with all our heart.

Then, this happens:

And from then on, Yokozawa is revealed to be so much more than what we thought we knew. The next time we see him in SiH, he’s “back to normal” and tells Ritsu that at the first occasion, he’ll steal Takano back. Thanks to the Yokozawa Takafumi no Baii novels (or YTnB), we understand that he doesn’t really think what he’s saying as he has finally fully realized that he could never have Takano. What he said then was a way for himself to not lose face in front of the man who beat him, who won Takano even though he’s done nothing for it, unlike Yokozawa who had been trying to get Takano for several years. It’s self-preservation, and in the end, it may be more of an act for himself than against Ritsu. In other words, he’s officially giving up but without admitting his defeat, at least out loud. The worst part is probably that he had known for a long time he could never have Takano, but just couldn’t let go. It doesn’t really work for him tho, because he still feels all the sadness, sourness and disappointment that comes with being rejected for someone else. And of course, since he is very prideful, you can add shame to the mix. Then, the final strike: there’s no one for him at this moment. Takano is more or less his only friend, and in this situation there’s no way he can seek comfort from him. His family? Well, assuming he doesn’t have any sibling, it’s only his parents, and from how much we hear about them (NEVER LMAOOOOO, they’re mentionned 2-3 times in total thoughout the 6 novels and have 0 influence on the plot at any time. Compared to that, Hiyori’s grandparents from her mother’s side are like main characters lmao), he doesn’t seem particularly close with them, so they’re out.

By the way, there’s something really bothering me that I want to share. In the 4th novel, Yokozawa reveals to the Kirishimas that his birthday was actually 2 days after Kirishima’s but that he FORGOT about it until way after it had passed. He also says that it doesn’t really matter because it’s not important and he usually doesn’t celebrate it anyway. The problem is: as a parent, wouldn’t you, at least, call your child to wish them a happy birthday? Because, if Yokozawa forgot his birthday until AFTER it had passed, it means that NO ONE wished him a happy birthday, or he would have remembered. Therefore, his parents didn’t even call to wish him a happy birthday. His own parents to whom he is -supposedly- an only child. From that, we can extrapolate. If they don’t call him for his birthday, they probably don’t call much at all, right? Now, add to that information that Takano, his only real friend, never calls him by his given name, and that of course no one else does since they’re not close with Yokozawa. The only people who might call him by his given name are his family. His parents. Do you see my point?

This man has very probably not been called by his given name in months. Your given name gives you individuality. Your family name is something you share with other people but your given name identifies you as an individual among your family. I’m telling you, my boy has been called “Yokozawa” for so long that it’s basically how he identifies himself. (hell, I bet he refers to himself as “Yokozawa” instead of “Takafumi”) And I think that this theory is supported by the fact that he doesn’t like being called “Takafumi” by Kirishima, even after months of dating. It’s like he’s not a person anymore. He doesn’t have anything he’s passionae about, he’s an entity that fulfils a role. Takano’s best friend. The Wild Bear of Sales. Ritsu’s rival. He’s never allowed to be just “Takafumi”. And when he “loses” the only person he was actually close to, his world collapses, because he doesn’t have anything else in his private life, which is why he turns to work and focuses on that afterwards. Yokozawa is an incredibly lonely character. He feels alone but his pride and self-deprecative tendencies (let’s remember that he expressed multiple times that he doesn’t understand how Kirishima can be attracted to him and keeps questioning his place in the Kirishimas’ household) don’t allow him to realize it. He doesn’t have anybody, he knows it, he ignores it. But it doesn’t take the pain away, and so he falls into a spiral of self-hate and depression.

It could have ended like that, but then Kirishima forced his way into the picture. That night in the bar, Kirishima is faced with something he (and probably nobody else, honestly) has never seen before: Yokozawa giving out fully to his true feelings. When Takano confronted him, Yokozawa lashed out but he maintained some control over himself, enough to not let Takano see how deeply crushed Yokozawa really was. But with all the despair and alcohol inside him, Yokozawa showed everything he usually never showed to anyone else: his desperation, his love, his tears... And it’s basically the moment Kirishima decided “yep, I’m gonna take care of this guy”, because he SAW, at that moment, Yokozawa’s true heart, his naivete when it comes to love, how deeply he can love and how far he would go for the people he holds dear. Kirishima was facing the guy half Marukawa thinks is an absolute asshole, and realized there was so much more to him than anything he could have imagine. So of course, he started to wonder what other sides of Yokozawa he could discover. And thanks to him, we, the reader, got to see those sides too.

Yokozawa is actually very sweet and sincere. He’s grumpy, yes, and he clearly doesn’t know how to handle his emotions (as if no one ever teached him how to, mmmmmmmmhhhhh, I WONDER), but it’s just the hard exterior that he put up for so long that it basically became his natural state. The truth is revealed about the former n°1 enemy of the fandom: he’s good with animals and kids (because, surprise, he’s actually a big softie with heart of gold), he likes to cook, he enjoys reading when he has time, he actually really appreciates Henmi despite scolding him all the time, he’s shy when it comes to intimacy, etc... We discover a man who is stubborn and irritable because he’s very dedicated to everything he has responsability over (like the parent race at Hiyori school, my boy TRAINED for WEEKS so he would do his best for a little girl he had known for a couple of months at best, god); he acts clingy at times because he when he loves, he loves hard and fully; he’s bad at sharing his feelings because he has a lot of insecurities and self-doubt (like, every novel he’s ready to leave the Kirishimas the moment they want him out of their lives, even though he acknowledges to himself that it would probably destroy him. like, baby, wtf?). And despite all that, he always does his best to do the right thing. He doesn’t sulk and indulge into his flawed behaviour. When he fucks up, he apologizes and does his best to make up for it (except with Onodera but nobody’s perfect lmao), and even though he’s unsure about his future with the Kirishimas, he gives them everything he has. And for the first time (again, sorry Takano kinnies), he’s given back just as much.

Hiyori is obviously perfect, she’s the best, I love her. But his relationship with Kirishima is what really allows Yokozawa to reveal everything he has in him. - I said I’d accept you unconditionally—you don’t have to change one bit. “ That statement is, in my opinion, the exact thing that makes their relationship work and the proof that Kirishima is the ideal partner for Yokozawa. Kirishima acknowledges Yokozawa’s flaws later in the scene, making it clear that he’s not blind of them and that he knows what he’s getting himself into by being Yokozawa’s lover. And saying loud and clear that he knows about them and is willing to accept Yokozawa, not despite those flaws, but WITH them, he’s basically giving Yokozawa exactly what he needs. Yokozawa is aware of his flaws and that he pushes other people away with his shitty behaviour, but no one ever gave him the opportunity to grow and change in order for him to become a better person. Deep down, he’s an amazing guy, but no one before has ever been willing to wait long enough to see it. When Kirishima says this sentence, I don’t think he’s refering to Yokozawa’s behaviour towards himself because of course that he wants Yokozawa to act differently with him after they become lovers, like being lovey-dovey and more laid-back around him. I think he’s telling Yokozawa “I know who you are deep down, I see you, and I’ll take it with everything it goes with without hesitation”, and that’s precisely what Yokozawa needs: to be loved for who he truly is, and to be given the time to change the way he behaves without being rushed or judged. The proof of this is that, Yokozawa DOES change in the course of the novels. He’s less grumpy and angry and stressed, but also more confident and relaxed and able to solve problems with calmness and communication. And those changes all come from his desire to be a better person for the people and to be able to support people around himself. He doesn’t change to please Kirishima; he changes because he’s wanted to change things about him for a long time and Kirishima offered him the opportunity and the support he needed to make those changes in himself. I think Kirishima being a father really helps here, because he’s a good father, which means he has learned to be patient and understanding and to leave others the space to grow, just like he does with Hiyori. So, yeah, he’s right when he says that having a child is “a plus” for his relationship with Yokozawa, because it gave him the tools to be the partner Yokozawa needed and deserved. On a personnal note, I think I fell in love with Yokozawa because I used to feel a similar type of loneliness and that horrible feeling that you could technically do something but you still somehow can’t manage to actually do it, and you feel horrible about yourself. But by loving him, I learned to love and forgive that part of myself. Because I saw this part of myself in him, I realized that it does not make me horrible or pathetic or disgusting. It’s humane, it’s hard, and it should be handled with support and kindness, not disdain and disgust. So, thank you my grumpy bear boy for allowing me to accept all this, I love you <3

#(this post has been delayed cause the first draft that I had spent 1h writing has been COMPLETELY ERASED and I was sad)#i do not take criticism #everything that is written here is 100% right #yokozawa is a poor little sexy ass mewmew #and also my son #and he deserves EVERYTHING #sekaiichi hatsukoi #yokozawa takafumi #character study #yokozawa my beloved #long ass post #not entirely proofread cause it's too long and I already spent hours (in the course of a few months) on this

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acourtofthought · 2 days

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I came to a realization/prediction/hope this weekend which I feel the need to share with you.

I think there’s going to be a moment in the Elucien book when Elain is going to hurt Lucien, badly. Idk if it will be telling him about Azriel or something else, but I think Lucien is going to tell her he needs time.

I think it will be obvious how hurt he is, and Elain is going to feel terribly about it. Whether or not she comes to this conclusion herself or someone else will remind her (Vassa? Jurian? Eris? An entirely new character?) I don’t know, but she’s going to remember that when she needed time, Lucien gave it to her. So, she’s going to need to swallow her wants (& maybe pride) to give him that same courtesy in return. And in doing so, she’ll gain a new appreciation for him, and his character.

I believe this will be after they’ve built a banter, hell maybe even after they’ve already kissed and been quite intimate. Something which truly makes her scared that she might loose him for good, and forces her to face that deep seated fear of rejection. A similarity between herself and her mate, but something she’s previously avoided and now can’t.

Obviously, I think they will end up together. I think Elain will let Lucien come back to her, and when he does, force him to hear her apology (because he never gets the apologies he’s deserved, and can be too forgiving, somewhat to his detriment.) And, I think this will be the foundation of her protectiveness of him. Not that she wouldn’t have been be before this situation, but that now she’d have a newfound fire in facing anyone who came for him. A loyalty and fierceness equally matched by her mate.

Anyways, I just wanted to share and ask what you think!

🧼💖

NTSSM!!!! I wouldn't be surprised if we already had that happen in SF. That scene where Cassian says, "Where's Elain?" and Lucien responds (voice dripping with discomfort), "I am not always in this city to see my mate" then he later goes on to look at her with longing on Solstice but the whole thing with Az happens. I'm not sure how much Lucien is aware of what nearly went down that night but he must have sensed something in the last year. I imagine he's gotten to the point, regardless of how much he longs for her, where he's frustrated with the situation, where he is hurt with the situation. And I think the start of their book will be with him fed up with her actions and where we maybe see a little bit of a temper from him. Where he's kind of given up on the idea of there being hope for them. Though I'm not sure I see them having progression in their book only for him to be hurt by her and him telling her he needs more time (at least not in a major way) because that halts the story overall. If Elain and Lucien's arc involves them traveling to Spring, the human lands, the continent, etc., they're going to be forced to interact for that fact alone and I don't see either Elain or Lucien being the one to hold a grudge during that time. I also don't see Lucien being so hurt that he would shut her out for any reason. Normally mated males would rather sacrifice their own happiness than cause distress to the female. Though maybe it would be something along the lines of what we saw with Feyre and Rhys, when she lashed out after their visit to the CON or Nesta and Cassian after he said he didn't have a choice in being shackled to her and she called in their bargain. Both Rhys and Cassian were hurt by some things their mate said and though both pairings need a few days to clear their minds, it didn't make the guys question wanting to be together. With her endgame pairings, she usually has the FMC apologize for her past behaviors but she doesn't have the male typically push her aware for anything. I do think though, when Elain finally lets go of her stubbornness in regards to the bond and she gives that big apology to Lucien for her behavior the last two years, that's when we'll really see the protectiveness you mentioned come into play.

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womanlives · 8 months

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@lolthswornd cont. from here

HIS ARMOR IS A PRISON OF ITS OWN MAKING. His own making.

Ketheric Thorm leans back against his throne. It’s cold and uncomfortable, which is what all thrones should be. There is no room for complacency when you wear the crown. Or its jewels. One of his hands reaches up to idly run along the netherstone welded to his chest. He can’t feel it. All he can feel is stiff leather from his gauntlet.

General —

His other hand lifts. Just like that the room quiets and his chosen war-warden drops her head in deference. Ketheric’s features twist in displeasure. At his side, four steps back in deference to his throne, he hears Disciple Zrell hiss in a sharp breath. There is a disgusting thrill that curls from her direction. She anticipates pain, and it excites her. Ketheric locks his teeth. If only that bitch-spawn had fixated on the half-orc instead of the drow.

If only they hadn’t ruined her. Imagine! He is, and this is the true source of his contempt. Minthara Baenre, pride of House Baenre, first of the drow. Nightwarden — odd, that — and raidmother, reduced to a cowering wreck at his feet.

And yet — what’s this? The slightest act of defiance. She raises her gaze and for a fraction of a moment his eyebrow lifts. Ketheric blinks, and before him isn’t Minthara. It’s Isobel — darling, dearest Isobel — with hair spun like liquid moonlight.

Moonlight. Selûne. Rejection. Hate. Guilt. Resignation. Nothingness.

Ketheric reaches out to Minthara’s mind and bats it to the ground. Obey.

He doesn’t yell. Doesn’t scream, like Orin. Doesn’t wheedle, like Gortash. Doesn’t need to. He simply leans forward in his throne — steel whines against stone! — and studies her. What a disappointment. “You say this,” and his voice is smooth and reasonable, because you cannot doubt him, you should not doubt him, and if there are any faults they are yours and yours alone, “but you have returned to me empty-handed.” His gauntleted fingers part. He grasps at air. “The grove lives. Your forces are decimated. Now, why you even bothered to return at all — ”

Fear and faith. Blind, useless, idiotic faith. Gods, they’ve ruined her. No. Not gods.

He looks down at his fingers. Not gods at all. His hand curls into a fist. At last, he stands. “I will allow it. Show me your devotion.” So deceptively soft. He reaches out with his mind and imagines his gauntlet, larger than life, hovering suspended over the room. Then, slowly but surely, he brings it down. The room erupts in a fever pitch of pressure that he and he alone cannot feel. Far below him, he imagines a brain — larger than life — pulsing, as it grants him absolute power. Absolute authority. All across the throne room, his cultists collapse into themselves and fall to their knees.

He locks his imaginary gauntlet around Minthara. “Stand.” Command. Verbal. Contradictory. This will be her testament of strength. “Show me what happened. Show me what you will do about it.”

#lolthswornd #ketheric/ic.#ketheric/act2.#daddy ketheric: show me what happened #mintharas mind tv: 4 naked halfling tavs igniting 500smoke barrels all across the goblin camp #jkfljskaldhgslghgsgg

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kaurwreck · 4 months

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January 2, 2024 [1:04 AM]

below is a transcript of dms i sent while reading the final chapter of Return to Tsugaru by Osamu Dazai

What's worse, that I can't be sure any of this chapter is or that he would write this at all is the only truth that really matters.

Did he find his father in his father's place of birth, or did he just wish he had. Did he see his father in his eldest brother or only the rejection he imagined receiving from his father had he'd ever worked up the courage to ask anything of him.

Was he recieved liked he belonged there or did he just think he should have been so that's what ought to have happened had the narrative been satisfying instead of what it was, which was lonely and othering.

Was he brave enough to even see how he'd be received at all, or did he keep walking, so that he could decide what would have happened had he not cowered.

Everywhere he has never been, he is of the people, their blood is his, he is as native to the locale as the flora and fauna. But where he has history, where his family live and lived, he is a wandering vagabond, a mere passerby, an outsider. "I can't help feeling that this area is not really Tsugaru," he says, as if to reconcile who he is now with the man who declared himself to be a peasant among peasants "There is nothing here of Tsugaru's luckless karma; the clumsy tactlessness so typical of Tsuguru is absent. Just looking at the landscape, you can sense it— it is knowing, cultured, as it were. Its heart contains no mulish pride." Or does it just look like the place where your father lived, and you can't see yourself in anything he's known because he never bothered to know you.

Dazai, have you once written about Tsugaru, or has it been you all along.

Oh, but then he DOES find himself in his fatherland. The worst parts of himself, the parts he despises the most. The pretense and lack of confidence and the naked fear: "The people of the Tsuguru heartland really lack confidence in their own history. They haven't a trace of it. That's why they end up assuming that posture of arrogance, why they square their shoulders and accuse others of being 'base.' It's the basis of the obstinacy, the stubbornness, and the complexity of the Tsugaru people, and ultimately the cause of their sad destiny of isolation and loneliness."

Aren't you like me? He says to his father and brother. Isn't it just that you've forgotten? Isn't it just that you've resigned yourself? Aren't you just as timid, only you're too stubborn to admit it?

Dazai doesn't hate pretense, he's afraid of the loneliness it promises. He's afraid of resigning himself to never being known.

But he also doesn't know if he can survive being known either, if anyone like him as ever survived it.

"Since the start of my journey, I had always been treated by others, but suddenly, the unedifying thought occurred to me that tonight for once, I might try to get drunk all by myself."

...

"I realized that after all, I could not do a single thing by myself, and this made the delicate taste of the entrails even more memorable."

We don't do anything on our own, love.

#japanese modern lit reading diary #return to tsugaru #osamu dazai

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everysongineverykey · 2 years

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Hello you-can-always-come-home,

For the past day or so you have been making your followers cringe with a hypothetical Deltarune MCU adaptation. In front of you is a computer currently displaying your tumblr account. You have 24 hours to write a cringeworthy mcu fandom-esc selfship fanfic with Berdly. Should you fail, your followers will instead fill this fandom ship niche with their own fanfic, almost certainly resulting in something far worse than whatever you could come up with. Will you succumb to the awful awful idea that you have unleashed, or will you finally get a taste of your own medicine? Live or die, the choice is yours.

christ alive. it's done. i really tried to write from the voice of a 13 year old mcu fan back in like 2014 and i really hope it doesn't come off as mocking anyone in particular. anyone who reads this i Promise you this writing style is put on and that i am a better writer than this actually

After the roaring knight turned out to be a personification of the fun gang's insecurities and was defeated by the power of friendship and also Triple Spamvil Neo 5000, the almighty fusion between Spamton and Jevil that had two laser cannon arms instead of one and flossed a lot, the heroes and all their friends decided to live together in Ralsei's castle in Castle town 2.0, a haven for all darkners and Lightners where everyone could live together and be happy since it was made of a different kind of darkness then all the others. Susie and Ralsei were now King and queen (Author's note: can be romantic or platonic depending on what you like best but all im gonna say is i LOVED the scene where he saved her from falling off a cliff and then said "I think you just fell for me" >_<) and Kris was Crown Prince(ss) (Author's note: haven't decided on a gender for Kris yet LOL). They were all roommates and everyone was happy.

Well, except for one person. Berdly, even though he was the reason the gang got out with their lives when he said "It's spammin' time" to summon Triple Spamvil 5000 (a.n: who else LOVED that morbius reference🤣), was still alone, his room in the castle was just a broom closet under the stairs and all he was ever fed was bread crumbs twice a day. Both Susie and Noelle had rejected him even though he was such a nice guy because they said he wasn't their type. Berdly's life in Castle Town 2.0 was TERRIBLE and he wished he had never helped them out at all.

Then one day he met someone who changed his life forever. She was half Darkner, half Lightner due to being born from one of the last Dark fountains to be sealed and her name was (Y/N). She first met Berdly when she was seeing King Ralsei and Queen Susie in the throne room to discuss her new job, the Lightner-Darkner ambassador.

Susie, Ralsei and (Y/N) were walking through the castle halls. "Well (Y/N)" said Ralsei, "I am very glad we got to meet you. It seems like you will be a perfect fit for the job of ambassador."

(Y/N) beamed. "Thank you your majesty. I will do my duty with pride. Being the only Lightner-Darkner hybrid in the world isn't easy, but I know it'll give me a special insight for this job."

Susie yawned loudly. "UGH," she complained, "Ralsei, didja HAVE to drag me along with you to talk to this priss? You know I hate di- di- diplodicus."

"Y-You mean diplomacy." Said Ralsei.

"Ugh, what-EVER," Susie groaned. "If I don't get to break something right now Im gonna explode" She turned suddenly and smashed an expensive vase sitting on a column. (Y/N) and Ralsei jumped back, (Y/N)'s kalidoscope orbs shining with fear.

"S-Susie!" sputtered Ralsei, terrified. "Y-You have to stop breaking vases! They're expensive!"

Susie roared with laughter. "Whatever toothpaste boy. Hey!" She looked around, snapping her fingers. "Where's Nerdly? He'll clean it up for me. Nerdy!"

Berdly came skittering quickly over from around the corner. "Y-Yes your ma-"

He stopped in his tracks, eyes landing on (Y/N). She was beautiful, there was no doubt about it. Her striped whitr-and-black hair humg around her shining skin like a halo, and she wore a gorgeous floor-length gown that glittered with every color of the rainbow.

Forget Noelle, this was the first real angel Berdly had ever seen. He suddenly realized hed been staring too long and cleared his throat blushing

"Uh... yes, your majesty?"

Susie motioned to the mess on the floor. "Clean that up. And don't take so long this time, I don't wanna see your ugly face stilll here in half an hour again."

Berdly looked miserably at the broken mess om the floor. "B-But your majesty, you said I could have a day off today-"

"Berdly" Ralsei said sternly. "Listen to your queen."

Berdly sighed sadly and dropped to the floor, and (Y/N) suddenly felt terrible for this boy who seemed like he just wanted to live a nice life in Castle Town.

"Excuse me," she touched his wing and he froze, blushing, "Don't worry about that. I'll clean it up."

She snapped her delicate fingers and in a second, the shards had disappeared. Leaving the floor clean again.

Berdly blinked in surprise. Susie's eyes narrowed. "Aw, c'mon, wheres the fun in that?! He always does the cleaning here! It's fun to watch him suffer!"

Ralsei tried to intervene, "Susie, please-"

"I don't care if you don't like him," (Y/N) challenged the dragon, stepping closer adversarially. "It's wrong to treat anyone this way. He obviously only wants to be friends with you and you're being very unfair."

Susie, not used to being told she's wrong, glared at (Y/N), smoke flowing out of her nostrils. "I'm Queen here!" she yelled. "I should be able to do what I want! Ugh, i'm gonna need some chalk for this" She stormed off, stomping down the hall. Good riddance, (Y/N) thought, though she was too polite to say it out loud.

Ralsei hurried after Susie meekly. "S-Susie, calm down-" Leaving (Y/N) and Berdly alone in the hall.

Berdly couldn't believe what had just happened. Someone had stood up for him! Someone cares how he feels! No one not even Noelle had ever tried to challenge the way he was treated ever since he moved to Castle Town 2.0 and now this gorgeous girl was leaning down and smiling at him.

"Are you alright?" She asked kindly, holding out her hand for him to take. "I'm sorry that happened. What's your name?"

"B-Berdly," he stammered taking her hand and quickly getting to his feet. "W-Who are you? I've never seen anyone like you before."

She blushed at that, and Berdly's heart skipped a beat. Her orbs turned bright pink, the color of happiness... and love?

"(Y/N)," she said quickly. "I'm the new darkner Lightner ambassador. Please to meet you Berdly!" Her face turned sad all of a sudden. "Do they... all treat you like that?"

Berdly's blue orbs turned dark with sadness as he looked down, muttering "Ever since I moved here. I helped them defeat the Roaring Knight too. And yet even my old friends seem to hate me now..."

"That's so sad!" (Y/N)'s eyes turned a deep blue to show her sorrow. "I'm sorry Berdly. You don't deserve this."

Berdly blushed again, shrugging. "Not much i can do"

Suddenly, (Y/N) reached out and took his hand, something that no one had done in a long time "Well I'm going to do something about it. Mark my words Berdly, no one'll treat you like a slave again as long as I'm here. Now, tell me about yourself."

She took his wing and they set off down the hall, walking and talking and laughing and Berdly could feel that this girl was going to change his life.

fucking. there. chapter one of The Reason I Should Not Have Internet. chapter 2 coming never because i've done enough

#not fucking tagging this #what if we all blew up and died. what then #anyway. time to continue writing the fic i actually like and am proud of. thanks for this anon.#banning you from my inbox permanently💙 /j

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