#immortal bard rights

[child0feden]

୨୧ you know, i think i was given given two holes down below for this exact reason…

[killinqpills]

★ ─── yandere sagau.

𝐋𝐀𝐕𝐄𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑𝐒 𝐁𝐋𝐔𝐄.

𝕿𝗛𝗘 imposter was a florist.

Barbatos simply pushed that information far back within the confines of his mind, it wouldn't have served to sway his judgement anyways, because regardless of his divinity, he was but a servant when faced against a being higher than that of celestia.

He exists for the sole purpose of appeasing the creator, he will do well in bending to their will, to scramble for perfection at even a mere flick of their hand, and if that same hand demands the death of the mortal brave enough to usurp the creator right beneath their noses, then that is what shall happen.

But venti, was an entirely different tale.

He was a mere bard, who sang rhymes as old as time in a tavern filled with drunk rowdy men. Spending the hours of the late day drinking his sorrows away with his seventh glass of dandelion wine, he likes apples just as much as wine, and has a particular disdain for cats and slimy things.

He was not as mighty of a god as some may claim him to be, for what he held was not strength, but love. So much of it that he'd cut down terrains to make the lands more habitable for his people, granted everyone freedom above all else because he couldn't do the same for the very first person he knew had yearned for it.

Sometimes, he finds himself sitting at the hands of his own statue, a reflection of his status as an archon, even if the eyes that have been carved to look so kind were not his own. He still finds comfort in the way it reminded him of how he was once held as a small sprite.

Gentle.

Like the way you had gifted him dandelions upon learning of his habit to reminisce beneath the stars. You didn't say a word as he took them from you, but with the way you had looked at him so warmly, strangely apologetic for an event in his life that you weren't even around to witness, like you knew, somehow more than he did, and it was more than words could ever offer.

Yearning, healing, and growth.

But what is love to mindless devotion, anyways?

He used to watch you kneel over flower beds, harvesting the prettiest pairs of Cecilia's you could wrap around your fingers, just to neatly distribute them amongst the graves behind the church.

Freedom, honesty of heart, and immortality.

Your own silent way of telling them that they shall never be forgotten, immortal in the way they remain forever living within memories, free in the way they're no longer burdened by the hardships of being alive.

Venti believes you're the kindest soul Teyvat has ever gifted them.

But what is love to mindless devotion?

Now, he watches you kneel before a throne made of gold, with a face mirroring yours looking down upon you. Venti wonders why it's easier to look at you, he wonders why it's only now, that he realized you bore resemblance to the creator, he wonders why he's gripping onto the dandelions within his pocket, now wilted and dried, all in the ways he wishes they weren't.

You're still silent, neither a twitch nor tremble on your form as you took everything they give you, violence and all, with nothing but open arms. Your own silent way of saying their hatred will not be taken to heart.

Venti wishes you weren't that, silent. Somewhere within his conflicted heart, he wishes that before everything had come to this, before the creators descent had shackled you to the fate of death, you'd at least given him your name.

He'd recognize your looks blind from the way the winds seem to lovingly caress your hair, he'd know your voice deaf from the way you'd knowingly hum along his songs like you've heard it all before.

But he doesn't know your name.

As you await your fate by the blade in the creators hand, smiling so softly as if you weren't about to bleed out on the ground in mere seconds, all Venti could think was;

They look nothing alike.

Not in the way your features seem to drip with compassion and humanity, so soft in the way the petals which you harvest seem to be. Has the creator always looked so, vicious? With the way their eyes seemed to widen with pure madness, the grin on their lips was anything but kind, anything but the way the scriptures had once to describe them to be.

Loving.

What's loving about all this?

Having their acolytes stand in a line beside them, with an audience surrounding your shriveled form, chanting for a punishment he couldn't understand why you deserved.

Venti remembers the heavy atmosphere that once engulfed the air as an order was placed upon them to hunt you down and drag you back. He remembers being sick to his stomach as he watches the adeptus, xiao, step over your carefully planted garden with little care and demanded that you surrender yourself.

Venti remembers feeling angry at you for doing so willingly.

He wishes you'd at least put up a fight, he wishes you had at least turned to him for help, wishes he had given it.

Venti wishes for a lot of things.

But what is love to mindless devotion?

"You're a brave little thing."

The creator begins, cooing almost, as if talking to a child that had taken something they don't own, but every word was spiked with venom, so much so that despite them being directed at you, everyone else feels oddly poisoned.

"You've played a mockery out of me, did you enjoy every second of it?"

From the corner of his eye, Venti watches as Morax twitch. The only sign of doubt he was willing to show as the creator's most devoted acolyte, in comparison to him, whose hand, still gripping the dandelions within his fist, began to tremble.

Nahida wasn't here.

Morax tries to ignore what her absence could've been insinuating. He tries to ignore the way a feeling of revulsion ignites within him as he stands closest to the creator. But he wonders how long he could play blind to every cry Teyvat seemed to let out as every second of this goes on.

He knows better than to assume it's due to the creators foul mood, for does the sky mourn so deeply for mere anger? The soil beneath his feet grieves for something they have yet to lose, for someone─ his eyes briefly flicker to your knees, where grass strangely grow the softest, as if hoping to cushion your inevitable fall.

He lets his gaze wonder, from the darkening skies, to the wilting plants, all the way towards the crowd that surrounds them. Citizens from only four nations had came to watch the show, something that Zhongli knows is simply a threat hidden beneath the guise of justice being served, a warning.

Anyone who's willing to go against the creators claim to the highest of all thrones will be dealt with.

Yet three archons and their people remain absent, and the creator has yet to bat an eye to the obvious rejection of their existence.

Zhongli feels his finger twitch.

The chants ringing against his ears, grating and annoying.

Beelzebub remains stoic beside him.

"Don't worry, I'll grant you the mercy of sharing your final words." The creator sighed heavily, as if that mere decision took more than it did to take a life.

You remain silent, gaze wandering slowly, carefully, as if you were searching for something yet nothing at all. Kaeya, alone in the crowd without his brother there─ Diluc couldn't come, couldn't stand there without feeling as though he'll empty his organs out at the very sight of you hurt─ wonders exactly what it is you're looking for. It couldn't have been sympathy, you seemed so full of it already, why would you desire more, especially from these people?

He doesn't think you're looking for a savior either, perhaps it's been well over an hour since you've been brought there, forced to kneel on the dirty ground, submitting to everything the crowd would throw at you. Threats, curses and stones, all of it without much of a fuss.

If it was help you're looking for, you would've been begging for it from the start. Strange, you seemed almost resolved to accept your fate.

The calla lilies burn at his palms, he's gentle with the way he holds them, afraid that if he had held it even a tad bit firmer, it would crumble. Like how he feels as though if he removes his eyes from your form, you'd be gone in a blink. It doesn't matter if his eyes are stinging from dryness, or were they tears? Kaeya didn't wish to know, all he wanted was to engrave every edge of your existence in his memory if this shall be the last chance he'll ever get.

Most people aren't often aware of how much time they have with someone, he's anything but lucky, but to meet your eyes for the very last time, to receive that loving smile of yours despite the bruises on your skin, he feels like a star had fallen just for him.

His own to make a wish from, but what if what he wants is more time with you?

Your smile just turns all soft, the way he's familiar with it.

I'm sorry.

Huh, you seem to always know, don't you? Somehow it's as if you can speak to his soul, a language he was never familiar with yet know so fluently just to answer you.

I'm sorry too.

"Hm? Nothing at all? Fine then."

Upon your silence, the creator gestures to Morax, telling him to do the honors.

Venti feels his chest thud violently.

Ei sways in place, before stilling once more. Wondering what kind of honor is given from killing someone who'd remain innocent until the creator's arrival. Her mind wanders back to the carefully preserved flowers, Padisarah Orchids, hidden somewhere within her quarters. A gift from Yae who had claimed to have gotten it for free from a traveling florist.

She'd describe them as beautifully gentle in every way, like the very flower they carried with them.

Ei didn't know what other description would've fitted you so perfectly.

Purity, admiration and respect.

Everything she should've, but couldn't't feel for the creator.

You'd like Sakura petals, she couldn't help but think. It's color was as delicate as your soul, as beautiful as the smile you wore now despite the darkness which surrounds you. Ei was once like that, sinking into oblivion for what she believed was necessary, but she had hands to pull her back up.

You do not.

Ei was conflicted.

But love was small against mindless devotion, and Beelzebub couldn't have agreed less, yet regardless of her thoughts, she was still nothing more than a mere tool for the creator to puppet for their desires, no matter how selfish.

If that were true, why do you tremble so, Ei?

She chooses to look away.

Furina though, felt hopeless. She regretted not taking Neuvillette's offer to attend in her place. She knew that if it were him standing before such injustice, he would've done something, would've spoken up to defend the innocent soul being painted a villain right before her very eyes.

She was an archon yes, but ultimately powerless against gods who have lived far longer than she had, known more than she ever could. Because alas, the curse of immortality did not make her any less human.

500 years did not make her wiser nor stronger, perhaps all it ever did was remind her of the loneliness she had endured. The pain of being left in the dark, of playing a role she did not want. She was given a script with no context and was told to do what she must.

Was it the same for you? She wonders. Were you given the gift of life as well, to experience the beauty of time and the end of it, but with the consequences of something as simple as existing?

Furina knew better than to scorn you for the sin the creator had claimed you've committed. For she knew that at times, you aren't given the chance to write your own fate. Sometimes, the pen dances along your pages for you, leaving you to slip on leftover ink.

Furina remains silent, the heavy mask she put on as an obedient acolyte was slipping ever so slightly.

Don't look at her like that.

Like you see right through the cracks and love her anyways.

Zhongli approaches you with a spear held loosely within his hand, hoping if he'd wished enough, it'll slip through his fingers and everyone would simply call it a day. But things don't exactly work out that way.

Zhongli wishes, that instead of the warm eyes you fix on him, it was a glare instead, as vicious as the ones being directed at you, because then maybe, it would've made it easier to point the the sharp part of the weapon against your chest, right above where your heart hid, but not really.

It's almost as if your heart was glowing, in a way, he supposes that's what people would describe as wearing your heart on your sleeve. He could almost feel it beat if he focuses hard enough, in fact, if everyone would just shut up for a moment, he bets he can hear the way it thuds against your ribs so calmly, easing away his worries.

Zhongli had never envied a mortal more than he did now, he wonders what it feels to be like you, does your soul find it easy to rest when night falls unlike he? Unburdened by the decisions he had to make for the better and worst? Is your skin as warm as the expression you give him now?

You still haven't spoken a word.

And for a moment, he finds himself envying flowers, as childish as it was. For they know the sound of your voice, they're familiar with the touch of your hands, they're aware of every single one of your doings, and Zhongli wishes they were anything but good. Because then maybe, maybe, sinking a blade to your heart and depriving it of life would be easier to do.

He doesn't want to, truly.

But Morax, despite his divinity, is a servant through and through. For his people, for order, and for the creator, and they, had grown impatient.

"Ugh, enough of this. Kill them." Venomous, like every fiber of their being knew nothing of gentleness, not like how you seemed to drip with nothing but that. The crowd is silenced with fear, and Zhongli, despite himself, raises the weapon in his hand.

And at the same moment as you finally spoke, Morax hurls it into your flesh with eyes closed.

"Why do you smell like hyacinth?"

And oh, your voice was so fucking small. Barely a whisper against Zhongli's ear and his eyes shot open, trembling upon the sight he was met with. Your kneeling form, unable to fall with the way the spear has gone through your chest, all the way through the middle and back out, embedding itself on the ground, prompting you up like some kind of doll made for a circus attraction.

Nobody could cheer, they could not find it in themselves to do so, as they watched you bleed, crimson liquid, as warm as the sun, dripping down the handle of the weapon, slowly, almost hauntingly. They're once again reminded of their humanity as they see the light fade from your very eyes.

Then, a clap. Alone in the silence, the creator laughs in glee at the sight, and nobody else could recall why they were cheering in the first place. This was supposed to be a well deserved punishment no? For daring to usurp the creator, for daring to, what? Sell flowers while they wore the face of a being that holds power over them all?

Zhongli is sick to his stomach.

There's no boom, no light that sparks or any kind of darkness vanishing upon your death, there's only silence. Loud, ringing, he briefly questions what he's done.

Why do you smell like hyacinth?

Hyacinth? Ah, yes. He's familiar with that kind of plant, they're associated with rebirth and deep love. Known for their gorgeous visual appeal, they're mostly popular in spring with a very distinct fragrance.

But Zhongli knows better than to assume that's what you meant.

No.

Why do you smell like sorrow?

Yeah, that makes much more sense. Zhongli smells of deep regret, before he even took a life that was not his to take, he smelled of a deep desire to grieve. That's what purple Hyacinth symbolizes, right?

He remembers now, the day Hu tao had come back to the parlor with hundreds of Hyacinths within her arms, a mix of purples, blues and whites. Upon being asked where she got them, she spoke of a traveling florist, who offered them to her as a gift to the dead. She rambled on about how strangely endearing this person was, how eager they seemed to be to share their knowledge of flowers.

The white ones are purity, but they can also represent prayers for a loved one.

The blue ones were as simple as something tied to sincere care.

Zhongli represents purple ones.

I'm sorry. Please forgive me.

A violet cry was heard behind him, as violent as the winds became as Venti raised a weapon against the creator. Gasp and shouts could be heard, but Zhongli pays them no mind, eyes trained on your unmoving form, focused on the regret he feels, on the apologies he cannot push out with his tongue, distracted with the way something shines against his eyes.

Gold.

𝐀𝐔𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐑𝐒 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄𝐒 :

Woah, that was ass.

And for anyone who's wondering, yeah I pulled those flower meanings out of my ass. Not literally tho, I just searched them and used the first thing I saw, don't come for me/hj

Also each of the characters inner monologues or, whatever you call them is my own interpretation of them, may or may not be cannon, I honestly wasn't trying to make them accurate, this was just for fun so don't come for me for that as well/srs

There will be multiple parts to this if I ever get motivation, mwah.

[thedemonofcat]

Whenever the topic of Jaskier’s mortality comes up, Geralt abruptly leaves or otherwise ends the conversation.

Jaskier thinks it’s sweet that the witcher so obviously cares; however, this has made it a bit hard to tell Geralt he’s effectively immortal.

Jaskier woke with a sharp gasp, darkness pressing in around him. Something heavy pinned him down. He turned his head, squinting, and realized it was... a leg. Then an arm. And a tangle of heads. His breath hitched as the sticky, warm sensation on his skin registered—it was blood.

Panic clawed at him as the memories flooded back. The town. The promise he made to Geralt to stay put. Geralt had gone out on a hunt, leaving Jaskier behind. Then came the soldiers—or were they bandits? Jaskier wasn’t sure. They had attacked without warning, and now...

He was in a mass grave.

"Geralt!" Jaskier’s scream tore through the stillness, raw and desperate. "I'm alive! Don't leave me!"

He thrashed, his hands trembling as he tried to shove the bodies off him. "Please, don’t leave me!" Each push felt futile, as if he was sinking deeper into the pile of lifeless forms. He couldn’t tell if he was making any progress or merely exhausting himself.

Then, after what felt like an eternity, he felt a hand. Strong, steady.

"Jask."

The voice, low and familiar, shattered the nightmare around him. Geralt.

Jaskier barely registered the Witcher hauling him out of the grave, dragging him a few feet away. He collapsed onto his knees, shaking and covered in blood, his sobs wracking his entire body.

"You left me. I was all alone," Jaskier choked out, his voice breaking with every word.

"I know," Geralt said softly, crouching beside him. His gloved hand reached out to wipe at the bard’s tear-streaked, dirt-smeared face. "I’m sorry, Jaskier. I shouldn’t have left you."

Jaskier’s sobs only grew louder, his fingers clutching at Geralt’s cloak as if letting go would mean losing him all over again.

"I promise I’ll never leave you again," Geralt whispered, his voice heavy with guilt. "But right now, I need you to tell me how you survived."

Jaskier shook his head, his lips trembling as he failed to form words. Geralt studied him for a moment, his sharp eyes catching the signs of a man teetering on the edge of collapse. Whatever had kept Jaskier alive, it could wait. Right now, the bard needed safety—and time.

"Alright," Geralt said gently, standing and pulling off his cloak. He wrapped it around Jaskier’s shivering form, his movements careful, deliberate. "You don’t have to tell me now. Let’s get you somewhere safe."

As Geralt lifted him, Jaskier clung to him tightly, as though the Witcher was the only tether keeping him grounded. And for now, that was enough.

[findingavoiceif]

Intro post:

Step into the shadows as an Elyn, a creature feared and hunted for your dark, mysterious origins. After narrowly escaping the brutal grasp of your former master, you find yourself in a world that views your kind—Elyndras—as beings of nightmare: demons with unsettling, untapped powers.

But in this land where terror and superstition reign, your journey is just beginning. Thrust into an unpredictable adventure of treachery, harrowing dangers, unexpected sorrows, and moments of tender love, your path twists in ways you never imagined.

Forge bonds with one of four unique companions, each with their own secrets, desires, and hidden wounds.

Tell me, creature of the night... Will you reclaim your power, your voice, your freedom?

Features:

Choose your name,gender and parts of your appearance.(Some of the mc's features are locked to fit their heritage)

Romance one of four companions or maybe...5?

Trigger warnings-

Finding A Voice is rated 16+ for violence,self-harm,hunting of an entire species,assault,language and fade-to black scenes.

Love interests:

Quill Riviera – The Charming Bard

Quill’s got that effortlessly cool vibe—shoulder-length auburn hair streaked with dark highlights, usually tied half up, half down like he didn’t try but somehow nailed the look. His light brown eyes glimmer with mischief, though his right eye is a little clouded from an old injury, and his full lips always seem to be curled into a teasing grin. Freckles dust his nose, and he’s got a small gap between his front teeth, giving his smile a touch of imperfection that just adds to his charm.

Underneath his confident exterior is something darker, though he keeps it hidden well behind sarcastic jokes and playful arrogance. His tan skin, slender hands, and lean frame are decorated with piercings—hoops and studs running up his pointy ears, an eyebrow piercing above his sharp, teasing gaze. You’ll catch a glimpse of a burn mark on his left hip if he ever lets his guard down. Despite the mystery and flirtation, Quill’s a bard at heart, working part-time at the inn, always ready to spin a story or play a song. But don’t let his facade fool you; there’s more beneath the surface.

Pierre Blanchet – The Cold Commander

Pierre cuts an intimidating figure—a tall, athletic knight with flawless bronze skin, dark red eyes that he’s always been self-conscious about, even though they burn with a fire few can match. His curly blonde hair is cut short and shaved at the sides, making him look every bit the battle-hardened warrior he is. A small mole beneath his nose and a permanent shadow of stubble give him a rough, no-nonsense appearance.

Despite his role as Knight Commander, Pierre’s introverted nature and quiet insecurity make him seem distant, even rude at times. He doesn’t let people in easily, but those who get past his defenses see the man beneath the armor—stubborn, loyal, and fighting his own inner battles. His large hands grip a sword with ease, but they fumble when it comes to opening up to others. If you can break through his walls, though, you’ll find a heart worth fighting for.

Celeste Dupont – The Witch of Warmth

Celeste is the type of person who draws people in with her warmth, even though her pale skin and sharp grey eyes might make her seem icy at first glance. She keeps her silky black hair tied up in a messy bun, and no matter how chaotic it looks, it only adds to her effortless elegance. Her lips are always painted a cherry red, and a small scar on her bottom lip hints at the fact that there’s more to her story.

As a baker and healer, she’s as likely to serve you a fresh loaf of bread as she is to patch you up after a tough battle. A rune tattoo graces her palm, a subtle sign of her Valdranna heritage—an immortal witch with powers as ancient as they are mysterious. With her hourglass figure, dark eyeliner, and a nose ring that looks like a simple dot, Celeste balances the mystical with the everyday. She’s your boss, your best friend, and maybe something more if you’re lucky enough to win her heart.

Ash Valdaryn – The Sickly Royal

Ash is the reason this whole adventure started, their deep violet skin standing out against the pale world around them. Their lavender hair, soft and wavy, falls just past their shoulders, and they dress in flowing, feminine clothing that complements their elegant, yet slightly fragile build. White eyes gaze out from beneath small, curling horns on their forehead, giving them an otherworldly look that is as captivating as it is delicate.

Ash’s health is failing, which is why the journey began in the first place—to find a cure for the illness that threatens to take them away. Despite their condition, they insisted on coming along, determined to be part of the adventure. They may look fragile, but there’s a quiet strength beneath the surface—a will to live, to fight, to hold on. And though they may be royalty, with all the expectations that come with it, Ash’s soft voice and gentle demeanor make them someone you’ll want to protect... even though they’d never ask for it.

[fat-mabari]

Screw it, I’ve been sitting on this for like over a month. My fellow Raphael simps need to know about this. This is my first crack at creating a design for Antilia, who has no official art.

She is canonically Mephistopheles’ daughter.

Yes, Raphael has a sister. A bard sister who has remained loyal to their father.

(full disclosure I cheated and drew over a render of Mizora JUST for the wings because this started out as something lazy)

This half-elf half-devil was added by the Book of Vile Darkness (pages 163-164) for DMs to fling at their epic level parties dumb enough to try taking on archdukes of Hell. Here is the important excerpt though:

You guys don’t know how many headcanons I have about her but I NEED to share one right now even though it’s genuinely a bit campy:

I think we can all agree Raphael has youngest child energy, so let’s just assume she’s his big sister. But immortals grow slow so I think they did grow up together. And yeah I’m about to make fucked-up evil half-devil childhoods cute. Because guys she is a bard. Can you just imagine two cambion kids running around the ice palace making up their own little twisted and evil plays to perform for the pit fiends? Grab a few of Meph’s debtors to play parts (and probably do horrible things to them but listen they’re the ones who sold their souls to the archduke of Cania).

I also like to think she and Haarlep have a thing just because they’re both spies for Meph. I also just really like the idea of him being sent to seduce the son but he’d rather be messing around with the daughter. 😭

Anyway!! I hope other people find this tiny sliver of lore fun, and I’d love to see it built upon. I’m gonna be working on her design more and adding some things. She actually has a robe of eyes in her equipment list I just didn’t have the spoons to add that to this one by the time I noticed that. If people have ideas for the design I’d LOVE to hear them! I just think there’s so much potential for headcanons and fanworks here, both silly and serious.

[lassieposting]

Concept:

You are Bhaal, god of murder, and someone is praying to you.

And that's not necessarily unusual. Lots of people pray to you, usually for the untimely death of a rival, an ex-spouse, an overseer. The prayer itself is a small and broken thing, bloody and raw, whispered by a man whose vision is dulled by agony and the dark spectre of approaching death. The pathetic not-quite-survivor of some rather brutal torture, wishing murder upon his captor. You take a moment to enjoy the fear, the pain, the suffering - and then you tune him out. There are millions like him, and your favour is for those willing to do their killing themselves. Besides, that wretch will be nothing but a corpse all too soon.

Except...he doesn't die. You never feel that timid little spark of existence stutter and go out. Far beyond the breaking point of a mortal body, this one lingers on, clinging to being with fingers all but stripped back to bare bone.

It's intriguing enough to warrant a second look and - interesting. The prayer comes from a vampire, a pretty little corpse becoming an even prettier corpse under the skilled hand of a cruel master.

It is not in your nature to intervene. You favour the strong, not the weak. The master, not the slave. Your first instinct is to leave the wretched little thing to his fate.

But the thing is. Your child - your favourite child, shaped from your own flesh, coldest and most brutal of your progeny - has gone and got a boyfriend.

And you don't like him.

You don't like the effect he's having on your chosen, the way they're becoming distracted, attached, less devoted to their true purpose. And right now, your nature takes a back seat to your desire to get rid of that smug, arrogant little Baanite whelp, Enver Gortash. Your granddaughter's spiteful machinations have given you an opening, but you know they're bound to run into one another eventually, and it will all start over.

The vampire is beautiful. Well-trained. Accustomed to brutality. Already purged of sympathy and compassion, eaten up inside by hatred and bitterness and harm. And immortal; able to survive the worst of your son's inclinations. At this point, he'll do.

So you redirect a nautiloid. It's not that you're showing the creature any favour - it's just pragmatism, really. He is simply a tiny piece of a very large puzzle.

And then you watch.

You watch the vampire take the spectacular murder of a young bard in stride.

You watch him identify your memory-addled, sanity-challenged offspring as the most dangerous one in their sad little group of unwashed tragedies - the strongest protector, the solution to his fear of being discarded or returned to his master.

You watch him expertly lure your progeny into a pit trap of sex and lies and manipulation, dressed up with honeyed words and an exaggerated performance of desire.

Your child comes face to face with Enver Gortash and remembers nothing - feels nothing. They only have eyes for Astarion, and you are filled with satisfaction. The vampire is pathetic and fearful now, but already he plans to take over his master's ritual, and then he will be perfectly placed to feed your child's very worst impulses, to bring out the sharpest edge of the darkness inside.

You watch the vampire say, "I want us to be real."

You watch your child happily become a glorified comfort blanket, your masterwork living weapon reduced to little more than a prey animal, a do-gooder, a sacrifice.

Watch them vow, "I will be the person you see in me."

Watch them talk the blasted creature out of going through with the ritual at all.

Watch them start fighting their own nature for the pantomime love of someone else's broken toy.

Watch them turn on you.

And you decide, with the benefit of hindsight, that Enver Gortash was not that bad, actually.

[bouncybongfairy]

Not A Peep

Simon (Ghost) Riley x Fem Reader Smut

Summary: You're a medic on Task Force 141 and Ghost finds out you have a thing for him when you get flustered stitching him up. Once you guys get back to the barracks, he fucks your throat under a desk.

Word Count: 1.0k+

Ref Account: @kaionyx

TW: Dom Ghost, Face Fucking, Rough Smut, BJ Under Desk

<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3

It was easy to separate yourself from all the stories being told while studying to be a combat medic. Tales about women falling for soldiers and then being immortally traumatized from watching the war take its effect on him. Whether it be emotionally or physically, the horror stories were gruesome. One teacher talked about how she had to treat her fiance after he’d been shot in the arm, apparently it fucked her up for a while. In a way, you would mock the fact that anyone would put themselves in that situation. Falling in love with someone with such a high risk job. It seemed like common sense not to put your heart on the line, especially when it could affect your job. 

That was until I met Simon and you started to understand that those wives tales weren’t so far fetched. The two of you didn’t talk much but it always felt like there was so much tension. Constantly making eye contact, becoming flustered and tongue tied whenever he spoke to you. Avoiding him when you could, not liking the feeling of your heart racing when you did. He held so much emotion in his eyes, like he was projecting his thoughts through eye contact. On a recent mission, a bullet brushed past the area above his hip bone; creating a laceration that needed stitches. Barding into the tent and pulling his pants down and shedding his gear.

 Immediately you get on your knees, pulling everything you needed to treat him out of your tactical vest. Looking up just before starting the first stitch, he was already looking down at you. His eyebrows were furrowed and his eyes were narrowed onto you. Blood was running down, trailing down the contour of his v-line. Hands started shaking slightly, especially as he started to moan and curse in pain. Even though you were fully aware his reaction was from discomfort, you couldn’t but imagine if it… wasn’t. 

He was watching you like a hawk, swiveling his head to watch you whenever you grabbed gauze. All hope that he didn’t notice you acting flustered was ditched when you started feeling dizzy, swaying a little. He grabbed your arm to prevent you from falling, your partner taking over. Now back in the barracks, you took a long hot shower. Trying to figure out why you got so in your head, the water began to run cold. Prompting you to get out and get dressed, walking back into your room. Ghost who was stripped of gear, laying back on the bed supporting his weight with his elbows. 

“Do you need me to redress that for you?” you asked, assuming he was waiting to see you about his wound. 

“No. Do you need me to undress you?” he asked, sitting up. 

“I- What?” you asked, taken off guard. 

“Do you. Need me to. Undress you?” he asked slower, like you were too dumb to answer the question. 

“I don’t understand-” you began saying. 

“No no, I saw you today. The way your eyes widened when you were on your knees in front of me. The desperation and neediness was so potent I could practically smell it on you. I could have taken you right there if I wanted, forced myself into your throat. So hot and bothered you couldn’t even do your job, I consume your thoughts. Don’t act like I don’t” he said, backing you against the desk that was in the corner. 

“I don’t-” he interrupted. 

“Wanna say something you regret,” he said, running his thumb over your bottom lip. Dipping it into your mouth, feeling around to see your reaction, “I think it safe to say that if you didn’t want my cock, you wouldn’t be sucking my finger like a whore. Would you?” he asks, you shake your head and in response he gives you a sharp smack on the cheek.

“Would you?” he asks again, giving you a chance to correct your answer. 

“Yes sir,” you say, melting at the way he looked at you. 

“Good girl, get under the desk.” He said, which you did without hesitation. 

He unzipped his fly, struggling for a second to free his member but finally got there. Sitting down in the office chair, rolling into the small space under the desk. Completely trapping you inside the small space. No longer being able to see above his shoulders, not that it mattered when his cock was right in front of you. Every time your lips finally encased his tip, he would use his hand and pull it away. You reach up and try to take his length into your hand. His voice booming through the room as he pulls away a couple inches to look you in the eyes. 

“Put your fucking hand down, you haven’t done anything to deserve it,” he said, scooting back in, using his hand to guide your head down. 

After all the teasing, the feelings of his cock pushing past your lips felt like heaven. Ever since you met him all you could think about was him ravaging you. Using your body for whatever he wanted. A loud groan coming from the back of your throat, his other hand was stroking your cheek. Slowly starting to push your head down further, you gagged which made him chuckle. 

“Fuck, I knew i’d eventually have you gagging around my dick,” he cooed, letting his head fall back. You looked up, now being able to see his exposed jawline. Reaching your hand down and starting to play with yourself. Spreading your wetness around and circling your clit. Moaning as drool and pre-cum started sliding down his shaft. He grabbed your hair and starting to fuck your mouth. His eyes were rolling back, feeling feral hearing the wet slobbering and slapping sounds. There was a knock at the door which made you squeal and try to pull away. 

“Shhhhh!” He hisses before clearing his throat and answering the door. However just before he does, he presses your head down, applying pressure with both hands on the back of your head. Forcing your lips all the way down to the base of his cock. 

“Yeah!” he yelled, Soap opened the door but remained in the doorway. 

“Have you seen y/n? We have training soon,” Soap asked while you were digging your fingernails into his boots, swallowing around his length which hurt slightly.

“Yeah, I think she went to get some fresh air,” Ghost said, stars were forming in your vision. Soap thanked him and promptly exited and Ghost finally let you pull back. Gasping for air and wiping the tears out of your eyes. He moaned as the cold air hit his dick just after getting used to your hot throat. 

“That’s a good girl, just breathe. Yeah, you’re a such a good fucking girl,” he snarled and pulled you back down on you. 

He stood up and balled his fist in your hair, and pinning his hands onto the top of the desk. Essentially locking you into place and he obliterated your throat. Making sure your nose was pressed into his base with every thrust. Not bothering to pull his cock out as he started came. Warm cum flooding down your throat and into your stomach. He pulled out, not wasting any time putting his dick away. You rested your upper body on the now empty chair that sat in front of you. Ghost squatted down and grabbed your wet chin to look up at him before speaking, 

“Firstly, you should thank me for feeding you before training. Secondly, I didn’t make you cum because you left scratch marks on my boot,” he said, walking out of the room.

[feyascorner]

5 | The Fangs Between Us

summary. When he had his cold hands wrapped around your neck, it felt as if they belonged to death themselves. And in that moment, you knew that even if you struggled against him, if he genuinely wanted you dead, you would have no power to push him away. You would have no choice but to let the grasp of death pull you into the ground, underneath the surface, into the unknown.

You realize that, perhaps, the Astarion you knew was nothing but a pretty lie.

warnings. angst, comfort, slow burn, reader is a bard, italics are flashbacks/dreams

pairing. Astarion x GN!Reader

parts. TFBU masterlist

a/n. 6.4k words?!!? 😆 whenever i write for this fic i have the constant urge to make him grovel out of nowhere, and to compensate, i make him even worse

“You were my first, you know.”

You raise both your brows, your eyes still trained on the lake stretching out to what seems like forever. The boulder beneath you feels cool to the touch against your skin. “Really?”

He nods, setting his book down to his lap. “Cazador, that crazy bastard, never let us drink from anything besides rats. We were strictly forbidden from humanoid blood because it would let us become too powerful.”

You squint at him. “...Well, what does it taste like?”

“Your blood?”

“Humanoid blood.”

He looks nowhere, as if he’s in thought, before humming, pleased at the taste that lingers on his tongue. “Exquisite.”

“That’s it?”

“Your blood was sweet, almost. Rat blood is terribly bitter, you see, and I only drank it for survival. But yours,” he grins widely. “I could drink nothing but yours for the rest of my immortal life, and I would never tire of it.”

Your face heats, and of course, him being him, it doesn't go unnoticed. He sets his book aside and shifts so he has one arm propped up next to you, his face dangerously close to yours. “I think you rather like the sound of that, darling.”

“It doesn’t sound…terrible,” you mumble. “Better than turning into a mind flayer, at least.”

His lips are inches from yours, so you instinctively tilt your head, allowing space for him to reach your neck. But his free hand reaches your cheek and tilts your head back, making you meet his eyes. It’s so close. So impossibly intimate that you pray he doesn't hear the way your heart pounds in your chest.“That’s not what I want right now, love.”

You nod slowly when his eyes flicker to your lips, and he’s pressed against you in an instant, your lips molding together as if they were made for one another. Even though you know they’re not, his arms feel warm when wrapped around you, and you bury yourself closer as if there’s even any space left between the two of you.

You know this must be a dream. But you’re not sure if you want to wake up at all.

But suddenly, your entire body feels terribly cold. Too cold, as if your very life is being sapped away from its roots, leaving nothing but a husk of a person behind. So you tear away, as much as you don’t want to, and see that you are no longer sitting before your lover. The spawn that nearly killed you in the alleyway is sitting in Astarion’s place, his teeth stained with blood as he smiles at you. Instinctively, you shriek and try to crawl away, but the sharp pain at your throat ceases your movement, making your hand fly up to the puncture wounds you’re sure to find.

Instead, you only find that your neck is sore from the bruises that bloom on your skin.

And as you stare at the spawn in horror, you realize that he’s not a random spawn. He’s covered in so much blood that you can’t even see his snow-white hair beneath the carnage, and all that stares back at you is a man who only resembles your lover. He lifts a hand, reaching sharp, maintained nails toward your face, and all you can do is brace yourself for what’s to come.

You just hope he ends the pain quickly.

The last tenday has been nothing short of hellish.

The walk home from Sharress’ Caress had been a deathly silence—one where you refused to look anywhere but your feet–-and even once you arrived home to the chaos between Shadowheart and Lae’zel unfolding right before your eyes, you only watched Astarion pace up the stairs as if nothing is wrong. Even as they yelled at him, asking what he had to say for himself, he’d only scoffed and shut the door to his room.

‘A man child,’ Shadowheart had called him. Lae’zel said her offer of skewering him with her spear was still available.

You hadn’t corrected her that time.

As you clearly had too many personal emotions, you swallowed your pride and decided to pass the investigation off to one of your companions. You gave the list of spawn killings to Gale, asking him to take charge of the investigation starting that very night. He didn’t ask why.

The days after that were spent in a blur. Aside from the nightmares that only seem to get worse, your life in the daytime is as it was before the bodies started piling up. You spend every waking moment focusing on rebuilding the rest of the city now that you have all the time in the world. Only without the workload did you realize how time-consuming the investigation had been, and without it, your life feels strangely dull. It’s not unwelcome–at least, not now, anyway.

And as another day passes in a state of mind that is not your own, you slump face-first into your mattress. 

You only ever seem to return home in the dead of night anymore. Construction runs through the clock, and by the time you’ve managed to say your farewells to the people in the city, the sun’s long past said its own goodbye. Still, you suppose coming home late is better than falling asleep outside.

The handle of your dagger sticks into the side of your stomach, and you fish it out, laying on your back as you examine the bejeweled blade. It’s a pretty little thing, no matter how many sleepless nights you’ve spent staring at the beauty of something that’s taken countless lives. Most of which were his doing, even if you’re racking up quite the number on your own.

You want to hate him, but you’ve come to accept that perhaps you’ve grown soft. Maybe you’ve been surrounded by warmth for too long and now find that the hate you were once so accustomed to has now rendered itself to mush. You’ll learn to hate him—that much you’ve sworn—but you don’t want him dead as he seems to do with you. You have plenty of reason to hate him, and a part of you does, but it’s not enough to rival his distaste for you.

He’s made it clear enough that you cannot hate him the way he hates you.

You pace over to your drawer and place the blade in the deepest corner, where nothing but shadows will know of its existence. As you push the drawer shut, you hope that the next time you see the dagger, you’ll have forgotten it had been there in the first place.

You hear the window in his room slide open and then shut closed again. And if you were anyone else, it would cause an instant panic, but you’ve grown accustomed to the sound of it opening each night. And while the responsible thing should be to let the others know that he’s sneaking out every other night, you can’t find the energy to. Your sentiments toward him may be mixed, but you don’t want the only lead for the spawn case to be taken away just because he was sneaking out like a teenager in their rebellious phase.

There’s a more selfish reason why you’re keeping this secret of his, though you plan on taking it to your grave. It keeps him from approaching you with the request to go hunting. With Gale and Shadowheart busy with the spawn and Lae’zel not to be trusted around Astarion, you’re the only one capable of following him to his weekly supply restock. But you doubt he needs much animal blood when he has others ready for him at the pleasure house, and if this is his only way of getting there, then so be it.

You’re not really sure how to feel about it. It’s not a nice feeling, though.

“There’s someone here for you.”

You look up toward the doorway where Shadowheart leans with crossed arms. She points toward the stairs, and you force your legs up despite their insistent soreness from the past few days. They ache, but you’d rather burst into flames than stand another second longer than you have to in this room. You don’t have the energy to assess the look she’s giving you as you pass by her shoulder.

The man at the door is one your intuition seems to recognize, but your mind comes up empty. The emotions don’t seem mutual, as he straightens his back the second he spots you.  “You.”

You glaze your tired eyes over his attire–one with the mark of the Flaming Fist proudly posted on his chest. He shifts, and you notice his short brown hair peeking from under his helmet. “Yes, me. You called for me.”

He clears his throat, blinking wide grey pupils with a hesitant glint. “I apologize for what I said the last time we met. It wasn’t for me to step out of line like that.”

You stare at him quizzically, unsure of who this man even is. He notices. “Wait, don’t you remember me?”

“...No?”

“I was at Roger Highberry’s murder scene! Yevir? I interrogated you for nearly an hour!” his jaw drops, and you somewhat make out his face from the blurry segments of your memories. All of which are not entirely pleasant, from what you can recall. The accusations thrown in your direction for being responsible for the murders were already cruel enough, but you remember how a fight nearly broke out between the two of you, making your lips purse.

You rub the side of your head to soothe whatever headache is sure to follow soon. “What do you want? Are you here to ask if I’ve been murdering people again?”

There’s one you might be so inclined to murder right now, just upstairs. Figuratively. Well, maybe…

“No,” he seems flustered, and you’d feel bad if it were not for your last interaction. “Like I said, I wanted to apologize. I was in no place to accuse you of something so horrid, and I did so without solid proof. I was—desperate and lost my composure.”

At this, your ear perks. An apology after the complete bullshit you’ve been through the past few weeks doesn’t sound bad at all. Still, your caution remains as you lift your chin, eyes lidded. “...You just came to apologize?”

“Yes. Ah, and–” he reaches into his pocket, scrummaging around until he pulls out a scroll wrapped neatly with a red bow. You arch a brow, and he holds it out to you. “My men were attacked last night at the pier next to the Blushing Mermaid. This is the file report I wrote up this morning.”

The Blushing Mermaid. Despite the hopes that had sparked with the conversation with one of Cora’s orphans, Shadowheart had come up completely empty after numerous visits to the tavern. She only mentioned a few brawls, which quickly had Fist rushing in or a couple of drunk smugglers, but that was it. By now, you assumed the tavern itself had no connections to the spawn murder sprees that increased in numbers nearly daily. Perhaps Roger Highberry had just been at the wrong place and the wrong time.

“We tried to talk to them—one, at least,” he continues as you let the scroll unroll on itself. “They seem to be looking for someone. They said they were only willing to listen to the ‘bard’---which I assume is supposed to be you.”

Your face hardens as you scan the report, acknowledging the details scribbled into the sheet in messy handwriting and the bags under his eyes to go along with it. “What were they looking for?”

“Another spawn, we think, judging from what we gathered before they became hostile.”

Despite how your heart sinks into your stomach, you swallow the lump in your throat and tear your eyes away from the report. Who else could it possibly be? And though you want to lie to yourself that perhaps, on some strange chance, this other spawn is someone other than the one residing right beside your room, you know it’s a foolish belief to pray on.

Astarion had tried to sacrifice all 7000 souls of the undead right before their very eyes. The ritual–if you could even call it that–-was mass murder. One he very nearly executed.

You were only unsure if the other spawn sought him out to reconcile or for something much bloodier. You’d likely bet on the latter.

“Have you shown this to the Duke yet?”

“No,” he admits, almost shamefully. “I couldn’t.”

He must be able to tell your shock because his face crumples. “There was someone among them. A friend. I thought she’d gone missing years ago, but…On this small chance that maybe she’s still there, I came here to ask…”

His fists clench, his gaze darting anywhere but your own with a hesitance you’ve become all too accustomed to the past few weeks. Still, they have a glimmer of hope as he swallows hard. “...If you’d be willing to help me.”

You can’t mask the way your eyes widen. He blinks rapidly and immediately reaches to dig around his other pocket, where he hauls out a bag that jingles with the contents inside. The familiar ring of gold. The sack itself is shabby, old enough to split open at any second, and it’s only the size of his palm, but he holds it as if it’s a fragile glass piece. “It’s all I have. I know I’m in no position to ask you for help, especially with how I treated you last time we met…but I’m desperate, and I know the Duke must trust you for a reason.”

“You want me to do what exactly?”

“Let me speak to her. Please.”

Almost instantly, you push the pouch back to his chest, eyes narrowing. “A vampire spawn won’t be the same person you knew.”

“I know. But surely, she would at least recognize me-”

“She’ll be different. She won’t hesitate to kill for blood. Not even yours, if she’s hungry.” This much, you know.

“I know,” he blurts louder. “Please. If I go to the Duke, he’s sure to raid the tavern, and she might get killed in the process. If I was the reason that she died, I don’t know—I can’t even—”

She’s already dead, you think. The words nearly escape your thoughts, but you bite your tongue hard enough to draw blood, sealing it shut.

“Her heart no longer beats for you.” Just give up, you plead. Understand that she is not the woman she was. You notice the irony of the statement, but it doesn’t stop you, desperate to prevent this man from making the same mistakes as your own.

“My own heart beats enough for the both of us.”

And perhaps it’s because of the glint in his eyes that feels all too familiar to your own. Or maybe it’s because of the way he appears on the brink of tears and the eyebags dragging at his skin. Or perhaps it’s a more selfish reason of your own. But regardless of what the reason is, the report crumples in your fist as you nod stiffly.

“We’ll do what we can.”

You swing the door shut harder than you probably should, but the sun feels too bright on your skin. And his imploring eyes only hinder your resolve to drift away from all that’s happening. You claimed you’d try, not that you’d produce results. It might be a selfish thing to do—ignoring a person in need—but does it matter, really?

Is it so bad for you to be selfish for once?

Gods, who are you kidding? You’ll end up helping anyway, especially after he came to ask you in person.

Thinking too long hurts your head. When you turn to climb back up the stairs, your heart nearly stops as you realize you’re not alone in the room.

Blood-red eyes bore into the side of your head, his presence almost nonexistent with how his chest doesn’t even move to allow him to breathe. He stands across the room, unmoving and still, as if time itself has stopped for the two of you. You suppose for him, it has.

But you know better now. At least, you think so. For him, time may be something irrelevant, but for you, it continues flowing, leaving no chance to catch up if you dare to fall behind. And you no longer want to chase the ticking hand of your own clock to attune yourself to his. He’s made himself clear, and you refuse to waste away precious years of your own life to mourn his. So, instead of gawking at him like a deer in headlights, you lock the door and pace up the stairs, barely brushing past his shoulders. You have half a heart to shove past him, but considering you barely manage what you did, you think better of it. 

The entire time, his eyes follow you like a hawk.

“What was that Fist here for?” he asks as you reach the top.

You don’t bother looking back at him. “...Spawns killed a few soldiers last night.”

A pause. “Surely that’s not all.”

“That’s all you need to know unless you plan on helping us,” you snap. You wish you sounded as cold as you would’ve liked, but instead, it comes out like a last-ditch effort, as he barely acknowledges the bite in your tone.

“Are we not discussing the very spawns whom I called my dear siblings for two centuries? It’s very much my business.”

“And you think those spawn—which you tried to kill for a bloody ritual, might I add— still consider you their brother?”

That shuts him up.

He doesn’t say anything else, and you take the opportunity to march straight into your room. Your chest swells in a pitiful pride as you force yourself not to glance behind you, admittedly relieved you were at least able to manage some semblance of a cold shoulder, even if it wasn’t as dramatic as his own. Ignoring him is childish and quite frankly, a bandage on a more significant wound, but even this feels like a small victory after his last words to you.

“Do you?”

“Do I what?”

“Hate me.”

“Yes. More than anyone.”

You try not to let your face fall by rubbing your temples with your thumbs again, soothing the headache that threatens to wrack your body. He’s drawn his line, and it’s time to draw your own.

Shadowheart, who hasn’t budged from where you last saw her, grins. Judging from her smugness, she must’ve heard you. “Didn’t know you had it in you.”

“Me neither.”

She holds out her palm, and you weigh if you should even give her the report before giving in, placing it for her to read. Her eyes skim over the contents as you anxiously shift your weight on both legs. And eventually, she lowers the sheet. “I’ll deal with this.”

“But they’re looking for me. They won’t cooperate unless–”

“I’ll deal with this,” she repeats, folding the report before pocketing it into her pants. “Focus on repairing the city.”

“Shadowheart-”

“You entrusted us with this, and we plan to follow through. You’ve done more than enough for this city already,” she sighs. “And besides, we could use a bard around here.”

She gently shoves you toward your door. Despite your hesitance, she gives you an assuring nod and begins heading for the stairs, giving you no space to insist on offering your aid. You’re left standing idly in the hall, brows knitting together even as you reassure yourself that she and Gale are more than capable of handling themselves.

But then again, you’d thought the same for yourself. Clearly, after the night you nearly died and the nightmares that haunt you of that very same night, you’d been wrong.

You hear footsteps you’ve memorized as ones to avoid, and just as you see the tips of his white curls, you rush into your room, slamming the door shut behind you.

You need a drink.

“Haven’t seen you in days.”

You slump onto one of the wooden stools at the bar, rubbing at the soreness of your own shoulder from hours of hauling rubble and debris from more crowded parts of town where they could pose a danger. The other citizens who had worked alongside you trail in through the tavern door, laughing and cheering at today’s accomplishments as they sit across the tables. In an instant, the relatively calm tavern becomes rowdy and filled with life. Your eyes glaze over their victorious expressions as you respond. “Been busy.”

“You’re the only customer I don’t want to see, you know?” Alan wipes at one of his glass cups with a cloth. You wonder if he ever tries on his bartending uniform or if it just rots in the back of his closet. “Thought I finally got rid of you.”

“I bring plenty of business, so what’s to dread?” you offer him a lopsided smile, watching him as he pours your favorite beverage into a cup, almost routine-like. “I brought in plenty of customers when I performed here, too. If anything, I’d think you’d be grateful to see me.”

“I said I don’t like you as a customer, not an employee. I’d rather not watch the so-called hero of Baldur’s Gate passing out on my tavern floor.”

“Business is business,” you shrug, sipping at the drink. You reach for your gold pouch, but he shakes his head.

“You know you don’t have to.”

You toss him a gold coin anyway. “I want to.”

As you drink, you gaze blankly at the bard playing at the corner of the room, a crowd of half-drunken patrons surrounding him as they toss gold, hats, and even a shoe at them in applause. This only prompts the bard to sing louder, their fingers plucking at the strings of their lute. Of course, with the nature of the tavern, the song is rather ambitious rather than soothing, but it’s nice to listen to nonetheless. You watch as another bard, this one with a drum, perches next to them and begins playing in unison. The patrons clap louder to the beat.

A man sits next to you, ordering himself a booze before turning to watch the bards. You’ve never seen him around, but he seems comfortable enough, thanking Alan when he receives the drink. He gives it a sniff, then sets it down. “Nice song, no?”

Your eyes never leave the gleeful expressions of those listening, only recognizing moments later that he’s speaking to you. “Yes, pretty nice.”

“My daughter loved this song when she was younger. Even wanted to learn it herself on her flute,” he says, and a part of you wants to ask why he’s initiating conversation, but you bite your tongue. Surely most people come here to drink, not to talk with strangers? There’s a strange familiarity to him that you can’t put your finger on, and it’s enough to keep you intrigued. “She even wanted to be a bard at one point.”

“I’m assuming she didn’t become one?” you indulge him.

“She died before she could, unfortunately.”

You finally look away from the crowd and turn to him, face falling. And while you should console him, your instinct tells you that’s not what he needs. His face is solemn. Dull as if he’s become accustomed to the death of his own child, and it reminds you of the hopelessness of yearning. Any kind, really, whether it be yearning to love and yearning to care. “Was she any good at playing?”

He stifles a laugh. “Oh, she was the best. Could play better than half the bards at the circus a couple of months after I got her that flute.”

You sip at your drink again. “Being a bard isn’t the most stable of career choices when you’re alive and have a stomach to feed. Wherever she is now, I’m sure she’ll be free to sing all the songs she wants in this world.”

Perhaps your words may be insensitive, but he doesn’t look to take it that way, keenly listening to the song while you wager if you can afford one more drink.

“You know,” he says again. “Most people tell me that they’re sorry for my loss—or something along those lines.”

“Do you want me to say that?”

“No, I prefer that you be honest,” he shakes his head. “It’s refreshing.”

You return to watching the bards, who seem nearing their piece's end. The man lifts his booze to his lips and takes a large swig. “You seem acquainted with loss. Have you lost someone recently?”

“To death?”

“Doesn’t have to be.”

You’re not sure why, but you feel that confiding in this stranger comes easier than confiding in your companions. The guilt eats away at you for being unable to trust the people who care for you most, but a stranger cannot judge you. A stranger does not know you, so they cannot see you differently for your thoughts. And most importantly, a stranger cannot pity you. “I almost lost them. But I didn’t.” 

He hums, telling you he’s listening.

“I saved him, I think. Well, to be honest, I’m not so sure anymore. I like to think I did, but I don’t think he thinks the same.”

“Why’s that?”

“I…” you trail off, looking into the half-empty cup reflecting your face. Gods, you’re a mess. “I took something from him to save him.”

“Money?”

“No, nothing like that,” you mumble, swirling your cup mindlessly. “I took his choice away.”

“I see. He must’ve not wanted to be saved, then, is that right?”

You don’t answer him. The air becomes silent again, but the soft tune of the lute, and even the bartender is no longer paying attention to anyone in the tavern, only watching how the bard’s fingers file through the strings. The only person who doesn’t seem distracted is the man beside you.

“Do you regret it?”

“Saving him?” you pause, and maybe it’s the drink getting to your head, or perhaps it’s the way the music seems to fade out, but the words stumble out of your mouth before you can even process them. “I want to regret it.”

From the corner of your vision, you finally notice that his booze is still filled to the top, untouched.

“Does Astarion regret it too?”

Realization dawns on you.

You can see them now—the fangs that peek out from the smile stretching across his lips. And yet, it is not a malicious smile that confuses you even more. It would almost feel genuine if you weren’t in such a vulnerable position, and immediately, you’re thinking of ways to defeat him with just a bottle of wine with your head still spinning. 

The door to the tavern swings open.

Lae’zel almost looks out of breath as she sprints to you, a sight you don’t see every day. “Come! They were ambushed.”

When you turn back to the man sitting at the bar, you only see a gold coin beside a full cup.

You don't have time to delay, as Lae'zel yanks out of the tavern.

You've never run faster in your life. But your mind remains elsewhere, unable to keep up with the speed of your body because it's too busy being stuck in the past. Do you regret it? Does he? Until now, before Astarion’s arrival, you'd been sure it had been the right thing to do to stop the ritual. And now, after hearing all the resentment he harbored toward you as a result, you wonder if it was worth it at all. If losing him was worth the ache you endure now. Before you can snap yourself straight, the memories flood in like a dam breaking open.

“Do you love me?”

“I do. I do love you.”

You don’t expect him to say it back. Not when he looks taken aback at how quickly you’d answered him, his eyes flickering with something you can only describe as a false sense of confidence overwhelmed with a glimmer of fear that means so much more. You know love is hard for someone who hasn’t felt it in 200 years. You know this and, therefore, cannot expect it from him right now.

He cares for you, and that’s enough.

He presses his lips to your temple, and you ignore the restless aching in your chest.

Did he regret being with you then? What did he regret? There's so much you want to know, but nobody willing to answer them.

Shame floods you as you realize you’re distracted, even in such a dire situation for your companion. One more reason to hate him, you suppose—not that you’re keeping count. There’s too much blood drenching your hands, sticky and weighing on you like a pile of bricks as you burst into your shared home in the dead of night, the unconscious body of Shadowheart slumped over your back. Gale rushes to the kitchen immediately for supplies while Lae’zel slams the door shut, shoving her sword against the wall.

“Give her to me,” the githyanki demands as she picks up Shadowheart like a sack of potatoes. The half-elf groans loudly, and you hiss.

“She’s bleeding, Lae’zel, be careful!”

“I’m always careful,” she snaps back and lays your companion across the dining room table. And finally, in the light of a few flickering candles, you can see the damage that’s been done.

A large slash runs through her pelvis to just below her chest, and you can hear Gale swallow the lump in his throat before desperately resuming his rummage through the cabinets for a healing potion. Even if he’s injured too, he doesn’t seem to notice. She’s bleeding—too much for you to handle but enough for you to keep your eyes glued to her pained expression. Even unconscious, the pain seems to seep into her dream as she grunts, gasping for her breath.

It was a mistake. You should have gone in the morning. You should have been with them.

“We used all our healing potions in the battle. We need to make more,” he reaches for the cabinet where he keeps most of his ingredients. However, as he begins grinding them together, he stops and whips around to Lae’zel. “Victims outside the Blushing Mermaid. They might come back for them.”

“For corpses?” you answer for her.

“For their blood, dammit! Their children were there, alive and afraid,” he hisses at the pain of his own injuries. “Please, go check on them in my stead.”

She glares. “Tchk. What a stupid suggestion. In this pathetic state that all of you are in-”

You push her toward the door with all that remains of your strength. “Go. We’ll be fine.”

Her brows furrow, but she scoffs, relenting. “Fine. This is the last time I clean up your messes.”

You know she doesn’t mean it.

Once she leaves, you’re hunched over Shadowheart, dabbling in your less-than-effective means of soothing her. You can only hear Gale, who keeps feeding her healing potions, but it’s not nearly enough if her groans tell you anything. She needs a potion of greater healing at best, and those haven’t been exactly plentiful in supply after most of the city’s potion shops were destroyed in the war against the illithids. Another thing you should have done is stock up on potions. But you’d thought your group had had enough—at least, sufficient for a few more battles.

He rushes into the other room, mumbling about making a potion from scratch.

You clutch at Shadowheart’s hand, praying Gale would hurry up to cease the way she writhes under the candlelight. All you see is the red staining her clothes.

When you think things can’t possibly get worse, you hear the top stair creak under someone’s weight.

You must be cursed by at least one god. You’re sure of it.

He looks nearly starved. Almost as if he hadn’t drunk in days—but surely he hadn’t been this bad just this morning? His face is pale, though it’s always been white as a sheet, and his crimson glare is glued to the blood dripping off the edges of the table like a harpy with their luring songs. You feel your stomach drop as you recall you hadn’t even had the guts to stare at him in the face, and perhaps he had looked this bad. Maybe that’s why he’d approached you in the first place and asked about the Fist—not to spite you in a taunting manner, but simply because he was starving.

Whatever happened to drinking from the ladies at Sharess’ Caress? 

You don’t have time to ask; honestly, you don’t want to know the answer either.

You’re convinced he might have fed off of nothing but the rats he loathes with how sunken his eyes appear from the bags forming beneath them. The overwhelming scent of blood must have lured him out. Even you would have plugged your nose if you weren’t so concerned over your friend's wellbeing, and it’s then that you realize what he’s truly here for.

Almost instinctively, you step in front of Shadowheart, hand going to reach for your dagger. You grasp at nothing but the air.

Shit.

His lips stretch into a dangerous smile. One that is not welcome right now. “Why the hostility, darling?”

“Go back upstairs. I’m warning you.” It’s just you, Gale, and an unconscious Shadowheart in the room at the hands of the hungry vampire, practically ravenous for blood. While you’re sure Gale could handle himself as long as he doesn’t succumb to his injuries, you have nothing in your possession but Shadowheart’s hand and a candle on the table. And on top of this, you’re unsure if you’ll be able to protect Shadowheart in the crossfire if a fight breaks out. 

Your mouth feels dry. You can taste blood in your mouth, but you only realize moments later that it’s your own.

Your mind flashes back to the spawn who nearly killed you mere weeks ago. They’d had the same simmering hunger in their eyes, keen to kill in favor of satiating the endless longing for blood. The same spawn managed to overpower you with such a drastic difference in strength, making you wonder what Astarion himself is capable of. He’s had decades more experience and killing—perhaps he’s even stronger.

No, he’s definitely stronger.

When he had his cold hands wrapped around your neck, it felt as if they belonged to death themselves. And in that moment, you knew that even if you struggled against him, if he genuinely wanted you dead, you would have no power to push him away. You would have no choice but to let the grasp of death pull you into the ground, underneath the surface, into the unknown.

“Oh, poor Shadowheart,” he taunts. “She’s already lost so much blood…”

“And she’s not losing anymore.” You don’t dare to lift your eyes from Astarion. 

The hammering of your chest, the quickening of your breath—they are all things that he does not feel. You wonder if he feels anything at all. You’re sure he’s capable of hatred, he’s capable of reveling in the blood of his enemies, and he’s capable of laughing as he stabs a blade into a man’s eye.

But you wonder if that cold, dead heart of his can feel anything but for himself.

“You look unsettled,” he mocks. “Shall I drink from her? She certainly wouldn’t survive in the state she’s in, though…it would be a bit of a waste, don’t you think?”

You taste blood again from how hard you’re biting your lip.

You’re not sure if it’s just the booze driving insanity to your head or the encounter with a spawn just minutes ago, but the look in his eyes makes your chest tighten. The hunger, the bloodthirst, and the sheer drive to satiate his vampiric needs are enough to make you feel like prey cornered by a starved owlbear. He doesn’t look himself. He seems more like the spawn who’d nearly killed you. And for the first time since you awoke to his fangs bared at your neck during a night at the camp, you see him for what he is.

A vampire spawn—a monster.

This is not your Astarion. In fact, he’d never existed. He’d never loved you, and while you believed his care was enough at the time, you think that might’ve not existed either. This is not the same man who reassured you in your times of need, praised your very being, and gazed at you with nothing but love as you excitedly showed him your new pieces of music. This is not someone who had looked utterly confused when you confessed you wanted more with him because he could not imagine being a priority to someone else. This is not the same man who you once called your lover.

Your lover would not choke you to the brink of death, with nothing but malice urging him on. Perhaps you stopped the ritual from taking his soul, but maybe something else had taken it anyway. And you’re finished making a fool of yourself, hoping he reciprocates a love he cannot give.

When he steps down the stairs, the butter knife that sat on the table seconds before, flies through the air.

Whoever this is, you decide you do you hate him. You’ll force yourself to forget what he was to you if you have to, the same way he did to you. And this time, there is no hesitance or lingering feelings behind your words that represent the weak, naive part of you that can’t help but hold onto memories that no longer matter.

You truly, utterly hate him.

The knife barely flies past his skin, piercing itself into the wall, and it relieves you of the tension that’s weighed on you for the past few months, like plucking a thread from a poorly sewn piece of cloth.

“I won’t miss next time,” you snarl, your words laced with poison and your glare filled with daggers. It's a tone you rarely use on enemies, much less your allies, but all you can think about is your unconscious companion lying behind you.

For once, he looks almost surprised. His eyes are wide, unblinkingly staring at the bloody butter knife that nearly sliced off the tip of his nose before drifting over to you. You heave, your chest rising up and down as you try to catch the breath that doesn’t seem to exist, and he raises both his brows. 

“Threatening me with a butter knife? Really?”

You've never threatened him at all, really. Not even when he first asked you for your blood. But now, even that seems like an afterthought.

“Go,” you spit.

He looks at the blood dripping wastefully on the floor, then at you. His face finally falls, but he wets his lips with his tongue glazing over his fangs, and it boils your blood enough to make you lightheaded. And though the breath you’d been grasping at comes back to you when he turns to disappear back upstairs, his parting words do little to ease the squeamish feeling in your stomach.

“I prefer this spiteful part of you far more, darling.”

You fight the urge to use the candle as a weapon next.

Tags:@ayselluna@littleenglishfangirl@bg3obsessedsideblog@iwillpissyourpants@cyberpr1m3@ukeia-uchiha@snowlotr@road-riot@spacekidnova@madislayyy@lordfishflakes@nicalysm@djarinsway@tinystarfishgalaxy@brainz00@hopeful-n-sad@ohdeerieme@madisban@chrismarium@chonkercatto@fanfic-share@bitterrenegade@sleepyred1703@miskouly@ravenswritingroom @iamlowkeycrying @deezus-roy @spiritraves @mariposakitten @dinobae-replyacc @whisperingwillowxox @bdudette @misscrissfemmefatale @atropapurpurea @cosywinterevenings @phoenixgurl030 @generalstephkenobi @shadowsmusical Please let me know if I didn't add you to the list or if you'd like to be added!

[geraskierfanficprompts]

Prompt 137

Jaskier and Geralt are imprisoned by some sort of foes of Geralt, Jaskier isn't sure. He and Geralt have been a bit rocky recently, to say the least. Jaskier is really only half-lucid. He's only just begun to hear and see, again. His head hurts quite a bit, and he's pretty sure his hands are chained, but he can't move his eyes down far enough to check. Geralt is chained like werewolves in storybooks, to the point Jaskier thinks it's a tad overkill. Geralt is sitting there, looking lovely as ever. His hair is falling into his face, poor darling.. Jaskier wishes he could tuck the strands behind Geralt's little pointy ears.. His eyes are extra reflective in their current dank housing. It's a wonder nobody kidnaps you to a lovely seaside manor. Jaskier would be much more interested in talking to someone in someplace nicer, perhaps with hor d'oeuvres and wine, but no. Instead he's slumped against stone, and the only lights are some torches and candles. There's a man in rather dull robes talking to Geralt. He's quite loud, Jaskier thinks, but he can't tell if it's his head or if the man really is of such volume. He can't quite make out the words, but he can tell they're beginning to make Geralt angry. He's doing that little 'I'm pissy' mouth quirk of his. Jaskier busies himself with dissociating, until the man talking to Geralt is suddenly the man yelling to Geralt. Very loud. Ouch. Jaskier tunes back into his surroundings, and funnily enough, he can begin to understand what they say now! Hooray! "If you won't speak when you're threatened, butcher, what if your greatest love was, instead?" Not hooray. The man dumps a bunch of colored glass onto the floor, making a horrible noise, but Jaskier can't even focus on why the man would be doing that, he's too busy thinking about the threat. Clearly Geralt's greatest love is... Regrettably, Yennefer. No matter how much Jaskier loves Geralt, he knows Yennefer is first in Geralt's book. Jaskier's thought long and hard about it before. He supposes it makes sense, they're both immortal, she's gorgeous, she's a woman, she's even snippy like Geralt. Sometimes he wonders if he was born a woman if Geralt would've fallen in love with him. Perhaps not. Perhaps he'd still be seen as his annoying little friend. Maybe if he was a meaner woman? Is the woman part the main issue? If he got bitchier would Geralt love him? Maybe he should try it one day. See if he can make Geralt love him. He'll never beat Yennefer, damned witch got a headstart, but he could at least be loved more, right? "Oh~" The man that speaks to Geralt suddenly coos, looking at the floor. And really, why must the man focus so much on Geralt? Jaskier knows he's the witcher, but he's a world famous bard! Why doesn't the man talk to him? He can't help but be a little jealous. Does the man not know who he is? Jaskier very well can't sing for the man, but he does think of doing so. Even for just a second. "What's this?" The man says with a cruel little chuckle, pointing to the ground, and Jaskier finally moves his head enough to see what they're looking at. The glass he threw earlier has magically rearranged itself to make a little portrait of.... Him. Jaskier. The man holds out some sort of amulet next, and if he wasn't gripping onto it, the amulet would've hit Jaskier in the face. Jaskier doesn't quite understand. These all seem like ways to track down Yennefer. He has an amulet that seeks her out, and the glass will provide him with an image of what she looks like. So why do both point to him? Geralt doesn't love him. Surely not as much as Yennefer. "Don't you dare hurt him." Geralt snarls, the first time he's spoken since Jaskier gained consciousness, he believes. Jaskier finds the protectiveness quite sweet. He'll be sure to thank Geralt for it later. It's nice to know that he's cared for. Apparently even loved! Could he truly be Geralt's one true love? His most beloved? His dearest one? He has so much to ask Geralt when he can make his mouth move!

The man begins stalking towards Jaskier and suddenly Jaskier regrets his earlier jealousy over the man not paying attention to him. The man is quite intimidating, and has a look of pure hate in his eyes.

"Will you speak up for me if I cut up your songbird, I wonder, butcher?"

The man whispers, as he looms over Jaskier. Jaskier tries his best to say 'I'm sure we can figure this out if we put all our heads together, no harming necessary' but all that comes out is a pained little groan. Great. Wonderful. Thanks, mouth. That was exactly what he wanted.

The man suddenly draws a sharp twisted blade, and holds it to Jaskier's neck. Jaskier can't see anything but the man's shoulder, but Jaskier can easily hear Geralt struggling in his restraints, growling. He liked when Geralt growled. It was either very cute or very hot, depending on the situation. Jaskier can't decide which one it is right now, however, as there was a knife to his neck.

The man withdraws the dagger from Jaskier's throat, and instead uses it to slice across his chest. Jaskier cries out in pain, and sounds rather pathetic. He'll be sure to write himself more stoic and… with-it when he writes about this experience later on.

There's a loud sound that hurts Jaskier's head, and suddenly the man with the knife is dead on the floor. Geralt stands above him, panting, covered in the man's blood. Gods, he was magnificent.

"H'llo d'r'ling, 'Love y'."

Jaskier manages to croak out, smiling at Geralt, even as his eyelids start to droop. Geralt stares at him for a moment, and that just makes Jaskier smile bigger. He likes seeing Geralt.

"Jaskier, you need to stay awake. Stay awake for me."

He snarls out, and Jaskier pouts a bit. He thinks not. He thinks it's a lovely time for a nap. Geralt will get them out. He's a hero.

[cosmerelists]

What Happens When You Read Stormlight Archive first...

Personally, I ignored all of the “reading order” advice and chose Way of Kings as my very first Sanderson book. No regrets, to be honest! But from personal experience, here is what happens when your first stop in the Cosmere is the Stormlight Archive.

[Spoilers for Mistborn & Stormlight Archive & Warbreaker]

1. You don’t know who Hoid is

At first, Wit was just another character to me. Then the hints that he was, like, immortal or super old or some sort of god kept piling up. When Dalinar asked Wit if he was a Herald, I thought, “Ah ha! I was right!”

I was not right.

2. You don’t recognize any Worldhoppers

Zahel was just a grumpy guy who could do weird things with laundry. Azure was cool but I didn’t understand why she just sort of left the plot at one point. When people were called “oddly short” by Roshar standards, it meant nothing to me.

3. You don’t recognize non-Roshar magic

Seriously, that laundry scene with Zahel made NO SENSE to me. And when Hoid used non-Roshar powers, I just figured it was, like, some sort of bard thing.

4. You get very impatient with the interludes

I didn’t want my world to be expanded or to understand the nuances of spren or fabrials. I just wanted to get back to Kaladin! I remember being completely baffled by that one interlude where three men I didn’t know where looking for some dude with white hair and a narrow face. 

It was definitely only on a reread that I appreciated them. 

5. The big reveals are lost on you at first

When Szeth’s sword asked if he wanted to destroy some evil today, I thought, “Huh! Neat!” When Ialai namedropped Scadrial, I thought it was probably a person. And when Thaidakar was revealed as the Lord of Scars, I don’t think I even noticed really? I was too busy weeping as I tried to remember the difference between Thaidakar and Restares. 

6. You buy into the Shallan-Adolin-Kaladin love triangle

Honestly, I wasn’t sure which way it would turn out! Would Shallan leave Adolin for Kaladin? It felt so plausible! I had not yet learned the ironclad rule that all arranged marriages in a Sanderson book will be successful. By the time I got to Warbreaker, I was like, “Oh, Siri is being married against her will to the evil, tyrannical god-king? I guess they’ll get along!” And I was right.

7. The magic system feels like so much

I was hanging on by a thread trying to keep straight Surgebinding and Honorblades and Shardblades and whatever Hoid had going on. Not to mention fabrials. By the time I got to Mistborn, it was like, “Three completely independent magic systems that depend on their own rules and can interact? Yeah! I can handle that!”

8. You want to read them all

For me, starting with Stormlight Archive was best! I loved it so much that I was suddenly wanting to read everything Sanderson wrote. Plus, the backwards reveals were pretty fun. Oh, you’re dead, are you, Kelsier? That’s not what Book 4 of Stormlight says...

And hey! Crazy how the King’s Wit keeps showing up!

[pininghermit]

The Bard-ling

AN: I'm going to write more of this dynamic. D deserves a bard. Loving the fandom! I would love to get back to all your lovely comments but life is a little busy right now :)

Genre: romance, fluff

Pairing(s): Vampire hunter D x gn Reader

Summary: Your lute stilled mid-strum as realization dawned. This wasn’t just another aimless journey. Today, D was leading you back to a chapter of his past. A flame once touched but never kindled.

You strum your lute, somehow managing to keep pace with Blaze—a name you had lovingly bestowed upon D’s stoic, cybernetic horse. Yet, it was not without effort.

The dunpeal had an uncanny way of drawing out the hidden glamour you worked so hard to suppress. How else was a fae supposed to keep up with a creature that galloped like a streak of lightning across the vast, unkind earth?

“The riveting adventures of D…” you mutter, wincing. “No, that won’t do.” With a dramatic sigh, you scratch that one off your mental list. For all your boundless enthusiasm, D’s name simply refused to fit into any heroic ballad worth its strings.

“How about ‘The Pioneer of Justice, D’?” you propose, your voice carrying into the empty air. The silence that follows is so absolute it makes your ears ache. Thankfully, Blaze is kind enough to snort in response, as though sharing your pain.

“Vampire Hunter D?” you try again, squinting meaningfully at the dunpeal himself. But reading D’s expression is a hopeless endeavor. Where mortals were an open book, D was a locked journal whose pages you were forbidden to touch.

Your mind drifts, as it often does, to the journey that brought you here. It was the year 1230 of your beguiling, back in the shimmering court of Yjorn. How valiantly you had made the decision or so you told yourself, to leave the safety of faerie and step into the world of mortals. To witness their plight, to feel their fleeting joys and crushing sorrows, and to, perhaps, offer your kind’s endless empathy to those fragile, short-lived souls.

At least, that was the story you liked to tell.

The truth, however, was far less noble. As the darling 47th in line to the throne of Yjorn, you had been unceremoniously banished. The queen, your mother, had little patience for your "spoils"—the mortal lovers you’d so generously whisked away to faerie.

How unfair it had been! You were merely sparing them from their wretched lives, gifting them a place in your beautiful, eternal world. But, as it turned out, your mother did not share your vision.

And so, the treasured youngest of Yjorn found themselves wandering the mortal realm, now strumming a lute beside a dhampir who had less to say than the stars themselves.

How the mighty had fallen.

Yet all was not lost. Your beloved companion, though D would undoubtedly deny such familiarity, was a joy to travel with on the rare days he wasn’t bound by his oath of silence.

Your dhampir was, admittedly, a delight on most occasions. Watching the world of mortals and immortals alike stumble into smitten dazes at his mere presence was a treasure you held dear.

Truly, wherever D went, hearts followed. Men and women alike seemed to lay their emotions bare, falling at his feet with their hearts in their hands, eyes wide with awe.

The lovelorn, particularly young mortals swept up in the fervor of first love had a habit of complicating his already unromantic quests.

Seventeen-year-olds, intoxicated by their first taste of passion, often became the heroines of his adventures. How many times had you watched these youths mistake his stoic sense of duty for some deeper affection, their fervent hopes clashing with his unwavering silence?

Today, however, was different. Today, D had surprised you. For once, he wasn’t leading you toward an unknown skirmish or a shadowed corner of the world. Instead, the path he followed carried a peculiar familiarity, one that tugged at memories you thought long buried.

The road to the outskirts of Ransylva…

Your lute stilled mid-strum as realization dawned. This wasn’t just another aimless journey. Today, D was leading you back to a chapter of his past. A flame once touched but never kindled.

Today, you were returning to the home of Doris Lang.

The heroine of your infamous ballad, A Noble Bloodlust.

Through fields overrun and a village in plight, He rode into Ransylva beneath crimson light. With silence his answer, with steel in his hand, A protector of souls in a cursed, hollow land.

Oh, follow the shadow, where the moon lights the way, A stranger who lingers, ‘til the darkness must pay. No name to his legend, no tale to confide, The rider in shadow forever will ride.

A maiden stood waiting, her heart held by dread, Her family in ruin, her brother near dead. She asked for his aid, though his eyes were like stone, And found in his silence a strength all her own.

Oh, follow the shadow, where the moon lights the way, A stranger who lingers, ‘til the darkness must pay. No name to his legend, no tale to confide, The rider in shadow forever will ride.

The song was a marvel, its fame spreading far and wide, unmatched in its ability to immortalize D’s deeds. And for you, the bard of Vampire Hunter D, it had become your crowning glory.

Oh, the chorus! It was irresistible, a siren call to every tavern-goer, who eagerly joined in with booming voices. No crowd could resist singing those words, raising their mugs in tribute to the enigmatic rider.

It was a pity, however, that D himself didn’t share the same enthusiasm. He’d forbidden you to include certain “embellishments” like the Midwich Medusas, for instance.

How could you resist weaving them into your verses when they added such flavor? And yet, the dunpeal had tried, in vain, to hide that particular detail from your prying telepathic curiosity.

Ah, the woes of a bard! Had your mother granted you a touch more power in your exile, such slights to your artistry would never have been made.

But alas, here you were, forced to temper your creativity to suit your stoic companion.

As the road wound closer to Ransylva, you strummed the melody softly, humming under your breath. If Doris Lang remembered him, and oh, how could she forget? The silly mortal would not manage to forget your dunpeal in a thousand lifetimes.

You had no doubt that her story would inspire yet another verse. Perhaps, this time, you’d manage to keep the Medusas in.

D should be enjoying this. He truly should be.

Then why did unease coil in his chest? Why did every laugh, every earnest attempt from Dan to learn the basics of your lute, gnaw at his composure?

Dan was no longer the innocent boy D had once left behind. Time had carved strength into his frame, the gangly limbs of youth replaced by the solid build of a young man. A man who seemed far too comfortable in your company.

And it irked him.

So much so, that D found himself ignoring the familiar sight of Doris lingering nearby, her gaze lovingly flitting toward him. She might have drawn his attention before, but now, his focus was elsewhere.

It was on you. And on Dan’s fingers. Those far-too-close fingers brushing yours as he held your lute with clumsy enthusiasm.

You were his bard. You should be by his side. Next to him.

The sharp twang of a snapping string startled everyone. You froze, your head snapping up to meet D’s gaze, your eyes glinting with the mischievous light of someone who knew. Of course you did. The strain of his power, the invisible pull that broke the string, had betrayed him.

There was a whole other story unfolding, hidden from the eyes of Doris and Dan, shrouded in the veil of magic that bound you to D in ways no mortal could comprehend.

“Alas,” you sighed, turning to Dan with an exaggerated look of disappointment, “it seems our lesson isn’t meant to be.”

Dan flushed, looking sheepish, and fumbled with the lute as you reclaimed it. The smirk curling on your lips was a private dagger aimed at D, who tensed as you approached him.

The lute fell into his lap with a deliberate thud.

“A pity, right, D?” you teased, leaning in slightly, your grin sharpening as you closed the distance. Behind you, Dan shuffled awkwardly, his mind already racing for another excuse to draw your attention back to him.

But D would not allow it.

You didn’t belong with Dan. You were not human. A fae, with all the mischief and danger that entailed, had no place beside a mortal. You were a temptation, a force that could unravel Dan’s fragile humanity.

No. You were a danger, yes. But you were his danger. One that belonged by his side, next to him and Blaze.

Even Blaze, a disposable cyborg horse had become something more because of you. The name you’d given him, the way you spoke to him like he was a creature of flesh and blood, had seeped into D’s consciousness. He’d gone out of his way to care for Blaze, preserving the horse’s functionality against all odds.

Why?

Because it kept you there. Kept you tethered to him.

And as you hovered just close enough to test his already frayed restraint, D accepted the truth. Whatever else you were, you were his. And no mortal boy would change that.

So, when the midnight hour came, and D silently mounted Blaze to set off toward the next nameless town, you followed without hesitation.

The plans of vacationing in Ransylva were long forgotten, drowned beneath the unease that coursed through D like an unseen tide.

No question was carried on the winds, no protest rose from the shadows of the slumbering village you left behind.

All that lingered in the stillness was the victorious laughter of a smug faerie.

[2ch3rr13s]

This time I won't leave your side

you died before their eyes many years ago barely lived your life, you still had many years before you, this time you come back to them, living and breathing again. Was this a sick joke played by Celestia on them? But no matter, they wish for more as you are back, after all they will love you a thousand more times no matter how you come back to them, they will always be able to tell it's you.

tw- some angst, reader death, fluff, strictly platonic(Qiqi & Nahida), the rest could be read as platonic or romantic, leaning more to romantic on them tho, characters- venti, zhongli, raiden, nahida, wanderer/scaramouche, xiao, aether, lumine, albedo, and qiqi

Venti

A man, a bard, a god, an archon, immortality was granted to him when he be came the Anemo archon, whether it be a curse or a gift, he didn’t know anymore. But he knew it was a curse bared by him the moment he found his beloved laying in a field full of bloodied flowers.  

If only he had been quicker, or if he never let them go alone by themselves to do their commissions, then maybe, they wouldn’t be six feet under.  

Every day he would visit their grave in the late hours of the night, sit and talk with a bottle of dandelion wine, as if they were there with him. He knew no matter how much he spoke, his words will never make it to their ears.  

One day he awoke by their grave, he drunk himself drunk and decided to just spend the night with them. But there was someone else by him when he awoke, they had messy h/c, and he couldn’t see anything else.  

“Who... Who are you?” He asked as he sat up, and the stranger turned to him, and he felt his heart leap to his throat, his chest hammering, and his eyes widened in astonishment. “Good morning, sir, it seems like you had a fun night,” they smiled at him as he sighed nodding with his own smile upon his face.  

“That I did,” he knew that they wouldn’t remember anything, but to have them here now, he was happy and content. He took up one of the unfinished bottles as they sat in the grass beside him, and they spoke for hours beside the grave.

Zhongli

He lived for eons; lovers, friends, people he thought of as family, have came and gone. He should’ve been used to it by now, but no matter what he could never handle it each time he seen it.  

He is immortal, he is cursed with seeing mortals he grows close to die in front of his eyes no matter what, that is just the way of life. No matter how many times he sees it, he will never grow used to it.  

Rain poured from the night skies heavily one night, it was difficult to see, and he knew as he waited for his love, they might perish in the storm. The next morning, he was right, someone awoke and seen their body on the side of the road, cold, and frail.  

He blamed himself no matter how much someone else told him otherwise, when the 76th director of Wangsheng Funeral Parlor died and his young grandchild had taken over, he went to work of her, Hu Tao was her name.  

Visiting the grave of his beloved was painful, but every year on their birthday, on their anniversary, or even on their death anniversary, Zhongli would get up, ask Hu Tao for the day off, and sit at his beloved grave for the whole day.  

Their birthday was coming up, so he decided to ask Hu Tao for the day off, and he was allowed to leave for the whole day. He went to go prepare; flowers, tea, some letters he written to them, and even some of their favorite food.  

When he carried all of the things in his arm, he nearly dropped some of the stuff, “Hey, do you need help?” That voice nearly made him freeze, but he turned with a small nod. “That would be very appreciated,” he spoke kindly to them, and when he looked into their eyes, he knew.  

He knew they had found him again on their own, and like always, he would stay by their side, until the end of his curse. He would love them no matter the shape or form in their next life, it was still his love.  

Raiden Ei/Shogun

Life and death, such a concept what hard to accept when you lived hundreds of years. No matter how much death you witness, or how much you try to forget it, it will always be there to haunt you until the end of time.  

The land of eternity was difficult to live in with all the hostile people, the lightning and all the rain, yet it was such a beautiful place. Beauty would always be found in the storm no matter how you see it, and the electro archon knew that.  

The day her darling passed due to some treasure hoarders, he promised herself to rid of all of them on her lands and that she did, well, her puppet did. Still meditating, she waited for until her puppet would come back, and this time she did with someone else in tow. 

They seemed familiar, and they looked beaten up, she looked at her puppet who looked elsewhere as she tugged on the rope that was connected to their hands. “Shogun... What is the meaning of this?”  

The person looked up at Ei, and she felt her heart drop to her stomach, their eyes formed into a glare as they looked at her, but her heart was beating rapidly against her chest. They were back again, and she was glad to have them back and alive.  

“You, what is your name?” When they stated their name, her heart fluttered as she nodded with a soft smile to herself, they are back, they are alive and breathing. They are safe now, she told herself. 

 

Nahida

She was a god of wisdom, of course she knew of reincarnation, she was locked up for nearly five hundred years, she had a bit of freedom, and she made a friend, one of the sages that had her locked up, they were nice. They wanted to go against Azar’s words and let her free, but the other sages knew of their plans, and they were disposed of.  

Nahida no matter how much she sees people come and go, she wouldn’t be able to handle it, she may be over five hundred years old, but she still was a child no matter her knowledge. She cried for hours and hours when Azar came with one of Y/n’s belongings, tainted with splotches of blood.  

When she was freed from her prison and Azar was delt with, she would stay by the blond traveler’s side at times. When they had decided to take up a rather difficult commission one day, she went with them, but even then, the two were enough, they just needed a bit more power.  

A person from out of nowhere jumped in swinging their weapon with their vision, and they turned to the three with a large smile and wiping the sweat from their brow. Paimon asked loudly for their name, and they stated it with a loud voice clearly proud of their self.  

Nahida smiled with a nod, the sage from all those years ago was back, and they were a vision wielder now. The traveler introduced them self with a smile and offered dinner as their gratitude. “And this is Nahida,” she held a hand to her chest, her heart fluttering in happiness. “It’s nice to meet you Y/n, I hope we can be friends,” again, she wanted to say but stopped herself.  

Wanderer

The betrayals, as he called them, made him into the man he was years ago, The Balladeer, Scaramouche, The Sixth of the Eleventh Harbingers. He was feared by all, but there was only one person who lived in a cottage in the forests of Snezhnaya, he stumbled across them one day during a harsh winter.  

His first thought was to rid of them for even seeing him vulnerable, but he bit his tongue and said nothing as they treated his wounds. Every few weeks he would go and visit them, but he would rather die than let them know.  

A particular harsh winter had gone over the land of ice and snow, he knew that tiny cottage wouldn’t be able to keep them safe, so when he went to go visit them after the ice storm had passed, he was met with his fellow harbinger dragging their body out of the home.  

“Oh, you need not to worry for them, they are my latest experiment Balladeer,” and he bitterly turned on his heel and went back, their smile and kind eyes pushed into the dark backside of his mind.  

When he resided in Sumeru and received his Anemo vision, and his pasts memories as The Balladeer, surprisingly their smile was the first thing he had gathered in his mind. The lands of Sumeru were hot on the day he strolled around, going about his day aimlessly.  

He bumped into someone, a small scoff leaving his mouth, “I am so sorry! I wasn’t looking where I was going!” They rambled as they picked up their things, and they looked up at him with a small frown. His breath hitched as they smiled at him softly, “I’m sorry again,” and they turned on their heel and walked away from him.  

Without knowing his own feet moved on their own, and he followed after them without another words, they turned with a smile and he held his face flush. It wouldn’t be so bad to open up to someone now after all that he has been through.  

Xiao

The Yaksha, a protector of Liyue, a conqueror of demons, and an adepti. He wished to only rest one night, but in the dead of night, he heard the faint whisper of his name. With a wisp of black and teal, he was met with the sight of his beloved covered in blood and fatui agents and gunners surrounding their body.  

All he saw was red as he felt his mask consume his face, there he slayed the ones who caused his dear harm, and once they were slayed, he dropped to his knees by their side. Tears cascading down his cheeks as he took their dying into his arms, their cold hands raising to gently brush some of his tears away.  

They spoke lowly, “I love you,” and with that their body fell limp in his arms, be forced himself to carry their body and bury them, no matter how much it tormented his heart. And he forced himself to promise to never go to another mortal or love ever again.  

Lantern Rite, the time to be happy, to let xiao lanterns float up into the sky, and spend time with your loved ones or ever friends. But this was yet only year he no longer had his beloved by his side, but instead the blonde traveler and their floating fairy by their side came up to the balcony of Wangshu Inn.  

Following behind them was another person, bright/dark eyes, and a smile on their face as they carried a xiao lantern in their hands. “Xiao, this is Y/n,” and his heart fluttered hearing their name, but he crossed his arms and closed his eyes trying to keep his composure. “It’s nice to finally meet you, conqueror of demons,” they said with a smile making him want to hug them tightly and never let them go, but this wans’t his beloved.  

This one was a new Y/n, not the one he used to know, but still, he will try to make some conversation, “Likewise mortal.” 

Aether

A lone traveler from another world, traveling with his sister, but he lost her along the way to this new world. Teyvat... It was strange, but it was a newly welcomed adventure. The person he met was a beautiful/handsome person in his eyes. He thought he shouldn’t get too attached until he found his sister, but that was inevitable.  

They easily broke past his flimsy walls he put up; teasing him for hours that they would spend together, but he knew nothing of this world’s horrors. He thought he was safe just carrying around a sword unknowing of visions.  

One day he ventured out to find some fruit leaving his beloved alone in their makeshift camp, and hearing a scream from a bit aways, he turned and ran back. If only he didn’t leave, then maybe he wouldn’t be cradling their body in his arms as they smiled up at him, their eyes closed as they held his hand limply. 

And then he found himself staring out into space reminiscing about his days before his floating child companion, she was complaining about something, but he couldn’t hear her as he stared at the person before him. They waved their hand in front of his face as he final was snapped out of his daze.  

“I’m sorry... What were you saying?” They let out a small chuckle as he felt his cheeks flush, “I was asking what would you like to order?” Oh, that what Paimon was yelling about, food. But he knew not what to say his words seeming to die on his tongue the more he looked at the person before him.  

Who knew reincarnation was possible in this world, but then again it was full of surprise that he was willing to discover as long as this Y/n stays by his side safely at all times.  

Lumine

An abyss princess, she was forced to see death and destruction. In every world she traveled with her brother, it was always different, but this was the first time she traveled alone without him.  

Back in Khaenri’ah, she was alone, but she bet a blond man, and another person, her first love in this world. They were an amazing person; kind, calm, beautiful in her eyes, and she told them after a few years of friendship.  

And when she was going to propose to them, the archons of this world has decided, Khaenri’ah should be no more. Blood, fire, death was everywhere as people ran and screamed for their lives, but where was Y/n? 

They were no where in sight as Lumine ran around trying to find them, just as she was about to run into a building the roofs began to cave in, and before she could react, she was pushed out the way.  

Her honey-colored eyes turned to see a familiar head of hair get crushed by the fallen debris, and she knew, her love sacrificed their self for her. With a heavy heart, and tears in her eyes as she moved to leave, she looked to see the sky painted red, and fire reaching towards the heavens.  

Hundreds of years later she looked over a cliff to watch her brother, the blond man, and a floating child. Took caught up in her gaze, she failed to notice a person running to her, swinging a claymore around.  

But before she could get hit by their attacks, she raised her own sword and their blades collided as sparks flew from the two metals. Her breath hitched as they jumped back, their weapon coated in elemental energy as they grinned at her widely. “And so the abyss princess knows to fight,” they snarked with their eyebrows furrowed with that grin upon their face.  

“You... What is your name?” They slung their weapon over their shoulder with their grin still upon their face as they jabbed their thumb to their self. “Names Y/n, princess.”  

Albedo

Relationship; complicated, complex, and too much effort to maintain, it’s what he always thought. He knew any type of relationship relied on communication, quality time, and even effort.  

And somehow, some way, a mortal managed to worm their way into his heart, his darling, his love, his first; Y/n. They were his everything, his friend, his lover, his muse, the reason for him to live. He wanted nothing but to have them in his life for all eternity.  

But he was too late, too late to do anything when a sword impaled his darling, all he saw was red as he slayed the beings that harmed them, and when he fell to his knees by their side he was too late to even be there in their last moments.  

And after that he never left his lab, be it the one in Dragonspine, or even the one in the one in the Knights of Favonius building. The only time he would turn to see something else other than his research was Sucrose bring more supplies or Klee pestering him.  

Out of material for his latest experiment, he heaved a heavy sigh as he looked around his lab; messy, dirty, unorganized, maybe he’ll clean up once he comes back. Leaving his lab, he walks slowly, how long has it been since he left? How long did he stay with his experiment?  

His eyes trailed up to the sun; how long has it been since he had been outside? His legs carried him until he collided with another being. “Oh, I’m sorry,” they spoke as Albedo rubbed his head and looked up at them and their outstretched hand.  

His heart nearly stopped beating in his chest, “Uhm... Hello?” They questioned a bit awkward from his staring. Shaking his head, he took their hand as they pulled him up, and gave him a smile, “Sorry for bumping into you, I was told by Sucrose to help deliver these to Albedo,” his eyes still couldn’t leave them, but how could he not? His Y/n was back.  

He sighed taking in reality, his Y/n was gone... This one was a new one, “That would be me, my apologies, I am a bit out of it,” they smiled at him and waved their hand at him. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad to form another companionship.   

Qiqi

When she heard of the passing of the person she loved as her parent when she was just barely a few years old to understand, she cried for hours. When she died, her memories of that person were wiped completely but at time you could hear her mention a person’s name when she rambled under her breath to herself about remembering things. 

So Baizhu had gifted her a journal to write anything and everything she possibly wanted to remember. And every day she would write about everything and anything, some days she wouldn’t have anything for her journal.  

One day she was writing in her journal, and in strolled in the Traveler and Paimon, and her eyes looked up at them a bit disinterested. “Doctor Baizhu is not here... Qiqi will help you instead,” and a person accidently bumped into the traveler making a Qiqi look at them.  

“You are clumsy... Apologize,” she said as they helped up the blond and looked down at the little girl, “Hi Qiqi, Doctor Baizhu sent me to come get these for him,” they handed the little girl a slip of paper giving her a smile.  

She took the paper with a little smile at the mention of her caretaker as she looked down at the paper, “Qiqi will get this for you...” She smiled up at them as she turned on her heel and gathered what the paper said, when she returned, they were talking with the traveler.  

“Qiqi, has gotten what Y/n needed,” she said not realizing what she said, and the person turned to her with a surprised look, before they shook their head and gave her a pat on her hat. “Thank you Qiqi,” and with that they left, and Qiqi took out her journal and wrote the name.  

It was familiar as she flipped through her journal, and saw the name on the very first page, Y/n... They had come back, and the zombie girl didn’t even know it, all she knew was she felt warm all over when she talked to them.  

im so srry this took awhile, i haven't had any motivation lately :( but i am trying my best, i have an idea for a kaveh x reader oneshot if anyone would be interested to read that when that comes out &lt;3

[decarabiandivorce]

📓??

nameless bard wakes up in modern mondstadt during the windblume festival- but is IMMEDIALTLY pelted with pollen. His poor lungs can't take it. He cant even get a word in about whats going on before he sneeze 😔 <- has lived his entire life in a place with practically no wildlife

Its all fun and games until every citizen in mond can feel the winds. Stop.

"Huh? What's going on? Is Barbatos okay??? Is it another stormterror thing?" No one can blow dandelions :(. But the winds suddenly pick up again, just at a slower pace. They weave around NB, careful to make sure no pollen drags down his experiance.

NB is taking this as a sign of ??? as he tries to gain more and more info- but then animals start to chase him! Cats and birds are wanting pets from him. He tries to calm them down, but they all look at him like he is made of catnip.

NB runs into a nearby store, and is informed that someone paid for his meal. "What the fuck??" NB thinks, but isn't one to refuse a gift <- hasn't eaten anything for so long

basically NB being beloved by all the creatures and winds of mondstadt, as a gift from Venti. NB has no clue what is going on, but he feels happy? He has learned that its the future and is pushing all that grief to the side (for now), and is wondering where his little friend could be? Wispi would be immortal, right? Perhaps there are some records by the Gunnhildrs that would know?

As NB walks up to the church, practically all of the decorations fall on him. a faint "oh Shoot! Too much wind." is faintly heard, but NB gets covered in decorations. He looks like a very very very grumpy disney princess, and from the way a banner falls on his head - resembles Barbatos a Lot.

"is that our god in human form???" "I heard that the anemo archon sometimes disguises himself.... so maybe..."

"Look! He is wondering where he can perchase a lyre- but he is wearing olde bard clothings! That proves he is a bard from long ago! And we all know the church has Barbatos's lyre! Thus! This olde lyre-less bard must be the archon incognito!!!"

The sisters are *squinting* at this strange bard who speaks like he is from another time, and Rosaria is like "you know what would be funny?"

"Do not hand a STRANGER the HOLY LYRE"

"...."

Anyways NB, so confused, is like "hm... if I win these people's trust with a song, then perhaps I can get some info about my wispi???"

So after 1 song, NB looks around and is the MOST disney princess looking bard in the history of mondstadt. You know how birds fly in Venti's TCG art? Yeah that. The archon may or may not have asked a couple creatures to watch his friend, and the flowers now in NB's hair is not doing him any favors. There are butterflies and crystalflies and NB is so >:/. He is in awe, but he senses something is off.

Then this strange new Mondstadt is like "okay so you are our god. Cool. We can keep that a secret :)"

"Huh????" ":)"

[thedemonofcat]

“Lambert, have you and Aiden ever fought?”

“Bunch of times. Fought the first time we met. Stabbed each other too,” Lambert smiled, reminiscing. But then he schooled his face. “Why the fuck do you want to know?”

Geralt hesitated, clearly not wanting to explain, but he eventually said, “Jaskier. We fought. Thought maybe you could…”

Geralt trails off, but Lambert could fill in the rest. “You want relationship advice? Really?”

“Forget it.”

“Hey! Sit the fuck back down! Did I say no? Did I? I didn’t, you coward.”

“Not a coward,” Geralt growled. “I’m not gonna stay just to be insulted.”

“Do you want advice or not?” Because Lambert practically breathed insults. He wouldn’t change that just because Pretty Boy was having love problems.

With a snarl, Geralt plopped back down. He folded his arms and gave Lambert a look that said, “Well?”

Damn, Geralt was willingly subjecting himself to more of Lambert’s mocking. That was real love right there. “Okay, so were you the ass or was he?”

“He keeps asking to join hunts,” Geralt finally admitted after a long pause, “and gets pissed when I say no.”

“So, you're the one being an ass this time,” Lambert replied, mimicking the tone of an Oxenfurt scholar.

“He’s human,” Geralt shot back, a familiar dread settling in when he thought about Jaskier's mortality.

“An immortal human,” Lambert countered. “And I’m not even sure he’s fully human.”

“What? No, Jaskier can’t be immortal,” Geralt said, then hesitated. “Can he?”

“Jaskier doesn't age—he's pushing forty and still looks like he’s barely in his twenties,” Lambert pointed out, but Geralt’s expression stayed unconvinced. “I’ve seen him swallow poison without a scratch.”

“Shit,” Geralt muttered, wide-eyed. “My bard might actually be immortal.”

[illarian-rambling]

Hopping on this tag from @happypup-kitcat24 :)

OC Assumption Tag

Share one of your characters' name and a quote from them with zero context and let your followers (or other people who stumble upon your post) make assumptions about said character. You can post about more than one character but only one quote for each one for things to stay out of context.

1) Izjik Meautammera

“My name is Izjik Meautammera and I’m not at all wanted by the wealthy Devaris family of Unity. They won’t give you money for my safe and unconscious return. What I am is End’s avatar. It speaks to me, it controls my actions when it wishes. I have killed spirits and Chosen under its command. Immortality shatters beneath the stone of my washava. I have come here to ask for your help in our ultimate endeavor; destroying the gods and all life on this planet. You, your kid, your dog—it’ll all be dead and gone. So, who, uh, who’s with me?”

2) Sepo Kaiacynthus

“I expect you to fight to the bitter end if that’s what it takes, because you might love your husband, your son, but the people on that ship are the reason I’m here today and if your impatience costs them their lives, then believe me when I say I will turn that city down there into a fiery crater when I rip this damn island out of the sky!”

3) Twenari Undetasib/Devaris

“Something to do with gravitation runes and the density of air. It’s brilliant; they combine the magical with the mechanical and get a miracle. Gods, if I could just get a peek inside one of those fans….”

4) Djek Kagura

“Look, my point is, it’s hard to trust a bleeding heart. You figure that you’re too weak for this world, too sensitive, so you get in tight with someone who knows their shit. Someone smart enough to tangle with society and come out on top. You trust them to make decisions for you because they know better. They’re harder, more practical; they don’t balk when there’s bloody work to be done.... The first step in doing good is to let go of those people. You have to learn to listen to that bleeding heart of yours. It’s not soft, it’s not weak; it makes you who you are. A good woman. One who now has the opportunity to go out and make the world better.”

5) Astra DuClaire

“Nah, but I’ve been listenin’ in on your little chat with my friend here. I know I got you real worried ’bout how I figured out how to preserve a mind and you didn’t. And you’re right to worry, which is why I said it before, but all good messages bear repeatin’, so I’ll say it again. I am better than you.”

6) Mashal Darezsho

“I don’t care! I don’t care if you think I’m nothing more than a stepping stone on your path. I don’t care if you don’t think about me at all! But you will come out here and face me, gods damn it! And I’ll make sure I’m the last thing that ever crosses your fucking mind!”

7) Ivander Montane

“I didn’t come after the Surgeon out of the goodness of my heart. I… I didn’t come here to solve your murder or bring anyone to justice. The Surgeon can strip the magic from a sorcerer. I’ve seen the bodies with my own eyes—yours included. I came here hoping he could take the godly magic from me. ...I told you, I’m a selfish man.”

8) Elsind Cavernsight

“I forgive you, too. Just by knowing you, I can tell that your father was a good man. Not a good ruler maybe, but I can honestly say that I believe both of you did the best you could within the system you inherited. Very few nobles I’ve met were ever so, well, noble.”

8) Avymere Spearsong

“We are not retreating. The longer we take to act, the longer the people of Salis—of all of Skysheer—are held in Vermir’s grasp. Every second we waste means the death of another sorcerer whom it is my duty to protect. We push on.”

I like games like these, so ima call all the homies! Consider yourselves no pressure tagged ;)

@amandacanwrite @elsie-writes @riveriafalll @kosmic-kore @kaylinalexanderbooks

@bard-coded @carrotsinnovember @patternwelded-quill @somethingclevermahogony @whatwewrotepodcast

@the-angriest-author @mk-writes-stuff @frostedlemonwriter @vyuntspakhkite-l-darling @watermeezer

@leahnardo-da-veggie @mr-orion @televisionjester @ray-writes-n-shit @evilgabe29

@trippingpossum @tragedycoded @halfbakedspuds @ominous-feychild @cain-e-brookman

@wyked-ao3 @thecomfywriter

[maidflowery]

amorous✞cross -2-

The Vampirchurin Saga continues...!

♦︎♦︎A VillageOutcast!Reader x Vampire!Aventurine♦︎♦︎ 𝕀𝕝𝕝𝕦𝕤𝕥𝕣𝕒𝕥𝕖𝕕

Trigger warning: Heavy subjects, past trauma, blood

𝔓𝔯𝔢𝔳𝔦𝔬𝔲𝔰 ℭ𝔥𝔞𝔭𝔱𝔢𝔯

𝔗𝔞𝔟𝔩𝔢 𝔬𝔣 ℭ𝔬𝔫𝔱𝔢𝔫𝔱

Memories

The navy-blue carpet of night stretched to the horizon, studded with countless glittering stars of the Milky Way. Moonlight illuminated the barren land, each blade of grass seemingly shining radiantly.

Yet, no amount of brilliance could diminish the shadow shrouding the tall figure before you, or the darkness emanating from his multicolored eyes.

The temperature plummeted at nightfall. Even now, chilly wind caressed your exposed skin, stripping you of warmth.

The night in the forest was bitterly cold. Yet, compared to his icy smile and withering glare—as if he were looking at an insect—it felt much warmer.

“So tell me, why should I spare you?”

You shivered, your teeth chattering. You just knew it was a question that needn’t answering.

Reflexively, you clasped your trembling hands as if in prayer.

This seemed to slightly pique the interest of the bewitching creature before you.

“Oh? Praying to your goddess, perhaps?” grinning, he curiously tilted his head.

Such a human-like gesture, but the fact that he had blasted the 10-meter radius around you proved he was anything but.

You’d heard about him.

The villagers, travelers, merchants, bards, and pilgrims all spun different tales of him, yet it all boiled down to one thing.

An immortal creature untouched by the passage of time or age. An otherworldly beauty. Weak to sunlight yet strongest during the full moon. Vulnerable to silver. Thrived by drinking blood.

Unable to maintain eye contact with him any longer, you dropped your head.

Perhaps mistaking that you were praying fervently, he went on lightheartedly.

“Alright, go on ahead. See if she can save you.”

“—rry... So... rry...”

“...”

Amidst the fear, you desperately squeezed those words out.

Clink!

Then, in your peripheral vision, you saw a flash of light in the distance. You instinctively followed it with your gaze, despite the voice at the back of your head telling you not to.

The sparkling object turned out to be a silver crossbow, gripped by a man's hand. He lay face down, a pool of blood forming around him, motionless. His heart appeared to have been gouged out.

“Hyiii—!”

Your breath was stuck in your throat. You trembled nonstop from head to toe, unable to form coherent thoughts.

With the moon directly above, you saw that the grass around the man had red stains, leading all the way here.

...Or, to be precise, the spot right under the creature's right hand, from which fresh blood still trickled.

“Are you done?”

As you hyperventilated, the creature—vampire, asked, prompting you to look up.

There are... two?

Except, when you did, you saw that there were two moons hanging in the skies. Even the vampires appeared to have doubled somehow... and both were smiling at you... The stars suddenly became so bright, piercing your eyes.

Your world started spinning.

So dizzy...

Why...? How did I get here...?

Your mind was getting foggy for some reason.

Ah, right... food, I was looking for food...

You were reminded of your original goal and that you hadn’t eaten for days.

...Then, I tried to eat his pet—his beloved pet...

What a relief, you thought as strength left your entire body.

What a relief that you didn’t end up separating someone from something precious to them right before you die.  

“Sorry...”

Your vision went black as you collapsed, your hands still clasped.

The truth was, you knew your goddess wouldn’t save a sinner like you.

Still, until this moment, you had done your best to uphold morals and live as a decent person, hoping that someday, your sins would be absolved.

Please show me mercy... Goddess Katica.

⚜⚜⚜

Where is this...?

The next time you woke up, you saw a girl being surrounded by a bunch of people. They were saying something while occasionally pointing at her.

You said 'a bunch of people,' but it was actually one person. Their appearance, gestures, and position would change, but one thing remained consistent: they were faceless.

The reason they were faceless—why they all looked the same—was it because they always said the same thing, regardless of the person?

‘You pitiful child.’

For as long as you can remember, the villagers had always tried to raise you to be a good person, all because of the original sin you were born with.

“—That stupid sow! Seduced by foreign blood and dying on her own, leaving this stain on our doorstep! What an utter disgrace!”

“Oh, you pitiful child, born to such a wretched and sinful mother! Surely, this is a trial from Goddess Katica!”

“Yes, I’m sure of it! If we endure this, we shall be reunited with Goddess Katica in the afterlife!”

“Child, we’re willing to tolerate your wicked, dirty presence. You must thank the merciful Goddess Katica for this!”

These were the village elders. You grew up with them, having no recollection of your own mother. They were the ones who disciplined you and taught you the two essential lines that everyone should know as the basis of decency.

‘I’m sorry’ and ‘thank you.’

The former was when you erred, and the latter when someone did you a favor.

“—Who do you think you are?! Sullying the abode of Goddess Katica with your filthy presence! The sheer arrogance!”

During your early childhood, you saw children your age entering the temple with their parents to offer their weekly prayers. When you followed suit, the village elder’s wife, usually soft-spoken and demure, flew into a rage.

“Haven’t I been kind enough to you? Is this how you repay my love? Normally, a child born of a heretic like you is left to die! Why do you think you’re still alive?”

“I’m sorry.”

Your mouth answered as if it were second nature.

The girl—you—also did the same as the village elder’s wife shook her shoulders.

“As if your mother hadn’t burdened us enough! And now, you too! Whose fault is it that I’m like this? Hey, whose fault is it?!”

“I’m sorry for being born.”

After that, you made sure to stay away from the temple grounds.

“Because of you, rumors are spreading that we’re blaspheming. You’re free to go wherever you want, just don’t show your face here.”

“I’m sorry.”

After that, you left their residence for good.

“Go away, you mangy cur! You aren’t welcome here!”

“I’m sorry.”

After that, you avoided the village as much as possible. In summer, you’d sleep at the forest entrance, and in winter, when it got too cold, you’d sneak into barns or stables.

"Just take these scraps and be on your way! You should be grateful I even let you work here!"

“I’m sorry.”

You'd survived to this day relying on the villagers' mercy.

“How sad.”

Huh...?

A familiar voice broke you out of your reverie.

All of the sudden, it felt like a pair of eyes was fixated on you, looking through you.

Feeling a presence right next to you, you turned around.

A tall, blond man stood beside you, enshrouded by black aura. He acknowledged you with a side glance, smirking. A pair of purple-blue eyes narrowed at you.

“How sad.”

You ran his words in your mind a couple of time.

Not pitiful, but sad.

What does that mean?

So, you asked, “Is it... sad?”

In response, his grin deepened. “Yes, so much that it pains my heart.”

In other words, he was sad for you?

Somehow, the sinking feeling in your chest lessened a bit.

A smile naturally came to your face.

“...Thank you.”

“...”

When you blinked, that presence was gone.

⚜⚜⚜

“They haven’t changed, even after 500 years.”

The sanguine creature of the night retracted his gloved from the unconscious girl’s forehead. A sardonic grin hung on his lips.

“Miii, miii...”

“Muuu...”

“Maaa...”

Behind him, his familiars were making a fuss. They were crying. Imbued with his power, they also shared his vision of the girl’s memories.

In terms of age, these magical creatures could be considered young. They still bore the innocence, curiosity, and sensitivity of children. So, it was no wonder they were distraught when exposed to such negative emotions.

“I’m sorry for showing you something so unpleasant.” He gently caressed them as they shivered and wailed. “But this is just how humans are. No matter how much time passes, this will never change.”

As he spoke, his multicolored eyes were fixed on a particular spot in the forest, the same direction where a certain village lay.

“They’d shun or even eradicate anyone who is different from them.”

In fact, that was how he lost his entire clan to that village five hundred years ago.

“Mii... mii...” the creature meekly complained.

“Yes, of course it is sad. She’s very unfortunate.”

Yet, as he said this, his eyes were devoid of any sympathy, filled with nothing but resentment that only grew with time.

“Mi...”

“Hm? You’re asking if there’s anything we can do for her? ...Well.”

A twisted, malicious grin spread across his face.

“’The black sheep of the village returns to exact revenge.’ What do you think?”

𝔑𝔢𝔵𝔱 ℭ𝔥𝔞𝔭𝔱𝔢𝔯