#bring the ancestors i beg <.<

[cottoncandysprite]

Might just be brain poisoned bc I'm directing Addams Family the musical rn but. Wwdits animatic of One Normal Night with Guillermo bringing his family to formally meet the vamps

[headspace-hotel]

one of the most insidious parts of capitalism is how companies coerce people into voting and rallying for their own exploitation by styling themselves as "providing" or "creating" jobs as if jobs are a resource

the election for governor in Kentucky is coming up and I just...i hate this shit. I hate how the republicans campaign on promises to support coal companies and deregulate pollution and people eat it right up

Not because they don't KNOW that coal filled the lungs of their ancestors and made their home toxic, ugly, radioactive, and polluted, but because under capitalism, you are worthless garbage unless you can be used to bring more wealth to the rich.

So they beg for the privilege of being exploited and watching their home ripped open, because this is the only value we will ever have under capitalism. "Natural resources" to be violently torn from the Earth and humans desperate and poor enough to accept the most brutal mistreatment.

[psychedelic-ink]

𝐅𝐄𝐀𝐑 𝐍𝐎𝐓 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐀𝐁𝐘𝐒𝐒.

DAY EIGHT OF HAUNTED HOEDOWN

prompt: cult au + “do you like it when i bleed for you?”

pairing: cult leader!din djarin x f!reader

genre: explicit smut, minors dni

summary: din initiates you into the cult.

word count: 1.1k

warnings: dubcon (power imbalance), manipulation, innocence kink, corruption kink, blood/blood kink, blowjob, soft dom!din kinda

Your eyes follow the man in armor in front of you. 

It’s just you and him, no one else. No one to hear you scream or beg while you are initiated. He removes the plates of his arms one by one, the majority of his armor staying along with his helmet. There’s a fire burning behind him. The flickering orange and yellow bathes his armor in light and you stare, mesmerized by how shadows deepen all around his armor. 

“You can’t leave after this,” he says, voice modulated. “You will be one of us.” 

“Can I see your face then?” you ask innocently, batting his eyes at him. He tilts his head, observing your soft smile and clutched thighs. You want to see him. Be with him. He had been protecting you for years, looking out for you, teaching you the way and how to live a happy life. He’d told you once, how he cared for you, but couldn’t give you a name or show you his face until you were properly initiated. That was the creed. 

He stills for a moment. You see the tension building in his muscles and doubt begins to swirl in your chest. You want to please him and the thought of saying something that might upset him makes your stomach churn.

“Yes,” he answers finally, every word pronounced carefully. “I don’t show my face to anyone though, I want you to remember that and know how special you are to me. Understood?” 

You nod and he shakes his head, “Use your words mesh’la. Use my name, it’s Din.” 

“Yes, Din,” you answer. Your cheeks warm up. His name hits your tongue just right, as if your mouth is made to repeat his name over and over again. 

Satisfied, he nods and pulls out a sharp dagger from his waist. The gleam catches your eye and your pulse quickens. You have no idea how the initiation works, your excitement courses through your veins, and pounds in your ears. His visor reflects your wide-eyed expression. 

“On your knees,” he says. 

You quickly obey, ignoring how the stone scrapes your skin. He displays his forearm, bringing the sharp edge of the dagger to his skin. Din cuts himself slowly, blood trickling instantly from the long wound. Your heart jumps, eyes going wide. You almost feel a cut of your own tingling over your forearm and it pains you to see him bleeding. 

But also, you know this is not something he does for everyone. 

Your pupils dilate, mouth flooding with saliva with the prospect of pressing your lips against the crimson blood. 

“Repeat after me,” he says, drawing you away from your disrespectful thoughts. You nod. The blood ebbs like spiderwebs across his skin, coiling around his bare wrist and dripping from his fingers to the cold stone ground. 

He begins, voice soft and words slow, “I swear on my name and the names of the ancestors. . .” 

 “I swear on my name and the names of the ancestors. . .” you repeat dutifully. 

“that I shall walk the way of the mand’alore. . .” 

“that I shall walk the way of the mand’alore. . .” 

 “and the words of the creed shall be forever forged in my heart.” 

 “and the words of the creed shall be forever forged in my heart. . .” 

“This is the way.” 

“This is the way.” 

He curls two bloody fingers under your chin and tilts your head further up. You feel the warmth of his essence on your skin, the scent of iron filling your nostrils. “Do you like it when I bleed for you?”

“Yes,” you answer without thought, feeling the blood moving down your neck, following the path between your breasts. He slightly bends his knees, leaning over you as he tugs your bottom lip down with his thumb. You exhale when he smears the tender flesh with his blood, marking you, and you taste him. 

He sighs, “Maker, I can’t wait to ruin you.” 

Din pulls away and you lick the blood from your lips. Oddly enough he tastes sweet to you, even though you know it’s impossible. Your eyes drop to the front of his pants where he unzips himself, your mouth goes dry at the size of his hard cock. He’s not too long, but the thickness of it is enough for you to shudder with pleasure. 

“Have you ever sucked cock before?” he asks, coming closer and tracing your lips with his bloody fingers. Insticeticly, you part your lips and he slips them inside, he groans as you swirl your tongue, cleaning him off. 

“No,” you answer. “It never seemed that appealing to me.”

“How about now?” 

The drop of his voice, the rasp beneath the words, all of it makes your mind go completely blank. Silent. You swallow around his fingers. He withdraws his fingers, “It’s very tempting,” you breathe out, tongue swiping over your bottom lip. 

Din ignores your answer, “Open your mouth. Wide,” he groans and when you do, he pushes himself inch by inch into your mouth. Tears build in your eyes and he cradles the side of your face with one hand, keeping you still. He doesn’t stop until you’re choking around him, a moan echoing from underneath the helmet. 

Tears fall one by one as he begins to thrust his hips, burying his cock down your throat with every move. You brace yourself by placing your palm on his thighs. The muscles bulge underneath your hands. Arousal pools between your legs. He’s using you just like you wanted, owning you and making you yours. 

“That’s it. You’re doing so well,” his head tilts back, pushing you down until your nose is buried within the dark curls. You can barely breathe. The mixture of precome and blood heavy on your tongue. You feel him pulse as your throat convulses around him, then he pulls back, a growl reaching your ears. “My sweet girl, always so eager to please.” 

Din pulls out slowly and you can feel the slickness on your tongue. His hand slides from your chin up the side of your head. His rough thumb traces your lower lip. You can feel his gaze like a brand on your skin. he takes a deep breath and exhales before taking himself into his hand. The head of his cock is an angry shade of red, precome glistening beautifully at the slit. 

Before he can command it, you open your mouth and stick out your tongue. He fists himself before spilling his hot cum all over your lips and chin, dripping down your face. His moans and whimpers are beautiful, a sight only you’re allowed to see. 

There’s so much of it, his cock continuously twitches and throbs in his hand. He ruins you, just like he promised. Staining you with his seed. Your insides clench when you imagine Din coming inside instead of on your face. 

When he’s finished, he tucks himself back into his pants and reaches for his helmet. 

“As promised,” he says, voice hoarse, scratching your ears just right. 

You finally see the real face of the man in armor.

And he’s beautiful.

[fangsandfracturedhearts]

Fangs and Fractured Hearts

Chapter 4: Little Lamb

Summary: You helped Astarion complete the Rite of Profane Ascension and become the Vampire Ascendant. You agreed to become his spawn soon after. Once the Netherbrain was defeated, Astarion claimed the Szarr Palace, renaming it the Crimson Palace, for himself and set about his plans of domination.

Word Count: 6K

Pairing: Ascended Astarion x female!Tav Spawn

Warnings: [Will try to continue to add more, but in general expect explicit content for mature audiences]

Possible spoilers. Eventual Explicit Content. Slow Burn. Thoughts of Suicide. Violence. Blood. Injury. Mature Content. Self-Harm.

If you notice a very critical tag missing, please don't hesitate to let me know

Rating: Explicit 18+ - [Meant For Mature Audience}

As soon as you make it out of the city to a secluded spot, you fall to your knees brokenly and start to weep. Your body wracks painfully between your sobs, and your eyes burn as if they can’t shed the tears fast enough.

Of course, he had moved on from you and found someone else to entertain ... Ugh, even thinking the word sickened you to the very foundation of your essence.

Did I really expect any different? 

Raphael’s words echo in your head, “The arousals of man will return to him.” 

That had scarcely been the case. Except for the night you agreed to be his spawn, Astarion had barely laid a finger on you unless you specifically requested it, and you never did, knowing intimacy was complicated for him. Perhaps you duped yourself into believing that he just needed time, but you wonder if so easily agreeing to be his spawn had a role.

Or maybe he just prefers warm flesh. Now, he’s bedding that… that harlot!

Sitting on the hard ground, you bring your knees to your chest and wrap your arms around your legs. Resting your head on them, you let your eyes drift shut. You’re too exhausted to fight it anymore, and you let the misery wash over and consume you.

How many times will I have to endure losing him?  

The sanguine hunger is gnawing at your insides like a rabid animal. Your empty stomach spasms so painfully it makes you retch dryly between scattered sobs. Every muscle, tendon and ligament in your body convulses, making your limbs jerk sporadically, begging for sustenance. You should hunt, but instead, you choose to wallow in your dismal self-pity.

When did I become this hollow shell?

You have never lived an easy life. You’re not born of wealth, nobility or with a silver spoon in your mouth. You lived a challenging life. You were not prone to pathetic displays of weakness such as this. You had the blazing fire of your draconic ancestors coursing through your veins, and you always defiantly faced any hardships that came your way, whether by diplomacy, persuasion, or, if all else failed, scorching them from the earth.

When you met Astarion on that beach, that dagger of his threatening to gut you, you had been so close to turning him into a charcoaled husk until your tadpole resonated with his dousing your flames.

Now look at me.

You’re not sure when it happened, but that raging vigour you had possessed had been snuffed out. What was left behind was a yawning void where your willpower to survive once resided.

The next time you look up, you can see daybreak threatening on the skyline. You consider letting the daylight consume whatever is left of you, but you remember Shadowheart’s promise to Astarion if you didn’t return home.

“I will kill you, Astarion, even if it’s the last thing I do.”

She would make good on her threat, even if it got her killed.

Which it surely would.

Your will to live may be dead and buried, but your concern for your friend’s lives is alive and well. The dejection that kept your body planted on the ground all night suddenly lifts its burden, and you take off in a sprint.

You enter the house quietly, hoping that Shadowheart is still asleep, but you find her pacing in the large living room, muttering to herself. She jumps at the creak of the door, the radiant glow of divine magic on her fingertips.

“I was almost out of my mind with worry!” She says, distress rampant in her voice.

“I’m sorry.”

“Wait... what’s wrong?” Fury bursts into her eyes, “What did he do to you!?”

Your back slides down the rough wooden door, splinters catching on your robe as you just let yourself sink to the floor, “Nothing, I didn’t bring on myself.”

“Did he hurt you!?”

“No.”

Yes.

“You’re lying,” she knows you too well, “tell me the truth!”

“He didn’t hurt me.”

He broke me.

Her voice softens as she realizes tears have begun to spill out of your eyes, “Tell me what happened.”

“Another time. Can we... can we please drop it for now?”

You don’t think you could bear to speak any of it aloud, not right now.

Suspicion runs over her features, “Fine.”

You can see the anger in her eyes, her mouth set in a stern, grim line. Her heart is rattling around in her chest.

“Please do not go looking to start a fight with him.”

She huffs, “Why are you still protecting him? What has he done to earn such loyalty?”

“Astarion doesn’t need my protection or anyone else’s - not anymore.”

She folds her arms over her chest, “I’m sure he believes that.”

“Shadowheart, please.”

She sighs reluctantly, “Fine. How is your wound? Do you need more healing?”

“I will be alright. I heal fast.”

Or I should… 

Your side still aches with a grievous burning that makes your eyes water.

An uneasy silence stretches out between you, “and the hunger?”

“Keep your distance.” It sounds more like a threat than it had in your head, and you wince at the severe intonation, “Sorry, that didn’t come out right.”

“I understand.”

You drag yourself off the floor, and your wound smarts in objection at your movement, “I think I’m going to go get some rest.”

“Good idea,” she brightens, “you look terribly pale.”

You smirk at her and make your way to your bedroom. Your trance does not come easily to you, and even when it does, you toss and turn as echoes of memories play out in your dreams.  

You’re back in camp, curled up in your tent but unable to sleep. The city is close now, and your mind is troubled. Your draconic fire pulses and dances over your fingertips in a mesmerizing display. The glorious heat of your ancestors radiates from your skin. With nothing but your thoughts and control of the Weave, you will the flames higher, lower, brighter, dimmer, hotter, colder in a measured cycle.

“Neat trick. What other things can you do with that fire of yours?”

Astarion pulls back the flap to your tent. The reflection of your fire prancing along your fingertips highlights the vibrant cardinal red of his eyes.

“Can’t sleep?”

Relinquishing your hold on the weave, you let the flames sputter out, “No. Successful hunt?”

“Your necks may rest easy tonight if that’s what you’re getting at.”

“Astarion, I didn’t mean-”

He chuckles low, “I’m just playing with you, my dear.”

He crouches down and takes your hand in his. His skin feels like ice compared to the feverish warmth your flame has left behind.

“Come, my love. Why don’t you join me tonight?”

"Join you? Where?”

“In my tent.”

You hesitate, “That’s not necessary.”

“Please?”

You eye him intensely, probing him, searching his body language, his expression, his eyes, for that well-practised, albeit false, veneer he wraps himself in.

“I’d really rather you disrobe me for real, beautiful. Come.”

Alarm bells blare in your head, “Astarion…”

“My sweet, sweet girl. Do I look uncomfortable to you?”

"No.”

It’s the truth; his expression is relaxed, and perhaps it’s part of the reason you feel so perturbed.

“I want you close tonight. Are you truly going to deny me the pleasantries of your fine company?”

You start to stand, and he rises from his crouched position with you. When you’re nearly on your feet, he gives your arm a quick tug, jolting you forward and off balance. You stumble and fall into him.

“You’re beautiful.” 

His lips meet yours, gently at first, but the pace quickens to a ravenous frenzy as if he’s been starving and you’re the sustenance he needs to survive.

His mouth expertly parts yours, and you feel the groan rumble in his chest as his tongue explores, tasting you. Your body pushes into him further, and your arousal awakens in a visceral torrent.

When he breaks the kiss, you moan your displeasure with your eyes still closed, “Not fair.”

"Oh, darling. Don’t fret.” he leans close to your ear, “I’m not done with you just yet.”   

Jolting awake, you nearly propel yourself out of your bed. You take deep breaths, even though you don’t need them. Your dead body seemingly has a hard time letting go of the comforts of life. The air fills your lungs with a whistle as the rigour battles with your panicked breathing.

He was so gentle, so sweet, and I ruined him.

With a groan, you lay back down. Holding up your hand, you stare at your unnaturally pallid skin, and you mourn the colour your complexion once held. Desperate to feel the comfort of something familiar, something tangible that you can control, you take hold of the weave. Blazing fire springs into life from your palm born of your draconic ancestry. You let the flame frolic and lick climbing up your hand, over your fingertips and back in a captivating parade.

This is something no one can take from me, not even him.

You register frantic pacing coming from the floor below, and you can faintly hear the elevated pulse of a pounding heart. You douse the fire still burning hot in your palm and relinquish your hold on the weave. Sitting up, the wound afflicting your side bellows in radiating bursts, but you push the sensation away and focus on the restless stomping below.

Something is wrong.

You stumble out of bed, momentarily confused by the clumsy feeling of your limbs.

I’m not graceful by any means, but tripping over myself getting out of bed, that’s new.

You don’t have time to consider it further, so you let it go. You scramble into your clothing and walk to the top landing of the staircase.

“Shadowheart? Are you okay?” You call down to her in a raised, concerned voice.

Even from this distance, you’re already fighting your bloodlust; your body tenses, shakes and trembles, waging warfare on your restraint. Squeezing your eyes shut, you pray to any God that will listen to grant you strength.

“No. I need to speak with you urgently. Can you come down?”

No.

“Yes, but-”

She cuts you off, “I will keep my distance.”

“Get your weapon.”

She scoffs, “I trust you.”

Gods, she has no idea how good she smells.

“Please, Shadowheart. It… It's really bad today.”

“Fine, if you insist, but I’m not scared of you.”

You should be.

Your hunger is frantically digging its talons deeper and deeper into you. It feels like it’s ripping you apart from the inside out. Your mind whispers repulsive thoughts, and you can feel it's starting to take any of the control you had away, draining it out of you.

The pain. Gods, the pain.

You descend the stairs with shaky steps as your stomach once again starts to convulse and cramp sickeningly. Shadowheart smells like fear, and her heart beats so fast it sounds like a roaring thunder. You can hear her lungs expand and contract with her rapid breathing.

This is how Astarion always knew when I was upset even when I told him I was fine. He could hear it the whole damn time.

He had explained this to you, or tried to, on multiple occasions. Experiencing it for yourself was vastly different. Suddenly, all his weird, often poetic metaphors make perfect sense.

As you get to the bottom of the stairs, you keep your hand tightly grasped around the rail, giving yourself something to focus on. The wood complains under the pressure of your clenching hold.

Shadowheart is standing on the opposite side of the room. Her weapon is in her hand as she promised you. It gives you a sense of comfort.

“Are you okay, Shadowheart? You don’t sound like yourself.”

“I received a letter from my parents. They have requested that I see them. It said it was an urgent matter.”

Shadowheart mother had fallen unwell some months ago, and she wasn’t recovering from whatever ailed her. You had tried to push Shadowheart to stay with her parents so she could help her mother, but she had refused.

“You need to go to them, Shadowheart.”

She nods, “I know, but I am not keen on leaving you.”

“I’ll survive. I am well equipped to care for myself, as you well know. Plus, if I remember correctly, a vampire spawn is difficult to kill.”

Her eyes narrow, “Not if Astarion comes for you.”

“Astarion has a new toy he’s busy playing with right now. I doubt he will give me a second thought.”

Shadowheart’s brows rise, “What? A new spawn?”

“No. She still possesses her life, so far anyway.”

Her voice softens, “Are you okay?”

She pities me.

“I will be. Go see your parents, Shadowheart. It sounds important. Please don’t let me keep you from living your life.”

“Yes, I think I should. I won’t be gone too long. Stay out of trouble, will you?”

“I can’t promise that.” You shrug, “Trouble seems to find me.”

Shadowheart gives you her best disapproving glower.

“I will stay out of trouble. Go.”

Shadowheart starts briskly moving about the house, collecting her belongings. Her heart’s pace picks up further, pounding in her chest until it’s the only thing you can hear. Your grip intensifies on the wooden rail, and it splinters.

“I’ll be in my room. Travel safe, Shadowheart.”

Returning to your room, you stuff your head under all the pillows you can find, trying to drown out the raging thumping in your head. You dig your fingernails into your skin, scratching long weeping lacerations up your legs, giving yourself something to focus on in a desperate attempt to remain in control.

Astarion had mentioned that there were times he was so hungry he was all but robbed of speech and reason, and you wonder if you’re getting to that point.

Shadowheart knocks on your door, “I’m leaving now. I will be back as soon as I can.”

You groan at her closeness, “Go, Shadowheart. Don’t worry about me.”

You hear her bound down the stairs and out the door, leaving the house in a blissful silence. With her gone, the hysteria of your bloodlust fades just enough that your thoughts become your own again.

That was close. Too close.

Glimpsing at the window, you eye the boards nailed over it to protect you from the sun. You reach out and hover your hand over the rough wood. Slight warmth radiates off their surface, letting you know the sun still shines.

Your mind plays the memory of Astarion. His arm wrapped around you protectively as he held you firmly against him. The scarlet of his eyes alight while they gazed at you as his thumb swept across your cheek.

It’s a pleasant memory until - the mulberry-haired woman. Her sapphire eyes. Her triumphant smile. Her disgusting, sensual saunter.

You recoil, shake your head, and scold yourself for letting your thoughts run away with you. Moving away from the window, you stumble over your own feet again, your ankle rolling gruesomely to the side as you misstep.

It should alarm you. This new incoordination is bizarre, but you’re too fatigued to give it any pause. Energy feels like it’s being siphoned out of your body, debilitating you.

You drag yourself back into your bed and allow your trance to take you.

Your condition worsens steadily over the following days. Blood still percolates out of the wound on your side, with no signs of healing to be seen. Black streaks now stretch up your torso, down your side, and low into your thigh.

You’re disoriented and weak. Your vision is hazy, and reality feels like it’s ebbing and flowing like waves over a rough sea. Your legs feel feeble beneath you as you get up to check your bandages, which are once again saturated in blood.

I need help. Something is very wrong. Can I die from this? What ailments can kill a vampire spawn? There is so much I still don’t know.

But I know who does.

With shaky hands, you manage to re-bandage yourself sloppily and slide into a robe. You fiddle with the laces for far too long. You see double, triple, even quadruple, and your fingers grasp at nothing but air. It makes your eyes cross, and your head drum cruelly. Putting your boots on is challenging as your knees quack and you tumble to the floor repeatedly.

You should be terrified for your life, but you’re walking the fine line between delirium and complete incoherence, and you find it all rather… amusing. You giggle to yourself, grinning widely as you try and figure out which door handle is the corporeal one.

The walk to the Crimson Palace is long and arduous. You can barely pick up your feet, embarrassingly tripping over yourself repeatedly and falling to your hands and knees in the streets. Thankfully, there are few people out as most would be packed into the various taverns found in the city. Those who are around to witness your uncoordinated lumbering laugh at your ineptitude for walking.

They think I’m drunk.

The thought makes you giggle.

Rounding a corner, you prop yourself up on the wall for a second to catch your breath, only to laugh to yourself at such a silly notion. You don’t need to breathe anymore.

I’m dead.

More giggles.

Wait, where was I going?

You glance up and vaguely make out the shape of the Crimson Palace bathed in the darkness of a cloudy night, triggering your fading memory.

Oh, yes, to see my master, Lord Astartion.

You giggle again, rolling your eyes at the factitious thought. It sends your vision whirling, and you groan.

You look up at the Crimson Palace while you struggle to force your failing body to continue moving forward.

I wish I had reduced that place to nothing but a pile of rubble when I had the chance.

Through the murky darkness, a voice calls out, “It’s so nice to see you again.”

You know this voice, but you can’t seem to place it, and your brain makes sluggish attempts to connect that familiar tone with a memory. You have trouble getting your thoughts to form coherently.

You squint your eyes to peer through the fog clouding your vision and catch the colour of mulberry.

It’s her.

“Ugh. Go. Away.”

Not her. Anyone but her.

She blocks your path.

“You don’t look so good, sugar.” She says in that upbeat, harmonious tone that makes you want to puke.

I should kill her.

A sinister smile tugs at the corners of your mouth, and you try to stifle the feverish giggle erupting from your mouth. In the diminished and very nearly incoherent state you’re in, she would be more likely to kill you, but alas, it was a lovely fantasy.

You don’t bother dignifying her with a response and clumsily try to dodge around her.

“I can’t help but notice you appear to be walking towards the Crimson Palace. Are you going to see Astarion?” she pauses, “I’m not sure he will be up for visitors. We have been having a lot of fun every night. He is quite generous, but you would know all about that, wouldn’t you?”

No. No. No. No. No. No.

“Sweet thing, you do know what I mean by fun, right? Or would you like me to spell it out for you?”

Keep walking... just keep moving forward.

“Sex, sweetness. I mean sex.”

Despite your deranged state, your heart still breaks, and a single tear escapes your eye and rolls down your cheek, thinking of him and her together.

“I’d offer to buy you a drink, but it looks like you’ve had one too many already.”

Pure rage surges through your body, and in an instant, your palm ignites, and fire sways and oscillates over it.

“The only drink I would ever accept from you is your blood. Every. Last. Drop.”

You didn’t feed on the blood of thinking creatures, but you would exuberantly make an exception for this wretch.

You stand up straight, your fury parting the daze veiling your mind, allowing you to think lucidly for the first time in days.

You grin menacingly as you will the fire in your palm to balloon into an enormous glowing sphere, “Or I could just reduce you to an impotent pile of ash where you stand.”

The woman’s mouth drops open, and she watches the fire blazing on your palm, “Pardon me?”

“I’m sorry, sugar,” you mock her, “Do you need me to spell it out for you? I will kill you!”     “Astarion will not be pleased if you kill his lover.” 

Her emphasis on the word lover makes your stomach lurch, and you grit your teeth, your jaw clenching hard.

She’s trying to get under my skin, and it’s working.

A menacing laugh rises from your throat, and you fix an intimidating gaze on her, “Well, Astarion isn’t here to save you now, is he?”

Her confidence falters. The broad, toothy grin plastered on her delicate features dissolves under your dangerous glower. Her heartbeat accelerates, thrumming the chorus of a grand symphony in your ears. The smell of fear drifts laden in the chilled breeze.

To your immense dissatisfaction, she recovers her serenity quickly, and the beaming, albeit phoney, smile returns to her rosy lips.

She speaks to you pleasantly, as if you two were old friends, “I’m sure we will meet again soon.”

Gods, I can’t stand her.

It sounds reminiscent of a promise, and you pray it's not one.

“Surely, you should be in a better mood by then. Have a lovely night!”

The picturesque mulberry-haired woman swaggers off down the road, disappearing into the murky darkness of an alleyway. The fireball hovering above your palm burns out as your rage recedes.     I should have eaten her.

The walkway to the palace door is long and meanders slightly uphill. The stupor clouding your mind surged forward as soon as your adrenaline fell, and you are once again in that dreamlike state. You hesitate at the door of the Crimson Palace.

This is a bad idea.

You have escaped him twice already. Now, here you are, willingly coming back to ask for his help.

He would probably slam the door in your face on the spot at best or throw you into the kennels at worst. The wound in your side aches maddeningly, reminding you of the reason you’re standing here in the first place.

Not possessing enough coordination to knock in the traditional sense, you slam the palm of your hand as hard as you can against the ornate door. It makes your fingers croon with a sweet sting. Quiet minutes tick by with no answer or sound of movement from inside.

Of fucking course.

You sag into the door dejectedly, closing your heavy eyes with a dismal sigh.

I am so tired.

The hefty door swings open abruptly, and you don’t have time to steady yourself. Without the counterbalance to keep you upright, you nosedive forward.

Astarion’s arms quickly slip under yours, halting your fall, “Little love, you simply must stop falling for me like this.”

He sets you back on your feet, keeping an arm out to steady you, but you push it away, still irritated by your exchange with that horrible woman.

Not bothering to wait for an invitation, you stagger weakly into the palace.

His eyebrow cocks at your awkward lumbering, “Do come in.”

“I hate her.”

“Who would you be referring to, my dear?”

“That... that fucking trollop!” You say spitefully.

The dim room seems to undulate around you, and your words are slurred, “I’m going to eat her one day.”

His eyebrows rise in a vexingly handsome expression, “Well, now I am intrigued. Do tell me who you are talking about?”

Jealous anger slithers hot through your veins, “Your.... your purpled-haired hussy!”

A wide grin crosses his face, “I see. I knew you were jealous but murderous?” He chuckles, “I’m impressed.”

His forehead furrows slightly, and he cocks his head, “although, you don’t look entirely yourself.”

“Something is wrong with me.”

"Now that, my treasure, is something we can agree on.”

Rolling your eyes, you continue, “I need help.”

“Petitioning me for help, are you? Cute.”

You huff at him, exacerbated, “You know what? This was a bad idea. I’m sorry to have bothered you.”

You start towards the door, stumbling awkwardly.

“Wait.”

His hand reaches out and tenderly encircles your forearm, steadying you. Your eyes drift to his. Is that concern you see reflected in those deep crimson irises?

I must be truly delirious.     "What's wrong?”

“The wound from the stake isn’t healing.”

His eyebrows furrow, “Show me.”

Your fingers fumble with the lace ties of your robe in uncoordinated rigour. Your vision sways, rocking like trees in a blustery wind. Cursing under your breath, you squint, trying to focus.

Astarion steps forward, coming close enough that you can finally see him clearly. He’s shirtless, and his trousers are untied at the front.

Good Gods…

“Have I ever told you how pretty you are?”

The words spill out of your mouth dreamily, and you giggle at how free you feel. You’re no longer shackled by the fear or sadness that has consumed you and hollowed you out. You feel unencumbered, a great weight lifted from your shoulder.

“Yes, I think you have mentioned it a time or two, but please, do feel free to tell me again.”

You stop squinting and fumbling with the laces on your robe to look up at him doe-eyed, “You’re beautiful.”

“You are in quite the state, aren’t you?”

His hands brush yours away, and he starts to deftly untie the laces.

“Hey… Rude.” You stick your tongue out at him childishly.

Losing your balance, your hand finds the smooth skin of his shoulder to stabilize yourself. His body stills under your touch, muscles tense.

A sharp pang of guilt slides down your throat, “Sorry.”

You withdraw your hand. He catches it and places it back on his shoulder before undoing the remaining laces holding your robe.

Astarion gently slips your robe over your shoulders and lets it fall to the ground around your feet, leaving you in your underclothes. He eyes the blood-soaked bandages wrapped carelessly around your abdomen intently.

“May I?” he asks, pointing to the sodden dressing, “I need to examine it.”

“I can do it."

He scoffs, “My dear, you can barely stand. How about you just focus on keeping that pretty little face off my floor.”

You scoff back, imitating him, but nod your consent, “I hate her.”

“Yes,” he laughs lightheartedly, “we have established that.”

“Do you love her?”

The question erupts from your lips before you have time to stop yourself.

Do I even want to know?

The question makes him flounder as if he had physically tripped on your boldness, “Am I capable of love?”

“I don’t know. Are you? Loving your reflection doesn’t count.”

He smirks, “Hold onto me.”

“What?”

“Little love, you are not wearing these grimy boots in my house. They need to come off.”

“I’ll do it.”

“My dear, we’ve been through this. For once, will you just listen to me?” Astarion kneels before you, one knee on the floor, “Are you ready?”

You tentatively reach out and put both hands on his shoulders to keep yourself upright. Astarion lifts your weak, trembling leg and starts slipping off your boots.

“What are these?”

You glance down at your legs, where your fingernails ripped long, jagged cuts into them to fight your revolting temptations.

“They’re nothing."

Astarion looks at them studiously, running his fingers over the irregular long gouge. He leans in closer, and you try to pull back, but he grabs your leg and holds it firmly in place while giving you a stern look.

When you stop fighting, he leans in and places gentle kisses on those long wounds, slowly trailing them up toward the apex of your thighs, making you squirm. He stops short.

Moving onto the next leg, he repeats the process of sliding your boot off while you use his body to steady yourself and then trailing those long cuts with gentle kisses, once again stopping short.

You can’t help yourself, and you groan loudly.

Once Astarion has stripped your boots from your feet, he slowly rises to his full height so he doesn't throw you off balance since his body is the only thing keeping you on your feet.

“Let’s get you cleaned up.”

He motions for you to follow him deeper into the palace, but your legs buckle under you. Before you can fall again, his arm hooks under your knees and the other cradles your back as he sweeps you off your feet effortlessly.

You struggle weakly, “I can walk.”

“Truly? Can you?”

He looks at you with an obvious imitation of melodramatic astonishment, and a laugh rumbles in his throat.

He’s having too much fun at my expense.

Astarion walks with an agile grace as he cradles you in his arms and carries you through the familiar dark halls you called home for a short while. The floor barely creaks, and his footsteps are all but silent.

Not fair.

Candlelight bathes the bedroom in a saffron-coloured warmth. The room smells pleasantly like finely aged brandy, bergamot, and rosemary. It smells of him, and that comfortable recognition envelopes you. Astarion eases you down on the fine, silk bed cover, taking care not to jostle you about. Grabbing a clean cloth, he wets it in the washbasin perched on a carved table. He crouches smoothly, positioning himself between your legs.

Oh…

Memories flash across your vision of him in the forest clearing, him in that bedroom the night he turned you, and heat pools between your legs. A needy groan escapes your lips as you tear your eyes off of him meekly. If your heart could beat, it would be battering against your ribs as if it were trying to rip itself from your bosom. A sensual chuckle rattles deep in his chest, fully aware of what he’s doing.

Oh no.

You are starved for physical affection, having spent the last year distanced from your friends or locked away entirely. They had tried to comfort you, of course, but you couldn’t be trusted to get too close to anyone with a heartbeat. Except for a few brief uncomfortable hugs or reassuring squeezes of your hand, you haven’t been touched since before you fled this place. You craved it like the desert sands crave moisture during a drought.

You struggle to push yourself further up the bed and away from him. You squeeze your legs together, trying to shut him out. You feel too vulnerable, almost stripped bare with your legs spread, and entirely too aroused, given the predicament you currently find yourself in.

His hand grips your thigh tenderly but firmly, keeping it to the side and pinning you in your place.

“Ah, ah, ah,” he tuts, “hold still.”

You groan loudly and cover your face with your hands, surrendering to him.

“Good girl.”

With light, gentle strokes, he starts wiping the smeared blood from your midsection. He looks at the injury curiously, cocking his eyebrow. Blood continues to weep gradually from it, and the black streaking spreads out like inky tendrils across your ghostly skin. He pushes his fingers on the wound, coating them in your blood.

You wince at the uncomfortable pressure, “What are you doing?”

His crimson eyes meet yours with an intensity that makes you hold your breath, yet another reflexive habit. Bringing his fingers to his mouth, he sucks on them while holding your gaze. It’s oddly sensual until his face contorts into a grimace. He spits your blood out into the cloth.

Well, that can’t be good, he would never waste blood.

“Poison. You need an antidote and rest, pet.”

“Don’t call me pet.”

“I’ll call you whatever I like.” He hisses.

“Why do you do this?”

“I’m sure I have no idea what you’re talking about.” He pouts sarcastically.

“Don’t you? You swing from one extreme to the next so fast I can hardly keep up. You’re nice one moment, and treating me like a belonging the next.”

He frowns, “You do belong to me. I made sure of it.”

He’s trying to get under my skin.

“Yes, you did. Are you proud of yourself, love?”

“Indeed I am.”

You grumble, “Pompous prick.”

He laughs at you, “Sassy tonight, aren’t we?”

"You didn’t answer my question.”

A malevolent smile tugs at the corners of his mouth, reaching his eyes, “I do rather enjoy you like this, you know.”

You swallow hard, “Like what?”

“Nearly naked, laid out before me on my bed, and entirely at my mercy.”

Levelling a glowering look at him, “You don’t scare me.”

If nothing else, your incapacitated mental state gives you courage, or perhaps you are just too far gone to feel fear. Either way, speaking your mind feels magnificent. You have muzzled yourself too often around him, but the muzzle is off, and your fangs are bared - sort of speak.

“Oh?” he pouts innocently, “I suppose I will have to try harder then, won’t I?”

“I suppose you will if that’s what gets you going.”

“I would be happy to demonstrate what gets me going.”

Astarion rises slowly from his crouched position between your legs. His hand holding your thigh starts to glide leisurely up your body, delicately skimming over every curve. You try to push him away, but it’s like a feather trying to push over a brick wall.

His knee nudges your legs further apart, and he pushes his hips into you, anchoring you between him and the bed. The friction is serene, sending waves of need rocketing through you. You would be lying if you said his proximity was entirely unwelcome.

“When did you eat last?” he whispers as his lips ghost over yours.

What a weird question.

“Why? What difference does it make?” You squirm under him, the pressure of his body overwhelming your senses.

“I have my reasons, darling.”

Your eyebrow pulls down slightly in confusion, “Which are?”

“None of your concern.” He says curtly, “When did you eat last? I won’t ask again.”

Do I dare?

Yes.

Yes, I think I dare.

You meet his gaze, dead on, challenging him, “None of your concern.”

Astarion scowls harshly, “Shall I force you to tell me, my sweet, sweet spawn?”

You scoff, “Oh, spare me the bullshit, Astarion.” You roll your eyes at him, but it makes your stomach lurch. You fight the wave of nausea and continue, “If you’re going to force me, then just do it already. I’m beyond sick of your threats.”

He pushes himself back abruptly, ending the decadent feast of friction you have been savouring. He paces back and forth menacingly in front of you. A terrifying expression is painted across his face.

Did I push him too far this time?

Astarion strides over to a cabinet and flings the door open, nearly pulling the door straight off, grabs a bottle and comes back to you. He looks at you with animosity brewing in those cold red eyes.

“Drink this and get out.”

He throws the bottle on the bed beside you.

You finger it hesitantly, “What is it?”

“Antidote. Drink it and leave.”

“Fine.”

Astarion leaves the room and fades into the dark hallway. You swig down the bottle of antidote as fast as you can, trying to get the least amount of it on your tongue as possible. The taste still makes you want to throw up.

It works fast, and you can already see the constant dripping of blood from the wound start slowing, and the black streaks start to recede slowly. The haze clouding your mind dissipates, and you are once again lucid... mostly.

You manage to get yourself up off the bed, but your limbs are still weak, trembling and not complying with the orders you’re giving them.

Astarion returns with your robe, chucking it to the floor at your feet. By the time you manage to get your boots on and out the door, you realize that dawn is not far off.

I don’t have enough time to get back.

“Astarion, dawn is soon. I’ll-”

He cuts you off, “Burn, yes. I am aware.”

I pushed him too far.

His brows pull down, low in a sinister glare, “Run, little lamb.”

Big thank you to everyone who takes the time to read/follow/like/reblog/comment/etc -- I hope you're enjoying it as much as I enjoy writing it :)

Master List of Chapters: Fangs and Fractured Hearts

If you're interested I have another with Spawn Astarion x Tav called -Shadows of the Past

AO3 [Crossposted]

[yourpalmalika]

The merman scene is a literal masterpiece (I'm not joking)

I think it is what many scenes in this season are not: a perfect mixture of romance, comedy, and drama. It's silly but has a touching meaning. It makes you cry while laughing your ass off. It's simple but genuine.

The romance

How romantic it was! These are the blackbonnet we know and love. It was a confirmation of how even if Ed tries to supress it, his love for Stede is what keeps him alive, how he both lets Bonnet save himself and becomes better on his own.

Bringing someone back to life with your love is a trope that hits the jackpot in this show. It's corny, it's unbeliavable, and it's perfect. You ever love someone so much their voice pulls you out from the purgatory?

The shot of their clasped hands seals this scene, long, close. They hold each other, as they always did. You know, I'm kind of reminded of Ed's poem in 1x10:

Holding on...

By a thread...

Can't let go...

Except this time, Stede is back, and it's no longer a thread. It's a strong, confident grasp, an «I'm never gonna let you go again» hold.

Man, the only thing that was missing is a true love's kiss!

There might have been one, off-screen, when Ed reaches to kiss merman Stede...

The comedy

It was hillarious. Me and my friend were literally losing our minds while also trying to stay focused because of how overwhelming this scene was, how full of emotion.

And still, it's not funny in a way that undermines or defeats the scene's meaning; it's funny in a way that enhances it. Ed sees Stede as a merman hero with a giant trident — it's ridicilous! AND it's tooth-rotingly sweet.

The symbolism

As I said — simple, but geniune. Ed drowns, weight of his self-hatred pulling him deeper and deeper in the form of a stone. Then, he hears Stede's voice, how he begs for him to come back, how he loves him — and the rope that ties Ed to the rock loosens and sinks to the bottom of the ocean. His hatred dissapears because of his and Stede's mutual love.

The light that emits from Stede is both literal and metaphorical. He is in the light — in real life, hovered over Ed, whose eyes are closed. But he also IS the light — the good in Ed's life. The kindness, the generosity and the love Ed both receives and gives when he's with him.

Whoever wrote this scene must have been possesed by the ancestors of queer romance, because it was fantastic. Best scene in the season so far. With scenes like «you wear fine things well», it's not so easy to come up with moments that would be on par — but this one certainly keeps the bar high!

I love this scene so much, and I hope to see more like it in future episodes.

[spacebarbarianweird]

When Old Scars Hurt

Synopsis: It's been two years and relationships between Astarion and Tiriel are being rocky.

Thanks @themadlu for beta-reading!

Tags: fluff, conversation about relationships.

Read on AO3

Masterlist

Headcanons

His back hurts and burns. Astarion is so sure his scars are open, he lets out a muffled cry.

No, it can't be. It's not real.

Scars can't bleed.

But why does it hurt so much?

Astarion sits on the floor and presses his knees against his chest trying to calm himself down. But no mental exercises help him.

The pain is only getting worse.

There is a disgusting autumn outside. The winds howl promising misery and despair and, to the less fortunate, death in the cold winter. It’s dark, but he doesn’t want to go out. 

Astarion needs to feel warm hands on his back.

He gets up and enters the room they’ve rented with Tiriel. She is fast asleep in her bed, face pressed against the pillow. Astarion can see the upper half of her back and he can count all her freckles in the pitch-black room.

His beloved.

His partner.

His love.

His friend.

His Tiriel.

He shouldn't wake her up. Half-elves don't inherit the sleepless nature of their elven ancestors and have to spend a third of their lives in slumber.

So Astarion just sits there listening to her heartbeat and breathing. For two years, it has been his favorite sound. Just a quiet thump-thump-thump which has become the synonym of comfort and safety to him.

She offers him warmth. She offers him blood. She offers him herself.

Astarion shivers.

And he hurts her in return.

A quarrel. Those nasty words Astarion wishes he never said. Pain in Tiriel's eyes as if he had punched her. Silence. She left for the room they'd rented and fell asleep, tired and exhausted. And he stayed outside with his own thoughts and anger.

Idiot, she will abandon you. She will leave you all alone because she has her mortality and you don't.

Some parts of him wanted to apologize, to crawl back, to beg for forgiveness. Old habits refused to die out.

So he didn't. He let her go away to sleep while he stayed with his bitterness. 

What if Tiriel doesn't want him anymore? What if she wakes up, looks straight into his eyes, and says "It's over, I can't keep up with your meltdowns anymore. I don't have your immortality and can't spend my years on you. Goodbye."

He can picture her stern face. The coldness in her eyes. 

Astarion shakes his head. The rational part of him is sure Tiriel won't break up with him over his occasional rudeness. She knows him. She knows that sometimes it's stronger than him.

Suddenly, he realizes she isn't asleep anymore.

Tiriel moves a bit, inviting him to join her. His undead heart would skip a bit if he were alive.

He gets under the blanket and the warmth preserved by the thick layer of fabric makes him feel like a kitten cradled in its mother's arms.

"Tiriel, can I ask you something?" he whispers.

Tiriel sighs.

"Yes, I still love you. No, I don’t want to break up with you. Yes, you made the right choice not to ascend. No, I am not angry with you. It was rude but you weren’t in the mood for touching – I should have realized it."

The grip of darkness lets him go. He is still sorry for yelling at her – she just touched his bite mark at the wrong moment – but the guilt is slowly fading away.

"Thank you."

She smiles and places her hands over his scars and the pain lets his body go.

"Was it a nightmare?" Tiriel asks.

"No... Just a hallucination."

"It's all right, it's in the past." Her fingertips draw invisible pictures on his shoulders.

"Two hundred years," he mutters. "Two fucking hundred years. No one has any idea how long it truly is."

Tiriel doesn't say anything. At first, when they just got together, Asatrion tried to busy himself in these moments, he always tried to talk to make sure the silence didn't deafen him, but the more years passed, the more he learned to enjoy the silence.

Silence isn't dangerous.

Silence isn't scary.

It doesn't automatically bring horrors.

“Tiriel?”

“Hm?”

“You really aren't angry, are you? Tell me the truth.”

Tiriel elbows up a bit and forces him to lie on her right side.

“Astarion. Love. You hurt me. It was a mean to say. I know why you act like that sometimes. That’s all. I didn’t expect you to be that angry when I touched your neck, that’s true.” 

“I am sorry.” 

She caresses his jawline forcing him to close his eyes like a content cat. 

“Do you think you will want to stay with me, Tiriel? Year later, ten years later. Let's be honest, you aren’t immortal like me. What if I am a waste of time?”

“You aren't.”

“You don't know that. Tiriel, I am much older than you and, although my life has been all fear and misery, it doesn't mean I didn't live it. You are thirty-eight. You have a century and a half of life ahead. You were raised by humans, and you think that you have all eternity. You don't.”

Tiriel sits up. “So what? Do you want me to leave you?”

“Tiriel, I want you to be happy, you deserve to be happy.”

“And I am! Astarion I was on my own my whole life and no one cared for me! No one loved me! You were the first one! You don't believe in gods and destiny but I do believe we were made for each other. Stop. I am happy with you. And I can tolerate the downsides that come along. 

“I will make you miserable. My hands are cold, I can’t warm you unless I drink a profane amount of blood. I draw your blood, making you weak and dizzy.”

She lies back and tugs him as close as she can, intertwining her body with his. Astarion suddenly realizes that she is almost as strong as him and, should he want to break the embrace, he will have to make an effort.

“What if you want a child? A family? I can’t give you that.”

Tiriel looks up at him. “Honestly, Astarion, you claim to know mortals so well but fail to understand that being pregnant with an unwanted child from an unloved man is the ultimate nightmare for a woman. If I ever want to get pregnant, I want it to be yours.”

Astarion grabs her arms if she is about to disappear. 

“That's it. We aren't going anywhere from each other. I don't want anyone else. You probably don’t either. You are my Astarion. My friend, my heart, and my husband. I don’t need and want anyone else. No matter how warm their hands are.”

Astarion looks into her eyes. She means it, he realizes. She truly, honestly means it. Even now, two years later, when their relationship is rocky.

And she considers him her husband. 

He kisses her forehead. 

“I love you, my wife.”

--

Tag list

@tugoslovenka @marcynomercy @wintersire @vixstarria @not-so-lost-after-all @ashiro20 @theearthsfinalconfession @herstxrgirl @starlight-ipomoea @micropoe10 @astarion-imagine-archive @veillsar @elora-the-slutty-songstress @fayeriess @lumienyx @tallymonster @caitlincat-95 @tragedybunny @valeprati @lynnlovesthestars @marina-and-the-memes @waking-electric @ayselluna @connorsui @asterordinary @darkarchangel96 @locallegume @brainfullofhotsauce @coffeeanddonutscafe @my-queen-rhaenyra-targaryen @queenofthespacesquids @ednaaa-04 @dajeong

[poisonnxkki]

Working In Graveyards & Graveyard Etiquette🕯

Why Incorporate Graveyards?

Graveyards have always been associated with the supernatural and metaphysical. In both ancient and modern cultures, funerary rights and the dead have always held great significance in society. When working in these spaces, the most important thing to remember is respect. The dead are not as mutable as the living and it may take longer to rectify a mistake and earn their trust again than it would have been to learn the proper etiquette from the start.

Which begs the question, why work in these spaces and with these spirits? Well lots of reasons, some people choose to only work in graveyards that they have a direct ancestral connection with (ie. family members or distant relative are buried there). Others, like myself, find it a good way to honour the local spirits. Even spirits of people you don't know and have no connection too are worth honouring. Some people believe that since all of humanity has a common ancestor, we are all related and so even cemeteries you have no direct connection to, are connected to you by our common ancestor (another reason I am quite fond of). Maybe you just think it's cool, which is valid. Whatever your reason, just make sure you have one and are not going there with insincere intentions.

What is Graveyard Etiquette?

Graveyard etiquette are the ways in which we should behave when entering and visiting a graveyard in order to be respectful to those resting there. Although there are general rules of thumb which many witches follow, as you develop a relationship with a particular graveyard, those customs can change. Here are some I like to follow:

Leaving an offering- I always bring an offering of coins or flowers. If I'm visiting a graveyard that I've never been to before, I will leave coins at the gate, for the guardian and at some of the older and unkept headstone (also graves of young children if I find any). During regular visits, I leave offerings with the guardian and at headstones of spirits I've developed a relationship with.

Walking the entire graveyard- this is not something I do every time but I like to walk around the entire site and introduce myself especially if I plan on having a working relationship with the spirits there (this may be more difficult for larger sites, I recommend picking an new area each time you visit if that is the case).

Entering and leaving through the same gate- this is not one I stick to every time if I know the spirits really well. If I've never visited before I will always leave through the same exit that I entered from.

Throwing salt or spinning- I heard this one from ChaoticWitchAunt (on TikTok) and it's something that I've just always done. They recommended spinning around three times before leaving to prevent spirits from following you home. I've also thrown a bit of salt over my left shoulder outside the entrance for the same purpose (beware: salt is not good for the earth). This is definitely something that just resonated with me after a bad experience and that's why I continue to do it.

A Note on Necromancy & Death work:

Necromancy is often a term used in many scary movies and cult fiction. It is actually a form of divination which utilizes the dead. Anyone can learn necromancy however it is an integral part of death work. Death worker (practitioners who practice death work) are involved with crossing spirits over. The job requires some level of mediumship abilities and can be very taxing on your mental health. Some death workers take on the lingering emotions of the deceased (pain, fear, anger, etc.) in order to help that spirit. Death work is much more than the small bit that I've described but it is important to note that the path is not for everyone. You can still work in cemeteries and utilize necromancy without doing death work (& a big thank you to the death workers who continue on their path despite the toll it takes, we love you!).

*All images are from Pinterest*

[lizzaneia-elizalde]

HEAR ME OUT LI!! Image if our little mermaid found a small sculptor of a man,(it could either be a real figure of a man, or just some random dude). And she somehow falls in love with the figure. Like- "this is who i want to be mates with!" "I wonder what he really looks like..!" "Maybe the Gods will be merciful and grant me my wish on seeing him!'

She goes to Orion, asking him if he knows who the guy is while handing him the figure — having heart eyes and all.

Here's one about Viper bc he is forever my fav !! She brings it around with her, talking to it as if its real, even naming it. She drops it one day deep down the dark trenches and has been floating around pouting and even rolling around crying about her only one slipping away from her

(I just love jealous boys!!)

🦪 Anonn!!

Yandere! Male! Deep sea creature x mermaid! Fem! Reader x Human! Male! Hunter

Sorry for being a bit inactive and not uploading last week! Got a bit too busy with Uni. But this?? 🦪anon again with the amazing asks. Also, Gojo, anyone?

What if: darling finds a figure?

It was a normal day for you.

Well, it was supposed to.

You were just finding more stuff to decorate the trenches, since the decorations you placed were getting a bit stale for your taste.

Not until your hands touched something smooth, yet a bit too complicated for your fingertips. It has long twigs, four of them. A bulbous circle on top yet has weird spikes, and what seems like ridges.

It was buried under the kelp, and with a bit of tugging, you unearthed what seems to be...

"A human... sculpture?"

Your eyes sparkled, looking at this man in front of you.

The color has faded a bit, but you could tell that this man was wearing what seems to be a dark blue, almost black uniform type of outfit. With him, lifting his eye cover revealing gorgeous icy blue eyes. And he had spiky white hair accentuating on how ethereal he look.

"W-wow... Is this..?"

Were humans always this colorful? He looks so handsome.

"Who are you, mister?" A fair blush on your cheeks, you checked around his body to see if there's an indication for who he is. "Nothing? But..."

You were in love with a figurine. How insane is that?

That's what Orion told himself as you swam with him, showing the figurine days after you first found him.

"I found who this guy is." Orion muttered, making you freeze and grin.

"Really?! Oh my god! Who is he?!" You asked, hugging the figurine clsoe to your body. "I must meet him!"

Orion scowled.

He can't believe that he's getting jealous over a figurine of all things.

"Ah, but like, he's unattainable." Orion badmouthed the Gojo figurine in your arms, making you pout. "He's like... A ladies man. You got way too many competitions."

Well, it was true. Gojo Satoru of Jujutsu Kaisen has too many fans, not just from the ladies.

"But still! I want to meet him!" You begged. Your soft, wet eyes filling with tears. "I truly do! H-he may be my mate!"

Orion was now slackjawed. "Excuse me? Mate?"

"Yes! Mate! It's love at first sight. Then maybe, just maybe..." A bashful expression, you gazed longingly at the figure. "He'll fall for me too."

'Gojo, thank your damn ancestors that you're fucking fictional.' Orion gritted his teeth before turning around and entering his yacht, making you flinch from surprise.

"Orion?"

"I'm leaving."

You gasped, totally not expecting this. "But, I still need to know who this man is!"

"I don't care! Procure legs and find him on your own or something!"

Now that stung. You frowned, a bit saddened, angry, and honestly, humiliated by his words.

Annoyed, you turned around and dove down to the trenches, not wanting to see Orion who was regretting his words and beating himself up from being too jealous of a damn fake guy.

Once you got to the trenches, you sniffled.

"He was so mean." You muttered to the figure. "Really! Like he knows it's hard for us mermaids and rare to get legs... Why can't he just help me?"

You hummed, dancing around with the figurine to make yourself cheer up.

"What should I name you... I can't just keep calling you mister..."

You looked at the figurine once more, and was totally enamored by his icy blue eyes.

"I get it! Ice!"

A certain deep sea mermaid almost coughed violently.

You were so bad at naming things.

The same as Viper, he incessantly heard of your whims and whiles about this figurine in front of you. Honestly, it didn't even bother him. But the fact that this guy can be real is getting to his nerves, making him grit his teeth.

He's bad at handling jealousy, and all he could wish is to crush this figurine to smithereens.

"AH!"

And will you look at that, it fell straight to his lap.

It was kind of heavy, in what seems to be a much more intricate figurine that looks like it was too expensive due to the detail placed in it, with the heftiness that made it sink quickly.

Clumsy you tried to place it on a sticking ledge from the trench that's crumbling, and accidentally broke it, making the figurine fall to Viper's lap.

Viper could hear your panicked screeches.

"My man!"

"Oh no! Come back to me!"

"Please... My love..."

Viper rolled his eyes. As if he's gonna give this back to you.

And you're calling this puny figurine your love? How stupid.

With one coil of his tail, the figure broke to pieces, and he let the pieces fall down to the sandy floor, forgetting about it as he heard your lovely soft weeps.

"Viper... Please, if you see a figurine of a white haired human, please give it to me!"

Your desperate pleas did not fall on deaf ears, but Viper only shrugged as he replied.

"I will."

As if he would.

[deadlyflames]

Dec 31st: 1910s in NOLA: Lovers in Denial

But even that hardest of hearts unhardened Suddenly, when he saw her there Persephone in her mother’s garden Sun on her shoulders, wind in her hair The smell of the flowers she held in her hand And the pollen that fell from her fingertips And suddenly Hades was only a man with the taste of nectar upon his lips

Klaus Mikaelson has been attempting to bring the four main species of New Orleans together in order to create the Faction. In order to succeed in this endeavour, he needs to broker a peace with the Regent of the nine covens.

However, this plan is endangered when he meets the Regent’s granddaughter in the old witch’s garden and an attraction sparks between the two of them.

Love was when he came to me Begging on his bended knees To please have pity on his heart And let him lay me in the dirt… I felt his arms around me then We didn’t need a wedding bed Dark seeds scattered on the ground The wild birds were flying around

After secretly meeting with the original hybrid in her grandmother’s garden for months, Klaus asks Bonnie to be his wife. She says she won’t become a vampire and he tells her he would never ask that of her. He’s met plenty of witches who can forestall aging process over the years. While she may never be an immortal, he would protect her from anything that may harm her. So moved by his declaration, Bonnie follows him into the darkness.

He fell in love with Persephone Who was gathering flowers in the light of the sun And he took her home to become his queen Where the sun never shone on anyone The lady loved him and the kingdom they shared But without her above, not one flower would grow So, King Hades agreed that for half of each year She would stay with him there in his world down below

After Sheila Bennett discovers that her granddaughter has eloped with an ancient vampire, she falls into despair and the ancestors shake the foundation of the city. Wind, rain, lighting, earthquakes and hurricanes.

When Bonnie sees the destruction her absence has brought, she attempts to return home. But Klaus to refuses to let her leave.

It is only thanks to Elijah that New Orleans manages to survive the litany of disasters. Through a negotiation with the witches, terms were determined for the marriage to continue. Bonnie would go home and live among her people for one half of the year and then stay with Klaus for the other half.

After days of being persuaded by both his brother and his wife, Klaus Mikaelson reluctantly agrees to the terms.

But the other half, she could walk in the sun And the sun in turn, burned twice as bright Which is where the seasons come from And with them, the cycle Of the seed and the sickle And the lives of the people And the birds in their flight

Klaus stood at Bonnie’s side through the entirety of Sheila Bennett’s funeral. Even as witches hiss and glare. He had never gotten along with Sheila, but he had respected her. And he knew Bonnie loved her.

However, he was not allowed to attend the meeting of the witches choosing their new regent. The witches want Bonnie to be their leader. After all, a Bennett has served as regent for the past 100 years.

Bonnie only accepts the responsibility of becoming Regent if the witches agree she can keep her arrangement with Klaus. Bonnie will lives among her coven for six months until the autumn equinox. Then she would return to Klaus and live with him in his compound during the next six months. Until the spring equinox, her friend Vincent Griffith will act as Regent in her stead.

Neither Klaus nor the witches are pleased with this decision.

Hades is king of oil and coal And the riches that flow where the rivers are found But for half of the year with Persephone gone His loneliness moves in him, crude and black He thinks of his wife in the arms of the sun And jealousy fuels him and feeds him and fills him With doubt that she’ll ever come Dread that she’ll never come Doubt that his lover will ever come back

Klaus is certain the witches made their decision to spite him. Sheila was gone and the deal should have been broken. He would no longer need to send his wife away for half the year. Bonnie should have been his alone now. But the witches and the ancestors have ensured that their claws will remain buried deep in her.

When his wife leaves as the season turns, Klaus indulges in blood and mayhem. When his family inquires about his behaviour, he refuses to give voice to the fear that crawls into his mind every time Bonnie leaves. The fear that she may be gone forever this time.

When the sun is high, brother, so am I Drinking dandelion wine Brother, I’m as free as a honeybee In a summertime frame of mind And when my man comes around Oh, I know he’s gonna bring me down But for now I’m livin' it Livin' it, livin' it up

Over the years, the relationship between Bonnie and Klaus becomes strained. He is filled with possessiveness and jealousy each time she leaves him. She is filled with frustration and restlessness when he tries to keep her caged.

Vincent suggests that Bonnie should return to the covens indefinitely. As a Bennett witch and their Regent, she is expected to lead them and to do what is best for the witches.

Bonnie assures him that she is thinking of what is best for the witches. Klaus will fight for her if she never returns and the fragile peace between the factions will crumble. Witches will die and she can’t allow that. If she gives up the leadership to be with Klaus, the ancestors will cause chaos, especially now that her Grams is among them.

Bonnie does not tell him the true reason engrained in her heart that she will always return to Klaus. She does not want to leave him.

How long? Just as long as I am your wife It's true the earth must die But then the earth comes back to life And the sun just goes on rising And how does the sun even fit in the sky? It just burns like a fire in the pit of the sky And the earth is a bird on a spit in the sky How long, how long, how long?

All hail the King and Queen of New Orleans.

Neither wants to admit how much they miss the other. So they are trapped in the cycle of leaving and returning. The cycle of loneliness and love. Until someone brings the world back into tune, that is how it is.

[ms-scarletwings]

Irken senses, and other ponderings

You know, every time I start to wonder if I’ve finally run out of things to coherently say on the whole “speculating about irken biology” matter, a whole something more is induced to hatch out of the dehydrated floam inside my skull. Between you and me, I think the eggs are triggered by ironic timing.

Anywho, I’ve been thinking a lot lately about the world hypothetically through Irken eyes, and other sensory organs. Think I’ll go down them piece by piece, and to follow the pattern I’ve kept through my other Irken brain dumps, I will be drawing a huge amount of inspiration from real life arthropods. Yes, I’m very aware that realistically, any resemblance to earth insects would be coincidental from an alien species, and there’s plenty of room to make up whatever somewhat plausible explanation you can for any faucet of their anatomy. Personally, I like to run from the convergent evolution angle, since I find it no less grounded, full of potential connections the show itself all but begs me to draw, and just plain fun. Let’s get into it.

Also like towards the end there’s a whole section on the hypothetical edibility of Irkens because why not

Prelude: If you want to hear a little more behind my theory about the Irken diet revolving around sugar and a small portion of minerals, you can zip onto this analysis I did, in which I touch on some ideas of mine regarding the composition of Irken skin, their reaction to meat, etc. that works from the assumption that Irkens evolved out of an arthropod-like ancestor. Not necessary to get the gist of this one, but it is background context behind my thought process.

Sight

The Irken oculus is perhaps the most striking feature of the species, very much resembling those tiny crawling things they have been inspired by; however, it’s tougher to say exactly how far the similarity of their insides go. The eyes of most arthropods are in fact along the more simple branches of the evolutionary tree. We know that Irkens are not likely to possess compound eyes, like those found in flies and most other insects, because compound eyes are specialized for wide FOV ranges at the sacrifice of visual resolution quality. Instead, I see a much closer match to a fascinating exception or two found in Earth’s arachnids.

While most of them have utterly piss-poor vision, the hunting styles of jumping spiders necessitated a great deal of further specialization of the organs for depth perception, color differentiation, and sharp images. These are the purpose of those two huge shiners at the front (the other 6 boosting their range for detecting blurry peripheral movement and threats), and these are what bring their effective vision on a level much closer to that of familiar binocular mammals than their own six legged prey. Now I really think we are working with the base of what Irken peepers likely developed out of. One of the ways they have really diverged off is in the fact that while jumping spiders can only move their retinas, irkens seem as though they are able to move the lens of the eye themselves- or at the very least, Zim does, else the false pupils in his disguise contacts would not behave quite so convincingly. To speak about the lenses themselves, their eyes are not dry and exposed like most arthropods, speaking to a vulnerable sensitivity. They clearly have blinking eyelids, shed tears, and Zim even complains about the “scratchy” feeling of getting used to that part of his kid disguise.

(Funny sidenote: I’m like 90% sure that Zim did not have those contact lenses designed correctly for himself. Usually, if contacts feel that uncomfortable and keep falling off of the eye as easily as his do, it’s a sign of them being poorly fitted. This could be another symptom of his outdated/lower quality invader tech.)

Not only do Irkens have an assumed base vision resolution that seems more or less on par with human beings, but Invader elites are fitted with ocular implants that grant them a significantly greater advantage in this realm. We don’t know to a certainty how well improved an Irken soldier’s vision is, but Zim was confidently able, within seconds and under pressure, to pick out the area of town he lived in from what was miles away under night hours.

On the topic of night vision, I have a hunch that even without the cybernetics, these guys are adapted to see much better than we in dim to dark environments as well. Most of the early part of their life cycle is lived out in subterranean crèches. On the surface, daytime Irk is cast in a sunset red atmosphere. Oddly, a massive portion of their fashion and architectural aesthetics show a preference for these dark, warmer tones. Ruby is far and away the most common eye color in their kind. All of these facts suggest that warm-spectrum hues and pigments were incredibly common in the homeworld’s history, to point of indicating something about a cultural attraction to them- kind of like how humans put the color blue all over so much corporate branding and elsewhere. Zim’s favorite color has also been revealed to be purple. Most of all, given what I’ve seen of Irk’s, Blorch’s, and Devastis’s surface skies, AND Zim’s reaction to staring directly at the sun for more than a few seconds, I’m assuming that most Irkens are wholly unfamiliar with living in an environment as brightly lit as midday Earth.

I do think Irken eyes “glow” in the dark, but not in the emitting sense. Just more in the reflective one. This they would owe to a well developed tapetum lucidum, as seen in cats and deer and pretty much any animal to give off an eerie eye shine under the right lighting. To point back to arachnids, wolf spiders are speedy nocturnal murder machines with highly developed tapetum lucida, in their secondary eyes, at least. What I love the most about that is it makes it very easy to tell if you’re looking at a mother spider because her babies will give off the same eyeshine if you take a pic of one with the flash on.

Additionally, I won’t forget that sleep is no longer a necessity for our alien subjects. This alone gives them a major edge over any dinural race such as humanity. While Zim has his appearances to keep up during the day, the nighttime on Earth is actually when he is allowed the most free rein to work on his endeavors uninterrupted.

Sound

Ah, so this is the part where I rattle off the common theories we’ve collectively formed about Irken antennae as the replacement for an external ear, eh? Yes, but actually no…. jokes aside, it’s just no. I’ll get to the deal with antennae, but as you might imagine, hearing ability also varies all over the place in the insect world.

It is true that antennae play a large role in the hearing of some critters, such as mosquitoes, whose males use them to pick out the high frequency wing beats of nearby females in a swarm. Crickets, on the other hand, use sensory organs on their legs tuned to much lower sound ranges. There’s no one way to evolutionarily put together a sort-of ear, as well proven by the sheer amount of times it convergently happened in bugs and in how many creative ways.

They literally be designing themselves like me playing around in spore. If we’re not talking about that mosquito or honeybee example, then what we are referring to as an ear and most hearing insects is going to be an external tympanic organ. Most people who have passed high school biology would be able to recognize a visible tympanum in frogs- that circular thing right behind the eyes in most species, and understand it as their version of an ear drum. Many bugs’ tympanums are likewise thin chitinous membranes situated… potentially just about anywhere on the body (again, see above). This is what I think Irkens use as a primary hearing organ, in his case, probably situated on their heads in addition to the feelers. The latter organs I think would also be sensitive to general vibrations and subtler environmental cues, like wind direction and pressure changes, but the bulk of their hearing would be owed to the tympanum.

As far as the quality of their hearing, well, there’s not any sign it differs much from the human experience. Like us, they communicate through verbal language, and the existence of the “Dancing Arcade Game (but for aliens)” confirms at least a similar cultural propensity for music as an entertainment form. Zim is an outlier for the fact that he seems genuinely a little hard of hearing next to his kin, screaming as naturally as he talks and repeatedly mishearing (if hearing at all) people who are speaking directly at him. It’s clear something’s up with his hearing, but there’s no clear answer what and why. At first I was tempted to suggest something about sound passing much differently through the medium of earth’s atmosphere (kind of like how noise on Mars would sound muffled to us), but neither Tak nor Skoodge seemed to pick up the problem when they arrived. It really could be as simple as some kind of birth defect, or even glitches in how his corrupted PAK is processing the inputs it receives. Like many others, I want to imagine that his wig could be interfering too, since it covers the whole top portion of his head; as well, I noticed he has more of those incidents with it on than not.

Smell

Alrighty, NOW we can round back to focusing on the antennae, because this is actually the main thing our insects fine tuned theirs for. And when I say fine tuned- I mean fine tuned. Blood suckers that find their prey through the CO2 of their breath, flies that can pick up on potential food sources from miles away; In the land of the little, scent is everything. Beyond it being their main tool for exploring the environment for what to eat and what to avoid, chemical messages are the backbone of bug-to-bug communication. Pheromones are the divining rod of lonely spiders looking for a mate. They are the bugle of yellow jackets when rallying the nest to attack a threat, and they are the signals that govern about every single action an ant takes from adulthood until death. Obviously, Irkens are much more sight & hearing dependent than these comparisons, but they still have much more bodily specialization dedicated to this sense than we can relate to. For one, they are fastidiously hygienic. Like, “the care-bots from that really creepy episode of the Buzz lightyear cartoon” hygienic. We have yet to see any livable surface of Irk that is not sky to underground terraformed over in all-consuming metal infrastructure. There’s less than no sign of visible life besides the Irkens; ffs, there’s not even soil in sight. Not on Devastis, either. The Organic Sweep sounds like such a nice and pretty euphemism in the face of the actual horror of Blorch’s fate, and all to spare the boots of their military from touching even a speck of “unsavory alien filth”. They live in such a controlled and purified environment that I can’t even imagine the absolute assault on the senses Zim’s every day on our barbaric ball of dirt is. Over and over again he gives off the impression that the constant stink of this place is in fact his chief complaint about living among us. The majority of insults he throws toward humans relate to how they smell or the fact that he finds them “filthy”. We’re flat out nasty to him and I don’t blame him. Even relative to other animals, humans are especially RANK due to the combination of sweat, oils, and bacteria that coat our skin.

And believe it or not, I do think Irkens are in a position to talk shit in this regard. Zim is a really sweaty boi; however, I posed an idea back in that write up about Irken skin before- to summarize- that his kind maintain remarkably sterile cuticles due to the presence of a toxic chemical in their skin. This, I said then, could have been the key to Zim’s lice repelling trait, but I wasn’t so specific at the time about more than that. I got the idea from a group of millipedes that, when disturbed, can secrete hydrogen cyanide as a deterrent to predators. I like to imagine that Irkens can do a similar thing via sweating, not to thermoregulate like us, but as a stress response. It would at least explain why Zim seems like a very nervous sweater. Fun fact if you didn’t know, cyanide’s smell is similar to almonds.

I’m deadass telling you I think Irkens just smell like almond extract. Do with that what you will.

Touch

So, in writing this whole whatever it be, this part was the trickiest to come up with any productive analysis on. I’ve already guessed at what I think Irken skin feels most like (spoiler: hairless caterpillars) in the analysis I referenced up top. Zim being able to pass himself off as a human under the examination of the Skool nurse points to an average body temperature somewhere around our own. What I did find interesting while rewatching the series though was the sheer amount of pain tolerance on these invaders, except in one way. Can I extrapolate this fortitude to Irkens universally? Probably not! Zim is a member of the most elite of the most highly trained members of Irk’s military. I wouldn’t take what a seasoned veteran can handle and assume that’s the human floor in a nutshell, but our invaders CAN tell us quite a bit about their ceiling… starting with the fact that these bastards are ridiculously heat resistant. Irkens are a durable race broadly, but their reactions to extreme temperatures strike me as jaw-droppingly underwhelming, if anything.

Irkens DON’T like being engulfed in flames. It’s still a painful experience to them, but seemingly the kind they can pretty much walk off as soon as it’s over. Through explosions and fire we have seen Zim (and Skoodge) survive in one piece. We’ve seen The Massive take a whole dip into a burning star with no ill effects to the crew within. Most amazing to me was the time in Battle of the Planets when Zim willingly piloted Mars into grazing by the Sun at close range while trying to evade Dib. Totally exposed driver’s seat and he was no worse for wear after this.

Further in the comics we see this touched on in the Zimvoid arc. Zib’s favorite method of torturing the Zims under his training program was to torch them at random for sadistic amusement. Quite interestingly, though, Number 2 implies that their bodies do actually adapt to this treatment over time! Theoretically, Zims further along in the program have become all but invulnerable to fire entirely.

On the other hand, one of the truly most painful things Zim has been shown to experience is to have his skin chemically burned. It’s a strange sort of irony that Earth’s water would prove to be an incapacitating force to them in place of any inferno. He’ll smash his skull into the Voot’s windshield with enough force to pop out an eyeball and it’s whatever. Plenty of other things hurt, but he can power through. You turn a shaken can of soda or a bottle of bbq sauce on him and he’s just left screaming on the ground or screaming and running away. Whatever brutal sort of training he had to go through off world, it didn’t prepare him for this.

Taste

The perceptive side of this I think may not be too hard to figure out. Irken food, as alien as its actual composition could be, has been shown to be heavily analogous to human junk food. I hesitate to call what Irkens are scarfing down “meals” in the proper sense, because I’ve noticed that neither Zim nor his kin intrinsically understand the concept. When he’s trying to blend in as a human being, he puts a LOT of bizarre effort into convincing us that he, just like you inferior creatures, TOTALLY eats “food” on a regular basis like a normal person. When Irkens eat their own products, it’s all and only “snacks”. What follows is the conclusion that their eating habits are not structured into any schedule and that Irkens instead graze throughout the day as they please- and even possibly that eating altogether is more a recreation to them, instead of a necessary function to sustain life. Some fans have speculated that the PAK could provide an Irken with all of the necessary energy to survive absent of nutrition. I kind of want to contest this, given that caloric energy is only one purpose of taking in food… but it’s definitely the most immediate one. Nonetheless, they still eat constantly on screen and it all has to be going somewhere. Whether they need it or not, they still readily digest snacks (and presumably use those chemical building blocks to regenerate tissue damage) with a terrifying metabolic efficiency. Assuming that the resemblance of their snack foods and our leisure treats are not purely coincidental, one gathers that sweetness is the largest dimension of Irken cuisine. They are drawn most enthusiastically to carb-dense synthetic, plant, and possibly fungal matter in the same way that the human brain lights up at the prospect of fat and sugar-loaded meals. The flexible tongues of Irkens to me also resemble the nectar catching, segmented mouthparts of some bees. I would be willing to bet that they can taste salt, but jury’s out if it is something they crave, like us, or are repulsed by, like ants. That would have to come down to the scarcity (or not) of the resource on their home planet and whether or not desiccation was a serious threat in their natural history. In other regards, Zim shows strong negative reactions to most Earth foods, if not physically, than in his expressions. They definitely have powerful vulnerabilities to many human ingredients, and so are very sensitive to the presence of these toxins. I can’t imagine acidic or bitter substances are at all pleasant to them.

Now comes the much more interesting question I’ve thought way too long and hard about in the shower a time or two. Knowing that Irkens are likely a herbivorous breed, ergo, thankfully would have no interest in the consumption of the human race… what about the vise versa??? I don’t just want to know what they taste, but what would they taste like?

So, you’ve decided to mix it up for the thanksgiving dinner and forgo the same boring old bird for an Irken you have vanquished (via what I can only imagine was a freaking miracle of luck). What should you come to expect? Most importantly and I must emphasize this, the secret to preparing their meat is the same as Tolkien dwarves, you have to skin them before anything else. The separation of edible tissues from the cuticle is necessary to avoid ingesting the defensive toxins it contains. Even if the concentration is not enough to provide a danger to you, it could end up contributing an unpleasant, bitter flavor to the final product.

That done, discard the head and digestive organs. True as it may be that Irkens are wholly free of parasites, with a chance that the viscera could be edible, it’s not likely to taste that great and besides, do you really want to take chances with exposing yourself to an entirely foreign gut biome you have no immune adaptations to? And don’t even think about the brain- I don’t care how rare the infection rates are, alien prions are a big no. If you happen to run into any cybernetic implants during the cleaning, however, set them aside! They could be worth a small fortune in the right circles. But, for the purpose of eating we’re really concerned with the muscle tissues, a delicate white meat with a texture similar to fresh crab. The bones need not be wasted, and are fine to leave in, or can be boiled on their own to make a flavorful stock which can be added to soups or a delightful gravy. A surprisingly practical use of Irken bone could also be in the compost bin, being rich in chitosan and other powerful garden fertilizers. The flesh can do well fried, or roasted to a crispy exterior. The oven rule is the same as chicken, low and slow, to prevent drying out. Don’t be afraid to experiment with the gravy idea or marinades. The flavor profile of the meat itself would be utterly unique from what most of us are used to, comparable to a nutty crayfish. Savory, a bit of a sweetness, and a mineral hint that pairs quite well with mushrooms or rice.

I can’t recommend serving this to any guests with shellfish allergies in good conscience. If they insist, do so in caution and with knowledge of the risk of cross reactivity.

And there you have …. certainly a thing I did write and queue up for y’all!

[teecupangel]

I have been thinking what about if Desmond turned into a Pegasus, a Hippogriff or even better a Griffin. I just really like the image of Desmond's ancestors riding into battle or just flat out jumps from Desmond's back mid flight leap of faith style.

To be honest I like Griffin Desmond more. The combination of bird of prey and big feline is just so fitting for the Assassin's Brotherhood. Aerial superiority plus the stealth agility and flexibility of a cat. Plus imagine Altaïr finding cub Desmond during AC1 and thinking he is just a cat sized chubby ball of fluff that can fly and claw at the enemies faces (and also curl up with him at night and purr, Desmond's feathers and fur are very soft). Then fast forward a few years where baby is all grown up, can claw through steel and armor, is bigger than most horses and capable of easily carrying two people comfortably on his back and still have space for a third (that doesn't stop Desmond from sleeping in Altaïr's bed much to Altaïr's delight displeasure).

Also could put some AltMal in there with cub Desmond helping mend their relationship (Kadar is alive because I said so, maybe he saved him at the cave). And bringing those two for a nice flight.

Desmond goes down in Assassin history as a legendary creature whose chosen rider/companion goes on to do great things.

I wrote a pegasus idea but I can’t seemed to find it :(

I think I also wrote Griffin version but I’m soooo unsure so… have this little scene instead? XD

.

.

It was the sounds of quick feet hastily walking away that alerted him.

Altaïr raised his head and placed the quill back to the small ink bottle next to the journal he had been writing on, the two pages filled with the ongoing designs for Desmond’s armor with notes all over concerning the materials and possible alternatives.

He stood and waited for Malik to open the door to reach the mentor’s office from the second floor of the main keep. Altaïr kept his face blank, observing Malik’s face.

He was frowning with lips set on a grim line.

But his eyes did not bore any darkness nor blaze.

So… annoyed but not murderous or angry.

Altaïr could work with that.

… he just have to find out what he did wrong this time before Malik’s annoyance boiled into anger.

“Malik…” Altaïr greeted cautiously with a nod.

“Follow me.”

With that said, Malik walked out of the office and Altaïr grabbed the journal, not wishing it to be seen by anyone. He kept it open though because of the ink but followed Malik quietly, ignoring the way the other Assassins and scholars rushed (while walking) out of their way.

Malik led him to their private quarters and Altaïr was trying to remember if he had forgotten something.

Did he leave books haphazardly again?

No.

Altaïr was sure all the books had been organized this morning. He hadn’t even touched any of them, having been woken up by Kadar before dawn because of a new merchant who thought he could pull a fast one on Kadar with the absurd prices he had set for supplies.

Well…

Kadar was the reason why he had woken up but it was Kadar’s assistant, a young Assassin who had to leave the field due to a severe injury, that had woke him up and begged him to intervene before Kadar pushed the merchant off the fortress wall and make it look like an accident.

… not that it ever happened before.

Was it because Altaïr left in a hurry with no time to-

No.

Malik wouldn’t be annoyed by something so small.

They entered the room and Malik led him to…

Ah.

“Care you tell me about your bedwarmer when I’m not here?” Malik asked dryly.

To anyone else, they would probably assume Malik thought Altaïr had been spending the night with another behind his back.

But…

Desmond stared at them, wings twitching slightly as he remained curled on the bed, currently in disarray with feathers all over.

One of the pillows (the blue one that no one really uses anyway) had been eviscerated, its guts flowing out from the telltale talon marks.

“I can explain.” Altaïr started.

It was bound to happen.

Malik didn’t know that Desmond would come into their room and sleep with Altaïr whenever he was away.

Altaïr wasn’t even sure if Desmond did it to comfort Altaïr or if he wanted some comfort but it had been a habit they formed since he found Desmond as a cub, so small he could fit in one of Altaïr’s arms effortlessly.

Malik raised an eyebrow as he said, “Alright, I’m listening.”

Desmond slowly got up and tried to make himself look small (a fruitless effort considering his actual size) while crawling towards the now open door.

“Desmond.”

Desmond froze at the sound of Malik’s voice.

“Stay.”

Desmond stared at Altaïr, his big eyes seemingly becoming bigger, glistening with plea.

Altaïr turned his eyes away.

Desmond made an almost clicking sound before walking towards Altaïr, going on his haunches next to him.

“Well…” Malik glared at Altaïr, “Go ahead, Altaïr.”

Altaïr stared at Malik and wondered.

… what the hell was he supposed to explain?

[vindelllas]

frivolous or fated: buddha and beauty 🧖🏽‍♀️🛀🏽

Disclaimer: this is only part one (my document was too long to include in one post). If you would like for me to post part two, please let me know!

🛁 The predominant attitude towards the beauty of things in the classical texts is one of suspicion and met with usual hostility. Physical beauty, especially that of women historically, is accused of causing attachment and craving. Beauty is deemed as “the nutriment for sensual desire” in mercurial principles and thereby being acclaimed as the source of greed, hate, and delusion too. Enjoyment of one’s beauty, and repulsion at another’s ugliness, is deemed as incompatible with the great virtue of equanimity that enjoins us to be mindful and attain enlightenment without the filtering usage of the prism of worldly subjection. Whereas, worldly beauty is demonized, as it is attributed to distracting the masses from the ubiquity of suffering in this earthly plane. This is why in many buddhist principles, the antithesis to beauty-based seduction is focusing oneself upon bringing awareness to the “ugly”, such as death. Yet in countries like Thailand, beauty is theorized to be rewarded to women who have lived without expressing aggression, perpetuating hatred, and experiencing feelings of resentment in a previous life. Focusing on an object such as a disc (or a yantra in vedic culture), is taking in great beauty and bestowing the onlooker with tranquil meditation abundance. In this post, I will be evaluating what true beauty means in various cultures and how we can incorporate these theories into nuanced conversations about self care and overall beautification of oneself. The following deep dive into primarily eastern literature and spiritual concepts does not mean that these are solely accurate opinions, but it is designed to expand one’s palette to spiritual beautification outside of western ideologies.

🛀🏽 There are several modes of beauty. However, the main three categories of beauty I have stumbled upon are inner beauty, wordly beauty, and physical beauty. Inner beauty is the beauty of one’s character, the beauty of the person’s spirit, or moral beauty. But this inner realm or entity is not exactly disjoined from bodily and physical existence. It is simply the beauty that belongs to a person in virtue of their character, moral qualities, understanding, and experience. In contrast with the beauty of things or the world, there is substantial evidence for the importance of inner beauty in Buddhist knowledge. In the Cakkavatti-Shanda sutta, buddha answers his own question, ‘What is beauty for a monk?’, with a list of qualities such as “right conduct, restraint, perfection in habit, and an awareness of danger in the slightest fault”. In the verses of the female ancestors, who repeatedly celebrate their emancipation from the desire to cultivate physical beauty, there is an interesting reference to one nun, Subh, who it is said “went forth full of faith, beautiful by reason of the true doctrine”. In the Abhidhamma, whole sections are devoted to defining the various forms of beautiful consciousness and beautiful mental factors: including compassion, non-delusion and mindfulness (some of which are present in all the beautiful states of consciousness).

🧼 However these references towards beauty have sparked much debate. The word “beauty” is used to talk about “the inner”, about character and virtues. Translators have begged the question why does Buddha not speak of the restrained, alert, right thinking monk as simply being “good” or “holy”? Why is he described as beautiful? And why was Subh deemed beautiful, rather than just virtuous, by reason of dharma? This literature is explicitly stating there is a lack of connection between inner beauty with the beauty of things as seen, heard or otherwise perceived through the ordinary senses, such as sight and hearing. It is, after all, the domain of sensory/what may be perceptually experienced. As children, we learn the use of words like “beautiful” via connecting the term with what is visible, audible or otherwise available to the senses.

🧴 Prominent aesthetic-based philosophers Immanuel Kant (ashwini surya and revati chandra), Alexander Baumgarten (pushya surya and hasta chandra), and Francis Hutcheson (ashlesha surya and uttara bhadrapada chandra) studied the primacy of the sensorial experience by defining beauty in terms of sensory experience. But it has long been recognized that sensorial beauty was a sign of a more elevated form of beauty. For example, Plato, in Phaedrus, states that true beauty is something that one on the earthly plane may only discern when “reminded by the sight of beauty on earth” and that beauty is apprehended through sight: “the keenest of our physical senses”. The journey towards this appreciation of “true beauty” prescribed to Socrates by Diotima in The Symposium, is through witnessing the sight of beautiful figures (bodies). For Kant and others, it was believed that it is the beauty of God that finally matters. As Abbé Suger stated: “the multi-coloured loveliness of gems has… [transported] me from material to immate- rial things, for our dull mind is incapable of rising to the truth except through that which is material”. According to these ideologies, it is in this manner too that one should interpret Suger’s succinct definition of beauty as what pleases through being seen. This is a concept explicitly explored in the rashi of virgo. In my previous notions on virgo nakshatras, I have stated that the journey through this rashi is the journey towards uncovering the jewels of chitra through the eroticism of uttara phalguni and abstinence of hasta, the material cravings of the flesh have become transmuted into the immaterial learnings all virgo natives crave.

🪒 In Buddhist ideologies of beauty, some writers have proposed certain analogies between inner beauty and that of objects of perceptual experience with the intention of justifying their references to inner beauty. For example, a beautiful mind has been compared to a beautiful garden due to neither being considered wild or disorderly. Additionally, similar to carefully crafted art pieces, the beautiful mind possesses balance, proportion, and rhythm. However, unless such analogies are developed and deepened, suspicion about the merely figurative use of beauty will continue to arise. The mind of a man (note this is only in reference to men and not women in this literature) is controlled via craving/delusion and may be disorderly. However, is this “disorder” comparable to that of an untended garden?

🖼️ Some ancient texts argue the causal connections between moral character and physical beauty, with the potential purpose of inviting a transfer of the vocabulary of beauty from the latter to the former. For example, think of the passages mentioned earlier where Buddha describes physical beauty as a future karmic reward for a virtuous life. However, causal connections like this are insufficient to warrant a transfer of terms from physical beauty to its correlation to a person’s character. If references to inner beauty are to be justified, more intimate connections than ones of analogy and cause and effect need to be established between the inner essence of a person and the primary domain of beauty, things as experienced through the ordinary senses. So let us explore further…

🎀 Philosopher Ludwig Wittgenstein (ashwini surya, conjunct buddha to the exact degree, and uttara bhadrapada chandra) once spoke “the human body is the best picture of the human soul”. As a painting may express the feelings of an artist, so too the body, via gesture, comportment, facial expression, or demeanor, is an expression of a person’s inner reality, their character. Inferring only when the inner finds beautiful expression in the body, there is good reason to speak of inner beauty. Similar to when a person’s attitude is described as cheerful due to their cheerful smile and physical gestures that convey it to other people. In this case, the beautiful soul is “beautiful” because its bodily expression in the world is beautiful. Expression, therefore, is a kind of intimate connection required between the inner and the outer. The virtuous mind and/or character is only beautiful because it finds beautiful expression in and through the body. The idea that virtue, like courage, finds bodily expression is no more difficult and controversial than the idea of bodily expression of feelings, i.e. cheerfulness and sadness. A gesture, for example, is an expression of anger or courage when it is itself angry or courageous, and in a way that presents itself as having such a quality, at least to the mindful observer. So why should virtue find expression in beautiful gestures? Is this a matter of luck?

🧧 This connection is not at all a matter of luck. Beauty that is expressed bodily is the expression of virtue. We recognize and appreciate gestures, facial expressions and so on as beautiful precisely because we experience them as expressions of virtue. A woman’s smile, for example, is found to be beautiful because it is seen to express compassion. A monk’s comportment is deemed to be beautiful because it is experienced as an expression of humility. It may perhaps be that this expression of compassion or humility is faux. But that does not negate from the fact that our reasoning for finding the smile or comportment beautiful is the perception of it as an expression of virtue. Behavior that expresses anger may be feigned, that does not mean that the connection between angry behavior and an angry mood is merely contingent. Nor is the connection between beauty of expression and virtue. This is why bodily altercations for the purpose of increasing one’s beauty is not necessarily warranted for demonization.

🪭 This virtue-based attitude toward bodily beauty was personified by the words of Kant. Kant argues beauty belongs to the human body due to the body’s manifestation of moral virtues. There are similarities to this virtue emphasis in Buddhist texts too. For example, it is implied that it is appropriate to call Subh “beautiful by reason of dharma” because of the ways her holiness is manifested in her personal cleanliness and calm/grace of her comportment. Some testaments to Buddha’s physical beauty are centered around his sexual attractiveness to women who are “overpowered by passion” in his presence. Therefore, it is true that sometimes Buddha is found to be physically beautiful, even by people deemed to possess pure minds, as gentle dispositions are casual for other virtues such as fine countenance and posture to manifest. According to canonical texts, nearly all of which make for masculine physical beauty, include “the torso of a lion” and “straight limbs” of which are aspects of the Buddha’s comportment, such as effortless grace of movement, cleanliness, and calm that are expressions of his virtue. It is not only in Pali and Sanskrit literature that there is evidence of a virtue-based understanding of bodily beauty. In eastern asian Buddhist writings, there are similar understandings and underlying connections. For example, beauty is not merely of appearance, but of the spirit (suggesting both are intertwined). It is this inner quality that possesses beauty precisely because of the way it manifests itself outwards via grand gestures, glances and poise. Thus implying there is no warrant for referring to inner beauty as beautiful unless this beauty is expressed in and through the body.

📿 For a person’s character or inner reality to qualify as beautiful, it must possess magnetism. It must attract the heart. Whether this magnetism or attraction is thought of as a further condition of inner beauty, in addition to bodily expression, or as an aspect of this expression that deserves to be made salient in an account of inner beauty is up to one’s personal spiritual journey. Either way, it is through the body that a person exercises magnetism and attracts the hearts/adoration of others. This beauty must be magnetic and attractive via exerting radiance that draws people to it, is an idea found in the teachings of Plato, Plotinus and a minority of later Christian thinkers such as the pseudo-dionysius. It is this magnetism that distinguishes the beautiful from the good. Certain states of a person can be considered “beautiful” and this is due to the person who exemplifies such beauty embodying or mediating a certain concentration of energy. This energy sustains a certain demeanor and perspective and through this radiation and attraction. It is an energy that is aptly described as an object or form of eros (erotic love). For a person to count as beautiful, it is not enough that their virtue shows up in some way, such as solely via donations that one makes to charities or volunteer work. It must show up in an aesthetically charged way: via gestures, demeanor, style, and presence that draws others, sensitive to the energy being radiated, to the person. For just as there was recognition that inner beauty must be bodily expressed, so there is an acknowledgement in some Buddhist texts that inner beauty must attract.

🔮 Consider once more the texts that attest to Buddha’s personal beauty. Gotama was said to become radiant in the presence of Buddha’s beauty and seeing him there, standing in his beauty, men and women are drawn to devote themselves and offer reverence to him (similar to the powerful mahavidyas discussed in the vedic religion). Contrarily, consider the sequence of verses in the Dhammapada in which the search for perfection is compared to a bee’s search for a beautifully scented flower. In order to possess beauty, the words and actions of one must exude a perfume that attracts others. This perfume of virtue, one verse tells us, “gives joy to the soul”, as the light of wisdom is emitted by a truly enlightened follower of dharma. So too inner beauty exerts the same magnetism on the searcher for perfection as a flower’s scent attracts a bee. This theme of beauty’s magnetism is a persistent one. In the thirteenth century, Dogen observed that the body of a true follower of Buddhism feels at ease and “their actions take on grace”, so that this person’s “appearance attracts others”. In this text, Dogen is drawing upon not only Buddhist principles, but a Daoist and Confucian tradition in which the de (‘virtue’) of “the consummate person” or sage is conceived of in terms of charisma, of an inner goodness that is at power to influence and attract others.

🪔 Beauty’s magnetism is attested to by contemporary Buddhists as well. In “Attracting the Heart”, Samuels examines the aesthetics of the emotions in present day Sri Lankan religious life. Samuels’ research provides a source of Buddhist testimonies, mainly from monks and novices, in relation to the magnetic power of moral beauty. For example, he speaks of how they attempt to go beautifully in order to attract the people’s hearts via their dignified posture, speech, or cleanliness. Stating a monk must be “beautiful to the eye” or to the ear, when reciting verses in order make people feel longing for “the holy life”. As Samuels states, his research confirms that there is value in an aesthetic standard that informs Buddhist practice and invests into a quality of bodily movement, posture, speech, and action. Thus, inducing an aesthetically pleasing transformation. This attempted to justify the notion of inner beauty that several authors attribute to Buddhist thinking. Such a justification is at least intimated in Buddhist texts and testimony. Thus, virtue, in order to constitute beauty of character, must be beautifully expressed in and through the body, in a way moreover that exerts magnetism or attraction. Later on, I explore the possibility that a distinctively Buddhist understanding of beauty in art may be inspired by the Buddhist understanding of inner beauty. Earlier, I spoke of the assertion that awakened experience is an experience of beauty, but it may be right to suggest, immediately afterwards, that through the awareness sought by Buddhists, our appreciation of the arts is also enriched. If this is true, however, it will solely be attributed to the beauty appreciated in art as it is intimately related to the inner beauty previously discussed.

🧘🏽‍♀️ For some Buddhists, the most contrary feature to the religion of the ordinary discourse of beauty is its discrimination, on the basis of subjective experience, between beautiful and non-beautiful things. The “beauty” that simply stands opposed to ugliness is not true beauty… but deemed to be rather a dualistic idea according to Yanagi Soetsu (uttara bhadrapada surya and swati chandra). True beauty, Soetsu describes, is a state of mind, of “freedom from impediment and preoccupation”. For someone who achieves this state of mind, “everything is beautiful”, includ- ing all works of art. These remarks attempt to relate beauty in the world to an inner, ‘true’ beauty of the mind but not without nuance. Yanagi himself makes the very distinctions between beautiful and vulgar (or graceful and garish) artworks which can be contradictory. Whether or not an intelligible concept of beauty, according to which everything is beautiful, can be developed, it is clear that this would not be the ordinary, central concept of beauty. To be told that, in the Buddhist understanding of ‘true beauty’, all art is beautiful is, in effect, to be told that Buddhism has nothing to contribute to the aesthetics of beauty in art.

🎨 The challenge is to work outwards towards a notion of beauty in the world and in art, one that is compatible with discernment between the beautiful and the non-beautiful, from the notion of inner beauty previously spoken about. We have encountered, in effect, a clear-cut, paradigmatic, case of worldly beauty–in the gesture, demeanor, comportment or whatever bestows a beautiful expression to virtue of character, and thereby justifies reference to inner beauty. The body and its actions are in and of the world, their beauty is, in this sense at least, worldly beauty. Crucially, we have also encountered a case where beauty of bodily expression is at the same time a case of beauty in art. Zeami’s view that a certain kind of inner beauty manifests itself outwards in the gestures, glances and poise of an individual. But this individual is an actor, whose beautiful bodily expression therefore belongs to an art form. More generally, in an appropriate context bodily movements and activity may constitute artistic performance, such as a dance. In such contexts, there is no difficulty in seeing that art inherits, via the bodily activity that constitutes it, the inner beauty that it expresses.

🪻 This concept may be applicable to other arts and practices, including many of those that, in East Asia, are called “ways" (Japanese do, as in judo). Not all of these – swordsmanship, for example, or calligraphy (shodo), or the way of tea (chado) – are accepted by the standard Western connotations of ‘the arts’, and certainly not of ‘the fine arts’. But, in Asia, a distinction between arts and crafts, and between these and various other do, is not a definite one. Indeed, it is regarded as an artificial and potentially misleading dualism. Arts or ‘ways’ such as archery, the tea ceremony and gardening differ from dance and mime, typically, in having a practical purpose, such as hitting a target, making tea or creating a garden. That is one reason why these arts require the use of ‘instruments’--a sword, a tea whisk, a hoe–as well as bodily movement. But it is not unnatural to regard these instruments as extensions of the body, as specifically honorary parts of the body. For in none of these practices is the instrument deemed to be a mere tool, to be used in a way dictated solely by a goal. These instruments are to be used with respect and, like one’s hands, with expression. The gardener or tea master is not just clearing away weeds or brewing up a nice cup of tea. They are engaged in a practice that bodies forth the virtues, including compassion, humility, mindfulness, and friendship. In effect, they are concerned with practicing an art or following a way in a beautiful style. Like Zeami’s actor or a dancer in a Buddhist temple, the gardener and tea master via their own and their extended, ‘honorary’ body seek for beautiful physical expression of an inner beauty.

🎭 Many of the Buddhist-inspired arts or ways, the sharp distinction familiar in Western discourse between practice and product, between artistry and artwork, is rejected. It may be an exaggeration to say that, for gardeners, caring for the garden is not a chore, but the very point of having a garden in the first place. But it not only conveys that gardening is not a mere means to an end, the garden itself, but it is a place that depends on a gardener’s continuing care, the garden is not a finished product distinct from the practice of making and maintaining it. To focus, therefore, on the beauty of a practice is not, in the case of many ‘ways’, to ignore the beauty of something, the work, that is separable from the practice. Additionally, even when a distinction is made between a bodily action and its artistic product, many Buddhist artists would refuse to accept that aesthetic attention should exclusively, or even primarily, be devoted to the latter. It is easy enough, of course, to distinguish a calligrapher’s action in drawing with a brush and ink from the characters that are the result of this action. But when it is said of Kobara Sensei, that he and his art “had become one”, the point is to emphasize that the products of an individual’s art are not to be appreciated in isolation from admiration for the individual themself, for the virtues, like kindness, enable their works to look the way they do.

🩰 Kobara’s virtue, his inner beauty, enables his works to look as they do in and through the bodily movements, the physical style, that at once express it and create the characters on the paper. This is an example of the general way in which, for Buddhists, artworks inherit the inner beauty of the people who make them. By giving a sense of the beautiful bodily engagement through which they came into existence, the works themselves body forth the inner beauty of the virtues. Interestingly in twentieth-century Western art criticism, there also developed an appreciation of works as expressive of the bodily activity responsible for them. A significant aspect, for example, of people’s enjoyment of works by Van Gogh, Rodin and Pollock is the palpable sense these works require a certain strength and energy that went into their making. The difference between this occurrence in Western art appreciation and the more abiding Asian tradition is the concern in the latter for the moral beauty that is expressed in an artist’s bodily practice. By extending to art the idea of the body as being beautiful in and through its magnetic expression of inner beauty, it is possible, then, to endorse Batchelor’s beliefs that Buddhism is not just inner experiences. It is known through buildings, gardens, sculptures, paintings, calligraphy, poetry and craftwork’ and “present in” the marks and gestures of artists and artisans.

💋 Please do let me know if I should post the second installment of this document! I have been candid to some about my current health struggles and taking a leave of absence from ballet. I am so incredibly touched with everyone’s kind words and appreciate the amount of kindness i have been met with during these vulnerable moments. I love each and everyone of you and am deeply praying for your successes and triumphs. While I spoke of Buddhism in this post, I will talk about Buddha (mercury) and certain nakshatras correlated to this theory soon…

xoxo,

angel 💋

[mybeautifuldelirium]

Centuries Apart Part 2 || Aemond Targaryen x got!Reader

CHAPTER LIST (plz read or it might not make much sense)

A/N: here’s part 2 lovelies xx hope you enjoy how the story unfolds

Lmk if u want part 3

Summary: How are Y/N and Aemond going to react to their betrothal and will Y/N learn how to adapt and survive in this era of ambition and cruelty and can she learn to tolerate her husband to be?

Warnings: angst, forced marriage, idk if this would be considered incest tbh lol

“Perhaps becoming your wife and bearing your heirs will keep her faithful” Otto grinned, caressing Y/N’s silver locks.

These words, these damned words, they echoed through the throne room like a curse, all faces, once again staring in disbelief.

“Father, you don’t mean this” Alicent’s eyes widened as she walked in front of her younger son as if trying to protect him from a dangerous beast “You won’t sacrifice my son to this witch”

“Mother” Aemond whispered, gently placing his hand on Alicent’s shoulder “With all due respect, grandfather, don’t you believe there are more favorable options for a union that could actually bring forth valuable allies?” The prince scowled with disgust as he glanced at Y/N.

“The decision is final and I believe, his grace, king Aegon would agree to its benefits” Otto raised his voice, turning his head towards the young king with a stern look on his face.

“And what makes you believe I’d agree to this?” Y/N finally spoke up in disbelief, after the initial shock of the news had just washed away “I’m a Targaryen princess, the blood of the dragon, not a slave or a broodmare for sale. This was never part of my offer of alliance-”

“Silence woman” Aegon stood up from the throne, making his way towards the girl “We are being merciful enough to spare your life and put our trust in your guidance. You are to marry my brother and pledge your loyalty to the crown if you so value our house’s future, as you claim” he smirked, locking his gaze with Aemond’s displeased one “Right, dear brother?”

The one eyed prince scoffed at the king’s words, the very same king who moments ago was desperately begging him for help to flee the Crownlands, now playing the part of a ruler. But Aemond knew better than to disobey the crown, he nodded and gave an almost unnoticeable bow to Aegon before storming out of the hall, the same way he had entered.

“It is settled then, the wedding will take place in a fortnight” Otto smirked deviously “Lady Y/N we will be sure to provide you with a maid and a private chamber, that is until you are to share the one of your future husband”

The girl wanted to protest, she wanted to scream or run far away, she had seen what her sister had endured after being sold as a bride to Khal Drogo and now this same fate seemed to come upon her. This was not how things were supposed to go, none of this was according to her plan but she knew there was no way back she knew that this was her only chance to change the fate of House Targaryen.

-

Her chambers were modest in size yet still lavishly decorated with gold and expensive fabrics. Y/N was sitting on the small daybed, gazing through the window. Her whole life she had dreamed of living in this very castle, the home of her ancestors that was taken away from her family, but now this beautiful childhood dream had turned into a cruel curse.

“M-my lady” the timid voice of a young girl brought the princess back from her thoughts “I-I’m Lysa, I was appointed to serve as your maid”

She looked no older than five and ten, a scrawny thing with golden locks, tied into two simple braids.

“That won’t be necessary” Y/N mumbled, returning her attention towards the view from the window “I’m perfectly capable of handling myself”

“Please my lady, the hand will punish me if I defy his orders” Lysa fell to her knees, her eyes filled with desperation and dread “I promise to be loyal and serve you faithfully”

These words made Y/N stand up from her spot and approach the young girl, perhaps having someone loyal by her side, could prove beneficial in this realm of ambition and cruelty “Ok then, but you’re to serve only me, you’ll be my eyes and ears in this castle, I am to know everything that goes on and I will swear to protect you” she whispered, a slight smirk playing on her lips. If they wanted her to play a part of their game by their rules, she was sure to do so.

“Of course my lady, I promise, thank you” Lysa hastily nodded in relief.

-

A feast was to be held in honor of the new king, a deceitful attempt to bring forth alliances from the noble houses.

“Your dress for the feast, my lady” Lysa entered Y/N’s chambers, holding a simple emerald green gown with gold stitchings “Her grace, queen Alicent chose it for you”

“I want another dress, bring me the dressmaker” the princess furrowed her brows “Those are not the colors of my house”

“But, t-the queen”

“You serve me, Lysa. Don’t you forget our deal” Y/N whispered, a dark smile lingering on her lips.

-

An elegant black dress with striking red embroidery was the one she chose, her silver looks tied into intricate braids, mimicking the ones her sister Daenerys always used to wear. Many heads were turned as Y/N entered the great hall, all curious eyes, staring at the unknown Targaryen maiden.

She looked over at the table of the royal family, meeting the disapproving gaze of Alicent.

“Ah, glad to have you join us, lady Y/N” Aegon sneered “Why don’t you sit by your future husband”

The girl mumbled something under her breath as she took her seat besides Aemond who was yet to acknowledge her presence.

“I see you’ve worn a different dress” the queen flashed a fake smile “Was the one I sent, perhaps not to your likings?”

“It was a lovely garment, your grace, but I deem it more appropriate to represent the colors of my house as you do yours” Y/N grinned slyly, taking a sip of her wine.

“I think you look ravishing in it, my lady” Aegon smirked “Don’t you agree dear brother? Or perhaps you’d rather see your lovely betrothed without it?” he laughed, nudging at the younger prince’s arm.

Y/N cringed at the indecorous remark, briefly glancing at Aemond who seemed uninterested in the whole ordeal, yet she could have sworn that just moments ago, he had been eyeing her.

“Let’s have a toast to the betrothal of my beloved brother” Aegon stood up lifting his golden goblet “May you have a very progenitive marriage” he glanced at Y/N with a sly grin.

“Thank you, your grace, I would also like to toast to my future wife who is at last to become a true member of house Targaryen” Aemond smirked deviously, finally allowing his gaze to openly travel to Y/N’s face.

This crude insinuation ignited a fire of rage in the young princess as she abruptly got up, splashing her wine at Aemond’s smug face.

The entirety of the hall fell silent, Y/N could almost feel Alicent and Otto’s angry stares burning holes on her back while Aegon was sniggering like a child.

The realization of what she had done in front of all those noble houses suddenly hit her and before the prince was able to curse her out, she was kneeling before him with a small rag in her hand.

“Oh, forgive my clumsiness, my prince, here, allow me to help you” the girl innocently batted her eyelashes at the one eyed prince who was staring back at her in disbelief.

Promptly, the feast endured, people long forgotten about the incident. While Y/N was wiping away the wine off Aemond’s face, she carefully examined his features. His expression was blank but she could sense the anger and humiliation through his presence.

Her eyes fell on the deep scar, appearing from under his eyepatch, she had heard tales of how the infamous Targaryen prince had lost his eye and she knew of the precious sapphire that had taken its place, making her wonder if she’d ever see it.

As she gently slid the rag near the scar, unexpectedly, Aemond’s hand firmly grabbed hers.

“Be careful next time, my lady, this ‘clumsiness’ could cost you much one day” he smirked

“I’m not a mere lady, my prince, I’m a princess” Y/N hissed, abruptly pulling her hand from his grip.

-

The remainder of the feast was rather uneventful in comparison to the prior affairs. Y/N had decided to take a small stroll through the keep in hopes of clearing her mind, oh how she wished Dany could be there with her. The princess’s eyes welled up at the thought of her sister but something or rather someone lurking in the shadows brought her back to reality.

“Up so late, dear bride” the dreadfully familiar voice of Aemond echoed through the corridor as he revealed himself “Don’t you deem inappropriate for a betrothed lady to wander alone at this hour?” His taunting words sent shivers down her back.

“I don’t believe I shall need your permission, my prince”

“Oh but you do, am I not to be your lord husband?” He sneered, twisting a silver lock of her hair between his pale fingers “You got what you wanted, didn’t you? At least now your babes will be true Targaryens”

“Gaomagon daor tymagon lēda nyke, ñuha dārilaros. Kesā jiōragon zaltan” (do not toy with me, my prince; you will get burned) Y/N spat, taking a step towards him.

For a mere second, a look of disbelief washed over Aemond’s face, but he was quick to pull back his composure.

“Oh, sīr īlva riña gīmigon se Valyrīha ēngos?” (oh, so our lady knows the Valyrian tongue?) the prince inquired, the sly smirk returning on his lips.

“Dōrī nārhēdegon, ñuha dārilaros, eman se ānogar hen zaldrīzes isse nyke. Valyrio muño ēngos ñuhys issa” (never forget, my prince, I have the blood of the dragon. Valyrian is my mother tongue) she deviously grinned back at him before heading back towards her chambers. ‘Twas a game, she was prepared to play.

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[darkestprompts]

Darkest Dungeon is a subversion of the gothic novel.

Yes, it plays it straight as far as lovecraftian works go, but I'm talking about a different thing. I'm talking about the OGs like Horace Waltpole, Clara Reeve and Ann Radcliffe.

If you've read some of these novels you'll notice very obvious patterns, to the point that if you've read a couple of them you can pretty much guess how any given plot will go.

It often goes something like this. Many years ago, there was a great noble house with a venerable estate that ran these lands with justice and dignity. Then, something terrible happened. Now the estate is administered by an usurper and his family (perhaps responsible by the terrible thing that happened??) that has nothing of the noble pedigree and morals of the old family. Until, that is, an enterprising youth enters the scene. He's intelligent, kind, respectful, fair, handsome, bears an striking resemblance to some old portrait in the manor and is exactly the heroine's (one of the few people to treat him fairly, along with the servants still loyal to the previous lords) type. But, le gasp, he's a stinking peasant! How is that possible? Oh, cruel fate, if only this strapping young lad was fated for something better than serving his social betters (if you are getting a *few* hints of English classism, congratulations, you are capable of synapses)! But what's this? A *ghost* is haunting the manor? It seems very displeased at the current owners, but strangely it hasn't harmed our golden boy yet. Why, the spirit of Old Baron Aristocrates is actually helping him discover the truth about his past and how it actually relates to the Terrible Thing That Happened years ago. This will inevitably lead to the proof that the current lord is an usurper, a murderer, an incestuous creep or a combination of socially punishable traits and that he, Lad McStrappington, is the true heir to the estate. After some mystery, adventure and a few deliberate and accidental murders, our boy recovers what is rightfully hears and marries the heroine as the servants cry tears of joy at the return of the rightful ruler of these lands. The end.

Now you might see where I'm going. In Darkest Dungeon, you are promised the prospects of a gothic hero: reclaim your birthright, restore the lands of your forefathers, right the wrongs of your past. You are led and encouraged by the spirit of your ancestor. You must prove your worth, which is the worth of your bloodline. It should come naturally, after all, you *are* the rightful heir.

Except, there's a catch: in this narrative, the usurper and the rightful lord are fused into the same figure. The Ancestor is both the guiding hand at the Heir's shoulder, leading them to their fate, and the wicked baron plotting their downfall. He's the spirit calling you to fix what was broken and the one who deliberately broke it. It's all a trap.

There was nothing venerable about your house, nothing "noble" about your nobility. Your purpose is not to bring justice, but to continue the cycle of misery as you feed the land with the blood of those who serve you - exactly as the Ancestor did. I can't know if the social commentary was deliberate, but the text is practically begging for one such reading.

[jogos-delulu-wife]

I'm so so soft for Jogo and I don't know where else to talk about my cringe BUT 👉👈 I love the idea of grumpy old Jogo starting to fall for you because of how well you care for the only other people he's opened his heart to in his long long lifespan. Like you treat Hanami with awe and reverence and gently try to pull her into group conversation when she's withdrawn. You play with Dagon in tide pools, collecting shells, and looking for sea stars. All the while Jogo is puffing away at his pipe trying to pretend like his heart isn't MELTING for you.

I loce this :’) I had some ideas but this is really the start i needed 🥺

And not cringe here 🤭 we can cry and pour our hearts out together here 🧡🩶 this went from a short Drabble to me pouring my heart out 😤🥹

Backstory time 🎉

It all started the day Geto brought you home, ah yes, you remember minding your own business in an underground club your friend brought you along too, it was just a cover up for an underground curse fight club you knew too well, over all you joined along after she begged you to go support her boyfriend with her, going along you felt strange, maybe with the curse living inside of you festering and becoming aggressive in your chest and stomach when loud blares of music surrounded you as you walked through the club that smelt like the fog machine and people who needed to shower covering up with perfume or cologne.

Making it to a bouncer you and into the back rooms of 5 flights of stairs and into a caged rink, the fun began that night, because you friend didn’t tell you you were gonna support her boyfriend because he was putting you into battle, true friends right? There you were forced into the ring shaking from all eyes on you, nervous and you could feel it in your stomach, chest and throat. Unbeknownst to you the curse living inside you was a generational curse, one time your ancestor made a pact with a mad man who backs the strongest curse user of his time, and when he was killed the pact was completed, a hand full of cursed energy was implanted into your ancestors and was passed on to the next generation as the old holder passed, every user was able to refine and work the cursed energy building up its power and strength, when they passed the cursed enter would layer almost like taking a ball and wrapping it with tape, passing it so the next person could use it and when they were done they would wrap it with another layer of tape before passing it along, every unique technique and skill accumulated for the next holder to use freely. A special grade is what you could be considered had your family ever learned to coexist with the Jujutsu world, back to it, a man with a patchwork face entered the ring and shivered under his stare, you looked around panicked finding your friend screaming and banging on the glass dome making some kinda hand motion confused before you snapped around to the man lunging at you hand stretched out, making a quick hand motion you said “Curse Technique” stepping side ways so the man was almost passing you instead reaching your hand out to grab the man’s raised wrist “Dissolution” kicking you foot around you dragged his wrist down causing him to flip and go skidding across the floor, Dissolution, being able to dissolve or nullify an enemies curse technique for a temporary amount of time after making physical contact. The man jumped up racing at you and placing a hand on you, what his technique was you had no idea, but he couldn’t use it and that’s all that mattered, bringing two hands together, the tips of you thumb, pointer, and pinky finger touching, the first knuckle of your ring and middle fingers touched as they were folded down, “Domain Expansion Soul Prison” the glass dome was blacked out by one of your ancestors Domain’s there knelt the patch work man bound by chains and staffs pierced him holding him in place the more he moved the more the chains tightened and more staffs would pierce his body to restrict his movement

It was beautiful, someone so powerful that the battle didn’t even last five minutes before Patchwork was relenting, saying he’d surrender. Domain closing the gates were open to let you out of the ring, just as you exited where you came in you ran smack into a man with black robes and satisfied look on his face, “Looks like I found exactly what i need.”

That’s how you ended up being picked up by the hood of you sweater and dragged home like a kitten and its mom, you kicked and tried to protest only to cave and just dangle there, your friends boyfriend trying to protest only to be killed by the patchwork man who simply touched him, you blinked and stayed quiet until you were dropped and told to follow along, and like a good surprise adopted kitten you followed along for some odd reason

It didn’t take long on the beachy shore for you to get comfortable, you were playing with what you thought was an octopus in the tide pools, petting its little head as it just moved around the water following you and letting you stacks shells on rocks that you’d show him and he’d occasionally blow water bubbles and nudge you when he found an intact shell, you couldn’t fight the urge to pick him up and squeeze him in a greatful hug, the sounds he made while he nuzzled into you squeezed your heart more making you smile and coo at him. It took while but soon Jogo had told you his name was Dagon, not liking the sound of you just referring to Dagon as just “him, octo baby, or squishy baby” feeling it was degrading or lowering his value”💀 In all honesty Dagon loved being your Squishy Baby when you squeezed and hugged him.

You had become great friends with the sea curse and he loved to make himself much smaller if it meant you would hold onto him and cuddle him by the fire at night squeezing him in hugs at random times while talking with everyone else, which lead to you one day in the middle of a conversation turning to Hanami, she turned to look at you also at the same him, you smiled at her resting your cheek against Dagon’s round head and he made a cooing sound. The fire illuminated the sand around all three of you “Hanami, you don’t talk much but that’s okay, if you ever have something you wanna say or do I’d love to be the first.”

You watched as she did her best to smile, in a way it was endearing, without knowing you words to Hanami were endearing in a way she didn’t understand in that moment. But if you were really willing to listen to her maybe she’d take the chance, she remembers when Jogo once yelled at her to stop talking it’s weird even if they could understand. Then she only spoke when necessary. Until one day she found you messing with some flowers in the islands woodys parts, she watched how you pouted talking to the dying flowers, trying to water them. you jumped hearing her “Those flowers won’t live here, they’re not made for sandy soil, these would be better.” Form her finger a bloom raised and flowers started to over take the open space, you snapped back to look at her, “Hanami! That’s amazing! Can you show me more?” She looked at you a light blush on her skin, “Of course.”

The shock on Jogo’s dropped jaw was a sight Mahito couldn’t help but lose it at as Geri Chuckled, he had seen you laying in a plush flower bed holding up a bloom, the top of Hanami’s head met yours as she laid, she was explains her curses technique all while rising arches of different flowers over you like a canopy, you awed and complimented her on her ability and the choice of flowers, slowly it changed to you asking about her interests in foliage and flowers, you both talked for hours until the sky behind the open canopy turned dark and you fell asleep listening to her talk about floral meanings, waking up with a yellow rose in your hands and a soft smile

But It didn’t take long, it took FORVER for Jogo to realize maybe just maybe there could possibly maybe perhaps be a smaalll little bit of space he could offer… only if it’s absolutely necessary

😒 this is Jogo when he starts to think about it and catches himself

The day Geto brought you home he was so opposed to it saying humans are disgusting and indecisive incapable of understanding true emotion. He went on and one and to top it off saying they would never be able to trust you, if you were like other humans what made them think you wouldn’t turn on them?

A month passed of Jogo watching warily as you toyed and played with Dagon slowly he found himself smiling when you’d laugh and drop into the water to smother Dagon with affection, he noted how Dagon on ocasión would “find” a particularly shiny and perfect shell just to call you over to gift it to you, noting how Dagon would smile with closed eyes and hum when you’d lift him to squeeze him kissing his little head 🥹 Jogo almost forgetting you were human with how well you could exist within them, smiling faintly thinking, “what if… i ” before he’d quickly shake his head clear, no you were human after all, there was no guarantee you weren’t just trying to snake your way in… yet there he sat on his sun chair smoking from his pipe watching you, the thoughts in his brain scrambling as he lost thought on you again.

It didn’t take long for Jogo to notice how you’d trail after Hanami asking questions and talking and pointing out random things, suspicious of what you were doing he decided to casually follow along one day when you pulled Hanami with you into the forest. Hanami was listing “Orange Fascination, Yellow Friendship, White for New Love or Innocence, Peach for Gratitude or Sincerity, Cream for thoughtfulness..” Hanami Trailed off head turning a bit in Jogo’s “discreet” location, just as she was about so say something you nodded do you think.. you can help me than?” She turned back to you, “I would do anything to help…” there was a pause before she nodded “To help a friend.” Your smile and laugh had her attempting to smile also, it was endearing, a sight that had Jogo smiling faintly, he started his walk back thinking, feeling heat on his face.

The times you’d spent with him he thought nothing of, the times where he’d get hurt and was only able to wait for his body to fix its self, there you were using an advanced cursed technique that had been refined over generations. Enjoying the way you’d scold and argue with Mahito only to win when Mahito would start babbling on idiotically risking the entire operation. Greatfull the few times you’d recovered Sukuna’s fingers, even fearful when you came close to death on multiple occasions, there he was assisting you, liking the attention you’d often pretend you were to weak to heal yourself, and reluctantly after battling himself he’d use his over coat to wrap around you to keep you secure as he’d carry you bridal style or on his back all the way home to ensure you didn’t wear yourself out, always denying it if someone asked or poked. He stopped, watching Dagon float around in the water, bringing a hand to clench his chest he felt a hard thrum in his chest and throat. It was quick and unsettling.

“What is this?”he swallowed trying to calm his heart (idk if he actually has one but he does now) He sat down on the foot of a sun chair lost in thought, hand still holding his chest.

“Sincerity is impossible unless it pervades the whole being, and the pretense of it saps the very foundation of character ya know.” Your voice scared Jogo from the thoughts he was having.

“Sincerity,” Jogo didn’t look at you staring off, “What do you feel y/n? Is what you feel for Dagon and Hanami in sincerity?”

Sitting down next to him you squinted slightly where the sea met the sky. “No one can ever be convinced even if I explain every reason with sincerity, no one understands or takes seriously someone else’s sufferings until they die. As long as you live people can and maybe will only ever doubt you. The only right you have with anyone is to their distrust… but with Hanami and Dagon. They don’t have a reason to lie or put up fronts, speaking honestly, I do feel a sincerity for both of them. I wouldn’t lie to them and what i feel with them isn’t a lie or a front to pretend everything is alright. I like their company, it beats sitting with another person whose emotions are so complex you never know when they feel like lying when there’s sincerity behind their eyes or is it just a look of a deceiving man… it’s like you Jogo, I’ve never had a reason to lie or even try to get in your good graces. But your personality, even when you get a bit explosive with Mahito, I like seeing the raw emotion because it means you’re not hiding what you feel.” You looked down at the sand, Jogo turned to look at you, “These are for you.” You lifted a small bouquet of roses and he looked at them, “Peach Roses for sincerity and Cream for Thoughtfulness.” Was all you said, he took it reluctantly, was this why you wanted Hanami’s help?

No other words were said between the two of you, but the shift in the air was evident, you smiled and Jogo looked away, “wanna go for a walk with me?” You stood up, Jogo standing beside you, the flowers left behind on the chair as you both started to casually walk and talk of what could be. Of course Dagon who had a front row tide pool seat rushed to tell Hanami how Jogo and you went on to talk after giving him flowers~

🥹 sorry this went on so long but I really really got caught up in “if only~” 🤭

[spacebarbarianweird]

Hi! I love your writing and especially your headcanons🥹🫶🏻🥹🫶🏻

Could I request Gur/Monster hunter Tav with Astarion? I feel like it would be a really interesting dynamic, kind of enemies to lovers. It could involve Tav questioning their long-held beliefs about monsters and vampires as they grow closer to Astarion. I don’t know!

Hope you like the idea!🤍🤍🤍

Hi! It took me time to think something coherent about the Gurs and I hope it won't dissapoint you! In this HCs, Tav isn't a "tadfool" - she is a companion in the Astarion Origin Run he picks up in Act 2.

Masterlist

Headcanons

Astarion x Gur!Tav

You were ordered to get bring to his master.

Once Gandrel failed and, presumably, died, you were ordered to complete the mission.

Of course, Astarion is a monster. He kidnapped the children of your tribe.

But you also question why your clan works for a vampire lord.

How come? Why?

The Gur demand their youth to respect the elders. You are violently beaten for disobedience.

Your people have a unique way of life. They are nomads who couldn't care less about the laws of big cities and small towns.

Laws are for the weak. Only the tradition matters.

And it often means violence.

You find the tadfools in the Shadow Cursed Lands.

They rest in the camp and Astarion is among them.

You can't believe those idiots allowed the vampire to be the leader!

You try to attack him stealthily while he's meditating, but he immediately wakes up and pins you to the ground.

The rest of the camp wakes up and, instead of helping, you they tie you up demanding to say who you are.

You keep telling them Astarion is a monster, he must be brought to his master...

"So, you think I am evil but it's you who work for Cazador? Am I getting this right?"

He tells you his side of the story.

Your ancestors decided Baldur's Gate was their hunting ground. He introduced the law to protect the citizens.

A night assault. Revenge.

The vampire, drinking his blood.

Slavery, tortures.

The miserable destiny of a spawn who can't say "no" to his master.

A mere puppet acting on his master's commands.

Your people - working for the person they were supposed to hate the most.

Hypocrisy.

It shocks you, but the puzzle comes together.

You stay at the party, not knowing what to do.

As the journey goes you see Astarion as someone you couldn't believe he was.

The leader. The fighter.

You constantly quarrel. He sees your people as no more than savages, the wild descendants of the Rashemi.

You prove him otherwise by telling what the Gurs really are.

Your honor, your beliefs, your world, your traditions.

It bewilders Astarion and he spends nights listening to your stories and legends.

And he introduces you to something else - the prospects of living outside the tradition. The chance to see the world from a different angle.

Your love evolves slowly and one night you offer him yourself.

First, your blood.

Then, your body.

When you reach Baldur's Gate, you are approached by the Elders - and you beg them to reconsider the decision to hunt Astarion.

Besides, what if the children are still alive?

You see the despise and hatred in your elders' eyes - your bite mark is visible in the sun.

The fight with Cazador goes hard, and you are at a loss for words, screaming to stop the ritual.

As Astarion collapses on his knees and weeps, you cover him with your cape, assuring he is safe.

Your clan promises they won't hunt Astairion down anymore - he is free to walk those lands.

But you-

You have to choose.

If you stay with the Gurs, you leave Astarion and forget him.

If you choose him, you are no longer a Gur.

Simple as that.

Your society is run on traditions as old as time. Your blood, your clan, and your family must prevail.

Astarion squeezes your hand and you know he will fight for you if necessary.

But you made your choice a long time ago.

You are a Gur. And will always be. The elders can't take this from you.

But if they can't accept you, so be it.

Post-game, Astarion and you become monster hunters and adventurers.

You go hand in hand into the future.

Your human life isn't going to be long - and Astarion is ready to spend with you every day till the death takes you.

--

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