#like weeping dawn

[egophiliac]

GET LOVED, IDIOT

GET LOVED SO HARD YOUR KIDS HOLD HANDS AND POWER-OF-LOVE YOU BACK TO LIFE

sorry guys, this is just my brain now. this is going to be the only thing I think about for the next week at least.

oh and also this

FIVE YEARS IN AND IT'S FINALLY CANON 🎉🎉🎉

WE DID IT

[chinelacanta]

i just know he’d be a really awkward but supportive dad (< delusional)

[mycological-mariner]

Love that not even a full week my partner watched The Terror they still cried genuine tears thinking about Jopson’s death to where it affected them so bad they’ve saved like a dozen pictures on their phone and now browses Etsy looking for a plushie because, I quote, “I just need a little Jopson. To hold.”

They want to watch it again this weekend

[hanakihan]

u know i constantly see opinion that Fate’s handling of irl history and shit leads to some insane ass results and I’m like

have you people ever considered historically (and mythologically) accurate fate down to every detail and gender and stuff that shit would be even more wilder than whatever the fuck fate has going on

[acourtofquestions]

Chapter 55 of Tower of Dawn😭

[antivanplumage]

(narrator: Of all those you killed in your Father's name, one lingers in your mind even now. Alfira, the Bard of the Emerald Grove. Her death weighs upon you still.)

this line singlehandedly inspired alfira's importance to nethandre's development, and when i finally got back it destroyed me

alfira was so important to her. she may have only known her for a tenday, but with how little nethandre remembered, she was her entire world. if she didnt rediscover music and find something she loves that has nothing to do with killing, she probably would've given in, slaughtered the grove, and spiraled back into the person she used to be

i'm sad :(

[nem0-nee]

Sigh...

Mayuu getting reworked for the ??? time...

Doing major changes with her bc she's no longer my sona 😔🙏

Any prior interaction asks regarding her will be postponed till I re-release her again.

[thefrostedmain]

You mentioned in your tags that Dawn doesn't have as much of a backstory as Selene does. Do you know how she got turned into a werewolf?

so. update. dawn has a bit more backstory now! im telling you it all sorry not sorry

place names are hard, but dawn was an orphan child on the capital of this kingdom (yet to get a name-) who gets taken in a member of the silverbloom hunter guild, group who dedicate themselves to hunting vampires and was originally founded in the honor of the weeping lady (the goddess of death of this world's pantheon, who despises the undead since they are a disgrace to her domain), even if not all members of silverbloom are that religious or followers of the weeping lady necessarily- but a good amount of them do follow this goddess

the hunter that took dawn in also took another child in, theodore, who dawn grows to be quite close to, seeing him like a brother, and another orphan who ended up becoming quite a devout follower of the weeping lady and very excited to join the hunter guild once he is old enough, he sees it that getting rid of such vermin in the eyes of his goddess is a great honor 

(theodore was bdubs in the original au, the goddess was originally cleo but weeping lady became merged with another goddess from an original pantheon that didn't have a world and doesn't resemble cleo that much anymore)

so, after several years of insisting that she joins too, theodore drags dawn to join the silverbloom hunters, even if she did have some doubts, and it's during a training hunt that dawn gets bitten by a werewolf 

dawn got lost from the path in the middle of the forest, did not realize it was a full moon, ran into a “weird wolf” and got attacked and bitten by it on the leg. she hides the bite from the rest of the trainees, and ends up joining the hunters 

the bite happens roughly four to five ish months before the start of the story, so dawn is pretty new to being a werewolf still and the quest to the town where dawn meets selene is the first proper one she gets sent to by silverbloom

[infinityinakiss]

okay, so you know that theory that series 14 is a tv show, that's why there are so many fourth wall breaks, etc, etc. well, what if we had a weeping angels episode this season? it's the climax of the episode, ruby and the doctor are surrounded by angels when...nothing happens. they forcibly close their eyes just to check, but the angels aren't moving. the doctor does his signature rambling as he tries to figure out what happened, and then it dawns on him. he turns slowly, stares directly into the camera and says "oh. it's you. all of you. you're why they can't move." the doctor starts jumping around, shakes ruby for a bit (and ruby's just like wut the hell is going on), does a thing with the sonic screwdriver before starting to run when he suddenly stops and turns back. looking directly into the camera, he says "don't blink." and then he runs off to save the day.

couple minutes later, he tells ruby to stare at some angels that were out of frame by saying "babes, the camera angle's changed."

[inhogf]

an idea dawned on me midday🙏😭 i cant not share this

thanos in his rapper era x reader, fucking in the back of a limo and he snorts a line off your lower back plz help

limo sex ft thanos.

contains · dubcon, fucking in a limo, degradation kink, drug usage (he snorts cocaine off ur back UM.) · a/n: anon this is SO good i couldnt get this off my mind on god 👅

thanos was embarrassed, infuriated even— getting rejected by some bitch at ‘club pentagon’ in front of all his friends wasn't like him, no, he was thanos. so he does what anyone within a right mind would do. he slips a pill in your drink and pulls you away to his limo right as your steps get inconsistent. a punishment, he'd call it.

“look at your pussy drooling all over my cock. filthy bitch.” thanos rasps between sloppy impels of his hips against your ass. you’re spluttering a series of pathetic moans, spit gathering on your chin. you were such a fucking mess on his dick; cunt clasping onto him every time he attempted to slipped out. you couldn't lie to yourself, really— you were enjoying this, evident in the way you'd voluntarily push your ass back. you're fucked.

your senses were oh so overwhelmed, muffled music from the club wavering through your ears, before a high-pitched ring drowned out your hearing. you cry, knuckles white as you held the head-rest of the car seat for leverage, grip so tight you might shatter it. you wince when you bash your puffy, swollen lips on the expensive leather of the seat; thanks to thanos jolting you forward. he groans, blunt nails smothered by cakey rainbow polish nipping at your sweaty skin before pulling away.

“fuck, i need a hit.”

with trembling hands, thanos tore open a small plastic bag from his pocket, the fine white powder inside glistening under the dim light of the car as he pinched a generous amount, carefully tapping it onto the surface of your lower back before you grabbed his wrist and spoke up. “what are you doing-?”

he pinched your thigh and shushed you like you were some fucking baby. so humiliating. he reached for an old razor blade, and dragged it through the powder, shaping it into a thin, straight line— his breath quickening as he admired his work, the anticipation tightening his chest before he snorted it up with a rolled bill. it seemed like he got even fucking harder inside of your cunt— if that was even possible.

thanos, higher than the fucking sky right now, would start recording you, the sweat on your skin glistening from the flash. he grabbed your wrists, slamming your ass back on his dick capturing the perfect bounce on his phone. he'd post it to his cf story, captioning it as ’this is what happens when u don't give thanos what he wants 🙏’ and would put on a track he produced behind it. he almost felt bad. almost.

“y’know, it's really your fuckin' fault, stupid slut..” he kept trying to justify his actions— slurring through his gritted teeth, words nothing short of hissed murmers under his breath. he was already so fucking high and his thrusts kept getting sloppier & sloppier. “maybe if you hadn't embarrassed me in front of all my homies.”

thanos had fucked hundreds of girls, yes— yet he has never been able to be taken so well. he can't physically control himself at the gummy, velvety addiction that weeps between your legs, each thrust coating his veiny shaft in a new layer of your sweet and pearly release. so tight for him.

his brows would raise as you stopped restraining your moans— enjoying your sweet submission, your uncoordinated, needy movements when you press your hips back, meeting his hefty dick stretching your thin, velvety walls. he could tell you were giving in. he wasn't enjoying it as much now.

the rough expanse of his palm smothered whatever it is all over your back, and he slips himself from you entirely before driving himself back in again. your head spins, chin smacking the leather of the seat because of his animalistic rutting; ropes of thick cum spurting on your lower back as he pulls out last second— your own cream spilling out from your cunt. you're overstimulated, whimpering and babbling streams of inaudible nothings; his softening cock laying snug on top of your ass cheeks.

“i could snap your neck right now, whore.” your eyes widen as his big hands slither up to your throat and grip it.

“but i won't, so give me your number.”

cr @inhogf dont steal

[chinelacanta]

more paper doodles!

[sai-int]

könig loves coming home to you and your sweet pussy

cw : somnophilia, thighfucking, dubcon, mdni

he usually comes back from deployment in the middle of the night. the house is dark, quiet, and youre already in bed, sound asleep. he drops his gear by the door, taking his large, clunky boots off so he doesn't rattle the picture frames on the wall when he walks past.

he lightly nudges the bedroom door open with his foot. he sees you, all wrapped in sheets while light from the street lamp floods through the window. he told you to keep those closed when he was gone, schatz. can't have anyone looking at his best girl, now can he?

you stir for a moment when he sidles in next to you, crowding the bed, making your dreams twist just from the smell of him near you. he's been gone so long, he doesn't care to be gentle—he just puts his meaty paws around your waist, pulling you back and against his firm chest.

he's spooning you, the scent of you wafts into his nose, the sweet scent of your body wash fresh on your skin. he's nestles his nose deeper into your hair—palming your hip with his large mitt—as he grinds his growing bulge against the soft swell of your ass. he plants ginger kisses to the slide of your head, your temple, the crest of your ear, whispering how you're always going to be his, schatzi.

fuck, it's like you knew he was there. you, oh so gently grind back onto him, soft, breathy pants leaking through the thick of your sleep. könig thanks god for the flimsy cotton panties you're wearing when he slips his hand to your front, finding your clit and setting a soft, tantalizing pace.

you squirm a bit and he has to bite back a laugh. he just knows his baby too well, of course he does. he always knows exactly what you need. he loosens his pants, unbuckling and shimmying them down along with his boxers, enough to free his weeping cock.

his deft fingers slip lower, practically gliding with how slick you've become, leaking through and soaking your panties. "naughty girl..." he slobbers down to your neck and the side of your arm, gently rutting himself against your bare back.

he pulls down your panties to mid thigh. god you're so warm and soft, he can't even fucking think straight. he takes his cock into his hands, gently teasing it against where your ass folds into your thighs, gently circling his leaky tip, lubing the space.

you grind back onto him ever so slightly and that's all it takes for his resolve to break. he pushes forward, long dick sliding through your delicate lips and kissing your clit before pulling back. he can feel your sweet, hot juices leaking out of you, coating his cock as he fucks your thighs.

you whimper your hips bucking with each pass of his drooling, ruddy tip against your clit. he knows your so close, he knows you so well, little mouse. he keeps going, but he doesn't want to wake you so he restrains himself, gently slobbering all over your shoulder while humping his cock between your soft thighs.

he's just so pent up, it's not long before his cock twitches. he's cumming seconds after, ropes of his thick seed pulse out of him, coating the inside of your thighs and your lips. he drags his fingers back to your clit, circling fast enough to get you tightening around nothing, until you finally, unknowingly cum, all over his softening cock and the sheets.

könig stills his cock between your thighs, slumping against your sleeping frame as you snuggle back toward his chest. he thinks he should go grab a towel to clean up the mess he made, but he doesn't. he knows he'll end up between your thighs before dawn breaks anyway.

[moondirti]

simon forcing your jaw unhinged and hooking two thick, salty fingers behind your molars to keep your mouth open, thumb pressing up on your top row of teeth. warns bite n and i’ll pluck em out, all low and coarse, voice deeper than it usually is. to be expected for the hour.

your body’s wedged between the bathroom countertop and his heavy body, struggling for air as his stomach crushes into your sternum. he’s in only his boxers — the usual sleep attire. you’re in nothing at all; though you’re given an old shirt to wear overnight, he insists you take it off for this part of your routine. doesn’t want it to get messy, he says. what you know is that he prefers to feel your bare tits heaving against him, nipples caught in the steel wool coils of his chest hair. as good as dead, like little flies in a spider trap.

the sun’s barely up. through the open door, pale blue light douses the bathroom in a similar hue. your eyes water, and the image blurs to one of wet dawn and the shadow he casts above you. you see his free hand working something, hear the run of tap water, smell the minty fresh dollop of toothpaste before it hits your teeth. the tears slip down your cheeks, and he comes into focus again. focused. cruel. face more scar tissue than flesh. the one that runs through his upper lip gives the impression that he’s always sneering, but you can glean what he looks like amused by now. his eyes are too narrow to be anything else.

brushing your teeth for you. considerate. he works in fast, rough circles. brutally efficient. there’s a metallic aftertaste to the bristles he runs along your gums. you must be bleeding. it’s harder to breath with the intrusion in your mouth. you spread your legs wider, giving his body more space to move. perhaps naively hoping it would be away from you. he only carves in closer.

there’s a hot mass pressing into your inner thigh now. simon makes sure to get the back of your mouth, polishing around your molars. he must be really into it; what, with the way his hips match the rhythm. grinding into your leg at the same tempo he cleans the backs of your teeth with. you’re like a little rag doll to his whims, manhandled by the hand anchored in your mouth. it pulls your body closer, tilts your head up higher.

your neck aches. there’s a ringing in your head. one of your hands acts against your will, clamping around his sturdy wrist for purchase. his erection has pushed up closer to your cunt. it’s mortifying when you’re shoved up on top of the counter to discover you’re radiating heat and slick — an especially stark reality as you press down onto the cool granite surface. inadvertently, you lean into him. a gurgled whimper escapes you. as if to exaggerate the sound, simon grabs the tip of your tongue and drags it out of your mouth.

it’s not at all necessary to brush your tongue the way he does. with as much aggression. your clit catches the mound in his boxers the same time the brush strokes the back of your throat, and a messy gag sends tributaries of watery toothpaste down your chin. you’re moaning like the whore he insists you are now; holding onto him like you were the one to stick out your tongue.

it doesn’t get easier to withstand the rough sweeps of the toothbrush, now clutched in a tense fist — you gag and spit and cry and make a mess all over, just like he said you would. but the cock humping into your similarly weeping pussy helps just a little bit. you must soak through the cotton of his underwear with how good it feels, grinding your hips up and down all over his length. the waistband rolls down with the motions, and you catch the gleam of your juices matting his happy trail in the low light. your eyes roll to the back of your head. you tuck your nails into the flesh of his forearm. he brushes your tongue until there’s more toothpaste running over your lips and down your neck than there is in your mouth.

you convulse in his arms until you’vs wrung the last dregs of your orgasm from your frame. simon hardly waits for you to finish, collecting your hair to pivot you over the sink basin.

spit. rinse out. he wipes the front of your mouth off with a towel, then runs a thumb over your canine to check if it squeaks. your lashes feel crusty with the dried remnants of your tears. it hardly matters when he bends down to tuck your face in his shoulder, lifting you off your feet. the bruising pinch he gives your ass meant to mean: we ain’t finished.

[dvchvnde]

when the earth starts spinning backwards

EXCERPT: GEORGIAN ERA AU. ARRANGED MARRIAGE. AGE GAP.

You've been told for most of your life that the measure of a woman's worth laid in the pedigree of her potential suitors.

And maybe that's why—on the eve of your birthday—the pool of your of esteem dwindles to a mere maudlin tear at the bottom of a weather-worn bucket. One swiped up by the trembling finger of your desperate father as he shakes his hand (and within it, the crumpled dowry he had expected to part with on the dawn of your eighteenth year inside his household) at the only man who seems keen to take the heavy burden from his white-knuckled fist.

A man named John Price.

Captain, they say, of the King's Army. Someone who led them to victory on several fronts before being called home year ago when his second wife had passed, marking him a widower with two children. A powerful man on the battlefield, unshakeable in his tenants and faith. A warrior. As fearsome as a wild bear, and hungry for flesh as one, too.

And it's this facet of his character that is given before much else, including the formidable temper that nervously follows when all points of fascinating esteem run dry.

His rage is as legendary as his exploits under the King.

And you're to marry him tomorrow.

A quick, decisive arrangement that brokered no room for negotiations, and likely couldn't since you're well past respectable marrying age and have been already ushered, quietly, into the encompassing title of a spinster. A blemish on your mutable reputation.

But despite the desperate lengths your father had gone to tuck away money for a dowery on the eve of your birth, it had been for naught. Everyone knows the debts your name carries, and any man stupid enough to take you on a bride would only inherit the devastating black hole of your crumbling finances.

Untouchable, it had seemed. Or so those were the whispers late at night.

It's unfathomable a man of his esteem would stoop so low in the social hierarchy for a wife, but from the stilted, haggard conversations you've pried upon, he's in need of a mother to his grieving children. The abysmal state of your family name doesn't matter much when all he needs is a nanny for his children and a pretty thing to warm his bed.

And, they offered begrudgingly, you are rather pretty.

Just much more suited to be the mistress of a Duke rather than a wife of significance to an important advisor to the King.

Envy, you realise, and this pitiless thing called social standing, leaves you very little room to weep over the ill-made match with a stern, ferocious man two decades your senior and twice widowed with three children desperate for comfort you have no idea how to give.

Then again, respectability is more important than comfort, isn't it? And perhaps this is for the best considering your second, and only, option is to agree to warm the bed of a Duke (or several) when he's away from his wife. Who would want to marry the daughter of a penniless estate drowning in so much debt, it's a wonder your father got to keep his flimsy title when the collectors started breathing down his neck, after all? When the jewels were stripped from your neck, the curtains, your clothes and pawned for recompense for a financial loss that happened when you were hardly old enough to feed yourself?

Such is life, you suppose.

And maybe you're giving too much credence to the feverish whispers about your soon-to-be bridegroom.

Two wives—both gifted to him from the kings pool of consorts—who died under strange, mysterious circumstances aside, he might be the polar opposite to the surly beast they make him out to be. One with a temper so formidable, enemies of the country write to air out their grievances after crossing paths with the savage Captain on the battlefield, lamenting the brutal nature of his warfare practises.

It might not be the cage you've been told it will be. Instead of squandering your youth under the thumb of a man so animalistic, they claimed he was birthed by a bear, it could be the escape you've been yearning for.

And perhaps—as silly as the notion is for women of your station—even love.

It's a thought that blots the unease inside your chest. A bandaid over uncertainty even though it's such a silly, silly thing because just what is love to a man thrice wed? Indignity, surely, to stoop so low as to pledge his heart to someone two decades younger than he when an heir has already been secured. Nuptials tied twice before. An old hat at this farce.

What room is left inside of him for a destitute bride with little more than a brooch to your name, and a contemptible debt that will surely ruin any burgeoning matrimony when he doles out whatever sum he agreed to when taking you on as a—

A nanny, maybe.

Pretty thing to warm his bed.

It'll be fine, you think, knuckles bulging from under the thin skin of your fist; so long as there is harmony between you and this man.

That's really all you can ask for, and even that seems overmuch.

He stands across from a man you don't recognise, dressed in a handsome black waistcoat and black breeches. The bristles of his beard—the sight of which gives your mother a terrible start when she sees the unkempt ruggedness of his appearance—brushes against the silk of his white cravat when he angles his chin in defiance at something the man says, arms folded over his broad chest, looking mutinous.

It's not the stance of a man eagerly awaiting his bride but of someone making idle, impatient chatter until the festivities begin.

But—

You can't deny he makes quite a striking spectacle.

His legs are thicker than all of the men in the room, breeches pasted tightly against his skin showing off the beastly appearance they whisper about. More bear than man. And you see it now when he moves. Arms barely contained inside the confines of a thick waistcoat, bulging at the seams. Flexing.

His hair is dark brown. His beard a seamless match to the umbre hue. It peppers along the span of his face, cut clean below the tip of his nose. Bedraggled comes to mind as you take him in. Then—

Wild.

His eyes flash. He rocks forward on the tips of his toes until his nose is a breath away from the man who stands opposite of him, swallowed up in the untenable bulk that threatens to collapse upon him like an unsturdy house. Heaving. The buttons along his jacket stretch taut around every ragged breath he takes, whining under the strain.

He's a beast.

A bear ripped from the wilds and shoved to ill-fitting finery; told to behave.

It's breathtaking, really. All that raw power forced into the shape of a man, one that buzzes with a frenetic energy around the edges as if the potency of it is too much for mortal flesh to carry. Crackling through the air like a whip. His snarling rejoinder clashing against the stained glass mosaic of Mary and Joseph readying their inn for the arrival of baby Jesus, the echo trembling through your bones.

You hadn't realised they were quite so hollow until his growl bounced inside them like a stone tossed into an empty bucket.

Beside you, your mother makes an impatient, contemptuous sound. That, too, echoes, and you smother a wince by burying your hands in the plentiful lace gathering at your thighs. Clinging to the old silks as the men blink from their churlish debate, turning towards the sound.

His gaze is purposeful. He doesn't linger. Doesn't meander. It slashes across the chest of the man standing in front of him like a clutched dagger, stabbing into the thin-lipped frown your mother wears more comfortably than finery with a slight tick of his brow. Settles there just for a moment. Taking her measure. Her worth.

And then it rolls over to you.

Dutiful bride to be.

Standing on fawnlike legs and drenched in a fine sheen of sweat under the swelter of dusty velvet no one expected to ever see the light of day, and jaundiced lace—the one thing your mother was able to convince the debt collectors was worth less than the meagre loaf of bread sitting on the dining room table.

A pittance.

And it's a dismal thing, really. The way he looks at you. Brows pinched. Puckering in displeasure. It's little less than a sneer, and even that feels like a kindness. A blessing.

But you suppose if a woman is fit to lay with the king, then she must be a thing of beauty. That must be the level of esteem he's used to. Lavishness. Sylphlike, pretty things the king is wont to imbibe himself on—a never-ending search for a faerie, or so the rumours go.

But these lissome beauties, the King's hand-offs, birthed this man's children—and rather quickly, you'd heard. Almost scandalously so. But had declared himself the father—at the hurried acceptance of the King—and the matter brought to the church in whispers had been silenced.

You can't help but wonder how you compare in his eyes.

It makes you so acutely aware of every inch of your body that it all starts to sting. Burn. From the way the shoulder of your grown doesn't quite sit tight—having been altered and hemmed over the years to account for your growth; a dress made at the fourteen under the assumption you'd be married away immediately. Extra fabric added at seventeen with illustrious care. There was still hope, you know. And each delicate stitch reflects that. But the ones that follow—twenty, twenty-three, twenty-five—are looser. Less attention was paid to the seam. The project was just that: an obligation. A duty.

Hope ended with the addition scrap of off-colour silk on your eighteenth birthday.

And with such hawkish, keen eyes, you know he must see it.

They dip along the curve of your throat, following a taut, intense line of oceanblue down the drape of it. Puddling at the base where a tear in the lace sits against your neck. Folded into itself because there simply wasn't enough time to mend it properly. A blemish.

Beneath the thick bed of wry, burnt umbre curls, his jaw clenches tight, muscles budging at the sides.

The intensity of endless blue is too much for you to wade through—his stare, the weight of his regard, a crushing thing—and you dip your chin in silent supplication, staring at the floorboards in a shameful display of cowardice to avoid the heat in those eyes. A searing fury hot enough to scald you from this far away.

He doesn't want you.

On the alter, John clenches his fist tight against his thighs as he devours the little bride too frightened to meet his eye, and wonders how much longer this nonsense will take before he can finally sink his cock inside of you—

[ar-ghilas-vir-banal]

I’m so far down this spiral oh my God.

You’re Solas. You’ve had an existence of tragedy and pain and just… awful. So much awful. You’ve been hurt and you’ve hurt. You’ve ended the world. You had to. You never wanted this. You never wanted a body or to leave the Fade or to exist in this way. You wanted to be Wisdom.

Your friend branded you as a slave. She said you aren’t but… Why would she do such a thing? You try not to think about it.

Your friend convinced you to extinguish the magic and spark of an entire race. And you do it. And you’re sick. You’re sick and you can’t get well. But… it was what your friend wanted. And you loved her and… isn’t this how you love people?

She dies. You warned her, you begged her and she still… and they killed her. Her own family killed her. You’re rage. Rage and grief and you have to do something. Vengeance. Her blood calls out for it. And yours does too. The lyrium in your very bones sings for it.

And then it’s all… dead. Gone. Imprisoned. You’re nearly dead yourself. And so you sleep. For so very long, you sleep.

But now you’re walking the in the millennium aftermath of it all. You know you’re becoming something rotten not too long into this fight. Felassan fails. You don’t care about why. You don’t listen to him. Your rage rises up and you strike him.

And you’re truly alone now.

Perhaps you should’ve always been.

So you bear down and while you lack much of your former power… you find you aren’t above acquiring a tool for the job.

This admittedly horrible plan messes all the way up trying to fix what you’ve done and an innocent Dalish woman gets caught in the crossfire, one of the people who whom you’re hoping to return themselves, and now she’s got a piece of the Veil stuck in her hand.

Great. Well. Time to try to fix this enormous mess and refuse to admit that if you go through with your ultimate goal, the whole world’s going to look like this.

And then you start to fall for this woman. Not only is she a firebrand of simple goodness and kindness, she’s quite kind to you. She reaches out to you for wisdom and advice and talks with you, not at you. When you reach back to her, she meets you in the middle and tries her very best to understand. And then she protects you with the flimsy, unstable shield that your own mistake s have branded her with. She protects you in this world that hates elves and mages and apostate elven mages even more.

Your friend is bound and corrupted and she runs off to the Exalted Plains to help them. She weeps at your side as you grieve. She gives you space and then when you come back, she welcomes you with gladness. She tells you if ever you must grieve again, she’d like to be there.

She kisses you.

And you clutch her into your arms, and then again, because you suddenly realize your entire being has been yearning to touch and be touched by her for so long. You’ve never experienced anything like this. It’s intoxicating and agony and fire and the very air you need to breathe.

You are tempted to run but… you’d be without her. And you ask her to just sit and talk and she obliges, happily. She enjoys you. This mortal creature who you’ve branded with doom; she enjoys you.

You then start to wonder: has she always been this way? Maybe the Mark’s done something to her? Maybe it’s done something to me too; maybe it’s why I can’t stay away from her. So you ask and she just “mm. No, I’m me.” And you’re so incandescent about this that you shock yourself.

You tell her you’ve not forgotten the kiss. And she smiles like the dawn rising over the mountains. And you try to leave. “It would be kinder in the long run.” But she bids you stay…

You can’t fit her inside your body. But you try. You keep your hands from clawing their way into her clothes and skin but your arms lock around her like they were made to do that, and only that. You want to protect her too. You want to leave it all. You want to be Solas and her to be a simple Dalish woman and to live in the quiet woods with her and dance under the stars.

You get to. At Halamshiral, you draw her into your arms and dance until you forget you have feet and until the music is long abandoned to the sounds of night.

She does something so incredibly stupid at the Well. You want to claw your face off because she’s agreeing to what you did. She’s signing away her freedom… but then she tells you “I’ll use this to help this world as best I can”. And you feel… so seen by a person who can’t possibly see…

You will tell her. You’ll tell her everything. But when you stand in Crestwood, in the ruins of everything you did to get here… you can’t. You panic and you lie in that true way you have so it isn’t a lie but it isn’t what you meant to say. She lets you remove her culture, erase herself from who the people have become. She’s like you now. And oh whatever gods there be, she’s so beautiful that you feel like you could stare into her eyes for eternity… but… what have you done?

You’ve taken from her something she didn’t truly want to give up. You’ve made her change because you wanted her to. You’ve enforced your will on someone you told, you loved them. You’re Solas… you’re not Mythal.

You will not do this to her.

So you do then what you can only conclude is right by her. You break her heart and you break your own and there is somehow a worse pain than anything you’ve suffered before. She’s right there. All you need do it extend a hand, whisper one word. And the awful part, you’re so in love with her. You can’t help but watch her steps and listen for her voice and…

You need to leave.

You do. And you get to work. Two years crawl by. And you have your ear out for her still. It’s all part of the plan you tell yourself but you just want to keep a tether there in some form and you know you do.

Seeing her again is like falling on a spear. Shes dying. You knew she would. You knew she’d come too, curious and determined as ever. But you didn’t expect to hear her scream in pain and collapse in front of you. You go to your knees with her. You… you have to kiss her. Just one more. And you save her… you take her arm.

She tells you your love will endure and you could howl in anguish. She still loves you?! After all this? After what you’ve done? You watch the Fade bleed from her body. You ache to gather her up and take her with you. She even asked to go with you. But you know what the Evanuris were in their determined goals… what you’ll be by the time you’re done. Let her remember you as Solas… the apostate mage with stories and paint under his nails, who loved her helplessly.

You will not allow her to become another Felassan.

Eight years pass and while you’re at work, deeply committed, restless in your plans… she isn’t gone from you. Your sleep betrays you and you find yourself watching her. You watch her call out and search for you. You watch yourself, a dream, meet her and touch her and your mind burns with the hunger for just the brush of her hand. You listen to her weep over choices she made that haunt her, and you’re unable to comfort her. You can feel her terror as nightmares assail her, and if you weren’t a wolf in this form, you’d scream. You feel mad when you wake, tortured and raw and you’d run to her… but then you redouble your abstinence. Like opening a vein, you let the urge to drop everything and go find your Dalish heart and put her in your ribs where she belongs and never let her out. The truest horror of it all is she knows you’re there in all this. She can see you. She can see you refusing her, over and over and over. Ignoring her nightmares of being Blighted, ripped apart by Terrors and Shades, staring while she mourns the fallen who she sent to their deaths.

You’re a monster.

But then it’s all going to happen. Finally. And you don’t even feel energized by it. You simply think of her. You write almost automatically, as if your hand has a mind of its own. You tell her everything you wanted to scream in her dreams. Everything you wanted to in Crestwood.

Varric dies. No. No. You kill Varric.

You use Rook’s blood to make them see him. They loved him. He loved them. It’s… so cruel.

You’re a monster.

You repeat that to yourself on the steps in Minrathous. You’re barely able to keep your feet, your ribs feel pulped from the dragon’s teeth. Your skin feels hot and wet under your armor. You’re bleeding, so much so that you can taste it in your breath. The Blight burns on your lips. Your eye is blurred over with blood salt and tears.

And out of the night a voice speaks up to you that steals every single ounce of focus from your exhausted mind. You stare at her. She’s coming closer. “I forgive you!” she cries, her face pleading that you listen. She’s unarmed. She knows you killed Varric and she knows you could kill her. She knows you might. You can see it in the way she moves, the way her hands open at her sides as she moves closer.

Felassan’s face swims in your mind.

Please don’t you want to sob. Don’t make me hurt you. I’m a monster; I told you I didn’t want you to see me like this. So you try to explain again. To find some purchase on your own logic as to why this is still something you should do. Something she should allow. You look away, and you almost sigh in relief. She’s too bright; your eyes aren’t worthy of the sight of her anyway. You’ve hurt that woman so many times. And she’s still speaking of forgiveness?! FOR YOU?!

Morrigan?

Mythal.

You almost fall to your knees in front of her spirit. You can’t tell what the feeling is. Despair? Fear? Worship? Maybe all of them. But she tells you your sins are hers too. She took you from your home, twisted you… broke you. And you feel something slide off of you that somehow doesn’t make you stand straighter. You’re sick again. You’re collapsing. You’re a ruined wall, the last piece of a derelict castle on a crumbling mountain, and you’re giving way.

“Banal nadas. Ar lath ma, Vhenan.”

Mythal said that she broke you. Your being admits it. You weep, bowed, humbled… but free. You didn’t know you were shackled. But now that the chains are off, you feel it now. The chafed wounds where they’ve been locked for centuries. The sudden lack of weight that leaves you trembling and weak in its absence. You don’t remember them not being there.

But you do remember when you were able to ignore them. You remember how the Dalish woman refused to allow bigotry and hatred stop her from saving the world. You remember how she ran herself ragged for people who didn’t even care if she lived. You remember how she called them innocent.

You decide, or you are finally able to decide, that you want and perhaps have always wanted, to be like her.

So you shed your blood, not that you aren’t bleeding enough already, to ensure you’re bound to the Veil. Your life is its life.

“I will go and seek atonement.” You look into her eyes, as long as you can stand it. You hope she’ll be proud of you for finally being the hero she believed you could be. She looks back… so very beautiful. But no. No you’re not allowed to even think about that marvelous, bright creature like that.

“But you do not have to go alone.”

The touch of her hands makes you want to collapse. One of metal and wood, one of flesh and bone. She gives them both to you. Dumbly, you look at them. You’re touching her. This divine, unearthly thing is smiling at you, speaking to you. Holding your bloody, murderous, betrayer’s hands in hers. Your’s tremble and bleed. Her’s do not.

But what did she say? You don’t have to- No. No, Vhenan. Into that place? Into that prison? To war with madness and agony for eternity? No. You can’t…

“Ar ghilas vir banal.” You feel your heart crack and shatter as you say it. You’ll have to walk away from her again. You’ll have to leave her again. You’ll have to be alone, sundered from even her dreams… it’s what you deserve. And she deserves to be free of you. Finally.

But she just… keeps smiling. Her grip on your hands tightens. With a little shake of her head and a fondness on her face that you can’t begin to even fathom, she sings to you.

“Tel banal ar ama. Vir shiral la ma sa. Bellanaris.”

She comes nearer. Nearer. You wonder what she’s doing and then you realize like a slap to the face that you’re being offered a kiss.

A kiss.

You don’t think. You don’t even try. Your body screams as you bend spine and ribs and shoulder down to her. You’re filthy and bloody. She’s pristine. Gorgeous. She’s everything you aren’t.

She pauses. It’s a breath’s pause, eyes searching yours. And somehow, you know what the question in her’s means. “Do you want this?”

It’s almost hilarious.

You don’t hesitate. For the first time, you don’t. You close your eyes and let the moment wash over you. Perhaps she’ll change her mind in a little while. But for this one slice of time… you’re going to let this one thing be entirely good.

Her lips are everything your longing has has been good enough to remind you. Soft. Gentle. But also this is… so unlike anything you’ve experienced, even with her. It’s not like even the first kiss in the Fade. It’s so terribly tender that your throat tightens and your eyes burn. She’s so very gentle with you.

So you’re gentle back. You turn the Blight on your lips as far from hers as you can. You don’t yank her against you and bury yourself in her as you’d like to. You rub your thumbs over her knuckles. You caress her cheek with your nose. And when she withdraws with an even more angelic smile on her face than before…

You have to smile too. It’s as if her lips have infected your own.

Rook and Morrigan smile at the two of you. You can almost feel it, like the glow of flame. Warmth. You’ve been so cold for so long. You thank Rook. They smile at you, eyes tender. And your heart smiles at them too as you step toward the Veil. Knowing. Grateful.

Standing alone for a moment feels like standing on the edge of a cliff. You almost lurch forward, considering the decision to leave her. To make her stay. But… no. You lack the strength to rip yourself away from her again. It would be cruel to reject her promise but… if it spared her…

Her hand weighs down on your shoulder. I’m here. Let’s go. Vhenan. You can feel the words, as if touch is enough for her to speak to you. Perhaps after sharing dreams for so long, it’s true. You dare not look at her. You might shove her away.

And then you’re passing into the Fade. And you’re not alone. And you feel her hope burst into a flame of unrepentant, inextinguishable joy. Joy because of you. Joy because you never have to be parted again. Joy that you finally, finally chose her after having chosen you so many times.

You could weep and you do, with how you know you’ve made her feel. But when your feet are upon solid ground again and she is surging toward you with a quiet cry of Vhenan… you catch her. You crush her to you and she laughs, sounding like the younger woman you abandoned, and she kisses you and you kiss her because you can’t bear to do anything else. And there’s no pulling away. Even as your knees give out and your body begins to betray the amount of damage you’ve suffered, you hold each other. Her tears mix with your own and your blood and she’s all you know and all you care about. She’s real and she’s here and she is with you.

Your mind stumbles over a cluster of words that reorganize into something coherent and you almost feel disgusted at them. But then… it’s true. You know it is. If it meant her, if it meant being cradled to her even in a prison made of regret and failure and pain… safe and loved and whole, in a terrible place unmade simply because of the person hiding you in the hollow of her body… It was all worth it.

[yandere-romanticaa]

she walks in beauty.

🎀 Today is Diluc's birthday. However, instead of focusing on himself, he can't help but to fall into his usual lovesick trap of gentle obsession.

yandere! diluc ragnvidr x fem! reader.

Ever since he was a young lad, Diluc could recall every single banquet and celebration which was hosted by the Dawn Winery estate. He could still sense the smell of various colorful liquors and taste the endless sea of pastries and cakes which were served at such events, making the inner child in him smile.

However, Diluc was no longer a young child.

Ever since the passing of his father, the need to throw any grand banquets was thoroughly diminished. While yes, there were certain things he could not avoid due to societal expectations, he still made the decision to keep things to an absolute minimum.

His birthday was not one of them. At least, not by his choice.

Everyone and their mother knew what day it was today and Diluc lost count with how many birthday wishes and gifts he had received. He was a little touched with the plethora of people who wanted him nothing other than joy, but those same people quickly became a nuisance because he could not seem to be with the one he actually wanted to be with today.

And there stood Diluc, hidden in the shadowy hallway as he watched his beloved prepare for the upcoming festivities. With both his arms crossed and his left side pressed firmly against the dark wood doorframe, Diluc decided in that moment that there was nowhere else he'd rather be than here.

His red eyes watched you thoroughly like a hawk, making sure to remember the ravishing scenery before him.

As much as you disliked his gifts, you didn't have a choice but to accept them this evening. The gentle sapphire necklace hung around your neck perfectly, the fine silver glimmering gently beneath the flickering candle flames. Diluc's gaze quickly shifted to your arms as they toyed with the various strands of hair at the top of your head, carefully adjusting the matching pin he had gotten you not too long ago.

He felt his heart skip a beat once he caught a glimpse of the wedding ring on your finger, causing him to nearly lose his composure and blow his cover altogether. His own ring seemed to come alive as he felt it around his finger, seemingly pulsing with a firey need to just take you, to see the light in your eyes, to beg you to please forgive him-

Even now, he could still hear you weep, for each tear felt like a stab straight into his bleeding heart.

Please, don't lock me away, you pleaded.

"I will be with no one but you. I will give you everything you desire but please Diluc-

Do not keep me as a prisoner!"

He sighed as he fidgeted with his gloved fingers. Diluc hated himself for doing this to you, for making you so utterly miserable. He was the one who took you away, it was him who had stolen that precious smile away from you. If you had been a normal couple perhaps this evening could have been more bearable. Perhaps he could have even enjoyed it, with you by his side.

But that was not how things were going to play out.

Diluc was stuck in a Hell of his own making. Every single tear that you had shed and will shed - that was all on him. Money can buy a lot of things but your love was not one of them. A new surge of determination was born deep inside of Diluc on that night of his birthday and he finally knew what his wish was.

He wished to make amends. Perhaps he could learn to live without your love, even if the mere thought made his teeth shake in fury and heart cry out in blind sorrow.

But he needed you to know that you were loved. He needed you to know that he was going to keep you safe. He was going to love you until his very last breath and even then, he would wait for the day of your sweet forgiveness.

🥀 TAGS: @genshinarchives, @mod-kisa-blog, @juuuuuj101010, @kalopses-sonderes, @mayulli, @b10h4z4rd, @xiaopleasecomehome, @saturnalya, @alatusprinz, @lakxcpsta, @mewmeowmika, @ranposgirlboss, @goldenglow149

Happy birthday to this wonderful man. He was my first ever husband in Genshin Impact, he deserves something extra sweet from yours truly.