#and then one of them died but not because of the dragon? she just has to witness this

[pranabefall]

ノㅤQINGXIN IN THE MOUNTAIN ;; zhongli.

syn. [ 14.9K ] while the divine war rages on, you find yourself entangled in the company of a wounded god. reservations or not, you don't have the heart to let someone dies on your watch. or in which, morax finds himself in the presence of a secluded human..

CONTENT WARNINGS. beta read, long oneshot like seriously it's over 14k, mentions of war and past death, seclusion and wounds. this work contains 18+ contents so minors, you know the drill, unprotected sex, half-dragon zhongli, so yes there's two of them, reader has no gendered pronouns but has female parts, 4k words worth of smut guys get ready. REPOSTED FROM OLD ACCOUNT.

ENTRIES. while we wait for me to finish off with my current wip, i thought of reposting some of my favorite works from my old account before privating it kijhgbhj. this work has been marked mature. readers below the age of 18 / ageless blogs, do not interact. any individual who is not a legal adult or has an age indicator on their page will be blocked without further notice.

“i love you without knowing how, or when, or from where. i love you simply, without problems or pride: i love you in this way because i do not know any other way of loving but this, in which there is no i or you, so intimate that your hand upon my chest is my hand, so intimate that when I fall asleep your eyes close.”

— PABLO NERUDA.

Curiosity , you learned, was a reckless maverick in every right. Your mother told you of its consequences, of the people who wandered too far from the safety of your village and the watchful eye of your deity, and she told you of their death and the disaster they reaped alongside it.

Curiosity was what cost you — and you knew , you knew better than to indulge in its traitorous little tug when you wake, the scent of petrichor in abundance and the chill of a rainstorm’s aftermath prickling your skin. 

“Forget about it.” you tell yourself when you rub the sleep out of your eyes. 

“Forget about it.” you tell the reflection staring up at you, her brows furrowed with a familiar sternness. It scatters when you dip your hands into the basin, the icy water stinging your fingertips.

“Forget about it.” you breathe out as you lean against the doorframe of your small home, staring out at the expanse of green and the fog that had settled a few feet below.

Yet here you were , scaling down a mossy slope, your bare feet damp from the dew it trod over and your hair still messy from your sleep. You could dimly recall something the previous night between the rains, between the crash of thunder and the crackle of lightning. It was a sound too distinct and out of place in a storm, something akin to the beginnings of an earthquake before an unknown force cuts its life short.

Your head swivels to the side. You couldn’t see much past the mist save for what was in front of you and you clamber down with a little more prudence till the ground evens out a bit more and the screen before you dissipates. You could see nothing out of place, save for a few upturned trees and your shoulders slump. It was all for nothing , you realize and a tinier voice dares to whisper a spiteful little ‘dammit’ .

You turn, casting one last glance over the clearing, then make your way back uphill. It was a wasted attempt and as you stew in your own self-berating and disappointment, you almost miss the faint crackle behind you. It was just the wind , you reason. There was little cause for it to be anything else. What could possibly make its way up here ?

When you hear it a second time, you freeze, something cold jolting at your bones.

Well shit .

It doesn’t take too long to find the source, save for trudging through the mud and a few of the murkier parts past the tree line — but you find it by the time the sun shifts the barest fraction to the west..

“ Ah — ” was the most your throat could choke out as shock swallowed you whole, like ice water.

There is a trail of gold on the earth, and it leads up to the slumped form of a man, his robes stained with the same gilted shade and his breath leaving shallow puffs of air where he lay, motionless and seemingly dead.

Well — fucking — shit . You mind shudders, your thoughts screaming and splitting up against your head like some panicked beast. It was chaos at its core, it was the frenzied scrape of control.

You were no fool. The man before you, both massive in frame and presence, was one amongst the hundreds of those touched by divinity — god or not — whose names were uttered and praised amidst this war. There was nothing distinctly human about him; not his clothes, not the horns that curled atop his skull and the brown scales smattered across, not the ichor he bled out — nothing .

For a moment, or maybe more, you stare down at him, long and hard as you try to wrangle your rationality back and think of what move to make. You could not afford the trouble that comes with aiding a foreign being and the land you settled on could house any force hostile to the man at your feet. A shaky breath escapes, then another. You were trembling now, just a little, daring to take a step back, then one more.

Kill him , another voice snaps. It was twisted and its words breathed acrid revulsion. Get it over with, he’s not worth the pain.

You consider it, for the tiniest bit of a second till he lets out a shudder and shifts with tense shoulders, his grunts labored and streaked with muted agony — those darker thoughts quickly flatline to scattered anxiety and the hand that brushes the blade at your hip falls limp. Not now, perhaps . You could just leave him here, let nature run its course.

You could do that , you decide with a semblance of confidence.

Of course you could.

Of course .

Your shuffling comes to a stop and you're backtracking immediately, your pace holding an urgent bounce with every step. There is a feverish jerk to your movements when you settle beside him, and a storm of emotions raging in your chest. It does little to ease you — little does, these days — and you press up on his shoulders in an attempt to roll him over onto his back.

It happens so swiftly, a blur of gold and black that shadowed your periphery before you were slammed down with eyes like uncut cor lapis glaring down at you. You scramble, clawing at your neck, at the digits pressed up against your windpipe and your pulse and it beats faster and faster and faster . One tiny move and you’d be left for dead.

( A part of you is stunned — for even wounded and weakened from some unknown, unspoken battle, the quavering power within him seemed to beat strong. You feel a mix of thrilled awe and terror turn in your stomach. )

His gaze hardly falters, roving at your form before his grasp on you releases and he mutters something akin to an apology, collapsing again. His eyes were still open, watching you beneath a haze of pain and deliriousness, stiffening now and then when you so much as move. The strength he showed, no matter how small it was, is gone and there is the slightest hint of vulnerability beneath the stripped layers of stone.

Your instincts scream at you to run yet you stay rooted in place, coming to sit up and hover by his side. In the end, your own concern and pity won out. “Y-you’re wounded.” you try to reason, only to be met with a grunt. You find yourself wincing as you stutter over your words, your voice hoarse from months of disuse. “Please, l-let me help. My h-home is c-close b-by.” 

Feeble , you chide yourself amidst it all, old, old regrets tearing at your mind and clawing at your thoughts. You shut your eyes, letting your muscles relax and you try again.

Tugging at his arm serves to be fruitless. He was too large for you to carry over and your first attempt gives that away well enough. The gold in his veins seems to dim with the passage of time and you fear his life slipping away under your watch. “I n-need you to w-walk…” your plea is almost caught in your throat and you have to wrench it out to let it be heard. He tilts his head your way. “You’re too h-heavy…” you try to reason.

Another grunt sounds out and thankfully , his form rises. You’re quick to move to his side, supporting him against your shoulder, the thrum of elemental energy strong beneath your hold. He practically oozed it and it feels like what the storm felt like — the trembling earth itself.

You don’t say much after that, leading him back to your home, your hand and clothes staining a bright gold.

Perhaps your house would have been a little cleaner had you known you’d have a guest over. When you lead the the being inside, you scan the small space with a sense of perplexity, hoping he wouldn’t scrutinize the sight too much ( your mother always seemed to emphasize the need for a well kept living space — should she see you now, you know she’d be rolling in her grave with indignity ).

He stumbles a little, letting out a guttural snarl and you flinch, almost dropping his weight onto the floor when you feel claws close down on your arm and press against your scarred skin. You hiss softly and he gives a little jolt, his hold on you releasing, leaving little but the crumpled sleeve of your tunic behind. 

“How much — ” he cannot finish the sentence, his nose wrinkling up and he almost looks a little feral underneath the light. 

“Just a l-little more.” you assure, cracking the barest of smiles as you cross the room and lay him down on your bedroll. He was tall enough as is, and you think his horns would scrape up against the ceiling of this house should he stand upright. 

The bedroll itself was pathetically small beneath him, but you couldn’t throw a fuss about it, working away at his clothes in relative silence, steeling yourself up in preparation for the worst. 

The clasps and the belts and sashes are undone by nimble fingers and as the layers peel away, you come to a stop. It was not a pretty sight, his wounds, the clawed lacerations criss crossing across his torso like patchwork. You doubt you could salvage much and you almost give up at the spot, pulling away the rest of his clothing. The worst one splits across his chest and you look to the side, battling out the vertigo and the nausea threatening to creep up. 

He’d have been dead at this point, had the blood in his veins be that of a mortal’s and not something inhuman. In some convoluted sense, he was lucky.

Stop cowering , you hiss internally. Pull yourself together .

The sound of rustling clothes is all you could hear after, followed by the clinking of metal and the sharp tang of alcohol. Your movements are almost robotic — and you had done this plenty of times before, cleaning the wounds of children and soldiers. But this wasn’t home and you doubt any soothing words would stoke at the feelings of a god. 

When you return to his side, his forehead is damp with sweat.

“ Shit — ”

His skin was warm . Could an immortal being fall ill? Was that even a possibility?

“I will be fine.” he rasps out and you jump, snapping his way as you hold the clothes closer to your chest in defense. He turns his head, peering at you and you think you see a stubborn glimmer beneath the usual masked strain and impassivity. “My wounds will heal in time…I…only seek shelter till they do…”

“Absolutely n-not.” you reply, splaying your palm out on his stomach to keep him still as you clean away the dirt and dried blood. The shallower wounds were slowly closing up again. “You’re in no state to argue right now.”

His mouth twitches and there is a momentary flash of teeth. You try not to let it frazzle you as much despite his initial protest, your movements slowing to a more delicate pace as you bathe the worst of his lesions till you were satisfied with the lack of dirt caking his body. “It seems choice no longer holds to be a luxury.” he utters under his breath.

“No.” you agree. “It does not.”

He falls silent, a petulant turn on his lips. “Are you a healer?” he asks. You bow down, unwinding the linen wraps you had stored away.

“My mother was.” you finally admit, your posture straightening. “I learned what I could from her to aid the people in my village. I never studied medicine formally, however…” you trail off. Talking seems to grow a little easier the more you speak. The hoarseness was slowly giving way and your stuttering grew less frequent.

“And I take it you shall try to help me as you do with any other human?” there was a sardonic sort of amusement in his tone that has you bristling. “Your medicines and methods will not work on an Adeptus. Put your tools away, you only waste your time.

“Adeptus…so you hail from the settlement south of Mt. Tianheng?”

“You’re ignoring my words,” he accuses. You bat your lashes at him innocently.

“Small talk.” you shrug. “You can tell me everything you want after I’m done tending to you.” you meet his gaze, tumultuous gold melded with an orange-red. He narrows his eyes, his unfocused vision scanning you, then the house, then at the bandages you held before he leans his head back with a defeated sigh.

By the time you conclude your task, he has fallen unconscious, his breathing deep and his heartbeat unnaturally slow for a human. You look down at your ruined clothing, at the stains at the hem of your tunic and at the sleeves and you hope you can salvage what you can from this, moving on to change out of them and fish out a cleaner pair of clothes. 

The smell of petrichor still persists through the day, the sky brewing with the makings of a new storm. Perhaps you had lost track of time and the monsoons were sitting in sooner than expected and you move on to salvage whatever you’d left outside to dry and board your windows up for the incoming onslaught.

The man wakes when night falls, form set aglow against the dim lamp light. 

“Let’s change your bandages.” you offer. He doesn’t protest this time, painfully sitting himself up with gritted teeth as you get back to work. His skin still radiates that uncomfortable temperature as you press up against it. You might need to get a wet rag ready lest he overheats

He speaks after the silence persists. “You shouldn’t see me like this.” it comes out as a whisper so soft, you almost miss it. His face however holds a distant look, with a hint of disappointment lurking within and you tug at the linen a little harder. You’ve heard that before, from the lips of men and women who had too much to hold and little weakness to show. You wonder what it would entail for a warrior, or a being whose years spanned farther than yours, to sink as low before a stranger.

It must be hard.

“We all get hurt sometimes.” you smile, hoping to lighten the air with a bit of humor ( it was getting too heavy, the air in the room ). “I’ve lost count of the number of times I've hit my head…and you think I'd be a little more cautious given my studies…”

A poor joke stays a poor joke no matter the delivery ( and yours was weak to begin with ). He does not say or do much, save for a slight twitch in his jaw and an unamused tilt in his head. You shrink back, skittishly throwing his used bandages aside in favor of new ones with a hasty “Nevermind.” on your tongue. 

“Do you truely not know who I am?” he asks, his touch skimming the sheets absently. You shake your head, confusion and that damned curiosity slowly lurking and clawing its way to the light. You want to stamp the ugly feeling down and out of sight. You try to. It does not disappear. He continues, “What of the civilization south of Tianheng?”

A shrug was the most you could manage. You guess that was where he hails from. “I know it’s the domain of a geo god, and that beings touched by longevity, ally beside him. “My old home is far, however, and our god hid us away from the world…my knowledge on this is sparse.” 

You’re almost ashamed to admit it, to acknowledge the bubble you had grown within, accepting the suffering of the men and women who ventured out and returned with broken bodies you and your mother had to fix. You weren’t sure what sort of terrible dichotomy it was, to live in ignorance amidst blatant horror and blood, and you don’t wish to return to it.

He seems to take this in, his eyes training up at the ceiling, then upon you with a lidded stare. “Who was your god?”

The icy set to your jaw was a hint he picks up on and he does not further the topic.

“...I am from there…from Liyue.” he says instead, in recollection of your previous question. The settlement was a distance from here, a few days worth of journeying by cart and hardly worth the risk of the travel with the demons that lurk and the gods that warred.

“What’s your name?” you ask.

His lips curl again, but it’s less of a grimace and more of a smile, his fangs tucked away to show a visage less feral, less dangerous. You find yourself relaxing a bit more unconsciously, seemingly charmed by this simple action ( and the thought almost scares you ). “What is your name, mortal?”

Ah, he wasn’t going to make this easy. You’re tempted to tug on his bandages a little harder if only to spite him.

You don’t reply till you are done with your chore and you lean back, massaging your stiff fingers. Your name slips out of your lips then, the action feeling natural in defiance of the years spent hardly having a friendly face within your home, save the occasional traveler. The adeptus seems satisfied. “You may call me Zhongli.” he replies, his voice softer, raspier.

“Zhongli.” you repeat. Zhongli .

There is a rustle of fabric and his fingertips brush against yours, the touch nearly having your arm lurch back in muted shock. He seems unphased but you — you watch a soft light shimmer through the dimness of your walls. When it fades, a single visage of gold stares back.

“It’s your reward. For aiding me.” there is a medley of pride and contentment and you liken it to that of a child offering a messily put together gift. Gold is coveted by most, but has little use here, and you have little use for it. But the gift is still cupped within your hands and you hold it as if it is something precious.

( Oh, your heart trembled just a bit and you feel a lump grow in your throat, bigger and bigger till you dip your head down out of his line of sight. )

His eyes bear down on you harder, set aglow and unyielding.

You smile to hide your trembling frame, thoughts revolting within your mind like the beat of war drums with a mix of unease and appreciation. Yet, who were you to question Zhongli’s secrets?

Maybe hypocrisy runs deeper in your blood than you initially assumed.

Mist dances at your fingertips.

It weaves and spreads and obscures the light and the woods around you and you run through blindly as the skin beneath your feet tears and the chill of the night clings to your skin and leaves behind dew and sweat.

You could see nothing; nothing save the pale glow of the moon above you as it tries to break through the barrier and light your way. It cannot, for Balam’s magic conjures obscurity, and obscurity was worshiped.

But you were human and you were curious and the voice that called your name was so familiar and warm and you wanted to weep and run towards it. The mist will not stop your folly and you will keep running to appease that growing thirst. In the end it will cost you.

The sound of your footsteps cease. The mist thins out and at the end of the veil, you poke your head out for the first time to witness the world outside. A set of teeth, white and sharp greet you. Then another and another, till the darkness itself glows as it does beneath the moonlight.

You hear her voice. It comes from the open maw.

The demons spot you and you run again, feeling their jaws clamp down and tear through muscle and bone and you scream and scream and scream at the white hot agony and the very feeling of your nerves set aflame before they numb.

Your curiosity cost you.

You wake to your fingers clawing at your shoulder with labored gasps and Zhongli panting, his fingers gripping at the sheets of the bedroll and his brow furrowed. You blink away the sleep in your eyes and tug the blanket off of your shoulders, shakily making your way to his side. His skin was hot again and panic lights in your chest, like the incoming winter.

“Fuck — it’s gotten worse.” you mumble a few more expletives as you stumble out to collect some more water and the few mistflower corollas you had stored away within your cabinets, hoping the elemental energy in them hadn’t dissipated completely. Setting the bucket down by his bedside with the corollas nestled within, you hiss at the cold pricking your palms and the frostbite coming to form.

Never mind that! The fucking adeptus is going to melt .

Oh my, thank you for pointing out the obvious! 

The cloth bath was set to a near feverish pace as you feel him twitch and convulse through the chills wracking his body. “Hot — ” he groans.

“It’s the fever.” you mutter, tugging his pants down, your eyes unconsciously trailing down the slope of his waist and dip of pelvis, then avert your eyes before you could see any more, face flushed whilst a cloth was thrown onto his hips to spare him some decency. “You need to cool down…please, stay still.”

His hand comes to grip your arm and the dormant strength within it, one etched into his very being, was frightening. The adeptus’ sights were set upon you, the fever-addled state of his blowing his pupils out till only a thin ring of gold remains, shining through the light of the oil lamp, brighter and brighter. You pull away and rest your free hand on his with a soothing squeeze. 

“You will be okay.” you assure. “It will come to pass soon enough. Let me take care of you for now.” You coax him to stay still as you continue the cloth bath, wiping away at his clammy skin while fatigue continues to weigh down on your shoulders and tug at your eyes. “I know you’re hiding something…and if you…if you’re one of the gods, then you must live. You’ll have people waiting for you…they need you, at a time like this.”

He lets out a weak exhale, shakily sitting himself up with sudden urgency. “ Liyue… ” he whispers, gait faltering and you steady him as he leans into you, resting his forehead against your shoulder. You struggle to push him back down atop the bedroll, his breaths growing pained with the passing seconds. 

“Liyue.” you nod and repeat. “You need to go back soon, don’t you? You’ll have to heal first, and for that, you must rest.” The cloth is pressed against his temple now, wiping away sweat all while the smell of petrichor grows stronger. The searing temperature hasn’t subsided and hopelessness stirs inside, an ugly feeling, a familiar feeling ( it was worse than your curiosity — it always was ).

Zhongli leans into your touch, his fingers tangling against yours. “ Stay… ” he whispers. You cease your movement as his body shifts and presses against your lap. “Stay….” he repeats.

“I…I’ll stay.” you slump in defeat, resting his head on your lap. Lightning flashes outside your window and the walls seem to shake as the rain comes pelting down. You continue the bath, listening to a leaky spot in your roof and the incessant downpour rattling against the tiles. Zhongli seems to still, his breaths still weighed down by that terrible heaviness.

The rain continues. His fever grows worse.

Then the pattering slows down, and the flush on his skin comes to cool. By the time the rains stop, his fever breaks and you lean against the wall of your home, shutting your eyes as you nearly weep, your worries allayed.

Morax was the first to wake in the early hours of the morning, the scent of petrichor pervading his senses followed by the faint lull of jasmine. Then comes the warmth and the softness, one his claws unconsciously dig into with a groan shuddering out of his chest.

It was you , slumped against the wall, lost in your own dreams and too tired to notice and the sight makes him swell with a conflicting mess of emotion. Then comes the pain, the aftermath of his fever coming to tear at him, at his limbs and his tendons till he ceases his stubborn movement and lets his body fall slack.

He does not understand your intent, but the faint memory of that familiar care against a muddled haze stills his tongue and his suspicion. Your muffled words, your hand in his, everything, blurred away yet so clear.

Humans were strange, so fragile, so determined…

“Fool…” he murmurs. The last of his strength is used to draw the blanket over your shoulders. “But thank you, nonetheless.” Sleep calls him again, and Morax shuts his eyes.

The jasmine lingers, stronger than most. He lets it swallow him whole.

Morax was the first to wake in the early hours of the morning, the scent of petrichor pervading his senses followed by the faint lull of jasmine. Then comes the warmth and the softness, one his claws unconsciously dig into with a groan shuddering out of his chest.

It was you , slumped against the wall, lost in your own dreams and too tired to notice and the sight makes him swell with a conflicting mess of emotion. Then comes the pain, the aftermath of his fever coming to tear at him, at his limbs and his tendons till he ceases his stubborn movement and lets his body fall slack.

He does not understand your intent, but the faint memory of that familiar care against a muddled haze stills his tongue and his suspicion. Your muffled words, your hand in his, everything, blurred away yet so clear.

Humans were strange, so fragile, so determined…

“Fool…” he murmurs. The last of his strength is used to draw the blanket over your shoulders. “But thank you, nonetheless.” Sleep calls him again, and Morax shuts his eyes.

The jasmine lingers, stronger than most. He lets it swallow him whole.

You come to realize how much you hated it, the loneliness.

Your home was far removed from civilization, settled between regions  and away from main travel ways that weren’t blocked or destroyed. The quiet of your house was nothing like the bustle of the town you hailed from and the chaos that accompanies the stalls in the early mornings. The most noise that encloses your small plot of land were the local wildlife, the creaks and groans of wood born against strong winds and the weight of snow and the distant battles fought over the horizon.

During arbitrary moments of your routine, you question why Zhongli landed here of all places, in the midst of nowhere. You wonder if this is some grand scheme or punishment for your past mistakes and when you feel your curiosity dare to skitter forth and poke more holes into your blind acceptance, you drive it away with an angry hiss.

He is not an unwelcome guest, even if he holds a sense of urgency at times and a well kept secret whose nature you suspect . It’s almost comforting, no matter how contrived it seems, listening to him speak of an obscure plant or hearing his heavy footfalls a few days after his arrival. 

How desperate are you? The bitter pride in your heart speaks up, and it’s seedy and unhappy as you straighten out the drying sheets over the heated slab. Where is your self preservation? Your brain cells? You’re smarter than this you fool —

“Is something wrong?”

Zhongli’s voice snaps you out of your reverie and you start, nearly dropping your laundry on the grass.

“Nothing!” and it is a weak save on your part as you straighten the worn down basket to move to an empty patch of stone, ducking under to check the state of the flaming flowers underneath. His hands come to rest on the surface and he lets out a soft exhale, his eyes slipping shut in a seeming moment of peace. “You should be resting.” you remind him.

“I believe I'm past the need for excessive bedrest.” he intones with an amused lilt. “Do you need help? It is partly my fault you have far more work to sort through.” He wasn’t lying. What little linen you had was used up to change the sheets on your bedroll before his fever broke. You had little clue how illness amongst higher beings were treated, but simply washing the contaminated cloth was the best option you had on your for now.

Ah, sometimes you regret not moving closer to a town.

Your reply was short, when you notice the silence being drawn out for a little too long. “That does not mean you should strain yourself. The less of a load you place on yourself, the faster you will heal. I’m sure you are needed back at your colony. The war is far from over.”

The comment seems to tug at his emotions, a stern moroseness settling on his face. “That is true…but I trust my fellow adepti to hold the lines in my absence.” you bend over to collect another sheet from the basket, the hair at the back of your neck prickling when he moves behind you. “Even so, I should hasten my return.”

“Then — ” The sheet is snatched from your hands and you watch Zhongli step beside an unused slab to lay it across the surface, a mischievous smile touching his lips. “Oi!” you snap, reaching out to grab it.

“However,” he continues, ignoring your protest with a look of innocent serenity. You want to squawk, to stamp your foot down childishly and you almost do, your movements stilled by you clenching your fist to curb it. “I’ve fought battles with wounds far worse and won. Menial chores are hardly a labor and if it means aiding you then I shall take it.”

You let out a groan in defeat and push the basket between the two of you. Zhongli was preening in his small victory, setting the clothes out to dry with relative ease. “Guests shouldn’t partake in chores like these.” you repeat the line your mother had uttered so many times, one amongst many of her favorite maxims. 

He watches you from his spot behind the stone slab, a contemplative haze clouding his hues. “I simply return the favor. It is the nature of a contract, to balance out what is given with due compensation.” 

He isn’t going to let up, is he?

“Fine, fine…you can help me collect a few mist flowers later.” you concede.

“What do you need them for?” he asks, collecting your laundry basket as you kneel upon the grass, blowing some air into a patch. One of the flowers is set alight and you sigh, letting them burn awhile as you feel your fingers retain a little more warmth in them. 

“Preservation…I use them to make my herbs and food last a little longer…it’s not easy, coming across certain ingredients for a decent meal…” You let out a dry chuckle at that, which melts away into a mildly sheepish one. Even if you bear a slight annoyance to your choice of settlement, and even with the debilitating isolation that came with it — it was still home and it was still safer than most.

Zhongli takes this in, a hand resting against his chin. “I see…cooking is not a part of my skill set…unfortunately. But a friend of mine intends on relaying an old recipe of his should the war end soon. Perhaps I could pass it on to you, if you don’t mind it.”

It was an oddly sweet gesture coming from him and you hum, a genuine smile spreading across your face as you consider it. That also meant opening a tiny window of opportunity; a chance that you may see Zhongli again. The thought stirs a clash of emotion, of fear and of excitement and dare you say it, hope and it feels warm and cold and all sorts of things at once. “I’d like that…granted you don’t accidentally poison me.” 

He feigns annoyance as his head tilts to the side, quietly regarding you. “You overestimate my inadequacy. The last time I did partake in the culinary arts, the worst outcome was an offhand crystallize reaction and a burnt stove.” he pauses. “Besides, my skill in brewing tea is decent.”

Oh Gods —

“I’m just being cautious.” you laugh a little louder at that, holding up your hands in defense. “Dear Lords though…I hope that friend of yours is prepared then. You might turn out to be a genius in cuisine or a hopeless case.”

“Then I hope for the former.”

You grin, hanging up the last of your clothes. “If you turn out decent…then I wouldn’t mind sharing some of the recipes passed down to me. I couldn’t indulge myself in them as much, but i hope you may come to like them.”

Something in Zhongli’s eyes softens and he nods. “And I would like that in turn…” he utters slowly, watching you clear away any dry branches and grass close by. His fingers absently brush over his torso, where the bandages stay wrapped around him. You catch the subtle purse of his lips and the twinge in his jaw. “Do not be concerned…” he snaps up to meet your worried face. “I am fine.”

“...Right.” you knew it wasn’t wholly a lie. Zhongli proved to be a quick healer, perhaps a trait passed down by his inhuman lineage. But these displays of vulnerability only played into the damning knowledge you knew before; of the hidden fragility the gods held. “Come on…I think it’s time we get those bandages changed.”

Zhongli smiles but it doesn’t quite meet his eyes. Another secret , you think sadly, taking his hand as you lead him inside, taking in the momentary warmth he held even if his skin didn’t quite feel like skin or that they glowed a bit too bright between the cracks of your fingers.

You don’t ask him to collect the mist flower corollas again, staying at home with him with some tea set at the table for him to sip on while you inspect his lacerations. There was some idle chatter over dinner and Zhongli spoke a little more about his home.

“You’re going to leave tonight, aren’t you?” you ask suddenly, your voice soft. His words die out and you try to still the sharp edged pain in your chest. It refuses to fade and you accept the growing weight with an unwilling gait.

“Yes.” he whispers, setting his cup down and he looks ashamed.

“Then go.” you mumble. He opens his mouth again but you hold up a hand. “I…I know your name is not really Zhongli…it’s not is it?” His silence was damning and you finally piece it together, the knowledge you learned from your village and from your travels, no matter how meager, painting a slow picture in broad strokes.

The stories depict Morax to be more of a beast and less of a man. You would have glossed over it as well,expecting a dragon instead of the visage of a handsome stranger.

“I take it you’ve come to a conclusion.” he muses, looking a little apologetic, a little ashamed. “I never intended on deceit but the nature of our meeting called for it.”

“You were afraid I was going to kill you?” you guess. Zhongli — Morax laughs and shakes his head.

“Even in my weakened state, you would have been incapable of it.” well damn . “I feared someone of greater power would catch wind of talk of a wounded god…but given your lifestyle, they held no merit. I apologize though…I know you may have suspected a while.”

Morax smiles and you try not to battle the disbelief that a good sat across you, eating your food and drinking your tea. “However, I have a question to ask you.” 

A pause

“What became of your deity?”

Your breath seizes and you meet his gaze. His stare seems to hold so much more weight to it and you look down. Your old god was a memory you sought to bury away well out of sight. Recollecting them only brought in a bitter taste and a dull ache and Morax notices it. “That’s a story for another day.” you finally manage out after some deliberation. Your tea has gone cold by the time you take another sip out of it, the air feeling heavier again. You wrinkle your nose at the taste.

He nods. “Then I will return and pay my debt in whole as well.” he decides. “Your kindness is one I shall remember, little one.” You hate how a part of you melts into this buttery, weak mess and when he smiles, you hate how it’s so easy to feel yourself tear at the seams, to beg him to stay a little longer. “Thank you.”

He was gone the next morning, a fresh batch of mist flower corollas left behind in an earthen pot alongside a delicate flower preserved in amber.  

“Good riddance.” you tell yourself, the words feeling forced.

You will miss him, you think.

He returns three months later, or maybe it was more. Time was easy to lose track of and the seasons were all you had to know of a passing year. By the time he arrived, the last remnants of winter had receded and you found yourself in the midst of spring, restocking your stores and setting soup to boil in the hearth. 

Should I bow? You think when he appears at your doorstep. Extend a greeting? Address him by his title? Your great eminence…no that sounds pretentious… You reminisce about your old customs, of the times you spent watching your mother lay out scented flowers and fruits at the feet of your deity during festivals or during victory feasts. Morax however, steps inside with a smile in greeting, his hand coming to tuck some stray hair out of your face.

Then comes the deja vu. 

You question why his arrivals were always timed on days when your home was a mess.

“Wait! We can talk outside.” saving the last few traces of your dignity is all you had in mind as you blockade the entrance. It would hardly do any good, you realize then; he was tall and he was far bigger and when he stops with a puzzled look and scans the room and the traces of stalks and unswept and unused parts of the herbs you were sifting through, a glint of understanding flashes in his eyes and he steps back.

You want to sink into the ground with the traces and remainders of you. Oblivion seemed a tempting option with the way your face burned and your heart hammers at a pace nearly hard to keep up with.

“My apologies.” he utters, letting you lead him outside. He does not seem as bothered or flustered, thankfully; nor does he pry as he erects a few makeshift seats sculpted from geo and sits himself down alongside you with a soft sigh on his lips. “I wish we could have met sooner,” he admits.

“Is that so? It’s hard to believe you’d bother…” you hum with a shy dip of your head. Morax considers this.

“Did you not ask for it?”

“I did…but I accepted the possibility of you not returning.” you cease for a second, recalling your promise to give him the answer he sought. It felt like a cheap trick, back then and it still does now, of you running away as you always did. “I'm glad you came back though…it was nice having someone around to speak to.”

Moax looks pleased with this. “I simply find your company enjoyable.” you feel a stirring in your stomach when he says that, and it feels like a wonderful sort of sweetness, like honey. “Even if our first few days spent together lacked any delicacy in approach.”

“You were quite stubborn.” you admit.

“I was, wasn’t I?” he agrees. You snicker.

“I wouldn’t blame you though. Even I had a hard time staying still when bedrest was forced upon me…how have you been?” your fingers slot together as you pull your knees closer to your chest, your cheek resting against your thigh as you watch the scenery in the distance. The mist had abated, just a bit and you could see the copse of trees expanding then scattering as the plains began. 

Morax exhales. “As I’ve always been.”

“Stubborn?”

“ Busy .” he corrects, flashing you a look of warning. You grin innocently. “The war has come to a temporary standstill. Only smaller battles seem to keep up…with the weaker gods mostly weeded out, planning our next move is of importance. I only have a few hours to spare now before I leave for Liyue.”

“Oh…” you take this in. Perhaps this was a sign of the war slowly coming to a close. Maybe during your time, if you were lucky enough, or in another hundred years or so. “Then…tell me about Liyue.”

Morax raises a brow but he smiles, humoring your question. “What would you like to know?”

“Plant life? What’s it like there?” you supply, leaning forward in quiet anticipation.

He chuckles. “Not of the people? Or its history?” he asks.

“You can tell me that too!”

He hums, his gaze softening. “It’s not uncommon to see mountains in Liyue,” he admits. “To say our weather has a stark contrast in the plains and the peaks would be an understatement. Juehyun Karst, the realm of the adepti is pleasantly cool most of the time, but the plains are hot and humid. That being said, our flora seems to take on this diversity as well…”

He tells you about the yellow sand bearer and the gold ginkgo trees that spot Liyue’s landscape, of the horsetail that covets the marshes and the reclusive glaze lilies that grow within the terraces. He tells you about the silk flowers nestled amidst the red bushes, always found in pairs and the violet grass sprouting forth off of cliffs. And he tells you of the qingxins that turned away from the warmth of the plains and grew in the distant peaks, looking down upon Liyue as a whole.

There was a sort of magic, listening to Morax speak of his nation with a layer of fondness and sadness. 

“Maybe when the war ends, I’ll visit. I think I'd like to start a garden some time.” you hum, surveying the empty patches of land in front of you. It would be nice to have a few more flowers around to brighten up the monotony you have grown accustomed to. His expression shifts, a brighter shine lighting up his eyes.

“You could stay there if you wish.” Disbelief rattles through your ribs and it steals your breath and pushes against your lungs. You fall silent, ceasing the anxious play with your clothes. “I could find a place for you amidst my people…would you like that?”

There was disbelief, yes, and a stutter in your words, but there is also the pang of appreciation and the tingle at your fingertips. However cold dread settles down ( for it is an old bedmate ) and Morax seems to catch on. “Have I misspoken in any way?” he questions, his hooded gaze appraising. 

You jerk your head. He had it all wrong and the last thing you need is a messy misunderstanding to fall into your pile of terrible mistakes. “No, no…I don’t think I'm ready to return to a land ruled by a god…or even around so many people…not yet…” you couldn’t bring yourself to word it out and it shames you. You are an adult. You needed to speak like one.

There is a faint brush on your cheek, the barest hint of a touch and when you look up, you see the suspicion he holds paired with concern. You want to shrink back, make yourself smaller, unknowable, something you were before he came along and made you care and vie after company and something as simple as touch.

“I assume it has something to do with your old settlement?” he asks.

You nod.

“We were hidden behind our god’s mist and illusions…our people were cut off from the rest of the world save a few soldiers and those who joined our god in battle. My mother would accompany them sometimes…she’d tell me about the world outside and we promised to visit a lake just a short walk from the barrier…” you hold out your hands, trying to grasp the words she had tattered. “She called it starlight on earth…or…something like a mirror clearer than any metal she’d seen. I wanted to go, but we were not allowed to leave.”

“You were not?” Morax asks. He leans in, listening closer.

“We were not.” you affirm softly. “Or god never spoke it…but we knew. They talked about demons lurking out and we were scared. One day…I couldn’t find her amidst the returning line of soldiers she left with…I did later…and I couldn’t even stand to look at the state she was in.” you stare ahead, the weight of his gaze resting even harder now. “I don’t know why…if it was grief or curiosity or a mix of both…but I thought I heard her voice one day…calling out to me. And I knew it was a trap, but I ran towards it, out of the forest, and the mist…”

You swallow hard. You felt cold. Cold all over, like that night, where the silence was unsettling and the sound of your name was a taunting whisper. Your mother, it was your mother, rigid at some times with her own rough edges and flaws, but loving for the most part. Your mother — and it was an old hurt you had locked in a box a long time ago, that time had weathered down till it was the embers scraped to the side of the charcoal pit.

“They were right…my deity warded off those things that attacked me…but they were bleeding everywhere . Balam was strong , but as a god…I doubt they held much in par to some of the others who warred out there…” Like you , you almost add. “They were weakened…unfit to fight in a state like that and we tried what we could. The wounds didn’t heal as we thought they should. I was banished for endangering their life and as I traveled…I heard of Balam’s passing in the hands of an invading god.”

“...and now, I'm here.” you finish, wryness coating every syllable. You wished your apathy was more than a weak front to bury away the stab in your heart; you wish you could be stronger than the coward you are. Morax shuts his eyes, his arms crossing over his chest.

He looks a little more like the god you were told about; sharp, pragmatic, with a presence that looms over most. “If there was a law that stated so, that forbade stepping out of your deity’s territory, then yes, you have committed a wrong. I have heard tell of Balam, whispers of their whereabouts and they did try to protect your people from a harsher way of life…” 

Ah, so that was his response. You wilt a little, feeling a mix of fury and defeat, at Morax, at the gods, at this war and at your own childish stupidity and audacity to even dare to feel this way. “I see…” you mumble. Morax holds up a hand, cutting you off. The words die in your throat faster than embers in snow.

“But,” he behind and his expression pulls into something gentler, lacking the initial rigid sternness it held. “Demons are still a force to be reckoned with. Even my adepti struggle with stifling down their noxious presence, whether it be the weight of karma or a disparity in power itself.”

Coherency is now a lost subject.

“I doubt you could have resisted its influence and Balam knew of the battle they would throw themselves into. Your god was willing to make that sacrifice, something of a rare sight amongst a few of the divine. Remember this well.”

A lump grows in your throat. It’s not an unwelcome one, quietly easing the nerves that crackled and frazzled beyond possible repair. You look down at your hands and your eyes slip shut as you take his words in, bit by bit. Balam was a god who, while distant within the front lines of battle, still loved their people.

It’s ironic how the gods can be capable of human sentiment and human error. 

“Thank you, Morax.” you mutter. “I needed that.”

“The bitter truth, or the comfort?” he jests softly. “Because while I deal well with the former, my skill with the latter falls abysmally short.” 

You laugh softly.

“For both .”

( His eyes light with surprise. Then you spot it, the faint flush on his cheeks and a dangerous thought enters your mind. You shake your head. It was best you didn’t raise your paltry hopes . ) 

He does not visit for a few weeks, but you spot a few saplings left behind at your doorstep, of plants and flowers you had never seen before.

You pick one up and a single word echoes in your mind — qingxins .

A smile tugs at your lips.

The distant noise of battle has grown reticent.

You tell it to Morax on one of his visits and he dares to flash a knowing smile in response. “The war is coming to its close. Only a few handfuls remain.” he states, tracing your bandaged hands; a new set of souvenirs from a stray whopperflower. You shiver involuntarily, leaning into him a bit more while longing tears your insides raw. “Hopefully you will come to enjoy an era of peace soon.”

“Will it end soon? The war?” you ask, wincing a little when he presses his fingertips down on the afflicted skin, bathing it in honeyed gold. “Ah! Gently!” you hiss, pulling back on reflex. Morax holds you fast, drawing you back to him with a playful tut and a sheepish glance your way.

“Apologies. Is this alright?” The pressure on your wrist still brings forth a sting, but it’s far more bearable. You nod. “Alright. Now hold still …” The glow returns, as does the tingling warmth and the tense nervousness gives way to a content sigh as the pain ebbs to obscurity. You watch your bandages fall away to skin mostly unblemished, save the faint traces of a scar left behind. “Better?” he asks.

You nod. “Much better…I wonder why you didn’t try healing yourself earlier. You’re not too bad at it.” he wasn't. Only a few humans were ever imbibed with the grace of divine power. You always longed to be gifted with the strength to heal, and you feet the slightest hint of envy as you take in the sight.

Morax blinks. “I was in too weak a state to do so. Healing is not my greatest strength either…I simply learned it, should it come to use amidst battle.” he flexes his fingers, the last flickers of gold falling away. His gaze meets yours with its usual intensity before he reaches for your other hand. 

“Hm…I suppose this means you’ve paid your part of the debt?” you tease. “You’ve healed me as I've healed you, right?” 

“True…” his lips quirk up as he mends the last of the burns, then presses a delicate kiss on your knuckles. “Does this mark the end of our contract?” The gesture only serves to fluster you further, bringing forth the feeling of fluttering warmth and the near lightness in your chest. Morax chuckles, his voice dipped to a teasing whisper as he calls out your name in a low, purring timbre.

“H-hold up!” you choke out, terrified of potentially overheating as you push his face away, stifling away the shy laughter that threatens to burst out. Morax shifts closer, closer still, his close presence having grown familiar through the meetings and the shared conversations and meals ( you missed the gentleness in his touch, you missed so much of him ).

“Hm? Stop what?” he teases, a cheeky glint lighting up in his gaze. “My, your face feels warm.” he adds with a soft simper, tilting your chin his way as he scans your features.

A desperate attempt to shift his attention comes to form. “Look at the qingxins you gifted me! They’re growing nicely, right?” you try to smile, looking at the flowers growing just a small ways from your home. Morax hums.

“They are. Give them a few months and they will come to bloom.” he replies, his wandering touch tracing up your arm, grazing at fragile skin and faint scars and the sensation has you shuddering. The glow in his eyes brightens and he huffs out something unintelligible, then asks you, “Would you like me to stop?”

You fall silent. “No it’s fine…” you sigh, reaching up to grasp his hand gently, ignoring the phantom stings as your finger splays out over Morax’s palm, at the dazzling gold dipped at the edges fading away to a spider web of veins and dark scales. “I like this.” you hum. Morax blinks, his cheeks coloring pink.

The intensity burns brighter in his gaze. It scorches at his touch and in the way he looks upon you now and as acute as it was, you felt blanketed beneath a safe warmth.

Morax speaks up, “I will make sure this war ends soon.” It was a promise, holding the weight of his blood. You feel it in every syllable, every rise and drop in his cadence. He leans in and the spice in his scent pervades your senses.

His lips are softer than you expected, mildly chapped from the heat and the battlefield, and between the buzz slowly beginning to sound off in your head and the feel of his touch brush away at your hair and rest on your cheek, your heart hammers hard in your ribcage. You feel the earth shift and watch the sky sweep away as you fall back on the grass and Morax palms at your hips and kisses you some more.

It feels like a distant dream, something you’d rather not wake from and when he pulls away to look you in the eye, you watch the smirk in his face grow as he dips down and buries his face into your neck, his pace languid, his claws gentle against the softness of your skin. You bite back a stray mewl when his teeth prickle down on sensitive flesh, slowly and deliberately making his way down down down, and his hand pressing flat on your thigh.

A glow flickers within his chest. He stops and tugs away with clear frustration, heaving as he watches you try to recover from the fog clogging up your thoughts, the memory of his touch warming every inch of you. Morax chews at his bottom lip. “I am needed again.”

“...oh…” you croak out, even if you wish to scream at the unfairness, to pull him back down atop of you and finish what he started. You shut your eyes, easing at your frayed nerves at the trembling and the traitorous dampness that was gradually settling in. The god in front of you holds a shadow of amusement and he kisses you again, gentler, with less teeth and tongue and more tenderness.

“I’ll come back,” he whispers. It holds another promise masked beneath the assurance, it’s cheekiness lighting his gaze.

When Morax’s form departs, you let out a shaky sigh, one hand delving into your heat while the other clamps over your mouth. The moment your slick coats your fingers, you moan into the silence, the promise persisting.

Morax thinks about you when the rains fall once more.

He thinks about you on the battlefield, waiting with that patient smile.

He thinks about you when his adepti fall and the last god is slain — when he finds his numbers dwindle, their blood staining his victory. He holds that memory of you close, that cherished warmth. His little flower.

Morax thinks about you. And he longs .

You came to know of patience’s workings through the days and months in between Morax’s visits, and this one is his longest thus far. The war persists still, the sound of the heavens screaming slowly growing quieter as deities were felled and the lands were stitched together by victories and defeats. You wonder where your old home lies now beneath the seven seats, what it would grow into in the near future.

Then one day, you wake to complete and utter silence.

The war is over. The roads had cleared. One day, when the world stills just a little more and the last few scars left behind have healed, you could try to visit the towns and cities beyond your isolated home.

Morax stays absent. You go on with your life. The qingxins he gifted you bloom in your garden. You wait, shedding away the accusatory remarks, the words that dare you to doubt his victory, that take your mind to darker spaces with the image of his still form and cold hands. No, absolutely not, you could not doubt him .

You repeat it over and over, beating down at the cynical whispering. Do not doubt him .

A storm rises again, blustering through the lands with the threat of tearing your home down from its stubborn foundations. You stay inside, the change in weather setting forth a persistent chill that your meager hearth could hardly hold against. Finally, after a few hours of running about, your body hunches over the blocks, feeding the fire with the last of your firewood.

“How much longer…” you mutter, storing away the last of your herbs when the rain refuses to cease and it grows harder to differentiate between night and day. The lightning thunders in response, asserting it’s long stay and you curl up by the warmth you fed, numb fingers gripping at old blankets and watching the rain beat down incessantly on your roof. It would be a long wait, you realize. It’s best if you find a way to pass the time.

There was another clap of thunder, then a crash that felt all too intimate with your memories. Then came the knocking and you scuttle up to let a drenched Morax in, his pupils blown wide and his body hot to the touch as he stumbles in. You’re almost afraid he’s fallen ill once more, but the insistent tug at your wrists has you follow him.

“Are you okay?” you ask, seating him down by the fire, moving to dry his hair after draping a sheet on his shoulder. “Morax, what’s wrong.” Despite the sudden appearance, you feel relief crash down and tug out a lump in your throat. You hold back the tears for his sake. You did not want to startle him in this state.

“A visit.” he shrugs.

“In this weather?” you question every ounce of wisdom he holds. He looks unbothered, pulling you closer to him while you squeeze the water out of his tresses, his chin coming to rest on your shoulder. Warm breath pools out and hits your neck and a shiver racks at your body. “Morax — ”

“I missed you…” The hoarseness of his voice steals the words in your mouth. You latch onto him tightly, fisting at his robes, uncaring of the silk wrinkling beneath your rough hands. Morax does not stay silent or stay still, his hands sliding down your sides, pulling you closer up against him. “I missed you…” he repeats feverishly. The hunger in his stare is an answer enough.

The fire crackles and lets out a sputter.

Morax lays you on your back with a gentle thump and hooks a hand beneath your knee, pushing it up against your chest as he steals a kiss from you, heated and impatient after weeks of mulling over his affection and lust. “Stay still.” he orders as you squirm a little, wanting more, needing more, trying to bury yourself into him as much as humanly possible. 

Your open mouthed breaths did not help in the slightest as he steals another kiss, then another, the wetness of his tongue delving deep down your throat as he muffles out any sounds of shock from you —

— was it forked ?

You could not ponder over it for long, choking against the invading muscle while his lips caress yours with growing need and intensity. It made sense, for one like Morax — who adored talking about the origins of an obscure tea leaf to the festivities that littered the streets of his city — to fancy the act of kissing you. And he still keeps kissing you, over and over till your head spins and his body is pressed up flush against yours.

He noses at your neck with a noticeable huff, fingers dragging up the side of your hips, slowly, deliberately, till they tug at the hem of your clothes. Molten gold catches the anxious excitement bubbling within you and your eyes and you catch the smirk on Morax’s face.

“I’d like to continue.” he sounds breathless.

“ Go on then .” that threadbare line that held you together had snapped now. You do not think you could wait any longer than you have for him. Morax chuckles, bending down with a narrowed gaze till his nose brushes against yours.

“I haven’t finished my statement.” he chides and you don’t know what is worse, him dragging this out to a near painful pace, or the hand that caresses the inside of your thigh teasingly, drawing out a stray moan from your lips. “If you feel overwhelmed, or you wish to stop, we must establish a safe word.”

He waits expectantly and you scour your mind for the first word that pops into your head. “Squid.” you decide, shifting your hips closer to him. Morax lets out something between a wince and an amused chuckle, his hand leaving your thigh. You wine in protest, grabbing at his wrists to pull him closer.

“So needy.” he lilts. “Are you sure you want this?”

How cruel , you think unhappily, unsure of how to take his consideration; a loosely veiled attempt to drive you further into wanting or a call of sincere concern. You think you know Morax. You think it’s both.

“ Yes !” you cannot wait any more and neither could Morax, his claws curling round to clutch and tangle at the back of your head while he captures you in a devouring kiss. Your own experience hardly held a candle to his own practiced ease, but you do what you can, groaning into the clacking of teeth and the teasing little nips he leaves on your lower lip. 

His thumb traces down the side of your neck and hooks at your clothes, tugging away at the fabric to stroke your now bare shoulder. Morax leaves no trace of skin untouched by his lips and he brushes down the line of your collar bone, his teeth flashing in the candle light till you feel him bite down at the spot with a muffled growl.

The rush of pain and pleasure has you pressing your face down into the mattress with reeling shock, any moan held back in the midst of the hazy shock lighting up inside you. The action was mostly unintentional, but you were glad it could have saved you any further embarrassment in Morax’s eyes.

“Not a sound?” he asks, licking his lips with a predatory tilt to his head, regarding every inch of you with voracity. You stubbornly refuse to respond, lips sealed tight with a set of eyelashes batting up at him. Morax likes a chase and you give it to him, no matter how small it may be. “No matter. We’ll see how silent you are by the end of the night.”

The words hang in the air like an impending omen. You do not doubt him.

His voice dips to a sultry whisper as he undoes your top and lets it slide past your shoulders and down your waist till it was bunched to the side and lay there forgotten. The storm rumbles outside your window, and the wind prickles at your skin. Between Morax eyeing you down, mapping out every detail with his fingertips and the chill in the air, your arms instinctively move to hug yourself. 

“No.” His word was stern, absolute as he tugs at whatever covers your entirety from his gaze. “I’ve never seen you this shy before… adorable .” he purrs, stroking your cheek. 

“ Tease .” you test out.

Morax’s expression lapses to a playful smile in the midst of your indignation, leaning back to watch you with clear intent. He guides your legs around his waist and shifts you partly atop his lap, gently moving your hips to a slow grind against his torso. The sudden stimulation draws out a squeak, your cheeks set aflush.

“ Beautiful… ” his claws linger over your chest before it trails down to stroke your stomach. “You’re so soft , little love…” they stop at your shoulder, raking around the scar settled there, gnarled marks and torn flesh left behind by talons and teeth. You feel the flare of doubt and self consciousness flare back up, but it fizzles out when he bends to leave a kiss atop it.

It was hard to find a spot that he did not touch. Morax was precise, diligent, learning what spots made your squirm and whimper and shake beneath him with white hot pleasure. The rain’s roar was a distant muffle between the pleasant buzz in your head and Morax’s ragged breaths sounding in the otherwise quiet room. He hunches over you, nosing at your neck with near obsessive need, nipping, kissing — anything to cast on some semblance of his scent and essence.

Your chin nestles atop his shoulder, your sight trained upwards, oblivious to where Morax may choose to touch you next. The clinking of metal does draw in a few questions, most quickly answered when you feel his clothes give way and settle on your stomach. Then comes his teeth, sharp fangs sinking into you. You hardly register the moan you let out, or the heat that you sink into, desperate for more, for more skinship, for more of Morax.

“ Beautiful .” he repeats, a growl bleeding into every syllable, down to the rumble in his chest. He still donned his pants, but most of his clothes now lay scattered across the mattress, pushed aside a moment later with an impatient huff. 

You have seen Morax bare chested plenty of times before, when he first arrived wounded on the slope of your little mountain home. There was no denying he was a beautiful man, sharply lined with the faintest of silvered scars scattered beneath stark gold tattoos. “ Morax .” you mutter, lacing your fingers into his, tugging at him instantly. “Keep going.”

He smiles. 

“Patience.” he croons. You squeeze your eyes shut and hold back the swear resting on your tongue. “I have waited for so long…” his teeth don’t hold the old hesitance it did, now wholly marking you with delicious bruises and love bites. “...and I intend on savoring… ” his lips linger on the line of your jaw, tickling your ear. “... each… ” they brush down, down, down. “... bite… ” and true to his words, he sinks his teeth down again.

Your hands tangle at his hair, his hair tie snapping to your insistent tugging till burnt brown strands pool around him. He looked a little wilder, with how his eyes glow beneath the shadow cast on his face. You comb through them with a soft “So pretty.” earning a flattered hum whilst he cups your breasts, chanting your name lovingly.

You gasp at the feel of a soft pinch on your nipples. Morax lights up, a dangerous splay of his fangs flashing in your field of vision before he engulfs one breast within his mouth, suckling, biting, devouring greedily and the other grows sensitive to his slow strokes. “M-Mor–AX!” Your mewls peak and your hands grab at his shoulders, his back, at the sheets — somewhere , trying to ground you to the sensation. 

( He could hear your racing heart beneath his grasp and the sound of it makes Morax purr with an emotion so old and primal and possessive. )

He pulls away with a wet pop. “How do you feel?” he asks.

“H-hot.” you barely manage to blurt out. “Hot everywhere.”

That smile was back again, the one with the barest flash of primality. “Hot?” he repeats. You nod. It was hot, in your cheeks, your chest and your stomach and core — and you could hardly bring yourself to wait. With Morax’s resolve to take his slower pace. You curse his patience. You wish he was just as desperate. 

“I am.” he muses nonchalantly, ducking down to take your other breast in his mouth. “I crave every inch of you. I want to hear you sing, wǒ qīn'ài de .” his hand drags down, teasing the inside of your thighs with circular strokes. You buck your hips into him with a pathetic whimper, and Morax pounces at the lapse, tugging your underwear down with a single fluid motion then pushing his fingers into your drenched heat.

“Oh how obscene.” he lilts, a delighted shine in his eyes, momentarily bringing his slickened digits for you to see. “You’re drenched.”

“ Shut .” you snap, a depraved cry cutting you off as he teases at your entrance with one finger, thumbing up your core till he settles on your clit with a peased grunt. Your hips snap and shudder, tears slowly pricking at your eyes. It was an odd sensation, a buildup of pressure far greater than what you could coax out that tightens in your gut. 

Morax slides a finger in, slowly, gently. “ Ah — ” you bury your face into your mattress, spreading your legs further for him. He continues his slow thrusts, in and out and you revel in the sweet sensation. “Feels — f-feels good — ” 

His scrutiny comes with its merits, stroking your walls with an out of place gentleness as he watches every shift, keen and whine with a deep found appreciation and yearning. “You’re quite tight , little one.” he rumbles. You warble in response, bucking your hips into him as the pressure steadily builds and builds and builds.  

“I’ll be adding another.” he decides and he does, a second finger slipping in. the stretch stung and you fist at the sheets with a groan.

“N-no…t-too much — ah!” The broken whimper does elicit a sympathetic look from him and he kisses away the tears, thankfully easing his movements.

“I know, little love. I know.” you sink into his warmth, melting at the delicacy in how he holds you close. “But we’ll need to prepare you, don’t we? And you’re taking me so well too…” you think you are when the pain slowly subsides and the pleasure returns, your very being trembling when he scissors you. “Ah, witnessing the state you're in…it makes me wonder how well you’ll take something else of mine, hm?”

“M-morax!” you squeak, cheeks flushed. The embarrassing squelch from your core shuts you up immediately. You decide you’re better off muffling out your moans out of petty spite at this point and you seek your refuge in the covers, burying your face into your mattress.

Ha! You think, naively, foolishly, daring to assume that Morax would fold at the face of a challenge. A third finger slips through and the moan is smothered. You think you hear him chuckle and you think you see the excited flash in his eyes as he shifts and twists your body, laying you down on your stomach.

“So stubborn.” The delight is apparent in his cadence. His hand presses down at the small of your back, then his torso presses up against you, continuing his slow and agonizing thrusts with practiced pace. “The vitriol in your silence hardly diminishes how soaked you are. Your body is far more honest, it seems.”

“ MMPH !”

You gasp, feeling his fingertips stroke your g-spot, pulling you apart at the seams and chipping away at your mind. Everything feels distant and muddled and the pleasure was almost too much to bear. “Does it feel good when I touch you here?” you shut your eyes and curl up, bucking up into him uselessly. His weight restricted your movements and you doubt you could wiggle away for a temporary respite ( even if some masochistic part of you liked the deluge of sensations pile up steadily ). “I need words.”

Another thrust. You wail into your hands, whatever dogged decision to stay silent, now shattered. “Yes. Yes — P- please!” you haven’t the foggiest clue what you’re begging for at this point, but the fullness you feel from his fingers alone is enough. “L-like that. Morax please keep going.”

He adds a fourth finger.

“You keep tightening up…” he whispers, as if trapped in a trance of his own, your head lifting to press against his bicep while his movements momentarily slow to ease you in before his pace picks up and that slow, brutal torture begins again. 

You squirm, squeal, bite into his arm with vigor. Morax laughs, kissing your temple with comforting croons. “Good.” he coos, dipping his nose into your hair with a victorious purr. Your thighs squeeze around him and your hips jolt forth. The pressure steadily building up in your stomach seems to crest while you chime out his name. Your orgasm seeps closer and closer and closer —

He pulls his fingers out and you bite back a cry, a protest, tears pooling out as dismay settles fast. Was it something you said? Was it something you’ve done? Why did he stop?

“Why…” you manage out, stroking his hair. Morax raises a brow then slides down, his lips latching onto your inner thigh with a groan. You fist at the sheets again, a vague idea coming to form between the haze and the jumbled confusion and disappointment and it sets a spark of excitement. 

A pause.

Morax meets your gaze.

He smirks.

You stifle back a scream when he bows his head down and laves at your heat, catching the receding traces of your buildup and letting it reel in steadily. His tongue was greedy, warm, devouring you whole as he slicks it through your drenched folds, and — oh gods —

Whatever praise that you cry out turns into a feverish mantra being babbled out over and over, the sharp mountainous air taking on a headier scent. Your validation was enough to spur him on, it seems, every bit of Morax, from the practiced gentleness to his eagerness to undo you coming to shine with the fervor of a starved animal. 

“ Good .” he growls out, claws digging down a little harder into the softness of your thigh, his teeth and tongue grazing and toying at your clit. You clap your hands over your mouth once more, a squeak cut short, only to have them pinned down by him. He flashes you a warning glare before gold light illuminates your wrists and you feel the weight of geo press them down to your chest.

The cuffs were heavy, and they did their job well as you could only grab at air while his licks grow more languid. Your thighs were pushed back with a single fluid movement and a flustered cry escaped with your sudden exposure. 

“Ah — ”

You tug at his hair, drawing out another delicious moan from his throat. Liquid gold appraises you, taking every detail in, between your fucked out expression and your twitching body. Morax presses against your sweet spots, and you could have sworn some strange magic were at play, with every careful thrust and every slow vibration. You could hard;y word out the state you were in, your mind all cotton wool with little thought.

Overwhelming…indescribable…that was a way to put it.

Morax does not complain about your growing insistence, your moans growing louder, your thighs squeezing round his shoulders, your attempts to free yourself from the stone shackles he placed on you.he must be just as far gone with your arousal in his mouth ( and that was true ). You hope he won’t turn to cruelty like the last time and deny you of your orgasm. It was a delirious pitch in the back of your mind, a soft cry.

“I-I think i’m close — ” you gasp, feeling that knot grow tight as the tell tale spill of an incoming release shudders up your spine and fingertips. Morax looks at you, the gold of his eyes wide and his pupils blown out with suppressed mischief. A well-timed thrust from his fingers served your undoing.

“Go on then.” he relents.

You sob into the sheets gratefully, pleasure rippling through as the coil snaps and you crumple and sink into a state of unawareness. You could only just register Morax sitting up, thumb swiping at his lips, licking away at the mess you made, smeared between his thighs and on him. “S-sorry!”

He shuts his eyes, quiet bliss washing over him. “I could devour you here and now…” he mutters in indulgence. He rubs your sore wrists down, pressing kisses against the expanse of skin with an apologetic smile. “You look tired. Shall we stop here?”

Alarm lines your features. “What about you?” you blurt out, bug eyed and still fatigued from your orgasm. Morax doesn’t respond, laying down next to you. You feel a bitterness line your mouth and you find yourself pushing your body up and crawling atop him. Morax opens one eye, amusement quirking at his lips.

“Oh?” he doesnt bother feigning surprise as his clawed grip settles on your hips. You try to hide yourself, embarrassment from your bold move hardly aiding in your focus as you slide his pants down and stare, he bore two of them, standing erect against your stomach. You helplessly glance at him. 

“You’re…you’re big..” you tell him dumbly. “I-I don’t…I don’t think I can take both of them…” Morax chuckles.

“We’ll take it slow then. You only need one.” he decides, helping you up. You steady yourself on his shoulders, carefully laving your entrance with him before you lower yourself onto him, feeling the first telltale sting that has you stop with a whine. “Careful.” he speaks up, rubbing at your sides and you try to be, taking him bit by bit. Morax stretched you out in a way his fingers couldn’t and his second shaft rubs at your sore clit, leaving you jolting with sparks of pleasure.

He was roving every inch of you, biting down at his bottom lip when you clench around him. Every bit of him screamed of his self control hovering a step away from a more viscous beast. You don’t think you’re ready for what Morax tucks away in the corners of his mind, but you hope, hope that you could indulge him some day.

You were soaked enough for him to slip in with ease, a collective of your and his arousal trailing down with an audible squelch every time he dared to grind up a little more against you. “Fuck….” he whispers out, a rare lapse in demeanor. “D-does it hurt?”

“No.” you shake your head, a half lie. It stings, yes, but the slow haze of euphoria was pressing up and you knew he would stop if you showed the slightest sign of discomfort — and you did not want him to stop. Not with this lovely warmth, and with him holding you like you were the most delicate of flowers.

The sound he makes is animalistic and he thrusts, just a little, into you. He could hardly help himself, seemingly just as lost as you were ( and he was, with his parted lips and fluttering lashes ). You curl into him, pressing your face into his neck. “That’s it.” he whispers mindlessly. “Wonderful, y-you’re taking me so well…don’t rush now…”

You take the rest of him, seated snugly on his lap with a shaky mewl, tears pricking at your eyes. Morax bares his teeth, groaning freely as the air itself seems to crackle against you. You open your mouth, trying to say something, anything, but he pins you down with a single look. “Little minx .” he rasps.

A laugh bubbles up. You wonder if it’s from amusement, or from the overwhelming rush of dopamine or both. 

He kisses the corner of your lips, gathering his bearings. “You’ve had your moment of fun, little love. Now move .”

“Yes sir…” you sigh, and do just that, lifting your hips just a bit before you rock back down onto him. “S-shit…s-so good…” 

Morax hums, pursing his lips. His face was flushed and the tattoos on his arms were cast in gold and light. He takes matters into his own hands, pounding up into him with sudden force and your teeth chatter and your eyes roll back with a pathetic whimper.

A few marks of your own were delivered, from your nibbling as Morax continues to thrust up into your drenched cunt, and from your nails scratching at his back. His approval was punctuated by a particularly hard one, that made your head spin and had you see stars. You vaguely register the scent of petrichor through everything else.

“ Morax — ” 

The state you were in only behind to sink in. That he was inside you, that he was taking every chance to draw out these obscene sounds from your lips. Even gods could not escape the perversion of mortal desires. Was this even considered blasphemy at this point, when he seemed to be stuck on the same boat as you were, sinking so fast into his lust?

“ — so good for me .” he guides your legs around his abdomen, whispering your name with a weak whine. He bites at your neck, at the marks he inflicted, then soothes them with kisses. He rubs your back and strokes your hair, his tender touch contrasting against his rough movements, grinding into your sweet spots and paired with his second cock rubbing at your clit, you could only lose yourself a second time.

That knot tightens and you feel the onset of your release. It was close, fast coming and you tug at his hair to warn him. Morax growls, his tail winding round your ankle. You try to keep up, try to ride him, but his pace far outmatches yours, stretching you out, pulling you flush against him. You let him use you, your monks reaching a feverish peak, grasping a taste of heaven on your tongue.

“Morax — ah!”

He curls into you, around you with an engulfing embrace with whispered words being uttered into your ear, “Do you want to cum?” You jolt your head. “Then cum… ”

And the bliss washes over you as you finally find it, slumping up into Morax;s patient arms with a near boneless stance. Your eyes met his, the hunger that still rages as he watches with awed fascination at how you come apart and piece back together again with teary eyes and a debauched smile.

“Beautiful.” he mumbles, then presses you face first into the sheets, still sheathed deep inside you. You only just realize he still has reached his own peak yet when he moves, absently reaching out for a pillow for you to grasp.

“God…M- morax — ” you were tired but with overstimulation settling fast and your own desires to see his pleasures being met, you bite into the pillow with a helpless whine. There was a rush in the pain you felt, from feeling all that pleasure wrap into a tight knot while he slicks back and forth into you, hitting your g-spot again with insistent grunts. His pupils were blown wide, like he was trying to take in as much of you as he could.

“M-more!” you blurt out then wince, feeling a hint of shame prick at you for being so greedy. It was about him now; sure you could put your own needs aside.

Morax however, smiles. “ More ?” he coos. “You want more?”

A gasp. You feel his hand settle on your clit, his untouched cock brush against your thigh. “Now who am I to deny you?” He continues his rough thrusts, godly stamina barely denting at his reserves and his pace. Perhaps that came with being an adeptus, this unending virility and endurance. Morax kisses at the back of your neck, laying down more marks to serve as a reminder for the next few days ( that you were, undoubtedly and irrevocably his now ).

Wanton moans pour out easily. Morax delights in them, carefully stimulating spots that were sure to bring the most out of you. The initial phase of searching and mapping out and learning was long gone — he was always quick to pick up on things, and things that make you fall apart into a quivering mess so easily were no exception.

It feels so good. So good —

“Do you want to keep going?” he asks. You feel sore in the best of ways and you nod. You don’t want him to stop. You don't ever want him to stop, drunk on the overstimulation, the euphoria, his cock, him —

Morax lets out a shaky exhale and slams even harder into you. “You’ll be my undoing...” he whispers and you turn your head, catching a glimpse of him. His straight faced composure was long gone, what careful parts of him he keeps hidden from sight having fallen over. Claws prickle at your ass, his eyes are trained on you, you you and when he meets your gaze, he captures your lips in a heated kiss.

“What kind of spell have you ensnared me with, little love?”

You could say the same thing. You try to, cut off by a rough grind on your clit. A lump builds up in your throat, vaguely recalling his small gestures of affection, his admissions, through your heat hazed mind and you arch your back into him to catch another kiss. Morax never needed to say the words and you were fine with it. 

“I love you.” you tell him instead, taking everything you had to get your tongue to move. Morax freezes up. He shuts his eyes and strokes your cheeks and buries his face into your neck.

“My Qingxin.” he whispers, tenderly, lovingly. The faltering in his pace, the sloppier jerks of his hips, then undertones of strained control beneath his moans signal his release. You grasp at his free shaft, and the gasp that echoes out was a rewarding one as you stroke him along into his release. “In or out?” he grits out, stuttering for a second. You feel the drag of his cock against your walls. “In.” you blubber.

You blank out after, feeling the rush, the fullness, him spilling out of you, between your legs, onto the mattress, over your stomach. Morax lets out a shudder, his marks glowing a faint gold before he pulls out. His hand does not leave your clit. Coaxing your third peak out with gentle kisses and insistent mumbles. The pain was sharp but you drink it in, pride lining every crevice of you till you jolt, that pressure finally releasing.

“Thank you.” you mumble. Intimacy was always so foreign, and a kind touch was a far away thought. Morax settles down, pulling you to him as he kisses away the drying tears and the sated touch starvation. He kisses you on the lips. Then the tip of your nose. Then at the bites he inflicted. 

“Rest.” he whispers. 

The cadence of his voice made it hard to disagree with and you feel unconsciousness wash over you fast. You could vaguely make out the sheets being changed and a damp cloth washing you down.

Morax’s weight next to you was the last thing you register.

“Are you well?”

Morax could count the number of times you sought refuge beneath his arm, eyes roving the stalls in the harbor with caution and nervousness. Your jumpiness was an expected clause, and a slightly endearing one as he walks you along the streets as a mortal man and his lover. There were no gods in Liyue Harbor today, at least none the people were aware of.

“Zhongli.”

He turns his head. “Yes, love?”

You fall into earnest silence. “I think I'm going to freak out.” you say. As taught as a bowstring against him. You grip at his hanfu tighter. “They’re staring. Why are they staring?”

“I suppose a new face does bring raised brows. That…” he dips his head down, nose brushing against your cheek with a loving chuckle. “...and you look exceptionally beautiful today, love.” You tug at his sleeve. “Ah, would some food ease my flower’s nerves then?” another tug. He takes that as a yes.

Even so, Morax knew you. Qingxins were flowers that know the intimate dangers of the mountain side and the bustle of the harbor below. You will grow, as you do and you will adapt as you do, maybe slowly, maybe quickly. He knows not to rush it along and he contents himself with your company and your curious question and the bliss on your face when you try a skewer.

“Liyue is beautiful.” you admit after a while. “Crowded, but beautiful.”

“Thank you.”

“I’m not used to this.” you tell him for the umpteenth time, quick, apologetic and Morax has none of that ( why would he ever see it fit to fault you? ). He takes your hand, pressing a fluttering kiss on your palm. 

You shoot him a flustered glare. He smiles. “We’ll take our time. This old man has much to spare.” and he does.

He’ll wait millennia if it is for you. 

[ravenlly]

TSAMS, LAES, and EAPS Celestials As Pokemon Types

I got the idea to post this OVER A MONTH AGO but was too lazy. Anyway I thought it would be fun to go over what Pokemon types I think the TSBS celestials would be if they were Pokemon. I’ll explain my points! I’m thinking of making another about what existing Pokemon species they’d be, what teams they’d have in their party, or what training type they’d specialize in! Anyway, enough yapping, enjoy!

Sun: Normal/Fire- I chose normal for Sun because he isn't someone who wants to be powerful and is one of the more down-to-earth characters who doesn't see himself as ultra-powerful. However, he does mess with magic and he has the ability to use it to shoot fireballs so I decided to give him fire typing as well. Plus that also suits him considering he is an animatronic sun.

Moon: Dark- I just think the dark-type suits him due to him being a night-themed animatronic. Plus he is intelligent and perceptive and dark-type Pokemon are also often perceptive.

Lunar: Electric/Fairy- Fairy because of how he looks and his innocent appearance and electric due to his abilities. He has the ability to control all weather but obviously lightning is the one he chooses to use the most. I was considering adding dark due to him due to him recently acquiring negative star power but I decided to keep it as electric/fairy instead.

Earth: Grass/Fairy- Grass because of her being a nature-themed animatronic who also loves nature. You would think I'd choose water given that part of her planet design has water but I chose fairy because of her pretty appearance and kind personality. Plus she likes fairies and stuff like that so it really does suit her.

Solar: Normal- I decided to put normal since he's one of the characters who is the most sane and levelheaded out of the entire shows. I was considering making him a ghost type or adding that to him since he did die but this makes more sense to me. I also briefly considered fire due to him being sun-themed and orange and because of his canon arm but that didn't make sense to me since I don't want to base it off appearance for the most part and he no longer has the canon arm.

Nexus: Dark/Poison- Another one that's pretty obvious. Dark due to his personality, his usage of dark star power, and because he is a night-themed animatronic. Poison also because of negative star power essentially being a poisonous substance.

Eclipse: Dark/Ghost- Pretty straightforward. Dark due to his grouchy, lonesome personality and ghost because he has died and come back to life so many times.

Ruin: Psychic- This was a tough one. I didn't know whether to make him dark or psychic and I thought combining the two wasn't probably the best idea. I would've chosen dark due to all the trauma he has gone through and the dark things he's done for the greater good but I decided to go with psychic instead! He's extremely intelligent and aware of what's going on around him a lot of the time. He is also perceptive of emotions and he seems to know how things are going to go a lot of the time. I thought psychic was suitable for him! Plus we already have so many dark types here lol.

Jack: Fighting/Steel- I chose fighting for him because he is super protective, loves to fight, loves weapons, and was ultimately made to be a weapon. I chose steel because he has steel claws and other steel body parts that count as weapons.

Dazzle: Ghost/Fairy- Dazzle's is pretty straightforward as well! Ghost because she is a dead child. Fairy because she is a very adorable little thing and fairy Pokemon are known for being the most cutesy type.

Bloodmoon: Dark/Fighting- This one is pretty straightforward. Dark because his interest is very dark and evil. Fighting because he loves to fight everything. It was pretty easy to choose a type for them.

Dark Sun: Dark/Dragon- Even though he sees himself as a normal Sun, his interests and personality say otherwise. I chose dark because his thoughts and the things he has done are very, very dark. Dragon because he has a big wither dragon he seems to have control over (it's obvious what trainer type I'll assign to him when I post that lol).

Solar Flare: Fire/Steel- I wasn't going to make any based on their looks alone, I swear, but Solar Flare's "rays" look more like fire. It looks more like a hairstyle than the rays actual Daycare Attendant models have (sorry, Sun). But yeah it looks so much like fire I can't ignore it. As for the steel type, I basically gave him this type because he is one of the most robotic characters in the series since he didn't get to grow and develop much before his death so I thought that type fits him.

Killcode: Dark/Grass- I think KC would be a dark-type because he was originally made to, you know, kill things which is a pretty dark thing to do and makes him fit right into that category. I think post-death-loving KC would be a grass type as well because of how connected he was to nature and kindness (which go hand-in-hand a lot in stories if you think about it).

Lord Eclipse: Psychic- This is an Eclipse that got a star that gave him the ability to do anything and see everything in his universe. It only makes sense for him to be a psychic-type!

Servant Sun: Ghost- I bet I surprised you with this one, didn’t I? It's basically because Lord Eclipse had the habit of killing him and bringing him back to life over and over again. He's much different than normal (our canon) Sun is at the moment so that's why he isn't a normal-type. He is a shell of his former self and he's been killed and brought back to life a lot so that's my reasoning for him being a ghost-type!

[aves-rook-laidir]

Here are my live notes that i typed out on the Sticker App while playing the game for the first time. - MAJOR SPOILERS -

They are slightly out of order because I was just jumping in typing wherever:

Holy shit it’s on TWO DISCS?!!?

Not me staring at the press any button screen for ages

I like that Neve is like Cassandra, your no 1

Davrin Rook bonded so fast because they were immediately thrown into a dragon battle together and it got really tough real quick

Did Gilhanain just say YOUR BLOOD KNOWS YOU’LL DIE HERE?

Absolutely loved bringing harding as the extra companion, she’s just so exasperated by it all

I do feel like the va tone didn’t always fit with certain more serious situations.

Staring at Solas in photomode, so mixed emotions, mostly exasperation.

So what was he doing at the strart? Putting evanuris in a stronger prison, then tearing down the veil, or? Because if he was just putting them in a new prison, and exlained himself to Varric non of this would be happening.

God damn, someone ask Morrigan about the fith blight, actually, is it even public record who journeyed with the Warden? Was it kept hush hush?

Can wardens still hear the calling if all the high dragons are awakend? Whos calling them in the deep roads?

I wonder if Davrin has a hard time talking about the elven god reveal because he has a special relationship with Halla and Ghilanain was the god of Halla? 

Oh, why would we have Varric's shaving mirror?

Lucanis so fucking weird haha

Davrin - “Couldn’t have asked for a better day” Rook immediately, ungracefully slides down a cliff

Emmrich is making a mistake, why would he want to be immortal, like look at these three imortal clowns running around.

Ok so The Ancient Elves were spirits who took physical forms using the lyrium, which is the blood of the ancient titans, They became the first mages? This caused a war between the elves and the titans

I wish they had shown more of Emmrich getting her out of the fade, because that is his very specific skill, like all the attention Lucanis got about using the dagger, to cement Emrrich's role in all this, I wanna see him being a badass in a direct story point.

The Butcher was scarier than Elghanan, should not have been,

Elghanan should have been wayyyy scarier, less talking.

“The gods they give strength but all they ask in return is everything” dope

Literally fuck off no scene getting her out of the fade, her reacting to getting out, the grief? The Relief? Helo?

“Though Harding also told me” LMAO Emmrich

I feel like it makes more sense for Harding to sneak up on Ghillie, This is her moment, tragic because we’ve seen her whole journey. Harding saying ‘should I take the shot’ at the start of the game then taking guaranteeing Ghilanains death with her simple bow and arrow. and to have this little dreamless thing, created out of the desicrated titans be the last thing she sees, fuck yes.

The first thing they did was retrieve all the bodies. They found Harding and Leliana and the Inquisitor brought her back to her village

Solas: How did you even get out of the fade? Rook: gestures vaguely to Emmrich standing behind her ‘He knows more about the fade than you.'

I wish there was a bit more dialogue with Dorian at the end, saying ‘Do it for Varric and or Harding, won’t you? They were just so…oh, you…know...’

Taash everyone I loves dies NONONO I love you!

‘Everything dies, its what they do’ Including imortal gods

Is solas fucking losing??? fucks sake cant even do one thing

Solas assisting the Shadow Dragons at the end paint a funny picture, like, imaging Dorain trying to evacuate the city and Solas is just also there, after like 10 years. How did that reunion go?

It had to be bellara that got blighted, those gods were hers, that history is hers, and she's just so innocent, it was a great character arc

me the whole time 'its fine just go grey warden'

Shaved her head after coming out the fade to feel something

What if it’s not enough? What if it is?

I really though time travel was going to be a thing, after the dorian stuff?

Leo represent my Inky because in my AU she is too weak to travel as the mark is still sucking the life out of her, arm or no arm, but she dragged her ass up for that final scene with Solas. Leli and Josie spread a misinformation campaign around thedas, so unless you meet them directly its really hard to know if Inky is a female Elf, Male Human, and whoever else.

I hope Morrigan is ok

[ehlnofay]

One day – as far-off as a century, as near as tomorrow – it will all be a grand old story.

The stories will speak of a handful of champions, rushing headlong against time and logic to save the world; the last Blades, the last Septim, and his hanger-on Hero, carving a bloody path to the Temple doors. The stories will tell of skies like burned blood, of fire and ash and uncountable legions of monsters – hundreds, thousands, millions, the quantity rising with each telling – the city streets cracked and quaking, every civilian locked up in their homes and businesses and praying for deliverance. The stories will tell of the appearance of Dagon, red-hot and roiling, a gory perversion of the sun; they’ll tell that when all seemed lost, Martin Septim sacrificed himself in a blaze of glory, calling down the avatar of Akatosh and casting Dagon and his ilk back whence he came. They’ll tell that the golden dragon threw back its head and roared, and the sky cleared and brightened at its word; they’ll tell how it petrified in place, a magnificent pillar of stone, a sacrosanct statue. A site of pilgrimage. A shrine, to the grace and glory of the gods, and the bravery and benevolence of the last Emperor, the best of men.

It will be a good story. All splendour and triumph, a bittersweet victory right out of the epics; the pages closed, the crisis done, the world saved in as golden a resolution as could be asked for. It doesn’t get better than this, a perfect saviour, a hallowed end.

What the stories won’t tell is how, under clear skies and sunlight, the Hero of Kvatch falls at the statue’s marbled feet and howls like the world is still ending.

“You fucking coward,” Pax is screaming, as best as she can. Her mouth tastes like smoke. Her voice is hoarse. “Stupid worm, fucking – selfish bastard – what’s wrong with you?”

His head is swimming, a bit; he shouldn’t have tried to stand, but he – but – he’s dragged himself up to the dais, just about, and managed to sprawl himself over the edge, a snail’s trail of blood smeared along the floor behind him. The copper tang of it is strong in his nostrils. The statue stands, proud and silent, one marble claw dug into the cracked stone of the rostrum. His whole body is beginning to ache – just because of a stupid stab wound in his side, he’d swear he’s had worse, it’s not that bad, it’s not that bad. His throat burns. He isn’t crying. He isn’t.

The sky is so fucking blue.

“What’s wrong with you?” he demands, again, and brings the heel of his hand thudding against the clawed foot hard enough that he feels the impact down his arm, through his blurry head. “Why would you – piece of shit – sorry spit-gill – I thought –”

None of their thoughts will go through to the end. “I thought,” Pax says again, and she’s not crying, and it hurts so much it’s looped back around to not hurting, and it’s all getting fuzzy at the edges, all the world narrowed down to this and this and this and all fucking hell she’d rather be anywhere, anything else. The statue is cold. Her throat is scraped raw. “Come back,” she’s begging without quite meaning to, “come back,” and she drives her palm into the stone again, and the pain sets her reeling.

And all hell, the sky is so blue; the statue enormous; and here they are, at its feet, vision blurring, staring up at its cold marble face. It’s so fucking tall, so proud, face tipped up towards the new-appeared sun, away from them.

“How could you?” Pax says, and then they can’t even see it anymore, blood unspooling from them like skeins of madder-dyed thread. Red has never been their favourite colour. The shape of the dragon, glowing like the sun, is fixed forever on the backs of their eyelids; gold, they think, is worse. The world is detached and floating about them. They taste smoke and then bile. Stone digs fierce into their spine.

It burned like the sun, the dragon; like all the divine light of Aetherius come to earth just to sear the moisture from her eyes. Where it clawed Mehrunes Dagon, his blood boiled; when it screamed, the world moulded itself to its call. Pax hadn’t known what was happening, while it happened; sure as shit doesn’t know now. What they do know is that he’s gone. What they do know is that the dragon didn’t look at them once. They don’t taste ash on their breath, now; just fear, stagnant, sour, blood jangling bitter in their veins and seeping out to soak their gambeson.

It doesn’t hurt, anymore, there’s just this spreading, vague numbness. It doesn’t feel like their body. It’s just a thing they’re putting on. Their ears are still ringing from the crashing-in of the Temple, but there’s a faint buzzing of noise outside. They might be dying. They can’t be assed to get up.

Skeeving asshole. They’re getting blood on the dragon’s immaculate feet. The hollow sounds of voices feels distant. Could well be worse.

Then, “… a healer, here!” they hear, much closer than anything else had been before, paired with the faraway thudding of the door, and “Pax. Pax! It’s – where’s –” and there’s hands on him, a cautious manipulation of his neck, a shifting of his legs. Pressure on his sternum, and then his stomach, and a pained grunt slips out of his mouth, bound up with a slurred curse.

“Stay calm,” says an unfamiliar voice, soft and steady. “I’m just accessing the wound.”

“Go away,” Pax says, or tries to say, but his voice is whispering-hoarse and the dragon looms in the dark even still. He could open his eyes, but what would be the point?

The hands stay on him even when he bucks, holding him steady; they whisper over the stab in her gut, pulling at the drying blood, mumbling words that she can’t be fucking bothered to listen to, one voice known to her already, one voice not; pressure again on the injury, and they try, half-heartedly, to breathe out a swear – and then light, copper-bright, behind their eyelids, and burning heat, and pain pain pain eclipsing all else as something inside them wrenches back into working order, and then their eyes are open and the sky is blue and they are very fucking aware, thank you.

Pax sits up, fast enough to send the world dizzily whirling, and shoves the mage-medic away from them.

“Piss off,” he says – and it’s still hoarse, smoke-throated and scraped raw, but there’s more bite to it this time, more sound. The strange hands fall away from his side, and he looks down. His gambeson is hanging open, cords untied, the emblem of the wolf split clean down the middle. His undershirt is rucked up around his chest, too, so much of his skin is bared to the clear, bright air; all to get to the wound tucked just under their ribs. It’s an underwhelming thing – smaller than they would’ve thought, a thin short slash like a very red mouth has opened itself up in their gut. It’s stopped dribbling quite so much blood, gone scabby with rough healing, though the stuff is still smeared all over their skin, damn near enough to bathe in. It’s barely anything, really. They’re barely even hurt.

“I’m not done,” says the mage-medic, all stern. The wound itches, the taste of hasty magic gone sour in the back of their throat with all the rest of it. “I might have to find my suturing needle. It isn’t too bad, but it can’t be healed all at once.”

“Piss off,” Pax repeats – and all fucking hell it hurts, and he’s sitting up against the statue, legs lolling. He’s dizzy. He ignores it.

Ocato – his fine clothes sooty, face tight as a wound-up spring – says, “Calm down, please – he’s a skilled healer, he knows what he’s doing.” His eyes keep skipping around the room like he’s searching for another enemy lurking hidden in the shadows. “What happened? Where’s the Emperor?”

Ah – not an enemy, then.

Pax tastes bile.

“Not very quick on the uptake, are you?” she says, elbow braced against the statue’s massive marble claws (she hates touching it, she hates it, she hates it, she wants to set it crumbling apart, she doesn’t want to let anyone else touch it ever again). She can’t stop leaning because then she might topple back down again. Fuck, she needs to keep her head on straight – or lose it altogether, whichever happens faster. Her fingers feel cold. “How’re you going to run an Empire when you’re this fucking clueless?”

Ocato looks them in the face; his brow, high and slanted in that way elves have, furrows. “You’re hurt,” he says, in a tone like he expects Pax to argue with him. “Martin Septim–”

“Can’t you see him?” Pax demands, tone torn in half and uglier than they’ve ever heard it before, and they slam the back of their hand against the stone for echoing emphasis. (They want to shatter all the bones in their knuckles, break every piece in their hand one by one, like wishbones. They want it bloody and bruising. They want to scratch its polished-smooth surface until their fingernails tear. They want – they want – they want –)

Ocato, the Empire’s de facto leader, says, “Ah.”

In his plummy robes, all fruit-rich and stained with ash, he looks very stark against the Temple’s cracked marble floors.

“The Avatar,” he says. “If – the Amulet – joined blood of kings and gods –”

“Ocato,” says Pax, leaning heavy against the statue’s hateful foot, “shut up.” Their voice is bowstring-taut; he looks at them, his eyes too golden to meet. His mouth twists. They tip their head back against the stone, glaring up at the chips of blue sky shown in the crater where the roof once was, and try hard to ignore the tugging ache hooked behind their ribs.

It really fucking hurts. Worse than it did before, maybe, like some gauzy veil has been ripped from it. A veil has been ripped from the world. All the colours are too-bright, hideous. Pax breathes, because there’s no alternative, and waits for the pain to ebb.

(It doesn’t, really.)

“The Gates are sealed,” Ocato says, slowly, and he’s looking at her again, she can see out of the edge of her eye. “We will speak later. I’ll have you put up in the Palace until you’re healed. Ah – Quintus, does –”

“As long as she doesn’t go back into shock,” says the mage-medic, busily flipping through some kind of supply bag at his belt, “her odds are good. Lost blood, but I don’t think anything important was too damaged – get a proper examination, all I did was give her a second wind. Stitches, rest, fluids should do it, with luck.”

“Can she stand?”

“Can or should are –”

“Shut the fuck up,” Pax snaps, “I’m right here.” Her back pressed against the cold marble of the statue, her plait half-loose and knotted, filled with ash. The sky is so fucking blue. It hurts like hell – if the healer took her out of shock, then shit, she wishes he’d put her back in. She can see in too much detail. She can feel the skin, damp and ragged and angry. She presses the heel of her hand to the injury; her palm is crusted with dust, tacky with the same half-dried blood streaked over the floors.

Ocato, in the edges of her vision, shifts, all a blur of rich clothes and sympathetic eyes and solemn voice turned soft like he’s talking to an easily spooked horse. “I know.”

The mage-medic clucks his tongue. “Let me take another look first,” he says, and takes a step forward –

Pax kicks out at him before he even gets close. “Don’t fucking touch me!”

“Pax,” says Ocato – and why, why the fuck is the Empire’s de facto leader here, now, babying them like a whimpering little puppy instead of anywhere fucking else, why is he bothering to talk to them all patronising soft, why does he care? They’ve barely fucking met – talked twice, if you can call either of those times talking. Is it because they’re the Hero of Kvatch? Is this what they’ve earned – a bit of leeway as they throw a tantrum, bleeding out at the marble feet of that stupid bloody statue? Ocato looks so fucking tired; Pax wants to hit him in the nose. “You need care.”

“I need –” and Pax chokes it off in a puff of air. The statue looms behind them. There’s blood on the floors. (Traitor liar coward come back come back I hate you come down I’ll knock your fucking teeth in stupid selfish fraud come BACK. LOOK AT ME.)

Pax closes his eyes.

“My gratitude,” Ocato says, “ – our gratitude for what you’ve done cannot be overstated. The Crisis if over. The gates are sealed. Mehrunes Dagon and his ilk can never threaten Tamriel again.”

The knobs of Pax’s braid are pressing uncomfortably against their scalp. They can hear footsteps, coming closer. They don’t respond.

“It’s a great shame we had to pay such a price,” Ocato says, and Pax would fucking love to know who’s we here, “but it’s done. Dagon is defeated. We’ve won.” He’s much too close, now; his voice pitches softer. “Martin – is dead. But he died an Emperor – and a hero to rival Tiber Septim.”

Pax shoves him.

It’s a good fucking shove – knocks him right to the ground, his elbow hitting the marble with a painfully audible crack, Pax standing over him, shirt rucked up, their handprint on his shoulder marked in blood. “You useless, prattling jackass!” they spit, hoarse, and deal a swift, savage kick to his side. “How dare you act like this is a victory! It should have been me!”

Then their head swims, and they’re sitting again on the edge of the dais, palm pressed to their side, the sweaty cloth of their gambeson pushed half off their shoulder and its cord biting into their hand. The mage-medic is kneeling over Ocato, who still lies, stunned; Pax can’t see his eyes, now, but they remember them, brassy with shocked fear. Their bow is off by the wall where they left it. Pax’s palms are sticky with blood. The sky is so fucking blue. No matter how hard she rages the dragon won’t look down at them.

By the time the mage-medic has helped Ocato up, they’re gone. The Kvatch guard gambeson remains, smoke-smelling and crusted with blood, left like an offering at the statue’s feet. The Hero of Kvatch is never seen again.

[lokh]

oughh i wanted to do a cute laishuro take on the blu ray extras (what if laios had been eaten instead) but lets be honest. they absolutely would not have made it as far without laios

[bitegore]

if your ocs were bosses in a video game, what do you think their boss fight would be like?

[isaacathom]

because a pc died in a recent ttrpg session my brain has gone absolutely Ballistic and i have fun thoughts about my character in ways that both do and dont relate to that, which i should stop flooding my twitter timeline with, and thus,

so first of all! the character who died, Commodore Morgaan Vandervest, was the party leader. He was the head of the fleet, the leader of our little strike force forward troop, captain of the Pendagast. A man with a military background, he'd signed onto this whole trip largely to get away from his family.

my character, Naielle Odelia, was the Pendagast's navigator. In a confrontation with pirates, Naielle was required to navigate the sheep through a shallow reef, and nearly got the boat grounded. When the pirate ship was captured, Naielle was, for reasons still unclear to her, appointed to serve as its captain.

Vandervest was a complicated leader for the crew. He was illsuited to the complicated political and diplomatic incidents he had to engage in, in ways which often wrankled against the more diplomatically minded crew. He also gave orders that were... harsh is the wrong word, but were coming from a more ruthless perspective, which particularly wrankle the generally polite and conflict avoidant Naielle. She wasn't alone in her dislike for the commodore's actions, but she only acted against his orders twice. "only", huh! other people were planning mutiny, on a variety of grounds.

BUT. Naielle would consider him a good leader. Not suited to his task, necessarily. She had many disagreements. But she trusted him to make those decisions honestly. And she took her appointment by him extremely seriously, despite her misgivings that she herself wasnt suited to the post.

Vandervest's background, being from a tiefling bloodline cursed centuries ago, meant that the majority of individuals in a given generation do not live past 80 or so. The Blight, as it's so called, will claim them before that point.

He was 63.

He hid the effects from everyone as best he could once they manifested, some month or two ago in-game. He slipped only rarely, and refused to be babied by the understandably-concerned crew. He didn't tell them. He told only his personal spy, who helped him arrange his affairs. Despite his condition, he didn't stop going into the field with the party when the situation demanded it. When he was knocked unconscious in battle against a corrupted dragon, multiple members of the party pulled out the stops to rescue him, even against things he wanted to happen - a chain devil had arrived to ferry his body away, and was prevented from doing so by three separate interventions. He was given the chance to explain himself, in brief, with what power he had left. And then he was gone.

He was 63.

Naielle has. a great deal to unpack in the Commodore's death. There's the issues in the immediate, the sudden gulf of leaderlessness that is being filled reluctantly by another party member, appointed by the dying Commodore with no fore-knowledge of his eligibility. Led or not, the dynamic has changed. There's the loss of his presence on the battlefield, the space in which he is most present, most skilled, most suited.

And there's other things. Naielle sees in the death of the Commodore the death of a cousin of her, Vincent Gerner, who died 7 or so years ago of a recurrent illness. Vincent was similarly stubborn and refused help as far as he could. Perhaps unluckier than the Commodore in a sense, that he lacked the nigh-supernatural strength to keep fighting until 11:59.

Vincent is the one who got Naielle her job as a navigator.

Vincent looked at Naielle, exiled from her home and wallowing in despair in his mother's spare room, and he told her that was not living. That she couldn't just let life come to her, couldn't just wait out the result she wanted, but had to grab it. And if she couldn't? If what she wanted wasn't available? Seek something else. Live, for fucks sake. He gave her that job, through his guild connections, and he got her on her feet.

It wasn't love. It's not love. It's bitter pragmatism. It's the knowledge of a dying man that he is doing his best to Live, and that everyone should, however they define that. And that what she's doing couldn't possibly be it, even by her own standards. If she'd refused, he would have let her. But he gave her that glimmer of hope, without love, and she seized it.

Vandervest is the one who gave Naielle her position as captain.

She doesn't know what motivated him to do it. She had just floundered in her role as navigator. She had failed the Pendagast. And, she supposes, and she can only suppose, he saw her skills lying elsewhere. Thought she might better suit command, a higher level perspective. Thought it was an opportunity for her to redeem herself and not wallow in her failures. Had faith, and she hopes it was faith, that she would succeed.

She doesn't know if she has. She hopes she has.

Like her job or not, she has considered it worthwhile. Command has forced responsibility on Naielle that she has avoided much of her life, and while she has not grasped it eagerly, she has sought to pay off his faith. She has gained confidence from his action.

In a letter she wrote to him, intended to be read after her own death and instead delivered after his, she told him:

For what I can only assume was faith that I could rise to the challenge, I have to thank you. Given the circumstances, I think anyone else would have thought that a foolish notion - had I half the confidence then as I do now, I would have said so myself.

And she was sincere. She meant it. She did not want the job, but she didn't want to let him down, and it's only now, months into her station, that she has the confidence she would have needed to tell him as much.

She owes both men a great deal. Neither man will ever really, truly know the depth of Naielle's gratitude to them.

She will repay them for what they did for her, whether they understand it or not.

All her unspent wages will go to Vincent's mother, who so graciously housed her in her exile, and to Vincent's daughter Josefien, a woman close in age to her who she might, sometimes, consider like a sister.

She can't pay Vandervest. She certainly wouldn't pay his family - all evidence suggests he wouldn't want that. But she can keep going. She can continue in her role, unwanted or not, and rise to the challenge he gave her all those months ago. She can hold true to who she is, and she can maybe, maybe, make his trust worth it. She can not disappoint a ghost.

-----

There are things she wanted to talk to Vandervest about, but was never going to.

Naielle is a warlock to the star Alcor, a forgotten glimmer in an elven sky. He is the reason for her exile, 20 years before the campaign began. Naielle's sister Mariela is a warlock to him too, unwillingly, brought into the fold by accident on Naielle's part. Long story, that.

Recently, Naielle learnt the reason she was made a warlock.

From her perspective, she had entreated the stars for help on her research project - knowledge, that old card. And the stars responded, and said she would have that and more.

That more was that she would serve in distant battlefields against Aboleth, and that she would reach apotheosis and join the star in the sky.

The former she had done with some acceptance, unaware at the time that this was all by design. She felt it her moral duty to intervene, to aid, to repell.

To give over herself to the divine is a concept she fears.

A fragment of her patron gave her options for how she might move forward:

Forsake her pact entirely, losing all knowledge and power gained therein. This would, not in totality but in effect, wipe 20yrs of memory from her. She would remember why she was here, and some details, but large sections would be utterly erased.

Declare her pact complete at a moment of triumph - no minor triumph, but grand. The death of an aboleth. To rid her sister of the pact, she must also be present.

Declare herself unfit to discharge her duties as high priest of Alcor, and nominate another as successor - her only option is Mariela, the sole other adherent.

Commit wholly, in the knowledge that manifesting the power of a great celestial may be what separates victory from defeat, the beating back of the aboleth threat from the complete destruction of the plane they invade. To reach for the stars.

Naielle fears her options. She considers the first utterly untenable, even in the face of her sister's suggestion that such a revocation would remove that which caused her exile, and would potentially permit her return home. As much as she wants it, she could not tolerate betraying the party in such a way. To be so selfish, without qualification, so as to remove herself entirely from the field of play.

But the remaining options, she struggles to pick between. She fears each in their own way, for the consequences for herself, and for her sister.

She would have liked to talk to Vandervest about them. She was never going to.

Regardless of the Commodore's weaknesses, Naielle trusted him. Naielle wanted his faith in her, as she saw it, to not be misplaced. She never went against an explicit order made of her - a measely distinction, but one she would make. She may have undermined orders of his made to others, but she followed her own.

She could not have spoken to Vandervest, Captain to Commodore. Any input he made would be an order.

She could not have spoken to him, peer to peer, one warrior against the aboleth to another. Any input he made would be a strong suggestion, something she might treat as though it were an order, no matter how he qualified it.

She would have liked his insight, even if she likely would have disliked the results. Frankly, she feared the idea of telling him she'd made a certain decision, and what reaction he might have.

Maybe it's for the best that he died before she made a choice.

-----

There are, arguably, two Naielles.

There's the Naielle that is Captain of the Xistina, Navigator of the Pendagast, a level-headed if anxious soul with a good heart and a desire for peace. A person reluctant to volunteer for a difficult task, but will commit with gusto should the duty fall to her, because others rely on her. A person who thinks and overthinks and triplethinks over anything she can see coming, who only acts when the situation demands immediacy, who might otherwise think herself into a hole. A self-described coward.

And there's the Naielle who steps onto the battlefield, Warlock and Reluctant High Priestess of Alcor, avatar of his power on the material plane. A healer and ranger spellcaster, who, in an instant, will ignore her backrow position to sprint forward to support her melee crew. A woman who hates to fly who considered leaping from a building to rescue someone. Someone who would take any action, make any decision, if it would save another. Someone who has to be reminded her own life is at risk in order for her to take it into account.

These are the same person. It's the same person forced to act.

If left to her own devices, Naielle will think and think and fret, and she will not act. Vincent and Vandervest, in their own ways, forced her to act on a particular scale, but in the micro she is often still there, worrying.

She can't afford to on the battlefield. So the first thing she drops, the first thing she leaves behind when the chips are down, is herself.

She often regrets it. Her breath will slow and the adrenaline ebb, and she'll realise she crossed a mortal boundary. Her head will return to earth and find it riddled with blood.

It's not that she doesn't know what's she's doing. It's not a barbarian rage, insensible and disconnected from the self. It's just that, in the moment, what she wants is the first thing to go, and the first thing to come back.

She acquired a mindflayer sword, a grotesque weapon intended to subjugate and control. She took it reluctantly, and said that she would make use of only specific abilities - the ability to cast forbiddance, the ability to cast gate, the ability to cast planeshift. Traits for which her party could find unambiguously positive use. A spellcasting implement.

And then, in a fight against a paladin of Asmodeus, who had blackmailed the fleet's Admiral with a contract over him and his son, Naielle used the sword to enthrall him.

She robbed him of his free will, even if only for a time. Demanded he rescind the contracts. And when clarity returned to his clouded eyes, she killed him. A man disarmed and restrained.

She knew what she was doing. It wasn't an order, either. She volunteered it, reluctantly even in the moment, as a solution to the problem. It was a tool at her disposal, and in a crisis, she will use any tool.

And after the crisis, she will weep.

Apotheosis is a tool. The fragment of Alcor did not refer to it in those terms, but it is the manner in which she understood it. An act ultimately to benefit the celestial, by allowing it a brief material manifestation, a means through which to empower itself and spread its will. And, in so doing, potentially fell Aboleth, first and father of all.

It's a tool. An option the Naielle of the battlefield would seize.

And Naielle of the ship fears it.

She doesn't think she'd regret it in the moment. That she'd acknowledge, even afterwards, that to make that commitment, to declare herself Alcor incarnate, would be the correct decision. But it means the loss of her individual personhood, her chance to live a life she has long craved with her wife, with her family. Isolated from all of them. Even if her decision was the deciding factor in their success, she thinks she might regret that.

So she wants to remove it. Naielle of the ship sees a tool that will kill her, no ifs ands or buts, that will take from the people she holds dear and deny her the satisfaction of victory.

And Naielle of the battlefield would see it as a decisive tool against evil. As a way to protect what she holds dear, to ensure that they all get to live their lives full and without fear. A way to allow others like Naielle their happy ending, at the cost of her own. A small price.

And the two are not reconciled. Maybe they never will be. Maybe Naielle of the ship will dither and delay, and deny herself any out, and Naielle of the battlefield will win. Or Naielle of the ship will be decisive, and she'll remove it from the board, and Naielle of the battlefield will regret its absence.

And both Naielle's, I think, wrestle over the idea of whether the self matters more than the group. And they'll keep wrestling until the storm envelops of them all.

[clawsextended]

selina killing gortash is extraordinarily cathartic for her because she finally got to fucking kill her dad.

[ambrosiagourmet]

I love Izutsumi. She's got a great design, she's a fun addition to the main party, she adds some new tension, and she's honestly one of the reasons I read dungeon meshi in the first place. I mean, "the most cat to ever girl" is an extremely appealing hook to anyone who loves cats and girls (me, I love cats and girls).

However, while I have always liked Izutsumi, I finished the story kind of feeling like I didn't really get her. I felt like I had a decent grasp on her character an character arc (she's a traumatized teen given space to feel safe and open up, and because of that she realizes that she can't grow without letting go of the coping mechanisms she once needed). But I didn't feel like I really understood her role in the story as a whole.

She follows the group of her own accord, after a coincidental meeting and a misunderstanding of what they can do for her. She's never super invested in saving Falin, at least not compared to the rest of the group. Though they do help her escape Maizuru's shackles, and are clearly good for her in general, she doesn't really have a healing Moment with the group the way that Senshi does with the hippogriff soup.

And yet, she gets an entire chapter, the third-to-last chapter, dedicated to exploring her growth and future. She's the one who frames much of the falling action, who lets us check in with everyone. She's the one who helps talk Laios into accepting his role as king. She may join the story part way through, but she is there for most of it. So Izutsumi! What's your deal!?

Well, I think I've come up with an answer, at least for myself, that I really like. Two of them, even! Though they both really work together to form the overall point - Izutsumi is the character that most helps the story face towards the future. Here's why I think that.

So the first of these "ah-ha" moments was when I realized that Izutsumi really is the best supporting evidence for Laios' point about the good things that wouldn't have happened if Falin hadn't died.

If Falin hadn't been eaten by the dragon, Izutsumi probably would still be a slave. It was because of Shuro and Laios' parties both being in the dungeon to rescue Falin, as well as Marcille's use of ancient magic in the resurrection, that she got the chance to escape. None of that would have been the case if Falin hadn't died. Shuro wouldn't have separated from the group and joined up with his retainers, Marcille wouldn't have revealed her knowledge of ancient magic, and Izutsumi never would have even met any of them. They are only part of her life because of Falin's death.

Though this isn't explicitly pointed out by Laios or Izutsumi in the scene, I do think you can very much feel the presence of it. For one, when Marcille reflects on the journey and how much it made her realize she didn't want to lose everyone, her relationship with Izutsumi is prominent:

It's the main original group at the top and center, but when you read it right to left, it’s Izutsumi and Marcille who might catch your eye first. And it's specifically Marcille and Izutsumi's relationship on display here, not just Izutsumi's presence in the group in general.

Also, after Laios' statement about how none of their adventure would have happened without Falin dying, it is Izutsumi who gets the final word:

Izutsumi is also the one here who is the most forward-facing. Chilchuck is trying to correct Laios, Senshi is focused on the immediate future, and Izutsumi is talking about her new goal.

And I want to talk about that goal in general as well, because it’s also interesting how it comes up. In that moment, everyone is trying to remind Marcille of her less destructive desires - to eat food, to share it with them, and to meet Chilchuck's family. All of which are previously established, existing desires. When prompted by Chilchuck to join in, however, Izutsumi offers something new:

That's interesting, isn't it? It's kind of funny, of course, to see her rambling on about a completely new thing, her own personal motive, in the middle of everyone working together to reach out to Marcille. Izutsumi doesn't even know who Yaad is! But at the same time, it’s kind of meaningful. Amidst the focus on desires that everyone already had, she adds a completely new one to the mix. It’s even the final bridge that lets Laios reach Marcille.

It is, in fact, even an idea that comes back later to help out another lord of the dungeon. The idea of finding new goals and feeling new desires... this is exactly how Kabru reaches out to Mithrun, after the Winged Lion is gone

So yeah, Izutsumi's presence here, both in what she's actively choosing to say as well as what she represents of the consequences of Falin's death, supports the story's ideas of moving forward. Of accepting the past, and finding new reasons to live.

Which is all really good, and that alone works pretty well as an answer to what Izutsumi's role in the story is.

But oh, oh. There's more. Something I realized after having thought of all this, because I still couldn't let go of the feeling that there was still something I was missing.

And as I reviewed the things I loved about Izutsumi - her sometimes unhealthy ways of coping with trauma, her struggles with isolation, her skill with fighting, her selfishness contrasted with the ways she grows to care for and protect the group, her perpetually guarded nature, born from the seeming impossibility of ever fitting in or finding a safe place to just be herself - I realized something.

Izutsumi...

is a foil to Falin.

Where Falin copes with isolation and trauma by being eternally caring and struggling to say no to people, Izutsumi copes by constantly saying no to everything she can. Falin is often considered selfless, but does have selfish desires that she can’t easily express until a moment of crisis. Izutsumi is delightfully selfish, but chooses to stick by her friends when they need her. They are both transformed, against their will, into partly monstrous hybrids, and they both will have to live with that - there is no undoing what has been done to them.

Falin anchors the group in the past. Izutsumi pulls them towards the future. Neither would find freedom without the other - it is Falin's death that leads to Izutsumi joining the party, and likewise, it is Izutsumi who inspires the realization of how they can save Falin.

And Falin is her future, as much as Izutsumi is Falin's. Both learn to be a little more like each other, even though they never meet. Falin gets a little more selfish. Izutsumi gets a little more willing to bend.

In this context, I feel like I have finally started to understand just how important Izutsumi is to the story. She is a proof that they cannot just go back, and she is a clawed, happy-to-scratch-anyone-who-pisses-her-off reminder, at that. In any conversation about what the group wishes would have happened with Falin, she cannot be ignored or brushed aside.

She is a reminder that, even in the midst of a tragedy so big it feels like a shadow you will never escape, you have yet to met all the people you will love. Hell, some of those people might even be catgirls. We should all be so lucky.

[slaytheusurper]

⭑ Our sweet sister ⭑

Masterlist

Pairing: Aegon II Targaryen x Sister!reader x Aemond Targaryen

Summary: Aemond has been waiting for years to marry his favourite sister, Aegon agreed it was the only way of keeping her close of making sure she only belonged to them. But her being given away to a dornish prince changes everything.

Warnings: NSFW, +18 mdni, targcest, murder, threesome (my first), making out, mastrubation, grinding, fingering, oral (both m and f receiving), vaginal sex, breeding kink, mommy kink, titty sucking, creampie, switch Aegon, dom Aemond and Aegon being drunk as always.

Word count: 3.3k

The early morning rays shone through your window in the Red Keep as your handmaiden finished up with your hair. She always had a need to have your hair perfect, not one strand out of place. With some pins she adjusted the headpiece with the sheer black fabric and green and gold details. Your mother, Queen Alicent, could arrive any moment with your twin sister Heleana, to pick you up for prayer at the sept. 

You absolutely despised it but you could never disobey your mother. You were her favourite daughter after all. She always tried to get close to Heleana but you knew your twin preferred to keep her distance from everyone. Even though you were twins, you didn’t really look alike. Both of you of course had the silver hair and lilac eyes of house Targaryen but your facial features were different from hers.

The door opened and your mother and sister entered your chamber. “My dear, how did you sleep?” Alicent asked as she adjusted your headpiece a bit, at which your handmaiden frowned. “Fine, shall we leave?” You stood up and Alicent stopped fussing with your hair, following you out instead. Strolling through the halls with your mother and sister in front of you, Aemond walked passed giving you a small smile. To which you mouthed a silent “Help me”, he chuckled as he gave you one last sympathetic smile over his shoulder. 

You thanked the gods the morning passed swiftly, for you were already on your way back to the Red Keep. When you reached the door of your bedchamber you hurriedly went inside as your handmaiden stood at the ready for your, often daily, dragon ride with Aemond. She helped you quickly change into your dragon riding attire. You and Aemond have always been extremely close, always there for each other, both the favourite children. But ever since Aemond started to grasp for more power, he started to lose the favour of his mother, her now fully turning her attention to you. 

Your eldest brother, Aegon, had never been much loved by your mother. And because of your maturity and grace, he started to cling to you instead. This was the root of your complicated but deep connection with your older brother, everytime he got scolded or drunk he would turn to you. Now this used to be in an innocent way but lately the winds started to shift, Heleana was more distant from him then ever, his mother had just been ignoring him and his father on the doorstep of death. You hadn’t seen him yet today, so you assumed he was still asleep, you would check on him later. 

As for now, you would take to the skies with your other brother. You couldn’t admit it but the way people were terrified when the two of you flew together made you feel so powerful. Yes the two biggest dragons of the realm were a godly sight indeed. You claimed Vermithor, The Bronze Fury, at age ten and two. That evening at Dragon Stone with your family was an interesting one. Everyone either preparing for bed or still drinking and talking was disrupted by the notice of your absence and the terrifying screeches and roars from the Bronze Fury below. Your mother demanded you to be rescued at once, for Vermithor was known to be relentless and fierce, having not accepted a rider after the old king died. But you were much like the dragon when it came to fierceness, you weren’t afraid. And so when the guards, dragon keepers and your family arrived at the cave where the dragons resided. You stood there, in your nightgown, hand on Vermithor’s nose. After years the Bronze Fury had been claimed... by a little girl.

Aemond joined you in the training yard where your horses were waiting to take you to the outskirts of the city, for Vermithor and Vhagar were both too big for the Dragon Pit. You were both quick to mount and race through the city to get to your dragons. When you arrived, Vermithor and Vhagar were both resting next to each other, they too, formed a close bond, as they only had each other outside the dragon pit. Both of them lifted their heads and grumbled and roared at the sight of the two of you, knowing they could fly with their riders again. You both climbed on your mounts and took to the sky, frightening the shit out of towns beneath you. 

It felt good to be with Aemond, natural but powerful at the same time. You knew his desperate want for the throne but that still couldn’t change how you saw him. By the time you came back the sun had begun to set and you both knew supper would be soon. So you returned with your brother to the Red Keep where two guards were waiting to take you to the dining room. As you both entered your mother wore a disapproving look on her face, she didn’t like the two of you flying for so long but when it also cut into her time with her family she really got annoyed. “You stink of dragon.” She began. “We only just got back mother, time gets away from us on dragon back.” Aemond defended. You took your seats next to each other, Aemond to your right. Aegon to your left. Heleana to his left. Her head down as she mumbled to herself. Aegon slumped in his seat as always, probably already drunk and waiting for supper to end so he could sneak out to his whores. 

There was a tension in the air, your mothers and grandfather's eyes were on you. Only then did you really take in your mother, teary eyed, red cheeks, looking down. Weird. You thought, you looked at your grandfather, the hand of the king, questioningly. “You are twenty years old already,” He began, you still looked at him confused but deep down you knew where this was heading, again. “For 4 years I have been searching for a good match for you, I have tried again and again to match you with someone you could grow to like, maybe even love and yet, you refuse them.” Otto stood up from his chair, “Alas, I have had enough. Your father, sadly, cannot make these decisions anymore, so I have. Now an opportunity has arisen, one that I have been waiting for.”

“House Martell is looking for a fine lady to marry their second son, prince Robyn. I sent a letter a while ago and they have agreed to accept your hand.” Two hands slammed on the table as Aemond stood up in rage. “You will do no such thing! She is a Targaryen princess! She will not be married off to some Dorne cunt!” He yelled, you could only look down. You knew this day would come, where they would be fed up with your defiance and force you to marry. But it seemed your brother would not give up without a fight. 

What you didn’t expect was for Aegon to stand up as well. “My sister is the most beautiful and fine Targaryen princess of the realm, I stand with Aemond. You will not marry her off to some plain man of house Martell.” You were taken by surprise, Aemond’s reaction was expected but you didn’t know Aegon cared so much too. Otto Hightower leaned slightly over the table. “She will marry him, he and his family should be here on the morrow. End of discussion!” He sneered. You stood up and left without a word. You went to bed that night knowing your calm, easy life in King’s Landing was alas over. Aemond however, thought otherwise. 

After everyone had gone to bed he was still awake, mauling over the dinner. In a fit of rage at the memory he left his chambers and almost ran to his older brothers. He could hear the disturbance inside yet he did not care, not when his beloved sister was about to be sold off like a broodmare. He passed the guards and pushed open the door. Aegon's bedchambers were completely destroyed, cups, tapestries, pillows, blankets were everywhere, glass and wine splayed on the grounds and walls. Aegon was standing over a small table that used to hold his wine. “Brother.” Aemond urged. Aegon looked up, his eyes bloodshot and fist balled up. “There is only one way to stop this, to keep her here.” Aegon didn’t even respond, he just nodded. They were very different from each other but they both had one thing in common, they loved you.

You woke up from a restless sleep to the entire Red Keep in disarray, you could hear shouting and arguing from inside your bedchamber and just as you were about to open the door. Heleana entered your bedchamber, hands covering her ears. You knew if Heleana looked to hide with you, it was bad. “What is it? Hel, what happened? Tell me.” She looked at the ground and muttered. “They’re dead.” Fear struck your heart as you thought the worst, her children? Your brothers? “What?! Who is Heleana?” You grabbed her hands and sat her down on your settee. “House Martell, at least, the prince and his father. Qoren Martell is now to be their new king.” You couldn’t help but smile. “How did they die?” Heleana finally looked at you, “They say Aegon and Aemond left in the middle of the night. No one could stop them as Aegon mounted Sunfyre and Aemond mounted Vhagar, they burned them on the Fork Road until nothing but ashes were left. Grandfather is furious as you might have heard.” 

That was the end of a short betrothal between you and the prince of Dorne. It took two weeks for things to finally calm in the Red Keep. But the two brothers' plans to keep you here were not completed. Sure their enemy was dead but it would be sooner or later the hand found a new match so they had to make sure you couldn’t marry. You were sitting in your bedchamber on your settee, in your nightgown, your long silver hair down while reading a book about The First Men. When all of a sudden your bedchamber creaked open, as you looked up from your book both Aegon and Aemond entered your bedchamber. You weren’t allowed to speak to them, for two weeks you hadn’t been able to leave other than to pray by your mothers request. You couldn’t help but smile as both of them entered with a mischievous grin on their faces. You also noticed the guards outside were gone. 

“You know you aren’t allowed to be here.” You said closing your book. They didn’t say a word as Aegon went and sat down on the settee in front of you, while Aemond settled next to you. “For two weeks we have lived in agony of not seeing you, not speaking to you. But as you know, Aegon and I have taken matters into our own hands. You, are ours. And we will do anything and burn anyone to keep you here.” Aemond spoke as he moved your hair behind your ear, placing a featherlight kiss on your neck making your eyes flutter shut. A fire started to burn inside you, heart thumping in your chest and a tingling feeling in your abdomen. When you opened your eyes you saw Aegon looking at you through half lidded eyes, his lips parted as you noticed a bulge in his pants. You weren’t stupid, you knew what sex was and you knew what they wanted and oh did you want it too.

“You, I think, know how we can keep you here. If your innocence is ruined, you’ll have no choice but to marry Aemond. You’ll stay here and have his children and of course you can keep taking care of me as well, right sister?” Aegon spoke, now standing up and moving to sit at your right side. You could only nod as Aemond groaned and moved his hand up your thigh, while Aegon grabbed your chin and smashed his lips on yours. Moving his lips feverishly against yours. Teeth clashing, tongue entwining and hands moving to rip off any clothes that were on you in the first place. Aemond finally had you bare next to him as his hand moved between your thighs, his lips and tongue moving over your neck. You moaned in Aegon's mouth, even your filthiest fantasies couldn’t compare to the real thing.

“Need you so bad mommy.” Aegon whined against your lips. You could hear a faint chuckle from Aemond who now used two fingers to tease your wet folds. “Listen to him, you haven’t even touched him yet and he’s already begging for it.” You couldn’t even speak as Aegon refused to stop kissing you. Aemond now circling your clit with his fingers making your free hands grip the fabric of the settee. Aegon started to remove his own clothes while never leaving your lips as Aemond paused to take off his as well. Both men now in their breeches, their hard ons evident between their legs. The effect you had on them made you feel like a goddess. You had them wrapped around your finger and they had you wrapped around theirs.

Aemond moved off the settee and kneeled between your legs, you looked down at him as he undid the clasp of his eyepatch, the sapphire in his eye socket twinkling in the candlelight. Aegon moved his lips down towards your chest, taking a nipple in his mouth and suckling on it like a babe. Aemond started to kiss between your thighs moving further until he reached your aching cunt. Tongue darted out as he began to lap at your folds. You could barely breathe as pleasure consumed you. Aegon sucked and licked at your breast hungrily, holding the other in his hand and using his right hand to pull down his breeches enough to free his cock. As Aemond continued to eat you like a starved man making you moan and whine, Aegon started to pump his cock, eager for that pure bliss. "Fuck- mommy-" Aegon mumbled.

Both brothers groaned and panted against you, Aemond now palming himself through his breeches. He couldn’t help it, he was too impatient. Precum started to leak from Aegon’s tip, he moaned and whined around your nipple. You couldn’t take it anymore, the erotic sounds, the feeling of one brother fucking you with his tongue and the other sucking on your breast while he was pleasuring himself, with a gasp and a plead you reached your peak. Seeing spots of how hard you squeezed your eyes shut. Your thighs clamping together around Aemonds head, which he forced right open before he stood back up. You hadn’t even noticed he removed his breeches as well. His cock stood proud, also leaking from the mere sight of you bare before him.

Aemond eyed Aegon hungrily, also seemingly turned on by the noises he made. Not to mention the sight of him at your breast while fucking his own fist. Aemond pulled Aegon of your nipple by his jaw and forced him to face his brother, before pulling him in a harsh kiss. Aegon made a strangled noise at the action and stopped pleasuring himself to hold the back of Aemond’s head, not wanting to let go of him. Then Aemond pushed his knee between Aegon's legs right against his hard cock. 

Aegon gasped against his brother's lips, you whined at the sight, never had you seen such an erotic scene before you and you were begging the gods to not let it stop. Aemond didn’t stop there but started to move with more pressure against Aegon’s cock, capturing his moans in his mouth. Aegon removed himself from Aemond’s lips for a moment. “Please- don’t stop- feel so good.” He mumbled. Your hand unconsciously slid down your body, touching yourself was the only way to relieve that nagging ache that returned again. But to Aegon and to your surprise, Aemond did stop. Making Aegon whine at the removal of the contact. “On the bed, both of you.” Aemond commanded, and both of you scrambled towards your bed. 

Aemond followed, positioning you like you weighed nothing. Putting you on your hands and knees, commanding Aegon to move towards your head while he stayed behind you. Aegon knew exactly what Aemond wanted and already held the base of his cock to smear his precum across your parted lips. Aemond grazed your other lips with his cock, smearing your arousal around. He reached out his hand to Aegon. “Spit.” Aegon did as told immediately and let his saliva drop onto his little brother's hand. Which Aemond used to coat his cock making it easier to breach your maidenhead. Aegon entered your mouth and hissed at the feeling, somehow this was better then any whores cunt. His sister and his brother sharing the bed with him was better than a thousand whores. 

You softly sucked on Aegon’s cock while Aemond pushed the head of his into your cunt. You whined around Aegon while Aemond sank further into you, a shuddering breath leaving his lips at the feeling of his sister's tight hole around him. He had waited so long, feeling sure that the two of you would be wed but that day never came, and it would never unless he took the matter into his own hands. Moans, gasps and panting filled the moonlit room, it was almost an ethereal sight. Three silver haired bodies becoming one. When Aemond felt you relax and Aegon started to carefully fuck your mouth, he started to move as well. Wanting nothing more than to fill you with his seed that would hopefully take root so he could finally make you his wife and mother of his children. "Oh mommy feels so good-" Aegon whined.

As your moans grew louder, Aemond started to fuck into you harder. Gripping your hips so he could move you against him as well. Aegon was the first to finish, being already so pent up and horny he didn’t last long in your warm wet mouth. With a gasp of your name he filled your throat with his cum, fingers entangled in your hair for support. He pulled his softening dick out and laid down next to you catching his breath. Aemond started to now pound into you like a wild animal, it seemed as if he was so lost in pleasure he couldn’t hear or see anything else but you. Aegon however, with a clearer mind, sat up and moved closer to you. Letting his hand trace your body to where you and Aemond were connected. 

Moving his fingers until he found your clit, you confirmed with a moan. He let his fingers rub against your sweet spot adding to the pleasure of your building orgasm. You pleaded for more, and Aegon started to move his fingers in rhythm with Aemond. This was all you needed, all you needed to scream out their names while gripping the sheets in ecstasy. Your walls clenched around Aemond, making him see stars. Aegon removed his fingers and watched in awe as his brother fucked you relentlessly. 

However Aemond’s thrusts were getting sloppier. And his cursing and groaning made it clear he was about to peak as well. With a couple of final thrusts he came hard. Making sure to go as deep as possible, he spurted his cum right against your cervix. Surely filling your womb with his spent. Giving you a couple of lazy trusts he made sure to be completely milked empty before pulling out. Letting himself fall on the bed next to you so he could pull you against his side. Aegon, not wanting to be left out of it, crawled against your other side, cuddling up next to you. What you didn’t notice, was how the door was accidentally left ajar. Your brothers made sure the entire Red Keep knew of your bedding. Surely they can’t deny Aemond his sister now?

[alicentofhightower]

the cost of a dragon

pairing: addam velaryon x wife!reader

synopsis: addam is covered in cuts and scrapes from falling and running in the forest, and now you must take care of him.

includes: fluff, episode 6 heavy spoilers, probably historically inaccurate w some parts but we’re just gonna Let That Slide, not proofread again oops

wc: 1.3k

a/n: i love him so bad. rn my top 3 tb characters are rhaenyra rhaena and addam. he’s so sweet!! i really hope we get to see a lot more of him in the next few episodes

-

Addam is bewildered when he returns to your home, panting, eyes wide and mouth agape. You’ve never seen him like this, but you guess that it’s the dragon laying beside your house that’s done it.

“What’s happened?” You exclaim when you see the way he’s stumbled in, bleeding from a cut on his cheek.

“…The, the dragon,” He mumbles, locked hair spilling over his shoulders. Addam walks over to where you stand by the kitchen table, hands gently grasping your forearms, as yours do his, thumbs running over your skin to ground himself. He smells strange, like something otherworldly. Could it have been because of the beast outside your door?

“It came to me, followed me through the woods by the shore. I think I’ve claimed him. Yes, that’s what I’ve done. I must go.” Addam attempts to retract himself from your grip, but to no avail.

The pots and pans inside rattle when the silver creature lay its head on the yard outside, no doubt resting from its flight. “Please, my love,” Addam insists. “I need to go and see the queen myself. She is in need of more dragons herself, is she not? If I serve her, perhaps she will allow you and I to live at Dragonstone with her. This is our chance.”

You shake your head, apron ruffling from the beach’s wind blowing through the window. Addam has always been ambitious, has always wanted the best for you and himself. He’s fiercely loyal to you, a quality that made you want to marry him in the first place.

“Addam.” Your hands fly up to cup his cheeks, stopping him from continuing on with his tangent. “You’re covered in gashes and dirt and sand. At least let me lend you a hand.”

He softens at that, jaw seeming to unclench. Addam’s brown eyes have always been expressive, and now they seem to look at you as if you’re the sweetest person he’s ever known. “…I suppose you’re right,” He mutters, “but we must make haste.”

Finally, you let go of each other. You use one of your hands to intertwine your fingers with his, and the other to grip your skirts as you lead him to your room. It’s small and modest, mostly swallowed up by the bed you share. “Sit,” You say, almost commandingly, quickly fetching a spare piece of cloth by the tub in the main room and a bowl of water.

Addam’s eyes almost glint at the way you flounce about before him. He spreads his legs so you are able to stand between them, chin tilting up so he can make eye contact with you while you fix him up.

“Let me see.”

He holds out his right arm, palm up, covered in tiny scratches and sand from his poor attempt to escape from his new dragon. Seasmoke, he remembers. Addam squeezes your right hand lightly while the other cleans him up.

You barely manage to suppress a heavy scoff at the mess in front of you, but you dab gently at it with the towel anyway, soaked with water. “What did you do?” You ask, brows knitting together. “Did you try to run from it?”

“Yes,” He admits, face scrunching together at the fresh memory. You’ve told him to be careful of the sky-beasts constantly looming over the two of you, and he knows he’ll be scolded for trying to escape the damn thing.

You shake your head, mostly to yourself, and Addam’s shoulders deflate. “Well, what would you have done?” He asks, exasperated. “My apologies for wanting to come home to you tonight.”

You pinch his arm. “I only worry for you,” You say, voice soft. Addam and his brother, Alyn, are the only family you’ve left; you’d never known your father, and your sweet mother had died of a fever shortly after your seventeenth nameday. She hadn’t been able to last, to see you wed the man you love so dearly.

“…What will you say, when you see Queen Rhaenyra? She may think you are coming as a foe, to battle rather than service.”

Addam hisses as you brush against a particularly deep cut, eyes squeezing shut. “Sorry,” You say, and he only tips your interlaced fingers up to his lips and kisses the back of your hand.

Your husband pauses after he lets your hands back down, considering the weight of whatever his words to the Black Queen will mean. He almost thinks of it as a duty, to you and his brother. To further your ever so small family.

“I suppose the words will come to me when it happens.” He swallows harshly, eyes averted from yours, darting around like he’s telling himself to fucking think.

You’ve moved onto his other arm, now, and suddenly the odor of him has become unbearable. It’s nothing like anything you’ve smelled before.

Grimacing, you drop the washcloth and cover your nose with your hand, taking a step back. “What?” questions Addam, clearly confused. “What’s the matter?”

“Gods, you fucking stink. What is that?”

Addam laughs. He laughs, tension seeping out of him as he does. “It must be the dragon,” He claims, reaching out to grab your waist and pull you back towards him. “Don’t mind it, please.”

You’re unable to fight the smile you feel blooming, because despite the fact that your husband reeks of his new dragon sleeping outside your home, and your feet are sore from walking to the markets, only to find nothing, and your nerves are set ablaze thinking of his meeting with Rhaenyra, Addam is here. He’s here with you, holding you, safe in the comfort of your humble little home.

The feeling is fleeting, only settling in you for a moment, but you tip your head down to press a kiss to his mouth. “You must be vigilant,” You plead when you pull away, ignoring the way Addam’s lips seem to chase after yours. “And you must return to me. I do not know what I would do if I were to lose you.”

“I will be. I swear it.”

You brush away the dried blood on his cheek with the cloth, frowning. “We should leave, shouldn’t we? Fly to Essos, where we will be safe without the threat of war. That dragon is large enough to saddle three, isn’t it? We can go-“

A thumb soothingly presses against your lips, silencing you. “…If I can put the thing to use, it will strengthen us. Strengthen whatever I have with my father.”

Addam had always been desperate to get the same attention from Lord Corlys that Alyn had always seemed to receive after he’d saved the man. You’d never spoken to the Lord Velaryon yourself before, but it was hard to miss the way he’d stare at you when you visited your husband in the shipyard, almost melancholically.

“I do not care for jewels and gowns and for you to be gilded in glory, Addam,” You state, pushing his wrist away from your face. “I care for you. Should we not go now? I could find your brother.”

“No.” He shakes his head, standing from the bed, now towering over you. His fingers, callused from his seemingly never-ending work on Lord Corlys’s ship, caress your waist almost reverently.

Almost every inch of your skin heats up when Addam leans down to kiss your chest, right where your heart is. The skin is covered by the sea-blue gown you wear, a white apron tied about your waist, and you shudder at the feel of his lips on such an intimate spot.

He kisses up from your bosom to your mouth again, firm and sweet and longing. There’s no guarantee you’ll ever see him again, but some strange part of you feels that all will be well. It’s a naive thought, perhaps, but one you welcome nonetheless.

“I will come back to you,” He promises, voice rasping. “I love you.”

[dalishious]

Dragon Age: The Veilguard’s Familiar Faces and Factions

The trailer for Dragon Age: The Veilguard has dropped, and I couldn’t be more excited. It’s like a new breath of life has entered my lungs!

Within the trailer, we now have confirmation of who our seven companions are going to be, and among them are a few familiar faces from the book Dragon Age: Tevinter Nights. We also have some name-droppings of a couple factions featured in the same book and the comics, Dragon Age: The Missing. So, here is what knowledge is established about these faces sand factions.

Neve Gallus & The Shadow Dragons

Neve Gallus was first introduced in the Tevinter Nights story, “The Streets of Minrathous”. She comes off as a no-nonsense and a little intense kind of person. Neve is a Tevinter mage who works as a private investigator. For example, if someone wants some detective work done but doesn’t want the public to know, they would hire Neve. On occasion, she’s even been hired by the templars, who act like just regular cops in Tevinter – and yes, that includes their corruption and primary goal of simply protecting the elite – but Neve prefers to work alone because of that corruption, and has a personal grudge against the order for taking bribes to cover up crimes.

Neve has a prosthetic leg below the knee, made of dwarven-crafted metal.

In The Missing, Neve says she is friends with the Shadow Dragons. In the article shared by EA, as of The Veilguard, she is officially a member. The Shadow Dragons are a group of concerned Tevinter citizens who help those in need. This includes supporting escaped slaves, for example.

Emmrich Volkahrin

Emmrich Volkahrin was first introduced in the Tevinter Nights story, “Down Among the Dead Men”. He is a necromancer from Nevarra, and therefore naturally a member of the Mortalitasi – specifically, a professor in the Mourn Watch. The Watchers serve as elite guardians of the Grand Necropolis. Emmrich is on the eccentric side, personality-wise, but kindly and informal.

Emmrich has a skeleton assistant name of Manfred, who helps him with different office tasks. He also has friends in Myrna, a fellow Watcher, and Audric, a dead guardsmen who looks after the library.

Lucanis Dellamorte

Lucanis Dellamorte was first introduced in the Tevinter Nights story, “The Wigmaker Job”. He is the favourite grandson of Caterina Dellamorte, First Talon (leader) of the Antivan Crows. As such, he was raised from birth to be the perfect assassin in a ruthless and torturous environment, knowing only cruelty from his family. This has led to him feeling less like a person and more like a living weapon – and he is treated like one by everyone who knows of him. He has “the Demon” as a nickname.

I know a few people are curious about the “mage killer” title in the trailer. Rest assured that Lucanis specifically kills evil blood mages. In his own words: “If someone wants to pay me top coin to kill a bunch of racist blood mages—who have it coming—I’m not going to complain.”

Where his cousin Illario has a “silver tongue” as Lucanis puts it, he himself is a lot blunter. His reputation of a killer is spotless, except for one small problem: He has a heart under all that black leather.

Lucanis and Illario get along quite well, except for the fact that Lucanis is destined to be the next First Talon, after Caterina dies. Illario wants the job far more than Lucanis, but Lucanis isn’t sure he’s capable of making a decision for himself that goes against the wishes of the Crows.

The Veil Jumpers

The Veil Jumpers were first introduced in The Missing #3. They are a group made up of primarily Dalish elves, though also inclusive of other folks of any walks of life willing to help, working to try and control the new threats within Arlathan Forest. The forest has become a ground of chaotic magic, with the Veil so thin that time and place is jumbled together. Thus, the Veil Jumpers move in and out of the spots that bleed into one another.

The Veil Jumpers do have a headquarters called “The Sanctum”, but we know nothing else about it.

The Lords of Fortune

Despite the Lords of Fortune being mentioned in more than one Tevinter Nights story, as well as the show Dragon Age: Absolution, we don’t know a lot about them. The only concrete information provided is that they are a loose group of people who collect trinkets and glory. They come out of Rivain. They typically wear a lot of their collected trinkets like badges of honour. That’s really all there is, so I can’t wait to learn more.

[sourcherryandsprinkles]

Aemond goes to Storm’s End to spend some time with the Baratheon daughters as he agreed to marry one of them in exchange of House Baratheon’s banners and men. He spends time with each sisters, and ends up getting along with you the best although your older sister says she deserves the prince more. You disregard their opinion and continue spending time with Aemond. Smut happens in secret…and almost gets caught

Request: Library sex!! Aemond find someone who loves books and reading and they end up having sex or maybee not all the way

Warnings: 18+, smut, fingering, almost getting caught,

my taglists are here + you can send requests here at any time

—

When Aemond returned to Storm’s End, he viewed the Baratheon daughters as part of his duty. He was obligated to marry one of you in exchange for your house’s support for his brother’s claim. Any of you would have done the job, but Lord Borros let him choose. 

The daughters, on the other hand, saw him as a valuable prize. He was a prince. They competed fiercely for his favor, each eager to secure the final spot as his bride. 

‘’Did Prince Aemond propose?’’ you asked Floris as she returned from her afternoon with the prince. 

‘’He has not,’’ Floris said, sitting down on the end of the couch, still giddy from her outing. ‘’But he might soon.’’ 

‘’Did you kiss?’’ Cassandra pressed, wondering why her sister assumed so. 

Floris shook her head, and Cassandra sighed, turning her attention back to her embroidery. She was trying to make a dragon to impress Aemond, but it was somehow looking like an oversized bee with a long neck. 

Beside you, Ellyn breathed a dreamy sigh, thinking of the prince’s tall stature and sharp jawline. ‘’I’m seeing him tomorrow. I picked out a dress just for him.’’ 

‘’Is it the blue one?’’ Floris asked. 

Ellyn nodded with a sly smile. At the moment the dress had been made, it fitted Ellyn perfectly, but now her breasts were slightly spilling out of the neckline. It wasn’t appropriate wear for a casual dinner — not anymore. But when a prince was visiting and looking for his future wife, it was perfect. 

‘’That’s unfair. Not all of us have been graced by the Gods…’’ Maris moaned, jealousy evident in her voice.

When she spent time with Aemond, he made it clear that he had no interest in her. He didn’t say he didn’t wish to marry her, but she felt his disinterest. And he didn’t ask to see her again.

Cassandra interrupted, her tone sharp. ‘’As the oldest, I should be the one marrying the prince. I have flowered, therefore I am capable of providing heirs.’’ 

You rolled your eyes without letting her see. Three out of four of your sisters had flowered; it didn’t make her superior. Not anymore. ‘’I doubt heirs are on the prince’s mind right now, Cassandra. Not when there’s a war in preparation.’’

‘’What do you know about war?’’ She raised an eyebrow, waiting.

‘’Why do you think Prince Aemond and Prince Lucerys asked for our father’s banners and men?’’

‘’She’s right,’’ Maris said, agreeing with you. ‘’He is only marrying one of us because his brother needs our house’s support. If the king had not sent him here, he would never have thought of making one of us his wife. I doubt he even knew our names before he flew to Storm’s End on his big dragon.’’ 

Cassandra huffed, refusing to recognize that Maris was right. 

Instead of waiting around for Ellyn’s return with Cassandra, Maris and Floris, you went to the library. You didn’t want to listen to her bragging about Aemond’s eye peeking down at her chest. Using your body to get a man’s interest was not how you planned to find your husband. For seducing the prince. You wanted him to marry you for the person you were, not the size of your breasts. The conversations would be sad.

‘’A reader lives a thousand lives before he dies. The man who never reads lives only one,’’ a voice you recognized as Aemond’s said quietly, his voice cutting through the stillness.

You raised your head from your book, seeing him standing by one of the shelves. ‘’May I help you with something, my prince?’’ 

Aemond plucked a book from the shelf and glanced at the first page. ‘’Searching for something to occupy my time. I do not mean to denigrate your home, but there is very little to do on Storm’s End.’’ 

‘’You read?’’ you asked, a hint of surprise in your voice. It was rare to find men who were genuinely interested in books.

The prince nodded once. ‘’I have a preference for history books.’’ He closed the book he was holding and returned it to its place on the shelf. 

‘’I’m afraid our library will disappoint you,’’ you said, a touch of regret in your tone. ‘’As you may have noticed, my father cannot read, and neither did my grandsire, so our collection is quite sparse.’’ 

Aemond’s gaze shifted to the book in your hands. ‘’What of the one you are reading?’’ he asked, raising an eyebrow.

‘’I bought it in town. My septa taught me how to read.’’ 

She taught all of your sisters, but only you and Maris were interested in reading. She insisted that reading was knowledge and believed that a woman should be more than just a dutiful wife and mother. Your father would strongly disagree with her; he just sold one of his daughters for a political alliance.

‘’You never brought it up during our outing.’’ 

‘’I didn’t want to bore you.’’ 

Aemond stepped closer, the distance between you narrowing. ‘’I think reading makes you more interesting.’’ 

Your heart quickened as his words hung in the air. 

Before your first outing with Aemond, Floris had warned you not to mention reading or books, saying that men don’t like that. It made you smile to find out she was wrong.

‘’May I join you?’’ He gestured to the seat beside you. 

You nodded, and Aemond gracefully sat beside you. He took the book from your grasp. You wanted to protest, but he began reading to you, his voice deep in tone, but soft and calm at the core. No one had ever read to you before. 

The torches on the walls of the library casted a golden hue over the room, creating a serene atmosphere. If your sisters knew of this intimate moment, they would be jealous. Especially Cassandra. You would love to see her reaction, watching her jaw tighten as she glared at you. 

Occasionally, Aemond would pause and you heard the gentle rustle of pages turning. You allowed yourself to steal glances at him from time to times, watching his lips move as he read. He must have caught you because sometimes the corner would twitch into a slight smile.

While he read, Aemond’s voice wrapped around you like a warm embrace, each word painting vivid images in your mind. You could listen to him for hours. 

‘’Why did you stop?’’ you asked, turning your head to look at Aemond with a frown drawing between your eyebrows. 

He didn’t say anything. He simply looked back at you, his one eye intensely holding your gaze, and you felt a magnetic pull drawing you closer. You wanted to be all up in his personal space. You wanted to touch his face, gently trace the line of his jaw and feel the warmth of his lips beneath your fingertip.

Aemond’s gaze lowered from your eyes to your lips, sending your heart racing with a newfound intensity. Maybe this unchaperoned moment was not a good idea? Or, maybe it was exactly what you needed? Before he knew it, Aemond’s hand touched your chin, guiding it towards him. He gave you a chance to pull back, to deny him, but only a fool would do so. 

You let your desire take control, closing the gap between you and kissing him. He instinctively leaned in and deepened the kiss, so tender but passionate at the same time. His scent filled your nose, his fingers in your hair while his lips pulled your bottom lip softly as he pulled away. 

A silence filled the air, your head still spinning from the kiss. You reached out to tenderly caress Aemond’s face, soft and smooth beneath your palm.  

Aemond dove for a second kiss, and you heard the thud of the book falling to the ground, completely forgotten. At another moment, you would have picked it up right away, but your mind was…occupied. 

You reached behind Aemond’s neck and pulled him closer to you, his own hands grabbing at your waist and hips as the intensity of the kiss increased. 

It wasn’t in the prince’s habits to kiss a woman like that — to kiss a woman, ever —, but something within Aemond was pushing him to make a move on you. Was this the desire his brother often told him about? 

Humming against his mouth, you grabbed at the front of his jacket, needing something to grab onto as you felt your lower belly start to tingle. The new sensation caused you to shift in your seat, the sudden throbbing between your legs making sitting on a chair very uncomfortable.

‘’Did I hurt you?’’ Aemond asked when you broke the kiss. 

You shook your head. ‘’No. I… Please keep going.’’

He searched your eyes for a sign that would contradict your words, and resumed when he couldn’t find any. 

He slid his hand up your arm and pulled down your sleeve from your shoulder, his warm palm brushing against your bare skin and rising goosebumps. You glanced down at your newly uncovered shoulder, breathing heavily. Aemond then moved down your sides to cup one of your breasts, causing your breath to catch in your throat. 

You wrapped your arms around his shoulders, pressing his chest flush against you. It was a clumsy position on the small reading couch, but Aemond manoeuvered himself to make it work. His hands slid down your back as his mouth traveled lower, to the dip in your throat, kissing your neck. You moaned under his mouth, the new sensation awakening so many new feelings inside you. He reached down your leg to find the bottom of your skirts and lifted the fabric to ghost his hand over your ankle and up your leg, bunching the hem up as you breathed heavily. 

You knew where he was going — and you wanted it. Gentleman as always, he stopped and searched for your eyes, needing your consent before pursuing. You nodded, excitement bubbling as you felt his palm on the inner part of your thigh, very close to where you wanted him. His name left your lips in a whisper, a soft beg. He covered your mouth with his, swallowing his name as he dove his hand between your legs. You felt his fingers prodding at your entrance, gently caressing the outside of you before swiping between your folds, causing you to gasp.

On the scale of forbidden things by your father, indulging in sexual activities outside of marriage — in his castle — was most likely at the top. He did not wish for his daughters to have a bastard baby or lose worth because they lost their maidenhood.

You should have asked Aemond to stop and pushed him away. But your desires were telling you to open your legs and let him in — literally. 

‘’Ahh,’’ you breathed out, your fist clenching over the prince’s clothed bicep as his long finger was deep inside of you, getting squeezed by your clenching walls. 

He pressed his forehead against yours, intently watching your expressions as you discovered a new pleasure. 

Aemond pressed his thumb down over your clit, and started to gently massage it. 

‘’Right there! It feels so good.’’ You sighed immediately and opened your legs a bit more, biting your lower lip to keep yourself from being too loud. There was no one else in the library, but anyone could come in. 

He added another finger, making you moan and pant around him. 

Unfortunately, the pleasure was short-lived as a servant calling your name. 

‘’H-here, Jeyne,’’ you replied, trying to keep your voice steady to avoid any suspicion.

You heard her footsteps approaching on the library’s floor, and you and Aemond quickly composed yourselves. You smoothed down the skirts of your dress while he picked up your book from the floor and opened it, pretending to read as Jeyne arrived.

The servant was visibly surprised to find Aemond with you as all your time in his company had to be chaperoned. She bowed her head to him respectfully before turning to you. ‘’I did not know you had company, miss.’’ Her tone indicated she was searching for gossip. 

You smiled kindly — and innocently — at Jeyne. ‘’Prince Aemond found me in the library during my afternoon reading. I was helping him find a book to take to his chamber as he forgot to bring one for his stay. You are not interrupting.’’ 

Despite their outward trustworthiness, you knew servants had loose lips, and that’s how rumors from the castle spread around town. 

‘’What is it that you wanted?’’ you asked, pressing her leave.

Jeyne glanced nervously between you and Aemond before speaking. ‘’Your father requests your presence in the great hall, miss. A raven arrived from Winterfell and he is struggling to read it.’’

You nodded, maintaining your composed demeanor. ‘’Thank you, Jeyne. Please inform my father that I will be there shortly.’’

You watched Jeyne leave, and let out a breath once she was out of earshot. That was close. Getting caught in a compromising position would not have been good for your reputation. 

Aemond closed his book, a frown marring his composed posture. ‘’I apologize for losing my manners, miss Y/N. I don't usually engage in these kinds of…activities in public places.’’ The mention of sex seemed to make him uncomfortable. His usual confidence was replaced by a rare vulnerability.

‘’I don’t either,’’ you said, your cheeks flushed as you stared at the skirt of your dress. ‘’I…I should get going. I promised to help Cassandra pick her dress for tomorrow. Not all dresses are suited for horseback riding.’’ You rose from the reading couch, giving Aemond one last glance. ‘’I’ll see you later at dinner, my prince.’’ 

You made a move to leave, but Aemond clasped his hand over your wrist. His touch was firm yet gentle, sending a shiver down your spine. ‘’That won't be necessary,’’ he interrupted, his voice low and steady. ‘’In case I haven't made myself clear, I've already made my choice. I want you.’’

—

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[baejax-the-great]

One of the things missing in Veilguard is any sort of meaningful power struggle. By keeping to the poorer parts of the city-settings, we don't really deal with corrupt or powerful nobles. By defanging the Crows, an organization who famously has lethal squabbles between factions, they turned them into some weird, benevolent family organization. Even the assassin trying to make "evil" power plays doesn't actually manage to kill any of his targets, and his ruthless relatives? Also don't kill him in revenge. In the end, the status quo is maintained. Nothing has changed.

In Tevinter, we have the Threads, an organized crime unit who we know runs "protection" rackets on the locals and is involved in some kind of smuggling (it's Tevinter--so presumably this would involve slavery and dangerous artifacts, but it's Veilguard, so I guess not). Instead of them beefing with the Shadow Dragons, who presumably ruin some of their deals with their pesky "freeing the slaves" thing, and instead of their main issue being with any sort of law enforcement, something which doesn't exist in Veilguard beyond one singular templar who does all of jack shit the entire game, their main power struggle is with the Venatori, who are evil just to be evil.

And instead of the Veilguard siding with law enforcement or the threads and enlisting their help to, idk, unseat the corrupt head of the templars or otherwise deal with the venatori shit, the threads are highly favored by the storyline, and in the end the only real choice is to make Neve a thread or to make her... idk, the same Neve? The game calls her an "inspiration", but it's not like she's part of any organization, so we can't call her a figurehead. It's just like, see that random citizen right there? She rules. And I don't really see how that increases the power of the rule of law, because even if one good person is working within rule of law to get things done, she's not part of the system, and everyone already know the system is corrupt in Minrathous. Random citizens in fucking Ferelden know the system is corrupt in Minrathous, or they would if they weren't all dead. Neve is now just playing on hard mode to appear righteous, which, good for her, but I'm sorry, won't inspire all that many people who are still paying "protection" money to the local mafia.

(Putting Neve in charge of the Threads is an absolutely whackadoodle decision by the devs that I don't even know how to respond to. She has a single Thread contact. Presumably the Threads have a hierarchy. She has never demonstrated interest in being a smuggler. Being a detective really has no overlap with being a crime boss. Telling a group of criminals that they are all detective's helpers now is sure to go over like a lead balloon. What the fuck was that. Why did that happen.)

Maevaris and Dorian arguing came out of nowhere and lasted a fairly long time, which was interesting, but after the most recent election in the states, Maevaris's position sounds unbearably naive and trite, and this hardly counts as a power struggle as they both say they will support the other depending on what some random outsider thinks should happen. (That is soooo not a basis for a system of government. Why would Maevaris OR Dorian cede their power to Rook, someone they don't know and who doesn't matter)

The power struggle within the Wardens is also very stupid and easily solved. The First Warden is a moron. He dies (kind of). For some reason the extremely hot and competent couple who we first encounter in the middle of nowhere are next in command, so, phew. Problem solved there. A question of what the Wardens will do now that the Blights are over would have been interesting. Do they keep recruiting lest the Blight somehow reoccur and nobody remembers the Warden secrets? Or do they disband? Do they set themselves to seeking a cure and nothing else?

The closest you get to that is deciding what the griffons will do, which, again, why the fuck is Rook deciding that, but also there are 13 of them, in two or three more generations they will be dead unless a lot of mages bone up on genetics real fast.

Who is left? We have Rivain, which is just pointless in this game. I played as a Lord of Fortune, but you could drop that faction and not a single thing changes in the game. Pirates who don't loot valuable artifacts because they are elvhen? Give me a fucking break.

Same for the Mourn Watch. There is pretty much nothing going on in that region. You could excise it from the game and nothing changes in the slightest. There is not a single excuse for them not using the Eluvians to help the Veilguard earlier in the game, given just how little they have going on.

The Veiljumpers are just missed opportunities all over the place. They could have had factions debating whether to join the god of vengeance in fucking up the human civilizations as payback for, you know, everything. They could have had people joining Cyrion in thinking that a Forgotten One might be the best way to face down the gods, given they'd done it before. There could have been a HUGE cultural impact on "what do we do now that we know our gods are evil fuckfaces--what do we keep and what do we throw away," but Veilguard ain't that deep. They could have had knowledge of a super-weapon or some elvhen bullshit that would help the Veilguard fight the gods... but nah.

In DAO, your decisions not only affected the political futures of the various regions, but they decided who would help you and how. Did the dwarves have golems? Did you have templars or mages? That whole wolf thing with the Dalish that I no longer remember that well? And the Dalish deciding to help changed how they were viewed in Ferelden. The mages helping you meant the monarch would treat them favorably. It fucking mattered.

In Veilguard, the only situation remotely close to that is the dragon decision at the beginning, which was one of the fucking dumbest plot points in a video game I have ever played. It was the first thing that made me set my controller down and go... what? What the fuck? The idea that Rook, a nobody, is the only person singularly capable of driving back a dragon in the entire north is laughable. What the fuck was Dorian up to that day? How is Rook more capable than every single Crow? How is it the two companions you sent to the other city were absolutely useless? If Lucanis/Neve + two companions were unable to drive a dragon away, what makes them think Rook would be the deciding factor? What makes them blame Rook when they themselves couldn't fucking do it? Neve in particular was a big part of fucking up that ritual and releasing the gods, so why is Rook taking all the fire for this?

AND WHY IS THEIR RESPONSE TO A BLIGHT TO FIND A SINGLE DRAGON HUNTER? HEY DIPSHITS, THE DRAGON IS HUNTING YOU. YOU DON'T NEED TO WORRY ABOUT THAT PART. YOU NEED AN ARMY.

But Treviso or Minrathous being spared doesn't change the global political situation at all. It would have been really interesting if it did. Tevinter hobbled? How many kingdoms would be salivating to take a bite out of their territory? With the trade princes of Antiva being absolutely fucked over by the Blight, who is taking over that trade? Who is getting rich?

Nobody, I guess, because why would Rook know or care about that, because, as previously mentioned, they are a nobody who doesn't matter and honestly shouldn't be listened to.

The stakes in this game are nothing because the bad guys are all so obviously bad that you know, as a video game player, that you are going to defeat them. Oh, the Antaam are just mindless, faceless brutes fucking up Treviso? Okay, let's kill them. Venatori again? I'm pretty sure they aren't the heroes of this game. There's no power struggle, and in the end all we've done is revert to the status quo, (except i guess Treviso is no longer occupied).

Except for the south. The south is dead. but we didn't have anything to do with that for some reason. Couldn't even be bothered to house some refugees in our safehouse that was built specifically to house refugees. The Inquisitor, who has access to the eluvians, couldn't figure out how to get other people through them or something so... sorry, every single Orlesian, Fereldan, and Marcher.

[gamblersdoll]

𝐓𝐀𝐊𝐄 𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐑𝐘𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐈 𝐆𝐈𝐕𝐄 𝐘𝐎𝐔!

a dragon-king! bakugou who finally meets someone who can take him— and maybe this marriage isnt such a bad thing. p in v, virgin! katsuki, (he gets a little bit excited) established relationship, breeding kink/ pregnancy mention.

katsuki hated the fact he was the new heir to the throne, his father passing away and that was truly a part of his sanity. mitsuki was the one who pushed marriage, he had to have a wife and sooner or later, children.

‘in what fucking planet do we live in to where we have to get married, hag?’ he remembers being a teenager and asking that question over and over and over again. just to be hit with a ‘our numbers are depleting, katsuki. we have to do these things in order to survive.’

he still rolls his eyes to the thought, but not now— since his old hag of a fucking mother is actually serious. she actually seeded out women who always wanted to be a woman on the throne, a woman who has seen the dragon queens’ son and wanted to risk it all for him. he despises it, women who throw themselves to a man.

“which one do you like the most, son?” she asks, smile lines on her aged face pulled by her fanged smile. “and hurry, we dont have all day.”

“none of them.” he deadpanned.

“boy— pick one or ill have your head!”

“and everyone wonders how dad died—“ he says, before receiving a smack to the back of his blonde head. “ow!”

“pick one, now.” she repeats, fixing herself and smiling to the line of girls presented to them. “alot of them are just lively.”

he sighs, crimson eyes wandering and his eyes match onto you, seeming like you truthfully didnt want to be here. “you,” he barks, a finger pointed at you and he nods up. “do you not want to be here or something?”

“to be picked by a dragon king who doesnt have anything better to do? absolutely not.” you snort, his eyebrow twitching and mistuki chuckles.

“perfect! we’ll set both of you up on a evening together.” she announces, a good bit of the women groaning and both of you lock eyes. didnt she just hear you werent here on your own will? katsuki scoffs, storming off and a hand dragging down his face.

“please excuse him, he’s not used to these things and doesnt know his duty as the new king.” she phrases, hands on your shoulders and a beaming smile. “youre going to love my son, im sure of it.”

“uh.. okay.” you say, at a lost for words.

you would love her son, huh? yeah, guess you could say that. his temper tantrums died down over the months— yet, one thing was weirder than anything,

that hes never once initiated sex. was he nervous? no, he’s never nervous to sit you on his lap when barking orders to servants or to behead a woman for questioning your intelligence and beauty, so it couldnt be he was nervous.

“bakugou, i have a—“

“woman, ive told you to call me katsuki.” he interrupted, a hand on a hip of yours and a deep grumble in his chest. the tribal jewelry jingled against his skin, a huff from him.

“katsuki, i need to ask you something.” you correct yourself, not daring to look to him— and yet he was staring deep into you. “why dont you ever.. why dont you ever try and touch me?”

he pauses himself at the question, a tight squeeze and then he looks away. “because you ain’ ready yet.” he solemnly says, a hand patting your hip. “ill let you know when.”

“you say that every time, though.” you reply, trying to press the matter further. “whats the real reason?”

he pinches the bridge of his nose, defensively irritated. “because you arent ready, woman.” he growls, agitation reaching his veins. “im not going to sit here and repeat my damn self.”

you get off of his lap, hearing a ‘sit back down’ from his lips and storm off. you werent hurt from his words, but you were questioning them. what in gods hell did he mean ‘you werent ready?’ youre a full fledged adult, not some child who couldnt understand why she couldnt go near the ocean.

maybe a few hours later, your king stumbling in and you both lock eyes. he opens his lips, eyes burning into yours. “im not here to fight with ya,” he says, a hand reaching onto your thigh and he huffs. “i just dont think youre physically prepared, nor mentally.”

“you arent my keeper, katsuki,” you remind, looking over to him and folding your arms in a groan. it was too late for this, especially after doing daily tasks as his wife. “you dont make that decision for me.”

“technically, i do. i dont have to fuck a woman.” he reminds as well.

“and what, do you not want pups?” you ask, his eyes flickering to you and his bouncing knee stops. “or is it im just not doing something for you?”

“not once have i ever said i didnt want children with you, y/n.” he growled, his gripping on your thigh tight. “i just said that you weren’t ready for that kind of thing, what apart of that dont you understand?”

“and how do you know what i am and am not ready for? is it because you havent slept with anyone before?”

he looks at you, straight faced.. you feel a chill go through your body, and you feel as if you had entirely fucked up— forgotten that this was a dragon king that you were married to..

and that you were dealing with.

“the last woman i tried to marry with could barely take anything that i gave her, you want to be next?” he warns, a small ounce of venom tracing his lips and he raised an eyebrow. “watch how you address me.”

“you know damn well thats not what i meant—“

“so what did you mean?”

“i meant if this is your first marriage, your first woman you slept with, ever.” you admit, scrambling for words to better help your case.

“yes and no.” he replies, patting your thigh. “the many women i tried to mate with could barely handle the tip.”

“okay.. so she left you because youre big down there, boo hoo—“

“no, you’re not understanding what i’m saying.” he stops you, grabbing your hands. “im your first dragon man, so..”

“us dragon men, we are bigger than the average human being. thats why we are better suited for dragon women, because their bodies can handle it.” he explained, still staring into you. “you arent ready for that kind of thing yet—“

“yeah, if you dont even attempt with me.”

he runs his hand through his hair, a nervous scoff. “the last woman who said that, her cervix was bruised and she cant have pups now, do you want that for yourself or do you not care about us?”

“katsuki, you dont have to be scared to do this with me.” you say, not even taking into account that he was a competitor, saying such words strikes a chord within him. and his chest swells with pride, him crawling onto you.

“no one is scared, woman.”

dragon men were definitely alot bigger than the average human man, you could feel it against you through the clothes that he wore, and his hands being big enough to wrap around your entire thigh.

his lips leave your neck, a whine coming from your throat and a deep grumble comes from his. he ran hot, his palms heated and sweaty from the passion and him grinding himself into your stomach.

he was needy, he hadnt been this needy in years.

“katsuki..” you mumble, hands along his sides and he kisses your lips, shutting you up.

“you think yer’ ready, little one?” he asks, his eyes blown out and dilated. he had been waiting for this, you can tell. you nod, teeth pulling at the small of your lip corner and he nods with you. his pants fall… and he wasnt lying, being nine inches long and twenty two centimeters wide. you swallow thick, looking down to the second beast he was swinging around. “you like to listen now, dont you?”

you nod, spreading your legs and he licks his lips. you watch his crawl ontop of you, kissing your collarbone and pressing his tip against your folds.

“kat—“ you say, him grunting and looking to you. “dont be nervous, okay?”

he softens a little, immediately forgetting that and hardening again. “let me know when to stop, ‘kay?” he says, pressing his tip and pushing it in.

his eyes widen, hearing you groan from the sudden stretch and he feels heat swell in his stomach. he cant fucking believe it, watching his cock slip deeper into your walls and he starts to pant. his eyes turn to slits, his canines growing sharper and wider— he was losing himself, realizing he’d finally met a woman who can take more than just the tip of his dragon cock.

“katsukiiiii..” you whine, a hand on his pelvis and he growls. “see..? im okay.”

he licks his lips, saliva pooling at the corner and then dribbling down the side of his mouth. “no fuckin way..” he growls, gripping your hips and jerking his hips. “fucking half way.. half way.” he repeats to himself, bottoming out and he claws at the sheets.

the dragon king holds your hips, raising them a little and then pulling you up, slowly pulling you back down and letting you adjust to his size. “give it to me..” he growls out, it being a echo.

“give you what..?” you ask, chest heaving and nipple hardened.

“your grace, give me the go ahead to take you.” he repeats, seeing you nod and pressing your legs to his chest. he licks at your calves, seeing the fire inside of his eyes while his cock drives into your cervix. “fuck! take all of it— take it all!” he growls, folding you up and slamming his body weight against your thighs.

slapping of wet skin, slick and creamy folds echo throughout the dragon kings bedroom—the dragon king becoming animalistic and he grabs your breasts in each hand. “katsukikatsukikatsuki!” you chant his name, eyes rolling and you cant remember how many orgasms youve been through from the dragon king.

“fuck— fucking have them, have my fucking pups!” he rumbles, nails digging into you as crescent moons into your skin and he presses his forehead to yours. “carry my kids, fucking take them— getting fucked fat with my kids— fuckk!”

he groans, pulling you down onto his cock as he stills. his cock gets pushed out, the dragon kings’ semen being in so much amounts it forces it out. he pants, ragged breaths and he falls against you, his body returning to his original state and his eyes return normal.

“katsuki?”

“mm.” he grunts, looking up to you and his face gets covered by your plush breasts.

“i dont want to say i told you so…

but i told you so.”

“do you remember when you thought i would die from having sex with you?” you say, sitting in the bathtub and bubbles cover your wet skin. “you were so nervous.” you chuckled, putting your hands on your round belly.

“yeah.. was kind of a punk for that.” he chuckles, smile lines, but yet— frown lines pulled from his chuckle. “you look gorgeous, beautiful.” he praises, kissing your cheek and putting a hand on your belly. “water too hot?”

“im carrying dragons, katsuki.” you remind, raising your hand to his cheek and caressing it. you feel his smile, and his lips press to yours. “the midwife should be here, soon.”

she was already there, both of you being enamored with each other to miss the part that was most important.

“what do you mean she’s having triplets?!”

[gay-dorito-dust]

How’d they react to you cuddling into his side randomly one day and then falling asleep…

Dan Heng/Imbibitor Lunae: stiff as a fucking bored and holding his breath as if that was going to wake you up.

He acts as though every little sound has been amplified to the max and will constantly shift his eyes towards you, almost as though he were expecting any sort of signs of disturbance within your once peaceful slumber.

It was so bad he has to look away from you to hide his burning face because he figured out that he might actually begin to enjoy this, enjoy the idea of you actively choosing him to sleep against. God his heart was going apeshit at the dies that you’d might like his company enough to be in a state of vulnerability with him.

His dragon noddle self (Imbibitor Lunae) is fucking delirious with the idea of his ‘mate’ sleeping against him. So much so that if his tail were visible now, it’d be wagging at a hundred miles an hour to the point it’s just a blur.

He secretly hates how it betrays his innermost thoughts to anyone nearby.

Blade: thinks there’s something genuinely wrong with you if you were willing to fall asleep next to him of all people.

Yet in the same breath he acts as your personal guard dog as you slept, keeping people from coming too close for comfort and or making loud, obnoxious noise with just a smile glare thrown their way.

He gets called soft but he honestly doesn’t give a flying fuck.

He acts like he wants to shove you away from him but the moment someone suggests moving you upon seeing how much he apparently ‘hates’ it, and all of a sudden Blade is holding you further again him and telling the person to fuck off under his breath.

He’s so hypocritical but no one dares say that to his face, especially not when he’s holding you against him protectively and glaring at anyone or anything that breathed or moved wrong. Yet when you’re awake, he’ll act like he did no such thing and go about his day like normal.

Argenti: takes this as an opportunity to gaze upon your beauty up close.

In his opinion you didn’t need beauty sleep because you were already as radiant as a freshly blossomed flower, but if you say you need it then who was he -your chivalrous knight- to argue against it.

Some people may think it’s weird that he’s looking at you so intently as you slept but Argenti always had a response at the ready, for he’d tell them that they’ve just never witnessed a beauty in it’s most natural form, to the point that it makes you utterly breathless and unable to look away.

He traces your every feature with his eyes and finds himself adding more onto the list of reasons of why he finds you so appealing, and in more ways than one.

Eye bags? Beautiful.

Stretch marks? Stunning.

Acne/acne scaring? Heavens have blessed you with your own set of unique constellations within your skin.

Argenti is addicted to looking at you while you are awake and it’s no different when you’re asleep either. He just loves that you trusted him enough to witness you like this and he’ll never take advantage of that. Ever.

Welt Yang: he takes care of you as you sleep soundly against his side.

He makes sure you are comfortable and undisturbed as you slept against his side, for seeing you look so at peace and free from all of your daily stresses only proved to warm his already soft heart.

He makes sure march 7th isn’t nearby, as much as he cares for that bubble gum pink haired girl like she was his own child, she was notoriously well known for her easily excitable nature; which wasn’t something you’d need when catching up on much needed sleep.

He’s already draping a blanket over you as we speak and shifting your position to a more comfortable one so that you wouldn’t wake up with a crick in your neck and irritability.

He’ll probably either carry you to bed or join you in your nap by lying himself down on the couch and pulling you up to his chest and holding you there.

It’s such a cute moment and march has photo proof that it happened. Multiple of them.

However papa Welt has a few questions in regard to your sleeping schedule if you were easily able to sleep against his side without issue. He loves you dearly but please for the love of god take better care of yourself or he fucking will.

This is a threat but then again you’d probably wouldn’t mind it if Welt took care of you….honestly same.