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mercuriians · 4 months

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do you feel like a young god?

synopsis ☆ blade wishes that his path had never collided with yours.

content info — NSFW (minors stay away 😡 i'm warning you), angst angst angst, fem! reader, regular fic but with a twist on the format. violence at the very end so be aware of that.

word count — 2.1k words.

author's note — this has been in my drafts forever. normally i don't write angst but i was listening to halsey's badlands album & it instantly gave birth to this fic. the entire album is so blade coded that it hurts. anyways this is just 100% pain and smut, there is no comfort. nonetheless i hope you enjoy this drabble and its unplanned christmas theme (i apologize in advance 😓) ALSO i'm working on reqs as we speak i swear

BLADE has never had time to entertain romantic affairs, or even indulge in spontaneous sexual encounters. such matters reeked of the kind of superficial sentimentality that he's long discarded due to its blatant, disgusting lack of appeal. since he’s remembered, all he’s ever really wanted is to taste death, to be enrobed within its earnest invitation and to finally relieve himself of his all-consuming burden. there was no room for anything else—especially something as trivial as fulfilling the human heart’s wishes.

YOU didn't plan to get involved with the agenda of the stellaron hunters, but perhaps your hopes were ultimately futile when your older sister was their very leader. really, what's funny was the fact that even though you two were related by blood, and were raised together, you only shared two traits: a sharp gaze tinted with magenta and the useful gift of perception. otherwise, you might as well have been nameless strangers. you were kind, forgiving, and preferred to heal rather than harm; kafka was the complete opposite, her manicured fingers gleefully stained with scarlet.

BLADE remembers finding himself in an unusual state of confusion when he had first met you. your appearance in itself contrasted against your team members; whereas they wore dark shades of black, purple, and red, you were clad in smooth clothes of pure silver, which didn’t make sense since they would end up dirtied and tainted either way. he remembers disapproving of your very presence because you seemed entirely unfit to fulfill your job—to kill mercilessly and to follow elio's script without an ounce of remorse or hesitation. "you don't belong here," he'd sneered, his vexation only increasing when he saw the docile smile you'd given him in response.

YOU weren't ever truly angered by the blatant acts of disrespect that blade displayed during the earliest stages of your connection. some would argue that you possessed the patience of a saint, and though you wouldn't exactly disprove such a claim, you'd say that it extended far beyond that. there was something you saw behind the scarlet hue of blade's gaze, something that lain dormant behind all the hostility. for a reason unknown, you soon grew the desire to discover it, and to maybe in turn help the man in some way. it didn't matter if a part of your soul had to be sacrificed—you would do it.

BLADE found it all too easy to decline your attempts. it was a continuous, repetitive process, where you’d seek him out and offer a few questions that seemed unassuming at first, and he’d respond by pointing out the obvious holes ruining your facade. he didn’t know why you were suddenly so eager to uncover information about him—or, to “properly acquaint yourself” as you’d innocently described it—but he didn’t care either way because it wasn’t worth trying to. at least those were the words he told himself for the first four months.

YOU managed to break down the weakest parts of blade’s walls by the fifth month. it was slow, and arduous, and yes, a bit frustrating—hearing him curse you out wasn’t really a motivating experience—but ultimately your efforts prevailed in the end. finally, if only a little bit, he opened up to you, and he began giving short but actual responses instead of a mere grunt or a simple click of the tongue. and so he started filling in small snippets about himself. how he found pleasure in the familiarity of a sword. how he despised the way your sister called him ‘bladie.’ how kuding tea was one of his preferred drinks. how he couldn’t remember the last time he dreamt in his slumber.

BLADE was rather astounded by the change in behavior you seemed to have withdrawn from him. at first he denied the reality and brushed off the occurrence as him simply taking the easier route, so that he didn’t continue to waste unnecessary effort on dodging your pesky questions. but here was the truth—he wasn’t lazy, ever. he always did things for a reason, always justified his actions with some kind of logic, no matter how immoral. something strange was happening, and he wasn’t entirely sure why, but he still tried to maintain a form of apathetic distance. blade convinced himself that things were remaining strictly professional. even as his pale hands somehow found themselves entangled within your soft hair during one stormy night, and even as his chapped lips pressed against yours.

YOU were surprised but not at all unwelcoming of the unorthodox suggestion that blade gave you one day. in a tone that betrayed no emotion, he asked—well, perhaps demanded—that you two enter a sort of arrangement that he called “being each other’s respective stress relief.” in a more straightforward, explicit manner, you two would use each other for physical pleasure whenever needed. that was where the intimacy started, and it was where it ended. with your heart beating a bit more than it should have, you agreed. blade smiled—a small, predatory kind of smile—before engulfing you in a harsh kiss, backing you into the wall as his hand squeezed around your neck.

BLADE relished the sounds that he was able to elicit from you—sweet, pretty little moans, desperate, high-pitched whines, and of course, the breathless mantra of his own name. every ounce of it made him swell with smug pride, and made his cock harden even more. your eyes would shut tightly whenever you felt particularly overwhelmed with pleasure, and of course he’d always force you to open them. after all he needed you to see just how much of a slut you were for him, just how much he’d ruin you with the marks he’d leave all over your skin and the countless orgasms he’d trigger within you. somewhere in the very back of his mind, there was a faint voice that warned him of the territory he was threatening to cross, just barely short of touching the edge. but he ignored it in favor of savoring the depraved sense of exhilaration that electrified his veins, knowing that he was the one corrupting his colleague’s sweet, innocent, naive little sister.

YOU found your heart beating impossibly faster every time your lips met his, every time he quietly snuck into your quarters and whispered things that were only for you to hear. of course it was only inevitable that you fell in love with the man himself. long forgotten was your goal to solely fix him because in a strange, almost twisted way, it was like you were healing yourself with every scorching touch of his fingers, every relentless thrust of his hips. and for better or for worse, it felt like he was starting to care for you against all odds, and you saw it through the littlest of things. how his dull scarlet eyes seemed to brighten just for a second when he saw you, how he started to stay the night after he ravished you, how his fingers traced your beautifully bruised skin with an uncharacteristic gentleness when he thought you were asleep. you loved it, and soon his embrace was the only thing you learned to crave.

BLADE seemed like he was caught in a peculiar trance ever since you two had agreed to the "stress relief" arrangement. it was unimaginable, really—or at least it should have been. not once had he felt such unbridled emotion for a woman, or for any person in general. he detested the sensation at first. hated how vulnerable it made him feel. so, whenever he felt particularly exposed, whenever you smiled at him for too long, he used your body as a distraction. he'd mark your skin as if he was nothing more than a mindless animal, would pin both your wrists above your head as he snarled, hips smacking against yours. the strategy would work for some time, but the moment he saw you fall into a peaceful slumber—exhausted from all the rigorous activity—the emotions would come rushing at him again, full force. soon there was a voice at the back of his mind, whispering of how he was falling into a trap. one that he had arrogantly, unknowingly set for himself.

YOU started to feel a shift in blade's behavior, noticing how he became more distant as the days passed. your conversations shortened and shortened until they became almost reminiscent of the ones you'd have at the beginning of your relationship. your nightly sessions dwindled in frequency, eventually reaching the point where he barely even knocked on your door at all. all of it drove you to the brink of insanity, worry consuming every ounce of your being until you couldn't handle it anymore. "what the hell?" you had hissed, pulling the man aside once silver wolf and your sister had retreated to their quarters for the night. "why won't you talk to me, blade? what did i do?" but even that didn't work. all he did was scoff and push past your figure, shaking off your grip when you reached out for him. the next day, you were so distraught that, in a fit of desperation, you asked your sister for help. but the only thing you received was a look of warped pity and an obscure comment. "once the candle burns out, the room grows dark again." kafka murmured.

BLADE couldn't handle any of it anymore, his seemingly endless endurance having reached past its limit. he hated the way you looked at him in confusion and anger, and most of all, betrayal, as if he had stabbed you in the back. he might as well have. but above that, he hated the way you reminded him of his curse's weight. in another life, he had thought of immortality as a gift—a gleaming trophy awarded only to those who had gone above and beyond to prove their superiority. how foolish he had been. immortality was a burden, its pressure so insurmountable that it felt heavier than holding up the sky itself. from the very beginning, he'd known that being immortal meant that he'd have to watch the people around him fall prey to death's embrace, but somehow that simple fact evaded his mind when he—it still pains him to admit this—developed feelings for you. he wasn't quite sure if what he felt was love in its raw form, but he was pretty damn certain that it was the closest he was going to ever get. because as selfishly and disgustingly sentimental as it was, the last thing he wanted was to see you wither with age, until you were nothing more than another corpse. and so with a shaky breath, and an unstable heart, he decided to handle the situation in the only way he knew how to.

the truth was that YOU truly were one of the most perceptive people out there, even as heartbreak dulled your senses. so you heard the muted footsteps and saw the swiftly approaching shadow. you knew who it was, even without sparing a glance. still, you remained motionless, your movements almost painfully frozen as your eyes slid shut. tears silently rolled down your face, staining your skin even before the sword pierced through your chest. crimson seeped through your silver blouse like ink on a blank canvas. you fell to the ground, exhaling unshakily, unrivaled pain blooming within every inch of your body. you felt the strength being drained from your spirit, but you mustered the will to meet blade's scarlet gaze. "guess i should have expected this, huh?" you murmur, fingers moving to feel where he'd stabbed you. silently, blade crouched down to your level, his expression unreadable. you reached for his hand, neither of you flinching when his skin became stained with your blood.

"all of this was a mistake," BLADE muttered, tone betraying not even an ounce of emotion. still, he kept his fingers intertwined with yours, and that action alone was enough. "my fate is already determined, but you sealed your own the second you approached me." the wind was cold and unforgiving around the two of you, its invisible talons recklessly combing through the man's ebony strands of hair. but blade paid it no mind, not even when a particularly harsh gust threatened to overwhelm your last words. and as time would tell, those were the very words that would haunt him in the future.

"i'd seal my fate over and over if it meant that i'd see you happy again." you whispered, and for once you failed to notice one crucial detail.

for the first and last time, blade's vision grew blurry from his tears.

#honkai star rail #hsr fanfic #hsr x reader #hsr blade #blade honkai #blade x reader #blade smut #hsr smut #honkai star rail x reader #honkai star rail fanfic #hsr angst #blade angst #hsr kafka #kafka honkai star rail #hsr silver wolf #silver wolf hsr #✎— ❝devon writes❞

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mywritingonlyfans · 8 months

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Teacher's pet. // Prof! Alex Turner X Stud! Reader (Smut) Part 2 of 3.

prompt: (Age Gap/Smut) Alex, an undergraduate professor, wasn't known for his friendliness until he found himself gradually warming up to you. Your remarkable writing skills, particularly directed at his class, heightened his interest even further. He's determined to show you firsthand just how talented you are, even if the journey is challenging. Eventually, both of you realize that resisting this connection is futile, and you must let go of your inhibitions to explore what lies ahead.

words: 9K.

a/n: I'll need to add one more part, I hope you still feel like reading them! Thank you for waiting all this time! (I'll try my best to finish the last part soon)

HERE'S PART1

Alex promptly notified campus authorities about the boys. Although he didn't know their names, his detailed description enabled other professors to identify them. He ultimately concluded that they weren't a real threat, just a bunch of troublemakers. Nevertheless, he did his part, unwilling to let the situation slide and subject himself to any torment for having overlooked their inappropriate behavior. In the same way, he'd be watching you just as closely, not only because he wanted you to be okay but also because of the intensity that had built up inside him (thoughts and a tiny bit of obsession) after the last time he saw you.

…

His messy and crooked handwriting on the napkin somehow lingered in your mind. Not as much as the possibility of him being someone other than yours, but it persistently surrounded your aura. Your idealization of Professor Turner did not fit with him being a traitor, so yes, the way you portrayed him in your mind did not allow for such a possibility unless he proved otherwise. And that hurts, from deep within your core to the bitterness in your mouth and the burning in your throat. It was frustrating, yet you still wanted him around. What continued to motivate you to read the book he had given you and delve into his notes was the feeling of having him by your side, reading every word with you. Sometimes you were certain that if you closed your eyes, you could hear his rough, accentuated voice blending with the characters.

Perhaps, if you were his age and already held a degree, maybe even a professor specializing in romantic literature, there might have been something between you two. Picture it: a rainy afternoon, your head resting on his chest, his warm lips near your ear as he read to you. You hadn't openly acknowledged it yet, but you felt a certain compatibility despite the numbers of years difference. It took you a while to realize, but his demeanor softened whenever he saw you, his gaze growing more serene, and even the beloved wrinkle between his eyebrows had time to relax. His voice became gentler. You weren't completely oblivious to these cues, though you did have your doubts.

It all traced back to that one night when he had come to your aid, opening your eyes to the possibility that he could belong to someone. The faint, woody scent of his blazer had found its way to your home. He had even apologized for pulling back from a kiss, not wanting to be rude, and left his phone number in your belongings with a simple message: "Call me if you need me, lil’ one." He left no room for doubt; your mind still spun, and you felt helpless, uncertain about what steps to take. But your desire to do something about it burned brightly.

"I can hear your breathing," his tone was relaxed. Just as you hoped it would be with you, and then you wondered if he could recognize you by your breathing alone.

You remained silent, there was no plausible reason or emergency that had made you call. It wasn't strange, just unusual. He laughed, which made you imagine him with a cigarette between his fingers, taking a breath on the balcony with his mouth slightly open to blow out the smoke. Maybe he just smoked too much, and you weren't obsessed.

"It's okay, little one. We can stay in silence." He laughed, in a way that filled your lungs, and the little wrinkles around his eyes appeared for contemplation. At least in your mind, just for you.

You exhaled, your eyes filling with tears. It wasn't exactly a desire to cry, but you felt genuinely sad knowing that you weren't and wouldn't be his.

"How do you know it's me, Mr. Turner?" You wanted to sound playful, but your voice came out so shaky that it made calling him that seem inappropriate.

"It was a guess. Besides, I can't think of anyone who would call me at this hour and stay in deep silence. And, well," there was a pause, his guttural and muffled breathing making you take a deep breath. Enough time for a drag, you thought. "You know, I was ‘oping you’d call." He was sincere, typical of him. He always seemed too clear when he wanted to be. Everyone said he was strict, but you couldn't think of a time when he had made his students confused or uncertain about something he demanded. Demanded, that was a word that suited him in the classroom.

"Waited?" And you saw him nod with a sweet look for you, as if he were by your side. In fact, he just mumbled. "Expected me to be in trouble?" You tried to sound more cheerful.

There was a pause; you lay down, staring at the walls until you buried your nose in the pillow in a hug. He was close to his phone; you could hear him wet his lips and breathe lightly. You wanted to run your fingers over his face and hair again, but you couldn't deny that this was as magnificent as it got.

"Not at all, but I wouldn't hesitate to save you." His eyes closed tightly. The silence grew deeper, still comfortable, it was cute. If you had the chance, you would kiss him before that, before it got too cute. "I'm sorry," he said, not sounding regretful, just reluctant due to your brief absence.

You laughed, not saying anything, but it was enough for him to understand that everything was okay.

"Are you sad?"

Then you felt the pillow get a little damp.

"Am I really that transparent?"

He let out a breath through his nose, his lips curving. If he closed his eyes just right, just like you did, he would also be able to feel your fingers dancing around him.

"Only when you write, but I blame myself for watchin’ you too much during this time." You sounded the same way as when he pushed you a little too hard with his pragmatic comments, and although he found it adorable, over the phone, without being able to do anything about it, it made him a little uncomfortable. His words took brief seconds to be spoken; he wondered if you noticed how nervous he was that he needed to formulate sentences before speaking. And even then, he regretted some of them, not that they were bad, but he didn't want to hurt you.

"I guess I am,"

"Guess?" The air caught in your throat, the back of your nose starting to burn, and you feared it would be difficult to keep tears from flowing.

You didn't want to comment on the woman in the photo, at least not at that moment; you wanted to enjoy being with him as much as possible. Taking a deep breath, you decided to omit the reason but still let him know that you were genuinely upset. Maybe it was because he had helped you; you didn't know why, but you trusted him to a moderate extent that included your feelings. You believed and knew that talking to him would make you feel better.

"I think I'm just stressed," it wasn't a lie. His body shivered, unable to hold you close to comfort you. You felt a little pathetic making such a confession to a 37-year-old man who didn't have the same problems as you.

"I feel like I'm trying so hard for nothing, the days of writing have been a burden, and everything I write is so thought out and time-consuming that I feel like no one would want to read it, I'm almost certain I'm a fraud. I'm just waiting for the day they'll realize." Your throat was already scratchy enough to be closed from the middle to the end; your face was wet, and your head pounded in pulses. This was a recurring thought of yours; you had never verbalized it to anyone.

He listened, his steady breathing becoming slightly faster, and in a way, it calmed you over the phone. The whimsical feeling that he was there for you, even if it was a situation made up in your head, put you at ease.

Alex had noticed that you were insecure about your writing; it was clear how you reacted to his notes and negative feedback. But that was one of the things that made you good, the persistence in wanting to recognize your mistakes, listen, and do things differently. He wished all his students were like that. Although you had a special place in his mind and heart. Alex found you talented and determined; weakness didn't align with your gentle and loving personality. He wanted to make you see yourself through his eyes and free you from that feeling.

"I don't think you are, lil’ one; I know you're not," the pet name brought a smile to your face, and Alex noticed, his chest warming with the satisfaction of successfully soothing your worries. "You'll reach your goals. You write well, pay great attention to detail, and I love every touch of romance in your writing. I mean it now, and I'll mean it even more in the near future. You’re quite meant for this." He settled into his bed, clearing his mind as he imagined you lying beside him. Alex could almost see your gaze darting away from his, just as you often did during his lectures, as if you hoped he wouldn't notice.

You wouldn't admit it, and he wouldn't discover it, but you felt more confident and better in this emotional aspect after his classes. You recognized that you felt even worse about this in the months before you even knew Alex. Now it was different, and you liked that.

"Do you really think so?" It didn't sound like you wanted to hear him repeat the same words. It was more like you still had traces of doubt. He could even see your nose wrinkling, a habit of yours when you were uncertain, which he found endearing. Just like hearing your weak voice like that, no matter how wrong it may be.

"Sometimes I'm certain that I'm not worth the opportunity that someone needs to give me so I can succeed in something, something that hasn't even happened yet and might never," Alex didn't let you linger on that and hushed you until your voice diminished. If he found it painful to hear you talk about yourself this way, he couldn't imagine how you were dealing with it inside your head. "I don't want you to talk ‘bout yourself like that." His voice was firmer, and you shrunk back; it was good to hear above all. "You'll make it. You're worried ‘bout a future you can't control. You're still young, and you haven't even finished your degree. Give things time. Like I said, you're talented, and you'll have good opportunities. And I'd help you in any way possible." Inside his head, he concluded, and in the impossible too. He wished he could hug you, have your body close, and be sure that you were comforted and that your voice was no longer filled with tears, but all he had were words.

Even without a turn of phrase, he noticed you calming down, and he could feel your exaggerated heartbeat through the call. Or maybe that was just his worries. You were a mess. And even though you were frustrated, he didn't want to be anywhere else that night but on the phone with you (even though he preferred you in person next to him).

"Do you think it gets better with time, Mr. Turner?" You smiled; it was forced, he knew that, but he was relieved that you were trying. Then he scratched his nose with a funny look, the way you called him still sending shivers through his body, but he also found it cute how the sound came from your lips.

"The insecurity you're feeling?" You nodded in a mumble. "It doesn't get better, but we learn to deal with it better, I think." You laughed again, with more enthusiasm, and Alex felt accomplished, feeling his own cheeks blush.

"Thank you, Mr. Turner." You said softly, closing your eyes, the phone pressed against your cheek, still hugging your pillow even tighter. His breath truly acted as a calming agent on you.

"Little one?" He noticed you were tired. "You can call me Alex if you want; there's no reason to be so formal." He felt awkward asking for that, even though the whole situation was awkward.

"Okay," you said softly, not quite able to bring yourself to say his name. The way you sounded thoughtful even with such a small word made Alex chuckle quietly in a discreet way. You were so adorable in his eyes.

Silence took over, in the same warm and familiar tone as throughout the call. You began to smell his scent on your sheets and remembered lying there with his blazer before, although for now, it was likely just a figment of your imagination. But it felt so real; you were really drowsy from sleep.

"Turner?" He murmured to let you know he was still there, finding the evolution of you avoiding "mister" quite sweet, as it made him feel less old compared to you than he actually was.

"I've been writing different works; I'd like you to take a look. I like it when you assist me without taking away my freedom." He ran his hand over his abdomen, his body warm, and he felt guilty once again for pulling you into this with him, even if that was your will too.

"I'd love to. I'm free tomorrow if you want to come over." It sounded subtle and right. Neither of you could tell if it was the effect of sleep, but he liked the idea of having you at his house again and being able to talk to you outside the academic environment. You took a while to respond, and he almost took back his earlier words.

"Is it not a problem?" Your mind went back to how he could have someone who was his person.

"No," he said, not sounding pensive, but he was wondering if someone important at the university found out it could give you problems. He knew it wasn't right for him, but he didn't care as much about what could happen to him; you had more to lose than he did, you were at the beginning of your academic career, and he wouldn't do that to you. "Do you think it could be a problem for you?"

You denied it, realizing you needed to speak for him to know the answer. "No, I think it's a good idea," you concluded, deciding that you would make the most of it, whatever it was. It was the first time you felt attracted - you liked him, you were a bit obsessed, you were afraid - and you were almost certain he felt the same way, and you didn't want to waste it.

After a few short minutes, you continued, "I love the way you write about being in love, as if there's only room for that one person in your head, and nothing else matters. I hope that if someone ever falls in love with me, it's at least 10% of how you describe that feeling." He knew you read his publications, yet he felt a delightful warmth, like receiving a handwritten note from your middle school crush confessing the same feelings. He appreciated your work, and your appreciation of his made him feel great. "Maybe I'm too busy being yours to fall for somebody new? I won't settle for anything less." Although Alex had written this a while ago, he found himself contemplating how well it matched what he felt for you.

You couldn't find more words, but both of you could sense each other's presence, the subtle laughter, and the soft breaths. Words weren't the sole means of communication; you both comprehended the situation and willingly let things progress at their own tempo. With this feeling of ease, you slipped into a peaceful and rejuvenating slumber, so unaware of it.

A few before this, he commented about needing to dispose of the ashes and the ashtray, and your face brightened in the darkness upon realizing you were right. He was smoking this whole time. Once you drifted off to sleep, Alex allowed himself to do the same, filled with the assurance that you were safe.

…

Your gaze appeared distant, and your fingers, on the verge of digging into your arm's skin due to impatience, twitched nervously. You leaned against the wall, seeking to evade the curious glances of passersby, well aware that your tension was conspicuously written across your features.

"Hey, what happened?" His voice carried deep concern, and as his gaze met yours, you couldn't help but fear that someone had issued a threat you were blissfully unaware of. He didn't hesitate, closing the gap between you, his proximity sending shivers down your spine. He was clearly worried.

It took a moment for you to find yourself as you briskly navigated the corridor leading to the reception desk, anxiety clutching at your chest.

"They're having issues with my documents, for dear God. I need them to apply to some campus. I did everything correctly, notified them of my need for these documents, and I'm still well within the deadline…" Your voice trailed off, caught in the charged atmosphere, your mind aflame.

His gaze remained steady upon you, his countenance markedly soothed now that your anxiety had heightened the stakes of the situation. He adjusted the bag slung over his shoulder and extended a reassuring touch, his fingertips coming to rest gently upon your hand.

Moistening his lips and making that soft, almost playful sound one uses to capture a cat's attention, you couldn't help but release a small, albeit apprehensive chuckle, providing relief to both you and Mr Turner; he was doing well.

His presence, grounding and reassuring, helped to temper your nerves. He remained with you until your breathing found its way back to the present.

Glancing around, his eyes found no one in close proximity. He dipped his head slightly to align himself with your level, a tremor of emotion causing your cheeks to twitch. His face and the tip of his nose were red.

Running his fingers softly across your cheek, he offered you a warm smile despite your obvious reluctance stemming from the absence of his hand in yours.

"It's alright. Everything's going to be just fine, little one." His voice gradually dissolved your anxiety and the gripping sensation in your chest. He brought his fingers to his lips, tenderly kissing them before tracing their path back to your face.

First, he lightly pressed against your forehead, then your nose, and finally your cheek before his hands slid back into his pockets.

Unbidden, the thought crossed your mind that he would've kissed your tears away, a gesture of comfort he was undoubtedly willing to extend, if only the circumstances allowed. And then your mind ached at the brief reminder that you had woken up in the double bed in his room that night.

His laughter filled the space, eyes glistening with warmth, and the wrinkles around them adding to his features. In that moment, you fervently wished he could be yours, even as your self-awareness acknowledged the depth of your feelings.

"Where do you intend to apply?" Your gaze descended to his chest, buttons undone, and a gleaming chain vying for your touch.

"Huh, I... I plan to apply to a university in California. That's the crucial one, although I'll be submitting applications to others as well. Missing this deadline is simply not an option."

He nodded in understanding, skillfully alleviating the awkwardness you felt over your hesitant words. You remained unaccustomed to the unwavering attention he directed your way, where your words and actions seemed to bear a significant weight. He made you feel noticed and appreciated, you liked that.

"Give me a few minutes, and I'll be right back."

That said, he didn't take long to re-enter the room you had left about 40 minutes earlier and resolve your issue. He emerged with a furrowed brow, the self-assured smile gradually returning to his lips as he made his way back to you. It almost felt unfair how swiftly he had solved the problem, but then you remembered that he wasn't known for his friendliness to everyone. You imagined the firmness in his voice and expression as he demanded to know the whereabouts of your documents from whomever happened to be present. A sense of relief washed over you as he asked if this was what you needed and handed you the envelope. With a quick glance inside, you confirmed that your documents were indeed there.

He seemed genuinely pleased to have been able to help, but you didn't quite notice. Your reaction was instinctual as you rose on your tiptoes and let your body collapse onto his, your arms wrapping around his neck and pulling him close. He took a deep breath, unprepared for this, but he managed to keep his bag from slipping off his shoulder and circled his arm securely around you. His nose brushed against your hair, and he hoped your scent would linger on his clothes for at least a few more minutes.

It was brief, both aware of the potential consequences of this closeness. You apologized, although a smile remained on your face. He could have frozen that moment in reality, gazing at you for hours, your short shirt rumpled from your previous touch, knee socks slightly disheveled inside your tall boots, while you clung to the documents he had just retrieved. The silence wasn't uncomfortable; it was evident how you found comfort in each other's presence. And he easily concluded that you suited California.

"I need to go," he said, his thoughts consumed with the image of you sitting in his classroom in a few hours and potentially at his home later if you hadn't changed your mind. He didn't want to bring it up, wanting the decision to be entirely yours. If you decided not to show up, he'd understand, and you knew that. You appreciated the pressure he removed from you. His desires were quite evident, and even though you still needed to address the matter of the photo in his room, his intentions were anything but unclear.

…

On that day, you sat a few desks behind due to the front-row seat's creaking issue. Every time he entered the room, your attention soared. You enjoyed admiring how he placed his brown bag on the desk, neatly rolled up his sleeves to the elbows, and adjusted his blazer before starting the class. However, you noticed how his eyes searched for you before initiating this ritual, his face stern and composed, his hand tracing his jaw until he reached the spot where he found you, a few desks back. Your radiant smile met his timid one, and your hands fidgeted with your skirt. At that moment, you both knew that neither of you concealed your feelings well. It was evident in the softening of his expression upon finding you and the shy smile that curved his lips; with crooked lower teeth and cute prominent lines. It warmed your heart.

The following minutes went as expected, with your heart racing when he addressed you, and he posed questions that he was confident you could answer or raise thought-provoking ones. You remained addicted to gaining his favor, even though you no longer needed it. There was no doubt you were his favorite one.

"I think that's enough for today," he murmured, dismissing the others, which included you. Yet, you hesitated to pack your things and leave. You wanted to show him that you still intended to meet him later, fearful that he might think otherwise.

Initiating the conversation didn't come naturally. You leaned against the closed door, observing him tidy up the last of his belongings. You felt uneasy, and he sported a self-assured smile. He was yours, soon you'd gradually become aware of it.

"It's okay, little one. We can stay in silence," he offered, approaching you. Your nervousness was palpable, and you couldn't even contemplate forming words. "There's no one on the other side of the door," he reassured, peering through the small glass window. "I wouldn't force or manipulate you into anything you don't want to do." He was cautious, but the idea that he thought you might think of him like that made you shake your head vigorously.

"I know you wouldn't, Professor Turner." His nose wrinkled slightly as you insisted on calling him that. His cheeks gained color, and you loved that.

You pushed your hair back, trying to clear your head. "I just wanted to confirm that you still want to see me tonight, and also to say thank you for helping me after the bar incident. I don't want you to think badly of me. I—" You paused, swallowing hard. Dry throat, just like your eyes, which couldn't stop blinking. His attention was fully on you, and it didn't help. Seeing your struggle, he moved closer, gently removing your hand from your hair. He whispered while still close, "I don't think anything bad 'bout you, and I'll still be waiting for you if you want to be there."

You nodded, your eyes lost in his, feeling as if you could almost touch his skin without making physical contact. Your hand involuntarily touched the collar of his shirt, your palm pressing awkwardly against his chest, feeling the warmth of his body beneath the coolness of his necklace. His fingers followed yours, resting on top of your hand with a pleasant size contrast. Your touch affected his body in ways you couldn't fully fathom, but he was better at concealing it. Your mind briefly entertained the idea of his lips brushing against yours, but this thought was soon supplanted by a lingering kiss to your forehead. Your chest met his as in an embrace, and it lasted long enough for you to feel his fingers below your knee, lifting your high socks until they were even with the other. It sent a great burn through your thigh and made you want to keep him close, but then he was stepping away. "I just want you to feel comfortable with me, pet." Your words once again choked in your throat. You wanted to hear him say he wanted you, but you refrained from vocalizing it, and you understood, but you still longed to hear it from him. Just as you wanted to shout that you felt good with him, despite being a novice in matters of the heart.

…

In your imagination, Professor Turner was someone who didn't shy away from the daylight, and you believed he was just that, even though it was amusing to picture a darker side to him that other students described. When you told your roommate that you wouldn't be back that day, and she suspected it might be related to him, you received a playful, "Take care, don't let him pull you to the dark side." It made you laugh and think about how some of your classmates had asked you to talk to Alex about his grading approach because they had noticed his fondness for you and were in desperate need of a miracle. You didn't think your intervention would change anything, but your curiosity would lead you to take the risk.

The air felt trapped in your lungs, and there was still an alert in your mind that being there was wrong. Students were gossips (your friend even more so), if he had someone, you would know, right?

"I thought you might be hungry," he gestured for you to enter. The same calm and gentleness that always characterized his demeanor toward you, as your roommate had reminded you over the phone just minutes ago. Your mouth quivered, and your hands turned cold as he looked at you. His expression was meticulous, as if trying to read every one of your signals. The sensation within you intensified as you adjusted your knee socks, and his attention followed you until he realized how his hands clenched around nothing. This time, it was you who laughed.

"I wish I could say you don't have to pay for things for me, but honestly, I wouldn't have had the money to come here," you explained, with more than a hint that you might be less financially stable than him. The age difference still nagged at your mind, but you had promised yourself to make the most of this situation. He had covered the Uber ride, just like last time, and now you felt guilty about him spending money on your meal, even though you found it adorable.

He was flushed, certainly not from embarrassment. "It's okay, I don't mind. I want you 'ere." It sounded so formal and yet so natural of him, it made you wonder if he did this often; seduce their own students. It was quite a torment for you to add to your worries, had he ever done that before? And why were you bothered by that? Why did you want to be the only one who had ever gone through this with him?

You only realized that you were standing there staring at him when you felt his hand lightly press your back and guide you to the living room. There were sheets and pillows on the wooden floor rug and the light was dim. He had thought about that and it made your cheeks hot, you were unable to contain a smile. Before sitting down, he took your bag off your shoulders and murmured, "Your thoughts are quite noisy, little one."

He sat next to you, his shoulders pressed against yours. Your legs stretched out and your uncontrollable fingers played with the hem of your socks. You kept your eyes on the orange colored juice and some bread, your belly emptying and your head becoming fuller. “I just,” you looked at him, his messy hair and tired look but still giving you all the appreciation. "I'm not used to it, I guess."

"I'm not sure if it helps you either, but, I'm not, I'm not in the habit of bringing students to my house. You're the first one." You smiled, the weight of your body joining him. Alex noticed you becoming more comfortable and brought his hand closer to yours, then you rested your palm in his; bringing your fingers over the veins and calluses on his fingertips. You bit your lip at the thought of him actually playing the guitars in his room. And then you felt heavy once again at the thought that you wouldn't be able to be present in the moment with him if you didn't know if he had someone else.

You were careful to pull your hands away from his, stealing a piece of bread and pouring yourself some juice. His gaze on you was unmistakable, hard to ignore. Even though you enjoyed it, you felt like you were caught doing something bad.

"You can talk to me," he said, nothing but reassuring. "The last thing I want is to make you uncomfortable." And he didn't, it was in your head, and deep down you knew it.

As the orange, viscous liquid touched your lips, you noticed his flushed cheeks going harder, even though he remained confident. It was the same Mango and Passion Fruit blend you had at the campus bar. Your face lit up with a smile, and he wished it could always be like this. "This is almost an obsession." He laughed too, relieved that you didn't think he was crazy for it.

He had indeed asked in the following days what that drink was, and he had learned that you always ordered that, he was just trying to make you comfortable around him. Little did he know that it didn't take much. "I swear my intentions were for the best," he concluded to have succeeded as he held your gaze for a little longer, and then your head rested on his shoulder. Your arm was lazy at first but within minutes, it was around his waist, brushing the top of his pants and then pulling your body closer. You felt the scents mingling, and your head grew lighter. He kissed your forehead, and you closed your eyes, savoring the feeling. Silence was indeed a great friend of yours, something you both cherished.

"Do you have someone?" You weren't as confident as you'd like to be, though you thought the answer was no, you still feared the response. He held your chin close to his, so near that you could see the scar near his eye and the more expressive fine lines. A tear threatened to escape as he appeared puzzled. You didn't like letting him think that you thought ill of him, but you couldn't move forward without answers. "Please, say you don't." Your voice faltered.

He ran his fingers over your face, letting his forehead rest against yours. He definitely didn't like seeing you upset. "I don't have anyone romantically," he chuckled softly, finding it attractive how you nestled into his touch. Even though you were uncertain, you wanted to hear it from him first, and he found that so mature of you. He felt guilty for thinking of it that way, as a warning that this wasn't entirely right.

You nodded, your heavy gaze fixed on him, and yet he stayed with you. "But what 'bout the girl in the photo in your room and the double bed..." Your body tensed, your face pliable in his hands.

Alex felt the weight of it and wanted the words to sound painless for you. It wasn't your fault, and there was an easy explanation; it was a concrete and unchangeable situation, only painful. He held you close when he saw the tears welling up in your eyes, with just the right amount of strength, and his chest ached as his own vision welled up. "I don't have her anymore, not anymore," and with that, you understood. His gaze and his voice, the tone of affection, you didn't feel jealous, and in a way, you understood.

Your response was to cradle his cheeks and kiss his face, not liking to see him sad gave you the courage you'd been seeking all along. His arms enveloped you, a subtle embrace, his nose brushing against your thin top, your bodies aligning inch by inch. It felt right, and it didn't seem so wrong anymore.

He chuckled against your neck, lacking much humor. "It's been a while, I'm not trying to replace her or anything." His hand traced his eyes, and you nodded in understanding. You didn't sense that from him. "It's okay, I just didn't expect that and got scared." You whispered, letting your nose touch his while his forehead sweet bangs tickled you. Soon, your fingers were lightly tugging at the nape of his neck, and he didn't avoid your gaze; he only seemed upset about worrying you. Your lips brushed his eyes, tasting the saltiness, making you feel compassionate.

Nevertheless, you let your lips touch his, soft and warm, drawing out a lingering sigh. His grip tightened around you, and with that, your hands went from entwining his collar to pulling him closer, as if you could make it better; you wanted to make him feel great.

He solemnly withdrew from you, keeping you close while planting kisses on your face as he did so. As he pulled back, you realized that your senses were more attuned to him than to yourself. You couldn't pinpoint at what moment during all this you ended up in his lap. You didn't feel bad about it, but you still felt like you should.

"I'm sorry," you began, but he didn't let you pull away from him. He didn't need to explain, but he did it anyway. "I stay 'ere to teach, not because of her. I loved her, and I probably still would, but I'm not bound to her in any way, or sustained by being in love with someone I won't see anymore. I just don't see myself forgetting her entirely after years as if nothing had happened, just as I don't want to make you think this distances me from you or makes you believe I'm trying to replace her with someone else." He was precise, his voice trembling like never before. The coherence as something he had planned to say before hurt you; he wanted to say it but avoided it, and you didn't blame him. "I just want you to know these things." Your response was to hug him, craving the ability to merge with his body. It was dramatic, but you wanted to take some of that weight off him. His broader back, along with the embrace, covered you entirely, and you could feel his breathing calming as your thighs and arms clung to him.

With your head feeling lighter, your face nestled deeper into his chest. Your nose brushed against his neck, his warmth matching yours. The roughness of his baby beard made you smile into nothing. You could swear you felt him shiver. He kissed your face, his lips finding every space from your mouth to your neck, and your jolly reaction was to pull him closer by his t-shirt's collar. Your body burned, in a comforting way, and before falling asleep with him enveloped in you, you thought about how you should have done more or even asked for more. You no longer felt hesitant towards him.

…

Your eyes slowly opened, the lighting still cozy, just like the feeling of his chest. He held you tightly, his chin nestled on the top of your head, making you feel whole as one. As you shifted in his lap, you wanted to squeeze him, feel the flesh of his waist, and unbutton more of his shirt to accommodate your hand. You needed to take a deep breath, unable to avoid the initial sweat on your forehead. He let out a sigh, his fingers tracing your back and holding you as you bit your lip to hide a smile. His dark circles were more pronounced, his skin softer, although his eyes slightly puffy. You snuggled back into him, and he accommodated you, sealing the moment with more kisses.

"I'm sorry, Turner," the muffled laughter left you happy too, not that you weren't already. You ran your wrist over his mouth, he was still fixated on every part of you. In truth, you might not have known what you were doing, or you were just nervous. You didn't want to disappoint him.

"It's okay," he ran his fingers in circles on your waist. Your skirt crept up, and the position improved as he leaned against the wall. You could feel him better, every inch of him, and the thought that you were arousing him made you tense up a bit, even though it was good. He noticed and held your face, his lips touching where you had just tried to dry because you forgot you needed to breathe through your nose when kissing someone, "Hey, it's okay, lil' one. We don't have to do anything you don't want. I like you being with you."

You took his neck, your lips soft and moist, albeit timid against his skin, making him release adorable sounds that made you want more. This caused you to grip onto him, your hips moving closer to his, and you wished he would touch you, even if just for the mere thrill of feeling him.

"Please," you sighed, his face pressed against yours. Your fingers toyed with the closed buttons of his t-shirt as you shifted your gaze to your hands. Alex understood that you weren't entirely sure about what you were asking for, and this sweetly confirmed how much he considered you nothing but a good girl. It was evident that you wanted to be wonderful for him, and it was adorable to see in your eyes how you were eagerly waiting for him to lead the way in this dance of desire.

"I'm all yours, princess." He concluded with a mixture of pet names that both disconcerted and melted you into him. You took a deep breath as the pressure of his large hands adjusted your hips, your knees slightly burning, but you couldn't help but create the necessary friction to feel him better. You could indeed feel all of him, from the light fabric of his dress pants to the zipper, hitting you perfectly. "I know, little one, you're doing so great," he praised, mesmerized by how you lightly closed your eyes and then opened them to him, and he nodded in agreement, acknowledging your success. It was attractive to see you feeling secure and knowing how to make yourself feel good. With your hands still held against him, he intertwined his fingers with yours, allowing the remaining buttons to be undone, and then your palm found its place into his flesh.

He held you tighter, your body against his. "Don't move both together, use your legs or just grind against me, or you'll get tired quickly," he sounded precise, his deep and raspy voice filling you up. You obeyed. "That's my good girl," he said in a husky growl. This effectively worked to keep you going with him. His fingers gripped your nape, pulling your head to look at him, gazing down at your sleepy and pleading look. He clenched his jaw, sure that he could surrender for so little. His lips landed on your neck, his nose burying into your skin, so soon his teeth were pulling you into a light and pleasurable bite.

And then you were his, his hands working on you better than your legs were trying but failing to reach that level. Soon, he removed your top with the same gentleness and urgency with which he pulled you to him just to devour your breasts. His grip traveled to your waist, his tongue tracing the sensitive skin, encircling how hard they were and sucking them into his mouth as if it was genuinely pleasurable for him. The tip of his nose brushed against your skin, and he caused pain by nibbling on the flesh ready for him to take. You found yourself liking how every sound you made was heard by him, and he understood every nuance to repeat or intensify whatever he was doing to you.

You fit him well; being with him and having him wrapped around you made you feel confident. You had been embarrassed to be so spontaneous with someone before, but with him, it was different. His calm presence over you, the tranquility and affection, as well as the satisfaction in his eyes and touch when he saw you well, made you want more and more of him and to surrender yourself to him even more.

"You're so delicious," and he meant it. He squeezed you tightly, and you were worried you might have marks afterward. In a way, you liked it; you wanted to see him sprawled over you when it was all over.

And at all times he paid attention to your high socks, fixing them in the right place and smoothing them so they wouldn't move from where they were; keeping them pretty on yourself.

To soothe your whimper, he nestled his thumb against your clit, adjusting his movements until it felt like it was working for you. Alex was flushed, and you wanted to capture the look he was giving you. He didn't feel entirely guilty, but something weighed on him, as if he were corrupting you; the sensation wasn't bad at all. He pulled the flimsy fabric upwards, giving you more traction, lightly laughing at the pastel color and the central bow, knowing that it would haunt his mind for many days to come when he was feeling drowsy. It was magnificent, every detail of you, and he marveled at having your tired and prolonged sighs and teary eyes, just as he always thought they would be when your weak body collapsed onto his in such adorable spasms.

…

Your body ached, but the electricity in you felt good. Your hands ran clumsily through the pleasurable haze. He placed his lips on your forehead, lingering there until your body melded to his like a magnet. "I need to go, but I don't mind if you stay 'ere, lil' one," he sounded even better after waking up, husky and lazy, yet strong. Gradually, you became aware of the fact that you were in his bed, wearing the button-up shirt that you admired on his body. You smelled like him. You remembered him covering you with it, draping your figure while he kissed your collarbone gently. You were so drowsy that you were so certain it had been a dream.

"Go where?" You asked absently, looking around. He pulled up your socks, your legs entwining with his beneath the sheets. He loved this, wanted to have you there forever. You slept so serenely, comforted by his touch, and he thought about leaving you there. But he remembered how scared you had been at the idea of him leaving without notice the night he took you from the bar. He didn't want to cause that in you again, especially knowing he wouldn't be there when you woke up. "I have to teach in the morning, but I'll be back in the afternoon. I don't mind if you stay 'ere if you want."

"And do you want me to stay?" Your lips quivered; you understood his careful approach to your desires, but you wanted to hear it from him without reservations.

"I want you to stay, very much. I still need to read your new work, and I want to hear more from you." Your smile widened, and your face met his neck. He stroked your hair, keeping you close. You had almost forgotten that you had tucked prints of your writings into your bag to leave with him, or to have him read while you waited for his shrewd criticisms. You didn't care as much anymore; you wanted to hear him. You wanted to hear everything he had to say about you, whatever it may be. This thought, combined with the reminder that he preferred printed works over email submissions, made you beam more against him. He pulled you close, looking at you curiously.

"Okay, I can stay here, old man. It's good that I can finish reading the book you gave me." His cheeks flushed, and he got up, making you laugh more and grumble in disapproval. Alex didn't make a fuss and went to the wardrobe, putting on a clean t-shirt and taking off the pants he had worn earlier. He was serene, and he didn't mind you watching, your calm eyes on him, unraveling with each visible patch of skin. You wanted to scream about how everything in you wished this could be your routine. When you looked around, the photo was no longer there, and it didn't seem strange. In fact, you didn't feel jealous of it. However, knowing that he had put it away in another place made you feel good. You thought you might ask him more about it soon; she was important to Alex, and you understood and respected that. You thought it was only fair for him to know you didn't think badly of it.

"Promise you won't be too harsh when reading my stuff?" The buttons were still opened when he turned to you, his eyebrow arched, and his chocolate-colored eyes sparkling.

"I'm not cruel," you huffed, making him suppress a sly smile. "At least not with you." Your cheeks burned. He went into the bathroom, leaving the door open as he grabbed his toothbrush. You followed, sitting beside him on the large sink, attentive to him.

"You know, they told me to ask you to go easier on the students, at least in my class. They all seem to think you're pretty tough," you mentioned.

He chuckled. You liked this, it was intimate and comfortable. His hair was messy, and his shirt was slightly wrinkled; he was perfect. He wiped his mouth and kept his brows tense, "I'm not; the world is just not as perfect as most of you believe, and not everyone is as good as you." He was such a cute old bastard. You arched your brows, mimicking the expression he often made, and he laughed, softening for you. "I won't harm anyone; I just think lower grades make you all work harder." He clarified, placing himself between your legs, and you soon enclosed him in your embrace.

"That's cruel and unfair, Professor Turner." He kissed your face, seeing that it bothered you more than you pretended it did. "You don't have to agree with me, pet."

"And I don't." You sounded more irritated, and he liked that. "It's not very fair."

He laughed, nodding. "Well, know that I'm not going to change." You shook your head but stayed there. You pulled him closer, buttoning up the shirt just as he did, and then folding the cuffs as you had noticed he liked to leave them. He enjoyed that with a great goofy smile.

Briefly, his mind wandered to how he didn't have another place besides there. He might have already renewed the campus contract and then planned for another season in Europe. But for the first time in a long time, he found himself questioning that decision. He could go to other places if he wanted; his qualifications allowed him to move beyond where he was. Basically, all it took was his own mind. So he thought about postponing the decision of whether to renew or not. Things might change.

"Turner, aren't you going to be late?" He snapped back to reality, kissing your lips before he actually heard everything you said. His fingers played with the elastic of your knee socks, tugging gently and then letting go, causing you to gasp in pain against his mouth. "It's funny how you want to punish your students but don't even care about arriving on time." You narrowed your eyes, trying to sound intimidating, but your breath gave you away quite well. "You look beautiful like this." He ignored the irony and felt your legs tighten around him. "In my shirt, princess," he whispered between lip nibbles, amused at how easy it was to leave you speechless. He lifted your hips from the sink, aligning your body better with his.

"I want to feel you, taste you on tongue, princess, is that okay?" His nose brushed your face, trying to soothe you as his hands roamed around you, feeling you tense with nervousness. He loved that. Your lips touched his, with wetter and more intense kisses, and you felt silly when you realized from the way he was smiling that he wasn't talking about that. You swallowed hard and nodded. "I just won't know what to do," you said, feeling dizzy as you held your breath. "Don't do anything," his hands comforted your body, and you leaned in so that he could remove the damp fabric from under his (yours) shirt. "Just relax, don't think 'bout it for now." You agreed, eagerly watching him kneel in front of you.

You did as he said, settling in more comfortably and following his eyes as he spread your legs, playing slowly with your socks before slipping your legs over his shoulders. He kissed the inside of your thigh, his nose diving into the area, and then his teeth nibbled the skin as you gasped. He chuckled with delight. "Are you going to teach me how to make you feel good too, Mr. Turner?" He couldn't resist your sweet voice. He nodded, giving a kiss to your center, your flesh glistening in anticipation. "I'll do whatever you want me to do, princess." And then that new, wet, and firm sensation invaded you, your eyes closed, your lips parted in a brief, silent sigh. Your breasts were highlighted in the white t-shirt, so hard that they were attractive to Alex's gaze from time to time.

Your fingers clutched his dark hair, while his eyes remained closed right after taking a great look at you, and he released such a beautiful prolonged, satisfied groan. The taste made him a little dizzy, but he loved every second of it. "You're divine, did you know that?" You couldn't respond anymore; his nose caressed you, and his fingertips marked your delicate skin. He liked the time he was taking; it was nothing more than his tongue, and he relished the sensation of exploring you slowly. You also liked it, and that was enough for him. He could feel his chin wet and his breath falter, but he couldn't stop even if he wanted to. "Don't stop, please." And all you heard was the hum of his confident laughter against you, along with the recent texture of the beard growing, while you only thought about making it easier for him as you spread yourself further and fully surrendered to him. You just knew you would feel the same way tasting him on your lips and tongue.

...

taglist: @ohladymoon @indierockgirrl @bloo-wisteria @bellaturner @cosmoschaotic @nikisfwn @andrews-lovr @nela-cutie @artimonkii @alexturnersbbg3 @blackberryblossom @lilmisssweetdreams @alexshotelandcasino @tbhclove @rostarblog @babieswiftie @yourstartreatment @atticssmellgood @aacheinthejaw @mingods

tagged only for teacher's pet (the one who asked for and people who asked for the part2) : @thenightslikeawhiirlwind @missbabyjay @kayla1717 @ladydraculasthings @tyatthiapoewy @depthhell @hvncae @raven-ql @kittyrob0t @jakethsims @mayaawesome10 @michelleisheres-blog @love-me-until-ilove-myself @est3va @viviannagiorgini

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Let me know if something is wrong or if you're not comfortable!

Also, I'm taking thoughts/ideas for part3 (it'll be the last one, I promise!)

#alex turner #alex turner x reader #alex turner smut #alex turner x y/n #arctic monkeys #alex turner fanfic #alex turner x you #alex turner imagine #fanfic

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grendelsmilf · 3 months

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rewatched more community with my friend. more specifically, horror fiction in seven spooky steps (and cooperative calligraphy, but that’s not relevant here).

annie’s story is just so obviously the best. it’s not just reflective of how her mind works, but also reflective of her entire relationship to jeff, her latent anxieties of his predation, the way in which she fantasizes about having the power to, quite literally, murder him gruesomely. it cycles through annie’s entire inner monologue regarding what jeff means to her: first bridal carrying her into his home in a chivalrous way, asserting his desire to protect her as a father might, then introducing his more predatory and exploitative tendencies through his relationship to britta (who is fine with being a vessel of desire through which he consummates his animalistic urges, unlike annie), then asking to be reformed through annie’s unique intelligence (shoutout to king lear!! i knew annie had taste), but then ultimately revealing that her efforts to construct him in a more palatable image are futile, at which point she subverts the power fantasy by destroying him painfully and without remorse. even putting aside the fact that annie clearly views britta’s tacit enjoyment of sex with men (and jeff in particular) as something appalling and debasing (because she’s a lesbian), annie’s psychological landscape as it relates to her sexuality is a distinctly macabre gothic horror, illustrating how her sense of desire is mingled with horror and repulsion. annie’s attraction to jeff has always very clearly been a power fantasy, but whether he is the one with the power (reminds her of her father, an older man who has life experience validating her existence through his approval) or she is (her ability to reform him, the worst man she knows, ideally demonstrates her ability to be desirable to anyone; she wants him to submit to her that prove that she can be powerful in her own right) doesn’t really matter. either way it’s clear that this attraction is hollow, signifying her desire to be loved rather than her desire to love jeff.

it’s also interesting to note that troy’s story immediately follows annie in an attempt to show her up, and while far cruder and more childish, it also illustrates his latent sexuality and its more horrific implications. annie and troy, notably, are the only characters whose stories are about sexuality in any way, unless you count pierce’s racist and misogynistic delusions, which you shouldn’t. shirley fantasizes about being vindicated as a christian, jeff sublimates his own fear and loneliness through chang (lol), britta brittas it, and abed completely detaches himself from his story whatsoever, because he’s literally normal. but annie and troy both belie their fears regarding their latent (homo)sexuality through the vehicle of the horror genre. but while annie’s fear of jeff’s predation is resolved through an empowering subversion of her victimhood, troy’s anxieties about being codependent with abed are simply resolved through accepting his codependency as a power fantasy which he levels against the unnamed crazy old racist doctor (ie, pierce, but also ie, hegemony). obviously troy does eventually confront the fact that he has subsumed his entire identity into abed’s, but i do think there’s also something quite beautiful about the fact that on a purely subconscious level, it’s not something he’s afraid of, but in fact something he welcomes. by becoming one with abed, he is also becoming himself. it’s quite a puerile power fantasy, because it’s troy’s, but it also conveys a really poignant sentiment regarding the nature of troy’s desires, his anxieties regarding his growing codependency (moving in with abed earlier in the season, doing literally everything with him, trying to counterbalance this fact by randomly deciding that he’s into britta) but also his acceptance of it as something that only makes him “more awesome.” coming out isn’t linear, but also by the time troy does come out, he won’t actually need to, because the closet is made of glass.

#community textposts #abed is obviously the goat but i also do love troy and annie so much #troy is an angel and a gift to this world and im convinced that that wasn’t even donald glover #the spirit of troy barnes simply posssessed him every time the camera started rolling #and annie literally deserves to kill people (jeff). as a treat

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genderliquid-witch · 4 months

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Do flowers bloom from walkers? (Radical optimism in The Walking Dead: The Final Season)

I remember playing The Final Season for the first time way back in October of 2022 and immediately being blown away by how polished the game was in comparison to its predecessor. I mean I had always loathed the visual style of A New Frontier, so this comic-book inspired look was a nice change of pace, especially once combined with the expert use of lighting that is present throughout the game. But what really took me off guard, more so than anything else, was the opening credits.

I mean, obviously; these games had never done anything like this before. And while I'm fond of the whole FADE IN TITLE ACCOMPANIED BY OMINOUS MUSICAL CUE, this was a welcome change. But there was one specific image that stuck with me throughout my playthrough: the decomposing walker (pictured above), painted in greyscale, with the only colour being the stark red background and the yellow flowers blooming from its corpse. I like to think that it was an intentional decision that ties into the game's themes and not just "Oh this looks cool, let's do it", but it weirdly never came up again. So I was kind of just left to play the game while it loomed in the back of my head, waiting for its moment to shine.

It wasn't until almost a year later where I'd figure out what the image represented, or at least my interpretation of it, and I settled on this conclusion: this decomposing walker is supposed to represent this apocalyptic world, and the flowers symbolise the people that attempt to build from it, in this case the Ericson's kids.

I've had this opinion for a while that if the first three games show the attempts and failures to re-establish the old world ideals of order and civil society, then The Final Season serves as a rejection of that idea. From the walker-ridden fortress of Crawford in Season One to the bureaucratic nightmare that was the New Frontier, it's an accepted fact that these attempts at returning to the methods of days gone is ultimately futile and will result in total collapse, largely due to the decisions of its rulers. While we could argue about which of these groups is truly the worst, they all originate from the same basic principle: a desire to return to normality. Crawford, Howe's, the New Frontier; these groups were formed by people who, while cruel and monstrous in their own ways, all had the admittedly noble goal of attempting to return order to this ravaged world, but failed due to their leaders' cruel and selfish actions.

Or did they? (Vsauce sfx)

There's this interaction Lee has with Katjaa in the very first episode of Season One that has stuck with me for a while. It's an optional dialogue so it's very easy to miss (I did on my first playthrough), but when Katjaa hopes that things can go "back to normal", Lee has the option of expressing resentment for this old world:

"But they weren't before? The banks, the politics, the--the crap--those things are gone. Hell comes in a lot of different colors."

Usually this "fuck the old world" sentiment is expressed by sociopaths who are excited to enact their sadistic desires onto other survivors, but Lee's resentment for society feels a lot more justified. The fact that Lee is a black man who's specialty is American history makes his criticism of wanting to go back to how things were feel more warranted; he's someone who understands how corrupt and unjust the societal structure of the past was, so of course he'd feel conflicted about longing for its return.

And while this is just a small interaction, I feel it plays into what I've been talking about. Crawford, Howe's, the New Frontier; did these factions collapse because of their evil leaders, or because they were emulating an inherently unjust and corrupt power structure? Their desire for order and stability allows them to see past the cruelties that came with building these hierarchical societies, to the point where they begin to mimic governments of the old world (Crawford, discrimination and the outlining of "undesirables"; Howe's, prison labour and terror; the New Frontier, imperialism and state corruption). So these failed factions force us to ask the question: is a return to order possible in this world?

It isn't until the The Final Season that the games give us an answer to that question: no, it isn't, but that doesn't mean you can't start something new.

When introduced to Ericson's it's made immediately apparent how different they are to any other group we've met before. While there's the obvious homage to Lord of the Flies with a group being made up of entirely children, I think this is more than just a "well it's the final game, best do something interesting". Children are a symbol of hope and optimism, but also of potential and, in a more abstract sense, the future. They are clay that has yet to be moulded, with infinite potential, a luxury most adults don't have. So I don't think it's a coincidence that the main group in this game, and the one that Clementine eventually settles with, is comprised entirely of children: it feels like an intentional choice to highlight how this group will be the one to survive on account of how they have the potential to create something new.

And it's not just their age demographic that makes Ericson's so distinct from the other groups in the series, but also their power structure. Following Marlon's death, their is no one person in control of the group. Sure, there are leaders (Violet takes the chair once Marlon's out of the picture, and upon her return Clementine becomes the one who's advising the group), but they feel like role models and advisors more than anything. When Violet takes the reigns it doesn't seem like anyone truly acknowledges her authority, and she doesn't even seem to enforce it either. Same goes for Clem; she doesn't really express any desire to control the rest of the group, instead preferring to make decisions in a more democratic manner as to include everyone's individual skills and expertise.

Ericson's vision of society more closely resembles that of an anarchist commune than any government that previously existed, and it manages to be the only group left standing by the end. It's through cooperation and an altruistic attitude that keeps them alive in the end; their concerns for the survival of the group far outweigh any desire to create "order". And I don't think it's a coincidence that a majority of the game's antagonists (Lilly, Minerva, and even James) are people who represent the past. Lilly is obsessed with the cruel lessons her father taught her and prides herself in her attachment to the militaristic level of discipline that she inflicts upon her subordinates. Minerva is essentially a ghost of the past, with her whole arc with Violet and Tenn serving as a lesson on the dangers of holding onto the past. James, while good natured and mostly kind, can't bring himself to accept the fact that the world has changed, and its these beliefs that either kill him or sever the only connection he had made in years.

To conclude, while Telltale's The Walking Dead is a series that is rife with conflict and tragedy, I also find it to be a story that is ultimately about hope. I always considered that Lee's greatest lesson to Clementine wasn't how to shoot a gun or to cut her hair, but instilling within her a radical sense of hope, the idea that things can be better, and you should always try your damnedest to make it happen. That even in the most desolate of circumstances, something profoundly beautiful can bloom.

Or maybe I've been wrong this whole time and flowers growing out of a walker just looks really cool.

#i didn't expect this to be so long but oh well #needed to rant about twdg so i chose this instead of the wall #twdg #the walking dead game #clementine #twdg clementine #lee everett #media analysis

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bikenesmith · 6 days

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haven't had much to say for The Death March of X, primarily bc it was mid + ultimately felt like a futile exercise outside resurrection of magneto . but the krakoa finale-funeral pissed me off. im too exhausted by the whole thing to muster emotion about what i and everyone else has discussed ad nauseam for months (corporate interests squashing creative storytelling, frankly insulting attempts at appeasing a mourning audience).

i'd already given up on squeezing any thematic cohesion out of this very slowly sinking ship but i wanted a crumb of cherik reunion, a crumb of old man yaoi, and they couldn't even deliver that!? copy-pasted/adapted from my twitter...

charles sold his soul for an idea he ascribed himself to because he and erik were doing it TOGETHER. but erik "deserted his post" & it all went to shit. yet here erik wrings his hands over choices his absence enabled + is somehow surprised that charles dgaf anymore? ridiculous

the split between krakoa cherik was not just about ideology itself. it was about emotions, and the emotions that krakoa wrought them. the guilt, pain, loss, exhaustion, the unbearable weight of responsibility... but no, please do waste the first pages they've had together in well over a year on erik blandly rehashing Xavier's Dream 2.0/This Is How Xavier's Dream Can Still Win

charles + erik are just people. they are not myths or paragons, no matter how often they pretend otherwise. they are not ideological idols or effigies. they are just flesh + blood — & they are their MOST fleshy + bloody w/ each other. i saw little of that in this issue.

ironically the exchange that seems the most "real" to me also aggravates me the most.

its like erik is on a complete other planet than charles here. how does erik not KNOW that yes, that IS all he has left??? it's a far cry from erik's implicit understanding of charles in x-men: red & resurrection of magneto

erik, who recognized the "no-place in [charles'] heart" long before anyone else did, is surprised to find said no-place swallowing charles up. and does nothing about it.

what did he mean by being "on his way"? on his way to do what? say nothing of substance + let charles lobotomize himself? LMFAO.

(despite dropping the ball on erik as well as erik in relation to charles, we did get some great solo charles moments.... this sums up so much about him perfectly, and also feels very connected to the ROM panel shared earlier. "desperate desire to be loved"....)

anyway i hope for better writing when charles is inevitably broken out of mega-prison and woken up from his mega-coma. that's really all i'm interested in w/ this blatant return to the status quo beyond storm's solo and jean's solo, which actually seem poised to be legitimately groundbreaking for both characters.

#cherik #x.txt

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ogradyfilm · 1 day

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Furiosa: A Mad Max Saga - Hope Takes Root

[The following essay contains MAJOR SPOILERS; YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED!]

I. Living Off the Corpse of the Old World

Come on, Max. Tell me your story. What burned you out? Kill one man too many? See too many people die? Lose some family? Oh, so that's it. You lost your family. That makes you something special, does it?

This monologue, originally uttered in 1981’s The Road Warrior, is still thematically relevant to the increasingly sprawling Mad Max Saga, resonating three films and more than four decades later. Every installment in the franchise—from its scrappy, low-budget debut to its most recent spinoff—revolves around loss. The desolate Wasteland takes, and takes, and takes again, consuming friends, family, resources, sanity. Those that linger are little more than disillusioned scavengers—“maggots living off the corpse of the old world.”

That description certainly applies to Dementus, the central antagonist of Furiosa. A charismatic, flamboyant warlord commanding veritable legions of bloodthirsty marauders, the self-proclaimed “King of the Bikers” (one of several grandiose titles that he flaunts like undeserved trophies) quickly establishes himself as a cunning tactician, utilizing an audacious Trojan Horse strategy to effortlessly overwhelm a formidable stronghold with minimal casualties to his own troops.

Despite his short-term victories on the battlefield, however, Dementus consistently proves himself to be an utterly incompetent leader in times of peace, with his conquests almost immediately descending into chaos and disarray. He’s essentially a post-apocalyptic Ozymandias in the making: “Round the decay of that colossal wreck,” you can easily imagine the History Man saying of his ruined domain, “the lone and level sands stretch far away.”

II. A Fuel-Injected Suicide Machine

Of course, it is implied that Dementus’ numerous “failures” are actually intentional. Although he claims to seek a “land of abundance,” finding it isn't his true goal; rather, what he desires is the pursuit of paradise—the thrill of a chase without end, futile and fruitless. To paraphrase Michael Mann’s Heat: “For [him], the action is the juice.”

[FINAL WARNING: MAJOR SPOILERS BELOW!]

Beneath his boasts, bluster, and pretensions of ambition, Dementus is a devout nihilist, so irreparably shattered by the tragic deaths of his children (symbolized by the stuffed toy that he constantly carries on his person) that even physical sensation—pain, pleasure, exhilaration—now eludes him. As he explains to Furiosa during their climactic confrontation, the gaping wound in his heart can only be healed (albeit temporarily) by violence—the fleeting adrenaline rush of seizing territory and crushing his enemies underfoot.

Perhaps this is what motivates him to “mentor” our young heroine: he wants to remold something untainted by rust and radiation in his own savage image—not merely as an heir or a replacement for his biological offspring, but as the ultimate validation of his pessimistic philosophy. To this end, he forces the poor girl to watch as he brutally murders her mother, burning every excruciating second of agony and torment into her memory. To add insult to injury, he literally tastes the tears that she weeps, reveling in her grief and misery.

III. Feels Like Hope

Nevertheless, Love somehow manages to endure amidst the despair—like a lush and verdant Green Place thriving in the middle of a barren desert. If Dementus is a dark reflection of Max Rockatansky’s worst qualities—selfishness, cynicism, indiscriminate rage—then Praetorian Jack anticipates his eventual altruism. Like Max, Jack’s parents were once “warriors searching for a righteous cause.” Unfortunately, nobility and morality are as illusory and insubstantial as a mirage among the merciless dunes; following their senseless deaths, their orphaned son resigned himself to an empty existence of defending an egomaniacal tyrant’s supply caravans from roving bandits and rival gangs.

In Furiosa, though, Jack recognizes a kindred spirit. While circumstances have reduced them to their basest survival instincts, they both dream of something greater: she of returning to the home from which she was snatched, and he of discovering a purpose beyond the “fire and blood” of the Road War. Together, they forge a relationship that transcends romance, nourishing the seed of Hope in one another. He wouldn’t hesitate to lay down his life in exchange for hers; and she, in turn, would gladly sacrifice a chance at freedom in order to protect him.

Even Jack’s unceremonious demise can’t totally extinguish the faint ember of optimism that he sparked in Furiosa’s subconscious. Though she briefly succumbs to wrath and exacts cruel vengeance on Dementus, she refuses to fulfill her adversary’s grim prophecy that she will become his successor—the personification of his bleak worldview. Instead, she follows Jack’s example; inspired by his inherent goodness, she conspires to liberate Immortan Joe’s abused and exploited “wives” (glorified sex slaves, valued solely as breeding stock), leading them to salvation beyond his seemingly infinite reach.

IV. Some Kind of Redemption

“Who killed the world?” is a recurring question throughout Mad Max: Fury Road; the complementary characters in its belated prequel provide something resembling an answer. Dementus, haunted by his traumatic Past, destroys everything that he touches; by the conclusion of his journey, his band of loyal disciples has dwindled to a meager handful, and he finally marches towards his doom alone. Joe, meanwhile, rules the Present with an iron fist, but his single-minded obsession with producing a “pure” genetic legacy sabotages his dynastic aspirations; without any “perfect” progeny to inherit his cult of personality, his empire is too fragile to outlast him. Furiosa, on the other hand, realizes that the Future lies not in oppression and subjugation, but in cooperation, collaboration, and compassion.

Greed, authoritarianism, and Hate killed the world; it is therefore only logical that Love should resurrect it.

It’s a message as elegantly simple and universal as the archetypes that populate George Miller’s modern mythology. Furiosa is a worthy addition to the legendary series, expanding upon and recontextualizing its predecessors while simultaneously excelling on its own merits. It is magnificent, spectacular, and appropriately epic.

#Furiosa: A Mad Max Saga #Furiosa #Mad Max #Mad Max: Fury Road #The Road Warrior #Road Warrior #George Miller #Anya Taylor-Joy #Chris Hemsworth #Tom Burke #Lachy Hulme #Dementus #Praetorian Jack #Immortan Joe #film #writing #movie review

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morbid-mutt · 6 months

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Under The Desk Support

Pairing: Konig/A!Reader (Specifically left the gender open to interpretation c:)

Possible Warnings: Oral, Mild Choking, Dirty Talk, Dom/sub Undertones

“A-Ah, Scheiße.”

A smirk tugged at Y/N’s lips that were currently wrapped around their lover’s length, hidden perfectly beneath his office desk. Y/N received a stern look from the Austrian, his blue eyes barely visible in the shadow of his mask.

“You are killing me, mein liebling.”

This pulls a laugh from Y/N, the vibrations of their tongue sending a shock wave of pleasure through Konig. This game of cat and mouse had begun when Y/N had transferred bases, the giant but yet horribly awkward Coronel catching their attention on the first day. It began off as harmless flirtation, the new recruit wanting to see what buttons would cause their superior to stutter as he fought the blush that crept over his mostly hidden cheeks.

It was almost endearing how shy Konig was despite how intimidatingly large he was compared to all the other soldiers around him. Soon, flirting turned into “mistaken” passes, a glance of a touch here and there. Ultimately, this led them to the current situation, on their knees beneath the large desk of their commanding officer.

A large palm came to rest in Y/N’s hair, pressing ever so slightly as Konig’s eyes begged for more. The recruit had one hand wrapped around the thick girth of the Coronel’s member, their lips pressed against the leaking tip of his manhood as they slowly swirled their tongue over the engorged head.

The taste of his salty fluids twinged on their tongue as Y/N kept their eyes focused upwards on Konig’s expression, trying to decipher it through the shoddily cut eyeholes in his sniper hood. The Coronel’s brow was furrowed, his eyes unreadable as his hips rocked forward in a futile attempt at pushing himself further into Y/N’s mouth. Y/N had no intention of rushing this, determined to burn the sight of Konig coming undone into their memory.

The fingers in Y/N’s hair curled, gripping onto the strands as the persistent pressing on their head became forceful. They blinked in surprise up at the Coronel, his eyes darkening with need.

“There’s only so much teasing I can take, kleine maus.”

Suddenly, the grip on their hair tightened as Y/N’s head was pushed down onto Konig’s massive length, their lips stretched thin around its impossible size. Oh fuck. What had they signed up for? Within seconds, their roles had reversed. Y/N was no longer the one in control, teasing their superior at an agonizingly slow pace. This was a side of Konig that they had never seen before, and it was almost addictive.

Y/N’s stomach clenched with desire as they bobbed their head along the length of Konig’s cock, guided by the massive hand on the back of their head.

“Ah, fuck..That’s it...Take it all, schatz.”

Konig’s voice was strained, thick with unpent hunger. The Coronel’s hips pulled back to allow Y/N to suck in a breath, but only just, before plunging back into the warm velvet of their mouth. Konig’s eyes fluttered, briefing rolling upwards at the enticing feeling of his underling so obediently knelt before him. A moan passed through his mask as Y/N pressed the flat of their tongue along the underside of his member, their own gaze never straying from his face.

“Your mouth feels amazing, mein liebling..”

Y/N got a sense that pet names must be a sort of kink for the older male; each time he spoke them, his cock pulsed against their tongue. Another moan passed through Konig’s mask as his hips increased in their speed, now gently fucking into Y/N’s wet and inviting mouth. His hand lowered from their hair, coming to rest loosely around Y/N’s neck. With each thrust, he could feel the subtle bulge of his cock in their throat.

“Das ist es, meine liebe... rein und raus... Du bist so perfekt”

Any semblance of English had vanished from the Coronel’s mind, only able to focus on the incredible feeling of Y/N’s mouth wrapped around him. He could feel his peak slowly approaching, the pit of warmth in his stomach tightening as he looked down at Y/N. They looked like a perfect image; their cheeks flushed red with their plush lips wrapped around his cock.

The steady rhythm of his hips grew uneven as he now bucked his hips against the recruit’s face, his head dropping back against the chair he was sat in. His eyes fluttered as they rolled upwards, his balls tightening as his moans transformed into almost a whimper.

“Bitte, bitte, schlucken Sie alles.”

Konig’s hand tightened around Y/N’s neck as he plunged himself into the warmth of their throat one final time before spilling his thick seed down it. He let out a whimper that rolled into a soft growl, the recruit’s throat clenching around him as they swallowed his release. He thrust his spent cock in their mouth a few times before pulling free, his hand loosening around them before sliding upwards to cup their cheek.

“Haah..So good for me. Such a good job..”

Y/N looked up at their commander with heavily lidded eyes, an expression of pure bliss gracing their features. Spittle glistened on their chin as Konig scooted his chair back, lifting them effortlessly into his lap. His fingers slowly slid through their hair, his eyes seeking out any discomfort in Y/N’s own gaze.

“I wasn’t too rough, ja?”

They shook their head, turning to nuzzle into the cloth of his hood. A breathless laugh vibrated in his chest as he pulled them closer, deciding that they could use some rest before returning back to their work.

#cod mw2 #könig cod #konig x reader #konig x y/n #cod fanfic #konig smut #call of duty fanfic #call of duty konig #könig #cod mwii #a!reader

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darknesseddiem · 3 months

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𝐀𝐧𝐮𝐛𝐢𝐬'𝐬 𝐕𝐞𝐢𝐥: 𝐄𝐜𝐡𝐨𝐞𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐄𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐭𝐲

𝐒𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬: Amidst the dawn of creation, when deities strode the earth as equals among mortals, humanity thrived in serene unity, untouched by the grasping tendrils of greed that would later mar the landscape. Stirred by the inherent goodness of their subjects, the divine council elected to endow them with a peerless boon: a guardian, a celestial warrior sculpted by the ethereal hands of the gods, ordained to safeguard the vulnerable and uphold equity amongst all.

Yet, the idyllic tranquility swiftly dissolved into a harrowing nightmare. With no need for celestial intervention, humanity succumbed to the seductive allure of avarice and pride, exploiting the guardian-warrior as an inexhaustible wellspring for their desires. Gold, jewels, fineries—all were but a whispered command away, conjured effortlessly by his boundless power.

Thus dawned the era of enslavement, a grim testament to humanity's descent into moral decay, as the defenseless fell beneath the yoke of callous overlords devoid of empathy. As calamity flourished and the divine pantheon grieved the degradation of their once-beloved charges, a decree resounded through the hallowed halls of eternity: the token of gratitude and trust bestowed upon mortals would be reclaimed and returned to its celestial sanctum.

Yet, the gods failed to anticipate a pivotal revelation: the guardian-warrior, born of their divine essence and combined prowess, surpassed even his creators in strength. Fearing his uprising following their futile attempts at annihilation, they decreed the most severe of punishments: eternal imprisonment.

Unaware of the extent of his own power, the warrior endured a punishing ordeal, encased within a sarcophagus of obsidian and unyielding stone, assailed by the venomous embrace of serpents and scorpions, his form suffused with chilled mercury—a spectral warden, condemned to an eternity of solitary confinement.

A formidable curse, imbued with the arcane power of millennia past, was woven into the fabric of his sarcophagus, its hieroglyphs serving as a dire warning to any who dared disturb the seal imprisoning the warrior, lest they unleash unfathomable chaos upon the world once more. However, amidst the shadows of time, an ancient prophecy, shrouded in the enigma of celestial movements and cosmic whispers, stood poised to redefine the very tapestry of humanity's fate.

In the heart of an unprecedented archaeological endeavor, an intrepid explorer embarks upon a quest of unparalleled magnitude, driven by the tantalizing allure of uncovering secrets buried deep within the sands of antiquity. Yet, intertwined with her journey lies a prophecy etched into the annals of time itself—a prophecy veiled in mystery, its origins lost in the mists of history, foretelling a cataclysmic confrontation between forces ancient and divine.

As the threads of destiny unfurl, two diametrically opposed forces emerge from the annals of legend: one heralding the dawn of salvation, the other portending an abyssal descent into darkness. Amidst this cosmic conflict, the archaeologist finds herself cast as a pivotal figure, entwined in the struggle between light and shadow, tasked with deciphering the enigmatic prophecies that hold the key to humanity's ultimate fate.

In this crucible of uncertainty, where the past converges with the present and the future hangs in the balance, the question lingers like a specter haunting the recesses of the mind: Can the immutable laws of destiny be defied, or does the intrepid explorer possess the audacity to chart a new course for humanity, rewriting the very fabric of existence itself?

𝐂𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: +18 MDNI, violence, torture, Eddie has a demi-god name, etc. More will be added later.

𝐀𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫'𝐬 𝐍𝐨𝐭𝐞: It's been a while since I had this idea and after my hiatus I finally had time to write, I hope you like this baby of mine just as I already have a huge affection for this story. Thank you for your support, I'll be back soon!! TAGLIST IS OPEN.

𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐂𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 𝟏𝐤

𝐍𝐞𝐱𝐭 𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫.

If you like my works, support me with a small 𝐊𝐨-𝐅𝐢!!

𝐆𝐥𝐨𝐬𝐬𝐚𝐫𝐲

𝐀 𝐏𝐫𝐞𝐥𝐮𝐝𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐃𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐲: Sutenankh, once revered for valor, finds himself ensnared in the ethereal confines of divine justice. As he awaits his fate within the celestial sanctum of Horus, his heart heavy with remorse, the gods decree eternal imprisonment. Meanwhile, a clandestine pact between Anubis and Horus births a prophecy of hope for a future liberator. Betrayal, anguish, and the weight of celestial retribution collide in a tale where virtue and destiny intertwine.

𝐉𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐧𝐞𝐲 𝐈𝐧𝐭𝐨 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐔𝐧𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰𝐧: Ramses Thothmes, a wealthy Egyptian magnate, extends an invitation for a new excavation, promising untold secrets hidden beneath the desert's surface. As you convene with Thothmes to discuss the venture, a new figure emerges from the shadows – the enigmatic Colonel Duncan Smith.

Under Smith's watchful eye, the expedition sets forth into uncharted territory, where ancient ruins conceal dark secrets and lethal perils.

#darknesseddiemfics #eddie munson #eddie munson fanfic #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x y/n #eddie munson x you #eddie smut #eddiemunson #dark!eddie munson #eddie munson x f!reader #eddie munson smut #eddie x reader #eddie stranger things #eddie munson angst #eddie munson stranger things #eddie munson imagine #bestfriend!eddie munson #older!eddie munson #demigod!eddie munson

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hitorinorin · 9 months

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The sun hung low on the horizon, painting the beach in a warm, golden hue. As gentle waves kissed the shore, you sat together on a cozy picnic blanket, while Rin strummed his acoustic guitar. Although you both stood on the precipice of adulthood, teenagers on the verge of assuming life's weighty responsibilities, in this moment, you and Rin were nothing more than carefree kids.

Building sandcastles, serenading each other with songs, laughing at the tiniest of things, and declaring your love every five minutes—this slice of time felt perfect and eternal.

Yet, the relentless march of adulthood loomed, reminding you of life's fleeting nature. You watched Rin, lost in thought as he stared at the sunset. Bathed in the sun's warm, golden glow, his silhouette etched against the fading light, he appeared almost otherworldly. The world itself seemed to pause, acknowledging the transient beauty of the scene—a poignant reminder that even the most enchanting moments must yield to the passage of time.

"What are you looking at, idiot?" the young Itoshi asked.

"Nothing, don't mind me. I'm just… savoring this moment while it lasts," you replied.

You anticipated Rin would shift his gaze and dismiss your sentiment. However, you were taken aback when you noticed glistening tears in your lover's eyes. He wasn't one to openly display emotion, but your words had stirred within him an awareness of the limited time you had left together.

Upon learning of your impending move to another country, Rin had initially reacted with anger, but beneath that anger simmered fear and sadness. It was as if something raged within his heart, and the storm clouds of uncertainty threatened to overshadow your profound love for each other. Unable to alter your decision, he bottled up these futile feelings until they became too much. He cried in front of you.

He wept in front of the person he loved and cherished deeply—a vulnerability he seldom revealed. In that moment, he allowed his true emotions to surface without restraint.

"Rin, I'm sorry," you said, tears streaming down your face.

"Don't be. It's too late. Just do me a favor, okay?" he responded.

"Chase your dreams for me, and I'll chase mine for you. This won't be the last time we meet, I promise. I'll find you, even if you've disappeared from the face of the Earth. My heart will always find its way back to you. So please, just be happy, even if it's without me."

"Rin, be happy for me too, please. I don't care if it's with another woman, as long as she makes you feel happy and free. I'm okay with that. Find a good woman for me; I love you."

"That's nonsense," he thought.

Why were you telling him to find someone else when that person was right in front of him? But the words remained unspoken, lost in a sea of unexpressed desires and unshed tears, as the sun dipped below the horizon, marking the end of a perfect yet bittersweet day.

Your summers together might have temporarily come to an end, but the magical hymn of your voice remains echoing inside his heart. You will come back to him, and his heart will come back to you. As the day comes to an end, he himself knows that his ultimate freedom will forever be found in your arms.

#itoshi rin x reader #rin itoshi x reader #rin x reader #bllk x reader #bllk imagines #itoshi rin x you #rin itoshi x you #bllk x you #itoshi fluff #rin angst #bllk x f!reader #rin itoshi angst #bllk angst #blue lock angst #vyn's vinyls 📼

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lifephilosophys-blog · 4 months

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إذا كنا نتحدث عن فلسفة الرغبة والأفعال، فلابد أن نتأمل في عمق الإنسان وطبيعة تطلعاته. قدم الفيلسوف اليوناني أرسطو وجهة نظر مفيدة حول هذا الموضوع الحساس. يبدأ التفكير حول موضوع الرغبة بالتساؤل: ما الذي يدفع الإنسان إلى الفعل، ولماذا يتطلع الناس إلى تحقيق أهدافهم؟

إذا كان لأفعالنا غاية نرجوها لذاتها، فهذا يعني أن هناك دوافع داخلية تحركنا نحو القيام بتلك الأفعال. ربما يكون لدينا رغبة في السعادة، النجاح، التحقيق الشخصي، أو حتى مجرد القيام بالخير. وهذه الرغبة تنبع من الدوافع الداخلية للإنسان، وتعكس طموحاته وأهدافه الشخصية.

من ناحية أخرى، عندما نرجو سعادة الآخر بسبب أفعالنا، فنحن في الحقيقة نرتبط بالعلاقات الاجتماعية وتأثيراتنا على الآخرين. يمكن أن نرجو تحقيق السعادة للآخرين بسبب ارتباطنا بهم عاطفياً أو ارتباطنا بمصلحتهم ومصلحة المجتمع. هنا يبرز دور الرغبة كوسيلة للتواصل والتأثير الإيجابي على الآخرين.

بمعنى آخر، عندما لا نختار شيئًا من أجل آخر، فإننا قد نكون بصدد العيش بانغماس دون تفكير عميق في أفعالنا. يمكن أن ندرك أن هذا التصرف ليس مستدامًا، حيث إن القيام بالأمور بلا وعي يجعلنا عُرضة لتأثيرات خارجية دون أن نكون على علم بها، مما يقلل من قدرتنا على تحقيق السعادة والنجاح الشخصي.

في نهاية المطاف، يجب فهم أن الرغبة ليست "عبثًا لا طائل تحته". بل هي جزء من طبيعة الإنسان، وتعكس رغباته وأمانيه. إن نظرية أرسطو تدعونا إلى التفكير العميق في دوافعنا ورغباتنا، ومحاولة فهم العلاقة بين أفعالنا وآمالنا. العيش بوعي وتوازن بين رغباتنا الشخصية وتأثيرنا الإيجابي على الآخرين هو مفتاح لتحقيق التوازن والسعادة الحقيقية.

When we talk about the philosophy of desire and action, we must contemplate the depth of human nature and its aspirations. The Greek philosopher Aristotle presented a helpful perspective on this sensitive subject. Contemplating the topic of desire begins with the question: What drives a person to act, and why do people strive to achieve their goals?

If our actions have an end in themselves, it means that there are internal motivations that propel us to perform those actions. Perhaps we have a desire for happiness, success, personal fulfillment, or simply to do good. These desires stem from the internal motivations of humans and reflect their aspirations and personal goals.

On the other hand, when we desire the good of others through our actions, we are actually connected to social relationships and our impact on others. We may seek the happiness of others due to our emotional attachment to them or our concern for their well-being and the welfare of the community. Here, desire emerges as a means of communication and positive influence on others.

In other words, when we do not choose something for the sake of others, we may be living impulsively without deep reflection on our actions. We may realize that this behavior is not sustainable, as doing things without awareness makes us susceptible to external influences without being aware of them, thereby diminishing our ability to achieve happiness and personal success.

Ultimately, it must be understood that desire is not "a futile pursuit". Instead, it is a part of human nature, reflecting their desires and aspirations. Aristotle's theory urges us to deeply ponder our motivations and desires and attempt to understand the relationship between our actions and our hopes. Living consciously and striking a balance between our personal desires and our positive impact on others is the key to achieving balance and genuine happiness.

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zeciex · 8 months

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A Vow of Blood

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

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

Daenera Velaryon returns to King’s Landing with the intention of bolstering her mother’s position and reminding both the Greens and nobility that Rhaenyra is the rightful heir to the throne. She has a specific goal in mind: to be a constant source of annoyance to the Greens and is willing to play the political game without hesitation.

However, what catches her off guard is the way Aemond gazes at her and seems to relish in her suffering. He openly expresses his desire to bring about her downfall, her ruination.

This situation leads to a tense game of cat and mouse, with each move escalating the already high stakes. Will their precarious situation crumble as the dragons soar above, or will fate intervene?

After all, love often demands the sacrifice of duty, just as duty can sometimes lead to the demise of love. Characters: Aemond Targaryen X OC, HOTD characters.

Chapter 12: The Whore that Lies

AO3 - Masterlist

“This is a bad, bad idea,” Jelissa said with a quivering voice filled with anxiety, her hands twisting in distress as she paced back and forth, wearing a visible path into the stone floor. Unlike her companion, Daenera, who appeared calm and composed, Jelissa was a bundle of nerves.

Meanwhile, Daenera sat upon the settee, attempting to stitch an intricate design of various plants. Her attempts proved futile, as the tansy resembled nothing more than a simple yellow circle, the bird’s-foot trefoil failed to portray its climbing nature and lay lifeless on the canvas, and even the coriander flower, while the most successful of her stitching attempts, left much to be desired.

Jelissa’s apprehension echoed in her voice as she reiterated her concerns. “This is a very bad idea.”

“Yes, thank you for your assessment. I will take it into consideration,” Daenera replied dismissively, eyes never leaving her embroidery. Jelissa wasn’t the only one who gave voice to her apprehension, Joyce had also expressed her reluctance, but Daenera knew she would ultimately follow through with the plan, as she always did.

Jelissa’s worry persisted. “What if we get caught?”

“We won’t get caught, but he will know.”

“And what if it goes wrong?”

“Then we’re sure to be ostracized,” Daenera answered simply.

Jelissa came with a feeble, mousy sound, beginning to further wear a path in the stone floor. How could Daenera be so nonchalant about it?

As the doors swung open, the three hooded figures made their entrance. Fenrick hastened to shut the doors behind them, visibly uneasy as he removed his own hood, shifting uncomfortably on his feet. He had been adamantly opposed to the plan from the very start.

Joyce followed suit, removing her hood and the figure beside her did the same. A cascade of dark curls spilled around the woman’s shoulders, thick and lush, slightly shorter and more coiled than Daenera’s own tresses. A faint, uneasy smile played upon the woman’s lips as she stood before Daenera, hands folded in front of her, a display of nervousness that contradicted the flicker of deception in her eyes.

Rising from the settee, Daenera carefully placed her unfinished embroidery on the table, her gaze fixed upon the woman. Slowly, she circled her, observing the woman’s figure and features with keen eyes, lips pursing in contemplation.

The room was charged with tension, the air heavy and warm.

The woman’s complexion was fair and unblemished, her face round and plump with youthful features There was a striking resemblance between the two of them, and in dim light, Daenera believed they could easily be mistaken for one another. However, the woman stood slightly taller and broader than Daenera, and the most distinctive difference lay in their eyes.

While Daenera possessed cornflower blue eyes, the woman’s eyes were a deep shade of gray.

Nevertheless, Daenera’s expression conveyed her approval to Joyce, a silent affirmation of her satisfaction with the woman standing before them.

“What is your name?” Daenera inquired.

“Selma, misstre-my lady,” The young woman answered and made a sweet, albeit, clumsy curtsy.

“And how old are you?”

“Nine and ten.”

“How long have you been in this profession?”

Selma released a burst of air that could have turned into laughter, her body assuming the coy posture that mirrored Daenera’s own. Coy, yet sly. The similarity between them was not lost on the princess.

“So, you’re asking how long I’ve been a whore?” Semla surmised, her tone carrying a hint of amusement. “Since I was two and ten, princess.”

“Would you prefer to be called a whore or a mistress of the night?” Daenera’s question seemed to puzzle Selma, as if she had never been given the voice of how she preferred to be addressed. Her wide gray eyes scanned Daenera, eyes flickering as she tried to decipher the situation.

Daenera didn’t mind the skepticism, in fact, she expected it. It would be unusual for a woman in Selma’s line of work not to be wary of any given situation, considering the risk involved.

“You can call me whatever you please, though ‘whore’ is the most common term used for what I am called,” Selma replied, her voice calm and measured.

She began moving around in the room slowly, her eyes darting over the surroundings, keen to gather as much information as possible about the situation she found herself in. Daenera understood as much.

Fenrick was less allowing, positioned near the door, and shifting uncomfortably, clearly unsettled by Selma’s ease in making herself at home. His scowl deepened, resembling someone bothered by a pebble in their shoe.

Joyce was more relaxed in posture, but her eyes never left the girl. And Jelissa was standing in a corner, swaying from one foot to another, wringing her hands in front of her, shoulders up to her ears.

“It is not often I am invited to The Red Keep,” Selma mused, running a finger over a table as if looking for dust. “Why am I here?”

“I have a task that requires someone of your profession .”

Selma’s clips curled into a playful, if not insolent, smile and plucked one of the berries from the array of fruits, savoring its taste behind her painted lips. Her eyes gleamed with mischief. “Obviously. I assume it requires deceit, deception and above all discretion.”

“Indeed, those are the key elements.” Daenera nodded, acknowledging Selma’s astute observation. “And what do you know about Prince Aemond?”

Daenera noticed Selma’s sudden shift in demeanor as her full attention was captured by the mention of Prince Aemond. The young woman’s eyes widened, her eyebrows rising and her lips parting in surprise. It was evident that this went beyond the usual encounters within the walls of the Keep. While whores were often sneaked in for the pleasure of lustful lords seeking refuge from the outside world, involving oneself with a prince was an entirely different matter. The stakes were higher, and the risk greater.

“He’s the one-eyed prince,” Selma replied, her filled with apprehension. “I’ve heard rumors about him… and how he lost his eye.”

Daenera leaned closer, her voice dropping to a hushed tone. “Tell me, Selma, what else have you heard about the prince?”

“He’s… unlike his brother. That the prince, Aemond, is restrained, a skilled fighter, fearsome and cold. One could almost call him frigid,” Selma revealed, hesitant and cautious.

Daenera nodded in agreement. “Yes, he possesses all those qualities. But he also possesses a sense of moral superiority and smugness. It infuriates me. Aemond carries himself with an air of righteousness, believing himself above the same vices that inflict his brother. I intend to expose his hypocrisy.”

Understanding dawned on Selma’s face. “You wish to humiliate him.”

Daenera’s eyes gleamed with mischief and she made an upside down smirk. “Exactly. Aegon is known for his indulgences in pleasure, he visits the brothels often and has a reputation of being a pervert. The Queen must be disappointed with her firstborn. I want to show her that her other son is no different.”

Selma’s eyes fixated on the heavy coin purse Joyce pressed into the palm of Daenera, greed flickering in the whores eyes.

“And what is the task you require of me?”

“I want you to surprise Aemond in his chambers, to be discovered in a compromising situation,” Daenera informed, head tilting to the side as she observed the woman. “I want you to make a scene when he tries to remove you from his chambers.”

“What if he does not try to throw me out? What if he takes my presence as a gift?” Selma posed a valid concern, her eyes glimmering with as much curiosity as the did caution.

Daenera’s mind briefly faltered at the thought. It hadn’t crossed her mind that Aemond might not react as she expected him to do. The notion grated on her. It felt like an itch she could not scratch. Bothersome, uncomfortable and confusing. After all, Aemond was a man, and men were weak to the desires of the flesh.

But Aemond was also a man of steel and ice, a complex puzzle of conflicting traits. Daenera regained her composure and spoke with certainty. “If he chooses to take pleasure in your company, that will be your decision. However, your primary task is for you to cause a scene that will be heard throughout the Red Keep. I want to embarrass and humiliate him.”

Selma’s eyes flickered with caution. “Men can become dangerous when they’re humiliated. They may lash out, leaving marks or worse.”

Daenera met Selma’s gaze and said with assurance. “Aemond may threaten you, he may corner you, but he will not harm you. He considered himself above such acts.”

“Many men do, princess. It doesn’t always stop them.”

The assurance Daenera had given wasn’t entirely false, but it wasn’t entirely true either, and a whore knew that well. Daenera also knew the fierce look that had once glickered in Aemond’s eyes, the moment he had contemplated violence, where he had picked up a rock and prepared to swing it, or more recently, in the sept when he had burned her hand. Instinctively she brushed a thumb over the healed skin. She could never be certain of his limits, nor assured by his restraint. “He may tighten his grip on you, but he would not take your life.”

“And what of the Queen?” Selma continued.

Daenera’s expression softened slightly as she considered the Queen’s potential reaction. “The Queen will likely want you to leave discreetly. She may even offer compensation to ensure your silence, along with a threat.” Daenera took Selma’s hand and pressed the heavy coin purse into her palm. “And if not, this should be sufficient to secure your discretion.”

A mischievous smile played across Selma’s lips as she closed her fingers around the coins. “Discretion is a whore’s most precious trait.”

With grace and precision, Aemond skilfully evaded Ser Criston Cole’s sword swipe, his silver hair swishing with each nimble movement. He dove and spun, his sword pointing at the Kingsguard as if daring him to strike again. The exhilaration of combat coursed through Aemond’s veins, his muscles primed and tingling with anticipation. Training made him feel alive, much like riding Vhagar, his heart pounding within his chest.

Ser Criston pressed forward, their swords colliding with the intent on winning. Aemond absorbed the impact of each blow, skillfully redirecting the force while yielding ground. The vibrations reverberated through his hands, arms, and shoulders, a familiar ache that no longer caused him to drop his weapon.

“I heard about the incident with the princess,” Ser Criston commented, his dark eyes intently focused on Aemond’s every move.

Aemond pressed on, annoyance gripping his lungs tightly at the mere mention of Daenera. Ser Criston met each swing of the sword with practiced ease.

“It was unbecoming of someone of her status to even consider something as… indecent as that. I suppose she takes after her mother in that regard,” Ser Criston sneered. His disdain for Rhaenyra and her children was no secret, even if he attempted to withhold the bitterness from his words. It seemed as though their very existence repulsed him to his core.

Silent determination etched across Aemond’s features as he deflected Ser Criston’s sword and delivered a powerful kick to the Kingsguard’s chest, causing him to stumble backward. Aemond continued his assault, landing blows upon Ser Criston’s padded form.

“Good,” Ser Criston complimented as Aemond pressed the tip of his sword against the Kingsguard’s chest, signaling the end of their practice round.

A smug smile curved Aemond’s lips as Ser Criston clapped him on the shoulder, both of them breathing heavily from their intense training session. They made their way towards the benches, seeking respite from the intense training.

“The princess has always thought herself better than everyone. It wouldn’t hurt to take her down a notch or two,” Ser Criston continued, grabbing a ladle to fill with water and lifting it to his lips. “ Once, she kicked me in the ribs. She’s always been insolent. Women shouldn’t act in such a manner.”

Irritation stiffened Aemonds movements as he began to undo the leather straps around the grip of his sword so that he could redo it again. “After you were attacked by Ser Harwin Strong.”

“Yes,” Ser Criston replied, his voice dripping with loathing. “That man had no honor. He was a meddlesome cunt.”

The vivid memory of Ser Harwin Strong overpowering Ser Criston, sending him crashing to the ground, flashed in Aemond’s mind. It had been a display of pure brute strength, each strike capable of killing a lesser man. Yet, Ser Criston had endured with a resilience bestowed by the gods, aided by the intervention of four Kingsguard members and his own stubbornness. Ser Harwin had earned his epithet, ‘Breakbones,’ for a good reason.

And Ser Criston possessed a thick skull.

Aemond also recalled the events that led to the fight.

“And it would seem his… offspring are much the same,” Ser Criston lowered his voice, recognizing the sensitivity of calling the princess a bastard.

Aemond felt a twinge of annoyance at the lack of respect the Kingsguard showed Daenera, despite him calling her much worse. She may be a bastard, but she was a royal bastard, and one not to be trifled with so easily.

“She appears to be a whore, much like her mother. It is fortunate that the court is now aware of her nature.”

“Ser Criston,” Aemond interjected, his tone stern. “I understand you hold them in low opinion, but do not forget yourself.”

“Of course, my apologies, my prince,” Ser Criston conceded, though his emotions often overwhelmed him. “Aegon should be careful, she’s sure to retaliate.”

“I am sure she will,” Aemond agreed, wrapping the leather strap tightly around the hilt of his sword, the leather groaning as it was pulled.

Underestimating Daenera and her capabilities would be foolish. Aemond made that mistake before and vowed never to repeat it. However, he couldn’t shake the belief that any damage she could inflict would be limited. He did not have a salacious letter and his reputation would not be easily damaged.

He had burned her hand, and in retaliation, she had poisoned his sword, causing his hands to burn and itch.

Now, he humiliated her publicly, and he knew she’d attempt to do the same. What he couldn’t figure out was how, or when.

Daenera had shown herself to be petty and resourceful, something was bound to happen, and while he felt apprehensive there was also a peculiar intrigue growing within him.

As the sky turned orange and a chill descended upon the air, Aemond and Ser Criston persisted with their practice in the tiltyard. When the session drew to a close, Aemond bid Ser Criston a goodnight and made his way into the Keep.

He followed the corridor that led to Maegor’s Holdfast, where his apartments awaited, fatigue hummed through his weary muscles.

Aches lingered in his limbs, while the tips of his fingers had gone numb from the repeated strikes his sword had endured. His hair clung to the nape of his neck and his undershirt seemed to stick to his skin. Crossing the threshold of his chambers, he found solace in the small sitting area positioned before the crackling fire where he took his meals. Adjacent to the hearth were his bedchamber, the canopy bed itself adorned with heavy curtains that was tied to the posts.

Books lay strewn around the floor beside the hearth, a testament to his voracious appetite for knowledge.

Kicking off his boots upon entry, Aemond unfastened his sword belt and laid it alongside them. With a satisfying stretch and a roll of his neck, he proceeded to undo his doublet, casually tossing it over the armrest of a nearby chair.

The hearth cast its warmth and radiance throughout the room. Typically dimly lit by candles, the heavy curtains by the windows limited the ingress of light, creating an atmosphere of seclusion seldom found elsewhere. Here, he could relish in solitude, free from the weight of expectations, surrounded only by his books.

Lifting the flagon of wine, Aemond poured himself a cup, the bitter liquid meeting his lips as he took a prolonged swig. As he turned his gaze, his eyes were drawn to the entrance of his bedchamber, his bed more specifically. In that moment he froze, brows drawing down in a confused frown.

There, a woman leisurely sprawled out across his bed. With her back turned to him, her dark, cascading hair adorned her bare shoulders and fell like a river of black silk down her back. The pale, smooth expanse of her skin stretched over plump yet delicate curves, the flames licking across it with wicked intent, an invitation to be touched, to be claimed.

Perplexity held Aemond captive as he stared, his heart thrumming within his chest as a fervent fire kindled in the deepest pit of his stomach, spreading warmth through his veins. It was as if his senses struggled to reconcile what lay before him with the familiar reality he had always known.

“Daenera?” He muttered the name, soft, gentle, confused.

Aemond’s eye darted over the woman’s enticing figure as she sat up, her back still partially turned to him. Her hand traced the contours of her hip, causing his breath to hitch. With deliberate slowness, she rotated her body to face him fully, her voluptuous breasts captivating his attention, her abdomen smooth and alluring, and a hint of curls nestled between her thighs.

Aemond blinked, his mind struggling to process what was before him and a fist seemed to tighten around his stomach.

As her face came into view, he scrutinized her features. It was her face that betrayed her, with its rounded shape, the subtle shadows that emphasized her cheekbones. Her lips possessed a sharpness he didn’t anticipate, her nose slightly more prominent. Yet, it was her eyes, deep gray and distinctly different from the ones that haunted him, that confirmed the truth.

A smile played upon her lips, a mischievous tilt of her head indicating amusement. She remained on her knees on his bed.

Aemond snapped out of his stupor, his confusion transforming into a surge of indignation that radiated through his body like icy tendrils

“Who are you? What are you doing here?” He sneered at the unfamiliar woman who was distinctly not Daenera. The deception festered in his stomach, a churning of rage and… bitter, awful disappointment .

“I’m here for you, of course, my prince ,” the woman purred, her voice shrouded in playful sensuality. It was a voice that didn’t belong to Daenera, and it’s very sound grated against Aemond’s core as a dull blade trying to cut wood.

“Get out,” Aemond breathed in anger and disbelief, an underlying reverberation of frustration making its mark on his tone.

“My prince?”

“Get out!” Aemond’s shout echoed through the room, his cup of wine abandoned on a shelf as he stormed towards the woman on the bed. It felt like a violation, and intrusion of his space. With rough force, he grabbed her arm, causing her to cry out in shock and pain. His voice trembled as he spoke, “Who put you up to this?! Aegon?”

“Please, you’re hurting me,” the woman yelped, attempting to pry his hand from her arm. Fear and confusion contorted her face, her gray eyes, so unlike the ones he desired, only added to the dissonance of the moment.

“Who sent you?!” Aemond yelled, shaking her vigorously, his grip tightening.

“Aegon! Aegon sent me,” she yelled back, her flustered cheek and downturned lips betraying her distress. “Aegon sent me. He thought you would enjoy my company, my prince.”

“You’re one of his whores,” Aemond concluded, seething with contempt. It was utterly characteristic of his brother to do something like this. It was never enough to ruin his own reputation, he also wished to ruin Aemonds. And Aemond had been foolish to believe Aegon would have ceased to bring whores into the Keep after the last time Aemond had caught him. It seemed his brother couldn’t help himself, wholly unable to resist his own vices.

It disgusted him, and now Aegon wanted to ensnare Aemond into his sordid affairs.

“Please,” the whore pleaded, attempting to quell the tension by placing her hand on his chest, the thin fabric barely separating her touch from his skin. Her distressed expression shifted into a mask of seduction, with a false innocence. “Let me please you.”

She pressed herself against his body and murmured, “I can be whatever you want. Whomever you want.”

Aemond’s lip curled in disgust as a wave of revulsion washed over him at her touch, her hand sliding up his chest and grazing the tips of his hair. The audacity of her presumption made his blood boil. He recoiled, his body instinctively rejecting the woman’s advances.

Her eyes, once filled with fiery desire, now flickered with a dull gray, lacking the unique depth of the eyes that haunted his dreams. Aemond knew all too well the truth behind those whores eyes, they were nothing more than a facade, lacking the spark of intellect and captivating mystery that had drawn him to Daenera in the first place.

He hated the whores eyes for not being Daenera, and he hated Daenera’s eyes for being the way they were.

“I can be Daenera if it pleases you,” she whispered sweetly.

Aemond steadied himself and met her gaze with unwavering coldness. The corners of his mouth curled into a disdainful sneer, his voice dripping with contempt. “ I will not be deceived by some cheap imitation. Aegon may find amusement in pretense, but I will not be so easily corrupted. You disgust me.”

Something snapped within Aemond, shattering the barriers that had held him back. In an instant, his demeanor had transformed from a controlled facade to a maelstrom of repulsion and fury. His eye blazed with an intensity that seemed to consume the very air around him. How dare she presume to know his desires, to imitate Daenera, the very thought twisted his features into a snarl of disgust.

Without hesitation, Aemond seized her, his grip firm and unyielding, and forcefully pulled her off the bed. In one swift motion, he propelled her towards the arch that marked the barrier between his bedchamber and sitting room. The woman collided with the stone column, her body staggering, her hands scrambling for purchase on the cold stone. She glanced back at him with fear and confusion etched upon her face.

Aemond was upon her in an instant, closing the distance between them. His hand found its place around her throat, pressing her back against the unforgiving stone, denying her a chance of escape. The woman’s eyes widened in shock, the same color of dirty water, so far from the elusive, unfathomable blue that haunted him.

A grim satisfaction filled Aemond as he gazed into those gray eyes, words spoken with disdain. “You are nothing more than a repugnant creature.”

The tension seemed palpable as Aemond held her captive, the air between them filled with fear and raw loathing. She had clearly been sent to his chambers due to her resemblance to the princess solely for the purpose of taunting him. She had wished to deceive him, to lure him into bed with the batting of her eyes, to taint and shame him.

His grip tightened, his fingers digging into her flesh, as he leaned in closer, his voice laced with venom. “You mistake me for my brother if you think I would lower myself by fucking a whore.”

“Aemond-,” she choked out.

“Do not call me that,” Aemond seethed, his face twisted with anger. “I am Prince Aemond Targaryen, and you will address me as such.”

“Please, my prince,” she stammered, her breaths coming out in panicked gasps.

Aemond gritted his teeth and forcibly disengaged himself from her, prying his hand from her neck to snatch up her scattered garments and thrusting them into her arms. The woman stumbled as he dragged her towards the door, unable to match his long strides while clutching her clothes and trying to cover herself, teetering on the verge of dropping them all together.

He swung the doors to his chambers open and flung her out into the hallway, with little thought on anything else that removing her from his apartments. The girl stumped and a sock fell from the bundle of clothes that she used to cover her exposed body.

It was only then he had realized his mistake as loud gasps echoed in the hall, and he froze.

Queen Alicent’s eyes were wide, darting between the naked girl, her face flushed and tear-streaked, and Aemond’s furious expression, his ears visibly crimson. The silence grew uncomfortable, punctuated only by the sniffs of the disheveled girl desperately attempting to shield her nudity. Her legs, shoulders, and entire backside were exposed, while her dark, tangled curls resembled more a bird's nest than what he had previously noticed. She looked like she had just rolled out of bed.

In the light of the hallway, the semblance between the whore and Daenera dissipated like the morning mist, and the differences became evident. The whore stood taller, broader, with faint lines etching across her face as a testimony to the years she had spent in her profession.

“Mother…” Aemond’s voice faltered as Queen Alicent raised a commanding hand, silencing him with a single gesture.

Standing behind the Queen was lady Talya, her lips pressed into a thin line, fully aware that this was not the opportune moment to interject. To Alicent’s left stood lady Merryweather, lady Caswell, and, to Aemond’s detriment, Princess Daenera herself, her eyes widened with shock and something else. The remaining ladies either wore expressions of surprise or maintained tight-lipped composure, but Daenera’s lips held an unmistakable quirk, as if she found the situation somewhat amusing.

Alicent directed her eyes towards the disheveled girl, naked and still recovering from her undignified expulsion from Aemond’s chambers. The Queen’s demeanor remained poised and composed, seemingly unfazed by the scandalous scene before her, though her clasped hands betrayed the tension simmering beneath the surface.

With regal grace she addressed the girl. “What is your name?”

“S-selma, Your Grace,” the girl answered, voice quivering as much as her body was. Selma attempted a curtsy, but dropped more of her clothes.

“Selma,” Alicent spoke with an air of authority, her tone belying the underlying anger she undoubtedly felt. “May I inquire as to what is transpiring here?”

“I… I was keeping the prince company, Your Grace,” Selma replied, her brows lifting in an attempt at honesty. She dared not meet Aemond’s incensed eye, the glare sharpening as she spoke.

“We… We were…” Selma hesitated, leaving the unspoken words to hang in the air, allowing the audience to fill in the blanks.

Aemond’s eyes snapped back to her, ablaze with accusation and bitter at the insinuation that something had transpired between them when it was wholly false. He clenched his jaw, hands curling into fists.

“We were in bed together, and I must have… I must have said something that offended the good prince… for he… he…” She trailed off, her hands tracing the cold skin of her arm, precisely where he had forcefully grabbed her. A bruise had formed, a visible mark of aggression. Then, her trembling hand moved to push a strand of hair behind her ear, revealing the redness and bruising around her throat and eye, a testament to an act of violence. The bruises were a deep purple, and stark against the pale of her skin.

The accusation of violence lingered heavily in the air. Aemond knew that his grip had not been strong enough to cause such bruising, and he had certainly not hit her. The accusation was a blatant lie, but why would she?

“I beg your forgiveness, my prince, if I said something-,” the whore whimpered, tentatively approaching him.

Aemond loomed over her, his face a mask of icy indifference, unyielding and unrepentant. She reached out for him, but the clenching of his jaw seemed to deter her.

Lady Merryweather gasped, her face flushing bright red as her eyes averted to the ceiling after having caught a glimpse of the whore’s buttock marked with red and purple handprints.

Aemond glared coldly at each and every one of them, daring them to say anything. His eye flickered to Daenera and grazed over the sly quirk of her lips, almost forming a smirk. At that moment, he understood.

That wretched fucking bastard.

“Please, my prince. Please forgive me!” Selma the whore pleaded, playing her role with skilled ease, understanding just how to make the performance believable. She knew precisely when to turn, when to raise her voice, when to appear pitiful and sympathetic. “I have done nothing wrong, you must believe me.”

“Hush now,” the Queen cooed, attempting to calm the sobbing whore. She shot her son a piercing glare, conveying her disappointment and disapproval. “Talya, would you kindly see to it that this girl is dressed and quietly escorted out of the Keep?”

The request was short but firm, and lady Talya nodded, gracefully moving towards Selma. She picked up the garments the whore had dropped and gestured for her to follow. Lady Talya knew exactly how to handle such delicate matters with discretion, armed with a pouch of coins and an unspoken threat. It was after all not the first time she had to deal with something like this. He supposed she never expected he would be involved.

The Queen then turned her attention to the other ladies, offering them a tight, apologetic smile. “Please forgive me, it appears there are matters I must attend to. I kindly request your discretion. It would not serve anyone well if it were to become a point of discussion.”

The ladies all bowed to the Queen, assuming the facade of innocent, virtuous girls who would never dream of spreading such scandalous gossip. Yet, they all knew that the whole castle would know by supper.

Aemond’s eye narrowed, the intensity of his glare cutting through the air like a dagger. Daenera’s mask of false innocence only fueled his anger and contempt. She was a wretched, spiteful cunt, who had caused all of this. And he had played right into her hands. The realization burned bitter at the back of his throat.

“I never thought Prince Aemond would…” Lady Merryweather whispered as she turned the corner with the other ladies, leaving Aemond behind with his mother. The whisper only confirmed that the incident was beginning to circulate. It wouldn’t be long before it had spread to every corner and crevice of the Red Keep.

Aemond and the Queen retreated into his chambers, the heavy door clicking shut behind them. As his mother faced him, her expression contorted with disapproval and concern, and Aemond knew he was about to face the consequences of what had transpired.

“Aemond,” his mother said, her tone stern. Her green skirts swirled around her as she moved, her hair pinned up in a net of gold string and pearls. “Explain.”

Aemond swallowed the acrid taste in his mouth, this tongue gliding over the back of his teeth. His voice was strained as he spoke. “It’s not as it seems.”

“So you did not create a spectacle by exposing a naked and distressed whore in the halls?” Alicent interjected furiously. “And you did not lay with her or put your hands on her?”

Aemond clenched his jaw, his body coiled like a tightly wound spring. “I was framed.”

“Framed,” Alicent repeated, tasting the word. She shook her head in confusion. “Why and by who?”

“Daenera,” Aemond answered, unable to hide the resentment and disdain in his voice. “It is retaliation for humiliating her.”

“The letter,” Alicent assumed. “I thought it was Aegon who humiliated her.”

“He did but I was the one who gave him the letter,” Aemond admitted. Of course, his mother had heard about the incident, he assumed it was the Lord Confessor who had brought her the news.

Alicent stepped back, her astonishment bleeding into disappointment. She had warned him about Daenera’s scheming nature, but he had failed to heed her advice. “And now she humiliates you.”

The muscles in his jaw flexed. “It appears so.”

“I warned you to exercise caution around her,” Alicent retorted sharply, pacing back and forth on his rug, unable to keep still. “I specifically requested that you keep an eye on her to prevent her from causing any trouble, and yet you choose to provoke trouble instead.”

“I thought hurting her reputation would send her fleeing back to Dragonstone,” Aemond said, his contempt seeping through his words. The idea of humiliation had worked in the past, so why shouldn’t it now? Rhaenyra had fled to Dragonstone when the rumors of her indiscretion nibbed at her heels. Why shouldn’t Daenera’s indiscretion cause the same reaction?

Alicent’s brown eyes softened, and she reached out to brush a strand of silver hair away from her son's face. Her eyes lingered on his eyepatch, and guilt and shame bloomed on her face as it always did when she looked at it. “You mustn't be so careless with your own honor by risking it to humiliate Daenera. It is clear that she is more poisonous than her mother, like Daemon. We cannot afford to act recklessly. We do not possess the same security that they do. We must be better than them, and I believe that justice will be served in the end.”

He understood her implication, acknowledging her belief that justice would eventually prevail for what he had endured. However, Aemond harbored doubt, for he had never witnessed justice being served for the loss of his eye. If justice were to be achieved, he knew he would have to take matters into his own hands.

He hated being reminded of it.

And he hated Daenera for humiliating him. He felt it burn within him, gnawing at his senses, eating away at him and festering in him.

“We must endure her presence and minimize the damage she may cause,” Alicent continued, regaining her regal composure. “Do not let her get under your skin.”

How could he not let her get under his skin? She was everything that infuriated him, everything that he resented, everything he was haunted by. Her mere presence was a nuisance.

The desire to ruin her coursed through his veins like poison.

#aemond targaryen #hotd #aemond x reader #hotd aemond #aemond fanfiction #aemond one eye #aemond the kinslayer #house of the dragon #hotd fanfic #A Vow of Blood #my fanfiction

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somethingclevermahogony · 4 months

Text

Bonus OC Intro Penetinos

Hello everyone! Originally I had planned to share an excerpt about the relationship of the pirates Dati and Istek for Valentines Day. However looking through my feed, I was struck by just how many of the people I follow are arospec. As such I decided that it might be appropriate to introduce y'all to my OC, Penetinos who is AroAce. I had originally intended to include him in the first poll but I didn't have time to make his portrait.

Without further ado! Penetinos "The Sage"

Name: Penetinos

The name Penetinos is among the most common in the southern Korithian isles, originating from the Arkodian word Penetiwanos, the exact meaning of the name is unclear though it is likely a reference to some variety of songbird

Intro continues below the cut!

Family

Father: Chalados, Scholar, Commoner (Dead)

Mother: Ladolia, Priestess, Commoner (Dead)

Siblings:

Daocoon (M, Living, Half-brother)

Homeland/Place of Origin

The City of Obfunemakolis, on the island of Obfunema

Ethnicity

Arkoteki Korithian, the Arkoteki are culturally and ethnically the closest descendants of the Korithian precursor civilization, the Arkodians. The Arkodians, famous for their creation of magical weapons made from Arkodian Bronze, were ultimately destroyed during the Kishic-Arkodian War, the same war which would ultimately lead to the collapse of the United Kishic Empire.

History

Penetinos was born 59 years before the events of the story as the result of an affair between the scholar Chalados, and the priestess of the goddess Fokisa.

Though Chalados was married, and already had a son, the scholar did elect to adopt his bastard son.

From a very young age, Penetinos was tutored in the language and scripts of three languages, those being Korithian, Kishic, and Apunic. At this he excelled, and became a star pupil among the academics and scholars of the city and temple district.

He even took up the mantle of tutor, educating the elite youth of the city, and of nearby islands in the ways of poetry and natural philosophy.

Penetinos was never made aware of his mother's true identity until shortly after her death. The shock of this revelation had two primary results, the first being Penetinos' choice to become a priest in his mother's order, and the second and more crucial being the awakening of his latent sagecraft.

Upon finding that he was able to see and converse with spirits, Penetinos buried himself in his studies, honing his skills and becoming a talented, if not particularly powerful sage.

Unfortunately it was well communing with one of these spirits that Penetinos would be made aware of the ultimately fatal disease with which he was inflicted.

What followed was several years of desperate study to try and find a way to cure or stop the disease. When all mundane treatments proved fruitless, he turned to magic, though unfortunately this too would prove to be futile.

Penetinos fell into a deep depression, leaving the priesthood and locking himself in his home.

When this depression gave way, he turned to a frantic desire to "live life to its fullest." Under the advice of his half-brother he turned to gambling, wine, and brothels. However to his frustation he found that these things held no interest to him. Despite his brother's ultimately well-intentioned attempts to find Penetinos a partner to care for them, Penetinos found himself repulsed by of sexual intamacy, and ultimately uninterested in romantic partnerships.

Rather than finding meaning in these things, Penetinos turned his attention to what he had always done best, his studies. Penetinos chose to devote his life, however long it may be to his research.

Bidding his home city good bye, he journeyed from city to city, studying and gathering knowledge. Knosh, Baalkes, Apuna, and finally the Kishic city of Chibal.

Appearance

Penetinos's sickness and his sagecraft have caused him to age prematurely. His back is bent, his once light brown hair is now grey and silver. In his youth, Penetinos was noted for his handsome and youthful appearance, tall and thin. Now unfortunately, it would be quite easy to mistake him for a man twenty years his senior.

The terminus of his sickness is unclear, for all he knows he could die from some other malady or accident before it runs its course.

Personality

Despite his appearance, Penetinos has lost known of his intelligence, and is quite often the smartest person in the room. His attitude can be best described as professorial, stern at times, quiet, though ultimately kind. Penetinos is a gentle person, averse to violence, and easily enthused when it comes to learning new things.

He has come to accept his mortality, and will readily discuss the subject of death with just about anyone.

He is eager for new experiences.

Gender/Pronouns

Cis-man He/Him

Sexual Orientation

AroAce

Relationships

Penetinos's tendancy to move regularly and his orientation mean that he has few relationships, though he has made friends in several parts of the Green Sea. At the current moment he is closest to the slave, Shela.

Favorite Color

Yellow

Favorite Food

Bread dipped in wine

Biggest Fear

Formerly death, now the feeling of ultimately being useless

Sage?

Yes

Literate?

Can read and write in Kishic, Korithian, Knoshic, and Apunian.

An Excerpt

Penetinos was among the less than spectacular kind of sage. In fact, Suru had hardly ever seen him use magic. It was impossible to divine his age, as with many of the others; his hair was silver, his back bent, his face wrinkled. For all Suru knew, he could have been in his seventies or only in his forties. It was so hard to tell with these sages. By all measures, Penetinos was a kind man, soft-spoken. Aside from new scrolls, he rarely asked for anything. He read on an eclectic array of topics; today, his topic of interest was magical plants and fungi. The sage attempted to roll out a scroll, an old Ikopeshi description and illustration of a certain magical algae. Try as he might, his quaking fingers could not hold the brittle paper, and each time he bent to decipher the words, the scroll would quickly snap back to its rolled position. “Suru? I don’t mean to disturb you.” Suru grunted and opened his eyes. “I’m sorry, sir. Is there something you need? I think Otilia and Shela are still gathering the other texts you requested.” “No, no, that’s quite alright, I might have asked for more than I needed as is, I worry. I need you to hold this scroll open for me while I read. Ridiculous, I know, but-” He held up his hands and smiled apologetically. “Of course.” “Thank you.” The scroll now safely secured, Penetinos leaned forward and began to read, mouthing the words to himself. Suru glanced down at the painting. It showed a cluster of vibrant purple seaweed. It was unlike any plant Suru had ever seen. “Is it really that color?” He asked. “Oh, this? Yes, of course. In your tongue, it is called Asburichibikur.” “Is it magical?” “Very. If you eat it plain without drying, it will trick the mind and make you see things. And if it is dried, it provides those people like you, those who lack the sight, the ability to see spirits for some short time. It has many other uses as well, of course, but I doubt that you want to hear me ramble on about that.”

@patternwelded-quill @flaneurarbiter @skyderman @blackblooms @roach-pizza @illarian-rambling @dezerex @theocticscribe @axl-ul, @persnickety-peahen Bonus character for y'all!

#writeblr #writing #wip #worldbuilding #fantasy #fantasy writing #queer fantasy #world building #aroace oc #asexual fantasy #pixel art #fantasy world #testamentsofthegreensea #aroace

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tripleyeeet · 7 months

Text

THE KNIFE OF INSIGHT

SUMMARY: While trying to comfort Zayis, Astarion realizes such attempts at civility might be futile.

PAIRING: Astarion & Zayis (OFC)

WORD COUNT: 3,346

WARNINGS: Angst, hurt/comfort, depictions of dissociation, hints of past abuse.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Okay, I'm writing these two in whatever scenarios I want without limiting myself to the concept of silly little chapters!! Timeline wise, this is right after they encounter the Gur outside of the Hag's house! :)

CHAPTER LIST / MASTERLIST

Astarion knows that look.

Before it fully registers, he can feel its increasing distance begin to set both him and Zayis apart. As she sits there, thumb roughly digging against the inside of her palm, he can see the exact moment that it happens. When she’s ripped from his grasp and hurtled into an entirely different realm.

It’s when he brings up Cazador that the look really becomes prevalent. Upon mentioning the vampire lord, her pupils dilate and her jaw tightens, her fangs grinding into her lip to the point of injury, prompting Astarion to sigh because he isn’t used to being on the inflicting end of such events.

Usually, the one to fall into anxious habits at the mention of his past, he isn’t sure what to do to help —how to coax such thoughts from her head in ways that won’t cause further damage. Seeing as he’s unfamiliar with such portrayals of empathy, it feels a bit inauthentic to suddenly offer up a helping hand. Plus, knowing Zayis she’d hardly accept it. The two of them are already too far gone to trust each other in that way. So, more than likely she’ll probably just swat whatever offering he decides to give. Perhaps spit on the ground and walk away.

Even before this mess she’d been like that. Prone to the same kind of emptiness Astarion often feels. So much so that there’d be days on end where the only words muttered between them were solely job-related. An echo of commands and responses that practically bored him to the point of madness.

It was awful. Partly because of the lack of stimulating conversation but also because he felt a bit guilty. Sad, even, feeling the desire to fix what was wrong often swelling in his chest but ultimately unable to break free.

Looking now, that same feeling pushes against his ribcage. Building in pressure, it’s as if he can no longer breathe as he stares. Trapped within her empty gaze, all he can do is watch as those mismatched eyes of hers stare blankly out into the night. How, despite their respective shades of charcoal and pearl shifting against the fire before them, there’s not a lick of colour left.

Devoid of everything but their presence, he knows all too well that the only thing she can probably see is a fraction of what’s truly in front of her. A mess of blurred-out shapes, pulsing in strange, unpredictable ways. A halo of confusion wrapping around her mind as she falls headfirst into a painful memory.

Narrowing his eyes, he studies her frame as the emptiness continues, taking in the way her mouth eventually slips open to breathe, allowing her chest to rise and fall in quick bursts. At first, the pace is slightly above average, reverberating in and out but eventually, it’s obvious she’s losing control. Allowing whatever painful thoughts to slip through the cracks of her beautifully, broken mind.

Almost immediately, Astarion has to stop himself from reaching out to her. Knowing that if he does he’ll surely pay the price, he instead sits there, staring at the increasing fear that begins to take over. How her fingers begin to claw wildly at her palm, etching rough patterns into the already irritated flesh.

It isn’t until she eventually breaks the skin that he gives in, feeling the sensation in his chest overtake the thoughts in his mind. Rougher than intended, he catches her wrist in his hand and mutters an aggravated stop that before he realizes what he’s done, watching her gaze slowly shift toward his face.

Upon seeing just how abroad she is when retaliation isn’t her immediate reaction, he can’t help but frown. Exploring the confusion throughout her face, he realizes that she’s well and truly helpless. A shell of herself. A vessel for thoughts too fearful to deny.

Swallowing hard, he turns her hand upwards to the sky, refusing to break eye contact despite the urge to look away heavy on his mind. “It’s alright,” he says. “You’re not there.”

Where it is he’s referring to, he’s not entirely sure but regardless the sentiment remains the same as he turns himself to fully face her, knees brushing against each other in the process. Their hands connecting cautiously so that he can run the pad of his thumb across her injury, smearing away the blood in kind.

He feels her twitch beneath him as if threatening to pull away before giving in. In response, he lets out a heavy breath and continues to soothe the wound with careful strokes to remind her where she is. To ground the wandering images he knows all too well.

“Whatever is in there can’t hurt you, okay? It can’t touch you because…”

Because I’m here.

Thankfully, he stops himself before he finishes. Before he makes it worse by adding to the burden.

“You’re safe, yeah?”

Her mouth parts to emit a wobbly sound of agreeance. One that embarrassingly tugs at his heartstrings so hard he ends up making another sound in response. A pitiful aw that makes her blink back the tears that have formed, suddenly remembering where she is. And more importantly, how he’s gently pressed up against her leg, holding her hand with such an uncharacteristic softness.

“What are you doing?” she asks then.

He doesn’t have an answer. Or at least, not one he can simply describe. Having developed a rather convoluted affection for her over the years, it’s not as easy as telling her he’s doing all of this because he cares or because he sees himself in her more and more each day and that in itself forces him to want to fix whatever he can. No, he can’t say that. Not unless he wants to allow this rare moment of civility to be met with truths he’s unwilling to reveal.

So instead, he merely turns up his lips, showing her a grin of falseness. Performing that familiar expression of innocence draped in all its usual mischief. “Why, just merely helping a friend in their time of need,” he tells her, leaning in at the mention of friendship. Forcing the word out like it’s some sort of burden.

Once again, she blinks, allowing her eyes to fully readjust before she offers a glare. “I don’t need your help,” she tells him, even though he can feel her breaking within his grasp. Cracking beneath the pressure of his hands wrapped around hers. Shattering against the quirking brow he uses to further antagonize her.

“No?”

“No.”

Unfazed by her defiance, he slowly peels his hands away, looking down at her fingers to see them subtly chase his own before falling into her lap. A gesture that has him reeling, if he’s honest.

Triggering newfound thoughts that rattle across the expanse of his skull, it forces him to wonder what the hell she’s done to him. How, after years of constant aggression and opposition, she’s still managed to rip right through his chest and crawl inside, acting as if such a thing is normal.

Because truthfully, it isn’t. Not for him, anyway. Not for a slave so tightly wound around his master’s thumb, that the mere thought of properly expressing things like empathy or love has him recoiling in fear, remembering the few times he was punished for it. How after falling in love once he was met with nothing but darkness for an entire fucking year.

Which is unfair, really. And the longer he sits there, watching her features twist in various shapes, trying to figure out the right way to respond to his supposed backhanded kindness, he can’t but hate her for it. To blame her for the weakness that settles beneath his skin and bones —wrapping around his cold, dead heart like a vice. To envy the fact that she’s capable of expressing herself in ways he won’t allow, but still refuses.

If he’s honest, it oftentimes feels like a stab wound the way she looks at him. Resembling that initial push, there are moments where the intent behind her eyes leaves him breathless and clawing at his throat, wishing just once she’d leave him be. That instead of treating him like a threat and wounding his heart with the plunge of her blade, she’d just admit to him that she’s scared.

“You’re allowed to fear him, you know.”

“What, like you do?”

Despite his better judgement, he merely offers the poor tiefling a smug look as he shakes his head, prompting her to huff and shove him aside before she stands up. “I don’t need your pity, spawn,” she tells him, and immediately Astarion’s frustrated all over again. Stirring in regret and resentment.

“It wasn’t pity I was offering,” he says.

Her sarcastic laugh cuts through the night. Penetrating his ears, it reminds him that it’s useless to try and help. To think that coming back time and time again won’t result in another slice of her reckless knife.

“You think just because you hold my hand that I’ll react in kind? That I’ll give in to whatever game you’re playing?” She looks at him in disbelief. “I’m not an idiot, Fangs. I know you better than anyone here! I’ve seen you at your weakest—“

“You say that as if I haven’t seen you at yours,” he argues, moving to stand —stepping so quickly into her space to press his forehead against hers that all she can do is clench her jaw and refuse to back down.

“Might I remind you, since it seems you’ve forgotten, that you and I—” he pauses to motion to both of them with his index fingers, “—are cut from the same cloth, my dear.”

There’s a pause then. Perhaps it’s a reluctance to argue or a realization that he’s right. Either way, for a moment he’s left waiting for a response, watching the way her eyes dart around his face, taking in the unbothered expression he portrays. Most likely cursing him for it.

“Just because we share a common enemy in Cazador doesn’t mean we’re the same.”

“Oh, really? Then where were you just now.”

Once again he awaits an answer, already knowing he’s right. Out of all the places she could’ve been in that moment, it’s painfully obvious to him she was lost in Cazador’s chambers. Locked inside without a key, forced to relive whatever happened behind those heavy doors. He knows because he’s experienced the same endlessly. Day after day, night after night, he’s seen that devil everywhere he goes, lurking in the corner of his eye. Reminding him that his freedom is temporary.

Looking at her now —at how her lips press together as she takes a step back, glancing at the fire— he realizes that perhaps her’s is too. Having been conveniently lost alongside master’s favourite spawn, it’s more than likely her sufferance will be far greater than his. With so much more to lose in the form of her mortality and a family that cares for her, it quickly becomes apparent just how scared she probably is. How terrified she must be at the thought of losing everything she risked to save.

He can’t help but feel a bit shaken by it all, especially after he notices the frown she offers back before walking to her tent, forcing him to stand alone, wondering how he always manages to fuck everything up. How, even after finally admitting to himself that he cares for her well-being he can’t yet admit it to her.

Once she’s gone, his hands raise to grip the roots of his hair as he closes his eyes, trying to figure out how to fix this. Because unfortunately, he needs to fix this, despite the reluctance that stirs. Despite the voice inside his head telling him he’s an idiot for feeling sorry for her.

Running his hands down the length of his face in annoyance, he wastes no time in following her footsteps. Walking a bit slow, he rubs his temples and tries to formulate a proper apology, knowing more than likely he’ll have to enter that damn tent on his hands and knees, grovelling for a second chance to gain any sort of sympathy.

Unfortunately for both of them, he’ll do it. And he does, dropping down to the ground as he opens the canvas flap to see her lying on her back, arms crossed angrily over her face.

“Fuck off, Astarion.”

Crawling towards her side, he lets out a heavy breath and shakes his head. “You know, despite your inability to perform, you really know how to make a dramatic exit.”

Before he can think to laugh at his ill-timed joke, she chucks a pillow at his head, forcing him to dart out of the way at the last second before moving to lie down next to her. “I’m sorry, but do you lack in hearing?”

“Not that I know of.”

She rolls her eyes and shuffles to the opposite end of the bedroll. “Why are you still here then?”

He knows whatever answer he offers she’ll hardly accept so he keeps it simple. “To apologize.”

At first, she looks confused, then strangely relieved before ultimately falling into that same pattern of defiant angst that has him internally groaning. Wishing just once that his vulnerabilities could be met with equal measure.

“You never apologize,” she points out.

“Not usually, no.”

“Then why?”

“Why am I apologizing?”

She nods. He thinks. Both of them simmering in a silence so deeply uncomfortable neither of them can look away.

“I suppose it’s because I can empathize,” he starts, knowing that’s just scraping the surface of reasoning. Really he’s apologizing because he wants to be on her good side again. To enjoy her presence. To not feel like he’s the reason she has to relieve all these terrible memories.

“Wait, you’re capable of empathy?”

Her sarcasm is warranted. Also, a bit appreciated, somehow.

“Of course I’m capable of empathy,” he spits back, grabbing the previously thrown pillow and shoving it into her face. “I may be a bloodthirsty killer but I still have feelings.”

She grumbles and rips the pillow from his grasp, narrowing her eyes. Refusing to say anything more until he continues.

It makes him want to scream, remembering all those nights together. The one's where she refused to talk. How in the beginning, she all but ignored his presence, refusing to acknowledge that, like her, he once was normal.

“Listen, I’m sorry if my lack of direction in regards to this sort of thing offended you,” he says, trying to step lightly with his words. Well aware that one wrong move could send the whole thing tumbling down again. “I don’t… I don’t know how to comfort people. Especially people who understand what he’s like.”

“Shouldn’t that make you more understanding?”

He releases a heavy breath, looking at her like she’s right. He should understand. And to some degree he does but at the same time, it’s that exact reason that frequently forces him to stop.

“I suppose the level of understanding sort of makes it more difficult.” He scrunches up his face, searching his mind for the right description. “Because you know him —you know what he’s capable of, and because of that you also know how things worked.”

He’s referring to the isolation. How, regardless of everyone being referred to as a family, it was forbidden to act as one. For as long as he could remember, everyone was required to fend for themselves, only working together for the sake of Cazador’s reign and nothing else. They weren’t meant to comfort one another. Only there to serve as hands to help their master feed, both he and Zayis, regardless of their deferring ranks, felt the same cold remorse. Experiencing that same seclusion time and time again.

It’s because of this he finds it hard to reach out every time he sees her struggling. Each time her eyes glaze over and she falls into that pit of despair, clawing at the edges trying to get out, all he can do is watch in horror and be thankful it’s not him this time. That instead of his mind, Cazador’s chosen to haunt her's. Which is obviously awful considering all that she’s done for him. After all the light she’s brought into this bleak, little life of his, the last thing he should be thankful for is her pain.

So he apologizes.

“I know you’re not particularly fond of me.” He offers her a subtle grin —one she returns despite everything. “I know that I’m a terrible friend and because of that you refuse to acknowledge me as such, but I promise I’m trying to get better. I’m trying to be better.”

He tries to speak as earnestly as possible. Allowing the pauses in between each sentence to settle before he moves on to the next, watching her expressions shift as they always do, searching for the right emotion to convey before ultimately softening. Resulting in the kind of face he’s not sure he’s seen on her before.

With that previous smile still present, it’s as if her whole soul reignites faintly. Behind her eyes, there’s an inkling of hope. Across her cheeks, there’s a warmth that settles behind their stormy hue. Even her ears, prone to sitting idle, sort of lift happily at his confession, prompting his chest to ache.

“I didn’t realize you were putting in all this effort just to be my friend?” she mocks, reaching up to squish his cheeks, causing his hand to lock around her wrist just before she can make it.

“Please don’t make me regret it.”

She snorts and tries to pull her hand away, finding his hold too heavy. “That’ll be hard to do considering how much of an ass you frequently are.”

Another tug prompts him to look down at their skin, realizing just how intimate it feels. Immediately making him swallow hard and loosen his grip, he feels her slowly slip until she stops about halfway to interlock their fingers. At which point, he’s the one who gets to look at her with an endless sea of expressions, moving from annoyed to confused, ending up somewhere halfway between content and reluctant.

“I’m sorry I snapped,” she says.

Instead of looking at him, her eyes are fully locked on their hands. Exploring their positions, her claws twitch against his knuckles as she tightens her hold, prompting him to clear his throat to get her attention.

“Is there a follow up to that apology or is that it?” He smirks.

“Oh, uh…” She narrows her eyes, resulting in Astarion letting out a scoff.

“I know my hands are pretty but I wasn’t aware they had the capability of rendering you speechless.”

“Shut up.”

He runs his thumb along hers, trying not to laugh. “I see the way you look at them. All entranced in their movement.” He leans in, pressing his forehead against hers like earlier, this time out of pure intent to annoy.

“You know, if you keep acting like this I’ll kick you out of my tent. And I’ll rescind my apology.”

“That’s fine. I wasn’t the one who needed an apology,” he tells her, bringing their hands to his mouth, and placing a playful nibble to her finger. An act that sets her off almost immediately. Returning to the old Zayis —the normal one who’s defiant but still playful— she shoves him off and groans, listening to the laughter that erupts through his chest.

“I’m going to bed.”

“Mmm, am I invited?” He reaches his hand to grab her waist but she swats it away and rolls over.

“You can stay if you like. No funny business though.”

He grins. “A cuddle perhaps?”

When she doesn’t object right away he knows that means yes. So gently he curls up behind her, feeling her shift so that he can wrap an arm beneath her before pulling her close, denying the urge to ask her more questions about earlier in favour of this rare moment of peace.

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#the knife of insight #astarion fan fic #astarion x original female character #astarion x fem oc #astarion x oc #astarion x zayis #zaystarion #knife fight #summer writes

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bethanythebogwitch · 2 days

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The Magical Girl TTRPG about fighting despair

Princess: the Hopeful is a tabletop roleplaying game in which players take the role of magical girls acting as the guardians of hope and light in a world of darkness and despair. And before I can really talk about it, I need to give some backstory. Princess: the Hopeful is a fan-made game for Chronicles of Darkness AKA the New World of Darkness. Chronicles of Darkness is a line of TTRPGS in which players take on the roles of monsters hiding amongst humanity. Each game has you play a different kind of monster, so there’s a vampire game, a werewolf game, etc. While each game can be played independently of any other, they are all in the same setting and they all use the same core rules. This is intended to make crossovers easy, but it also means that fans can pretty easily homebrew their own content, up to and including entire games. CoD is a pretty dark setting where the shadows run deep, humans are prey to monsters we don’t understand, and hope is vanishingly rare. So when a group of fans decided to make a magical girl game for the setting, it seemed like a joke. However, the finished project has become one of the most popular fan games and is just as good if not better than many of the official games (cough Beast cough). While the world of Princess: the Hopeful is as grim and bleak as the rest of CoD, you play as the people who refuse to give in to despair and fight to make the world a better place and you are going to dress fantastically to do it.

In the setting of Princess: the Hopeful, the ultimate force of evil is the All-Consuming Darkness. Born of fear, hate, despair, and every other negative aspect of life, the Darkness is less an entity and more a cosmic force of corruption that will not stop until the world is dragged into an eternal hell. When the Darkness first threatened the world, agents of light rose up to stop it. They wielded powerful magic and formed a civilization called the Kingdom which opposed the Darkness. And they won. The Darkness was beaten back and the Kingdom was at peace. This peace made them complacent and they failed to notice the Darkness building a counterattack until it was too late. The Darkness overwhelmed the Kingdom and destroyed many of queens and their courts. Of the 8 surviving courts, 5 were trapped within the Dreamlands, a dimension formed from the dreams and desires of humanity. This prison was perfect as the desires of its prisoners led them to not even realizing they were trapped. They lived in a fantasy of the world at peace, never realizing their predicament. The 3 remaining courts survived by becoming darkened. The corruption of the Darkness is found in them, but they are not its servants and are therefore known as the Twilight Courts. With the courts either trapped or corrupted, the Darkness had free reign over the world and turned it into the grimdark setting of Chronicles of Darkness. That was until 1969, when the first moon landing set off such a powerful surge of wonder and hope worldwide that it pierced the Dreamlands and alerted the imprisoned courts to the truth. The 5 imprisoned courts, the Radiant Courts, destroyed the prison and turned the Dreamlands into their new base of operations. They now face a world where the Darkness has effectively won. This hasn’t stopped the Radiant Courts and they have now resumed the war with the Darkness. Whether this war is an ultimately futile struggle or if the Radiant Courts do have a chance at actually turning things around is up to the players.

The player characters of PtH are the Nobility. Nobles, also called Princesses/Princes or the Hopeful, start out as people who remain good and hopeful despite living in a darkened world. The potential to become a Noble will remain as long as that person remains good, but it takes a major event to unlock it. This event must be something life-changing and can happen at any time in someone’s life, though it usually happens during, and as a result of, puberty. The person will go through the Blossoming and awaken the power of a Noble. While the game focuses on magical girl tropes, anyone of any gender and sex can become a Noble. Nobles gain a number of powers, including the ability to perform magic. However, most of their powers require them to go through the classic magical girl transformation sequence. After transforming, a Noble’s body will change to represent their idealized self and they will be wearing clothes and tools called Regalia. The idealized self can be quite different from your normal appearance and the game explicitly states that a transgender noble’s transformed appearance will match their gender identity. The transformed state also acts as a magical disguise. Even if a Noble looks identical pre- and post- transformation, you won’t be able to recognize the two forms as the same person unless the Noble tells you. A noble can only stay transformed temporarily before needing to change back and rest. Nobles get access to magic spells, most of which can only be used while transformed. Casting spells requires spending wisps, which are gained by inspiring happiness and goodness in others. In both forms, Nobles have a 6th sense which detects dark acts and thoughts. If someone is depressed or does something evil, every Noble in range will know about it. Given the state of the world, this 6th sense can become overwhelming and many Nobles will take trips to the Dreamlands to get some relief for a while. Nobles can also grant people some of their powers. These people are known as Sworn and many Nobles will grant powers to people they trust as allies or people they love as protection. Nobles are also often aided by Shikigami, inhabitants of the Drealands who inhabit small animals or toys to enter the real world and who act as mentors and advisors. Shikigami are good at tracking down potential Nobles and helping them Blossom, making them the magical girl mascot trope.

Fighting the Darkness is not just about battling monsters. While every Noble will eventually have to do battle with soul-sucking horrors from the netherrealms, most of the fight isn’t about violence. Anything that causes negativity is a tool of the darkness and you can’t exactly kick poverty or discrimination in the face. However, just as any negative emotion or cruel act empowers the Darkness, any act of kindness or that sparks joy fights it. Each Noble has a particular specialty called their Calling that determines how they inspire hope and joy the best. The callings are:

Champions: the defenders of the weak. Champions are classic heroes who fight for justice and protect others. They gain wisps by standing up for others. Champions are the most combat-oriented of the Callings and are typically the ones who do the fighting when creatures of Darkness are about. Example Champions include a knight who charges out to face the monsters, an activist pushing to end poverty, the manager of a shelter for the homeless, or the kid who stands up to bullies.

Graces: the messengers of hope. Graces prefer to guide others to the light through communication and support. Graces are skilled at social interaction and gain magic that lets them power up other people. They gain wisps by giving support and advice. Example Graces include a motivational speaker whose speeches are charmed with magic, a therapist who encourages patients to improve themselves, the person who always gives good advice, and the friend who is always ready to offer a shoulder to lean on.

Menders: the healers of the wounded. Menders aid people who are suffering, be it physically, mentally, or supernaturally. Menders will give aid to anyone they can and will not engage in violence, except against creatures of Darkness. Their magic focuses on healing and supporting others. They gain wisps by helping people. Example Menders include a first responder for disasters, an emergency room doctor who will stop at nothing to heal patients, a counselor who helps people fight depression, and a hero who helps people reject the corruption of Darkness.

Seekers: the scholars of the light. Seekers are defined by their curiosity and devotion to uncovering the truth. Lies and ignorance are tools of the Darkness and Seekers are here to uncover the truth. Their magic focuses on stealth and information gathering. They gain wisps by learning new things. Example Seekers include a bookworm who spends all their free time in the library, a spy who gathers intel on the Darkness’ activities, an archeologist who seeks out ancient artifacts of the Nobility, and a scientist who tries to reconcile the supernatural world with the scientific one.

Troubadours: the muses of joy. Troubadours seek to inspire wonder and joy in other people through their works. Natural artists and storytellers, troubadours gain wisps by inspiring others. Their magic focuses on illusions and supporting others. Example Troubadours include a party animal who always has a story to tell, a children’s book author whose work always includes positive morals, a graffiti artist who leaves messages of hope around town, an inspiring speaker who encourages people to fight the Darkness, and a jokester who can always make people laugh.

Noble society is centered around the courts. Each court is an alliance of like-minded Nobles led by a queen. Queens are immensely powerful and ancient Nobles who date back to before the imprisonment in the Dreamlands. There are 5 Radiant Courts and 3 Twilight Courts. A Noble’s Calling is innate to them and cannot be chanced, but membership in a court is optional and switching between them is accepted (by the Radiants anyway). Some people opt to remain courtless. Each court has a signature emotion or two that powers their unique magic. The Radiant Courts are:

The Court of Clubs practices a pseudo-Taoist philosophy of finding the balance where you can express your truest self while remaining in balance with the world. Accepting change and avoiding violence are part of this harmony. Don’t assume this means Clubs are helpless against attack. They aren’t allowed to start a fight, but they are allowed to finish it. Harmony with nature is also an important part of their beliefs and many Clubs prefer to live in the natural world and protect nature from the Darkness. Their emotions are harmony and tranquility.

The Court of Diamonds embraces enlightenment ideals and believes in the power of logic and reason to improve the world. They embrace modern science and technology and reject ignorance and misinformation as tools of the Darkness. Key among their teachings is that knowledge is to be shared freely with everyone, nor hoarded away or locked behind paywalls. They also reject the divide between the arts and sciences, seeing both as equally important. Diamonds tend to be excellent planners and strategists. Their emotions are curiosity and wonder.

The Court of Hearts is the one that takes the title of Nobility most seriously. They believe that the key to a better world is building and improving social institutions with them as the strong leaders. While Hearts view themselves as natural leaders, they also believe that authority is not owed, it is earned through the respect of others. They practice noblesse oblige, the philosophy that those in charge have a duty to improve the lives of their subjects and to be a wise and fair leader. The Hearts also take tradition seriously, believing that you must preserve the traditions that work and discard or improve those who do not. Their emotions are trust and duty.

The Court of Spades encourages creativity, going outside norms, and humor. Their skill is in questioning traditions and social institutions to find out what is valuable and what isn’t. Those institutions that cause harm are tools of the Darkness and should be dismantled. Above all, everyone needs some laughter in their life and so the Spades are great pranksters and jokesters. Many other courts stereotype the Spades as ineffective and annoying pranksters, but their skill at thinking outside the box can make them highly effective at finding new and unorthodox solutions to problems. Their emotion is humor.

The Court of Swords believes in following your heart and doing everything with burning passion. Love is the most important emotion to them, and not just romantic love but all kinds. They follow a morality code that emphasizes that harming someone is always wrong and that you should strive to broaden your horizons and embrace your passions. Many Swords are classic heroes, striving out for the sake of goodness and willing to do anything to protect their loved ones. The Swords also trust their members to be able to act autonomously, though of course if you can work with others, you should at least consider it. Their emotion is love.

While the Radiant Courts have only been active in the real world since 1969, the Twilight Courts have been active since the fall of the Kingdom. In order to survive the Darkness, they had to become darkened. While each Twilight Court is affected by the Darkness, they are still its enemies and do not serve it. Because they have been active for so much longer, the Twilight Courts have much greater populations than the Radiant Courts. If the Radiant Courts are the classic magical girls, the Twilight Courts are the dark magical girls.

The Court of Tears survived the coming of the Darkness by fleeing into it. The Queen of Tears moved her city, Alhambra, into the Dark World and converted it into a hollow sphere, with the city on the inside. The city is lit by lamps that keep the Darkness out, but they are fueled by hope. Nobles of Tears are tasked with stealing hope from the real world to keep the lamps burning. Key to their beliefs is that the Darkness has already won and all they can do is keep their loved ones safe in Alhambra. Thus, they will do whatever they can to keep the lamps burning. Their mission is ultimately futile as they are helping the Darkness win and once it does, nothing will keep Alhambra safe. The Queen of Tears constantly weeps over the sacrifices she made and it is implied that if she ever realizes the self-defeating nature of her mission, she will fully fall into despair and become an agent of the Darkness. Their signature emotions are depression and resolve.

The Court of Storms barely functions as a court anymore as their queen is not capable of leading anymore. To survive the Darkness, the Queen of Storms transformed herself into a living storm that rages within the Dark World, destroying all she touches. Nobles of Storms lash out against the Darkness in rage. They hate the Darkness and the state of the world and that hate leads them to do whatever they can to destroy it no matter who and what gets in the way. They believe that the world is already hopelessly corrupted and the only way out is to turn it to ashes and hope that whatever’s left is worth saving. Storms Nobles believe that when they die, their souls will merge with the storm that is the Queen and make it a bit bigger. Once enough of them die the Queen will grow enough to destroy the Darkness and rip the world apart. If there’s something left to rebuild after, that’s a nice bonus. Their emotions are rage and hate.

The Court of Mirrors isn’t a court in any sense of the word. The Queen of Mirrors fled when the Darkness came. SInce then, she has appeared to newly-Blossomed Nobles and informed them that they are the True Heir to the Kingdom and destined to be the one who defeats the Darkness and saves the world. Given how many people she does this to, her approach seems to be that if she tries enough times, eventually she’ll find the right person. Nobles of Mirrors become utterly convinced that they are the heroes of the story. They are vain, narcissistic solipsists convinced the world revolves around them. Most other Nobles view the Mirrors as obnoxious brats, but a narcissist with magic powers can prove to be a formidable threat. The Mirrors are incapable of working together and tend to fight each other when they meet. There can only be one True Heir after all. Their emotions are selfishness and solipsism.

The Darkness is a subtle and insidious force that operates wherever there is violence, hate, or misery. Places of sadness or where atrocities have been committed become tainted areas, where the influence of the Darkness is more pronounced. Tainted areas are more prone to violence, depression, and bigotry. The people who spend time there are also more likely to become Darkened. A Darkened person has the influence of the Darkness influencing their mind and body. It changes their sense of morality to encourage them to engage in immoral acts. Unlike other creatures of the Darkness, Darkened are redeemable. They can resist their malevolent urges and strive to be a good person. Nobles are charged with helping Darkened redeem themselves and can use magic to help purify their corruption. Darkened who are not redeemed turn into one of two types of monsters. The most common result is a Darkspawn. When a Darkened fully gives into the Darkness, they will die and their body (or part of it) will revive as a twisted monster. Darkspawn have no real intelligence, but there are an incredible variety of them and they are very dangerous. When a Darkened uses the Darkness to corrupt their minds rather than warp their bodies, they will become a Mnemosyne. These monsters still look human and remember their past lives. They are also highly intelligent, allowing them to command Darkspawn and scheme to spread the Darkness and corrupt other people. Another dark creature is a Cataphract, who are born from people who die in despair (often through suicide). They retain the memories of their human lives and will attempt to return to them, but are only capable of being twisted parodies of humanity. Probably the most feared creatures of Darkness are the Dethroned, Nobles who lost hope and turned to the Darkness. Dethroned usually spend their time wallowing in their own misery, only occasionally roused into action by other dark creatures. An active Dethroned is an enormous threat and even other dark creatures fear them. Even killing a Dethroned won’t save them as they will simply be reborn. There are only two ways to destroy one: utterly destroying their soul at the cost of your own, and taking their misery onto yourself and working through it, allowing the Dethroned to feel hope again before dying and being reincarnated.

There are a few versions of the game, which can be downloaded here, along with supplements and fan content. There is a Discord server also linked on that page. You will need the Chronicles of Darkness core rules to play.

#princess the hopeful #magical girl #mahou shoujo #chronicles of darkness #new world of darkness #world of darkness #ttrpg #rpg #role playing game #tabletop games #fan content #dark magical girl #magical girl mascot #magical girl transformation #grimdark #noblebright #lore

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