#I am torn asunder by her

[cherriecove]

A Courtship of Politics and Passion (Part 1)

Jacaerys Velaryon x Hightower!Reader

Summary: Cannon divergence, Rhaenyra Targaryen is queen after the Dance of The Dragons. In order to secure peace and ensure her son is able to take his rightful place on the throne after her she decides to make allies out of previous enemies. Cherrie's Note: Hi Guys! thought I would try something new with this one and I am not sure how I feel about it. Please feedback with your opinions! Masterlist | Next Part

The Red Keep was alive with the hum of conversation, the clinking of goblets, and the soft melodies of minstrels playing in the background. Lords and ladies from every corner of the realm were gathered for the royal feast, a display of the Targaryen dynasty's power and grandeur. Long tables draped in crimson and black, the colours of House Targaryen, were laden with exotic dishes from across Westeros and Essos. Golden candelabras cast flickering shadows across the hall, while the walls echoed with laughter and murmurs. Yet, beneath the opulence of the evening, an undeniable tension lingered, weaving through the crowd like an unseen spectre.

At the heart of it all sat Queen Rhaenyra Targaryen, her presence unmistakable atop the Iron Throne. The sharp edges of the throne's swords reflected the light, a stark reminder of the power it represented—and the blood that had been spilled to keep it. Rhaenyra, now seasoned by years of rule and the bitter lessons of war, held herself with a regal composure. Her violet eyes, piercing and calculating, swept over the gathered courtiers with the practised gaze of a monarch who had seen both treachery and loyalty in equal measure. Her silver hair, cascading down her back in intricate braids, gleamed under the hall's torchlight. She had fought too hard for her crown to be complacent now.

Beside her stood Jacaerys Velaryon, her eldest son and heir, the future of the Targaryen line. His face, usually marked by the confidence of youth, was clouded with a grim solemnity. He had witnessed the horrors of the Dance of the Dragons, the civil war that had nearly torn their family asunder. The weight of the crown, one day destined to be his, already seemed to press heavily upon his shoulders.

Tonight, however, it was not the memories of the war that darkened his mood but the arrival of a particular guest—a guest whose very presence stirred old wounds.

Lady Y/N Hightower had made her entrance at court earlier that evening, drawing the attention of every eye in the hall. The daughter of one of the most powerful houses in Westeros, she embodied grace and poise as she moved through the gathering, her green silk gown flowing like water around her. Her beauty was undeniable, with her high cheekbones, delicate features, and eyes that gleamed with quiet intelligence. Yet, to Jacaerys, the green of her dress was more than a simple fashion choice—it was a reminder of the bitter rivalry that had once divided the realm.

The Hightowers had been instrumental in backing the Greens during the succession crisis, when Aegon II, spurred by the manipulations of his mother and the ambitions of his grandsire, Otto Hightower, had tried to claim the Iron Throne. The conflict had pitted Targaryen against Targaryen, nearly destroying their house in the process. The enmity between the Hightowers and the Targaryens had run deep ever since, and while the war had ended, the scars it left behind had yet to fully heal.

Rhaenyra, however, was no fool. She understood the precariousness of her reign, the fragile peace that had been brokered after the war. She had outlasted her enemies, but she knew that victory alone was not enough to secure the future of her family. Political alliances were now the key to maintaining the delicate balance of power, and Lady Y/N Hightower represented such an opportunity. The Hightowers, with their vast wealth and influence, could either be formidable enemies—or invaluable allies.

"This marriage," Rhaenyra said softly, leaning toward Jacaerys as they observed the feast below, "will strengthen the realm. With the Hightowers under our banner, no one will dare question your claim when the time comes."

Jacaerys clenched his jaw, his gaze fixed on the goblet of wine in his hand. "The Hightowers betrayed you, Mother. They sought to tear our family apart. And now you ask me to marry one of them?"

Rhaenyra's expression softened, but her voice carried the weight of hard-earned wisdom. "We can no longer afford to dwell in the past, Jace. The realm cannot survive on grudges. Peace is built on pragmatism, and Lady Y/N represents a chance to put old rivalries to rest."

Jacaerys glanced across the hall at Y/N, who sat at a place of honour among the noblewomen. She was poised, her demeanour betraying nothing of the storm that brewed within the room. Her beauty was undeniable, but all he could see was the history her name carried. The name Hightower was stained with betrayal in his eyes, and he struggled to separate the woman from the house she came from.

The greens, the banners of their enemies, still haunted him. They had flown high during the civil war, a symbol of the division that had nearly destroyed House Targaryen. To see them again, even in the form of a gown worn by the woman he was now expected to marry, stirred a deep unease within him. Could he truly trust her? Could he trust her family?

"I will speak with her," Jacaerys said after a long pause, his voice laced with reluctance. "But if this peace is false, if they betray us again..." He trailed off, his eyes darkening. "The consequences could destroy everything we’ve fought for."

Rhaenyra studied her son, recognizing the weight of his hesitation. She understood his doubts, for they echoed her own. Yet, as queen, she had learned that sometimes survival meant making alliances with those you least trusted. "I know," she replied quietly, her hand resting briefly on his arm. "But sometimes, Jace, the only way to ensure the future is to risk the past."

As the evening wore on, Jacaerys's gaze remained on Lady Y/N. He would speak to her, as his mother had requested. But in his heart, the seeds of doubt had already been planted, and he feared that peace, however tempting, might come at a far greater cost than anyone was willing to admit.

[cowboyshadows]

bloodied entente.

A woman does not take the throne unchallenged, not in this kingdom. She must earn it. Demand it. Rip it from the hands of those who would see her buried beside her father.

CW: parricide, fratricide, graphic description of killing. dead dove do not eat.

Your kingdom is torn asunder. What once was a coveted political utopia now festers with whispers of treason and coup. A magnificent, magnanimous territory bequeathed upon you the moment you saw light from womb. The First Born.

But your influence; your right to what is yours is dwindling before you. It’s a whirlpool of schism, orchestrated by the spare. Your own brethren, your own father, at that.

You know what it is you have to do. It’s not so much for you as it is for the welfare of your people. You are what is best for them. Who knows the banks of rivers like you? Who knows the speeding of sunlight through the peepal canopies if not you?

So you wield your maid’s tatters, cover yourself up. Charge headfirst into warfare. You are going to end this revolution once and for all, fight till kingdom come.

You manage to make it to the greenhouse without catching so much as a shifty eye. You step into the terrarium, eyes immediately scanning for placards. Any piece with writing—with information.

“And just what do you think you’re doing, madam?” You still in your tracks. Ghost.

Even for a land split so violently in two politics—your shrewd father remained. The legend that was his King’s Guard captain, Ghost, ensured that. Dexterity to put a sculptor to shame; agility that to rival a leopard. Face sheathed by helm, sword sheathed by his revered platinum.

His gruff timbre repeats his interrogation.

You modify your voice to the best of your abilities, back facing him. “I am no madam, sir. I am but a simple maid.”

He lets out a soft, nearly imperceptible sound. A huff in musing, perhaps. “Is that so?” You hear the menacing, deliberately conspicuous taps of footwear nearing you. “Reveal yourself, then.”

“That is quite inappropriate, sir. I must apologise.”

His breath is hot on you even through the linens of your hood. You can almost picture his hardened, near ebony gaze searing through you now.

“Reveal yourself.” His tone is unwavering, devoid of resolve.

You turn on your heel, breathing heavy through the cloth draping your face. You rip it off, jute shreds falling from grace and settling in the mud residue.

“Go back, princess.” Incontestable.

“It is my castle. I shall explore as I see fit.”

“It is not safe. For there may be traitors in your very own abode…” He says the last part in an infantilising taunt. It is as though he wishes to do you the insult of assuming naïveté.

You grit your teeth, bite your tongue. A good princess may not speak her mind. A good princess will remain calm, and above all, docile. Akin to a sedated circus elephant.

“You may stand guard, if you wish, knight,” you challenge. The baton is in your grasp now. It was your turn to insult him so. Reduce him to nothing but a common private with your implications, standing measly night watch for the royal brat while she picks out peonies.

He takes in a deep breath, eyes raking over you with purposeful contempt. “No. It is my duty to escort you back to your chambers.”

Perhaps the status and far reaching praise to his knighthood had gotten to his head. “It is not your job to keep me safe. It is your job to keep the throne safe.”

“Rest assured, madam,” the way he says ‘madam’ in his thinly veiled indignant lights your skin ablaze, “the King is safe in his chambers under my watch.”

“Under your watch… yet you stand here, tangibly so.”

His eyes—pools of darkness, as they were—threaten to bore holes in your temples. “It may be in your best interest to cooperate, your highness."

The threat looming between his uttered words is not lost on you. Neither are you a headstrong fool, so blinded in your quest for parricide that you would recklessly throw yourself to this bloodhound.

His job is to safeguard your father. At any cost, come hell or high water, would he be a good knight. He would not break his oath, sworn upon the book of John.

You sigh. “Then that is what I shall do. As you were, knight.”

He hangs a few steps behind at every turn of the staircase. As if he wants to make you sure you really go inside.

Through the slivers of space below the hinges flanking your door, hushed whispers will filter in. No doubt, Ghost reprimanding your retinue. Admonishing them for a job undone.

Ghost isn’t daft. Though he prefers to distance himself from the common scuttlebutt of the aristocracy, he is more than privy to the impending scandal so oft discussed on the grapevines.

It isn’t a matter of possibility. Rather, simply one of when the first shoe would drop, and who would be the assailant.

He need not worry, for a King’s Guard is a constant in varying monarchs. All he has to do is his job. Simple enough, when your biggest threat is a royal lass with a thirst for blood she shares.

He watches as your billowy figure disappears behind the sturdy threshold of your chambers. Your little play at ‘damsel in distress’ would never fool him.

"If I ever have to do your job for you again, Sergeant…” he mutters to your knight, “with God as my witness, I will have your chainmail resting at the bottom of the river bed.”

You are a shrewd, cunning lass. Improper traits for a princess, however… what does not make for princess, will more than make for king.

You deserve better than some knight you can outsmart. There are people of a certain breed in this castle… those who share your own blood are least reticent to draw it.

If only out of pity, he ignores the sloppy thump of your body landing outside your window. Just as he will ignore the erratic rustle of cracked autumn leaves beneath your bare, thorned steps.

He has his wits about him still. You are a woman scorned — desperate to take back what they threaten to take from you. He had no interest in getting caught in the crosshairs of this interpolitical, parricidal miasma plaguing your family.

You need a better knight, anyway. Two birds with one stone.

The mourning veil is a cruel joke. A wisp of black silk draped over a face that has not shed a single tear. You stand at the heart of the throne room, wrapped in grief’s vivacious performance, bathed in the candlelight flickering against the cold marble floor. Your chest heaves with your sobs, your throat aches with feigned stutters. The air stinks of incense and dying lilies.

Your father is dead.

Frothing at the mouth.

Collapsed on the velvet sheets of his great four-poster bed, eyes bulging, fingers curled into claws against his own throat. The court physicians called it an illness. A tragedy. The work of a bitter god.

Ghost, however, calls it something else.

You feel him before you hear him. A shift in the air, the whisper of movement behind you, a shadow stretching too long against the stone. Then—

“Princess.”

You turn just enough to catch him in your periphery. The helmet is gone, revealing sharp, sun-worn features. Golden stubble punctures the sharp sunken bones his skin clings to. His eyes, dark and unreadable, pin you to the spot.

“A cruel thing, the way he went.”

You hum softly, tilting your head as if in thought. “A tragedy,” you correct.

Ghost makes a sound—something like a scoff, something like a laugh. He steps closer, close enough that the scent of steel and leather curls into your lungs.

“He choked on his own tongue,” he murmurs. “A death fit for vermin. Unworthy of a king.”

His meaning is clear. Your fingers twitch against the folds of your dress, but you keep your expression smooth. “Be careful how you speak to your queen, knight.”

“Not my queen yet, princess.”

“Some may take such words for treason.”

“Some may take murder for the same.”

The silence between you crackles like a storm on the horizon. You do not ask him how he knows. Ghost does not ask you why.

Finally, he exhales, shaking his head. “You did it clean. I’ll give you that.”

Your lips curl, just slightly. “You approve?”

“No.” A pause. His head remains held high, pride even in his pernicious intent. “But I admire efficiency.”

A breath of relief, cold and quick, slides through your ribs. You study him now, watching for the telltale signs of duty outweighing whatever strange favour he has for you.

“And what will you do, knight?” You take a step closer, your voice dropping to a whisper, curling like smoke around his ears. “Will you tell them?” No one will believe you, dies a bloody death on your tongue.

His fingers twitch at his side, close to the hilt of his sword. “No.”

Your brows lift.

“Your father is dead. The throne has no master.” He leans in, his voice a quiet, measured thing. “I am not fond of your brother.”

A slow breath expands in your lungs, swelling to the hilt. Rooting you in your steps, his eyes like nails to a crucifix.

“You are not stopping me.”

“No.”

A slow smile unfurls across your lips.

Ghost does not move when you press a hand to his chest, feeling the thrum of life beneath armour and fabric. His breath is steady. Measured. Controlled.

“Then stand aside, knight."

“Not so simply.”

He lifts a gloved hand, and for the first time, you feel something almost like hesitation in him. It rests agains yours, weight landing like that of a thousand anchors dropped.

“Your Highness… if you wish to take the throne, then take it. Do not linger in the doorway like a frightened girl.”

Your fingers curl against the fabric of his tunic, poison and vitriol twisting in your guts like they had stolen the breath of your father.

“I was never frightened.”

Ghost tilts his head, considering you. Then, slowly, he steps back.

“Then prove it.”

You do not look back as you leave.

The castle is quiet at this hour. A silence too thick, too poised. The kind that comes before the strike of a blade.

You know he’s coming.

The corridors leading to your chambers are shrouded in flickering embers behind lanterns, gilding the stone walls in saffron and shadow. Every step you take echoes, yet you do not hesitate. A queen does not slink in the dark like vermin. If your brother wishes to strike, let him find you waiting.

When you push open the door to your chambers, the draft stirs the gauzy curtains framing your bed. You move inside with the unhurried grace of someone who owns the ground you walk upon. You will, in due time. Someone who does not fear what lurks beyond the innocuous veil of moonlight.

A whisper of movement behind you. The shift of leather against metal. The sharp inhale of a man preparing to strike.

You turn in time to see your brother lunging.

The dagger in his grip gleams like a shard of starlight, aimed straight for your ribs. He is close enough that you see the ugly fury twisting his features, the raw, unrelenting hatred coiling behind his eyes. The assumed, unprovoked vengeance rearing its head.

He had never loved you. And now, he would not even pretend.

But before the blade can find its home in your chest, before you could so much as part your lips to mock him for the pathetic attempt—

A silver blur.

A sickening crack.

Your brother barely has time to choke before his head hits the stone floor, rolling like a discarded thing. An afterthought, garbage. The rest of his body sways, still standing for a single, agonising second, before it crumples in a lifeless heap. Folds in the weakness he harboured inside.

Blood pools, dark and glistening, spreading towards your feet. Scarce carmine droplets cascade down the slope of your nose, burning hot against frail skin. The metallic lustre blooms rare when it reaches the slick of your tongue, staining your mouth with the ichor of your brethren.

Ghost stands a few steps away, platinum sword angled downward, its tip dripping becomingly with crimson.

He had moved so fast, so precisely, that you had not even seen him draw his blade. His helm still mantles his face, but you can feel his eyes on you, drinking in your reaction.

You let out a slow breath, lowering your gaze to what remains of your brother. How poetic, that he would meet the same fate he had planned for you.

Ghost tilts his head. “Disappointed?” His voice is almost amused.

You meet his gaze—or what little you can see of it. Narrow slits that hide intense tenacity. “I was looking forward to watching him beg.”

A beat of silence. Then, softly, a huff of laughter. The corner of your mouth twitches, a sick sense of victory creeping behind your ribs. Doubt snakes off your bone, relinquishing a short-lived reign.

He stepped forward, lowering himself into a loose crouch beside the corpse. With the ease of a man turning over a stone, he grasps your brother’s lifeless hand and places the dagger back into it, curling the fingers just so. Staging it for the morning’s operatic audience, as it were.

“An attempted assassination,” he murmurs. “A traitor slain in the act. The queen defended.” He narrates sated, for your pleasure.

You hum, watching his careful work. “A loyal knight, doing his duty.”

Ghost glances up at you. His gauntlet is streaked in blood now, glistening dark under the candlelight. “As always.”

You do not thank him. He does not need your gratitude, and you would not insult him with it.

Instead, you turn, stepping over your brother’s body without so much as a second glance, and make for the door. “See to it that his remains are disposed of. Let it be known that he fled the kingdom in disgrace.”

“As you wish, my queen.”

His voice follows you as you leave, low and pleased, as if he relishes the words. As if he had known, all along, that you would become this. You do not stop.

The throne is not yet yours, but the air already tastes of triumph.

Redolence curls in thick tendrils toward the vaulted ceiling, mingling with the scent of burning tallow and fresh-cut roses. The great hall is suffocating in gold—gilded pillars, embroidered banners, the molten glow of lamps reflecting off polished steel. The nobility stands in their pressed silks and heavy jewels, faces composed into the perfect balance of reverence and restraint.

They are afraid.

Good.

You stand at the foot of the dais, bedecked in a widow’s weeds despite the occasion. It is a delicate thing, the balance between grief and power. A woman does not take the throne unchallenged, not in this kingdom. She must earn it. Demand it. Rip it from the hands of those who would see her buried beside her father.

So you play your role.

Ghost lingers behind you, silent and still. No longer your father’s sworn blade. No longer a knight bound by duty. He is something else now—something yours, without invitation.

“Kneel,” the high priest intones. His voice curls loud and rehearsed in echos, focused by the rounded front you face.

A lesser woman might hesitate.

You ascend the steps. The cold stone bites into your knees as you lower yourself before the altar.

The priest’s hands are heavy as they settle on your shoulders, his voice weaving through the sacred rites, words worn thin from centuries of repetition. He speaks of duty. Of sacrifice. Of the gods’ will.

What do the gods know of sacrifice?

They did not slip poison into a father’s cup. They did not slit a brother’s throat in the dark of an empty hall.

Neither have you, in the eyes of them.

You feel the weight of the crown before it touches your head.

The high priest lifts it from its velvet cushion, the gemstones catching the light, shimmering like bloodied stars. Carrying the rufous and maroon of ill-wishers past. You do not close your eyes as he places it atop your brow. You want to see this. To feel it. To carve this moment into the marrow of your bones.

The crown settles.

The hall holds its breath.

“Rise, Your Majesty.”

You do.

The hush shatters into thunder. Applause rolls through the chamber, hollow and practiced. You see the way they look at you—the too-careful bows, the too-tight smiles. They do not love you.

You do not need them to.

Your hands rest against the arms of the throne as you sink into it, the cold gold molding against the shape of your body. The cushion depresses with a whisper beneath your body.

Ghost steps forward, his gaze meeting yours. He says nothing. He does not have to.

A slow smile curves your lips.

“Long may I reign.”

[rarilight]

Me, circa 2013, watching the MLP pilot: oh so this pony is the stereotypical prissy girl character lol ok

Rarity: hello. we are well met. Did you know? i will consume your art. you will play with me like a doll, your favorite one, placing me in the grandest of shows over and over again. It will be for art, you will say. It will be just pretend.

Me: i wonder if she’s going to be bitchy lol rip

Rarity: we are not so disimilar you and i. this is why you cling to me. i will haunt your narratives, your greatest muse, and as you type away words in a depressive state, placing me in scenarios where i will be twisted and challenged and torn asunder only to prevail in the end, i will wish I could ask one thing: Tell me will it help?

Me: i guess she’s okay

Rarity: tell me honestly darling dearest will it help? i will be your doll, gladly and willingly, as you help me again and again, a manic dance where i am your reflection, and in my success you hope beyond hope that it might save you too. But does it help? Does it help? You are me and i am you, but so often only one gets to be happy while the other bleeds to death? tell me, my darling, how long til you realize the doll being choked by marionette strings is not me? but i will dance. I will spin for you, and one day perhaps, when you put me in a story where all is lost, it will be just a story, and not your soul’s suicide letter

Me: man her design is really super pretty tho

Rarity: I am GORGEOUS, thank you for noticing

[clairescotcoutts]

So, about The Veilguard.

This post is:

Long.

Spoiler full.

Read at your peril.

So.

The fact that I devoured the game in virtually less than three days should speak for itself; I was worried about the playing style, I was unsure about the combo system, and having only two companions travel alongside the MC felt a little alien to me and also added to my anxiety. (Yes, I’ve played Mass Effect, yes, I’ve been in a fighting trio before, but never in Dragon Age.) I thought, “There’s only three of us?! We’re gonna die so much and so hard.”

Turns out I didn’t die so many times as I’d expected, so yay me.

I had refused to watch anything that had to do with the plot, with the exception of the trailers, because I wanted my experience to be fresh and untainted by expectations. Of course, I had hopes — but other than that, I dove in blind and without any sense of direction.

As you know, the depths of the ocean hold both horror and beauty, so here are mine; I shall start with the horrors so all the bad air is cleared out first.

My primary horror is that, save a few points, the game very clearly follows BioWare’s own canon, in which the Hero of Ferelden must have died to stop the Fifth Blight, and thus there is no Kieran. Morrigan plays a pivotal role yet again, but her presence implies that the decisions made in previous games are… well, your own, but not the world’s own. So, no Kieran, and it is heavily suggested that it was Morrigan who drank from the Vir’Abelasan. Even if she hadn’t, turns out she ends up with a piece of Mythal inside her anyway, granted by a regretful (and finally gone) Flemeth.

Story-telling wise, well, I don’t know if it was the best choice— I just know it bummed me out a bit to find some of my decisions discarded, not considered at all.

My second horror is the absence of either Hawke or Stroud. The events at Amaranthine are mentioned, but (unless I missed a codex entry) there’s no word on what happened to the brave soul left in the Fade to fight that giant monster demon. Since I always leave Stroud behind (because Alistair is and always will be a king to me), I can’t say I’m suffering to know his fate, but it would’ve been nice to confirm something. 

At the end of Inquisition, Morrigan narrates that should Hawke live, they go to Weisshaupt, but soon all news from there ends. What happened?! Am I missing something found only in the comics or books?

Also what happened to the rest of the companions? What about the woman made Divine in Inquisition? Whether it’s Leliana, Cassandra or Vivienne, you’d think the Divine would have something to say about two ancient elven gods turning the world tits up.

What about the Qunari who are not part of the Antaam? Are they in agreement with Elgar’nan and Ghilan’nain? Is Seheron torn asunder like Minrathous?

Why is nobody remarking on the fact that the Crows buy (or used to buy) people?! I love the Antivan Crows, I do, but one cannot forget Zevran and all he told us about them.

Those are my particular points of horror. 

Now, to the rest.

Veilguard is a game that doesn’t hold back. It’s out to punch you in the guts and kick you in the feelings, and boy does it do it brilliantly. The sacrifices are real. The choices are heavy and carry weight on them that slumps you down (especially if you’re extra sensitive, like me) throughout the game. The dilemma and problems your companions face are heart wrenching, and you want them all to thrive. Yes, even the one who was hardened because you can’t bloody be in two places at once. These companions are well fleshed-out, they’re alive, they’re complex and they are so beautiful to live and travel with. The emotional moments they have, I felt them, I suffered with them, I cried. I /cried/, which had never happened to me with a videogame before. And not just because this companion is my favourite or that topic hits a bit close to home— not just that. It’s because they’re amazingly written and acted out. They feel so real.

The locations are gorgeous (I especially fell in love with Treviso), and I love how much you’re able to explore. I love that you can pet animals. I love that you can interact with the world in front of you. I /love/ that you don't miss dialogue even if you get into a fight because the companions re-start conversations now.

The NPCs? My children. Isabela is fire, as always; Antoine, Evka, Viago and Teia have my whole heart. The Mourn Watch is fascinating and the Shadow Dragons are bold, united and righteous. I really like that the Veil Jumpers don’t diss on the Dalish just because they know more— they understand that, as a people, they are one. And they’re accepting of everyone, not just elves!

I simply adore Rook as a protagonist. Not just because they give purple Hawke, and I love Hawke, but because again, they feel human and real. They know this is well above their paygrade, and they’re in way over their heads, but they still step up and lead because damn, someone has to. Iron Bull would be so proud. They are fun, they are caring, they are talkative and they know they’re drowning, but can’t afford to stop swimming.

Both in Origins and Inquisition it felt as though we were The Chosen One, even if in the latter one tried to swear it off and deny any possible divine intervention, but in DA: 2 and here, we are just people trying their best with the worst circumstances, and to me, that’s beautiful. Rook is a delightful protagonist.

The game allows you to choose who you’re going to be and /how/ you’re going to be thus. You can be cis, you can be trans, you can be neither and you can be both. No limits now.

Which leads me to another point I simply adored: how the questions of gender are treated. It’s really big to have an NB character go through their own acceptance process before our very eyes. While in Origins (and a bit in Inquisition too) you have the choice to be shocked that there are people who like their same gender, this game is Thedas saying “The world is big, the world is complex, and people everywhere are not defined by your expectations or rules. It’s not even an option. Deal with it.”

Regarding the magic, I’m not even mad it looks and feels different. After all, Dorian used to say that “the South is so charming and rustic”, and now I see that’s because what he saw in Ferelden and Orlais was not what he is used to. Even in Absolution we see that the way Tevinter used magic is distinctly unique and not how it is done south of Arlathan. I understand it. I like it. It’s not as if there had been no changes in the designs of demons and darkspawn before, and now that’s what they look like. It’s fine. Time has passed and people are allowed to make different creative choices.

Now, to Solas… Solas. Oh, Solas. I understand you so much better now.

Veilguard really helps put into perspective some bits of dialogue from previous games. Why does this 8-ball care so much about spirits and the Fade? Gods, because he /is/ them, and the Fade used to be his home. Every time he has to hear that spirits are monsters or unreal he takes it personally, and how could he not? People are saying he’s a monster, he’s not real, and nobody knows any better because they wouldn’t believe him anyway. Now I understand why he gets so worked up if you make Cole more human—you’re doing to him what Mythal did to Solas himself. You’re forcing him to be something else and Solas knows it hurts. (Also, Cole is happier as a spirit— “Thank you for helping me find this again. For believing in me. You don't know what it means”, he says, and now it hits so differently.)

I have to remark on some things I’ve read that have shocked me— first of all being the interpretation of Solas and Mythal’s relationship. Like Taash, you can assume “they were doing it”, however, I don’t think they ever loved each other like that. Their bond, to me, is that of a queen and her most loyal knight, a “king and lionheart” sort of situation if you will. Solas knows her better than anyone else, certainly, but the way I see it, that right there is his commander, inspiration and also, his heaviest shackle.

Their relationship merits another post altogether, I believe, as does Solas and Lavellan’s.

All in all, the good, to me, far outweights the bad.

Give the Veilguard a chance before you discard them, enjoy the appearance of some of the characters you love, enjoy getting to know the new heroes. Give yourself the option of having an informed opinion before you love or hate.

Also, petition for Solas to let his hair grow out again.

That's it, for now.

[nectardaddy]

mirage | suna rintarou

seven | rolodex ★

masterlist

I haven't added music to this series; however, Soda by Nothing But Thieves helped me write this. I'd definitely take a listen!

ignore timestamps

cw/notes: messy x100 bass boosted in 4k, flawed characters, self destructive behavior, real/raw emotions, anxiety/panic attack, allusion to being overstimulated, very brief mention of throwing up (used as a metaphor, not detailed), repetitive statements done on purpose

She death gripped the metal counter with a small sigh, knuckles starting to grow sore from the tension she held onto. The cold metal sending a shock wave through her palms, a sudden iciness to it that she hoped would force her back to reality - it didn't.

Breathe.

As if telling herself that would make it any easier.

Her day started off normally, despite the pain the bashed her skull from drinking the night before. A familiarity to her routine that kept her stress relatively low - if something were to go amiss it ruined her day. A rolodex of mundane tasks and work obligations, but if she did them in a set order her stress was little to none. A schedule she stuck to meticulously, one wrong move and her day would be torn asunder.

Suna Rintarou threw a wrench in that complex order; took the rolodex in his hands and made a jumbled mess of it.

'I just want you to be happy.' Haunted her subconscious the moment she read it, the moment she finally went to sleep, and the moment she opened her eyes that morning. Lingered in the back of her mind throughout the day until it couldn't be ignored anymore; prowling around in her head like a cat - until it finally pounced.

Breathe.

She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, but the thought of the green eyed man still rattled her to her very core. Feline and wild, at one point making her weak at the knees; now she only felt the need to vomit at the thought. To pull the nearest trash can towards her and heave; because why on earth did she still want him? Why did she still crave the attention of a man who's words were brash and unruly? Why did she still need the man who's kind sentiments never truly fizzled out?

Why did she still love the man whom she created to be the devil?

Distracting herself with every petty, trivial argument they had to negate the feelings of hopeless love. Purposefully unable to recall of times where he was doting, selfless - loving. It was better to remember him as a monster, if he ever was one in the first place, than think of him fondly.

Suna Rintarou ruined that image of himself for her. Shattered it into a million pieces and she watched in horror as it fell at her feet. 'I just want you to be happy' was the smoking gun that shot down any fleeting memory of a bickering past.

She reopened her eyes and seized the counter harder, an imprint of the table's edge embedding itself in her palm as she held it vehemently. With a tight jaw, she let her eyes slide to her phone resting on the table next to her. Staring back at her as a singular thought wracked her brain - call him.

Her world got a bit smaller when the thought hit her. Caving in on itself as the notion alone gave her tunnel vision.

Call him.

She pulled her bottom lip between her teeth, sucking in a breath as all she could find herself to do was stare at the black screen in contemplation.

Call him.

A quick decision, one given without thought, that caused her body to move on its own. Picking up the phone and scrolling through her contacts with conviction, but without a thread of reflection. Yet the phone rang a bit too long, the fan next to her was a bit too loud, and the lights above her in the cramped back room were a bit too bright.

So she hung up the moment he answered and threw her phone back onto the table. She listened to it buzz relentlessly for the next few minutes with eyes screwed shut and knee bouncing until it finally fell silent again.

Breathe.

I am an unreliable narrator, obviously, and yes it was done on purpose do not come for me.

Iwa can pretty much guess what's going on, next chapter bout to go crazy with this

pay attention to the lock screen picture ;) (do not read me about that lock screen either I tried my best on canva)

if you don't know what a rolodex is, thanks for making me feel old, but (and this is the google definition) it's a "rotating card file device used to store a contact list"

she will not be telling the group chat what she's doing tonight

she will lie if they ask just like she lied to akaashi

yn I see you and I love you dearly

taglist (open , send an ASK)

@mollyrolls @causenessus @zumicho @seroh @eggyrocks 

@nbcvs @rory-cakes @localgaytrainwreck @kodzu-ken @hermaeusmorax

@sunafc @lvtilzs @kr1nqu @iiwaijime @gsyche 

@le000xxgrd @iheartpinky @strxwberri-s @wolffmaiden @yogurtkags 

@superboywife @cherrypieyourface @soulfullystarry @bedeater @a-little-pebbl

@miliondollagirl @toges-cough-syrup @renardiererin  @theycallmenanamisgirl @honeekyuu

@softpia @mfcherry @keeboismine @phoenix-eclipses

[glassrowboat]

Kiss Me (Kill Me). Dottore.

Summary: And then his breath halted. Nails slotting into the same marks she had left in the leather as he gripped it tightly. One sentence was enough to have his synthetic heart beating wildly, pounding as he took in the most simple phrase possible. After all, how can one mistake the words sitting neatly right before him?

Series warnings: suicidal ideation, gore, Dottore, the author trying their best to write a psychologist without any formal studying themselves, suicide, self harm, drug abuse, unhealthy relationships, depressed reader, reader is her own character, eventual smut, religious symbolism

Chapter one:

Take my yoke upon you, and learn of me; for I am meek and lowly in heart: and ye shall find rest unto your souls.

Matthew 11:28-30

Pages were pinched between deft hands, crinkling them with ease as if the words printed out on them in a rushed, messy scrawl meant no more than a spider being crushed to death under a white tissue. All without so much as a hint of protest, for what could paper do against merciless hands?

It was merely a dead tree at the end of it all. Torn from its root, broken off and left to dry in the heat of a warm day, sapping it of all the life it had only to be dunked back into water. Boiled; down to its most basic properties and pulped. All to be formed into something new: the base that starts a creation. From books, art, or scrawled secrets in a diary.

But the dead do not praise the almighty that snuffed it out, nor do any who go down into silence. So the plant it had once been withers away.

A page was torn, a sound that grated on his ears. Dottore almost recoiled on instinct, having gotten so used to the distinct rip of paper that was torn asunder after hours of work had been documented only to turn out fruitless. A waste of his time and effort as a trash bin would slowly fill and tip over.

A scowl grew on his lips.

Now just what was she doing?

In the matter of a few long strides, Dottore had moved from his spot, leaning against the doorframe to her, grabbing her wrist with ease. Capturing her attention. The woman he dared to whisper the pet name habibi to in the dark of the night between rumpled sheets and had long since dubbed Beauty jolted back, looking up at him in a manner he was well used to by now.

Her gaze was as analytical as always; from the very moment they first met to now in their silent reverie. Observing him in the very same way Dottore looked down at a subject below his eager fingers or a piece of Khaenri’ah's legacy left behind in fragments scattered across Teyvat; breaking them down and building them back up so he may understand every last piece. How it works, how it moves, how it falls, and watch it all come together again with a newfound piece of knowledge to utilize.

But contrary to those moments hidden away in his laboratory, there were no gloves separating Beauty from him like there always was with those who lay strapped down on a stainless steel vivisection table. Nay, there was only the warmth of skin against skin he had so greedily chosen to relish in for he was a man who has never tasted sweetness being drawn in by the red sheen of an apple, pointed teeth biting into it for the first time as its juices befouled his maw. Not even the snap of blue rubber against his wrists could save him from the heat of her touch.

That was something Dottore had learned long ago.

“This is the first time I've seen you out of bed in days, and it's to tear apart your work?” Dottore questioned.

At least, that's what he assumed it was. She hadn't even given him the proper chance to peek at the pages he was expecting to see littered with bullet points and breakdowns of this subject or that one all in glittery ink before her free hand was brushing it all away. Nearly knocking it off the desk as she formed a measly excuse of a stack. Ruffling could be heard, but that paled to how her fingers were splayed wide to block his prying eyes.

Only a few messy words had caught his attention, drawing him in before she ripped everything right out from under him. Sheets of paper a rug his feet weren't even planted on suddenly throwing him off balance.

Tilting his head back to thunk against something all with the gentle scoff, she huffed, not even looking up at him as “peeking now” was asked in an accusatory tone.

“Could you blame a scholar for being curious?”

“Yes, I can.”

He felt her swatting at his chest, touch as light as the gentle caress of a falling feather, as she tried to get Dottore to give her some space; if not an ample amount. It's just like she's been insisting on for days now. Endlessly. Assurances of how she's fine, that they're fine, and everything is simply peachy besides the fact she's simply been feeling a little under the weather as of late have been stuffed into his ears again and again like cotton swabs. Soon, no doubt, they would pierce the tympanic membrane and leave only blood in their wake. For today, it had reached the two week mark, and Beauty was still insisting she was “fine.”

It took no effort on Dottore's part to capture the offending limb.

His thumb ran over her wrist, over her racing pulse, until he was tracing the lines on her palm. Mapping out how they curved around them and shifted with each flex of her hand. “Someone's nervous.”

“You..” Beauty's voice trailed off, fading down to a whisper only from uttering one word. But still, he stared down at her, waiting for a proper answer on what this entire debacle had been about. “And you know I don't like you going over my work when it's incomplete.”

Dottore's fingers twitched, threatening to tighten his hold on her before he let her go.

“Then I suppose I should have come home at my usual hour then. That way, you would have had the time to hide this”- he gestured to the mess on the vanity- “away.”

Of course, she jumped, nearly throwing herself off a cliff in the process, at the chance to change the subject. “Actually, I was wondering why you're back early. You're usually so wrapped up in work.”

Which would usually end with Dottore trudging through their bedroom door after a long day, only to slip his coat off as silently as possible to drape it over a lone chair off to the side. A dull blue light would always fill the corner as he came back, flickering over his face and hers as Beauty laid in bed, illuminating the way her eyelids twitched in irritation at the sudden glow; still, she always pretended to be asleep anyway.

Never stirring from the covers.

Not even as he pressed a kiss to her forehead and slipped into the bathroom to get ready for the quiet night that awaited him; one of Dottore staring up at the ceiling while she slowly fell into the depths of the dream world he had once been ecstatic at having access to when he first ripped the Akasha from his ear and called it what it truly was: a limitation. An inhibitor. A chain wrapped around the necks of human beings like they were dogs to be shackled by Celestia's will.

The very same irking feeling at the thought greeted Dottore tonight like an old friend, beckoning him as he made his way downstairs, pulling her along with him and away from her supposed work and the wooden vanity so they could have dinner together.

Though she had first insisted on cleaning up, on getting rid of the “trash” she had “dared to pen down in the first place.” Her purple bound leather notebook with loose, torn pages sticking out of the sides was suddenly shoved into a nearby waste bin and quickly taken out to be dumped by one of the maids as they worked. All before he could even make out the design stamped into the front.

It was so unlike her, but she always did have a way of confounding him.

A reticent meal had taken up his evening; one Dottore never would have imagined bothering with five years ago, not when he could have been down in the lab with the sounds of metal clanging or the gentle hum of a machine running as he tinkered with a ruin guard. Rust would be filling his nose rather than the scent of roasted duck as he was left with something that would at least make eye contact (or the closest a ruin guard can get to such) without Dottore having to draw its chin up to look at him.

Her eyes boring into his before she pushed Dottore's hand away and told him to eat lest he let another meal go cold before he finished it. Again.

So he laid in their shared bed, the taste of mint still on Dottore's tongue from brushing his teeth after dinner, and once again started counting each dot in the ceiling above as he stared up at the all too familiar sight.

When he was younger, before he knew the truth about the false sky and the lies it whispered to him, a little boy with wide eyes and his mother’s favorite blanket wrapped around his shoulders to keep off the starving cold had done the same with the stars. No matter how itchy it had been, he would have tugged it closer, welcomed its warm embrace, as he wordlessly mouthed the words:

One thousand forty-three.

One thousand forty-four.

One thousand forty-five.

Until he was dragged inside by a hand that grabbed him a little too tightly to do the very thing Beauty had now: to fall asleep.

Her breathing steady, as unshakable as those devout to prayers and a lifetime in pews as Beauty laid curled up against one of the many pillows littering the bed, taking more comfort in the foam stuffed inside it rather than Dottore and his awaiting arms. Comfortably, her nose sat buried away in the shirt she had stolen from him, again, and her legs coiled themselves up in the sheets. She always did have a way of taking them from him in the midst of slumber.

It would be so easy to pull that damnable pillow from her clutches, to throw it off to the side and hold her close until the morning came, and he'll have to leave when the sun rises. Casting its glow across her form lying alone. Only an imprint of his body in the mattress for company, but the few words he has been able to catch scratched out from the mess of papers have been worming at his brain the entire time he had laid there counting away.

Maggots to a corpse.

Feasting on curiosity he had in spades.

One thousand fifty-two, Dottore counted.

His name had been painted across the pages. Dottore, Zandik, and the nickname she called him. Matching the one he had for her. Back then, she had a smile on her face that had halted his breath, just the way it did as he stared at handwriting he could recall all the way down to every flick of an E.

Observations, no doubt, for human behavior was her bread and butter; the very air she breathed; and the ink spilling from her pen as she wrote down every sin he dared to confess.

He had received hundreds of reports from her by now, far too many to count but stored away nonetheless, about the latest test subjects detailing every last thing she could think of. To the point that he already had a vague idea of what she would have written about him, but it was more than that. It had to be. For she wouldn't have tossed that damn journal out otherwise.

Cast it aside like dross.

With one last lingering glance her way as Beauty snored against the sheets, Dottore got out of bed.

The floorboards didn't even so much as creek below him as he walked to the door and shut it with a silent click.

A book of all things was haunting him. Causing Dottore to leave his chambers in the middle of the night to make his way down chilled halls. The presence of the cryo Archon herself decorating each corridor, each twist and turn, with the cold he had worked so hard to combat a few centuries ago with heaters so hot to the touch you couldn't even graze past one without it leaving a burn on any trace of exposed flesh. (As learned from personal experience).

Zapolyarny Palace's rubbish room should be…

The flutter of his white jacket followed Dottore as he pulled it on, having only just plucked it from where it hung before the door had smacked him in the face he made his way down a flight of steps.

Briefly, Dottore could hear his segments over their shared network prying into what he was doing. Or arguing with themselves, really; that seemed to be their favorite hobby. They always had something to say. To jabber about to the point that tamping each voice down had become second nature.

Shutting them out was easy, something he had done millions of times by now. And that was just this past six months.

The last thing he heard, flickering out as the connection was temporarily cut to dull the ache in his head was Epsilon. Petulant, as between the radio static Dottore caught something about “and you say I'm the one who should mind their own business.”

Then, all Dottore was left with was the loud groan of the trash compactor. A sound that had welcomed him time and time again after all the times he had been down here. His shoes had always hit the floor louder than necessary as he had to deal with tossing supplies that unfortunately hadn't lasted through his experiments.

It creaks a nostalgic hum.

But that wasn't why he was here.

Flexing his hands, the leather of his gloves moving with them, Dottore set to digging through the plastic bags in front of him. Tossing anything that wasn't his goal out of the way, cluttering the floor with paper cups, shredded files, and whatever else had been used and forgotten. A lesser man might have been disgusted, but this was just another Tuesday.

And then his fingers met the stained purple leather.

Kalpalata lotus print embedded on the front.

A white figure huddled over trash stood in the middle of the room, a reverent touch grazing over the cover of the journal covered in scratches and fingernails prints worn into the leather just like the flower marking the front from having gripped it too tightly.

Surely, if someone came in now, they'd look at him as if he was crazed. Maybe even shout about ghosts suddenly intruding on the palace; to which he'd only laughed.

Taking the treasure in his grasp, Dottore turned it over methodically, studying just how well worn it was. Threadbare, down to the bone as the binding threatens to fall out on him, the first page already hanging out of the book as he opens it to read his habibi’s name claiming this as hers all with one simple signature staining the surface; in a way that he couldn't find himself to mind even with the occasional drops of ink.

It was enough to have Dottore pulling his gloves off, throwing them to the floor to collect later so he could trace over each word. Even with the splatters, it was still so much neater than his own notes written down in a crazed frenzy.

And then his breath halted.

Nails slotting into the same marks she had left in the leather as he gripped it tightly.

One sentence was enough to have his synthetic heart beating wildly, pounding as he took in the most simple phrase possible.

After all, how can one mistake the words:

Wouldn't it all be easier if I was dead?

In pure black ink. No colored pens, no glitter, not even doodles in the margins or a little heart just for him, a sight Dottore had grown well used to seeing in her reports to him.

The sight made him want to hurl the book into the shadows of the room around him. Let it be forgotten between heaps of trash and plastic bags. They could hide the pages, cover them in scraps of food, and soak in the drops of half finished drink until each letter was blurred beyond recognition.

She did, after all, decide it was trash.

So wouldn't it make sense he let it be treated like it was? As long as it meant never seeing those words again.

His arm was already extended, waiting to toss it into the foul abyss and say good riddance, but what would that do, really?

In the end, he still knew.

Dottore could sit here, close his eyes, and picture that damned sentence again all because he knew.

That simple fact was enough to have Dottore grimacing in annoyance. Mind telling him the obvious, just as always, even in this moment where his emotions were stirring into a storm. Clouds in his veins and behind the eyes, raining down as he flipped to the next page.

Thursday, May 13, 1675.

Graduation was today.

I sat with a few other people in my Darshan in the cheap chairs they set up (one I swear gave me a splinter) and watched as people took their scrolls with smiles on their faces. Years of work finally came to fruition.

Good for them, really. Good for me. Or, at least, that's what I tried to remind myself as I climbed up on stage and faked a smile as I was congratulated for making it this far. But even then, I was glad to cast that hat aside, the yellow Vahumana badge staring back at me as I put it away for the last time.

Another page.

Wednesday, May 19, 1675.

I have everything packed up and ready to go for my trip back home. My clothes were cleaned and folded, books were stored in cardboard boxes (I never noticed how many I've bought or been gifted over these past few years until I saw three boxes stuffed full), knick knacks wrapped in paper for safe travel, and the key to my room set out to be returned to the dorm mother tomorrow morning.

Everything is ready for me to leave and forget these hallowed halls.

Just like my roommate already has.

She didn't even say anything to me other than a passing goodbye as she left. It's not like I was surprised. Still, you think someone you have lived with for so long would be missed despite the harsh tension between us, but maybe that's just my own feelings.

Regardless, I'll be heading back to my family home soon, at least. So that is some comfort for whatever it's worth. Even if that does mean I'll have to prepare answers for the questions they will undoubtedly ask.

And another.

Saturday, May 22, 1675.

I have just arrived back home and already I want to leave.

My family was all smiles as they welcomed me in, told me to unpack what I could before dinner, and then barged into my room to talk.

What were your classes like? What did you do while you were gone? Did you make any friends? ….And I couldn't bring myself to tell them that no, I don't think I did. Not unless you count the someone I kept bothering for the sake of helping me translate texts full of the old Sumerian dialect for my papers.

Sunday, May 23, 1675.

Sunday dinners are the same as ever, I see. The last time I had to deal with this was when I was a freshman and visited for the first official break between semesters. From there, I decided I would prefer to stay in the dorms even when it's the holidays.

But tonight, I sat before a plate full of sabz meat stew and rice and watched everyone bow their heads as my family prayed in thanks.

The entire time I refused to even blink.

Friday, May 28, 1675.

I need to find a job. At least, that's what I've been telling myself for the past five days.

The very idea of getting up and searching is draining, but so is putting a smile on as someone pops their head into my room (without knocking, mind you) and asking how I'm doing. To which I always respond with I'm fine.

I’m fine.

I have to be.

Monday, May 31, 1675.

No more heads have been poking into my room, not since I told them I was going to join the Fatui despite all the other places I applied and got accepted into. The looks I got when I told everyone over dinner, right after they all prayed, had been priceless. Completely, utterly, stupefied, and I had to keep myself from laughing.

At the very least, this new job will keep my mind distracted. I won't be able to sit at home staring at family photos from when I was younger and- all that matters is I can keep my mind distracted.

A busy mind is a good thing, keep it from wandering, so I intend to let it stay that way.

And lastly:

Friday, June 13, 1675.

Dottore traced his fingers over the date, one he knew well. Not that he'd willingly admit that. If anyone did dare to ask, they would be simply dismissed, waved away as Dottore tells them something along the lines of “I have no need to pay attention to anniversaries.”

The thirteenth of July. It was the first day she started working for him.

Dottore found himself walking back inside, journal tucked into his jacket to make sure Beauty wouldn't see it in case she was awake and sleepily tripping over her own two feet in an attempt to find him to drag him back to bed. The door to his steady swung open without so much as a creak and closed just as silently. Lock turning in place before Dottore sat down in the couch chair he so rarely used these days; not when she was always there nagging him about how it would give Dottore crooks in his neck if he fell asleep there one more time.

Her hands lingering on his shoulders and lips pressed to his mask…

Dottore pushed the wry grin that threatened to grow on his face down, opting to lean back into that same chair that threatened to swallow him into the cushions the same way the open book did its pages.

Devouring his attention.

Settling in had been…far from fun, but I unpacked what I needed for the night and left it at that; the rest can be dealt with later. Besides, compared to the day I had a few cardboard boxes barely mattered. After all, what could compare to meeting the elusive Lord Harbinger Il Dottore himself?

The endless white halls had already started to blur together, forming a maze in your head as you tried to map out each and every turn of a corner as you followed behind the man in front of you. The stray posters tacked up on the wall about lab safety barely differentiated one place from another, not even with their cheesy lines and reminders to use basic common sense. All you could rely on at the moment was the one dutifully leading you along, giving you a tour inside the depths of Zapolyarny Palace like it was nothing.

For him it surely must be.

But you were stuck watching the swing of his badge as every step you both took it moved back and forth, taunting you. It was in Snezhnayan, not common, meaning you were left glaring at symbols you couldn't understand all because you hadn't heard the man's name properly when he introduced himself after giving you a pair of safety glasses.

Lab mandated, apparently.

They would take time to get used to and you can already see yourself forgetting to take them off at the end of the day, but for now you were focusing on the tour you were being given as you chewed over the idea of just simply asking for his name again.

But by now, it felt a little too late to ask again. Even if it just was for clarifications sake.

The tapping of shoes came to a halt as you both stopped before a pair of open doors leading to a giant room. It was mostly bare, but it had three practice dummies close to the wall currently falling from the pikes they had been strung up. Keeling over onto the black stained floor beneath them covered in ash.

A lone boot print stood in the inky black, leaving a patch of white into the inky abyss.

And more boot prints trailed a path along the floor until they fully disappeared.

“And here is where we run physical trials for test subjects.” He shot you a look as he said: “but I don't think you'll be here much.”

You only nodded in response.

Another room came after another hall to add to your mental map you had long since lost track of as everything seemed to wander off into dead-end alleys and dark dungeons. All as the sound of rustling clothes filled your ears and mindless chatter about how working down here had been for him. Even in a place known as Heresy’s he managed to seem carefree as a door was pushed open to an archive.

Hand above your head to give you the chance to peek in to see stacks of books right from the moment the door swung open with a loud groan.

You could already see yourself spending far too much time in here as your eyes scanned over the seemingly endless rows, but you weren't given much of a chance to take it all in before you were on to the next stop.

You both passed by a few labs. Some seemed calmer than others, some had posters about safety lining the walls, but all of them had you pulling your head away only seconds after sticking it in the doorway to scrunch up your nose as the smell of disinfectant and other chemicals you couldn't place assaulted you.

For a moment, you heard your tour guide mutter a “bless you” as you sneezed (again) before walking on ahead to another sector of Heresy's.

One full of hustle and bustle as people in lab coats moved around the room with an ease that only came from knowing a space inside and out. Shuffling around giant crates, pieces of machinery you couldn't name but certainly recognized from a few constructions in Sumeru you had been told not to stray near, and steel tables all currently occupied with Fatui.

Faces hidden away by metal masks.

Just like the ones who openly walked around under the Tsarita's employ back home, never sparing you a glance.

The masks were only lifted away long enough for a light to be shined in their eyes, ones you always questioned as you passed them by on the streets or in Lambad's tavern, and then their faces were hidden away again. Blocked from sight so the individual fell away, and they once again belonged to the mass. To the service. To the worship of their beloved cryo Archon.

Would there be mercy in the eyes of the neighboring nations' people as they fulfill Her orders? Dutifully listening to whatever they're told simply because someone divine uttered a word or two.

The only thing that halted your train of thought with a resounding screech, breaks pulled back and forced to kick up sparks along well worn rails that lit your mind afire was the same man's voice who had been showing you around calling your name. All so your gaze could follow his pointed finger towards one figure in the room.

Pointing, pointing, and pointing towards a head of blue hair and a black mask.

Funny, you could have sworn you saw that same distinct shade in a few of the other sectors before you had been encouraged to keep up with the wave of a hand.

But the man at the other end of a finger and its broken nail was standing tall as everyone moved around him. A lone figure unbothered by the crowd that already had your shoulders tensing as someone passed behind you with a quick call of an “excuse me.”

“It's rude to point you know.” You said, trying to make a joke as you took everything in at once.

Between bustling figures was an earring like beryl only for it to glow the same way the flicker of a flaming torch lighting up the darkest of nights would, clothes ironed but clearly rumbled from today's work, and a mask with the gleam of burnished aluminum as this man stood before an occupied steel table. (You had later been told the correct term is vivisection table). A hand over a random Fatuus arm, checking for something or another with rippling skin as the limb was turned this way or that; discolored, but against the pale skin the bruises looked like the ice cold ocean you had sailed upon as a boat took you further and further away from your home.

You didn't even register your tour guide, saying that being rude was the least of your worries as that mask turned towards you. The end of its beak, birdlike as it was, stabbing at the air between you and who you could only guess was-

“Lord Harbinger Dottore.”

An arm was dropped, forgotten about with ease as Dottore himself moved to stand before you.

The man beside you bowed his head in respect, and you followed his example.

Head lowered, safety glasses sliding off your face and only stopping thanks to your ears as the sound of a multitude filled the air. All from a sentence so short it barely came across as a sign of acknowledgment.

“You must be the new hire.”

“I am.”

“I hope you prove your worth then. I would hate to have wasted my time bringing you here only to have a lack of results from bringing in a psychologist for my test subjects.” A pause. “But I am sure you understand. After all, you are only here temporarily. A trial run if you will.”

And as you looked up, meeting Dottore face to mask, all you could see was your own reflection staring back at you. Dark circles under your eyes from the lack of sleep you were able to get last night having tossed and turned in an unfamiliar bed before you slowly succumbed to the constant pull at your mind to let it all go.

To simply rest.

For humanity, after all the time you have sat back with a colored pen and a notebook in hand, it has spilled its secrets to you. That it is afflicted in every way; perplexed, but not driven to despair; persecuted, but not forsaken; struck down, but not destroyed.

And you could only say you long since stopped hoping for destruction to turn a blind eye to you.

“Well, I am honored to be here as a trail run, Lord Harbinger.”

You didn't miss the way his lips curled up, twisting to reveal pointed teeth as Dottore drawled out. “Good. Then we're on the same page."

[f3mme-f4tale]

☾ bound by bloodshed ☾

moodboard

bound by bloodshed - w.i.p series

potential warnings: there will be mentions of blood and gore, explicit language, sexual content, dark thoughts, violence against women, cannibalism, body horror, torture

pairing: seattle!ellie x female reader

word count: 18.5k (work in progress)

✎ summary: tlou universe series based heavily off the song "girl with one eye" by florence & the machine and "strangers" by ethel cain. in the bleak aftermath of a harsh winter, ellie's heart is torn asunder when her patrol partner is snatched away during a routine run, spirited away by hunters turned savage cannibals. driven by an ravenous hatred and a physical yearning, she unwittingly partakes of sustenance offered by the very hands tainted with the essence of human flesh.

important note: this fic won't be for everyone! it is going to be extremely disturbing, as i am pulling inspiration from various body horror novels such as tender is the flesh (bc im mentally ill), a certain hunger, and bunny. i had a nightmare after reading this selection of books and thus, this series was born. VERY heavy on the trigger warnings

coming soon...

⭒ girl with one eye by florence & the machine ⭒ strangers by ethel cain ⭒ your best american girl by mitski ⭒ nutshell by alice in chains ⭒ forwards beckon rebound by adrianne lenker ⭒ monster by paramore ⭒ haunted by searows ⭒ please be rude by gigi perez ⭒ doomed by bring me the horizon ⭒ anyone else by pvris ⭒ thick skull by paramore

[transingthoseformers]

I think we collectively need to consider Dommy Elita/Commander from Hell Elita more.

I want her to be a nightmare of a commander demanding perfection and then some to ensure minimal causality and injuries for her men and maximum damages to her foes.

I want her tearing through Decepticon lines and strongholds with nothing but her teeth, her gun, and two of the deadliest motherfuckers the Autobot Army has to offer.

She needs to be the blight of any and every Deception Commander in her line of sight to the point of the ground units begin planning to avoid her and her teams all costs because they know even if they succeed in whatever the fuck they've been assigned, the dead count will be so high it wouldn't be worth it.

At the same time.

I want her to have Optimus pussy whipped and pussy trained.

I want her to have him- last of the Primes, head of an army belonging to a dead world and dying species torn asunder in a civil war- in a perfect heel ready to do whatever the fuck she wants whenever she wants it.

She's painted herself the color of innermost energon as a visceral reminder of what she can do on the battlefield, and when she's edging her convoy truck of a toy until he's a begging, haggled mess of static and dripping with coolant, it's the color that his transfluid will end up being from the over saturation of charge.

OUGHHHU 🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺

You're absolutely right, of course, and I am a big fan of this version of Elita <- biased

Especially since in some continuities, she's left in charge on Cybertron with a relatively small group of autobots for a *while*. Against Shockwave. One has to adapt and get creative in order to counter him after so long.

(tbh though this'd be a good universe for Strika / Alpha Strike, they'd counter each other here in fun ways) (maybe not fun for them but fun for us)

10/10 on the oplita interactions here

Big fan of just. The general energy going on here. The specification about the war being this massive drain on everyone and everything, to the point that it has killed Cybertron and will end up killing them all one day, is interesting. Fascinating.

[lookingfts]

Please please please a hurt / bleeding Kate with Anthony comforting her. A line for you, if you will: "Shh...shh, I know it hurts, just stay with me." I am such a big fan... if you wrote a one-shot on this, it would absolutely make my day ... please my friend!!

Me: “I wonder if anyone will actually do this?” But you guys are showing up as always…and I appreciate it!

Here’s a scene of Anthony finding Kate after she fell from the horse, but she’s still awake.

--

The panic that swelled within him was sickening. Her horse rearing, the ache of watching everything that mattered to him in this world fall to the ground and knowing there was nothing he could do to stop it.

“Anthony,” she whimpered when he reached her, tears brimming her beautiful eyes. Kate tried to sit up, crying out in pain, and Anthony all but held her down, cradling the back of her head. His hand was wet, reddened, and it took far too long for his mind to accept that he was covered in Kate’s blood. Her delicate fingers curled into his shirt, as though she needed to keep him close, as though he would choose to be anywhere else. “Please do not leave.”

He let out a shuddering breath, dropping his forehead to hers. The rain poured around them, and he needed to get her help, but he could not let another second pass with her doubting the kind of man he was. The kind of man he would be for her.

“I will not leave. I will never leave you,” he promised, and she exhaled, her breath mercifully warm against his mouth. Her heart was racing, he could feel it against his chest, but she was alive, she was alive and he would never release her as long as he existed on this earth. Another sob left her lips, and he scooped her into his arms as quickly and gingerly as possible, shushing her comfortingly. “I know. I know it hurts, just stay with me, Kathani.”

It was a gift from the heavens that he did not deserve when a man approached with a cart to offer his help. Everything that followed was a blur, the rain blinding, Kate’s moans as the motion disturbed her wound tearing his heart asunder. He felt helpless, able to do little but murmur assurances against her temple as he held her close to his body, desperately wishing that he could take her pain onto himself.

When they finally arrived at Lady Danbury’s, he was almost physically torn away from Kate, forced to make room for her treatment. She met his eyes, her earlier plea now unspoken, and Anthony answered without words that he would not leave her alone. Even if he had to face his most devastating fear and watch her slip through his fingers.

He intended to keep his promise.

[tetedurfarm]

idk if i talked about it here but my original plan for the goats was to have four does and breed them in pairs: one pair in fall and one in spring, so i can essentially milk year-round and i don't have to buy store milk. this plan was going pretty well other than a couple of poor planning moments on my part, but then i bought derek and sold orion

and derek is huge

which is perfectly fine for violet, phoebe, and possibly turnip, but it's not okay for hallow, who is teeny even by nigerian standards. i am terrified to breed her to him because i don't really want my friendliest doe torn asunder by her overgrown kids, but it also obliterates my plans to have two does milking over winter. not that any of the other girls probably couldn't keep us in milk on her own, but y'know, the whole point was to split the task.

i'm just...really torn. i don't want two bucks, i don't hear a lot of success stories of housing bucks together peacefully, and i definitely do not have anywhere to make a second buck pen. i can't borrow a buck from someone to breed her because of the CL, and none of my friends who trust me to not be an idiot about my disease status want a nigerian buck for me to borrow. ai is really finicky and expensive and i don't think i want to deal with it. so like...i guess i have a pet? but also her going into season makes larry VERY annoying and i worry he's the reason she's been short-cycling so much bcause she will stand for him and if she's being 'bred' with inviable sperm...idk what that's doing to her poor little system.

so like, do i just have three milking does and force one to carry us through winter on her own? do i buy/keep a FIFTH doe and put more burden than planned on my feed bill? do i buy another buck (and do much of the same plus possibly needing to build a new enclosure)?

i tried so hard to get my shit squared away this year so i could just coast from now on but noooooooooo

[docholligay]

There's a huge flooring liquidation auction and really nice locking wood-veneer vinyl flooring is going so so cheap, but i don't know anyone who needs new floors installed!!

I am like a little lesbian moth, fluttering desperately at the window, trying to reunite myself with the inconstant moon. A wilting DIY dyke hidden from the sun, unable to bloom. A fix-it femme unable to present her full display, feathers torn asunder, etc

[alieinthemorning]

Sins of the Father [Inhibitor Lunae | Dan Heng]

Content: Angst, Assassins & Hitmen AU, Dan Heng and Bailu are Siblings (and Dan Feng is their father), Reader-Insert, POV Second Person

Pronouns: None

Reblogs: Let me know that you enjoy my work and want to see more, so don’t forget to like and reblog (and comment in the tags. I love seeing people’s rambles in the tags)!

This work’s concepts, plot and original characters are my own which means I do not allow any sort of creative theft nor do I allow my work to be entered into any sort of A.I. bots. Thank you for respecting my space and boundaries.

“When will brother be back?”

You looked down at the little girl who was resting at your side. She looked up at you with those large eyes that reminded you of the ocean waves touching the beach. 

They were beautiful, but honestly they also made you sad. She was the golden sand, unable to leave the protection of the land. While her brother was the ocean, impenetrable. No matter how deep you went, there would always be something hidden deeper. 

Brushing the hair that had fallen near her eyes, you answered her. “He’ll be back soon, Bailu.” 

She huffed, sitting up. “Why is he always out so late? Doesn’t he know that that’s bad for you!”

You smiled, gently persuading her to lay back down. “You’re right. Which is why you need to rest, so that you can grow big and strong.”

“Not until he gets back.”

You held back a sigh. There was no point in arguing any further. You knew that when Bailu got like this, there was no changing her mind. Especially when it had to do with her brother. The two of them were incredibly stubborn like that. 

jing, jing

You paused, glancing at the entryway, then at Bailu who had fallen asleep. You smiled. No matter how much older she attempted to act, she was still just a little, growing girl. 

You gently removed yourself from her, making your way to greet the person beyond the door. 

He was already in the house, back turned to shut the door as quietly as possible as he toed out of his shoes. When he did turn around, he jolted, obviously not expecting you. 

“...you’re still awake.” 

You frowned. He was refusing to make eye contact. “Bailu couldn’t sleep. She tried her hardest to stay up.” You crossed your arms. 

He sighed. “She really needs to stop doing that.”

“And you need to stop doing what you're doing, and yet here you are. Late again.” 

That got his attention, you thought as his eyes snapped up to meet yours. 

“You know why I have to do this.”

“I know why you say that you have to do it, but that doesn’t mean that—”

He had moved closer, into your personal space, forcing you to acknowledge the change in his demeanor. 

“It does.” He sighed roughly. “...It does if it keeps you and Bailu safe.” 

You glared at him. “The sins of your father are not yours to bear.”

You hated their father, Dan Feng, a no good man who left nothing to his children, but pain and suffering. 

“They are when there is no one left to bear them.” 

And you hated that this man forced his own son to think that he had to settle the debt of his wrongdoings. The people he were tied up with wouldn’t leave him alone until after the debt was paid in cash or otherwise. 

And you refused to let it be otherwise. 

“How many times have I told you that I can help. Just let me—” You tired, but he cut you off.

“I refuse to allow you to get involved any further than what you already have.” He took a step closer, which forced you to take a step back. His hand snatched your wrist, pulling closer as he leaned down toward your ear. “I am grateful for you for watching over Bailu, truly I am. But if you keep digging, where you don’t belong, I’ll have to remove you myself.” He released you, pushing you, and disappearing further into the home. 

‘How much longer?’ 

You put Bailu to bed, before retiring to your own room.

How much longer would he inflict such suffering on himself? How much longer did he have before it torn him asunder?

The answer: Not long. 

Thankfully, Bailu had a sleepover tonight and wasn’t home to see…this.

He was badly bloody and bruised, shallow breaths the only thing signaling that he wasn’t dead. 

It was silent between the two of you as you worked on patching him up. 

It was silent as he retreated to his room while you cleaned the aftermath.

It was silent as you watched him you.

Both of you having so much to say, but neither of you knowing how to say it.

And so you didn’t, actions spoke louder than words after all, didn’t they?

“Hello, Blade.”

BANG

“Goodnight, Yingxing.”

Click

tap, tap, Tap, Tap, Tap, Tap

The bridge of silence had grown between you. Neither knowing the other anymore. The deep relationship that the two of you had formed had been destroyed by you.

But you were fine with that, you made your bed that day, and now it was time to lie in it. 

You finished off the drink you had been nursing. “I don’t regret what I did, so I hope you weren’t expecting to lecture me.”

“No…rather, I’d like to thank you.” 

You peered at him through your lashes. “Oh?”

He stepped closer, not into your personal space, but at the edge of that. “Yes, I understand. Just as I want to protect you and Bailu, you wanted to protect Bailu and I.”

You smiled, presenting him your hand. “And now we can protect her together.”

He placed a kiss on the knuckle of your middle finger. “Yes…”

BANG, BANG

No one would dare touch the Little Lady of the Dragon. 

Least they be devoured in its bloody maw.

Um, so me and Rogue were talking about things, and it devolved into how I view Dan Heng and Bailu as siblings. Um, I wanted to make something more hurt/comfort-y, but I instead manifested this...at like 1-2am, so yea...hope you enjoyed...this.

Also, can you tell I've been reading a lot of manwhas lmao

Ko-Fi | Commission | Masterlist

[thr0wnawayy]

AU Ideas and other Concepts. 1/?)

Authors Note: I apologize for the delay for the upcoming chapters of Crownless Monarchy, I have been working on the next three chapters (at once) and hope to release them sometime soon.

××××××××××××××××××××××××××××××××××××

Hey y'all. I figured I'd let some of these ideas see the light of day. Perhaps one of you can make something of them.

A bit of disclaimer: The way "s/i" isn't the typical. A Self Insert is usually the author putting themselves as a character.

In the MHA Community this is usally done through projecting ones personality through an existing character (ex: Midoriya)

The way I use S/I is a either:

A: A OC with knowledge or awareness of MHA's canon in some form (visions, reincarnation, intution) These characters are usually made up from a collection of different people and experiences, rather than just my own personhood.

A Character like Seven fit this bill.

B: S/I but Ingrained. Aka a S/I that blends and adapts to the world of MHA, their past self is not as relevant (if it's brought up at all) however may play a role in their perspectives and world views.

A Character like Arachne fits this bill (for another post)

With that out of the way, let's start small and work our way up:

Bonuses: (Minor prompts and concepts)

Dabi uses the PLF's connections to give Rei better treatment/conditions at the Hospital, or just transfer her all together to somewhere safe.

The Hood Enji fights is a Twice Clone while the real Hood is elsewhere.

S/I wakes up as Touya after the 3 year coma.

This one's out there: Hood meets Rei and causes a realization through his blunt honesty (f-flowers, iss the bar t-that low?)

Gigantomachia rewrite/replacement (idk, mine said make them motivational rather than denouncing, also make them smart)

a Vigilante group inspired by the 50 Blessings Organization from Hotline Miami

_______________________________________

Event Swap: At Kamino, Enji's crimes are exposed (how is up to you)

Funfact: The above prompt was originally a time travel fic, here's the unfinished script & notes

HPSC gets exposed as well [ Child soldier project] ) (Perhaps this can be added as well?)

Zero was disguised as AFO and sheds her disguse for her grand reveal

Zero twirled around in place, glittering in the moonlight, taking deep breath "Come and serenade with me, Uncle Toshi." she was wild, wild and yet so meticulous.

They were speechless, shell shocked, They were running to the smoke and lost themselves in the fire.

"You're looking glum Endeavor, y'know for someone who's just achieved No1 status, Ya really need to brighten up!" She jeered.

A canon formed out of her forearm, quickly firing a beam of energy. An explosion rocked the district, some heroes barley fleeing in time, others not so fortunate.

She barked a manic laugh, her eyes wide as saucers, onslaught never ceasing, never to falter.

And as she made her great adeau, the nation finally knew that the age of heroism was torn asunder.

_______________________________________

Bonus: After Ms.Curious is killed, S/I posses her body and lives again (Type A: S/I)

Bonus: Strike Back

Class of Aldera is done with Bakugo's shit( Students stand up for Midorya and try to redeem themselves)

( Fingers calls himself a coward for giving into pressure and fear [ was forced to attack Midorya, threatened verbally and physically by Bakugo and became numb to it], is inspired by a David Shield interview to become a scientist )

Star and Stripes' (Cathleen Bate's) Neice, Head of the W.H.A, travels to Japan following AM'S retirement/ Kamino and begins to take over the reigns from the HPSC. Starting with U.A's internships.

Profile: Mary-Ann Bate

Dirty Blonde, 6,2 ft , wavy blonde hair slightly past shoulders, well kempt, suits and pants

Stern attitude, takes no shit, willing to ground Endevour and Hawks's hero licenses

Q: Reality

Bonus: Replaceable

During the sludge incident it's not Bakugo whom Midorya pulls out

A New Course Of Action:

Following the disaster (Pointless Kamakaze raid), Dabi's expose video and Twice's death at Jaku, The civilians of Tokyo decide to take matters into their own hands, it all starts with one after all.

And lastly a character profile of a background character turned OC

If you need reference, this is the girl seated next to Midoriya at Aldera, her quirk is pretty rad with the possibility of being better than Hellflame (because she seems to have fine control over the flame itself, becoming it). Of course she needs professional training first

I imagined them (her and Mido) here as friends who met halfway through middle school and have stuck together since.

Much like her quirk and namesake, Ryukka has a fiery disposition and doesn't take kindly to people* harassing her friend(s) (*read Bakugo)

She's one the only people at Aldera willing to stand up to him (her flames cause his quirk to overload)

As hinted at in her quote, she does get into UA and thanks to her and Midorya's study sessions (Quirk and academic wise) she gets in with high scores (beating out Bakugo's score in the Entrance Exam)

Has beef with Aizawa

===============================

As I stated, everything in here is up for grabs so feel free to use it in your works if you so wish.

Just remember to link it here in the comments

-Thr0wnawayy

[verai-marcel]

Your Hearth Is My Home (BG3 Fanfic, Astarion x Female Reader, Part 1 of 27)

Summary: Not every adventurer wields a weapon. You, a hearth witch living near the banks of River Chionthar, are witness to a craft falling from the sky, and wondering if anyone needed assistance, ran down to find survivors. That was your first mistake. Going along with the survivors on their crazy adventure? That was your second mistake. Will you survive your next mistake of letting a hungry vampire bite you?

Author’s Notes: Full disclosure: at this point, I’ve only played through act 2 without romancing Astarion. So why the fuck am I writing some wholesome Astarion x F!Reader? Because I’m dumb and got spoiled on Youtube, and now I can’t stop thinking about the poor guy. Also this is heavily influenced by a couple of wholesome manga (“Life in Another World as a Housekeeping Mage” and “The Forsaken Saintess and her Foodie Roadtrip in Another World”), but I won’t be writing an isekai. You (reader) are from Faerun like everyone else. I’m just here to have some wholesome feels and hurt/comfort. Let’s go go go.

Tags: wholesome, cozy camp time, Astarion x F!Reader, slow burn, good alignment, BG3 Spoilers

Chapter Word Count: 1,843

Ao3 Link here, Darling.

--------------------

Act I, Chapter 1 - The Beginning

You are a hearth witch, living on the banks of the River Chionthar, making potions and herbal remedies for the small villages nearby. For the past three years, you’d been happier than you’d ever been in your life. You loved helping people, but you made sure not to reveal your real name, nor why you always wore long sleeves and gloves, even in the middle of summer.

But the nearby villages had been emptying as of late. News of the goblin camp that recently appeared nearby had first scared off the traveling merchants, and then the locals. You realized that you too should leave, otherwise you’d either have no more customers or goblins on your doorstep. You only had a dagger and a few spells that did little in ways of actual damage, so defending yourself against a horde of enemies was out of the question. So you began to pack up, figuring out what you could bring with you, and what needed to be repurchased once you reached your new home, wherever that might be. 

On a warm sunny day, you decided that this would be your last day here. Your pack was filled, your cottage cleaned out. Tomorrow morning, you would take off to the east, following the river to the next closest town. For now, you decided to grab a few more ingredients for the road, and so, you were out by the river bank, gathering fresh herbs and mushrooms. 

A booming sound followed a strong gust of wind that whipped around you, twigs and grass flying everywhere. Then you saw a ship crash nearby, the land and water being torn asunder, debris flung in all directions. After the chaos died down a bit, you went to go check for survivors. You couldn’t, in good conscience, walk away if someone might need help.

That was a poor decision on your part.

The first survivor you found was a young, dark-haired woman, passed out on the shore. She seemed standoffish, but after helping her up and giving her a drink from your waterskin, you convinced her that the best thing to do was to get out of the area and rest at your cottage while she regained her bearings. 

A little while later, the two of you came upon the strange sight of a single arm, sticking out of a glowing purple rune. You and the young woman, Shadowheart, pulled the poor man out. He introduced himself as Gale, and also joined your party.

As the three of you continued back to your cottage, you came across another stranger. Skin as pale as marble and hair to match. Had some scars on his neck. Perhaps he got them on the ship? He seemed harmless enough. Another escapee of the craft that fell from the sky.

That is, until he tricked you into looking for something in the bushes.

If only he hadn’t touched your exposed neck with his bare hand. Then you wouldn’t have felt the fear, underlined by a desperation you knew all too well. 

The leash is cut.

It made you empathize. And that was one rule that had been burned into your mind at a young age. 

Do not empathize with the enemy.

Fortunately, Gale and Shadowheart talked him down from stabbing you. The man even apologized to you, though it seemed more for show than for sincerity. 

Astarion was his name. He introduced himself with aplomb and decorum, and your hackles raised at the sight. A noble.

After a bit more conversation, they agreed that their shared affliction was enough of a reason to travel together and find a cure.

Swallowing down your general prejudice against nobles, you ignored him and made small talk with the others as you led them back to your cottage. 

***

Your cottage had only one room, enough space for your bed, some storage for herbs and tools, and a work table for your alchemy. Most of your things were packed, but you pulled out enough to take care of your guests. 

The yard to the side of the building was set up as a small campground for travelers to rest. You had figured out a couple years ago that for a small fee, traveling merchants would gladly rest on your land where it was safe, while you made them fresh, nourishing meals and cast spells on their bedrolls to make them feel warm and comfortable. You even managed to get a small tub built in the back to provide a warm bath for an extra fee.

It had been a lucrative idea, one that made you enough money to be quite comfortable out here in the sticks.

You may only know a few cantrips, but you had manipulated them beyond what most people did. Your mending cantrip could fix whole swaths of cloth, your prestidigitation cantrip could keep bedrolls warm all night, or baths hot for hours. It was why you had several repeat customers, traveling merchants who would alter their routes to come to your place to rest. 

You told them of the surrounding area and cooked a meal for them, a simple stew with seasonal vegetables and herbs.

The noble said he wasn’t hungry. You supposed your poor peasant food wasn’t to his taste.

He can suit himself.

While the others were eating, you set up the campground. While you were quietly casting the comfort cantrip on each bedroll, you sensed someone watching you.

“Yes?” you asked, biting the inside of your mouth to keep from being snippy.

Astarion stepped closer to you. He remained standing, looking down on your kneeling form. “What an interesting way to use prestidigitation.”

You shrugged. You had nothing to say to a noble. You finished your spell and started to shuffle over to the next bedroll, but he remained standing in your way.

“Do you mind?”

“Not at all, darling.” He didn’t budge.

You let out a short huff and crawled around him. One bedroll left. Ignoring the man, you began the cantrip.

By the time you finished, you looked up to see all three of them watching you.

“What?” you asked, a little disturbed by the attention.

“I hadn’t thought to use that cantrip like this before,” Gale said as he knelt down to touch the bedroll. “How long does it last?”

“All night,” you responded, feeling a little proud of yourself.

Shadowheart was already crawling into the bedroll. “This feels amazing.” She buried herself into the cloth. “It feels like I’m sleeping on a warm cloud.”

Gale shrugged and followed suit. “Gods, you’re right.” He sat up and looked at you. “I don’t know how you manipulated that spell, but it’s absolutely brilliant.”

You felt a zing of joy. Your little custom cantrip impressed a wizard!

The noble watched you for a few more moments before he too, crawled into a bedroll. His eyes widened slightly. “Oh. My, this is rather comfortable.”

You jutted out your chin, but refrained from being too catty about it. Instead, you switched to being polite. 

“Sweet dreams,” you said to everyone, and went about cleaning up around camp. By the time you were done, the three of them were fast asleep.

***

The motley crew thanked you and took off in the morning to explore the area, seemingly never to return.

You looked around at your unpacked things, and decided that it wouldn’t hurt to start off tomorrow morning instead.

Your plans were sidetracked once more, however, when the group returned that evening with a fourth member, grouchy and prickly as a threatened porcupine. After a couple of bowls of your herbal soup, she became a little bit less prickly. Lae'zel was her name, and she punctuated her Common speech with her Githyanki tongue. You found it a bit endearing, the way one finds a stray animal that always hisses at you endearing. 

You cast a warming spell on their bed rolls once more, burned incense to keep the insects away, and made sure they were all comfortable in your little camp area outside of your cottage before going to bed.

The next morning, you got up early to make breakfast for them before they left to explore the ruins that they had found the day before. As you checked your rabbit traps, you noticed one of them was tripped, but the rabbit within was a mere husk, as if it had been dehydrated. 

Curious. 

You reset your trap and returned to camp.

“What’s that?” Shadowheart asked when she saw the husk of a corpse in your hand.

“A dried up rabbit.”

“That doesn’t sound appetizing,” Lae’zel remarked. 

You shrugged. “I can at least sell the pelt later. Sorry, you’ll have to make do with another vegetable stew tonight.” You furrowed your eyebrows. “That is, if you’re coming back here.”

The four adventurers looked at each other.

“I think we’ve taken advantage of your hospitality long enough,” Gale said. We’ll start heading west from here.”

*** 

The group had finally left, and you had finished packing. You had been delayed by their arrival, but no longer. They truly seemed gone now, with the sun setting and no sign of their return. Tomorrow for sure. Tomorrow, early in the morning, you would set off—

You heard your name being called. Off in the distance, you could see Gale, waving sheepishly at you, followed by the others. 

You sighed. Biting back your annoyance, you smiled and waved back. A customer was a customer. At least this group was entertaining, and quite generous with their gold. And this time, they brought you back some boar meat.

There was one new face, a man with a stone eye. He introduced himself as the Blade of the Frontiers, Wyll. He seemed nice, charismatic even. Someone who had the manners of a noble but the heart of a commoner.

They set up camp once more in your yard, and you unpacked just enough of your supplies to make them a meal. 

"You look like you're ready to go on a journey," Gale commented as you all sat around the campfire, eating a boar roast with herbed potatoes.

"I'm moving. Many people have moved away because of the increase in goblins in the area, and a lot of my business has dried up. And having goblins this close doesn't make me feel all too safe."

“Any plans on where?”

You shrugged. “Not really. I was just going to travel until I found a place to settle.”

"Well, why don't you come with us?" 

Everyone looked at Gale in shock, but then they all looked at you. 

"You do make camp much more comfortable," Shadowheart finally said. 

“And one of us would be standing guard at camp as well, so you would be safe,” Wyll added.

You saw no reason to decline. You liked most of them, save for one snotty noble. A constant flow of income would be nice, for once. You negotiated a decent wage and agreed to head out with them at first light.

That, dear hearth witch, was your second poor decision.

--------

Chapter End Notes:

Yeah, I basically made up a “hearth witch” class as a combo of druid, wizard, and cleric, but hey, welcome to Dungeons & Dragons, where homebrew classes happen all the time. Hope you enjoyed the fic! I'm actively working on the next chapter!

Update 4/4/24: All chapters are here!

Act I - Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9 | Part 10 | Part 11 | Part 12

Act II - Part 13 | Part 14 | Part 15 | Part 16 | Part 17 | Part 18 | Part 19 | Part 20 | Part 21 | 

Act III - Part 22 | Part 23 | Part 24 | Part 25 | Part 26 | Part 27 (18+) | Part 28 (END)

[glassrowboat]

Kiss Me (Kill Me). Dottore.

A Teaser

Warnings will be added on the proper chapter 1, but for now, just enjoy :>

Take my yoke upon you, and learn of me; for I am meek and lowly in heart: and ye shall find rest unto your souls.

Matthew 11:28-30

Pages were pinched between deft hands, crinkling them with ease as if the words printed out on them in a rushed, messy scrawl meant no more than a spider being crushed to death under a white tissue. All without so much as a hint of protest, for what could paper do against merciless hands?

It was merely a dead tree at the end of it all. Torn from its root, broken off and left to dry in the heat of a warm day, sapping it of all life, it had only to be dunked back into water. Boiled down to its most basic properties and pulped. All to be formed into something new: the base that starts a creation. From books, art, or scrawled secrets in a diary.

But the dead do not praise the almighty that snuffed it out, nor do any who go down into silence. So the plant it had once been withers away.

A page was torn, a sound that grated on his ears. Dottore almost recoiled on instinct, having gotten so used to the distinct rip of paper that was torn asunder after hours of work had been documented only to turn out fruitless. A waste of his time and effort as a trash bin would slowly fill and tip over.

A scowl grew on his lips.

Now just what was she doing?

In the matter of a few long strides, Dottore had moved from his spot, leaning against the doorframe to her, grabbing her wrist with ease. Capturing her attention. The woman he dared to whisper the name habibi to in the dark of the night between rumpled sheets and had long since dubbed Beauty jolted back, looking up at him in a manner he was well used to by now.

Her gaze was as analytical as always; from the very moment they first met to now in their silent reverie. Observing him in the very same way Dottore looked down at a subject below his eager fingers or a piece of Khaenri’ah's legacy left behind in fragments scattered across Teyvat; breaking them down and building them back up so he may understand every last piece. How it works, how it moves, how it falls, and watch it all come together again with a newfound piece of knowledge to utilize.

But contrary to those moments hidden away in his laboratory, there were no gloves separating Beauty from him like there always was with those who lay strapped down on a stainless steel vivisection table. Nay, there was only the warmth of skin against skin he had so greedily chosen to relish in for he was a man who has never tasted sweetness being drawn in by an apple, pointed teeth biting into it for the first time as its juices befouled his maw. Not even the snap of blue rubber against his wrists could save him from the heat of her touch.

That was something Dottore had learned long ago.

“This is the first time I've seen you out of bed in days, and it's to tear apart your work?” Dottore questioned.

At least, that's what he assumed it was. She hadn't even given him the proper chance to peek at the pages he was expecting to see littered with bullet points and breakdowns of this subject or that one all in glittery ink before her free hand was brushing it all away. Nearly knocking it off the desk as she formed a measly excuse of a stack. Ruffling could be heard, but that paled to how her fingers were splayed wide to block his prying eyes.

Only a few messy words had caught his attention, drawing him in before she ripped everything right out from under him. Sheets of paper a rug his feet weren't even planted on suddenly throwing him off balance.

Tilting his head back to thunk against something all with the gentle scoff, she huffed out. Not even looking up at him as “peeking now” was asked in an accusatory tone.

“Could you blame a scholar for being curious?”

“Yes, I can.”

He felt her swatting at his chest, touching as light as the gentle caress of a falling feather, as she tried to get Dottore to give her some space; if not an ample amount. It's just like she's been insisting on for days now. Endlessly. Assurances of how she's fine, that they're fine, and everything is simply peachy besides the fact she's simply been feeling a little under the weather as of late have been stuffed into his ears again and again like cotton swabs. Soon, no doubt, they would pierce the tympanic membrane and leave only blood in their wake. For today, it had reached the two week mark, and Beauty was still insisting she was fine.

It took no effort on Dottore's part to capture the offending limb.

His thumb ran over her wrist, over her racing pulse, until he was tracing the lines on her palm. Mapping out how they curved around them and shifted with each flex of her hand. “Someone's nervous.”

“You..” Beauty's voice trailed off, pushing down to a whisper only from one word. But still, he stared down at her, waiting for a proper answer on what this entire debacle had been about. “And you know I don't like you going over my work when it's incomplete.”

Dottore's fingers twitched, threatening to tighten his hold on her before he let her go.

“Then I suppose I should have come home at my usual hour then. That way, you would have had the time to hide this,” he gestured to the mess on the vanity, “away.”

Of course, she jumped, nearly throwing herself off a cliff in the process, at the chance to change the subject. “Actually, I was wondering why you're back early. You're usually so wrapped up in work.”

Which would usually end with Dottore trudging through their bedroom door after a long day, only to slip his coat off as silently as possible to drape it over a lone chair off to the side. A dull blue light would always fill the corner as he came back, flickering over his face and hers as Beauty laid in bed, illuminating the way her eyelids twitched in irritation at the sudden glow; still, she always pretended to be asleep anyway.

Never stirring from the covers.

Not even as he pressed a kiss to her forehead and slipped into the bathroom to get ready for the quiet night that awaited him; one of Dottore staring up at the ceiling while she slowly fell into the depths of the dream world he had once been so ecstatic about having access to when he first ripped the Akasha from his ear and called it what it truly was: a limitation. An inhibitor. A chain wrapped around the necks of human beings like they were dogs to be shackled by Celestia's will.

The very same irking feeling at the thought greeted Dottore tonight like an old friend, beckoning him as he made his way downstairs, pulling her along with him and away from her supposed work and the vanity so they could have dinner together.

Though she had first insisted on cleaning up, on getting rid of the “trash” she had “dared to pen down in the first place.” Her purple bound leather notebook with loose, torn pages sticking out of the sides was suddenly shoved into a nearby waste bin and quickly taken out to be dumped by one of the maids. All before, he could even make out the design stamped into the front.

It was so unlike her, but she always did have a way of confounding him.

[solesofwonder]

Hello everyone! I’m new to Tumblr and still trying to discover accounts and whatnot. I wanted my first post to be a little about what I do. I am currently writing a tickle universe on Wattpad called: The Tickleverse. So far I have two stories written and the whole universe I am hoping with contain hundreds of stories. This is the cover for the first story in the series: The Hannah Chronicles. I have the description of the story below, as well as the link to the story if you are interested.

The Hannah Chronicles Part 1.

In the sun-kissed landscape of Florida, amidst the tranquility of Wewahitchka, resides the captivating Hannah Tingle, a luminous 17-year-old whose radiance belies her inner strength. Her journey begins with a leap of faith as she relocates from the quaint charm of Pennsylvania to the vibrant allure of the Sunshine State, embarking on her senior year of high school with optimism and hope.

However, the tapestry of her newfound life is abruptly torn asunder when a seemingly ordinary day at the mall spirals into a harrowing nightmare. Suddenly, Hannah finds herself ensnared in the clutches of darkness, bound and vulnerable, her once-pure innocence stripped away as she awakens to a chilling reality: she is at the mercy of sinister captors whose weapon of choice is not violence, but something far more insidious: tickling.

Trapped in a web of uncertainty and fear, Hannah must summon every ounce of resilience within her to navigate the twisted labyrinth of her captors minds and unravel the enigma shrouding her abduction. As she grapples with the torment of her ordeal, she is haunted by one burning question: why her?

In a gripping tale of survival and self-discovery, Hannah will confront unimaginable challenges as she battles not only to escape the clutches of her captors but also to reclaim her shattered sense of self.

Content Warning: Sexual Assault, Sexual Harassment, Rape, Kidnapping, and LGBTQ+ Themes

Enjoy the first part in The Hannah Chronicles, part of the larger Tickleverse.