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tojisun · 5 months

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dunno where this came from bc i honestly just wanted a short ramble and not smthn long but here we are :'D this is an extension from my rambling yesterday about simon x reader but it's a dowry of blood au (brides of dracula retelling). i havent finished the book yet tbh but if ur planning on reading it, i do just wanna give a warning that it's dark and prose-heavy

cw: death/massacre; blood drinking; vampire-turning and stuff; inaccurate references to dracula lore

the village is gone. burnt. fire crackles amidst the broken hymns of the dead—they don't sing, not anymore of course, but their losses are catastrophic. you never realized how the apocalypse could be so loud.

you stand at the centre of the chaos, bloodied. bruised. ruined. the lone survivor.

the only one who was lucky enough to be saved.

brought out from the pyre, you were dragged into the shadowed corners and hidden from the pillagers who slaughtered everyone you loved and everyone you knew. you shook in your grief, screams erupting from the base of your throat, but all were silenced by an ice-cold palm over your mouth.

"shh, little one," he said. the first of his words; the first of his kindness. "you must be quiet."

your fury sputtered into anguish, the loss descending to you like the first drop of snow. tears spring from your strained eyes, staining even his hand; you did not know how to compress the bloating agony that was pressing into your lungs. your only comfort was that he seemed to favour you enough to keep you safe, even if just for a moment.

rain had fallen by then—it seemed like it knew that tragedy had struck this little place. it extinguished enough of the fire, washing away the smell of ashes and leaving only the pungence of iron. blood.

with it, your adrenaline wore off, and you began to feel the extent of your pain. of course, you were not unscathed, but you didn’t expect your body to be so brittle.

you fell, tumbling into the muddy ground and right before his feet. you croaked in pain, lungs constricting. it was becoming a lot more difficult to breathe, to speak. you wondered why death came to you slowly.

he knelt down by your side, cold hand brushing away at your dirty hair. he was speaking to you softly, words passing through his lips in soft lilts. you struggled to hear him, your ears ringing, numb, as your mind pulsed in your skull.

you groaned, begging him to stop. to go away. you had nothing to pay him back with, nothing to entertain him, so you told him just as much. you told him to let you die in silence because how else could he save you?

“that is troubling,” was all he said, his words were rumbled from the depths of his chest like he hadn't used his voice in eons.

you peeled your eyes open, wondering what it must be that he was after, then you finally saw what he was—pale skin gleaming underneath the moonlight with eyes dark like wine. he was not a human. he couldn’t have been one.

your mother told you tales of the wicked. of those cursed and abandoned by the almighty father—she told you of their beauty, of their wealth, of their hunger.

(they do not know how to love, she said as she tucked you underneath your sheets. they only know how to deceive.)

your body locked, heart congested with fear—your body knew then, didn’t it? that this being that held you close was far more terrifying than the invaders. that your body survived the fire, the greed of humanity, only to be devoured by the devil.

“please,” you whimpered, the will to live burning inside you once again. you didn’t care about the pillagers, you didn’t want their mercy, but this being. this creature of the dark, oh how you craved his clemency.

“please, save me.”

“i cannot save you,” he said.

his hand fell to your throat, grasping it gently, almost reverently. he swiped his thumb along the expanse of your skin to feel the way you swallowed.

“but i can help.”

you tried to reply, to beg once more, but the words could not be sounded out, your throat having been too ruined for any prayer. you shook with your desperation, turning your eyes to him to express your ragged hope. you prayed that he may see your plea. you prayed that he may bless you with his curse.

he smiled, fangs glinting before your eyes. then, he murmured, “of course.”

(mama? how do you know when your prayers are answered?

well, sometimes it starts off painful.

painful?

yes, little star. but then, it becomes euphoric. freeing. good suffering.)

his teeth tore into your skin, ripping apart the muscles as it hunted for the blood. you screamed, throat scratching at the intensity of your pain; it was unbearable, burning unlike that of fire, scalding as it slithered down your very being. something was happening then. something unholy.

you were being remade. reshaped. taken apart one bloodied fragment at a time.

you felt like you were at the precipice of death, so close to the edge and into eternal damnation, but he would not let you. chained to his hunger, your body writhed underneath the extent of his power; burning. burning. burning.

he was your new pyre.

he was hell.

you begged for anything to subdue the pain; for a touch kinder, warmer; for the ceasing of it all.

and it did.

his lips left the sensitive patch of your neck, pulling away with a hummed smile as though it were ambrosia he was sucking out of you. you stared at his lips, stained with your blood, and, within a fraction of a heartbeat, unrelenting hunger coursed through you.

you yowled, your mind heavy and your body sore. you felt lost; you felt like you were drained and left as nothing but a shell of what you once were.

“good. that’s good,” he crooned, his eyes wrinkled in his joy. “this hunger is proof of your new life.”

he brought his wrist to his lips and bit into his own skin. the first puncture oozed out with blood; you watched it pool, beading, before it trickled down the length of his arm. your throat constricted, tongue heavy all of a sudden in your mouth.

a taste. you craved for a taste.

he smiled as he pressed his wrist to your lips. “go on,” he murmured. “drink.”

you were delirious, or you must be, for you to have listened to him—your weak hands grasped at his wounded arm, pulling it closer to your maw.

you drank.

that experience of having the first drop on your tongue was indescribable. it was like you have never eaten before; like you have never been fed. never been nourished.

it was like anything that sustained you before had been erased from your memories; you don’t remember the taste of your mother’s cooking anymore, nor the sweets that your grandmother brought home with her for you on occasions when her mistress remembered to reward her, nor the milk from your father’s cows.

every sweet memory was washed away by the blood pouring down your throat; every gulp a sinister promise of what would be irreversible.

your body sang, skin mending itself, and bones healing underneath torn muscles. numbness filtered in—it had never felt like salvation before.

lost in your new paradise, you didn't notice as your saviour cupped your cheek once more. his touch was gentle. it was kind.

he leant forward and kissed your forehead—a reward for surviving.

“my name’s simon,” he whispered, nuzzling you. “and you will be my bride, won’t you, my dark miracle?”

your mouth left his arm, reluctant but necessary, because even before he said his name, you knew he was your master. you knew that in exchange for this new life he’s cursed you with, you were to be obedient to him no matter what.

you nodded, breathless and ragged.

“yes, my lord.”

#simon ghost riley x reader #simon riley x reader #simon ghost riley #simon riley #cw blood #suns #so uhhh whatchall think

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evans23 · 4 months

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Loving you is a losing game

Pairing : Judge Turpin x Reader OC

Summary : The Judge Turpin has married you by buying your hand to your father. Determined to not let him get close to you and even less reach your heart well kept under ice and resentment, you keep on to push him away. But after having been told that loving you is a losing game, something new seems to awake inside of you.

Tag(s)/Warning(s) : Forced marriage. Assault.

A/N : Hello dear 😁 here lay my first Turpin fiction. I didn't really know where I was going with it but here is it. I didn't proofread it so there are probably some mistakes, sorry for that. I forgot to mention I am not the one who came up with the name Richard. I read this name in the terrific trilogy “Judged and Sentenced” from @deepperplexity. Since then I saw the name pop up here and there and so, I suppose the name is sort of canon now 😅

Part II

Read also on AO3

You couldn't put up with the fact that he had bought you. But it wasn't really him, your husband, that you despised for that. It was your father. The man you thought you could always count on.

You had had quite an easy childhood with not too many constraints, which were rather rare at that time. You had been taught to read and to write. And you were a good writer. Such a good one that one day, a publisher from a local and independent Newspaper from London made you sign a contract to edit some of your short stories in his Sunday paper. And as he was well known in the literary sector, he put you in touch with a book publisher. This is how you became "Alexander Bryant" in the eyes of the public. Of course, you weren't able to be published under your real name. A female writer ? What an offense !

But you didn't really care as you were able to make some money from the sale of it. Some really good money, a rarity for a woman. It was fortunate as, for the biggest desperation of your father, you weren't, in any way possible, a good maid. You couldn't sew two points in a raw correctly, your cooking wasn't palatable at all and if you appreciated living in a tidy house, you couldn't spend more than one hour or less doing that.

But you didn't have to worry about it now as you had been married for two months to no one else than "The Death's Judge".

"How did it happen to me," you muttered to yourself, looking at you in the mirror without really seeing your reflection.

In fact, you perfectly knew how it had happened. You didn't know how and you didn't know where, but Richard, your now husband, had noticed you one day and since then, your faith was decided.

He came one day to your house with a bouquet of flowers for you. You had looked at him suspiciously. You knew who he was. His reputation preceded him of course but you also had a glimpse at him one day when you were at the court with your publisher and one of his associates to negotiate the terms of your new contract with a solicitor.

At that time, you didn't think anything peculiar about the man. You vaguely remembered having thought that he was quite handsome with his hooked nose, his tall frame and his charismatic presence. If you hadn't been forced to marry him, you would have admitted that you had found him alluring.

But here was the point : your father had sold you to the man.

That day when he came to your house with his bloody flowers and his absolutely not appealing smile. He had asked to talk with your father and you had fetched him as quickly as you could, afraid that he was in trouble.

He wasn't in trouble, nevertheless, the call of the money echoed deeply in him when Judge Turpin offered a generous dowry for your hand.

"I apologies to have to tell you are in the wrong Judge Turpin."

The man had looked up at you with a frown.

"This is the woman's family who have to provide you with a dowery and unfortunately, no one here is in measure to give you a penny."

It was half a lie as you kept your money in security into a chest under your bed. You weren't quite honest about your earnings with your father as he was quite a spendthrift. So, you helped him by giving him a small amount of money, keeping preciously the rest away to constitute a nest egg for later.

Absolutely not bewildered by your interruption and your statement, Turpin had grinned before announcing that you were the one making in mistake in this particular case.

"I had the sincere desire to marry you and as I just said, I will give a compensation to your father for the loss of his precious daughter."

You had retained a laugh, persuaded that never ever my father would agree to such an obnoxious offer.

You were so wrong. The Judge had let you some days to think over the offer he had laid on.

Tempted by this important amount of money Turpin was willing to pay to ensure that your father handed over your hand to him, your thoughtful father didn't need to think too long to accept his offer and in the blink of an eye, you were betrothed.

You had protested, swearing that you would prefer to kill you rather than marry the man, the deal was sealed without you having a say. In any way, no one was willing to listen to you.

During the ceremony, you were full of apprehension, afraid about your wedding night. But for your biggest surprise, nothing happened. After the party, the both of you retired in the privacy of his opulent mansion, he showed you your room and left you alone.

Your new house was daunting, not up to your expectations. The exteriors were quite imposing, displaying the wealth of the Judge, but the inside was… not really gloomy but also not really lively. It was as if the house was uninhabited. And you discovered later it was the case. Turpin, Richard as he asked you to call him, was seldomly at home. He departed for the court early in the morning and came back late in the night. Since your wedding, you didn't share a meal together and your only company was your maid.

For such a big house, he didn't have nearly so much staff as one could expect of a man of his stature would have. A cook, three maids, whose one had been hired exclusively for you, and the Beadle. You didn't really know who the man was and what clearly was his function beside your husband but you couldn't stand him. His ratty face didn't inspire you any confidence. He seemed deceitful and ready to betray his own mother if it could bring him any advantages.

"Like Richard," you said to no one as you were looking out the window at the crowd running around the city.

Hadn't you been so resentful about the latest events, you would have admitted that your life wasn't as bad as you imagined it would become after your wedding.

He didn't touch you that night nor any other after that. He didn't try anything which could have distressed you, didn't restrict you from any freedom you thought you would be longing for. You were allowed to write, he was more than happy to furnish you the papers and the ink you needed and he had arranged a room for you to make your office. You were allowed to go out, only on the condition to stay in the richest part of the town and you could visit your publisher when needed without his approval. His only wish was that you let your maid know when you were leaving the home. You weren't dupe, you knew that as soon as you set a foot outside, he was informed. But even if he was aware of each of your movements inside and outside the mansion, you were still able to enjoy your freedom, a privilege a lot of women lost after being married.

He also lavished you with presents. Valuable jewelry, the most beautiful dresses you had ever seen, books, flowers. Not a week had passed without an attention for you. In the beginning, you hesitated between bringing the presents into his office to let him know you didn't want to have anything to do with him but well aware of his reputation, you had been afraid of infuriating him. After all, you didn't really know the man and he could retake what he had given you at any time.

So was what you told to yourself rather than admit the truth : you were flattered and pleased to receive such beautiful gifts. Should someone have utter that maybe you could come to appreciate your husband you would fervently have denied it. After all, how could you become accustomed to him without having the opportunity to speak with him ?

The only moments shared together were on Sunday. Richard wasn't a fervent believer in God and neither did you, so you had a lazy Sunday at the mansion. It was the only time during which you ate lunch and diner together and during the afternoon, he systematically invited you to join him in the parlor but you rarely spoke to one another. In general, both of you were reading. Sometimes, you brought with you your ongoing book and he would ask you random questions about it. He had once admitted to having your previous literary work.

"And what did you think of it ?" you had asked with a feigned indifference.

Your stoicism hid your nervousness. You couldn't fathom why you felt nervous about his opinion about your work, but you were.

"Well my dear, It is unusual for a woman to write about such things as a vampire. Even less a love story like this one. Does the sexual tension between the human lady and the vampire make on purpose ?" he had asked bluntly.

You had nodded once, your cheeks flushing at the mention of some somewhat suggestive scenes from your book.

"Well, I am impatient to read the next part of it."

And that was all.

Mustering up the motivation you were lacking to officially begin the day, you pulled yourself away from the window and asked the help of your maid to get ready to go out. You had to go see your publisher and then, you expected to have a walk in the park to make the better of the sunny day, which began to spread ahead as the hours passed by.

But nothing happened as you had planned. While you were walking in the street, you took a side road to reach faster your destination. It was a dark, filthy little street dwelt with drunkers and dwellers. You weren't really scared as you had taken this path numerous times in the past and as long as you minded your own business, you weren't really in danger. At least, it was what you thought. How wrong you were, you realized when a callous hand had fallen on your mouth.

"Your lost little beauty ?" asked a raspy voice.

You shivered, trying with all your strength to get away from the man but his grip was strong.

"Don't make it difficult little beauty, you will like it."

You bit his hand to blood, which earned you a ferocious slap on the face. You fell on the ground, a bit dizzy, trying as hard as you could to pull yourself together but you didn't have the time than his hand clenched at your hair, pulling you violently towards him. Standing you up roughly, making you let a squirm escape your lips, he pushed you against the wall, a hand on your breasts, another trying to find his way under your skirt.

Totally paralyzed, you were unable to move or even scream. Your breath became heavy as you stayed motionless even though you knew what would happen next.

He has approached his face from yours, his foul breath caressing your lips, making you want to throw up, when a snicker was heard.

Not really moved by the onlooker, the man had run his tongue across your cheeks, which had the effect of waking you up from your trance.

You tried to slap him but he was faster and knocked your head with his fist.

"Constable !' shouted a voice.

In one instant, the man was pushed down to the ground by two constables. Behind them were the Beadle. The snicker-man.

"Having dared to touch the wife of the Judge Turpin…" he muttered, enjoying the moment.

"It is something that will send you right through your death," he added with a horrendous laugh.

You have been brought back to the mansion by another policeman while Beadle escorted your assaulter to the prison, clearly enjoying what he had witnessed and the fate of the mongrel.

When you arrived, Richard was already torn, the worry imbued all over his face.

"[Y/N], dear, are you well ?" he asked his voice full of concern.

He tried to take your hand but you pushed him away before holding yourself tightly to retain your shivers.

He didn't follow you as your maid came towards you to lead you to the bathroom where she ran a bath for you. You soaked in the water until it was cold. Then, you called for your maid. At any other time, you would have dismissed her as soon as your bath was ready. You didn't like having someone around you to help you with something as trivial as drying you off but you were exhausted and could barely keep your eyes open. But it's not your maid who entered into the room. It was your husband.

"Richard…" you whispered, not daring to look at him.

You felt suddenly wide awake, the tiredness dissipated and replaced with something else. You felt ashamed about what had happened. You knew it wasn't your fault, for that man had acted with malignancy and it couldn't have been the first time. At this thought, you bristled.

"[Y/N], let me help you," he said, stepping in carefully.

He dropped a thick towel around you but when he tried to rub you in the aim to bring some heat to your cold skin, you backed away.

"Don't be afraid [Y/N]. I just want to help you. I will protect you."

He tried again to approach you but then again you backed away, trying to shut him out from trying to break through your shell.

"[Y/N]," he said almost desperately.

You shook your head, muttering for him to go away.

"Leave me alone," you said with anger.

"No ! I want to help you," he replied, looking with disapproval at the bruises which began to form on your face.

"I don't want your help ! I want you to go out. Let me be !" you shouted.

"No ! You are my wife, my place is by your side."

"I'm not," you retorted.

"What ?" Asked Richard, his own anger boiling up quietly but surely.

"I am not your wife," you said with defiance.

He made one step towards you and this time you didn't move, holding his gaze with fury.

"You are my wife. We had wed in front of our families and of God !"

"God has nothing to do with our marriage. You have bought a wife as we bought a dog."

"I asked for your hand because I am in love with you."

"How ? How could you be in love with me ? We have never spoken together !" you shouted totally oblivious that the staff could hear you. "If you were really in love with me, you would have courted me properly."

"Would you have agreed ?"

You didn't respond as the answer was obvious. Never you would have paid the slightest attention to his advance, but there wasn't the point.

"So, no matter what, you get what you want by fair means or foul." you spit out.

"My patience grows thin, woman." he warned you.

"And what are you going to do ? Giving me a beating ?" you asked brazenly.

He clenched and unclenched his fists several times. Never would he have laid a finger on you on the purpose of hurting you but you were clearly unnerving him far more than anyone before you had dared to.

"I try [Y/N]. I try very hard. You are the one unwilling to make any effort to come to me and get to know me."

"Buying a hand doesn't mean you buy a heart !" you retorted coldly.

You were about to add something else, something you wish was hurtful but you didn't have time as he cut you off.

"I tried to talk about your writing, about your childhood, your hobbies. You always answered me with monosyllable, always with a bored look on your face. I gave you space, I didn't coerce you to oblige to your marital duty, I let you go out alone as a proper lady shouldn't do. And this is how you thank me each time. By pushing me away. Again and again and again. Each time I try to show you kindness, you answer with meanness."

He had said that in a calm, poised voice but his anger could clearly be heard. He had talked with the calm severity of a teacher who doesn't need to raise his voice to make his disobedient pupils obey.

"Richard," you whispered.

"Loving you is a losing game but things are going to change, woman ! I am not to let you mess with me anymore. Yes, mark my words, things are going to change for you woman !" he growled dominating you with his imposing presence.

His baritone voice sent some shivers along your backbone.

With one last look at your bruised face, he quit the room, slamming the door behind me.

You stayed there for a while, stunned by what had just happened. He was right. Now that you thought about all the moments he had passed with you, never had you let him reach you farther than the cold surface layer that prevented the world from knowing the real you.

You were so angry about having been bought like an animal that you had never tried to be more acquainted with him. He was right, never ever he could have had your attention, even less your friendship and certainly not your heart if he hadn't barged in your home. And if you were totally honest, you would admit that you begrudged far more your father than Richard for the deal that was made that day.

"But He still didn't have my heart." you reasoned with yourself.

But inwardly, you felt as if it weren't true anymore. Not totally. You couldn't tell you were in love with him but for the first time, you were ready to recognize that you felt something for the man.

Loving you is a losing game, had he said but at this precise moment, you felt as if you were the one losing the game you had settled the both of you in. You were losing the game of hatred in favor of love. And this night, whilst you were staring at the ceiling, you found yourself hoping that he take back his words, that he came to the conclusion that loving you was worth it.

#alan rickman x reader #judge turpin #judge turpin x reader #judge turpin x you #alan rickman #sweeny todd #evans23

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madwomansapologist · 7 months

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meant to be | shan yu

Pinterest Board | More Shan Yu | AO3

synopsis: Shan Yu told you China would be your dowry. He's a honoured man, despite everything.

warnings: fluff. marriage cerimony (made my best to be historicaly correct). murder couple. age gap. kidnapping. yandere!shan yu (or as i prefer to word it: malewife!shan yu). smut. a lot of teasing. switch!reader. praise kink. dumbification. creampie. in this house we hate the misogynist version of Shan Yu in Mulan (2020).

The warm breeze ruffled your combed hair. You couldn't care less. There are more important things. Like the sunrise, so warm and invigorating. Or the distant mountains, protecting the city. The lights coming from the houses bellow you.

The world is still so beautiful. All of this seen from the palace, in the highest room, in safety. This view alone made the entire journey worth it.

Your mom pulled you away from the balcony, sitting you down on the bed and trying to rearrange your hair. A red veil was placed over your head, probably in an attempt to get you to sit down and stay still for once.

You weren't expecting for Shan Yu to be so... attached to traditions. They aren't even his. You thought once China was conquered, the only thing he would care about would be his coronation. Not a wedding.

"I just don't see the need of it," you said to Shan Yu. "We're travelling, living together, for so long. Don't you think a cerimony seems... a bit tardy?"

Shan Yu's gaze always revealed more than the words coming out of his mouth. And the certainty hidden in the golden eyes said more than he needed.

He held your hands, taking the last step that separated his body from yours. Shan Yu brushed your hair away from your face, stroking your bloody skin. "You are my greatest pride, Moon," Shan Yu smiled. "Nothing will ever stop me from showing this to the world."

With the world burning around you, Shan Yu knelt down. "Will you marry me?" He kissed your knuckles covered in the blood of your enemies. "Will you give me your heart?"

He did his best to be perfect. Just like in your dreams, Shan Yu explained to you.

Your family was picked up, the trip quicker due to the victory, and the engagement letter was delivered as soon as you were reunited. They feared for you, searched for the truth hidden in between your words, but after a while you made them understand. He's a good man, you swore. It doesn't seem like it, but he's good to me.

You assumed the dowry would be, well, China, but Shan Yu wasn't content. How he discovered that geese were signs of unwavering love you still don't know, but he did. So many flowers, symbols of luck and prosperity.

Shan Yu was clealy trying to make up for the first impression he made on your parents.

The wedding gifts arrived the same day. Silver, jewelry, exotic foods. The separate floor for your parents seemed more like a hideout of treasures than a place to sleep.

They accepted the gifts. You're not sure they could do anything more than that, but it still meant a lot for the both of you.

"You can change your mind, cub," your mom sat beside you. "I've told you before. Your father and I may look old, but we still have energy. One word, and we're ready to runnaway with you."

You let your head fall on her shoulder, enjoying her warmth. You missed her so much. "Thank you," you whispered. "But I am sure of this. I don't think I have ever been so sure of anything in my entire life."

The silence was quite comforting, but you were glad when she opened her mouth. "So you think we look old?"

Laughing, you looked at her. Throught the red veil, you could still see the face of the woman you love the most in the whole word. "You are beautiful," it was nothing but the truth. "Mom, do you still love me?"

She held you by your shoulders, so tight you could feel it on your bones. "Always," she said. "Are you ready?"

You were.

"Perfume," she remind you. Holding the doorknob, you looked back. She opened some drawers, and took a frask out of it. You let her spray it on you. "Lotus flowers. So you can give me pretty grandchildren."

"Mom!" You practically ran from the room, going down the stairs. "I prefer when you hated him!"

You bumped into your father, who held you carefully. Your mother reached you, leaning on him for support. “Now all you have to do is wait,” he informed you. Approaching, with a smirk on his face, he whispered. "Or run away."

They really are soulmates. "Go on," you told them. "I will wait."

They walked away, heading down the stairs to the ceremonial hall, and you took a deep breath. There was no reason to be nervous, but that didn't convince your mind. Admiring the paintings from past dynasties, sad to see how such beautiful works are hidden in an isolated buildings, you heard his steps.

"Beautiful, isn't it?" You asked, glaring at the painting.

Shan Yu offered you his arm. "Incomparable," he smiled, looking at you.

You breathed deep. After a last glance, you accept his touch. "You won't believe what my mom told me."

"Nothing worse than what your father told me, I assume."

⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯ ⋆✦⋆ ⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯

The warm breeze caressed your skin, your fingers focused on removing the pendants from your hair. In your chambers, the party was far below in the palace. Shan Yu locked the door, and watched you undo each braid.

"You're happy," he said.

You looked at Shan Yu, and stretched your arm towards him. He got closer, stroking your skin, and stood before you. "And so are you."

"And now?" You allowed him to help you. "China. Our marriage. What comes next?"

Shan Yu stroked your loose hair. "Tomorrow we rule," he said. "Tonight we celebrate."

You stood up, your fingers undoing the knots in your clothes. “We did it all wrong,” you let the fabric fall down your body. You crawled onto the bed, looking at him.

Shan Yu admired you. He looked at you the same way you looked at each of the paintings in this palace. "We did?" He asked, voice hoarse, unable to care about anything other than you.

“I was supposed to be a virgin,” you said. Propping yourself up on your elbows, you slowly spread your legs. His gaze was no different from that of a wild animal. "The veil. The letters you wrote to my parents. The wedding night. I was supposed to be a virgin but you couldn't help yourself, could you?"

He took off his ceremonial attire, being reciprocal to your show. "I prefer it this way," he ignored your teasing. Shan Yu held your ankles, stroking the warm skin and pulling you as he placed one of his knees on the bed. "You're comfortable. Excited. Shameless."

Shan Yu was ready to dive into you, but you were faster. You pulled his arm, knocking him onto the bed. A surprised laugh escaped his lips as you sat on his lap.

“I thought you liked that,” you placed Shan Yu’s hands on your waist. "You seemed to enjoy all of our private lessons. I tried so hard to learn."

Shan Yu moved to lay you down onto the bed, but you stopped him by rubbing your sex against his hardening member beneath you. You forced him down, hands wandering through his chest.

"You little devilish thing," he groaned. "You never cease to amuse me, don't you?"

You scratched his arms, focused on the movements of your hips. "Oh, but that's why you fell in love with me," you whispered against his ear. "You never know what to expect."

He throbed against you. Smirking, you teased him more. "See?" Biting his earlobe, you felt his nails dig into your skin. "I bet I could do anything to you."

You stood up, admiring how the yellow eyes followed your movements. Rubbing your breasts against Shan Yu's torso, you kissed him.

Celebrate, he told you.

Still kissing him, you grabbed his cock and rubbed it against your clit. Before he could react, you let it slide inside you. With his cock deep within your pussy, you rode him.

Mesmerized, Shan Yu could only watch the way your body moved. How perfect you were. Made to break him in pieces and put him back together.

"You fuck me so good," you moaned, looking into his eyes. Walls clenching tighter around his cock, buried deep within you. "Hm, fuck... My emperor is so good for me."

Something imploded inside Shan Yu.

He grabbed your neck, throwing you onto the bed, still inside you. Shan Yu moved you effortlessly, as if you were as light as a feather. Your legs on his shoulder, his hand holding your neck as if you would've run away from him, his teeth deep into your skin.

"Say it again," Shan Yu growled.

"My emperor," you cried. "You make me feel so whole. F-fuck, you can do anything you want to me."

Shan Yu fucked you like a senseless animal. Like a brutal beast. Like something made for him to devour, to taste and savor until he got tired. A pretty doll for him to break and put together how many he wanted.

You never felt so desired.

You pulled him into a kiss, your lips barely able to behaving as they should've. Close to him, closer than anyone else has ever been, you felt as his thrusts find the right place to beat.

"Mine," was the only thing you were able to understand from his words. "I will never let you go," he squeezed your neck, getting a whimper from you. "You're mine."

Your mouth contorted into a smile. "I don't want to go," you pulled his hair. "I'm yours. Only yours."

And so Shan Yu filled you, teeth deep into your skin. He didn't stop. He continued moving hard, his thumb circling your clit, until you melted into his fingers.

"My emperor," you whispered against his mouth.

Shan Yu smiled, his teeth sinking into your lips. "My empress."

if you enjoyed, please reblog! i promise it makes a difference ♡

@ madwomansapologist.tumblr.

#madwomansapologist #prisoner/bride au #shan yu scenario #shan yu fanfiction #shan yu fanfic #shan yu mulan #shan yu #shan yu x reader #shan yu fic #disney villain #mulan 1998 #disney mulan

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yokohamapound · 10 months

Note

Since tis Spooky Season, how about some wedding headcanons for our goth boys Bram and Akutagawa? :3

It might no longer be spooky season but goth bois are timeless. <3

Characters: Bram Stoker, Akutagawa Ryuunosuke

Contents: gn!reader, nsfw mention

Bram Stoker

Bram is certainly the marrying type. Once he’s found someone he feels he can spend the long years of eternity with, he’ll want to lock you down quickly and make it official. Dating is a foreign concept to him, but he will spend some time courting you. He’s very likely the one who proposed marriage, and like, you have eyes, so of course you were going to accept. Who doesn’t want to marry a handsome vampire lord?

It’s not enough to call Bram ‘old-fashioned’. The man is at least several hundred years old, (depending on whether his age is based on the actual Bram Stoker or Vlad Tepes, basis of the legend for Dracula). He’s between approx 170-600 years old. He’s seen trends become traditions and vanish entirely. The wedding would probably be some flavour of traditional, whether that’s a Western white wedding, or a wedding steeped in his spouse’s culture. If you really wanted to, you could have a historical-themed wedding to make Bram feel at home—just expect him to be finicky on the minor details.

“This is the incorrect type of date for this pastry.”

It might take some doing to find a priest willing to marry you to a vampire, or you can forge the documents and have a civil ceremony. It depends on whether or not Bram can actually set foot in a church. He’s probably relieved to discover civil ceremonies are a thing.

Bram looks beautiful in a suit. Just imagine it. A suit tailored to his ridiculous, 6’5” height, possibly a tailcoat, with a cravat, his long hair tied back.

You’ll have to bring him up to speed and explain that, apart from certain cultural traditions, dowries aren’t that common anymore, and that he doesn’t have to offer your father 50 goats for your hand in marriage.

Bram’s a pretty romantic guy, but he always does it with style. He pulls out your chair, his hand is going to rest on the small of your back, and he takes the lead in the first dance waltz, no matter your gender.

The speeches will be short—he’s had to put up with too many of Fukuchi’s soliloquies to want to hear any more monologuing. The wedding dinner—feast, he insists on calling it—is sumptuous, although Bram doesn’t partake. (You’re his wedding feast and he’d rather enjoy that in private.)

Godspeed on your wedding night. Bram’s spent years without a lower half of his body and now he has it back, and a spouse to enjoy. He is…pent up, shall we say~

Akutagawa Ryuunosuke

Poor Akutagawa is still reeling over the fact that he’s getting married. I would say that either you proposed, or Dazai planted the idea in Akutagawa’s head that it was time for him to put a ring on it. If Akutagawa proposed, your ring is some beautiful antique with a large stone and a creepy story attached to it. Don’t forget that Akutagawa makes bank in the Port Mafia.

Please, please, please plan a goth wedding.

Please remember that this is the same young man who said this when asked what he would give as a wedding present: “I'd gift them the enemy's freshly severed head decorated with bloody barren flowers.” Suffice it to say, Akutagawa should not be left in charge of either your gift registry or the flower arrangements. You will end up with a load of obscure antiques, knives, and bunches of rotting flowers “to show the briefness of our lifespans.”

Maybe compromise with dried flower garlands or even black roses if you want to go full 2007 My Chemical Romance-core. (Look me in the eye and tell me Akutagawa wouldn’t look up if you played him a G-note on the piano.)

He hates being the centre of attention in the actual wedding, so he’s more than happy to deflect it all toward you instead. The moments he seems happiest are when he gets to see Gin wearing a bridesmaid dress, when Dazai stands up to make a speech (during which Akutagawa sits up like he’s in a school assembly while the headmaster is speaking), and during the vows, when he’s focusing on you and only you.

He looks wonderful in his suit - let him have full tails and black tie and he'll be content.

Your wedding photographs look like one of those austere Victorian family portraits, save for Tachihara throwing up the bunny ears behind Gin’s head.

Akutagawa has a secret sweet tooth he won’t admit to, which is why he tries to pretend that he hasn’t had three slices of chocolate cake.

Either get Dazai drunk or put him in a corner with a plate of crab cakes to keep him occupied, because you really don’t need him making sly comments when it’s time for you and Akutagawa to climb into the car and head off for your honeymoon. His wedding gift for Akutagawa is an inhaler and a note saying, “You’ll need this! xoxo Dazai.”

#yokohamapound #bungou stray dogs #bsd #bsd headcanons #bsd imagines #bram stoker bsd #bram x reader #akutagawa ryuunosuke #akutagawa x reader

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tadpolesonalgae · 10 months

Text

Mer!Azriel x human!reader: The Dregs of Tragedy

A/N: Something about writing Az as a creature other than Illyrian just makes him end up being so cold and cruel and I have literally no idea where that comes from?

Warnings: Bitta’ blod, Az saves reader in a way, you have an awful husband in this

Word Count: 4,970

-Part 2-

——————————————————————————————————————————————

“If your husband hears you talking like that, he’ll string you up with the rest of them.”

You flinch at the imagery, but stay firm—were you even a fisherman’s wife without nerves of steel and a stomach made of iron? “I don’t care what you say. It’s barbaric either way.” Joanne shakes her head, hair pulled back from her face as the carving knife splits the fish’s head from its body. “It’s barbaric what they do to us, sweet lass. A sailor’s death will never be kind, but to be dragged below the waters by those clammy hands is not a fate I would wish on many.”

Quirk a brow, lips tugging up at the edges. “Would Hildebald be among those few many?” You ask, making the fishmonger’s wife shoot you a sharp glare.

“Do not ask me to speak poorly of him. The gods listen between breaths.”

“The gods lay back while we are beaten and bloody,” you say, carefully lowering your voice. “I fear them as much as you do, but I will not succumb to terror. Virtues protect me, I carry honour close and pray to valour for my husband’s safe return, but that does not mean I would be unhappy should he be snatched from my side.”

Joanne runs her eyes over you appraisingly, face carved deep with age lines, hair wispy and grey. “Listen closely, lass,” she instructs, “we have little power in what happens to us, don’t squander the hand you’ve been dealt, for many others would gladly take your place. Your husband works hard at sea, and has been parted from his gold to pay for you—and we all know your father put an unreasonable dowry on your head.” Her misty sea-foam eyes flicker about, on constant edge should the wrong ears catch the conversation. “Just be grateful for what you have, lass. Look to the skies and you’ll go falling over your own feet,” she hisses, a clear end to the conversation.

You open your mouth to speak back—just because he’s paid for you doesn’t mean he can bruise you bloody—but her watery blue eyes skip over your shoulder, just as a hard, heavy palm settles atop the skin, pulling you in close to a tall, strong body, trained and battered from the seas. “Fish for supper?” He asks jovially—it must have been a good sail. Turn into him, like a creature seeking protection from a vastly superior beast, tilting your head to peer up at your husband. “I got a fresh loaf from the bakers so I was thinking of a soup,” you say, pushing up onto your tiptoes to deliver a chaste kiss to his rough skin, coarse hairs scratching your cheek. “They even added in a fresh lemon to go with it all.”

Light, sharp blue eyes cut to you, something passing behind them that has your stomach sinking. “Of course they did,” he mutters, “it’s in their nature to covet another man’s catch.” He shakes his head, arm tightening around your ribcage almost painfully. “Joanne, you can accompany my wife to the bakers from here onwards,” he drawls out the order like he’s stood behind his ship’s wheel. He turns back to you, fingers stroking along the underside of your breast, eyes glinting. “A hag ought to even out the balance of your beauty,” he murmurs, and you attempt not to cringe as his hot, fishy breath fans across your face.

Instead you dip your head in a demure show of embarrassment, ducking away from the smell. “You find me beautiful because you spend your days at sea with only fish to admire,” you dodge the compliment like you’re expected to, the picture of humble grace. “I assure you, I am nothing much at all.” That seems to please him, squeezing you a little too tightly. “You’re the most beautiful girl in the town,” he says, greasy hand stroking your side. “That is why you are mine. I would not have picked you out if there was a better catch.”

You paste a shy smile onto your lips, tucking away a stray hair over your ear, gripping the wicker basket tighter.

The night will be unpleasant but blessedly short.

————

The surf is calmer today, fog rolling across the grey-blue landscape.

You shouldn’t be down at the cove so early in the morning, but you hadn’t wanted to sleep beside him for a moment longer. Desiccated, scratchy skin pressing to your back, a meaty arm pressed around your waist. So you’d come down to the alcove to clear your head, allowing the crips, salty air to clear your mind before the day ahead. Though sailors will soon be passing by, so you can’t afford to wait too long.

Release a heavy breath, staring out at the deep blue of the ocean, long since desensitised to the scent of brine and seaweed that makes inlanders cringe. The waves are slight, appearing almost still as you survey the view. Had it not been for the steady babble and crush of water, you might have believed the world to be frozen.

Your mind drifts to tales of the mer, stories told to every child to encourage fear and awe into their hearts. Of their cold and clammy hands, capable of pulling fully grown sailors from the docks should they stand too close to the edge. Of their damp, bluish skin, like an eel’s on their chest and arms, but scaled and sharp on their long, thrashing tails. Of their razor-sharp teeth, used to shred and tear at their prey before finally doing away with the catch.

But more than any other feature, folk melodies revolve around their deadly song. Said to be sung so sweetly it could lure any sailor to wish for his end to be at their cold, wet hands. To be dragged below the water’s still surface into their dark and murky layer, fed enough air to be kept alive and aware but never enough to resist as the flesh is torn from their bones.

You move forward, walking along the rickety platform, wanting to look down into the water at the end of the pier, despite the danger you’ve been warned about. The water is still high, but has already begun draining away, the tides lowering. You hum absently as you approach, an old tune that’s often strummed around celebratory bonfires, logs crackling and embers burning bright against the wet blues and greys of the sea-town.

Something catches your eye, ripples coming out from beneath the pier you’re stood on.

Brows furrow, and you walk forward quietly. Maybe a sea creature is hiding beneath the platform. A smile tugs at your lips at the idea—you’d like to see more of the animals when they’re alive instead of with their head severed into a slimy, bloody basket.

You lower to your knees as you come to the edge, muffling your steps so as not to scare it away, if there really is something there.

Peer over the ledge, gaze going to one of the two beams supporting the platform.

Eyes latch with coal black, ringlets of damp, silky hair curling over blue-tinted skin.

Lips part in a scream as you jerk back from the edge, scrambling away before it’s spindly hands come groping for your legs. Heart pounding, you thumb free the small dagger from a dress pocket, gripping it between trembling hands as you frenetically eye the waters below. Waiting for it to attack one side of the pier…to try and drag you under so it can feed on your flesh.

Breath clouds, tendrils curling from your lips as you tremble, replaying the depth of blackness in your mind, the deathly tint of its skin, the unnatural beauty of the lethal creature.

Nothing.

Utter silence.

Shakily, you get to your feet. Had you imagined it? There’s no way.

Heart pounding, you again make your way to the ledge, prepared to toss yourself back should its hands suddenly rise from the water. Swallow, gripping the dagger tight as you shift closer, enough to see a head of dark, slightly curled hair. No doubt the drying sea salt bringing out the waves.

Ease a shuddering breath as you again meet its eyes—charcoal black and utterly depthless. Designed to see in the deepest parts of the mighty ocean. That’s when you notice the tinge in the waters surrounding— him. It’s a male face. Dark lashes, smooth skin, cropped hair.

Eyes dart back to the sea, bleeding red around him.

You note the fishing wire that’s gotten him tangled to one of the beams upholding the platform.

He’s been caught.

Lips part in relief—he can’t hurt you. And yet— “You’re not singing…” you murmur to yourself, eyeing the soft-looking mouth of the creature.

Features coil, twisting themselves into something frighteningly fitting as lips pull back from teeth—dozens of tiny, shredding teeth, set in two neat rows with noticeably protruding incisors. You flinch back on instinct, but remaster your fear, reminding yourself he can’t move. Swallowing, you thank the gods for your iron stomach as you return to the edge. Dagger still gripped tight.

The wire has wrapped itself around his torso from what you can see—probably having gotten tangled first with the creature’s tail, then only constricted tighter as he tried to escape. Much like seaweed.

Brow tightens as the waves continue washing at the shore—the ocean’s draining. What will happen to him, if he doesn’t break free? His lips look dry now you’re peering closer, lines running beneath the stunning black of his vicious eyes. They can survive without being submerged in water for days, but the wire… How long has he been here for?

His mouth opens, and you freeze, tales of their deadly song returning, but instead of the painful melody you were expecting, what comes out is a rasping screech. Garbled and furious—a wet hissing noise, as if he’s seething his warnings.

There’s wire against his neck. Already slicing deep against the powerful column of his throat, stopping much of the noise escaping. You stare down at the creature, tangled and caught. A mighty beast that’s been stripped of any way to protect itself. You wonder if it fears or loathes the helplessness. Perhaps a little of both.

You peer into its eyes, the vicious fury contained within, like he’s already promising to repay the pain you’ll inflict on him tenfold.

Your throat rolls as you stare at him. He’ll die if you leave him—it’s a miracle of some kind he’s managed to remain undetected for so long, though you suppose not many people come down here. But what if someone else finds him?

A queasy feeling tightens around your throat as you imagine the tide sweeping out, gravity pulling the weight of his body down into those slicing wires, forcing him to rest in the tangle until the water returns to yield him to near weightlessness. But what if one of the sailors finds him?

You know what they’ll do. What they already do to the mer they catch. How they’re mutilated, then strung up in the air for the salty winds to whip at, for birds to peck at, slathered in fish blood and other small carcasses to draw creatures in. Sometimes fires are lit beneath their long, powerful tails. Slowly cooking them alive.

Hadn’t you been protesting against the brutality just the other day?

The mer struggles again, water rippling as he writhes, so certain he can break the man-made wire holding him. So desperate to do so.

You look around once…twice. Check no sailors have yet begun to pass over the paths that lead beside the shore. Slowly lower to your knees, gripping the dagger. Black eyes pick out the steel, and he thrashes more, hissing violently as his features are again carved into that picture of grizzly vehemence. Exactly how the stories have told them to be.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” you say clearly, slowly. If he’s smart enough to capture and kill fully grown sailors, he should have something to pick up on tone. Some kind of sense that will tell him it’s better to let you near than to go through with the fate he’s seemingly been dealt.

He hisses again, still baring those teeth at you, but he’s no longer struggling. No longer bringing the wire deeper into his body. It’s a good start. You just need to make sure he doesn’t grab you once cut loose. What a foolish way to go.

You breathe deeply as you move closer, reaching forward.

His muscles tense, tension tightening his shoulders as the blade nears him—it would be easy for your hand to drag the steel across his throat, but the very idea makes you uncomfortable. Watching murder happen and doing it yourself are still very different. You don’t think you could quite stomach that.

“I need you to keep still,” you say gently, clearly. If he makes a sudden movement with the blade so close… You slide it beneath the wire, placing the sharp edge to the restraints, pulling in attempts to get it to break. He hisses suddenly, and you realise it’ll be cutting into his throat so you change tactics, gently sawing until it snaps free.

The mer coughs, wet gasps being hauled down into no-doubt powerful lungs, spluttering as his gills spasm violently.

You can only allow him a little time before setting to work on the next one, further below the water, binding his shoulders tight to the post. Settle closer to the platform, aware of how his eyes silently track every angle of your movements. Whether to make sure you don’t attack, or to plan his own, you don’t contemplate. Just reach deeper, aiming for the next wire. Repeat the gentle sawing motions until that too snaps off.

A gush of relief washes over you as his upper body moves free from the bloody mess, but then he hisses and jerks back, pressing to the beam. His noise sounds strained instead of violent. A noise the product of lacerating pain. There’s most likely more wire tangling his tail, but— you can’t reach that.

The unearthly face tilts, dark eyes boring into you with urgency and— Great Gods. Hunger.

“What are you doing down here?”

You flinch at the rumble of your husband’s voice and the creature goes preternaturally still. As if he also recognises the sound. You could swear his skin leeches of the bluish tint, becoming colder and more translucent. The dagger drops from your hands, bouncing loudly on the wood of the pier. Settles at the edge, and you jerk away, turning to face the towering man approaching you.

Panic grips you as you spy a broad, pale blue hand rising silently from the water. Reaching for the blade.

You shift, angling your body to block him from your husband.

“I wanted to see if I could see the sea bed,” you explain hurriedly, managing what you hope is an appropriately embarrassed smile. “Sadly the tide’s in, so I think it’s too deep. Do you know when it’ll be out again?” You ask, trying to distract from the position he’d found you in. His brow narrows, heavy boots clunking over the rickety pier. “You shouldn’t be so near to the waters,” he mutters, moving forward and you hastily get to your feet, the dagger gone from the platform.

Bruising, meaty hands roughly grip your upper arms, forcefully turning you to face him. The smell of grease and hot fish washes over you and you fight your cringe. “Yesterday it was the bakers, today it’s the seas,” he mutters, “it’s not right for you to be this close to—” Follow the direction of his gaze, down to the edge of the pier.

He pushes you to the side, allowing him to galumph past, staring down to the post the mer had been tied to.

Watch his bulky silhouette as hands pull into flesh-beating fists, your bones already aching. “Is everything okay?” You ask softly, shaking your head to yourself. “I’m sorry for taking so long to make breakfast—I got sidetracked on my usual pathway. Let’s return home.”

He doesn’t move, the world silent save for the steady wash of waves at the shore. Your husband turns then, brows pulled into a hateful bunch atop sea-roughened skin. “Why were you peering into the waters?” His voice is low and blunt, eyes sharpening to glacial blue, regarding you with a hint of suspicion. You smile, “I told you, I was looking to see the bottom but the tide’s not yet out.”

Heart is pounding—could he have already known the mer was there? The bluish skin had almost drained, as if paling with fury.

Then he’s walking to you with intent, hands brutally gripping your upper arms, tight enough the bones trembling beneath his sailor’s grip. “Why were you peering into—”

Something gleams over his shoulder, grazing the muscle of his bicep as your dagger flies past, blood spitting onto the deck as the blade lodges into the wood. Cold blue eyes freeze, snapping from the weapon dug into the pier back to you. “That’s yours,” he accuses, lowly. “You set it free, didn’t you?”

“I don’t—”

His hand smacks across your cheek before you have time to prepare, the corner of your mouth stinging as something hot trickles down your chin. Lips part, raising your fingers to the drip-drop of blood.

“You set the damned thing free,” he rages, practically snarling with fury. Before you can do anything against it, he’s turning, gripping you so tight you’re afraid your arm will splinter. “Björn! Bertram!” He bellows, calling to the sailors that are no doubt beginning their morning routines. He’s muttering to himself, about capturing it again before it can get too far out to sea, dragging you along behind him.

You stumble, tripping up as you go, almost bumping into him as you’re roughly pulled back along the pier. He whirls on you then, backhanding you hard enough you almost careen backward. But his meaty hand is encompassing your throat, strangling tight as he pulls you close enough for his greasy, fishy beard to coarsely scratch your skin. “Stupid, foolish hag,” he snarls out, “you’ll be strung you and up cooked alive for that.”

Your stomach churns as you struggle, nails clawing at his knuckles, scratching deep enough to draw blood, more of it drip-dropping onto the rickety pier. You gasp for breath, rasping and clawing at his hand until he snarls, shoving you back. Tripping over your skirts, the back of your head smacks against the wood hard enough to have your vision blurring, white spots dancing through your view. Billowing grey clouds wash overhead, looking about to rain down.

Weakly, you push up from the damp platform, in time to see your husband pluck the dagger from the ground—what had tripped you up. Eyes flash with fury, flipping the hilt menacingly as he advances, drawing out the fear. You whimper, scrambling back until your hand slips over the edge, almost sending you tumbling into the murky depths. “I should have known,” he spits out, “there were whispers about your thoughts. I should have paid them more mind.” The dagger glints in his hand, so quickly turned to your own throat.

“I’ll take my time with you,” he mutters, “take the fingers that cut the fish free.” Flips the blade in his hand as he towers over you. Muscles coil taut, unable to move, unable to fight as the steel glitters beneath the overcast light. He moves to grab you—to take your fingers, to cut you up.

A deafening screech sounds, rasping and raw, then a pale blue shape leaps from the water. Jaws are unlocked to a monstrous angle, neat rows of sharp, flesh-shredding teeth bared as that giant tail thrashes with the force to propel him clean from the water. The muscled weight of the mer crashes into your husband, knocking him from his feet as he’s stolen beneath the water’s surface faster than you can blink.

The sea ripples in his wake, then calms to nothing, continuing to lap at the shore, hiding all traces of the deadly attack.

“Mer!” A bellowing voice roars, and your eyes are dragged to the beginning of the pier, two hulking sailors—Björn and Bertram—stood among the heavy, rolling fogs that have seemingly thickened out of nowhere. Their weighty boots thud on the deck as they begin storming forward, weapons gripped tight in case of another unseen attack.

Your heart beats in your mouth, fear and panic sweeping you under as you freeze with terror. You shift to move back, but have forgotten you’re already at the edge, hand slipping back over the ledge of the pier.

Eyes go wide, unable to scream as powerful, cold-blooded hands wrap beneath your arms, hooking over your shoulders and you’re dragged down beneath the sea’s surface. Water swallowing any trace of struggle as it seals overhead.

You thrash and writhe, hands shoving out as you try to free yourself from the iron grip of the mer that’s dragging you down to his sea bed. He turns you around, then cold, soft lips are settling over your own, breathing fresh air into your lungs. Tasting slightly coppery. You don’t question how it’s possible—they’re creatures of magic—just greedily gulp the extra seconds of life down as you feel his powerful body ripple with motion, muscle working as the large tail propels you deeper into the ocean, stolen away from the sea-town you’d grown up in.

Fear seeps into your blood as images of his tiny, shredding teeth flash through your head, the charcoal of his large, onyx eyes.

You should never have risked freeing him. He’s as cruel as the songs warn.

————

Spluttering as you break the surface of the underwater cave, your eyes ache from being squeezed shut for gods know how long.

Gulp down air to fuel your panic driven heartbeat, briny salt water stinging as tears drip down your cheeks. You quickly blink them away, unable to dry your eyes thanks to the cold water having soaked your clothes, down to the bone. His tail moves in strong motions, keeping the both of you afloat, yet he hasn’t bitten down. Mouth remains shut, as if waiting for you to ready.

Peel open your gaze, instantly latching onto his dark eyes, glittering black as he watches you silently. The oddly shaped ears either side his head twitch, looking like the webbed feet of some of the marine birds you’ve seen. Birds that have feasted upon mer flesh when it’s been strung up to be picked at.

As soon as you can manage, you’re trying to writhe away from the creature, but the stories haven’t done their strength justice. It’s like being held by stone, muscle as unforgiving as the cold, jagged rocks the surf crashes upon. Dread sets in, spiralling your mind as you thrash against his grip, desperate to spare yourself from the horrible fate of his gently prying teeth.

“Let go of me,” you plead, trying to squirm out of his hold, eyeing the hewn rock that makes up the underwater cave, seemingly being kept in an air bubble. Gaze returns to gleaming black in time to see as a transparent film blinks across his eyes, making you startle, yipping as you flinch away in horror. Teeth catch on the edge of your mouth with the recoil, reopening the small wound, courtesy of your husband, vision again blurring with the sting.

You struggle as he starts moving, but he’s pushing you toward the ledge of the rocky cave, not dragging you below—deeper into his layer. Breathing stutters as your back presses into the jagged rock, his blue-tinted hands spanning your hips, turning you around and pushing up from the cold sea. You scramble away so quickly you graze your knee on the sharp rock, splitting skin as blood begins seeping into your skirts.

Wince at the pain, but push as far back as you can, finding the stone now to be surprisingly smooth, as if carved away. Breathe heavily, shivering against the icy temperature of the submarine cave, hugging your limbs close by as the mer watches silently. Tears helplessly drip down your cheeks, teeth chattering as you try to put a stop to your crying. You’re a fisherman’s wife, for goodness sake. Were a fisherman’s wife?

Throat rolls as you push back into the smooth wall of the cave. “What did you do with my…with Alaric?” You manage through trembling jaws, lungs spasming with the cold.

The question appears to aggravate the mer, lip curling at the name alone. “He’s alive,” the male rasps, throat straining to create the syllables of speech. You stifle your surprise—yes, you’d known they could sing, but you’d assumed it was in some ancient tongue, fitting for their ancient species. Swallow down your fear, curling tighter in on yourself. “Why have you brought me here?” You manage, voice thick and scared even to your own ears.

He swims closer, resting powerfully muscled arms upon the rocky ledge, tail swaying idly behind him in the lagoon. It’s then you truly take in the cave he’s brought you to, kept alight by luminescent greens and blues, crystals lining the ceiling, the sea lighting up with every small movement, as if mixed with melted moon wax. Tendrils of breath curl before you in misty swirls, teeth chattering more as shivers wrack your body, not all of them solely from the frigid air.

“You saved my life,” he rasps, jaw resting atop his forearms as he watches you.

“So you trap me in a cave?” You manage, trying to fight off the feeling of your fingertips beginning to frost over. He merely blinks at your question, that translucent film sliding back and forth just beneath his lids. “So I saved yours,” he correctly neutrally, a hint of arrogance in his dark eyes.

Brows knot together in confusion as you stare at the male. “You—… You’ve trapped me.”

“Your husband would have killed you,” he rasps, cold eyes sharpening with what you can only assume is hatred. “I saved you.” You shake your head, unaware of your lower body. “You took him because you were hungry. It served your own purposes.”

Incisors glitter beneath the icy blues of the cave, gleaming as his lip curls. Extends his arm, cold-blooded fingers stretching out as if to grab you. “Shall I return you?”” You huddle close to the wall, curling away from his deathly touch. “I’ll freeze to death if you take me through those waters again,” you hedge. “Besides, you might change your mind along the way, and—” You cut yourself off, noticing the red of his tongue. Swallow, hoping it’s not left-over blood.

His ears flutter, noting your gaze, lips pulling back as he swipes the flesh-roughing muscle over gleaming teeth. “And?” He asks, quietly taunting as the edge of his mouth quirks. As if daring you to voice the dreadful tales of his kind. Your lips purse, instead turning your attention to trying to contain your warmth. The mer shifts, as if about to slide back into the water.

“Wait!” You call out, having him pause, glittering onyx eyes turning once again to your figure. “Where are you going?” You ask, unable to entirely keep the fear from your voice. “Away,” he answers in that still raspy, raw voice of his. “I’ll be back,” he adds with a croon, tail swishing beneath him, arms running through the water as if revelling in being reunited on friendly terms. Panic sets in—if he leaves, he might never return. Might very well forget about you entirely. Leaving you to freeze in a subterranean sea cave, rotting away with the grime and stale water, all alone.

“Why did you bring me here?” You ask frantically, not wanting to be around him, but not wanting him to leave either. You don’t want to die here.

Ears twitch again, watching you silently, observing like he’s waiting for a sign to show. He returns to the ledge of rock leading down into the freezing waters, again settling himself atop the hewn stone. “You know what he does to us. What you all do to us,” he rasps, close enough for you to pick out the still-healing slices on his throat. “You know how you hate us, and you know how they hate anything that does not hate with them. You knew how they’d hate you too. So why meddle?”

Skin prickles at the intense look he’s giving you, feeling as though judgement is being passed.

“I didn’t want your death on my conscience,” you mange, lips long numb from the biting temperature. He blinks slowly, the only shift in expression he shows, the rest of his features blank as a still day at sea.

“Don’t try to escape. You’ll drown yourself,” he rasps bluntly, pushing away from the ledge, returning to deeper waters. “Just wait. I’ll return.”

The mer swims to the middle of the pool, dark eyes gleaming. “Eventually.”

Then he’s swallowed in a flash of silver, darting away to one of the submerged tunnel openings, navigating his way out to open ocean. Stomach tenses, listening to the laboured heave of your breaths and the quiet hush of waves. Curl tighter into yourself, praying he returns before the warmth entirely leaves you, already unable to feel your legs or hands.

Teeth chatter in the quiet of the cave, leaving you to wonder how far below land you are.

How deeply he’s already buried you.

——————————————————————————————————————————————

General Taglist: @myheartfollower @tcris2020 @mali22 @amygdtjhddzvb @sfhsgrad-blog @needylilgal022 @hannzoaks

Az Taglist: @azrielshadows1nger @jurdanpotter @positivewitch @nightcourt-daydreaming @vanderlinde

#azriel x reader #azriel x you #azriel x yn #mermaid au #mer!azriel #azriel acotar #azriel fic

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saja-gaza · 1 month

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‼️Please don’t skip taking a look 🍉🇵🇸

Hello everyone

This is my story, and I hope it won't be so long for you.

I am Saja, the youngest one in my family. I'm 24 year-olds, the age that supposed to be flower age, the youth age in which we take the first steps in achieving our dreams and establishing a successful business and a happy marital life.

I got engaged to a person named Muhammad, who works as an engineer in one of the local companies at Gasa Strip in Palestine. I loved him and with him I saw my future and the fulfillment of my dreams.

Muhammad and I, during our engagement, carefully chose together every corner and part of our little "paradise" , which means a lot to us and the most precious thing we have. It was like a dream house, and it took us a lot of effort, time and money to complete it in light of the difficult financial situation we face at Gaza.

I had many ambitions and dreams that I had always dreamed of.

During preparingfor my wedding, I bought many clothes, accessories, decoration masterpieces for my new house. I had not saved even a cent of my dowry and my savings, which I had collected from my special talent in designing necklaces and beads.

Like any newlyweds, we chose an unforgettable and special date for our wedding which was on 3/3/2023, to begin a life full of happy memories and big dreams we prepared in that paradise (our home).

I lived with my husband happily in our dreaming house until 7/10/2023.

Then, the most destructive,brutal and bloody war broke out at Gasa and it has not subsided until now.

It destroyed our lives, dreams, and our future.

We were displaced from our home on the first day, and until now we are in the tenth month of the war.

I always wish to retur home, my family’s home, and our land.

I am filled with nostalgia that increases every day. We did not have the chance to say goodbye to the house, nor to take our belongings, or even our pictures and memories.

During our displacement, we moved to more than one place to escape death and bombing. We saw the most horrific scenes that the human mind could not bear, including corpses and body parts, until our grieving heart became accustomed to these things, and every time our hearts became more shattered, but we couldn't changed anything.

There was nothing left to breathe life into Gaza. At first, my house was damaged and I said I would repair it and live in it if they allowed me to return to it

In the last month, I received news that my house had been completely destroyed, so that we could not revive anything from the rubble or return to it

I now live in a tent with my husband, separated by a long distance from my family’s tent and my sisters’. There is no safety here and life is very difficult. The sun is scorching, the place is not clean, and diseases spread widely in the camps. You cannot do anything about this matter...

https://gofund.me/c21fa185

Here I no longer have any hope of returning. I was very optimistic in the past and came to help others and smiled despite the suffering, but now I am walking with a great heaviness in my heart, and my home and homeland have been taken from me. What will I return to and how will I start my life again? Will I return to building a tent over the wreckage of my house and my heart is broken? No. I can imagine his image and still not accept it.

It is hard to ask for help, but it is the time take an action to seek to survive and escape from death.

My husband and I decided to leave Gaza and live in another country.

we need your help to fund us so we can travel.

please every cent you donat can help us.

#gofund #gofundus #go fund her #go fund him #go fund them #gofundme #vintage cars #pink #nature

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ccnstanta · 1 year

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The phrase one last time sinks in her heart like a stone, the haunting finality of the statement. She'd see him again, one day in the future, but how long it would be until then was unknown. Neither of them were bound by duty or guilt any longer and she refused to be the one to restraint him now. If he wanted to fly, she'd have to let him spread his wings. If she truly loved @a-bloody-dowry, she'd have to let him go. But the idea of this dance being their last stung. "Isn't the gentleman supposed to do that, my dear Alexi?"

#( answered ).#a-bloody-dowry #queued

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alagaesia-headcanons · 1 year

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I love that Nasuada's major flaw is the same as one of Galbatorix's greatest flaws, and that it gets worse and more ingrained throughout the series. And it's so compelling because it's incredibly in character for her and there's every reason for the circumstances to perpetuate and exacerbate it, but that doesn't make her flaw any less egregious. The scene where Galbatorix compares the two of them is so fascinating because his intention is very manipulative and malicious, yet the statement itself isn't entirely untrue.

Because Nasuada treats people like tools. She considers a person's utility more important than anything else, including their personhood.

And it's such an engrossing flaw because of course Nasuada treats people like tools! She is proud and powerful and stubborn and noble and utterly committed to achieving what she has set out to do, by whatever means necessary. She will use whatever she has at her disposal to reach her goal, and that includes using the people around her. Of course, this doesn't make Nasuada inherently immoral; she cares deeply about justice and protecting her people. But her views on the individuals around her are impersonal and self serving.

And the goal she's trying to achieve is to win the war. Nasuada would never be pushed out of her ways by the circumstances because they work, the way she treats people accomplishes exactly what she intends. By its nature, the bloody act of war rewards using people like tools. It demands that, even; to a certain extent, it's an ugly necessity in war, but the thing is that Nasuada doesn't see it that way. She never struggles with or grieves over the need to consider people's individuality as secondary to their function. It comes naturally to her, and it lasts through the end of the books, when the war is already over.

Because I think the most flagrant example of this is at the very end, when Birgit intercepts Roran as he's leaving, presumably intending to kill him, and Nasuada says, "He has proved himself a fine and valuable warrior on more than one occasion, and I would be most displeased to lose him." It's such a wonderful, pointed line that perfectly sums up this aspect of her character. Because what a disgusting thing to say. Especially for the queen of all Alagaesia, perfectly positioned and empowered to stop this confrontation and declare it unjust if she cared to. But her words make no attempt at all to defend Roran as a person, only his value to her.

The way she uses others I find most evident in her treatment of Roran, Murtagh, and Elva. The way she tells Eragon that she thinks of giving Katrina a dowry as a "purchase" of Roran's goodwill and loyalty. In Uru'baen, only at great length, she makes the conscious choice to ignore Murtagh's past and only judge who he is in the present, but disregards any care for what that might say about him as a person, solely focused on if he could be useful as an ally. And when Eragon offers to revert Elva's curse, the one that condemned an infant to feel every piece of pain and suffering surrounding her, Nasuada is so fixated on Elva's utility and value to Nasuada's goals that she goes so far as to ask Eragon to fake his effort to cure her. She sees people as tools to such an extent that she can't recognize that relieving an innocent baby of unimaginable, cursed agony should come before her own priorities.

#guys i LOVE her #its SUCH a good character flaw im obsessed with it #eragon #inheritance cycle #nasuada #roran #elva #murtagh #pretending nasuada is entirely good natured is so boring i swear #she is passionate and heartfelt #but she is also Fucked Up sometimes #seriously tho those moments i mentioned always hit me like 'wow babe wtf is wrong with you???'#her nuance *chefs kiss*#she has the range #(also tbh. big reason why i think she and murtagh wouldnt work out together. this would cause A Lot of pain. too much.)

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thebisexualwreckoning · 2 months

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i am here once again to tell all yall suffering through iwtv withdrawals to read A Dowry of Blood by ST Gibson for bloody, erotic vampire polycules going through divorce

#amc iwtv #iwtv #interview with the vampire #a dowry of blood #st gibson

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charmsandtealeaves · 7 months

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Well despite a very busy week, I actually also managed a lot of reading! Big win for me personally. This week is still predominantly Jily (no surprises there - especially with gift exchange fics dropped)

Read This Week:

Pinkest Bluestocking of the Ton by @wearingaberetinparis (Ch.11-)

WIP, Regency Jily, Rated M

Dearest Reader, the ton are abuzz with the latest gossip, and so it is my honour to impart to you the news that the Duke of Peverell has returned to London at last! A year after setting off on his tour of Europe, Lady Peverell's son has returned and rumour has it that his mother is preparing for the most joyous of occasions: a late summer wedding that sees her son wed the next Duchess of Peverell. It is my sincere hope that you have stored a bottle of wine for this most delightful of upcoming events for if ever there were a more determined mama, this writer is Icarus and this society paper has been scorched for flying too close to the sun. A Jily Regency Romance inspired by Shondaland's "Bridgerton".

Down Comes The Night by Wearingaberetinparis (Ch.1-)

WIP, Hogwarts Jily, Different Houses, Rated M

As the Wizarding World grows ever darker, the threat of Lord Voldemort and his Death Eaters looming, James Potter – Gryffindor at heart, pure of blood, traitor by nature – and Lily Evans – Ravenclaw of mind, Muggle by birth, solitary of soul – are appointed Head Boy and Girl.

To Bring Down A Kingdom by @mppmaraudergirl (Ch.1-)

WIP, Forbidden Love Jily, Rated M

“If we do this…” “For all of time, they will say it was our love that brought down a kingdom.” A story about forbidden lovers, the battle between duty and love, and the cost of betrayal. Inspired by the film Tristan and Isolde.

Your Friend, James by @thelighthousestale

Complete (5.3k), Letters, Hogwarts Jily, Rated T

It is the summer before their 7th year, and Lily and James spend the entire holiday writing letters to each other as their relationship slowly changes from friends to something more.

Miss Evans and the Impossible Task (of finding a husband) by @annasghosts (Ch.9)

Complete (22.2K), Regency Era Jily, Rated T

Miss Lily Evans, the youngest daughter of a widow with a modest fortune, at one and twenty years of age knows what is required of her: to find a husband willing to support her and her mother. The problem? Men of the London society aren’t swayed by her lack of a dowry and brazen attitude. Luckily for her Mr James Potter has just come home from Cambridge and she can enlist his help to find out what men really want.

A Tale of Two Sisters by Annasghosts

Complete (2k) Lily and Petunia Evans, Rated G

This is the story of Lily and Petunia Evans, two sisters who couldn't be more different, but once upon a time, when they were little girls, thought their bond unbreakable.

Theogony by @clare-with-no-i

Complete (120k), Ancient Greece/Time Travel Jily, Rated M

The trip that Lily Evans expects to go on is the annual pre-dissertation jaunt to Athens with the rest of her Classical Civilizations PhD program. The trip she does not expect to go on is to 479 BCE, right on the cusp of one of the most important battles in the Greco-Persian war. Now, she has to navigate antiquity as she tries to find her way back to the 21st Century, God—or gods—help her. James wants to win this war. No, James needs to win this war. He is a man of honor and duty, and even if it means dying a gruesome, bloody death, he will go down in history as one of Athens's great warriors. He will suffer no distractions; not even beautiful ones who speak strangely and refuse to listen to his orders.

Drunk on You by @kay-elle-cee

Complete (4.3k), jily in a tub, Rated E

While on a weekend getaway with some friends, Lily steals away somewhere private to cool down from the sweltering heat and the alcohol in her system. James Potter, a (very fit) friend-of-a-friend who's tagged along, has a similar idea. Spilled wine, bare skin, and bold flirting do not help them cool down one bit.

Accidental Magic by @missgryffin

Complete (9.1k), Jily smut, Rated E

What else is there to do after confessing feelings in the middle of the night than spend a lazy Saturday in bed?

The Three-Minute Initiative by @annabtg

Complete (1.9k), Jily Speed Dating, Rated T

The first bloke Lily meets at the speed dating event is too cold and distant; the second one lacks enthusiasm; the third one doesn’t look like the type to take initiative. The fourth bloke is when she stops counting.

The Couch Chronicles by @jamesunderwater

Complete (3.1k), jily/jilypad cuteness, Rated G

Lily Evans thought Sirius Black wasn't her friend, but she also thought James Potter was just her colleague. She was wrong on both accounts. written for the lovely AnnaBtG as part of @jilymicrofic's 2024 Jily Gift Exchange, and inspired by this fanart.

Loose Ends by @abihastastybeans

Complete (1.7k), Enemies to Lovers, Thieves Jily, Rated M

Written for Jilymicrofics' Valentine's Gift Exchange 2024!! "He walked up behind Lupin and scanned the map, tracing his finger over the hand drawn lines, determinedly. “You’re part of the team now and you’re going to help me show Lily Evans who’s who.”"

Thrice Defied by abihastastybeans

Complete (2.4k), First Wizarding War Jily, Rated M

Written for Jilymicrofics' Valentine's Gift Exchange 2024! James and Lily defying Voldemort three times

there's nothin' like a mad man by @athenasparrow

Complete (1k), Jily smut, Rated E

Order Jily love confessions

Never Far Behind (Those Vivid Knuckles) by @uncertainwallflower

Complete (742), protective jily, Rated E

To wrong Lily Evans is to face James Potter's wrath.

As Good A Reason by @fiendishfyre

Complete (9k), jily enemies to lovers, rated G

James and Lily enter a competition to become apprentices to a famed Potion master.

Operation Jily by @nena-96

Complete (3k), jily, meddling friends, Rated T

Marlene is tired of putting up with James and Lily, so she seeks the help from Sirius and Remus in order to get those two idiots together. Operation Jily is set and ready for action.

Sweethearts’ Special by @tinyluminaryzombie

Complete (1.6k), Jily Coffee Shop AU, Rated T

What happens when your coffee shop nemesis, asks you to pretend to be a couple? "I’ve been staring at the stupid cupcakes for the past hour, and they look way too good. Anyways, would you be willing to join forces and pretend to be together for the free cupcake and coffee?”

Hell is Empty (and all the devils are here) by @nodirectionhome-ao3

Complete (11.4k), canon divergent Order! Jily, Rated M

When an Order mission takes an unexpected turn, James and Lily find themselves stranded together. In the aftermath of the chaos, sheltering together through the storm, a fire catches between them.

Between the Desire and the Spasm by @uncertainwallflower (ch.10)

WIP, canon divergent, modern with magic jily, Rated M

Trains are arguably the centre of everything. The sinew of civilisation for muggles and wizards alike. They are where all walks of life converge. Congregate. In synchronised traversal. Shared agony inflicted by the piercing screech of metal on metal, bonding all patrons aboard a carriage. And outside. A passing glimpse of someone you thought you’d never see again. Trains. They change everything.

Quest For Camelot by @petalsinwoodvale (Ch.10-11)

WIP, Quest for Camelot Jily AU, Rated T

All Lily has ever wanted is to be a knight, like her father, Sir Lionel. After Camelot is attacked and the magical sword Excalibur is stolen, she finds herself teaming up with James, a young blind hermit, as they embark on a quest to find the lost sword. Together, they face the threat of the evil Ruber, navigate challenges with a two-headed dragon and an ogre, and discover that they're more alike than they initially thought. Will they manage to return the sword to Arthur in time, or will they lose not only each other but also their dreams and the precious Excalibur? Based on the 1998 movie Quest for Camelot, but more plot and less singing.

The Librarian of Hogsmeade Village by @ohmygodshesinsane

Complete (8.2k), modern jily AU, Rated T

Lily's work as a librarian in the small village of Hogsmeade has kept her occupied for the past six years, forever keeping the wheels of the town on the track. As the holidays approach, she prepares to settle in with a nice mug of tea and a well-thumbed old book. When a new resident and his son arrive at her weekly story-reading, with cheeky smiles and big hearts, those plans are tossed out the window in favour of chasing love, for once - not escaping it.

Heart Transfiguration by @siriuslychessi

Complete (2.8k), Hogwarts Jily, Rated G

James and Lily have a study session on their 6th year where James starts to notice some changes in Lily's behaviour.

Get a Room by @chierafied

Complete (1.3k), Modern Jily AU, Rated T

The long-awaited trip to London goes awry when Marlene chooses to spend time with her boyfriend - forcing Lily to share their room with none other than James Potter.

The Duel by @reality-exodus

Complete (3k), First Wizarding War, Rated G

While the Marauders are studying in Hogwarts the first wizarding world blooms on their societies with the threat towards Muggleborns getting greater, unfortunately Hogwarts its not a safe place anymore, as the slytherins carry on the believes of their families in school grounds. What happens when Lilly is a targeted Muggle?

Just The Two Of Us by @arianatwycross

Complete (10.2k), Hogwarts Jily, Rated T

Head Students James and Lily face a perilous twist when a malicious potion surfaces in hate mail directed at Lily. Dumbledore orders a week-long quarantine in the Head Students' suite. With unspoken crushes lingering, the duo navigates close quarters, leading to unexpected revelations, lingering looks and forehead kisses.

The Wait Was Worth It by @rose-of-the-grave

Complete (3.3k), Hogwarts Jily, Rated G

James is trying to move on. Lily thinks it's too late. With some help from their friends them might finally be on the same page.

The Boy (In The Bedroom) Next Door by @eastwindmlk (Ch.1-5)

WIP, Canon Divergent Jily, Rated T

1986 Lily Evans has to move in with her new potion's teacher to finish her apprenticeship. There is one small issue, said teacher? Fleamont Potter, father of infinitely annoying and frustratingly fit former rival James Potter. Who she has not seen after leaving Hogwarts after her third year.

The Queen of the Quills (Jily Edition) by @elliemarchetti

WIP, Regency Jily, Rated T

James Potter, London's most evasive bachelor, an impertinent libertine, has decided to get married. He has also already chosen his wife, the debutante Lily Evans, a self-confident young woman who has not the slightest intention of being seduced by such a man.

#charms read round up #week 7 #fic recs

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shadowmonkstone · 8 months

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Right, we’ve got ourselves a pretty settled system now. Me, Kay, Lae’zel and Wyll go out to try and find the Crèche and the cure while Gale and Astarion wait at camp with Shadowheart researching what they can on Mind Flayers and all of the books and shite we pick up on the way. It keeps Shadowheart and Lae’zel from killing each other and Astarion and Gale talking at me with words that don’t make any fucking sense.

Like agog. What the fuck does agog mean? I give up.

We were heading in the direction of the Crèche that the tiefling showed us on the map when we came across a Balurdurian outpost. At least it used to be, it was on fire after a Drow and Goblin raid. We helped as many people as we could…well, I say ‘we’ but Lae’zel was a less than enthusiastic member of the team.

She still helped anyway, which says to me that beneath the growls, threats and big fuck-off sword at my throat she does have a heart. A walnut sized heart, but it’s there nonetheless.

After we had rescued everyone, it turns out that the Grand Duke of Baldur’s Gate himself was there and was kidnapped.

So what, you might ask? Just another posh bloke in the wrong place at the wrong time.

But…no. He’s fucking Wyll’s fucking father.

Wait, that sounded like he was fucking Wyll’s father. He’s not. I mean he IS Wyll’s father.

Because of course he is.

Fuck’s sake.

Just one, normal, no one’s connected with anybody else and has a dark bloody secret kind of day. That’s all I’m asking for.

FUCK.

So yeah, The Blade of Frontiers’ old man is the big daddy Duke of Baldur’s Gate, and like all good families they haven’t spoken in fucking years. Of course, I said we’d go and rescue him from some tower. Kay thought this was a good idea, Lae’zel thought this was a good opportunity to hold the pointy end of her magic, fuck-off sword at my throat.

So we reached a compromise. Find Wyll’s dad after we’re cured in her Crèche.

Why after? Because we spoke with some of the dead Drow (magic amulet from Withers - don’t ask) who said that this Absolute wanted the Duke and wanted him alive. Says to me that the bugger’s going to be a prisoner, not goblin scran. So we’ve got time.

Plus, I’m no father (that I know of), but the last thing any dad wants is for a happy family reunion to be spoiled by the long lost son sprouting fucking tentacles from his gob halfway through a toast.

At the other end of the scale we saved a bloke from the fire but he’d lost his wife in the attack. Poor bastard. They’d had a fight about a dowry and with his permission we spoke with her corpse…which sounds a lot fucking worse when I say it aloud…but she said it was in the barn at the back. And we’ve just found it.

We’ve agreed to have a quick sit down out here because this has all been pretty intense, and even Lae’zel’s agreed to it. Wyll’s contemplating seeing his old man again, Karlach’s dancing…fuck me she’s got some moves…and Lae’zel is exploring the other bar-…hang on a second.

What do you mean there’s someone in there?! …Yes I know you don’t talk in fucking riddles Lae’zel it was a rhetorical bloody…yes of course I can sodding see th-…please stop fucking threatening him…I don’t bloody care if the dickhead’s got a fireball in his hand, he looks ready to fucking piss himself!

Sorry, gotta go, bye!

#baldur's gate 3 #bg3 act 1 #bg3 rp #bg3 tav #lae'zel #d&d 5e #astarion #shadowheart #gale dekarios #wyll ravengard #karlach

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branwendaughterofllyr · 7 months

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A Cersei and Catherine de Medici Primer

So, if you’ve been following me at all recently, you’ll know I’ve been working on a fairy tale Cersei meta that I can guarantee will be disappointing after all the build up because I am a hack who just writes very slowly. Part of the Cersei meta involved a lengthy comparison with Catherine de Medici, that was about to consume the entire meta like some terrible eldritch horror, so I have been gently advised to make it a separate post. Which is what this is!

Comparing characters with historical figures is the basic bread and butter of the ASOIAF fandom, so I’m jumping on that wagon and riding it as far as it will take me, so without further ado, let's talk about Catherine.

Catherine lived from 1519-1589, but her most famous years are when she served as queen regent of France for her sons, which has often been called “the age of Catherine de Medici,” which is generally considered to be from 1559-1589, ending with her death.

Born in Italy, to the extremely wealthy, if technically common, merchant family of the Medici, Catherine was married off very young, at only fourteen, to Henry II of France (who was at the time the Duke of Orleans and the second son) by her uncle, Pope Clement VII. Her early years of marriage were extremely tumultuous, due to her being Italian in a time and place where that made her highly unpopular, her uncle dying before he could finish paying her dowry, and her inability to conceive for the first decade of her marriage. She was also famously not very attractive, and her in-laws often remarked that they could excuse her being Italian and poor if only she was beautiful. (The most common comments on her appearance were that she had the bulging eyes of the Medicis, and was very stout, but at least she had nice skin.) Of course, this is stands in stark contrast to Cersei’s famed beauty, but in many ways Catherine was just as defined by her appearance, only in the opposite direction.

One of the most famous on-screen depictions of Catherine is by Virna Lisi in the 1994 film La Reine Margot, based on the novel of the same name, in which Catherine is played with a near constance menace and severity (especially in contrast to the ethereal Isabelle Adjani as the titular Margot, Catherine’s daughter).

As the film goes on, Lisi’s features only become more exaggerated in their gauntness as the styling leans directly into every idea of the aging, wicked queen, as the true ruthlessness of Catherine’s actions are unraveled.

Just as Cersei is famed for her beauty, to the point of exaggeration that ultimately MUST fall short of the reality, Catherine skews the other direction, her ugliness the symbol of her internal wickedness, forever contrasted with her husband’s ageless beauty of a mistress.

I might even connect it to the raw exposure that Cersei feels during her walk of shame, her beauty, which she had always considered her greatest defense, stripped from her.

She did not feel beautiful, though. She felt old, used, filthy, ugly. There were stretch marks on her belly from the children she had borne, and her breasts were not as firm as they had been when she was younger. Without a gown to hold them up, they sagged against her chest. I should not have done this. I was their queen, but now they've seen, they've seen, they've seen. I should never have let them see. Gowned and crowned, she was a queen. Naked, bloody, limping, she was only a woman, not so very different from their wives, more like their mothers than their pretty little maiden daughters. What have I done?

-Cersei II, ADWD

"My wife has sweeter teats than those," a man shouted. A teamster cursed as the Poor Fellows ordered his wagon out of the way. "Shame, shame, shame on the sinner," chanted the septas. "Look at this one," a whore called from a brothel window, lifting her skirts to the men below, "it's not had half as many cocks up it as hers." Bells were ringing, ringing, ringing. "That can't be the queen," a boy said, "she's saggy as my mum." This is my penance, Cersei told herself. I have sinned most grievously, this is my atonement. It will be over soon, it will be behind me, then I can forget.

-Cersei II, ADWD

If a queen cannot be beautiful, what then is she worth? If she is beautiful, any myriad of sins can be forgiven, such as being poor or Italian, or heartless. (I will delve deeper into this theme in the meta proper.)

Catherine was also extremely in love with her husband, and was absolutely devoted to him. Her love was very unrequited, something that gave her a great deal of grief throughout the entirety of her marriage.

Through a series of mishaps and illnesses, Catherine’s husband came to the throne in 1547, and while Catherine was technically queen of France, all of her husband’s affections and many honours meant for his wife went to his long time mistress, the beautiful Diane de Poitiers. Although many years older than Henry, Diane held his heart until his death, and kept her looks as well, through a stringent routine of cold baths and exercise. The only thing that Catherine was able to give her husband that Diane couldn’t would end up being children. I might make a light connection from this aspect of Catherine’s life to Cersei’s, whose husband famously preferred a dead girl to her.

"I remember Robert as he was the day he took the throne, every inch a king," he said quietly. "A thousand other women might have loved him with all their hearts. What did he do to make you hate him so?"

Her eyes burned, green fire in the dusk, like the lioness that was her sigil. "The night of our wedding feast, the first time we shared a bed, he called me by your sister's name. He was on top of me, in me, stinking of wine, and he whispered Lyanna."

-Eddard XII, AGOT

Eventually, after years of trying various remedies and methods, Catherine was able to conceive, and had ten children in as many years, with seven surviving to adulthood. All of them would be sickly and frail (with the exception of her daughter Margot, also known as Marguerite of Valois), and she would outlive all but one of her sons (the last being stabbed to death eight months after she died), something that she spent her whole life trying to prevent. When her husband Henry died, Catherine went into permanent mourning, eschewing the traditional white mourning clothes of French queens for black widow’s weeds, earning her the moniker of the “black queen” in more ways than one.

(While Cersei does not particularly mourn Robert, she does take great joy in dressing for his funeral, a high-collared black silk gown, with a hundred dark red rubies sewn into her bodice, covering her from neck to bosom, and it is certainly an iconic look.)

One of the key parallels with Cersei is Catherine’s deep obsession with magic and the occult, that she would maintain for her entire life, patronizing astrologers and alchemists, including the famous seer Nostradamus. Her daughter Margot even claimed that Catherine had prophetic dreams about the deaths of family members, and would wake up screaming from them, sobbing out the name of the person who was soon to die. There were also extremely pervasive rumors that Catherine was an expert in poisons, which was a common stereotype for Italians at the time, and even today, you can visit a room in Chateau de Blois, with 327 little wooden drawers, rumored to have been used to hold all of Catherines’s various poisons (historians think it was likely to have housed her various art pieces and religious items rather than poisons). Catherine was rumored to have poisoned many of her enemies, using items like poisoned gloves. Even after her death, Catherine’s enemies claimed that she practiced witchcraft, and even created the first Black Mass (which is quite ironic, considering that all actual evidence points to Catherine being a devout Catholic who had grown up in a convent.) Interestingly, the events of AGOT are put in motion by a poisoning that Cersei did not commit, though it is assumed by pretty much everyone who is aware of how Jon Arryn died that Cersei did have a hand in it, since it is unclear whether or not Catherine actually did poison anyone or if it was mere rumor.

There’s even an extremely curious story about an enchanted mirror and Catherine, that is sometimes pointed to as the origin of the magic mirror in Snow White.

“Catherine de Medici in front of the magic mirror of her astrologer Cosimo Ruggieri” from Das Buch Fur Alle (1890), illustrated by unknown.

Supposedly, not long after the death of her husband, Catherine wished to know the future of the Valois dynasty and her sons, and summoned her astrologer Cosimo Ruggieri (in some later versions it is Nostradamus), to do so. Ruggieri produced a mirror, in some darkened chamber, and told her that the faces of the future kings of France would appear in the mirror, and the number of times each face circled the mirror would be the number of years that king would rule. Her eldest son, King Francis, faintly appeared in the mirror once before fading away. Then appeared her son, the future Charles IX, who circled the mirror fourteen times, followed by her next son, Henry III, who appeared fifteen times. After her son Henry’s face faded away, the Duke of Guise briefly flashed by, followed by the face of Henri de Navarre, heir to the Bourbon line, who would inherit the throne if the Valois line died out. Henri’s face circled the mirror twenty-two times, and Catherine knew her line would fail and Henri would be king.

Whether or not this particular story is true, Catherine did believe in the prophecies of astrologers and seers, who had correctly predicted that her husband would die in his fortieth year, and Catherine even dreamed of her husband dying violently the night before his fatal jousting accident. Further evidence added to her occult legend, is that Diane de Poitiers supposedly found pentagrams and other items used in magical rituals when she took custody of Catherine’s former palace, the Chateau de Chaumont. Needless to say, Diane never returned to that particular castle.

Like Cersei, part of Catherine’s myth is defined by a prophecy dooming her children that she tries and fails to avert.

Jo Eldridge Carney in “Fairy Tale Queens: Queenship and Power” makes an explicit connection between Catherine and the wicked fairy tale queen, drawing on a letter to Catherine from Jeanne de Navarre, mother of the same Henri who was prophesied by the mirror to supplant her sons.

“Fairy tales are replete with kind and gentle queens who are obedient and deferential to their husbands, devoted to their children, and beloved by their subjects. More memorable are the wicked queens who connive to seize power, manipulate their husbands and sons, threaten their daughters-in-law, compete with other women, and concoct all manner of horrific acts. When Catherine de Médicis invited Jeanne d’Albret to Paris in 1572 to discuss the proposed marriage of their respective children, Marguerite de Valois and Henri de Navarre, the Queen mother reassured her Protestant guest that she would be safe among the Catholics of the French court. Jeanne replied, “Madame, you say that you desire to see us, and not in order to harm us. Forgive me if I feel like smiling when I read your letters. You allay fears I have never felt. I do not suppose, as the saying is, that you eat little children.” Jeanne may well have been think- ing of the queen in Basile’s “Sun, Moon, and Talia,” who orders the cook to slaughter her husband’s illegitimate children and prepare them for his dinner. Similarly, the wicked queen mother of Perrault’s “Sleeping Beauty,” jealous of her son’s marriage, asks her steward to cook her grandchildren for her own dinner, even requesting a special French sauce to accompany the dish.”

Considering that later rumors would attribute the origin of the Black Mass to Catherine, which often included the ritual murder and consumption of an infant in a mockery of the holy communion, the link between cannibalism and evil queens being referenced in political conflicts dates back to the 16th century. (Part of my meta will explore Cersei’s own connection to cannibalism.)

Her eventual relationship with her future son-in-law Henri de Navarre would prove to be... complicated to say the least. It was rumored by many Huguenots (French Protestants) that Catherine had poisoned his mother, Jeanne de Navarre, using a pair of poisoned gloves, when Jeanne had come to Paris for their children’s wedding.

Any discussion of Catherine de Medici has to include the most infamous event of her entire life, which is where much of her black legend can be traced back to. On the 18th of August, 1572, after much political maneuvering, the Protestant Henri de Navarre married the Catholic Marguerite de Valois, in a wedding that many (but not all) hoped would put an end to the religious conflicts of France. Five days later, the Catholics would slaughter all the assembled Protestant wedding guests in the St. Bartholomew’s Day Massacre. Ordered by Charles IX after the failed assassination of the Protestant leader Admiral de Coligny, and lead by the fiercely Catholic and extremely powerful Guises, the massacre would spread across France, leaving 3,000 to 5,000 dead. Henri de Navarre would manage to survive by pledging to convert to Catholicism. The role of Catherine in orchestrating the massacre is unclear, but much of the blame is traditionally laid at her feat. There is evidence to suggest that Catherine had wanted a few of the most powerful Huguenot leaders killed but had never actually suggested a mass killing, and was shocked by the extent of what ended up happening, due to the religious powder keg that was Paris. But whether or not Catherine had actually approved of the massacre, it would remain a permanent stain on her reputation, and many of the most pervasive rumors about her poisoning and dark arts date to after the massacre, perpetuated by angry Huguenots.

“Catherine de Médicis with the Head of Coligny” by Joseph Hornung (1792–1870)

I might tentatively suggest that this event will parallel Cersei’s future destruction of the High Sparrow and the Tyrells. In the show, she straight up blew up the Great Sept of Baelor with all her enemies within, but in the books it may be a more traditional massacre, a bloodbath in the night as all gather for the trials of the queens, after the style of Catherine de Medici.

The rest of Catherine’s life would be a largely tragic one. She would see two more of her sons die, including her favorite, and would be estranged from her daughter Margot for the rest of her life, after imprisoning her when Margot’s husband, Henri de Navarre, escaped, even cutting Margot out of her will and refusing to speak to her. She did her best to keep France unified, but did not have the same influence and energy of her early regency. Her final son would only survive her by eight months. She died at the age of sixty-nine, of an unknown illness, having lost the love of her life who never returned her affections, and many of her oldest friends. Only days before her death, she had visited her old friend, the Cardinal de Bourbon, who told her, “Your words, Madam, have led us all to this butchery.”

And despite all her terrible deeds, both real and imagined, the most poignant epithet for Catherine is from her one-time son-in-law and prisoner, Henry de Navarre, who had become Henry IV, the new Bourbon king of France.

I ask you, what could a woman do, left by the death of her husband with five little children on her arms, and two families of France who were thinking of grasping the crown—our own and the Guises? Was she not compelled to play strange parts to deceive first one and then the other, in order to guard, as she did, her sons, who successively reigned through the wise conduct of that shrewd woman? I am surprised that she never did worse.

The actual extent of Catherine de Medici’s ruthlessness is debated, but her myth as true “Evil Queen” who worked with poisons and magic, orchestrating a religious massacre, certainly still survives and has influenced the trope deeply. Cersei as a character owes a deep debt to the legend of the Black Queen, Catherine Medici as much to the fairy tale stepmother.

Stay tuned for the first part of my Cersei meta, where I delve into her relationship to the tropes of the Evil Queen.

#mine #branwen talks #meta #my meta

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