#this one was an ouchie

[resident-cake-anon]

fictional depictions of the following: implications and/or mentions of childhood sa, religious guilt/trauma, injuries, partial/implied nudity

[fe oc week] oct. 12th I tragedy

"i remember trying to wash the sin off my body...scrubbing away until my skin was red. even now, i can still feel it.."

Broken Vows

❀ catalina's father became a vassal to the knights of seiros for the sake of his family, especially for his daughter to have a better life than he once did

❀ in exchange for his pledge of loyalty, he asked for the monastery and the knights to protect and care for his daughter considering his work would occupy him

❀ they agreed, they vowed that no harm would come to her under their care

❀ some stray staff would break this vow whether it be for their own amusement or sick fantasies, the abuse becoming too regular of an occurance

❀ catalina knew that alerting higher members of the staff and church would only jeopardize the relationship they had with her father and family and all they had worked so hard for

❀ so she wore the pain and guilt every day underneath her tattered clothes and bruises, only finding solace in the fairytales and flowers she remembered from her home, yearning for those days of peace to return

❀ days in the sun turned into prolonged visits to the infirmary and hiding away in her room

❀ the more time passes, the more she holds resentment for the church and their broken vows. was it not their negligence that allowed this to happen? was it not their responsibility to protect her? did they not make a sacred vow?

❀ for now, all she can do is surround herself with with the petals and fantasies of the past, one of happier days

[alcetryx]

One by One, the Stars Blink Out

Spawn!Astarion, Astarion/FemDurge, Grief, Angst, Very Sad Oneshot, No Happy Ending, Post Canon, Character Death, Violence, No Smut/No Sexually explicit content

Word Count: 4.8k

Based on a prompt I received (@yumaroni), this fic absolutely devastated me but pushed my boundaries because I am not an unhappy endings type of person (though I do love making my characters suffer first).

Astarion hated it when Flora was away. The days felt emptier, the nights lonelier, as he grappled with managing life alone in the scrappy tent they called home in the Underdark for a little over a year. When she had gone to the realm of the surface - the place he could no longer follow her for extended expeditions - he could do nothing but count the days until she returned to his arms. Of course he understood the necessity of her absence… or he had at one time. It wasn’t right to hold her hostage from the sun forever. His perfect Flora deserved to walk in the sunlight, now free from the shadow of the urges that once compelled the Bhaalspawn. And yet, it wasn’t for herself that she chose to walk in the sunlight at all. No. Her absences were all for him.

The woman he loved had never given up on him - she swore to return the sunlight to him too, so they again might walk in it together. For months the sorcerer had been researching ways to cure Astarion’s affliction - and the result was that she would be gone for weeks or months at a time, chasing a lead. Sometimes a person who might know something, other times a magic item, other times a spell. Every time she would return empty-handed, crushed, and disappointed with her failures. Astarion had at some point stopped being disappointed with her- instead just happy to have her home again. Each time he saw her dejected face appear over the ridge, he would run to her, and hold her and kiss her as she wept. In her mind, she let him down again. 

“You can stop looking for a cure, you know, darling,” he had said the last time she was preparing to head out again. He meant it. He didn’t know what she was up to this time - she never shared where she was going… only where she had been. A policy, to avoid getting hopes up. 

He didn’t know how to tell her that he wanted her to stop looking. Didn’t know how to explain that a lifetime in the Underdark with her by his side was better than an impossible task that only left her absent and in danger. He could hardly stand to see her disappointment any longer. 

Even if he had said those things, it would have changed nothing. Flora was a single-minded creature, determined in her task. She would stop at nothing to return the ability for her love to bask in the sunlight again, and to let it shine on his silvery hair. But to him, the warmth of the sun was nothing compared to the warm embrace of her arms. It was nothing compared to the feeling of her lips against his cool skin. 

When she returned again… he swore he would tell her the truth. He wanted for nothing but her, for whatever remained of her fragile human lifespan. Running around Faerun chasing cold leads was wasting their precious years together - the lifespan of a human was nothing to him. If anything, it should have been him on a quest, seeking to bring his love the gift of immortality without the cost of vampirism. 

Astarion didn’t spend all of her absences sulking, of course. No. Refusing the ascension and freeing the spawn left him with a whole headache of unexpected responsibilities that he was wildly unsuited for. Often, his siblings would joke that he and Flora were like the king and queen of the Underdark, with seven thousand mostly-loyal subjects. They were loyal to her, anyway. She was a hard woman not to like. Exceedingly kind and generous, and a confident leader. There were many times where Astarion felt unfit to take over in her absence. Everyone expected a great deal of things from him as an extension of her. Her love. Her partner. 

These days he laughed at the thought of being considered any sort of king. Once he had craved power - but he never expected it to be such a gods’ damned drag. The uncomfortable realization was that he never wanted true power, or at least not power over people. That was far too much work, and too much responsibility. The power he had yearned for was the glamorous kind - the kind that impressed people and let him defend himself and those he loved. He ended up with the dreaded genie’s wish - the worst of both worlds. He had people who watched and looked up to him for guidance (save for his own past marks, who understandably still held a grudge), but also had no power to physically defend his love on her arduous journeys. Her crusades to restore what he had lost.

The reluctant “king” of the spawn still managed to accomplish quite a lot to settle a community of vampires in the Underdark. Although it could hardly be called a town or a city, it was a settlement. Most of the spawn had chosen to stay - though a few had run off into the dark, never to be seen again. They all slowly learned what to do with their freedoms again. Some began calling the settlement “Redemption” - and it was feeling more and more lively with every day that passed. Once some had learned to find alternate sources of food, progress leapt forward in full swing. Many claimed the creatures of the Underdark tasted better, as if specially crafted to the tastes of vampires - a concept Astarion was sour to. They must have been lying to themselves, as many had never tasted blood before escaping Cazador’s dungeon. Starving vampires would take any blood they could find, and the strange and unusual creatures the Underdark produced were the first taste of blood for most. It wasn’t the animals and monsters that tasted good… but the freedom. The ability to stretch their legs again, and to have a second chance. 

 Although he was slowly becoming more self-assured in his leadership abilities, Astarion found himself often relying on his siblings in Flora’s absence. They often grated on him, but some were more reliable than others. Dalyria had a particularly comforting presence, being much more reasonable, patient, and less insufferable than his other siblings. Much like Flora, the other spawn seemed to approve of her. He suspected it was in part due to her pushover tendencies, but of course he’d never say that to her face. She could stand to be more assertive after years underneath Cazador’s thumb. 

Together, Astarion, his siblings, and Flora had formed a sort of council. It almost functioned like one. 

“Astarion, some of the spawn are wondering about the possibility of going to the surface for building materials. Like tools. Wood, stone, things like that. We have some skilled workers here, though they may be out of practice. They want to start building proper shelters.” 

He rolled over on his bedroll, eyes closed, acutely aware of the cold spot where Flora should be.

“Dalyria. Nice to see you still have no concept of announcing your arrival.”

“I’m sorry, Astarion, but you don’t make it easy to speak with you any other way.”

“Are there not trees and stone in the Underdark? We’ve built…. Some things.” Not proper structures, that much was certain. 

Dalyria’s face tensed. As patient as she was with her brother… his callousness still could surprise her. Astarion pushed himself up from the ground, regaining alertness after his trance.

“They aren’t familiar with the materials. Trees that grow in darkness are an entirely different sort from those above ground… or so they say. I’m inclined to believe them. We don’t have many tools to assist. Collecting some from elsewhere would be a great help. We have no shortage of working hands and all of them are growing eager for some normalcy…. Given that we may be here for an eternity now. Everyone tires of camp life.”

Astarion was tired of it, too - but he wasn’t about to dirty his own hands. They weren’t meant for things like building or manual labor - he was a man of the softer things life had to offer. He would sooner burn down a house than build one. The only thing that had made this existence tolerable was Flora. He would have been happy enough to live a camp life for the rest of his life if she was there to keep him afloat. 

And yet, he thought to himself, now that the opportunity was presented… didn’t Flora deserve better? This was his opportunity to prove himself. How proud she would be of him when she returned, to see a major building process underway. Yes. He would make her a real home here (well, not him, specifically - but he would oversee the process), a place where she would want to stay.

“They don’t need my approval,” Astarion finally said, concentrating his effort to make his voice sound controlled and gentle. He crossed his arms.

“No… but they seek it. After so many years of having their… our… every movement controlled and every decision made, it’s no wonder that they seek the approval of a leader.”

Astarion averted his eyes, pacing to the far corner of the tend, pretending to inspect a shoddy patch job. “Don’t get the wrong impression. I’m no leader - they don’t need me. They need Flora. She’s better at handling the… diplomatic things.”

“She’s not here though. You are. And I know she believes in you.”

“No one voted for me. It would be just as well for you to lead them.” 

Power and leadership… two very different things.

“It’s a fine idea. Consider this my stamp of approval.” He waved his sister away.

It was no no avail, for she approached him regardless, pale lips curved into a frown. “Getting the resources will be challenging for us, on our own. Going to the surface is dangerous, when your entire population runs on a fatal hourglass.”

“What more would you ask from me, Dalyria? If I could do something about that, then Flora would still be here.”

She narrowed her eyes. “You accuse others of not being ‘burdened with intelligence,’ and yet you can’t come up with a proper solution? Do you not remember your friends on the surface?”

“My friends?” Astarion scoffed. “What - why - I - what friends?”

“You didn’t defeat Cazador alone,” Dalyria reminded gently. “Your friend, the son of Duke Ravengard. Might he not be someone to ask? Perhaps we could come to some kind of agreement in exchange for supplies.”

“What could we possibly offer them?”

“Well, perhaps an army in times of trouble? Having a second wind of soldiers to operate solely at night might not be a bad deal.”

“Did you… did you think of this all on your own?” Astarion couldn’t hide his surprise.

Dalyria wrapped her arms around her torso defensively, prepared for him to mock her. “What? Why? I…” she trailed off, her eyes dropping to the pendant around her brother’s neck.

A magical pendant, and a gift from Flora - a tiny glass vial of her blood that Astarion kept hanging over his heart in her absence. Enchanted to never open, and to stay warm and red so long as she lived. A reassurance of her safety.

“Don’t get so defensive, Dal. Gods. It’s… a good plan. If only they’ll still speak with me. Flora has met with them since our final battle together, but I have not been so fortunate. Not since fleeing here to the Underdark.”

The blood in the pendant had begun to separate, the denser components creating a sunken layer at the bottom of the vial, leaving a yellowish-pink liquid at the top.

“Don’t look at me like that, it isn’t my fault - it isn’t like they’ve tried to visit m-”

“Astarion.”

“I’ll pen a letter to Wyll though, I’ll try to get it sorted out. I’m sure there’s something we can offer. The Underdark is teeming with rare spell ingredients after all, perhaps a tr-”

“Astarion,” Dalyria repeated more sternly. She cleared her throat.

He wasn’t listening, and had already turned to shuffle through his belongings, oblivious to the concern in Dalyria’s voice. He collected a scrap of paper and a pen and pushed aside some things on the crate that had served as a table for several months now.

“You’ll have to help me proofread it - Wyll and I have never been the best of pals, and I wouldn’t want to come across like too much of a bastard.” He paused before touching the pen to the paper, unsure of where to even begin.

“Astarion!” She repeated again, her tone panicked as it pushed the constraints of her usual volume. Her hands clenched at her sides.

“Ugh. Gods, Dal. What?”

She didn’t answer, only pointed a trembling finger at the necklace that held his lover’s essence. Astarion knitted his eyebrows together in a moment of confusion, before desperately grabbing at it, yanking it up to peer at the contents of the tiny thing. He watched in horror as the liquid began to combine again, disturbed by the sudden movement.

“What?” His voice fell to little more than a fractured whisper, holding all of the fear of a little boy. “No. This is… no. This is a mistake. The enchantment. It must have worn off - it must have -”

***

“You can’t keep running off on your own, darling. Please. How will I know that you’re safe? I can stand to be apart from you, don’t get me wrong. But I could never go on if you simply never returned. It would be unfair to leave me wondering for the rest of my miserable immortal life if you were dead, or if you simply left me behind.”

“I would never leave you,” Flora smiled. Her thin fingers wrapped around either side of his face, cradling his cheeks. “I’ll always come back for you. You must know that by now.”

His hand reached up and rested on the top of hers, giving her fingers a gentle squeeze. He looked into her crystal blue eyes that always left him with a feeling of serenity. Her love for him was an honest one and anyone could see it. Astarion could see it, though it was still difficult for him to believe. Saying “I love you” was simply not something that they ever did as a couple, but it was known. It was felt in the way that she held him, and in every small act of love she indulged him with. How was it possible that the woman before him had once been a Bhaalspawn? Now, free from the grip of her father Bhaal, Flora was finally herself. How she had become such a delicate, kind, and empathetic creature was a mystery to him. The stories of Astarion and Flora had followed similar paths, though somehow she seemed to heal from it all much more gracefully - as if somehow underneath it all she had always been good. Or perhaps she was just better at hiding it.

No one ever would have guessed of her past tendencies to murder indiscriminately in an amnesiac state. The idea seemed preposterous now. So preposterous that if Astarion didn’t remember the night where she almost killed him, resulting in him wrapping her in rope to stop her, he wouldn’t believe it himself.

She was deserving of far more than he could ever offer her. “You might. I couldn’t possibly blame you. Your life is just a blip in the timeline of mine… why shouldn’t you spend it in the sun?”

Flora shook her head, her soft brown waves bouncing around her shoulders. Even though there was no sunlight to shine down here, he could still recall the way her hair glistened like warm honey in the afternoon sun. How unfair it was to have her beauty dulled by the misery and gloom of the Underdark. She pulled him into a long hug, her hands lightly running his tense shoulders.

“Who needs the sun, when I have my star?”

The following day, before Flora left, she presented Astarion with her creation. The pendant. “As long as I am alive, the blood in this pendant will look just as it does in my veins. It won’t separate, and it will stay warm.”

He held the vial in his palm, the delicate silver chain hanging over the back of his hand. He could feel the faintest thrum of it against his palm - the softest echo of her heartbeat. It was nearly imperceptible, unless you were paying very close attention. He didn’t want to think about a world where it stopped.

“Don’t get any ideas now, either. No matter how hungry you get - you can’t open it. It isn’t a snack,” she joked.

Astarion didn’t laugh. Instead, he pulled her into another hug, kissing the top of her silky hair. “Thank you. Please be safe.”

***

He couldn’t believe his eyes. He ripped the pendant from his neck, snapping the chain with such force it cut the skin of his neck and his hand.

“No… no,” his voice fell to a hushed choke as he dropped to his knees. His entire world, gone in an instant. He hadn’t even been the one to notice. 

Dalyria felt his pain and cautiously placed a hand on his shoulder, feeling the tremble of his body. This was not the Astarion she knew. He had always been strong, preferring to play off his difficult emotions with humor or dry sarcasm. Now, he fought to suppress ugly sobs at the back of his throat.

“You could be right,” she offered optimistically. “It could have been a mistake - the enchantment could have failed.” 

Even her optimism could not hide the truth - she is lying to him, and she knows it.

“It didn’t fail. She’s gone,” his voice spat in agitation. 

“I - I’m so sorry, brother,” her hand gave his shoulder a reassuring squeeze. It didn’t feel right to do anything more.

He pushed her hand away, detesting the feeling of being touched by another person.

“Get out. Get out of my sight.”

Dalyria backed slowly out of the tent, her eyes fixed on her crumpled sibling. His arms fell to the floor, fists banging against the floor of the tent. She hesitated before leaving him alone entirely, unsure of what he would do next.

For the next several hours after, Astarion stayed crouched on the ground until his knees burned, the pendant held still in his palm. He stared at the talisman, unblinking, willing it to return to normal. Praying that it had only been a mistake. Something temporary, that interfered with the magic. But as the blood remained in the same, ugly state, it grew colder and colder, leaving Astarion to come to terms with the knowledge that he would never get to put the body of his lover to rest.

He would never even know what became of her.

If only he had begged her to stay. If only he had told her how she was more important than the sun to him. He needed her. The spawn of the Underdark needed her. With him as their leader, they were surely all doomed. How could she leave him? She knew how helpless he was without her.

***

The pain does not ease with time, and Astarion took no visitors for weeks. He did not leave his tent. He did not leave her side of the bedroll, his nose buried inside of her pillow as he clung to the fading remnants of her scent. Soon, every part of her would be gone. Her few items were those of practicality, and so went with her on the road. She hadn’t had the time to appreciate an excess of things, and never hung onto anything that would hold her down. All that remained of her was the pendant, and the place where she once slept.

Many tried to visit the heartbroken spawn, but all were driven away by angry, incoherent yelling, as he drowned in the tide of his grief. Nothing would pull him back together again, not even as several of his siblings desperately tried to inform him of the string of bodies that had been found throughout Redemption. Several nights in a row, a spawn was found dead, left laying in a pool of their own blood. Of course it was not the blood loss that took their lives - the true cause of death remained a mystery. Spawn volunteered to walk the perimeter at all hours - but still the camp was under siege by an invisible threat. Whatever was killing them knew how to take down a vampire, but also was skilled enough to leave no trace.

Somewhere, Astarion eventually found a brief moment of clarity, where he forced himself to finally pen the letter to Wyll. It was what Flora would have wanted, and he decided it would be the last good deed he would do for Redemption. The way the letter actually turned out, the request for aid was secondary, an afterthought to the news of Flora’s death. With it, he pleaded for Wyll to try and find an answer to her fate. Wyll was a busy man these days, but perhaps he would find the time for Flora’s sake, if not for his. When the sun was setting topside, Astarion finally left his tend for the first time in weeks to return to Baldur’s Gate. The letter was deposited in the mail - Wyll would see it in several days’ time.

In the eerie quiet of the night, Astarion looked around at what had become of Baldur’s Gate. He hadn’t left the Underdark for long enough that much had changed. The mindflayer attacks had caused a great deal of destruction, but now there was little trace of them. The rebuilding efforts must have been going well. He wandered the streets aimlessly, wondering what became of his love. Where had she gone? 

Had she been alone when she died? Scared? Was she killed, or did she die as the result of some terrible accident?

Before long, Astarion found himself standing before the Elfsong. The noise and music that broke free of the establishment cut through the silence of the streets, warm and inviting. The pull of the tavern called to him, begged him to drown his sorrows in drink - a pastime lost to him in what felt like another lifetime. He gave into the temptation, won over by the promise of the nightlife. As if someone else had taken over his body, he was soon sitting at the bar, throwing coin after coin at the bartender and knocking back drinks until he nearly forgot where he was. Forgot who he was, at least consciously. 

No amount of wine could burn Flora from his brain. Drunk, broken Astarion rambled to whatever poor soul was unwise enough to sit next to him, successfully driving away several people in quick order. One man stayed a bit longer than others, a fairly attractive young elven man who wore clothing that suggested he wasn’t local. At first, the elf must have thought Astarion was flirting with him, for he stayed much longer than the others. But Astarion showed no interest back, only using him as a vehicle to vomit his woes. By the end of it all, the man could do nothing but slip away awkwardly after realizing it was no flirtation.

The dawn caught Astarion off guard, and as the sunlight began peeking through the windows and the candles started being blown out, he quickly sobered. He had spent too long indulging, and missed the window to return to the Underdark. He would have to remain in the Elfsong until sunset, and given that he was incapable of drinking himself to death, he would run out of coin eventually. Or the bartenders would grow suspicious. The only solution was to get a room for the day and recover from his wild night.

***

Only, the trance he took offered to rest. It didn’t give him the usual, blissful nothing that he was accustomed to. Instead, his mind filled with a terrible vision as his trance was infiltrated by some outside force.

Looking around, Astarion was transported somewhere chilling and familiar - the lair of Bhaal. Where Flora had faced Orin… and died for it. For all of the good it did now. Sprawled out on the sacrificial stone table was Flora, her limbs bent in such wrong directions that he thought she was surely dead.

He desperately tried to break his trance. This was wrong - he didn’t want to see this.

Flora was not dead. Her eyes blinked at him, tears running down her bloody face as she mouthed the word help, too dehydrated and wounded to speak it properly. Blood was pooled under her back - far more than should have or could have come from her petite body. Carved into her naked chest was a crude imitation of the scar that marred Astarion’s own back - a taunt to him. 

The dark figure that stood over her turned to face him, and he was greeted by the twisted face of Cazador. He shouted in surprise, taking a large step backwards and again begging himself to return to reality. It shouldn’t have been possible for him to have a nightmare like this. Cazador’s gaze met his, fangs visible in a menacing smile that dripped with blood. Her blood.

It was Cazador, but not quite. Something was off about him, as if it were only someone wearing his face. But the vision was painfully real, and he could not escape it, through any methods he tried. He struggled against the trance, failing to pull free of it. Ending a trance was typically a simple thing - something he had done thousands of times before. The menacing laugh that filled his ears did not belong to Cazador, but instead some other sort of unholy being. Cazador turned back to Flora, and plunged a dagger into her stomach, standing to the side and forcing him to watch every moment of it. Flora cried out in agony, the sound ringing in his ears like a horrible song stuck in his head. Cazador’s voice might not have matched that of the original… but Flora’s voice was spot on and unmistakable. It was perfectly crafted to maximize his torment.

Astarion swallowed his disgust and fear as he willed his legs to run to her side. He reached desperately for her. He had no weapon, but it couldn’t matter now. He had to rescue her from the table. The light in her eyes was fading quickly. There wasn’t much time left now - she wasn’t going to survive. 

She’s already dead. This isn’t real.

He found himself stuck to the floor, feet frozen in place. He could do nothing as Cazador dragged the dagger down her stomach, ripping her open, cutting a long gash from her pelvis to her chest. Flora’s gurgling screams would haunt his memory for months, if not years to come.

The gleeful smile never left Cazador’s face. He had always been a violent and vicious man, but even through all of that, a smile was not something he traditionally wore. This was a vision, and this Cazador was not real.

Flora was not real. So why did he feel himself crying out for her specter? Again he begged himself to wake from the trance. He pinched himself. He tried to picture the room where he had been when he slept, but the image was murky and unclear. He watched Cazador drop his hands to the table, cupping her blood in his hands. Then he slowly approached him, hands held open to Astarion, pushing it up to his face. It was so disturbingly real that he swore he could smell it - a familiar, coppery and flowery tang. But no, it actually wasn’t quite right when he paid closer attention to it. This blood was muskier. Less appealing. Wrong. Not hers at all.

This isn’t real. It isn’t her.

Finally he managed to break the trance, coming slowly back to reality - covered in an unusual amount of sweat. He didn’t sweat. As the world formed around him again, he realized that he was no longer in the bed he’d taken his trance in. Instead, he stood in another room of the Elfsong, lit by a sputtering candle that was beginning to drown itself out in its own pool of wax. 

Astarion stood over the corpse of the same elf whose ear he had talked off earlier in the evening - the one who had initially thought he was flirting. He looked down at the familiar dagger in his hands, which were covered in the elf’s blood. A perfect mirror of what he had witnessed in his trance.

A perfect mess he would have to hide until nightfall.

[carnivalcarriondiscarded]

world's longest staring contest GO-

[definetelynotavampire]

Lazytown crossover ._ .

[etrevil]

If I was Fukuzawa I would've gone ballistic because WDYM my childhood bestfriend sacrificed his morals and thousands of lives and even HIMSELF in hopes of preventing a war that DIDN'T EVEN EXIST because your ass decided to lie???

Oh you going down motherfucker.

[qrowscant]

i hear the world is ending soon. when we go, and we're all going to go i will be... part of it.

"this is not the end of the world" by neil hilborn

[starrycove]

oh boothill... :')

[qquokkari]

i watched all of bungou stray dogs in three days and started + caught up with the manga in one and i’m making it everyone else’s problem

[itsbeenmyhonor]

here's a devastating thought!

xaden was 17 when he made the deal with lilith, which places him at the oldest end of the marked ones. he's at that age where he had friends who happened to be younger than him, like liam, but he most definitely lost more than just his father to the executions. it's likely some of his best friends that we will never hear about just happened to be over the age of 18 when aretia fell, maybe as little as a few months older than him. i can only imagine his survivor's guilt for it. the fact that he's the rebellion leader's son means he probably sees himself deserving of being executed more than any of his older friends did, but he was spared by being born when he was, something completely out of his control. so of course he would guard the marked ones with his life. they are not only what's left of the movement his father died for, but pieces of the people he loves, family friends who have probably known him before he knew them.

ow.

[hoshiumiumi]

[uhohdad]

Drabble requests?? If you would be so kind to humor me then-

Could there be like... soft and kind könig? Maybe just really gentle and domestic cause a while back i saw someone make headcanons of him being like a really mean guy and like all to them for sure!

But I was having a bit of a bad delusional day and könig is one of my attachments and seeing it made me so so sad and a bit paranoid cause like! Thats my partner! He wouldn't be like that!

So uh. Maybe just really soft comforting könig? If thats ok? Cause despite it being a few days now I still can't shake it and I feel bad over it :( hes such a silly but really good comfort for me. Big Austrian man ♡

Anyway if its no trouble then thank you! If not then its alright! Take care ok? ♡♡♡

for you my sweet beautiful anon? anything. i know könig would treat you like his liege ♡

˖⁺‧₊˚♡˚₊‧⁺˖ ˖⁺‧₊˚♡˚₊‧⁺˖ ˖⁺‧₊˚♡˚₊‧⁺˖ ˖⁺‧₊˚♡˚₊‧⁺˖ ˖⁺‧₊˚♡˚₊‧⁺˖

Köni💕: ‘How s work?’

Liebling: ‘:(‘

Köni💕: ‘o no, what happenbed?’

Liebling: ‘nothing. just nervous and weird. per usual lmao. 🙃’

Köni💕: ‘ill make u feel better when u get home’

Liebling: ‘:’)’

The aroma hits like a wave as you push the front door open, your mouth watering and tummy grumbling at the smell alone.

“Meine Prinzessin,” König calls as you set your bags down with a heavy thunk, “Did your day get better?”

“Just now,” You say, palm flush with the wall to support yourself as you kick off your shoes, “Whatever you’re doing in there, it’s art.”

“Your favorite,” he says proudly, a bit of a tune in his tone.

A giddy, mischievous giggle leaves you.

“Comfy clothes on the bed,” He adds.

You give a soft little whine, because it’s just too sickeningly sweet how he dotes on you.

After changed and settled, he’ll serve you your plate, listening intently as you vent about all the little things that have been bothering you lately.

“And, I don’t know. I know I shouldn’t feel this way, but I can’t-”

You sigh before continuing, “Sometimes I have this stupid voice in my brain, and it just tells me that you don’t actually like me, and I’m just not good enough for you. I know it’s not true, but it still gets to me, sometimes. Y’know?”

You look at him, faced pinched and a hand rubbing the back of your neck.

“I have the same stupid voice,” He says, those hooded blue eyes trained carefully in you, “But know little one, I love you more than anything.”

You pinch your nose at him, but you still have to fold your smile, cheeks warm and bunched.

“I love you more than anything, too,” You say sheepishly to your plate, tone soft as your fork absentmindedly plays with your food.

Once tummies are full and plates cleared away, König herds you to the couch, draping you with a cozy blanket. He fixes you a tea before joining you, happily letting you rest your head on his thigh. He’ll tolerate your silly little comfort movie without complaint, stroking your hair, playing with the soft locks. He doesn’t dare move after you ensnare him by falling asleep, snoring softly into his leg long after your half-drunk tea has gone cold. ♡

˖⁺‧₊˚♡˚₊‧⁺˖ ˖⁺‧₊˚♡˚₊‧⁺˖ ˖⁺‧₊˚♡˚₊‧⁺˖ ˖⁺‧₊˚♡˚₊‧⁺˖ ˖⁺‧₊˚♡˚₊‧⁺˖

♡gentle!könig

[angeart]

when nowhere feels safe, hold onto me

closeup of their bruises:

drawn for an au with @linkito <3

[m1nts]

🎶The Dance Is Over [Keep Reading For More]

And You Are Gone🎶

[leechkiss]

a long-awaited rest

[unexpectedgeese]

Thinkin abt how ORV explores the power of stories as a tool of both the oppressor and the oppressed. Kimcom uses stories to inspire hope and break cycles, whereas the Star stream uses them to shift the narrative and keep the cycle going. KDJ loving a story enough to survive vs. the constellations consuming them as food, uncaring towards the suffering involved. HSY and crew writing a happy ending in the epilogue vs. the Star stream violently course correcting Shin Yoosung (the disaster one) into acting out a tragedy. the 73rd Demon realm dehumanizing people SO MUCH that they didn’t even have names or identities. Olympus creating Heracles AS A STORY WEAPON from old myths to convince incarnations to buy into the system and strive for the top. Gigantomachia in general tbh.

[etrevil]

I take back every divorce post I made about these two. They never went to court, they just had a very long and complicated long-distance relationship, the distance being war.