#along with his own pride and fear of rejection

[carewyncromwell]

"Who knew that I would be So unexpectedly, undeniably happier, Sitting with you right here, right here next to me?"

x~x~x~x

HPHM Cardverse developed by @ariparri // Jacob's outfit // Duncan's outfit (plus a coat and sash)

x~x~x~x

The Best Ideas Jacob Cromwell's Ever Come Up With

(according to the "Counselor" of Spades, Duncan Ashe)

A new variation of steam-powered engine powered by a combination of hydroelectric and solar energy. (This would be tested successfully both on the royal zepplin and to power the entire palace and its surrounding buildings, cutting the overall cost of energy production in the Country of Spades by a good twenty percent.)

Several new vaccines, many of which adapted into oral supplements so as to make it easier to vaccinate small children. (Jacob specifically wanted to make something that people who are afraid of needles would be able to take safely, as his little sister Carewyn got very teary as a toddler, when getting her first shots.)

Mecha suits specifically designed to protect coal miners in treacherous underground conditions. (This idea would sadly be "co-opted" by the Tyrant of Spades Patricia Rakepick and repurposed into weapons of war. Fortunately the Joker called the "Escape Artist" destroyed every last one of them before they could be used to attack other parts of Cinderhaven.)

"We could just lock old Madam Ace in her office for a night. Then maybe you could force the army to cut their spending." (Sadly this idea, however tempting and amusing it might've been, was one Duncan couldn't go along with.)

A close-to-unbreakable puzzle lock, perfect for small drawers or boxes. (Jacob put this on Duncan's desk as a belated birthday gift, after he suspected Rakepick was sending spies around to try to rifle through his papers. The Spades technological expert took it upon himself to take out ten different books on locking mechanism and even consult with a locksmith for two weeks when constructing it, and it's thanks to this undertaking that Jacob became very, very proficient at picking locks himself.)

A record player that could be powered through pressing a pedal, rather than being plugged in with electricity. (Jacob put this on the desk in his workshop so that he could play music with his foot, while working on other projects. Duncan actually gifted Jacob several records to play on it, including Sitting on Top of the World, which is one of his favorite songs.)

"Let me come with you, Ashe. Rakepick's stooges will think twice about messing with you, if I'm there." (They didn't, at first. Fortunately Jacob ended up shutting up one particularly mouthy bloke, after he had the audacity to suggest Duncan only ever tapped people for positions at court if he was sleeping with them. Clearly a mean-spirited, untrue dig at his BFF Coby and both obvious and oblivious OTL Jacob. Jacob punched the guy so hard in the face that he nursed a bruised jaw for a solid three weeks. After that, no one dared say a single bad word about Duncan in Jacob's earshot.)

A prototype of a dirigible shaped like a dragon, powered by both wind and hydroelectric power, which uses giant wings to steer. (This also was eyed by Rakepick as something that she could modify into a weapon of war. Fortunately none of her subordinates were sharp enough to figure out how to give such an "air dragon" the ability to breathe fire without damaging the modified prototypes.)

A set of sparkling silver cuff links that, when the sides are squeezed, expanded into very sharp hatpins. (Inspired by the hatpins women sometimes wore in their hats for self-defense, Jacob made these as yet another birthday gift for Duncan, with the idea of them being helpful for self-defense. Duncan personally found them a little gaudy, but wore them anyway.)

"Come on, Ashe...you sing the next line!" (The night that Jacob finally encouraged Duncan to come over to the Cromwell house for dinner, he encouraged Duncan to sing along with him and Carewyn the way they always did, whenever they rode the trolley home together. Duncan actually did hold his own incredibly well alongside the two trained singers, and soon he, Carewyn, and Jacob were all singing together. It was one of the few times in Duncan's life -- alongside his times with Veruca and Coby -- that Duncan felt the way he imagined other people felt, with their families.)

[maykitty]

One piece character’s reaction to you being infertile

Warning: mention infertility, misdirected blaming, slavery, murder, and rejection.

Characters: Monster trio, Law, Doflamingo, Kidd, and Katakuri

Luffy

He will not care, the dude loves you no matter what.

He is the first to be okay with the idea of adopting a kid.

Pretty obvious with his childhood living with DanDan, Ace, and Sabo.

If you do adopt prepare to deal with two kids along with large dinners.

Zoro

Like Luffy, he doesn't care too.

Zoro is okay with adoption since he was taken in by his Sensei.

Once you guys adopt he will teach his kid how to use a sword.

Plus he is more likely to get lost than your child would on a day out.

Sanji

He was a little sad as his dream is to have a kid that you guys made together.

But he is a little relieved as there is still some trauma due to his own life with Judge and how his mother died trying to stop Judge from changing his DNA.

Just like the others in the monster trio, he had a found father in Zeff so adoption is still an option.

But Sanji would prefer if you two adopt a girl as he always wanted a daughter.

You and your child will have some great meals.

Law

As a doctor, he understands what causes infertility and he doesn't blame you.

He is sort of happy as he never really planned for a kid due to his goals and the fear of the amber-lead disease being passed down.

He is okay with adoption and if you do want to risk having kids then he suggests doing IVF.

When you do have kids he wants to get them into Sora and teach some medical materials as well.

Doflamingo

He blames you for not being able to give him any kids.

He still has his Celestial Dragon pride to pass down his genes.

Among the Celestial Dragons, if a member is infertile they can take a slave’s child as their own or buy a child.

But if a slave is infertile they are either thrown out or killed as they're seen as useless if they're brought to have kids.

You are seen as no use to him.

Kidd

He doesn't care, he lives on an Island where kids are usually abandoned or orphans.

Plus, he has kids on his crew so starting a family isn't something he wants or needs.

He still loves you as long as you are fine with your life now.

Katakuri

He leaves you, one of the things big mom want her children to do is get married to gain power and have children.

You are not what Big Mom wants so Katakuri has to reject your love to marry someone Big Mom approves of who can provide resources and give him children.

As it doesn't matter how much he loves you back his role in the Big Mom Pirates comes first.

[meowzfordayz]

when you’re going through an episode — mitsuri, shinobu, kyojuro, sanemi, giyuu

Author’s Note: it’s difficult to accurately capture the scope of bipolar disorder in a comfort fanfic, so just know that these preferences barely graze the surface of what it means to have bipolar, and that it’s more complicated and nuanced than fixing a bad day w/ a hug. 🖤 Update: was just informed that BPD stands for Borderline Personality Disorder. 😅 Apologies for my misunderstanding/mistake, but hope this still provides comfort! 🫶🏽

when you’re going through an episode — mitsuri, shinobu, kyojuro, sanemi, giyuu

Kanroji Mitsuri x Reader, Kocho Shinobu x Reader, Rengoku Kyojuro x Reader, Shinazugawa Sanemi x Reader, Tomioka Giyuu x Reader

Word Count: ~1,000

CW: bipolar disorder

Emergency Request Fulfilled: I’ve been so depressed, stuck in the bpd episode for like a week. I can barely will myself to leave my bed

Could you maybe do some female demon slayer characters (Mitsuri, shinobu, lady tamayo, female muzan, etc) taking care of a reader also going through a bad depressive episode?

Emergency Request Fulfilled: hello, i am requesting for an emergency request of maybe the hashiras (esp rengoku) comforting their bpd lover while theyre currently going thru a bpd episode

my bpd has been really bad as of late and my episodes r exhausting me, i just want to be comforted. feel free to write whenever, i adore your writing sm!! thank you

~faqs~

When you’re going through an episode…

… Mitsuri’s talked with you previously to ensure she’s as educated and prepared for your episodes as she can be, but having an outline of how to support you is never quite the same as actually executing it. It’s difficult for her to not take your disorder personally, because she prides herself on being joyful, enthusiastic, and positive; she can only handle gentle rejection so many times before she needs space. That being said, she feels safe enough to communicate her own fears and disappointments, so ~space generally entails you shooing her out of the house for ~an hour to treat herself to bubble tea and sunshine before rejoining you back in the pillow fort (which she always makes because she knows it helps you feel just a little lighter; if it means guests can’t use the living room for an extended period, then oh well). Sometimes she’s successful in coaxing you along with her, fingers interlaced loosely with yours, her smile wide as ever; other times she’s sure to return with your go-to order, plus a few photos of pretty flowers that reminded her of you.

… Shinobu does her best to listen. Whether you’re waking her up at 2am Shinobu, I had a nightmare, calling her on her lunch break I haven’t gotten out of bed yet, or showering while she sits on the toilet lid I’m so tired, thank you for waiting for me; it’s a simple gesture that goes a long way. She knows she doesn’t have to have profound replies, just as she knows how important and special it is that you feel safe enough to let her into your head, especially when she knows how low you’re feeling. It also helps her—gently—interrupt you when you start catastrophizing or spiraling, counter your self-directed negative perceptions, and gauge your overall mood. She rarely offers advice—she knows she’s your partner, not your therapist—but she’s grateful she gets to bring a calm, logical presence to your weighted, preoccupied thoughts. When you smile faintly, eyes almost shining, couch cushion sinking as you scoot yourself closer to her warmth; that’s when she knows she’s on the right track. “I appreciate you,” you murmur, words sweet and apologetic on her skin. “And I appreciate you,” she chuckles quietly, body shifting to accommodate you curling into her, “You make me happy too.”

… Kyojuro does everything with an extra hint of softness. He understands maintaining a sense of normalcy can be helpful, but his chest aches at the exhaustion in your eyes, the halfhearted grip of your hand in his, how you laugh for his sake when he tries to make you smile — not because he actually succeeded. From washing your hair to feeding you bites of lunch, he goes out of his way to ease the process of simply being; to spark joy in the state of living. He knows satisfying basic needs are vital to getting through your episodes, just as he knows eating, bathing, going for a walk can be some of the hardest to do. Tough love isn’t his preferred method, so he opts for: making airplanes sounds while directing a spoonful of dinner toward your mouth, insisting he can’t reach his back to wash it, so, “Please join me in the shower! I need you!”, and claiming his hand feels lonely, “Could you hold it during my walk? I fear holding my own hand does not nearly suffice.” He doesn’t mean to belittle or baby you, but he’ll try anything to see you smile or even roll your eyes — to get to say I love you too.

… Sanemi doubts his ability to care for you. Make no mistake: he loves you, and doesn’t resent you in the slightest. He does, however, feel completely out of his depth. He understands in theory that loving someone isn’t all ease and sunshine, but in practice? He’d do anything to feel your smile on his lips, to have you snuggle further into his chest as he holds you, to hear you chat about your day, your favorite color, how you almost got caught in a downpour — anything, to know you’re ~okay. It takes a while for him to accept that ~okay comes in waves, and that silence on your end is not inherently rejection of his affection and effort. Telling him, “Even if I can’t express it in the moment, knowing you’re here beside me always makes me happy,” definitely helps reassure him that he can do something for you—by simply being him—and caressing his cheek when you think he’s asleep, murmuring, “Thank you for being patient with me, I love you,” reminds him all over again that I love you.

… it’s difficult for Giyuu to support you without feeling low himself. He feels so strongly for you, and is almost too close to provide the steady, neutral responses that seem to help you most. He can always hold you, can always kiss your forehead, touch your knuckles to his cheek, but he can’t always listen — he can’t always bend without breaking completely and utterly for you. Which isn’t to say you’re over reliant on or demanding of him; it’s just hard for him to know how much you’re hurting without taking that hurt into his heart and making it his own. He wants to be there for you, but navigating his boundaries and your needs definitely takes time, practice, tears, and forgiveness. “I want you to be yourself around me,” he murmurs, body spooning protective and cool behind you, “But I’m not the best when it comes to certain parts of you.” Nodding slightly, you clutch his hand to your chest, eyes closed as you reply, “And that’s okay. You can’t be good with all of me, and I’m not great with all of you either. But we both try, don’t we?” “Of course.” “That’s enough for me.” It’s enough for me too he thinks as he kisses the back of your head, grateful for the feeling of your smile grazing his fingertips.

[pinkestlittlebutterfly]

Servamps are immortal, and lead lives that span far back into what we consider the fogs of history today. Every now and then, however, they leave tracks along the paths they walk, whispers of their presence that can be traced through the centuries, leaving an imprint on the world to this day. 

Sometimes this is intentional. Hugh was always conscious of images, and took great care to construct the picture painted of him and his kin in fables and stories and whispers on the street. To be a vampire is to be noble and elegant and a little bit prideful; it’s black velvet capes and charming, fanged smiles and hunting for virgin blood at night, for a dash of purposeful fear to keep away unwanted attention. He’s quite proud of how far his legacy carried. 

Sometimes the traces left are accidental. Kuro would never know, but there is a little patch of land in England, a cluster no bigger than a few, tiny villages, where old, weathered grandmothers still tell the young children the bedtime stories of their youth, of a cat and a wolf that walked together at night. The tales have warped over time, embellished with charming detail of the adventures they would have had together, but if Kuro were to listen in, he’d remember those walks with bittersweet fondness. 

Sometimes remnants of a Servamp’s life are plentiful, proof of their presence brought into tangible form, to be found and locked away centuries later in the dimly lit cellar of a mansion shrouded in secrets. 

Lily spent his immortal life among the noble and eccentric; men with money and time to invest in the beautiful things in life. He mingled with poets and painters, had his fair skin and gold hair woven into songs and sonnets still read to this day, and captured on canvas whenever he did not quite manage to escape another artist looking for a new model. He has been Adonis and Antinuous and Troilus; and once an artist whose advances he rejected named his painting Narcissus. Lily still gets annoyed whenever he lays eyes on it – it was not him who spent hours staring at his face; and he has never had much love for his own beauty.

[neofeliis]

You Cannot Have Her

Astarion/Tiefling!Tav

Notes: Durge Spoilers. Remember when we straight up stop living in front of Astarion and the game thought "how twee" was an appropriate way to react? Yeah. I needed to fix that. Enjoy.

-----

This wasn’t his place to step in. Like she had given him the grace, the push, to face Cazador now was the time for her to face her abomination of a father. Which thus far, she had been doing beautifully. All despite his own anxiety on the matter, watching her face off with Orin brought a swelling of pride in his chest. He knew she could do it, he had seen her do far more wondrous things. What was one more bloodthirsty monster amongst all the rest?

That wasn’t to say his stomach didn’t lurch with nausea every time the Slayer landed a hit. All the logic in the world, all the knowing she had this, was not enough to stave off the fear. And maybe it was just the aura of murder that surrounded them, but he was clenching his fists so tight he felt himself draw blood. The blade hilt in his right hand shook, clattering quietly at his side. Duel be damned, if she downed, he was going in for her.

Astarion would tear down the world for the tiefling thrice over if he needed to. He had been prepared to do it if it ever came down to it; he had decided that sometime along their way.

What Astarion had not been prepared for, in the wake of his swelling pride at her rebuking Bhaal, was for the god to be spiteful. Wasn’t that just the cruelest joke of all? For his bitterness to have been so thoroughly rewritten by her hope for the future, that he would forget the most fundamental truth of all. A truth he had buried deep in his heart.

The gods were nothing but spiteful, and would never take scorn in stride. How ironic, how cruel that the gods would choose now to answer. To intervene. To show their faces. All those years screaming into the void and this was the one that answered a call.

“You refuse me?”

He should have known, gods damnit he should have listened to the chill that crept up the back of his neck. The unholy terror that something was wrong. Everything slowed around him, the edges of his vision blurred and darkened, seeing only Tav and the animated corpse that spoke to her.

“Accept your inheritance, or I will reclaim it.”

Astarion opened his mouth to speak a warning at her back. Where she stood so tall, so confident, but he knew her so thoroughly by now. He saw how she twirled the ring on her finger, so subtly at her side. Her biggest tell that fear gnawed at her heart. Of course she was afraid. Standing before the god of murder? Refusing him?

But she was not afraid enough for what he felt coming. Something he couldn’t articulate as words failed him. His throat dry, his mind so chaotic he couldn’t find purchase on a full sentence if he tried. Something is wrong, something is wrong!

Reclaim it? Reclaim what? She was Bhaalspawn, everything that she physically was, was his. It was by his design, his will, that she existed at all. He made her to be an abomination, a feral creature devoted to bloodshed, and she had spent the greater part of their adventure resisting every bit of that fate. The most wondrous creature he had ever known in his days, lived and breathed by the grace of the murder god.

The realization hit him so hard he saw stars, and a wave of vertigo made the room tilt.

Despite his panic, Tav stood firm. There was a split second, where she seemed as though she might look back to her companions, to say something, but she stopped herself.

She refused Bhaal, and her birthright, a second time.

“You reject my blood, and so I will reclaim it.”

That’s when they all felt it. A shift in the cold, damp air. Heaviness dropped like a hammer as the tiefling doubled over, clutching at her chest, mouth open in a choked cry that died on her lips. In a final act of desperation, she hurled a glance over her shoulder at her companions, wild eyes flitting between each of them before finally landing on Astarion’s panicked face. The look in her eyes, the fearful resignation there shot Astarion through like an icy spear.

She knew. She knew this was a possibility. Tav knew the God of Murder would be cruel enough to take back his power, but if it was to keep the world–keep him–safe from her Urge, she refuted him anyway.

A bloody aura surrounded her, dripped from her in sinister rivulets, moving as a living thing that crawled out of the crevices of her armor. It dripped from her fingertips, it ran over her cheeks, it coursed down her neck. Every bit of it that hit the cold stones raced back to the growing pool in which Bhaal himself called to it.

Everything in Astarion raged, raged against any possibility in which she would suffer like this. But his body felt unnaturally heavy as he lurched forward, trudging against an invisible mire to reach her. “Fight, this!” Speaking was a labor, even, his throat burning at the effort. His hands hit an invisible barrier that met him and thrust him backwards hard enough that he almost lost his footing. She was cut off from him, as her body lifted off the ground and arched backwards limply, the warmth fading from her face, he couldn’t reach her. The fucking bastard had cut him off from her such that none should interfere with the inevitable. Because who the hell was Astarion to a god?

The familiar feeling of inferiority caressed his mind like an old friend. Astarion was powerless, and in his desperation, he turned a pleading, disgustingly pitiful look to their other two companions. The man couldn’t know what he looked like in that moment, but if the desolate look on their faces was any indication, it wasn’t his finest.

They could do nothing, and the other two had seemed to acknowledge that much sooner than Astarion, accepting it even. No, useless! He grit his teeth and let out a feral snarl that he had not known in what felt like an age, and turned back to the scene before them. He would try once more to reach her, to the same result as before, but somewhere he found the strength to hold himself against the barrier now that he knew it was there. A pained scream, bereft of all restraint, tore from him now. Now he found his voice? What good was it now?

She still hung suspended, hung there for a near eternity, until the blood finally stopped and her eyes glazed over. The last drop against the slick stones, and then a beat of silence. The air stilled as an unnatural quiet fell over Bhaal’s temple, and the barrier flitted out of existence at the same moment that her body dropped to the floor. Discarded.

Astarion tumbled forward and dropped gracelessly to his hands and knees in the blood. For a moment, the cooling liquid he suddenly found himself in held all his attention. Was he distracted? Or was he afraid to lift his gaze?

Afraid to look up, slowly, painfully, agonizingly to the lifeless body that laid just a few feet from him. Her chest was still, her face blank. Something brutally honest scratched at the back of his mind.

A broken sound fell from his lips and he crawled the rest of the way to her, pulling her limp form into his lap. They had fallen in battle before, this wasn’t the first time by any means. Their well-stocked spellcasters were always ready and available to turn it back. To keep death at bay.

So why, then, did Shadowheart look so ghostly pale? So lost?

“What in the hells are you waiting for? Use your spell! She’s going cold!” Astarion snapped, his red eyes blazing with a desperate fury.

The cleric flinched, and gave an imperceptible shake of her head. She looked like she was trying to wrap her own mind around something he could not see. Refused to see. “There’s…” she started, her voice cracking, “Astarion, there’s nothing there. There’s nothing to call back.”

Fear rattled through him so hard he felt it in his teeth. “What, do you mean, nothing?” He paused on every word, either trying to restrain himself from wringing her neck until she figured it out or just hold himself together at rapidly fraying seams.

“To revive someone, there has to be a soul to call to. I can’t, I can’t find it. I can’t even sense her anymore,” Shadowheart replied gravely.

Red filled his vision. “Then look harder!” he roared, his voice bouncing off the walls of the dead temple. “You bring her back, Shadowheart! You bring her back to me or this was all for nothing!” Pain cracked his otherwise terrifying visage, and though the cleric flinched at his outburst, she stood firm where she was. Stood there, as her own grief started to manifest on her face.

No, no! You do not get to mourn her, because she is not gone! His mind raged, and he looked everywhere around them, for any solution in this empty space. His gaze landed on the stone skull that had glowed with Bhaal’s presence. Where else was he to direct his fury? “You give her back, you abomination! She was never yours to take; give her back or I swear on my miserable life that I will dedicate everything in my power to making your existence hell! And you best believe I am a professional on the topic!”

Silence.

Try again. “I will hunt you down, I will raze your temples, I will ruin you! Two hundred years of misery I will rain down upon your head!” The malice, the power in his voice cracked. A choking sob betraying the facade he was haphazardly throwing together. Threatening a god? In his own temple? For her, absolutely. “You cannot have her!

His echo faded, drifting off into dark nothingness, and silence fell once more. Nothing but his ragged breaths and the quiet crying of their companions behind them. Emptiness pawed at the door of his heart, knowing the way home. Knowing where it belonged. Eager to make itself at home again as the body chilled in his arms.

Something shifted as another presence entered the space. Instinctively, Astarion whirled on his knees with a snarl, clutching her body to his chest and hunching himself over her.

“Thou hast defied Bhaal, thy liege and father, and in doing so hast earned a place among champions and heroes,” the creeping, ancient voice filled the temple, as none other than their ghostly companion, Withers, strode over to them, as though he had been there from the beginning. “But alas, thy courage was in opposition to the divine cosmology that bound thee to the Lord of Murder. Thou art now faithless, godless, and doomed to wander the Fugue Plane for eternity.”

Another snarl rumbled in Astarion’s chest, lacking the power it had before. “If you have come to just prattle on your cryptic, dusty monologues you will learn very quickly how much restraint I’ve shown to your presence thus far, ghoul.”

Withers ignored the seething vampire entirely. All of his attention was on the body that lolled in Astarion’s grip. He prowled around them in a wide circle, assessing he tiefling. “I will not permit that,” he started again, and the vampire tensed thinking that it was a response, “though all the powers of life and death dictate that it should be so.”

Astarion deflated then, his grip loosening ever so slightly. …What?

Withers stopped then, close, and raised his hand. “I, too, still hold some power, and I invest a portion of it in thee, who hath challenged the gods and now liveth to tell of it,” Something ancient and overwhelming crept into the room now, creeping along the stones like a morning fog. Cool and gentle. “Thy fight is not over, and it is thy fight, for one who can look upon Bhaal and oppose him can survive any crisis,” he clenched his hand into a fist and raised it as an old, powerful magic surrounded it. “So rise, Challenger of Gods, and prepare for battle once more. Death will not claim thee whilst I endure.”

Tav’s body lurched nearly out of Astarion’s hold, surrounded by the glow of Withers’ revival, arching backwards as the power coursed through her. Then, her eyes snapped open, and the most beautiful sound of a gasping breath echoed through Astarion, perhaps echoing through the entirety of Bhaal’s empty temple. The cold desolation in his chest melted all at once, and as she fought for air, his free hand cupped the side of her face and turned her wild eyes to his. “Breathe love, calmly, you’re alright. You’re safe,” he nearly whispered to her, his soul reaching for hers to soothe it into the quiet joy of being alive. It was comical, him trying to calm her when he himself was an absolute whiplashed wreck. But, she was alive.

She was alive.

He would repeat that to himself as many times as was necessary. A daily prayer, to the singular being in this terrible world he believed in.

Tav’s disoriented gaze found him at last, taking several slow blinks to clear away the delirium. “I was,” she croaked, feeling the world swim at just trying to articulate that much.

“Shh, you’re not, and that’s all that matters,” Astarion placed a shaky kiss into her damp hair, feeling her warmth returning to her. Everyone else around them, including the ghostly savior standing there looking like he likely had something important to say, all but disappeared. That could all wait. Here, now, this moment as long as he could greedily drink from it, she was with him. She was alive. “You won’t,” swallow, “leave me that easily.” The waver in his voice betrayed just how much he was afraid to believe that, how he didn’t just a few agonizing minutes ago. The possibility that he would have to live another thousand years knowing this was how it ended was enough to nearly cripple him.

As she curled a weak arm around his bowed neck, pulling as though she could somehow get closer, she seemed to answer his reeling thoughts. “I’m here. Don’t you dare let go.”

[galemancer]

the dekarios folly

MAJOR BALDUR'S GATE 3 END GAME SPOILERS.

[ short monologue. — first person from gale's pov. — past and present tensing. — angst.]

In the pursuit of greatness, he lost who he was.

Godhood... is lonely.

ao3 link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/50362192

---——-

Victory isn’t the first word that comes to mind at the mention of Baldur’s Gate.

We defeated the Netherbrain, but somehow victory is not the word I associate with it. There is no happiness, only temporary respite. There is no celebration. There is only defeat, because those memories are plagued by the loss of you.

I thought that you would be proud of me.

I thought that claiming this crown would prove worthy enough, man or god alike.

And yet, it seems I have fallen short...

Was I to forgo the opportunity to ascend to greatness? While I stand on the precipice of power, relinquish it? The gods refused to aid us no matter how often we cried, prayed, begged. A mortal with the power of a god to help mortal kind… I could have prevented the pain the Absolute wrought while the gods cowered.

‘Your hubris was your downfall once, Gale.’

Your voice resonates clearly despite all these years past, laden with hurt and fear. I can still see your face, stark as you attempted to keep me grounded. I couldn’t accept your inability to see the potential for good, and I wasn’t to be held back any longer.

I left you distraught, stunned on the docks as I departed. I remember the crease in your brow and the hurt in your eyes, the sparkle I’d fallen so deeply in love with dwindling. I remember my heart pulled back by your pleas, and I almost acquiesced. The restraint of your grip on my hand as I pulled away, silently begging me not to go.

But you let me.

And by the gods, I wish you hadn’t.

For some time after, I sought you in your adventures along the Sword Coast, Tara in tow. “Mr. Dekarios, is that you?” She’d call out, ears perked up in anticipation, saddened eyes turned hopeful as they followed the trails of my magic. She wished to talk to me, to scold me likely, and deservedly so.

In my absence she’d found a new companion, and there was no choice better than you. You were good for each other — two kind hearts to look after each other amidst the aftermath of it all.

She brought you to Waterdeep where you spent time with my mother. I could feel the hesitation in your voice as you spoke upon meeting her, the too familiar features sending you back to the dock. You told Morena the tragedy of her son whose hubris consumed him, under the guise of an ambitious wizard reaching his full potential. Even in my most grave mistakes you spoke of the good you saw in me.

I visited you in dreams, visions, every possible sign besides the blatant, and they remained unanswered. Could you see the glimmer of magic calling out to you by name? Was my existence in your life as this divine being one you wished to reject?

In your deafening silence, I found time to reflect on every decision leading here. The prodigal Wizard of Waterdeep spurned by Mystra herself. He who managed to piece together the Karsus Crown and in turn control the Karsite Weave, at the cost of losing the only real love he’s ever known.

It is sure enough to say that the realization of my own folly proved devastating.

Now every waking moment, I wait patiently for you to summon me, call me out by name so that I may appear in front of you. Waiting in an endless timescape is excruciatingly painful, and yet I continue to subject myself to its punishment. I remain hopeful that some day you would willingly be by my side again as my Chosen, and better yet, lover.

It’s... quiet without you. The pain of your noticeable absence never fails to astound me, and wracks my heart with immeasurable regret. I miss you quite terribly, and yet there is no one else to fault besides myself. Of all the things learnt in our time together, of all the things conquered… the only thing I failed to overcome was my own pride.

And now I’ve damned myself to an eternity without you.

[aphicelend]

Misaki Shirayama

26 y.o | 1.52 cm | Japanese | April 4th | Aries

(APH) Human | City Ver. | Colorful AU | BOX AU

Tags: #Art/HC tag | #Posts related to her | #MisAme

Wanted to do a profile for her here 💦 Misaki has been one of my fave oc's since 2012 and i'm having fun drawing her a lot again, and I love to put her in my other oc's stories 💃 so here's info of her hetalia AU(?

i wrote everything in spanish and im lazy to translate it properly so, google translator yay

| Personality

Introverted | Temperamental | Stubborn | Agressive | Kind | Caring

Misaki is a young woman with a fiery personality, she has little patience for stupidity. She is a hard worker, and likes to put effort into what she likes. She is also stubborn when it comes to opinions if it is not her way she will not do it, she tends to violence when someone bothers her. Her pride is something precious to her.

Despite this, when she gets upset she needs her time to calm down and then apologize. Even so, Misaki is a girl who cares about others, her way of showing her appreciation is through actions, especially cooking.

Socially inept, having lived surrounded by “nations” Misaki behaves awkwardly with other humans, for some reason she always feels distant and finds it difficult to understand them.

Having grown up with nations, Misaki did not develop “parental affection” or someone to consult her problems with, because she considered that Japan would not fully understand her.

He usually feels a constant feeling of loneliness, his heart is a hard shell that makes it difficult for him to let in emotions like love.

| BACKGROUND (Hetalia AU)

Strip about her background

In this AU, Misaki was raised by Japan who took care over her as she was abandonated. Her childhood was kinda chaotic, surrounded by nations of course she didn't grow like other kids, she felt distanced.

Japan tried his best to give her a normal life, of course he wasn't used to raise a kid. Misaki always wondered why did he took her? He felt lonely? She would never know.

She always had a sense of loneliness, a feeling of she doesn't belong where she is. Mother? Father? What's that, she only had "weird uncles"

Misaki was very problematic at school, her classmates teased her a lot and she answered back with violence.

Through her adolescence, she kinda developed a crush on Yao, and she was rejected, of course, the man only saw her as a little sister.

More about it here.

Time heals, she tried to moved on. On Uni, she meet a guy named Kazuo, they clicked and became a couple, Misaki thought that finally had someone who cared for her deeply, but no. The guy cheated on her. That was the point that made her close herself.

-> She lives alone in an old traditional house that Japan left for her, she works as botanic in a national park in Kyoto.

| Interests and facts

She LOVES gardering and plants. She has a traditional garden on her house and it's her first priority.

She's very good at cooking, Japan and China taught her very well.

Also Romano as shared with her some italian recipes so she could "learn something good"

Her way to show love is giving you food.

Her dream is to open her own restaurant.

One of her interests are kimonos, she likes to make her own

Favorite station is autumn, she loves when trees go orange.

Loves cats, and bunnies, loves cute things.

She likes minimalist clothing, plain clothes or stripped patterns

Her face may look annoyed but she's kind, and gets along better with girls.

She has been mistaken for a minor

Does she feel something for Alfred?? who knows.

She's just afraid to someone break into her heart and get too attatched.

| RELATIONSHIPS

I made this chart

| Music

Mostly vocaloid because i'm a weeb

Balsam / Misaki - About her loneliness

The Beast / Misaki - Her fear to open her heart

I'm glad you're evil too / Misaki - Her wish to find someone

Girl Pilot / MisAme - Their dynamic, Alfred trying to reach her but he can't

I can't stop the loneliness / Misaki - the song says it all lol, maybe her fear that its too late?

Hammer Song And The Tower Of Pain / Misaki - Pushing everyone away it's the best

MAD HEAD LOVE / MisAme - Their dynamic, they're idiots.

----

If you got this far here's some old misaki drawings, old hetalia? ocs? she used to have friends and now she's DEPRESSED.

2012 | 2014

[jedimaesteryoda]

Victarion had been sent by Euron to retrieve Daenerys to be his bride, but Victarion has other plans: he intends to marry Daenerys himself and become king not just of the Iron Isles but all of Westeros. Having spent his entire life being the follower serving others from his father to his brothers, and having failed to win the kingsmoot, he now takes the opportunity to become the leader.

"Where else? The dragon queen awaits me in Meereen." The fairest woman in the world if my brother could be believed. Her hair is silver-gold, her eyes are amethysts.

-ADWD, The Iron Suitor

On wings of song I fly to you, Daenerys, the iron captain thought.

-ADWD, Victarion I

The way Victarion thinks of Daenerys is notably similar to another Westerosi suitor, Quentyn. Quentyn saw himself by his own admission as on “a grand adventure . . . Demon roads and stormy seas, and at the end of it the most beautiful woman in the world. A tale to tell our grandchildren” only for his plan to marry her fall flat. Victarion likewise was sent to retrieve her by his sovereign, and thinks of her as a reward at the end of his long quest. 

It’s seen further in his thoughts on her.

But I shall make the dragon queen mine own. She will share my bed and bear me many mighty sons."

-ADWD, The Iron Suitor

And Euron had not made Victarion a gift of her; the Crow's Eye meant to take her for himself. He sends me like a serving man to fetch her. How he will howl when I claim her for myself. Let the men mutter. They had sailed too far and lost too much for Victarion to turn west without his prize.

-ADWD, Vication I

The way he refers to her as “gift” and “prize” shows how before he even meets her, he’s objectifying her. He projects his fantasies onto her as some prize or damsel in distress wanting a big, strong man to come get her to become his trad wife who gives him sons, and just goes along with what he wants without even wondering what she might want. 

He’s missing some clear indicators about the abilities and person of the girl he means to marry that are pointed out by Tyrion:

"I know that she spent her childhood in exile, impoverished, living on dreams and schemes, running from one city to the next, always fearful, never safe, friendless but for a brother who was by all accounts half-mad … a brother who sold her maidenhood to the Dothraki for the promise of an army. I know that somewhere out upon the grass her dragons hatched, and so did she. I know she is proud. How not? What else was left her but pride? I know she is strong. How not? The Dothraki despise weakness. If Daenerys had been weak, she would have perished with Viserys. I know she is fierce. Astapor, Yunkai, and Meereen are proof enough of that. She has crossed the grasslands and the red waste, survived assassins and conspiracies and fell sorceries, grieved for a brother and a husband and a son, trod the cities of the slavers to dust beneath her dainty sandaled feet.”

While the submissive Vicarion was handed the Iron Fleet, Daenerys built nearly everything from the ground up. Daenerys didn’t get her dragons, her army or her city by being meek and submissive, but has shown herself to be strong, smart and resourceful and capable.  

Victarion will find to his dismay when he finally meets her that Daenerys isn’t some meek, submissive damsel but someone just like his niece Asha who is a strong, proud leader (and smarter than him) not willing to subordinate her goals and ambitions to his.

He had seen the wench wed too, but what of it? She would not be the first woman Victarion Greyjoy had made a widow.

-ADWD, The Iron Suitor

But then where does he go from there? The dumb brute’s ideology is constrained by the Old Way which taught him nothing about diplomacy. What happens if she rejects his offer of marriage? Victarion likely will not give up after having come so far, and when in doubt, he would consult the Old Way or ask what Euron might do. 

The Old Way taught him to take things by force, including people. Victarion has taken salt wives before, and he was even willing to kill Dany’s husband Hizdahr just so he could marry her without even taking into account her reaction to such an act, showing a clear lack of regard for her consent. I think should Daenerys make it clear that she won’t marry him freely, it would result in him trying to marry her by force. 

"In the Seven Kingdoms, there are tales of dragons who grew so huge that they could pluck giant krakens from the seas.”

That, of course, won’t end well for him. While “at sea the kraken rules supreme,” in the Dothraki Sea, the dragon reigns supreme. His attempts at courting Daenerys will likely end the same way Quentyn’s did as the dragon Daenerys named in the spirit of the husband who protected her, Drogon, will likely deal with this troublesome suitor.

The deeply misogynistic Victarion who abducted women as salt wives and beat them to death for being raped by his brother, dies at the hands of a woman he tries to take by force. Daenerys herself ends up taking his Iron Fleet after having paid the Iron Price of Victarion.  

Thus is the fate of any Greyjoy who strives for a crown. 

[snappydragon14]

Part One

Next page~

Previous chapter~

Mictlan stared at Soar, his mind a turbulent sea of questions he didn't want to face. But they pressed against him, refusing to be ignored. His voice, when he finally spoke, was rough, as if the words were dragged out of him against his will.

"Why?" he asked, his tone sharp, almost accusatory. "Why do you stay? You should have ran when you first met me. Any sane being would have fled. So why didn’t you?"

Soar’s eyes softened, but she didn’t flinch under his gaze. She knew this was coming; she had felt the tension in him, the questions boiling beneath the surface. Her hands remained on his shoulders, grounding him, even as she prepared to give him an answer he might not want to hear.

“Because I see something in you, Mictlan,” she replied, her voice steady but gentle. “Something beyond the rage, beyond the war. I see someone who’s been fighting for so long that he’s forgotten why he started. Someone who’s lost in a battle with himself.”

Mictlan’s jaw tightened. He didn’t want to hear this. He wanted her to say something he could easily dismiss, something that would let him shove her away, along with the vulnerability that her words were stirring in him. “You don’t know me,” he snapped. “You can’t possibly understand.”

“Maybe not completely,” Soar conceded, her voice unyielding but compassionate. “But I understand enough to see that you’re more than the god of war you’ve made yourself out to be. You don’t have to be defined by the battles you fight, Mictlan. There’s more to you than just the destruction you cause.”

Her words struck something deep within him, a place he had buried long ago under layers of anger and pride. His fists clenched as he tried to fight against the emotions rising within him, emotions he didn’t want to acknowledge. “You think you know what I am? I am war. I am battle. I don’t need your pity or your understanding.”

“I’m not offering pity,” Soar said firmly. “And I’m not claiming to know everything about you. But I see someone who’s hurting, someone who’s trapped in a cycle they can’t break out of. And I’m not going to turn my back on you just because you’re scared to face that.”

“Scared?” Mictlan’s voice was a low growl, his pride bristling at the word. “I fear nothing. Least of all you.”

Mictlan felt his breath hitch again, the anger inside him colliding with a deeper, more painful truth. He didn’t want to admit it, but her words cut through his defenses, exposing the cracks in the armor he had worn for so long. “Why does it matter to you?” he asked, his voice rough with frustration and confusion. “Why do you care what happens to me?”

Soar’s expression softened further, and she took a small step closer, her voice lowering to a near whisper. “Because I’ve been where you are, Mictlan. Lost, angry, drowning in my own pain. I know what it’s like to feel like you have to fight alone, to push everyone away because you think you don’t deserve their help. But I also know what it’s like to have someone reach out, to remind you that you don’t have to go through it alone.”

Her words struck a chord within Mictlan, a chord he didn’t want to acknowledge but couldn’t ignore. He stared at her, his mind a battlefield of conflicting emotions. Part of him wanted to lash out, to reject her words and the vulnerability they demanded from him. But another part, a part that had been buried deep beneath his anger and pride, wanted to reach out—to take the hand she was offering and let himself believe that he wasn’t as alone as he had always thought.

But could he really do that? Could he let down the walls he had built so high and allow someone to see the parts of him he had hidden away for so long?

“I don’t need your help,” he said, but the words lacked the force they had held before. There was doubt now, uncertainty that he couldn’t quite shake.

“Maybe not,” Soar replied softly. “But that doesn’t mean you don’t deserve it.”

Mictlan’s gaze dropped to the ground, his mind a storm of thoughts and emotions he couldn’t control. He didn’t know what to say, didn’t know how to respond to the compassion in her voice, the sincerity in her eyes. For the first time in centuries, he felt lost—truly lost—and the only thing anchoring him was the presence of this fallen angel who refused to leave his side.

Slowly, he looked back up at her, searching her face for any sign of deceit, any indication that this was some kind of trick. But all he saw was a steady, unwavering determination—a determination to help him, no matter how much he tried to push her away.

his voice barely more than a whisper. “Why do you care what happens to me?”

Soar’s expression softened into something almost tender, and she gently squeezed his shoulders, offering him the only answer she could. “Because everyone deserves a chance to be more than what they’ve been told they have to be. Even you, Mictlan.”

Mictlan stared at Soar, the weight of her words pressing down on him. For so long, he had believed that his path was set, that his identity was fixed in stone—he was the God of War, the bringer of destruction. That was his purpose, his destiny. But now, with Soar standing before him, unflinching in her conviction, he felt something stir within him, something he hadn’t felt in ages: doubt.

He clenched his fists, his body tense as if he were preparing for battle. But this battle wasn’t with Soar—it was with himself. The silence stretched between them, thick with unspoken emotions, until Mictlan finally spoke, his voice low and uncertain.

“I'm the God of War, you can't change that.”

Soar’s gaze softened, but her determination never wavered. “You don’t have to know all the answers. Change doesn’t happen overnight. But the fact that you’re questioning it, that you’re even considering the possibility—that’s the first step.”

Mictlan scoffed, though the sound lacked its usual venom. “A first step toward what? Redemption? Peace? Those things aren’t for God's like me, Soar. You of all Angels should know that.”

Soar shook her head, her wings twitching slightly as if reacting to the intensity of the moment. “Redemption isn’t about erasing the past, Mictlan. It’s about what you choose to do moving forward. No one is beyond redemption if they truly want it. And I know, deep down, you do. Otherwise, you wouldn’t be sitting here, having this conversation.”

Mictlan turned away from her, his eyes scanning the horizon as if searching for an escape from the storm of emotions building inside him. He didn’t want to believe her—didn’t want to believe that he was capable of anything more than the endless cycle of violence he had known for so long. But her words echoed in his mind, refusing to be silenced.

“I’m not like you,” he muttered, his voice thick with frustration. “I don't possess the very strength you have...”

Soar’s eye's widened slightly, “You think I’m strong? Mictlan, I’ve fallen more times than I can count. I’ve been broken, shattered into pieces I never thought I could put back together. But here I am, standing before you. Not because I’m strong, but because I chose to get back up. Strength isn’t about never falling—it’s about rising after every fall.”

Mictlan’s chest tightened as her words struck deeper than he wanted them to. Rising after every fall. Could he really do that? Could he rise from the ashes of the destruction he had caused, from the ruins of the battles he had fought?

He glanced back at Soar, his eyes narrowing. “And what if I don’t want to rise? What if I’ve fallen too far?”

Soar took a step closer, her wings folding behind her as she reached out, gently placing a hand over his heart. “Then let me help you. You don’t have to do it all yourself.”

Mictlan flinched at her touch, his instinct to pull away warring with a deeper, more desperate need to hold on to the connection she was offering. He had never known this kind of compassion, this kind of understanding. It terrified him. But it also called to something inside him that he had long thought dead.

He swallowed hard, his voice trembling as he spoke. “What if I don’t deserve your help?”

Soar’s gaze softened even further, and she squeezed his hand gently. “That’s not for you to decide. It’s for you to believe, Mictlan. Even if you don’t believe it yourself.”

The words hung between them, heavy with meaning. Mictlan felt something break inside him, something he had been holding onto for centuries—an armor forged from pain, anger, and pride. And as it shattered, he felt exposed, vulnerable in a way he hadn’t been in eons.

For the first time in as long as he could remember, Mictlan didn’t push the vulnerability away. He didn’t run from it, didn’t hide behind his walls. Instead, he let himself feel it, let himself stand in the raw, painful truth of his own brokenness.

And in that moment, he realized that maybe, just maybe....—

Slowly, almost hesitantly, Mictlan looked back at Soar, his eyes reflecting the storm of emotions raging inside him. He didn’t have the words to express what he was feeling—he wasn’t even sure he understood it himself. But as he sat there, staring into the eyes of the one being who refused to give up and run from him, he knew one thing for certain:

He wasn’t ready to give up either.

[flower-cage]

The Wolf and The Dragon | Chapter Five

by @flower-cage

Once again beta'd by the wonderful @em-writes-stuff-sometimes

Aemond Targaryen x Stark!Reader

Summary: The war between the Greens and the Blacks has begun and the youngest of the Stark heirs is sent on a secret mission to King's Landing. In its course, she will learn to accept the power that was never meant to be hers and the love she never thought she deserved.

Ao3 | Main Masterlist | TWATD Masterlist | Prologue | Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 | NEW Chapter 7 | Chapter 8 coming soon

Chapter Five: Dragonstone

Chapter summary: Together with the Prince and Ser Criston, in the aftermath of your vile actions, you undertake the final steps in your perilous mission.

Words: 6,157

Warnings: 18+ only; sexually suggestive content, violence, gore, mentions of blood, cursing.

Although this chapter does not contain explicit smut, later chapters will. Minors do not interact.

Your thumbs twist along one another, your leg bounces when you are seated, your digits tap any and all surfaces they can reach. That is how you await an order of execution to come knocking at your chamber’s door - but it never comes. You tense in the short moments the Queen Mother crosses your path in the corridors, awaiting her scolding, her disapproval, but it too never comes. You await snide comments reminding you of your lack of composure, your absolute discourtesy. You await Ser Criston’s animosity and the Lord Hand’s snubbing. You await even the stroke of lethal metal in the hour of the owl.

But none of it ever comes.

As though your deleterious thoughts insistently pursue you through the winding passages of the Red Keep, you walk with a fast gait and a posture inflexible, ears finely attuned to the voices which echo off the thick walls. You hope that your uncongenial disposition will scare away unwanted attention, for you wish not to discover what sentiments the nobility harbors for your terrible acts of incivility. Even when you shudder at the sight of a member of the court, however, it is your shame, not the consequences you expect to suffer, that devours you from within.

“And what the fuck have you just done?”

His words loop in your mind freely, trampling over any other thoughts and manifesting the same ice-cold repugnance that had consumed you at their original declaration. A foul sensation pierces your gut and suffocates you in self-disgust time after time. In all their unfounded malice, his words hold still one accursed truth: you had submitted to the behavior you so passionately condemn, to his infantile eruptions of bad temperament. A pitiful victim to your damaged ego, courtesy of his adamant rejections, you had surrendered to unruly vitriol and inadvertently confirmed his assumptions of treason and ineptitude.

“And when that threatens to fail, you lash out like a child.”

Your own words, spoken in moments of furious passion and etched with spiteful judgment, now mock you seven-fold. If he were a child, what were you?

This enclave of fear against shame that rages within you pitches also cowardice against bravery. In bursts of courage, you find yourself outside his door, in the dead of the night when the dark shields your insecurities from unfriendly eyes, and after hours of peaceful solitude have granted you empowerment. Every time, your fist is the first to rise to the challenge, inches from the dark wood, only to fall back to your side when your heart catches up with your mind and you become frozen with trepidation - or is it shame? 

And so, when your head hits your pillows, the brave has already given way to the coward, and your wish for closure and repentance has once more given in to your fragilized pride. When the sun rises each following morrow, it takes you into steering clear of his path, for the light of day too cruelly exposes your humiliation.

You do not see him again on the days that succeed your return from the Neck. You had neither shared words on the flight back, nor when you presented yourselves to the Queen Mother upon arrival. The War Council had not been summoned since your departure, each Lord having now been sent back to their own House seats to set forth preparations for war. Reserved for you is the tormenting task of waiting. Though you try keeping busy with visiting the Grand Maester, looking to be of aid, he quickly becomes exasperated with your insistences and most diplomatically dismisses you.

“I thank you for your dutifulness, my Lady,” he had smiled sympathetically, pushing you gently towards the exit of his study, “I will see you in a few days' time when all of this greenery has turned dust.”

To no avail, you search for books, instruments, arms, anything you could disguise as a critical element for your journey to the ancient island-seat of the House of the Dragon. In the end, it serves to prove only that, no matter your efforts, your mind - insistent in assigning him such high priority - is repeatedly envenomed by the infuriating Prince Aemond. Such are the lengths you take to deviate from his path that it is only at the stables at dusk on the seventh day that you are finally in his presence. 

You secure your cloak around your neck, your bow to your back, and your travel bag to the back of your stallion. Ser Criston revises the steps the three of you have diligently delineated and, though it helps mute your far more injurious thoughts, it does not cease them - not when the royal root of your distress stands present.

Reserved as usual, the Prince graces the knight with no more than nods and hums of pure courtesy. He does not look at you, as half the times you have been in his company. And yet, when you envision his commonly fervent looks, you shudder. There was never a balance, a common ground - whether violent or awed, he had only ever cast you ardent gazes. Either he did not look at you, or he attempted to set your soul aflame.

Every part of you tenses in his company, despite his ordinary demeanor. As a measure to remain calm, you focus fiercely on Ser Criston, only to inadvertently heed naught but your own desperate reprimands to cease all thoughts about Prince Aemond. 

“I advise we refrain from using our titles,” you hear, managing to catch the last of his directives. “We cannot be too careful.”

Too soon, however, the knight leaves you to retrieve the dragon poison the maesters have concocted, the weapon which will dictate your victory if effective. His back retreats slowly into the receding light and your eyes remain glued to it as much as they are able. Though the Prince refuses still to regard you, you cannot bring yourself to watch anything else now that your chief distraction has abandoned you. How could you not, when he has incessantly haunted your dreams and your musings?

He looks rightfully in place next to his stallion - both graceful, robust forces, one’s white mane complementing the other’s. As he secures his own in his usual method, your imagination paints the picture of his cloak hood forced back by the wind, silver hair flowing wildly like his horse’s, catching moonlight and stealing your breaths.

Whether it is the strenuous passage of time, or the weighty silence, or your flesh, exhausted from the burning and cooling of your greatly fluctuating emotions; whether it is the coward seeking to pretend amiability or the brave wishing to make peace; something compels you to release all your discomfiture. You choose to accept it, whatever it truly is, for it promises to liberate you from your self-inflicted torment. And you take the opportunity in this raw, perhaps momentary freedom to test the waters and evoke the tenderness of which you knew him capable.

“My Prince?” you try. To your surprise, he turns to face you fully, readily. “If I may-”

“My name,” he commands. “You ought to familiarize yourself with it.”

Not unlike most of your exchanges, his eye seeks to hold you, penetrate you, burn through your dignity to force your submission. Even in your resignation, it is against your nature to allow it, to surrender.

“If I may, pl-”

“Say it,” he orders.

In your hesitation, he steps closer - always seeking to subjugate you with his towering presence, always to no avail when you are engulfed by his sharp and sweet scent of sandalwood. With no allowance on your part, your nose draws in more of the air between you, made warm with his proximity and satiating an innate obsession you knew not. His fragrance has become intimately familiar and too quickly synonymous with passion, though you remain ignorant of how this came to pass. It makes your flesh thrum - his scent, his warmth, and perhaps the effort with which you refrain from reaching for him and ceasing the final distance between you.

The thought, the pull, invades you with such abruption you whip your head back in utter scandalization. With eyes wide, mouth parted ghastly, you look at him finally to meet his leering countenance.

“Say it,” he presses still, so remarkably close, voice luring you into obedience.

“Aemond,” you manage a whisper.

The shape of his name on your lips captures his attention, darkening his eye, and his evident appetence goads him yet closer. The width of a single, fine hair is all that separates you, but his energy is so palpable you feel him flush against you. Emboldened by your influence, encouraged by your undeniable cravings, your wayward fingers reach around his shoulders to pull on the bindings that secure his silver hair. A low grunt like a thunderous purr rumbles out of him.

“Your Valyrian hair might denounce us-” you gasp when his hands take your waist. “If I may, please… Aemond.”

The parting of his lips evinces the effect you intended to have when your grip tightens on his strands. He tilts his head further down as you resume your indecent ministrations. Expert and swift is your work, made easier by the lushness of his hair even as your eyes veer to remain locked in his. 

It is unclear whether each pull brings your faces yet closer, inch by inch, or if it is you who leans, but soon the intimacy is such that your eyelids become heavy, guiding your sight toward the pink flesh that glistens just out of reach of taste.

“Why do I remain standing?” The question tumbles out in a whisper, unprecedented; your mind incongruous with your heart. You nearly berate yourself for the disruption, though he softly smirks and incites you to elaborate. “Why haven’t I been denounced for my behavior?”

His humming fills your ears to the brim, tingling with its low vibrations and more finely attuning you to him. Even from behind half-shut lids, he contemplates your question, hiding its answer just behind the soft glinting of his eye and stowing it between his lips. A hand lets go of its grip on your body to brush the side of your neck. His calloused digits turn your skin rough in goosebumps as they journey upward, and he breaks away from your gaze to appreciate the pattern he leaves behind. Your chest burns with the toil of constraining your gulps of air, the unbridled beatings of your heart, the anticipation of his every move. Every second is addictive in its raw, ardent adrenaline until his fingers lodge against the curve of your jaw, where days prior they had touched with brutality.

As though he shares your thoughts, his own jaw sets into a stern place you know too well. In the blink of an eye, his face falls back into disregard, and the dizzying spell of attraction is broken. You think he traps something there too, in the taut clench of his teeth, perhaps something he had nearly set free.

“Aemond,” you whisper as he retreats, as your arms fall limply from his shoulders, but the word no longer holds the same effect.

Your every muscle aches when you finally come to a stop. Every inch of skin is covered in a viscous layer of sweat. It gathers on the edges of your brows, at the tip of the fine hairs framing your face. Its droplets roll down your neck, making the path they touch both tacky and ticklish. Your legs more than any other part of you sting from having clung to your horse so firmly. The beast itself huffs violently and you pat its neck, appreciative of its tremendous efforts. Had there been a faster, more furtive way, you would have willingly spared it. When your feet hit the ground, your knees almost give in to fatigue but Shadow’s firm bearing saves you from a disgraceful fall. She too pants loudly in her exertion, though she is quick to vanish between the trees, to no doubt chase after supper.

Indeed, the hour of the wolf merely threatens departure, the sunlight still a couple of hours away from washing over a starless night sky, the crisp, dewy air burning still from throat to chest. In these last moments of darkness, your small company seeks refuge in the woods just off Duskendale, at the exact midpoint of your perilous journey. In a clearing dwarfed by shrubbery, you build a small fire, and you soon sit about it, having fed and refreshed the horses, to share a quiet meal.

Shadow returns to join you, eventually, with a disfigured, unrecognizable creature pierced by her teeth. She settles across from you, on the other side of the fire, and too close to Criston for his liking. He shuffles farther as she proceeds to devour its flesh, blood splattering as organs are brutally yanked from the carcass. He regards his dry jerky mistrustfully, utterly repulsed, and you chuckle when he drops it back into his bag, defeated.

“Anyone else in your family have one?” he tilts his head toward her, untroubled by your amusement.

“Only I,” you tell him. “My father meant for her to be Cregan’s at the time.” You look at your direwolf, ever present, ever faithful, and cannot fathom carrying out this mission without her. More than your protector, she has become your strength, your friend, your home. “But she chose me instead.”

He hums exaggeratedly, knowingly, and raises his brows in a pretense of great surprise.

“I’ve heard a similar tale before,” he over–enunciates, looking unblinkingly at Prince Aemond as if the very emphasis of his gaze would erupt a response.

You follow his train of sight, but the man beside you gapes into the flames with his only eye - the one which remained after his own beast had chosen him. In the dark, they lick his skin rapidly, contouring his acute angles in blood-red hues. His iris glints like a ruby as it reflects the crimson glow and his blushing lips turn ruddy under the blazing lights. And though it paints him truly beautiful, ethereal even, it is a thought you entertain only absentmindedly. Rather, free of any sense of decency, you revisit the images of those lips as they had appeared mere inches from yours. In your mind’s eye, you see every curve and incline, every shade of pink, every fine hair and fading sun freckle.

“Can’t imagine your brother was any pleased about that,” the knight addresses you before you get trapped in a trance. He smiles like he understands precisely what had transpired between the Stark siblings nearly fifteen years in the past - like he had priorly watched the severance of familial bond. “I’m sure it’s been isolating.”

He regards the Prince still, and you understand clearly that he does not, indeed, speak of you. This time, the latter meets his mischievous brown eyes in stern warning.

Cregan had been twice your age the day your direwolf became yours. She was not yet fully grown when she walked out of the Wolfwoods in the company of your father, but in all the majesty of her raven fur and sapphire eyes, she was the amazement of all who had the privilege to lay eyes on her. And yet, all that had been beautiful turned terrifying when your brother approached, and she bared her menacing teeth.

Dark and broad and scruff like a true Stark he was already. Proudly he strode toward her as a king strides to his throne, as if that pinnacle of power had always been his to claim. In your brazen innocence, you swung yourself between them when your father’s fist clenched on his sword. But Shadow did not retaliate against the sudden move. From that day onward your friendship only grew, whereas the bond with your brother never bloomed.

“Not close to your siblings, huh?” Criston’s question is so attuned to your thoughts, for a heartbeat you believe to have vocalized them.

How could you have been? Your sisters had been betrothed and dispatched to be raised by their future families by the time you learned to read. Cregan never forgot the loss of Shadow to you, and your father never bothered to correct his remoteness.

“I have a good relationship with my brother Rickard,” you tell him instead, “despite our age difference.”

Always a diplomat - the Stark brother with the auburn-colored curls and the soft smile - he had slowly though surely assumed the role of the older brother as you grew into your maiden years. If Cregan is known to don the outward, boisterous charisma inherent in a great leader, Rickard possesses the quiet confidence of a mentor, one you cherish greatly. 

Ser Criston is the first to drift off after you offer to keep the first watch. He does not show further interest in your upbringing, and you, in your turn, prefer the company of the crackling logs as they char beside you. Evidently, Aemond preserves his quietness, also watching wistfully as ambers leap out of the flames.

There is a mystifying quality to the dark, specifically that which lingers late at night before the break of day. Inexplicably, it promises salvation; it promises protection. It erases your anguish and warrants your vulnerability as it seduces you with the prospect of forgiveness. And thus once more you find yourself yearning for repentance because the night veils your insecurities.

As you often do - as you can never refrain from doing - you watch him. For perhaps the first time you think you see him for all that he is; not a Prince of the Realm, or Aemond One-Eye, the Kinslayer, a second son, a dragon rider, but a man both whole and fragmented. You wonder if the night permits also the naked truths of the world, for under your eyes he has never looked so mundane, so grounded and connected to the physical realm in which you all dwell. There is no pretense of superiority where he simply sits in silence, no violent anger you hear belongs to the blood of the dragon, only a man who gets distracted by the alluring movements of the fire, who tires, who feels. Though to you his beauty and his essence will always be innately empyreal, he has revealed to you in short-lived moments of tenderness that his heart does remain human.

“Aemond,” you breathe, you choose the brave to speak. When he looks at you his eye is quick to soften, and you suspect it is the glittering of your own which elicits so. “I wish to apologize,” you gulp, “for my behavior… of earlier.”

Your clumsiness of speech evinces the burden of your humiliation, but each uttering that is unaccompanied by harsh retaliation frees you of whatever weighs on your heart, compelling you to continue.

“It was most unbecoming of me to defy and- and harass you, my liege Prince. And I greatly regret it.”

He does not grant you a reply, allowing you with his compassionate regard the floor so you may confess in this single moment of defenselessness all that you have previously inhibited.

“But I beg you,” your voice trembles, you grasp his hand where it rests on his bent knee, clutching his fingers as if that might urge him to comply, “to accept me not as your enemy, not as someone who aspires to usurp you of your station or your commendations,” you sniffle, containing your tears as you hold his unwavering, penetrating look, “but as a friend.”

He exhales, then, breaking from your insistent eyes and staring instead at your joined hands as though he cannot bear being the target of anything other than your spite.

“You might realize we have more in common than it seems,” you whisper, leaning in to recapture his attention, “and that’s a good thing.”

His eye meets yours briefly, and he turns his palm in your hold to take your trembling fingers. When his thumb strokes over your knuckles, your breath hitches.

“Why do you insist on my approval?” he murmurs gently.

It takes you off guard, his question, but most jarring is the softness he chooses to maintain. He does not mock your offering of peace, does not take the chance to humiliate you further as you debase yourself. And you find you lack an answer despite the parting of your lips.

“Very well,” he acquiesces, sighing resolutely. “I shall grant you pardon.” 

He rises before you can properly express your gratitude, and pulls on your joined hands so that you follow him.

“But only,” there is a glint in his eye you know well to be mischief, and it tugs a smile on your lips, “if you teach me how to beat you… in the dark.” 

A relieved chuckle leaves you, and with it does the tension that had tightened the muscles on your shoulders.

“I’m afraid I’ve brought only my bow,” you say, wiping the wetness on your eyes when they threaten to spill over, “for the sake of stealth and secrecy.”

“Funnily enough,” he responds, a smirk widening on his face as he reaches with both hands for the back of his head, “I thought the same.”

In a swift motion, he pulls two fine daggers from his back.

You know you should deny him. From head to toe, your body begs you to lay back down and rest. You know you will regret it at sunset, but when he extends you his beautiful knife, you take it anyway.

“Seldom will you have to fight in complete darkness,” you pant, “even so, if you learn to rely on your other senses, you will have an advantage.”

You deflect each of Aemond’s strikes, a feat more difficult now that you engage in close combat. The blunt side of your daggers meet every few seconds as he quickly learns to retaliate your movements.

“Attune your ears to your opponent’s breath and steps,” you advise him, breaking his quick series of advances with a few of your own, “the reverberations of their sword - all of which will denounce their position.”

“Allow your enemy the first attack, so you may learn their patterns and anticipate their moves.”

“But above all-” you sidestep his next blow, where he expects you to meet blade for blade, to position yourself instead on his blind side. “Beware of your weaknesses.-“

He turns to keep you on his good side - dagger first, torso second - but it is too late; you duck well in advance, anticipating his reaction, and land a swift kick to the backs of his knees, causing his fall. 

“For those will be their strength.”

You press the dulled steel to his neck and pin his body to the ground as you had the first time you faced one another in the training yard. And much like the last time, your noses brush when you first settle atop him, and his heated scent, spiced sandalwood made earthy with his exertion, is just as dizzying. He huffs, annoyed at being beaten yet again, but unlike the time he had lunged at you to seek revenge - and perhaps your death - the dim moonlight now reveals a toothy grin. It too traps you in a dazed state of mind and you fail to thus conclude your lesson.

“You positioned yourself on my blind side,” he concludes for you, groaning, “and used my height against myself.”

He allows you neither a response nor a reaction, for just as swift as you had been, he hooks a hand behind your knee and throws his body against yours to take over your position.

“But you forget that I am stronger,” his grin turns triumphant, devilishly triumphant, as he takes in your widened eyes, your parted lips, “and have not yet yielded.”

He holds your wrists to the ground above your head and his torso presses against yours, from his chest to his pelvis, where he kneels between your legs. Your mind has not been freed of its foggy prison despite his abrupt movement, and every point of contact between you is turned tender, hyper-sensitive to his every movement. His position of power where he towers over you, where he pins you at the same time down and against his body, for once electrifies you not with anger but with excitement… with want.

So it is a purely physical reaction when your eyesight descends to watch his flushed lips, making your own tingle with the effort it takes not to lunge and take them. Your insides coil when you go to meet his gaze once again, only to find it, too, fixed to your lips.

It is of their own accord that your eyelids flutter shut when he nudges your nose with his. His cupid’s bow is sharp when you let it pry your lips open, his bottom lip tastes salty when he lodges it between yours. And when his warm, warm tongue slides so slowly against yours, your jaw melts apart, allowing him deeper, allowing you to sink further into your hazy deliverance.

You can scantily reciprocate it - his tortuous, lustful, lewd licks. You can only let him do as he pleases. You can do nothing more than sluggishly burn and melt like molten lava, surrendering to the excruciating strokes of his honeyed, warm tongue. It licks its heat into you as if his very dragonfire is what drips from his mouth into yours, scorching your insides with desire as it descends into your most intimate parts, as they hum in delight. Its every caress is charged with a sensation so delectable your own slick muscle sits soft and still, stunned.

And you love it.

His torso presses against yours - as do his hands, his mouth, his heart. Your legs tremble as they yearn to spread for him further. And when you think you cannot bear any more of his touches, he rolls his body against yours, dragging his stiffened member against your clothed yet craving core. The lecherous movement forces a startled moan from your lips and too soon you both reel back from one another, parting just as easily as you had joined.

He looks at you wide-eyed and mouth parted as if taken aback by his own actions, though he does not take initiative to change your indecent position. His chest moves up and down in accordance with yours.

“My Prince,” you pant, “we shouldn’t-“

You cannot force the words out, for they get trapped in your throat. Your body loathes you. It aches for him madly with its every fiber and it loathes you for driving him away. But your head has finally caught up with your heart, and your Stark honor stubbornly stands its ground, even if hanging by a thread, compelling you to get a hold of your improper desires.

Aemond nods at your plea, slowly then rapidly as if amid the gesture he realizes the insanity of your activities. He helps you to your feet, and you both stand there, avoiding eye contact as dawn approaches.

“Forgive me-” he starts, but you shake your head before he can finish.

“It’s as much my fault as it is yours,” you attempt to appease him, appease the situation. “The rush of peril will do that to anyone.”

He never agrees, not as you walk back to your makeshift camp, not before he drifts off on the ground by your side.

The sun had almost made its way to the peak of its trajectory when Ser Criston relieved you of your appointed duty. You had watched it ascend over the twisted trunks attentively so that your tired eyes remained vigilant, only to fall into deep slumber the very moment it was granted. When he addressed you again, the sunlight was already scarce and you had time but for a stretch and a bite before you departed.

Once more the three of you rode fast under the light of the moon, under the shading of your hoods. As you approached the shores of Cracklaw Point, the winds gained an icy bite which you welcomed to refresh your fatigued muscles. After all, horse riding was merely the first physical adversity you would have to endure in this perilous quest.

Rowing had not been much easier, but at least your legs had gotten a chance at rest. With your wolf guarding the horses ashore, you were free to take to the ocean. The canoe your small party fitted into had been courtesy of the Master of Whispers and his muted men, hidden in the bushes with two oars. The dark waters of the Blackwater Bay shimmered in the light of the stars and, as Aemond had suggested, its waves were not nearly as vigorous as those of the open sea, permitting you a swift sail to the rocky coast ahead.

Most difficult had been securing your wooden vessel to a stony wall that would not part it in half when the waves rocked it back and forth, and climbing the menacing slope with a large bag of dusty poison strapped to your back. You had located an incline shorter than most, but its fall promised fatality all the same.

The Prince had taken the lead, his torso knotted to one end of a sturdy rope and yours to the second, to fix stepping screws and safety cords along your ascent. The motion of the sea had left you less nauseated than this uncertain, upward trek. You envied Criston, who served merely as a grounding weight for the swinging rowboat below.

“Do you see that pointed summit?” Aemond had asked when you finally reached the peak. “‘Tis a volcano. Dragons will often rest at the grassy fields by its base, where it’s warmest.”

When you offered him round, fearful eyes, he chuckled.

“During the daytime,” he added. “At night they’ll seek shelter within the ground. You’ll be safe.”

Thus he had sprinted the opposite way, splitting from you to scatter poison at the very cavernous nesting place of the winged beasts before you could question his surety.

Now, you are beyond ready to leave this somber, humid island. Nothing about it invites you to stay any longer than you absolutely must - not its howling winds, not its steep slopes, and certainly not the looming threat of untamed dragons. You surmise that is what the stronghold of the enemy is supposed to feel like - uninviting. Each second stretches by as you sit on the muddy grass, at the top of a hill, waiting for Aemond to return. You cast a silent prayer for him as your ever-treacherous mind paints pictures of him getting devoured or burnt alive deep within the somber caves of Dragonstone. The thought is one you would have embraced - and even entertained - a few days back, even if deep down you had never wished for his demise. But right now, as the damp chill of the Blackwater is windblown into your bones, you wish for nothing other than his heated touch, his dragonfire.

They don’t astound you any longer - these indecent thoughts that overwhelm you without warning - and you try no longer to escape them or deny their existence. In fact, you delight in their indulgence. You delight in reliving them. The mere remembrance of his lips on yours and his slick tongue slipping between them is enough to protect you from the humid cold.

You spot him when he is halfway up the hill, running towards you, large steps climbing quickly up the slope and braided hair catching the moonlight. You rise to your feet before he meets you. 

What does it mean for you? To have admitted to these feelings? You find nothing is of certainty but your craving for him.

“Sorry it took me so long,” he pants when he finally reaches you.

He goes on to comment on the intricacy of the mazes that are the dragon caves within the hills, but you get yourself trapped in your own musings. The humidity sticks to his skin, gifting him an alluring glow, and a drop of sweat unlatches from the fine hairs that escape his coiffure. Attentively you follow it with your gaze as it rolls down his glistening skin, curving around his jaw to move down his neck. 

It drives you to thirst.

You take too long to look up when he turns back to you, so when you meet his eye it dons already that vehemence you know so well.

Not a single bone in you wishes to inhibit yourself any longer. You had contained your anger before him only to have it explode monumentally. You had stifled your vilest reflections only to exploit the opportunity of physical violence the first chance given. The control over your luscious musings is fast fading. You are exhausted of all the pretense, the weight of duty and honor, the weight of repression.

“Aemond,” you plead, wishing he would simply understand.

You want to lean as he had, lodge your lips on his as he did, and commit him to taste. But you find yourself rooted to the spot, aching, as instinct fights logic, as desire fights morality. Your flesh burns with the urge to throw yourself in his embrace yet it freezes in fear of dishonor.

Against all odds your hand finds his chest, his own fingers clasp onto your elbow. When you think you can finally break through the invisible barrier that restrains your ardors, however, you spot a distinguishable glimmer of silver at the foot of the hill. Aemond turns to look for the source of your distraction.

“Daemon,” he spits.

The Rogue Prince. He approaches like a villain in a novel, stomping leisurely in the night with his Dark Sister in hand. You know him as well as the entire Realm - the proud, callous, viciously barbaric brother of the late Viserys I, now husband to the former heir.

Aemond pulls out his sharp daggers, his disposition starkly contrasting to just seconds ago when he reached for you so softly.

“Aemond,” you hiss, pulling on his arm in vain. “Let us go - we can make it to the boat in time.”

He hesitates to turn and follow you, but when he does comply, Prince Daemon recaptures his attention.

“Nephew!” he roars. “Did little Luke take your stones as well as your eye?”

You lose him in a heartbeat, to a juvenile taunt no less, as he storms down the hillside to meet his uncle. In your desperation, you take your bow to release an arrow against the older Prince, but it merely catches his shoulder. Though he grunts a curse and breaks it off at the root, it does nothing to deter him. As you raise a second arrow, the Princes meet, and you cannot assume the risk of it hitting the wrong one.

So you run.

Aimless, you dart off to where their blades viciously bounce off one another. And then, just before your very eyes, Aemond falls. As Dark Sister rises above him, glinting, you are drained of all warmth.

How would you relay to his mother you had let him perish?

There is no option, naught to do but to protect him. You don’t think as you holler at Daemon the Rogue, nor when you throw your body against his piercing blade. Though the pain of its cut steals your breath, stinging maddeningly where it opens a gruesome gash beneath your collarbones, shoulder to shoulder, you still land a hit so harsh against his jaw that you are unsure whether it breaks his face or your knuckles. You are happy to watch his head hit a rock hidden in the grass before you too hit the ground.

A guttural grunt leaves you as the pain truly registers. Even in your state of shock, its sting immobilizes your arms, its throb hammering, blinding, deafening. And wet. You are quickly drenched in your own blood. You feel it slide between your shirt and your leather tunic, drip down your sides, pool in the hollow of your throat as it gushes and gushes from within you like the mouth of a river.

“You fucking fool,” Aemond snarls above you, quick to tear his undershirt and wrap it tightly around your wound to constrict the blood loss. You have not the strength to bite back. When he notices this, his incensed demeanor turns desperate.

He carries you over to the cliff you had climbed. Tying your body to his, he makes it to the boat. How swiftly this happens, you cannot gauge. You can no longer comprehend the passage of time.

His chest on your back, his scent in your head, the lull of the sea invite you to doze. Absent-mindedly, you hear Aemond urge you to keep your eyes open. But his voice is too sweet. It too tantalizes you to welcome sleep. 

And so you do.

A/N: yay, we're halfway through! I know posting this on a random Wednesday at midnight is a dumb move, but I couldn't hold it any longer...

Taglist in comments.

[wetcatspellcaster]

First of all, thank you so much for all you do! Your work has gotten me through a really rough few weeks dealing with the first anniversary of my mom's death. I'm so excited every time I get an ao3 notification for one of your stories. ❤️

Also I'm a huge Buffy fan and your Ascended Astarion has such presouled-but-in-love-with-buffy Spike vibes I love it. Especially his not understanding why his super romantic gestures of murder and abduction are not working on the object of his affections. I love how frustrated and baffled Astarion is by Rose's refusals. "These things are the *height* of vampire wooing? how's she not swooning?? She must be playing hard to get."

Also every time they get into a physical altercation, it absolutely feels like it may end in building destroying sex. 😏

I did have a question about Astarion's expectations about Rose (which feel free not to answer if its spoilers or you dont feel like it). I know he dumped her after she wouldn't be turned by him post ritual but it seems like he's definitely spent years getting things ready to have her living with him since then with the custom bedrooms and the rose gardens. Did he expect her to come back on her own since then? even after telling her he basically wanted nothing to do with her?

Anyway this was long 😅 but thanks again for sharing your talent and imagination with us. good luck with your surgery! ❤️

Hello anon, thank you so much for messaging me. I use fic writing as a mental health lifeline (and guess what! I have also bereaved a parent in my time!) so I'm glad I can pay that comfort forward to you and anyone else, in some small form. I hope the anniversary and any related feelings that come up pass smoothly.

(also, Ascendent/Spike parallels are such a call out at the particular moment I am in drafting. I think my approach to souls in D&D is very coloured by what meaning they hold in BtVS).

To your question! I'll try to answer as best I can.

The initial reaction and break up is obvious dictated a little by canon, but in my version of events, it's also coloured by the violent/traumatic nature of the Ascendent's 'birth'. On the one hand, Ascended!Astarion is drunk on power and his first real sense of freedom, but on the other, it has come at a dramatic and awful cost that everyone around him witnessed and cannot deny. Also, not to spoil, but I have aligned my reading of the events with the fanon interpretation that a romanced Astarion justifies his desire for Ascendency through Tav, or fear of losing that relationship. So Rose's initial rejection causes a lot of anger and deliberate cruelty, because of the confusion and pain behind it: he did the Rite, partly for her, Rosalie watched him do the Rite and didn't stop him, and now? she's suddenly having second thoughts? When it's irreversible? When he's stuck here, now? And she refuses keep him company?

The anger and pain around that was real, I believe, and causes him to lash out. Hence, the break-up. Much with the way I write the Ascendent in all guises, he does an extremely stupid thing, then commits to the bit and doubles down. Oh, he's dumped her now? He kind of didn't mean to do that, but now he can't be desperate and take it back, so he has to lean in and pretend that was what intended to do all along, etc.

Then she leaves for real? Well, fuck her. He didn't need her anyway - that's why he dumped her, after all. Nothing to do with the trauma, or his mistakes. So then, he commits to the bit, twicefold. He leans in further. Starts to perform the exact life he'd said he'd have without her. Gets new friends, new lovers, an underground network of power, etc. That takes a few years.

Oh. Wait. Why does none of this feel good? Why does it all feel awful???Must be because his girlfriend, the one he did this all for, isn't here (and who's fault was that again? by this point, he's forgotten).

But pride is still a major factor in the way the Ascendent conducts himself, and he can't go to her - he can't look desperate, or unhappy, or like he regrets his decisions. I've used this in a justification of why he never sought her out in places he couldn't pretend he found her by chance, even though he can smell her blood and knows she goes to Waterdeep - he can't be the one to go to her. And she must be miserable, right? He is. So he starts to engineer things for her return, because she'll be the one to cave first, and besides, he's got eternity anyway. He's so patient (lol).

And then, inevitably, when Rosalie continues living her life avoiding him, he's like "welp. I can't go to her (pride), and she isn't coming to me. Time to make her come to me (murderous intent)" and that's how he kills a ballroom full of people. He genuinely thinks what's keeping them apart is the distance, not the element of choice (because. um. we've seen what he thinks of free will). He believes that once they're in the same room together, it'll be impossible for her to resist. He can charm her. He did it once before. And he's not sad or conflicted about it this time. And he's the same person, right?

[author laughs in REDACTED]

So basically, his expectation of Rose was that she would be the one to break first. They both love each other, and she's a nice person. She's the bleeding heart. She's the one who was seduced the first time round.

When none of that happens, he decides to engineer the same set of circumstances in a lab, assuming that forcing her into returning will have the same outcome as her choosing to return (you may notice a pattern of behaviour emerging). So once the Ascendent has created forced proximity and given himself the chance to seduce Tav all over again, he's certain he'll win, because he knows the playbook, and it worked on them, and since he Ascended he's had proof it works on everyone else.

But unfortunately, a successful romance in this scenario relies on Ascended!Astarion not being awful, for 5 minutes which... um.... he hasn't achieved once in this fic, not once.

[bullet-prooflove]

Slow - Joe Velasco x Reader (NSFW)

Tagging: @plaidbooks @misscharlielulu @witches-unruly-heart @kimm4710 @ednastvincent @storiesofsvu @magic-multicolored-miracle @rosaliedepp @cycat4077 @crazy4chickennuggets @cixrosie @themisunderstoodblackswan @im-just-a-mississippi-girl @mysoulisasunflower @kabloswrld @xoxabs88xox @legit9thlunaticwarrior @mydarkestsecretlol @bbyxoo @the-adzukibean @giuls-ver @wooshwastaken @janeaustenlover @justreblogginfics @anime-weeb-4-life @im-just-a-mississippi-girl

Joe had never been one to laze around between the sheets. He rose when the sun did and packed his days with flurries of activity. Only now you were in his life, and he had been spending his nights in your bed, holding you close. You were the perfect fit.

He was tucked around you, his face pressed into the hollow of your neck. His body was responding to you the same way it usually did when he woke up in the morning. The erection he was struggling to hide within his sweats was growing more insistent by the second as his large hand settled on your waist, his thumb lightly caressing the line of your rib cage. His nose chased up the curve of your throat followed by the warm sweet kisses he planted upon your flesh. He loved feeling you against him like this, it felt so right.

You stretched out along the length of Joe's body, your ass coming to rest right against his pelvis creating a delicious friction against Joe's aching cock. He moaned into your ear as you arched just a little more against his hips. Joe's fingers skated across the hem of the large T-shirt that you were wearing. It was his own and it gave him a sense of pride to see you adorned in it. His heated palm caressed your bare thighs.

He was only just getting used to touching you like this. It had been so long since he had been anywhere near intimate with a woman he actually cared about, who brought reassurance with the simplest of gestures. You were used to showing affection, you never hide your emotions and Joe was learning by example. He found it hard to reach out, he shirked away from intimacy because he feared rejection but now he was changing, adapting once more.

You brought Joe's fingers up to your lips, they brushed over his fingertips like tiny butterflies, leaving him quivering with anticipation as your tongue flicked out and teased his large digit. His fingers trailed down the line of your throat, tracing the shape of your collarbone before it glided into the swell of your breasts.

Your hand covered his own, guiding it further down your body. His fingertips grazed over your clothed mound. He could feel the heat emanating from your sweet core, his finger dragged over your clit feeling that delicious moistness through the material. Your entire body arched into his as you let out a whimper. Joe thrust against you gently, grunting into your ear as the fabric rubbed across his leaking cock.

He wanted you so badly it hurt. You hand reached back, threading through his hair and guiding his hot, sensual lips back to the curve of your throat. You were burning up inside, desperate and wanting for him. However, you sensed that you needed to move a little more slowly. Joe wasn't ready for such a full-on emotional experience.

His thumb traced over those rosebud nipples, toying with them as your breathing hitched with delirious excitement. He explored you with agile fingertips and the noise you made when he rolled your nipple between his fingertips, almost made him come right here and then.

His fingers crept underneath the waist band of your panties, his mouth gracing your skin. You tasted like honey, every inch of you was fucking perfect under his tongue.

"Do you want this?" his voice rough with that dynamic sizzling tension as his fingertip tapped your clit, sending waves of ecstasy vibrating through your sensitive nerve endings. "Do you want me to touch you here?"

"Yes." You cried out, your head tipping back onto his broad shoulder. "God yes."

His fingers were already seeking out your most intimate opening, his thumb skated over your clit, stroking the erogenous nub as he listened to the sound of your breathing turn into ragged little pants. The change excited him in ways he could never have imagined, he was showing you how devoted he was to you with each and every single little touch he bestowed on your body.

He slipped a finger inside of you causing her whimper in pleasure as he entered her. His teeth grazed your skin with a love bite as he nuzzled your throat lovingly, moving his finger in slow teasing motions until he found that sweet spot.

Hearing you drawl his name like that ignited every single aspect of Joe's furious possessive instincts. He needed to make you come, he needed you to know that your pleasure was important to him. It turned him on having you wrapped up in him like this. You were riding his finger now, your moans growing louder with the loss of your inhibitions as he stroked you into a frenzy.

Every single thing about you heightening his own arousal. Your movements were getting more and more frantic and knew exactly what you were doing when you ground against his erection. He could barely hold back the tidal wave of euphoria that was building up inside. He was on the edge already, this simple non penetrative contact between your body and his groin was more than he could bare. His grunts were getting louder as he moved in time with the rhythm of his fingers. He was on the pinnacle of pleasure; he could feel it stealing away his breath as he buried his face in the nape of your neck and came with wild abandonment.

Your synapses were blazing at the sound of Joe's climax, exploding like billions of tiny little stars as you called out Joe's name, your body stretching taut against his as the climax built up like the crest of a wave. It hit you hard, your entire body quivering ecstasy as it consumed you.

Joe removed his hand from between your legs, his kisses were gentle now and tender. You rolled onto your back, your gazing seeking out his. There was a world made just for you in those wonderful green eyes.

Joe smiled down at the blissful expression on your features he placed a butterfly kiss upon the tip of your nose before whispering against the soft, flushed apple of your cheek.

"Love you."

Love Joe Velasco? Don’t miss any of his stories by joining the taglist here.

Like My Work? - Why Not Buy Me A Coffee

[supercap2319]

Baby It’s Cold Outside Chapter 3

A/N: Chapter 3 is up.

It was silent between them.

It wasn’t that awkward silence where you fill it with small talk back and forth, but the comfortable kind. The quiet you get when you’re in your room, comfortably lying on your bed as you watch a movie or listen to music. Tyler’s hands had been tight on the wheel; his knuckles white into the first four hours of their trip. He looked back every mile until he was sure his father wasn’t following them. The barista was surprised his boyfriend hadn’t picked up on his nervous energy. Y/N could smell fear, thanks to his vampire senses, and could hear the slight change in someone’s heart, so Tyler figured either Y/N didn’t notice his uneasiness or he was waiting for the right moment to catch Tyler and confront him on his lies.

Tyler's stomach did knots at that. God, he hoped not. He could handle his father hating him, but Y/N? He would die if he did. The sound of Y/N’s singing brought Tyler out of his thoughts as he watched him sing to the radio song of God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen, but he changed the words to them. Probably, the version he sang with his own family.

“It's Christmas, and the graveyard folk has all come to play. They're going to make a fuss and walk around causing disarray.” Tyler began to chuckle. His first laugh in a while. His boyish features were displayed as Y/N looked at him and frowned. “What’s so funny, Puppy? Aren’t those the words?”

“The words are much different, but I like your version better. Sounds more fun.”

“It is. Remind me to teach you the full song later,” Y/N said.

Tyler smirks. “Deal.”

Y/N looks at his boyfriend as he has his eyes glued onto the road. His smooth skin and his golden brown curls, along with his blue eyes, were dressed in flannel over a white shirt with a brown jacket. Y/N’s heart skipped a beat. His mother told him that her undead heart came to life the moment she met his father, and Y/N wondered if that was the same feeling that he was experiencing right at this moment. A boyfriend who was half normie, half Hyde. His family would be so proud of him. Tyler's head turned towards Y/N, who looked away. Tyler smiled once again. Busted. “You were checking me out, weren't you, Y/N?”

Y/N blushed. “No…”

“You were!” Tyler cried. “What were you thinking about, mmh? Something naughty?” He couldn’t help how his smile grew as Y/N squirmed underneath Tyler’s teasing stare. “Perhaps, kissing out in the snow? Or maybe handjobs underneath the Christmas tree?” Tyler was surprised those words just came out of his mouth. He was never one for dirty talk. I guess his Hyde side was shining through and through.

The Munster boy looks at him, red in the face, but he smiles. “Sorry, I just forgot how beautiful you are. You’re like those paintings in museums. Absolute perfection. I’m lucky to have you as my boyfriend.” Tyler’s heart did not skip at being called Y/N’s ‘boyfriend.’ Nope, not one bit. The way it rolled off Y/N’s so smoothly that you just had to believe that they belonged together. It just made sense, but at the same time, it couldn’t. Not because of Y/N, no, this was all Tyler’s fault. He couldn’t give Y/N his everything like the other male had him. The curly-haired boy couldn’t even stand up to his father and say Y/N was his boyfriend with pride because he was scared of the repercussions of letting his homophobic dad know that he was very much not of the straight guy variety.

Y/N deserved someone happily out of the closet instead of a closeted, psychotic, curly-haired bartisa with daddy issues. Y/N’s probably told his family about him, and Tyler’s not sure if he’s ready for the expectations or rejections. The young man was so much into his head that he barely registered that Y/N was calling his name. “Uh, What….?”

Tyler turned to see Y/N looking at him, all traces of a blush gone as he glanced at the barista with concerned but hopeful eyes. “I said can we stop somewhere to get something to eat? I’m hungry.” The supplies of soda and chips could only take them so far into their journey, and Tyler was surprised that Y/N hadn't piped up early to ask to stop to get some food. He felt bad. He should have asked. What kind of gentleman doesn't ask if someone is hungry? His face reddened with embarrassment. “Sorry, Y/N, I should have asked if you were hungry sooner.”

“It’s fine. My fault for not asking before, but you looked so insistent on getting to New Jersey that I didn’t want to bother you.”

Tyler flushed even more at that. Y/N did notice Tyler’s off-putting nature in his efforts to get as far away from Jericho as he could, and in the process, he disregarded his boyfriend’s feelings and needs. “I’m sorry. Shit, that was stupid of me.”

“No, it wasn’t,” Y/N said. “You were probably eager to get out of Jericho for a while. It’s okay, Ty. No need to beat yourself over that.”

The sheriff’s son cleared his throat. “Right, so is there a place in mind?” He looked at their gage, and they were close to running on empty. They needed to put some gas in soon. Otherwise, Y/N would be a vampire speeding them the rest of the way. It was a funny thought that plagued the corners of Tyler’s mind. Seeing Y/N caring for Tyler's bridal style as he speeded them to his home in New Jersey. “Well, there’s a diner near a gas station if that’s okay with you?” Y/N looks at his phone’s GPS. Tyler nods his head. “Yeah, that’s perfect. Kill two birds with one.”

Y/N frowns. “A stone? Oh, no, no, no. If you want to kill birds, grandpa says you should use a throwing ax or arrows. More effective.”

Tyler laughed.

Once Tyler guided his truck into the parking lot of the Silver Diner, he and Y/N got out as the snow lightly clung to their jackets and on top of Tyler’s curls and Y/N’s red beanie that he did not steal from Tyler’s room. The door chimed like Christmas bells as they opened it and were greeted by the old-fashioned classic American diner as the jukeboxes played Christmas songs. The place looked like something out of the sitcom Happy Days. With its pink fluorescent lights all around the booths that were red in leather, with miniature jukeboxes at every table. It was awesome.

They walk towards the booths as customers, which consist of regulars, truckers, and tourists, stare at them as they walk past them. Tyler knew why they were staring. Their judgment gazes were the same ones as back in Jericho. Hateful. Fear filled. He briefly wonders if they would look at him the same way if they knew he wasn't one of them. If Y/N noticed their judgmental stares, he didn’t say anything as a waitress approached them. “For two? You and your…. umm… brother want a counter seat or a booth?”

Y/N looked at her, an exciting shine in his eyes. “He’s my boyfriend, ma’am. Not my brother.”

“Oh, sorry about that. I just assumed that.” She looks at Y/N’a green hues. “That’s some mighty fine Christmas-colored hair you got there.”

“Thank you. It’s the hair I was born with,” Y/N smiles as the waitress frowns in confusion.

“Booth will be great, right?” Tyler asks in a hurry to avoid the awkward stares their waitress is giving Y/N.

“Yeah, sounds great!”

They were led through the aisles, and people stared at them as they passed. Tyler put a protective hand on Y/N’s shoulders until he slid into one side of the booth. Tyler slid into the other as he looked over the menu. So many different choices to make as he looks up at Y/N as he’s deep in thought about the food he wants to order. The barista was surprised to learn that Y/N doesn’t have to feed on blood to survive; he could stay on normie food just fine. He only drank blood to keep his vials normal and healthy.

“You know what you’re going to get?” Tyler asked from across the booth.

Y/N looks up at him. “Yup. You?”

“Yup.”

The waitress, Mary, her name tag stated, made her way back to the table, perching a hand on her hip as she held up her order notepad. “You boys ready?” she asked.

“I’ll have your double bacon cheeseburger, please,” Tyler politely said.

“Fries or tots?”

“Fries.”

“And what to drink?”

“Coke.”

The waitress turned to Y/N. “And for you?”

“The same, please. No onions, and can I order your cakes in a pan, please?” It took a moment to register to Tyler that his boyfriend meant pancakes. Mary wrote their order down and looked at them. “I’ll be back with your drinks. Did you want those pancakes before or after your meal, sweetie?” She looks at Y/N, and Tyler’s pleasantly surprised look of bewilderment is gone. Maybe not all normies were so bad.

“After.”

“You got it.” She walks away.

It wasn’t long before they received their food, as they settled into a comfortable conversation that should have been impossible for a normie, well, half normie and an outcast, but it wasn’t like that between them. When they talked, it was like the rest of the world faded away to just them, and there were no labels in their world—just peace and safety.

Tyler felt himself finally relax as he laughed at something Y/N said. His boyish features are on full display, including his dimples too. He honestly left his worries behind him, and now he’s going to enjoy the holidays with his boyfriend. The consequences could suck it. There was an ease that settled in Tyler’s soul when he reached over and stole fries from Y/N’s plate. Y/N didn’t mind, though; he smiled as Tyler munched on his stolen French fries.

“So, who’s coming to your family’s Christmas party? Your uncles from the old country?” Y/N’s uncles, who lived in Transylvania and other places, were coming to the states for Christmas. Y/N nodded. “Yup. There’s uncle Charlie, my dad's twin brother. There’s uncle Phantom of the Opera. He has a beautiful voice that shatters glass. There’s uncle Gilbert from the Black Lagoon and uncle Stefan. He’s from Italy.

“Well, I can’t wait to meet them.”

“And they can’t wait to meet you, too,” Y/N said. “That’s okay, right? I told my family about you, and they’re so excited to see you, Ty.”

“Really?” Tyler asked. “Even though I’m half normie and a Hyde?”

“Of course. Grandpa says I found myself a keeper when he learned you were a Hyde. He practically gave me his blessing for a marriage proposal. He says Hydes are like royalty back in Transylvania.”

Tyler hadn’t expected that answer. He expected to be turned away as soon as they discovered he was a murderous killing machine, but the Munsters liked that quality in a future-in-law. Go figure. The curly-haired boy licked his lips as his blue orbs looked at Y/N. “I hope that I don’t disappoint them. I mean, it wouldn’t be the first time that I didn’t live up to someone’s expectations.” And just like that, the angst is back. Thinking about his father is back in full force as Tyler frowns.

Y/N frowns, too, as he puts a hand over Tyler’s. “Ty, what are you talking about? My family’s going to love it as much as I do. You could never disappoint them or me.” The promise in his boyfriend’s voice was so commanding and powerful that Tyler just had to believe him. That strangers were willing to welcome someone they’d never seen in their home. It was almost enough to make the Galpin boy cry. Almost. “You think so?”

Y/N smiled. “I know so.”

…..

After their waitress brought them their stack of pancakes that they shared down the middle; their diner date was pretty uneventful, except for who should pay for their dinner. Tyler and Y/N both fenced back and forth before it was agreed upon that Tyler would pay for dinner, if Y/N paid for the gas. Once they had left the diner and filled up Tyler’s truck with enough gas to get them to Y/N’s house, they set off once again for the road as they finished the last three hours of their trip.

Tyler drove through the town of Mockingbird Heights as the GPS guided them towards the street of 1313 Mockingbird Lane.

Once they had arrived at their intended destination, Tyler got out of the car and opened the other side of the door for his boyfriend as he turned towards the house and gasped. The house, or mansion a better word for it, was a Gothic Victorian style. The house stands on a property enclosed by a stone wall and the yard is full of weeds and dead trees. Tyler’s never seen a house like this in life before, only in the movies and tv shows. It was amazing.

Y/N successfully grabbed all their luggage in one go thanks to his Frankenstein like strength as he guides Tyler through the gates of his home with a giant ‘M’ on the bars. As they head up the porch towards the house, the barista notices some Christmas decorations on the front lawn. There’s all the colorful and festive lights surrounded by a giant spider web with mechanical spiders. There’s also the snowman getting his head cut off by the executioner at the guillotine. Over and over again. And the rabid reindeers on top of the house.

“Wow, this place is pretty bleak and horrifying,” Tyler said. Then he realized how that sounded and blushed as he stammered out an apology. “Y/N, I’m sorry I didn’t mean too–”

“–Wow, Puppy, that was so sweet of you to say.” Y/N smiled. “My family sure did try hard and to hear you say those kind words about it makes me smile.”

Tyler rubbed the back of his head nervously. “You’re welcome.” Bad and bloody, we're good here. They were compliments.

They stood on the other side of the door as Y/N set their stuff down and knocked. The whole mansion shook underneath Y/N’s fist as Tyler tried to steady his nerves. Any minute now, he was going to be meeting his boyfriend’s family as soon as that door opened. Hopefully, he doesn’t screw things up. Sensing his uneasiness, Y/N grasped his boyfriend’s hand and gave it a gentle squeeze and a small smile. Tyler smiled back.

The sound of thundering footsteps could be heard as the front door opened up to reveal a hulking figure about 8-foot-tall if Tyler had to guess. He had green skin with a square shaped face, a scar on his forehead, bolts on either side of his neck and black hair. He wore a gray coat over a black sweatshirt with pants and giant boots. Probably the biggest shoes Tyler’s ever seen. Despite his monstrous appearance, he had a sunny disposition about him like his son, as his blue eyes sparkled when he looked down at Y/N and Tyler.

He let out a loud braying bellow as he grabbed Y/N into a hug. Tyler could hear the faint crush of bones and he was concerned, but Y/N seemed ecstatic. “Y/N! Good to see you, my son!”

Y/N giggles as he hugs his father back and Tyler hears bones crunching underneath Y/N’s arms. “You too dad!” They separated as Y/N’s father turned towards Tyler. “Oh, and just who is this young man?”

Tyler opens his mouth to speak, but Y/N beats him to the punch. “Dad, this is my boyfriend, Tyler Galpin. Tyler, this is my dad, Herman Munster,” He introduces the two. “He’ll be staying for the holidays and maybe New Year’s before the spring semester.”

Herman stares at Tyler, and he has to fight the urge to shrink underneath his intense gaze. Finally, Herman breaks into a smile as he holds out his hand. “How do you do, Tyler?” The son of the sheriff looks at the outreach hand and grasps it with his own. It’s surprisingly cold to the touch. He shakes his hand as he politely says , “It’s nice to finally meet you, sir,” Tyler says, proud to hear that his voice doesn’t shake or crack.

“Likewise, young man. Though he’s certainly less hairy than the boyfriend I had when I was your age, Y/N.” Herman laughs at his own joke.

“Seriously, dad jokes? Are you trying to embarrass me?” Y/N blushed as Tyler looks at him and giggles. Herman smiles. “Why don’t you both head inside and I’ll take your bags upstairs?” Y/N nodded as he grabbed Tyler’s hand and led them into the mansion.

Y/N led Tyler past a staircase as Herman traveled up said stairs with all their stuff in his hands as the barista was led into the living room. The first thing Tyler noticed were the webs. The whole living seemed to be covered in it, like Spider-Man had a fight here and didn’t clean up after himself. There were candles lit all around with an old-fashioned clock, an electric chair, a tv, and a fireplace with a couch and a coffee table. There was also a giant harp too.

“Hope you don’t mind, but my mom cleaned this place up for our arrival,” Y/N said.

“That’s fine. No problem at all.” Tyler smiles.

From another room, a beautiful and slender woman with long dark hair with flex’s of gray mixed in and greenish skin, wears an ankle-length pale pink gown that appears faded and old, a bat-shaped medallion around her neck as she is accompanied by an older looking man who also has green skin. He wears a tuxedo with crazy curly gray and white hair. They stop when they see the two boys.

“Ma! Grandpa!” Y/N whooshed towards them and hugged them tight as they did the same to him. “Oh, dear, it’s wonderful to have you home for Christmas, Y/N.”

“It certainly is. Especially with the new blood you brought into the family.” The old man looks at Tyler, a gleam in his eyes as in a blink of an eye; he’s right in front of Tyler, grasping his arm. His fangs come out as the curly-haired young man watches him attempt to bite his arm.

“Grandpa!” Y/N speeds towards them and gets in between as he stands in front of Tyler protectively. “You can’t just bite my boyfriend’s arm.”

“That’s right, grandpa you can’t. You didn’t even ask him for permission first.” the woman says. “Besides, Y/N already has a claim over him and will bite him if he so chooses to do so.”

“Ma, I told you, vampires, my age, don't bite people anymore. It's not considered cool.”

“Cool?” the old man asks. “Back in my day, it was the coolest thing about being a vampire and suddenly now it's not? Your grandma would be turning in her grave right now.”

“What are you talking about? She always turns in her grave.” Y/N gives Tyler an apologetic look. “Sorry about that, Tyler. That was very rude of my grandfather.” He glares at the old man.

“Oh, so this is Tyler?” The woman asks Y/N.

“Wait, he’s Edward Hyde’s great, great, great great, grandson?” The old man gasps.

“Yup, he sure is. Ma, grandpa, this is Tyler. Ty, this is my mom, Lily, and my grandpa, Sam Dracula, Count of Transylvania.”

“Hello, there. Nice to meet you both,” Tyler said.

“You too, Tyler. So wonderful to finally meet you in person. Y/N’s told us all about you,” Lily said.

“He sure has.” Grandpa smiles as he pats them both on the shoulders. “He’s a keeper, Y/N. You have my blessing.” He leans close to Tyler. “Catch ya later, your highness.” He walks out of the room.

“Where are Marilyn and Eddie?” Y/N asks.

“Oh, Marilyn is on a date, and it’s nighttime. I suppose I should wake up Eddie from his sleep. Don’t want him wasting a beautiful night in bed,” Lily said.

“Speaking of bed, Tyler and I are going to get some sleep. It was a long trip.” Y/N noticed Tyler trying to hide his yawn.

Lily nods her head. “Of course, dear. I made sure to clean your room with fresh cobwebs and dust.”

Y/N leads Tyler away from the living room and up the stairs, passing his father as they go up and he goes down. “Going to bed, son? In the middle of the night?”

“Yeah, pops, we’re pretty tired.”

“Alright then, son. You and Tyler have a bad night's sleep and sweet nightmares,” Herman said. Y/N nods and kisses his father’s cheek goodnight as he leads Tyler towards his room.

When Herman comes down the stairs, he finds his wife waiting for him. “Oh, Herman, do you really think they should be sleeping in the same room together? You know how boys are.”

“I do, Lily. Because I am one,” Herman says.

“Would you two stop worrying?” Grandpa said. “Y/N’s a responsible young man and he would never do anything inappropriate. Besides, when I was his age, my parents let my partners stay in my coffin all the time.”

“Yeah, that’s because most of them were dead on their feet.” Herman says with a loud bellow.

[emblematicemblazer]

World building and theories of Engage

Marni as a sister

Marni is a member of the Four Hounds and plays the role of a sibling to Veyle, Griss and Mauvier and a daughter to Zephia. She is eager to please the rest of her ‘family’ and will happily volunteer for anything if the reward is praise. This desire for praise stems from her upbringing. She used to help her biological mother but never received any appreciation for her endeavours. The one time she received her mother's undivided attention was the day she was abandoned. 

In Chapter 21: The Return, Marni describes all the thank yous she got from the priest for helping to awaken Lord Sombron. From very early on in her indoctrination to the Church of the Fell Dragon she came to associate Sombron with positive sentiments. In the game she does not speak directly to Sombron. It is clear that she cares what he thinks. When they lose Emblem Rings in Chapter 17: Serenity in Ruins, Marni later expresses her concern about Sombron being mad at them and potentially punishing them. She is relieved to learn that Sombron just mentioned the importance of the Four Hounds role. Not being punished for failure is seen as praise, Marni is desperate for approval and that desperation makes her think that Sombron loves them despite their errors. Sombron has no emotions about Marni. She, like his biological children, are tools to be used as discarded. For Marni, Sombron is the father figure who she is eager to please. For waking him up and working hard to obtain rings, she believes that he loves and appreciates his Hounds. There is only one person more important than Sombron in her world and that is Zephia. 

Zephia is her mother figure, she is the one who directly offers her praise and affection. In Chapter 12: The Sentinels, Zephia refers to her as the “pride of the Four Hounds,” in her doting / motherly kind of voice. When addressing Marni directly she will often use this fake voice to manipulate her. The manipulation is successful, so much so that even after severe punishment due to stealing Emblem Rings already obtained to use against their enemy and then losing them in Chapter 19: The Dead Town, she is still eager to return to Zephia. She is emotionally dependent upon her attention and praise, things she never received from her biological mother. After she defies Zephia's wishes and attempts to break Veyle's mind control helmet in Chapter 21: The Return, she looks towards Zephia and says her name in a trembling, broken voice before she is stabbed. Zephia is both feared and loved by Marni, and as a “naughty child”, she receives the ultimate punishment; death. Marni is aware how powerful and ruthless Zephia is, that knowledge, along with the positive enforcement of praise, ensures her obedience. 

As the mother figure, Zephia's behaviour is mimicked by Marni. She learns and copies her behaviour subconsciously, such as when she insults the Real Veyle. This imitation is broken after she learns Veyle's tragic story. This empathy makes her question Zephia and finally defy her by trying to break the helmet used to tamper with Veyle's nature. Instead of copying the obedience shown to Possessed Veyle or being influenced by manipulation, she acts of her own free will. Free will is not tolerated by Zephia, and she is punished for it.

Before Marni learns about Veyle‘s tragic and lonely past, in Chapter 21:The Return, she treats her cruelly, imitating Zephia's behaviour towards her. 

 “I should have been nicer to her, probably.”

 Her behaviour towards Veyle is not out of hatred, it is just to please Zephia. Her attitude towards Veyle is neutral. In the English translation Marni calls her boring, this is not said in the Japanese version. Both translations attempt to show Marni's general disinterest in real Veyle. She only starts to become interested when Mauvier tells Veyle's story. Marni empathises with her since they have both been rejected by a parent. Marni considers herself lucky to have found the Hounds and having the opportunity to enjoy their ‘family’ unit. It saddens her that Veyle never got to enjoy her family. 

On the other hand Possessed Veyle is seen in a positive light because she offers praise. She manipulates and uses Marni by lavishing her with praise to get her to do her bidding. Marin only ‘loves’ her superficially because of her need for positive reinforcement.

“Marni, you are a treasure.” (Chapter 13: The Sentinels).

Griss plays the big brother role, at times he teases her, calling her a ‘baby’ in Chapter 13: The Sentinels, and he can also tell her off, such as when he helps Zephia chastise her for using two rings without permission then losing them. Her attachment to him isn't as strong as with Zephia. She doesn't really know him well, her feelings come from shared tasks and goals. He doesn't give her any responsibility because he views her as a baby. 

Mauvier is not very interesting to her because he doesn't speak much and doesn't give her praise. He is boring to her and she doesn't have much motivation to get to know him better. When she learns that he was chosen to be a knight by Last Veyle herself she starts to see him in a much more positive light, in fact she calls him ‘cool’ in Chapter 21: The Return. She is hesitant to leave Mauvier after she learns about him and Lady Veyle, despite the fact she claims to hate him, but her attachment to Zephia means that she walks away from them and asserts that she ‘likes being a Hound'. She doesn't hate him, he may not be the most interesting man to her but she starts to see him as a good man because he supports and protects the real Lady Veyle despite Zephia's disapproval. 

[ygtahoy]

Ok so number 24 of the oc ask game, here we go. I'm gonna put this under a read more because it got away a bit at the end.

[24] How hard it is for them to not allow their emotions to cloud their judgement?

Depending on the emotion it can be easy or impossible. She's pretty good at not letting anger cloud her judgement, and she's very good at not letting love cloud her judgement although that is mostly because of the long part of this question.

So, the long part.

Fear.

She cannot stop her fears from controlling her. She isn't afraid of much, but what she is afraid of she cannot handle well or on her own really.

Fear is why she doesn't tell Duncan that even after Raymond adopted them she didn't stop loving him romantically she just hid it. Because if he found out and rejected her it would break her heart which could either make her snap and go evil mode or kill her from literally breaking her heart. Spoiler alert it kills her anyway just in an incredibly slow and agonizing wasting away kinda way because to him they're siblings. That's not till a few years after the events of the game though.

It's why after she got out of jail she didn't go back. She was terrified that Raymond and Duncan wouldn't want her. That Raymond would think taking her in was a waste and a mistake. That Duncan wouldn't forgive her for not coming back when she said she would. For being a failure to them, and worse them just shutting her out of their lives completely.

So she ran away, and she kept making excuses for why she couldn't go back.

First she had to make herself a person again after what her stint in jail had made her into.

Then she needed a bachelors so she would have a degree...but a bachelors isn't that impressive she almost had that before she left so she may as well get a Masters.

Then the squid incident happened and she had a whole new layer of fear about how they would react if she went back because now they're not even family. Now she's died then was in a coma for 2 months, now her arm is basically held on by magic and science. Now her blood is grape purple. Now she has to somehow figure out how to have a firstborn child that she has to give to Fry because that's how her magic and his weird desperate blood magic was able to have enough power to work considering he didn't know what he was doing.

So obviously JUST a Masters degree isn't enough to go back and cover up all of that. She HAS to get a PHD now. Then she has to wait for the actual diploma before she can go but uh oh whoops Raymond called her before it came in and now she has to go to Hong Kong!

And if there's one thing she's more afraid of than being rejected by Raymond and Duncan it's anything happening to them that she could have prevented. It would have been fine if she didn't know but once she does the fear of something happening to them out weighed the fear of being thrown away.

Now the next bit is getting again into not canon my friend and I went oo neat setting! But! What if..... about. So how her version of the game goes can go two ways depending on how much of Duncans anger she feels like dealing with when they get to the locked harbour gate right at the start. (Although no matter which way she choses it ends the same anyway with them getting picked up and brought to Tidal Moon that first night. It mostly just determines whether Carter lives or if Duncan and Reina both get traumatized)

If she doesn't wanna deal with his anger at some of her revelations and goes along with the intro to the game then when they get told they'll be staying on a boat she would already be reacting poorly and letting her fear cloud her judgement because boy is she rightfully terrified of boats. More specifically fishing boats, which the bolthole very much is.

She's trying very hard to convince everyone not to stick her on a boat. She has no shame, no pride, nothing she does not want to go on a boat, she is terrified and showing it, and only the fact that she knows she has to keep it together for Duncan keeps her from having a full blown panic attack in front of Kindley Cheng and everyone there at the thought of having to go on a boat.

So she wouldn't even be able to set foot on that boat of her own free will. The second she even sees the bolt hole and her mind isn't there. She's reliving the squid incident and her mind is underwater with the darkness closes in as she relives dying under the water from her injuries and lack of oxygen.

So she crumples on the dock leading to the boat because her brain is basically telling her body that she's dead again. Now whether the others have a chance to see this on their own before her magic starts going haywire and the first uncontrolled appearance of Nancy.

Nancy at this point being basically all of Reinas blood coming outside her body in a weird blood overlay of her eventual future daughter that pilots Reinas body like an exosuit. Nancy naturally has no conciousness or control because she doesn't exist at this point she is just something that magic has forced to be something that will be but won't be for an unknown amount of time. What she does have is a magical compulsion to protect Reina from any and all harm to Reinas life because Reina needs to be for Nancy to be. Nancy can be controlled by a magic using Bernard like Fry or in Hong Kongs case Jean-Pierre because she was created by Bernard blood magic.

So Reina is now completely unconscious on the verge of dying again and Nancy is up and running the show and just wailing on everything around. Nancy even being around is giving off the magical equivalent of the bat signal just a giant bright fuckoff signal for anyone who has the ability to see it.

They get rescued by Tidal Moon but again because of her fear, and her not being able to keep her fear from controlling her that situation got so much worse than it should have been. I'm summing it up at this point because describing more about that situation and how she lets her fear run the show is basically me just rewriting the game from her non canonical setting.

[tinyybookclub]

The 3 Heathens: Confronting The Shadows (part 3)

College was supposed to be our fresh start, a chance to leave behind the struggles of our past. For a while, it seemed like everything was falling into place. Ryland thrived on the football field, quickly becoming a standout player. I immersed myself in my studies, joining clubs and working on community projects. Jared, now in a specialized program, was making strides we had only dreamed of. Tina's pride was palpable; we were her success story, proof that her sacrifices had not been in vain.

But the past has a way of catching up, and the cycles we thought we'd escaped began to reappear. It started with Ryland. Despite his outward success, he was struggling to balance the pressures of academics and sports. One night, he called me, his voice shaking. "I messed up, man," he said. "I messed up bad."

He had been seeing a girl, and now she was pregnant. The news spread quickly, and before long, Ryland was called into the dean's office. The school's strict policies meant he was suspended, and his scholarship was revoked. Tina was devastated, and I could see the fear in her eyes—fear that we were falling back into the life she had fought so hard to pull us out of.

I tried to support Ryland, but the stress was taking its toll on me as well. Our father's sporadic appearances became more frequent, as if he could sense our vulnerability. He had always resented our drive to succeed, seeing it as a rejection of his own failures. Now, he seemed determined to drag us back down.

He showed up drunk at one of my campus events, causing a scene and getting me in trouble with the administration. He spread rumors about us in our old neighborhood, painting us as ungrateful sons who had turned our backs on our roots. The weight of his actions pressed down on us, threatening to undo all the progress we had made.

One evening, after another confrontation with our father, Ryland and I sat in the apartment, the silence between us heavy. "We can't keep going like this," I said finally. "We need to face this head-on."

Ryland nodded, but his eyes were distant. "How? We've been fighting our whole lives. I'm tired, man. I don't know how much more I can take."

"We start by breaking the cycle," I said. "We get help. We talk to someone who can guide us through this."

It wasn't easy, but we found a counselor who specialized in trauma and family dynamics. Tina joined us for some sessions, and for the first time, we talked openly about our past. We confronted the pain, the mistakes, and the lingering fears. We learned to recognize the patterns that were holding us back and developed strategies to break free from them.

But as we dug deeper into our trauma, more cracks began to show. Ryland's struggles with becoming a young father and losing his scholarship weighed heavily on him. He took a job, but it barely paid enough to cover his expenses, let alone support a child. His relationship with his girlfriend became strained, leading to constant arguments and stress.

Meanwhile, our father became more aggressive. He broke into our apartment one night, smashing the few belongings we had along with our mothers face and leaving us with nothing but fear and anger. We filed for a restraining order, but the process was slow, and we knew he wouldn't be deterred easily.

Jared, too, faced his own battles. Despite his progress, he was still bullied at school. One day, he came home with bruises on his face, too scared to tell us what had happened. The sight of him beaten and broken tore at our hearts, a stark reminder that our fight was far from over.

Our counselor urged us to stay strong, but the constant pressure was taking its toll. Tina fell ill, the stress of years of struggle manifesting in her body. She tried to hide it, but we could see the pain in her eyes, the fatigue that seemed to weigh her down.

One year later, we gathered once again in our small apartment, now filled with the remnants of broken dreams and unspoken fears. Ryland cradled his baby daughter, a symbol of hope and the future, but his eyes were shadowed with worry. Jared, thriving in his program, showed us his latest art project, his face glowing with pride, yet the bruises were still fresh in our minds. Tina, her eyes filled with tears, raised her glass once more.

"To my boys," she said, her voice steady and strong despite everything. "We faced the darkness and found our way through. We are stronger because of it, and we will continue to rise."

As we clinked our glasses, I felt the weight of the past lift slightly, but I knew the journey was far from over. The future was uncertain, filled with challenges we couldn't yet see. But we were determined to face them together, to break the cycle once and for all.

As we sat there, the silence between us heavy with unspoken fears and hopes, I couldn't help but wonder what lay ahead. The story of our lives was still being written, and the next chapter was just beginning.

(Part 4 posted ✨)