#love live muse kin

[thewalrusespublicist]

So didn't realise that people didn't know about the John Lennon 1980 'dear one' thing. As we're all here though I wanted to mention that the phrase 'my dear one' potentially has a bit of a story arc when it comes to John's relationship with Paul. For those familiar with British English, 'my dear one' sticks out as it's not a used term of endearment at all. So where does it come from? It could be a non-straightforward Victorian throwback, but more likely its hearkening to the use of the phrase in Eastern meditation to denote your nearest and dearest. Great, already off to a sweet start (and lines up with Yoko having Paul on the next-of-kin list with Julian and Mimi when John died).

It POTENTIALLY gets a bit more layered than that though once you add in the idea of hugging meditation. Contrary to what Paul says (sorry Paul, I do believe you on most things, just not this) despite being 'Northern men' TM the Beatles were a huggy bunch. John mentions it in the 1967 Hunter Davies interview:

''We used to be embarrassed about touching each other. We’d do an elaborate handshake just to hide the embarrassment… or we did mad dances. Then we got to hugging each other. Now we do the Buddhist bit… arms around. It’s just saying hello, that’s all.''

As pointed out in @thecoleopterawithana and @monkberries amazing posts, the Buddhist bit is hugging meditation which became popular in the 1960s. In hugging meditation, you

''have to make him or her very real in your arms, not just for the sake of appearances, patting him on the back to pretend you are there, but breathing consciously and hugging with all your body, spirit, and heart. Hugging meditation is a practice of mindfulness. “Breathing in, I know my dear one is in my arms, alive. Breathing out, she is so precious to me.”''

We know physical touch was important to John. One of the plusses of being with Yoko was being affectionate with his best friend, he tells Paul that touching is good whilst hugging him and in the Get Back sessions he delightedly asks Paul about a vivid dream where he was touching Paul (whether platonic or romantic this always read to me as a blatant subconscious desire for increased intimacy with Paul). The desire for intimacy is still present in the 'Real Life/Love' demo in 1977 where John muses about holding a mysterious has-a-baby-expecting-another-lives-on-a-farm someone in his arms as if it was only yesterday (another piece of media I still cannot believe we have on tape).

With John's evident desire for physical intimacy in mind and the focus on holding dear ones in hugging meditation, I don't think it's too far to think that John would associate this term of endearment with a certain level of both physical and emotional intimacy. Whether its a slightly bittersweet ironic recollection of those times together in the late 60s or a sincere statement of their current relationship, Paul as his dear one could be seen as continuation of John's suppressed, resentful but ultimately present desire for reignited intimacy with Paul on multiple levels (again romantic? Platonic? Choose-your-own-adventure there, I'm not in charge of you).

Or I could be talking shit. Who knows? It's just fun to think about!

[kc-writes-sometimes]

Crown and Kin | Chapter One

Ao3 Account | Masterlist

Chapter One: The Bastard with Violet Eyes

Word Count: 2,641

Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x Original Female Character

Summary: Daella’s journey takes an unexpected turn when she crosses paths with powerful figures in King’s Landing. As she navigates a world where bastards are often overlooked, Daella begins to unravel mysteries about her origins and the people watching over her.

Themes & Warnings: 18+, Character Death, Rape/Non Con, Future Smut, Canon Typical Violence, Canon Typical Incest, Angst, Dad Daemon Targaryen, Bastards and Brothels, Fluff, Friends to Enemies to Lovers, Canon Divergence, Dysfunctional Family, Team Black Centric, Slow Burn, Eventual Romance

Next Chapter ↠

Daella of King's Landing

People rarely paid attention to bastards. Snow, Rivers, Stone, Hill, Waters, Pyke, Storm, Flowers, and Sand—all were cut from the same misshapen cloth. They came and went as they pleased, their movements unmonitored, their musings unheard. Whether they lived or died mattered little to those of importance.

A bastard boy might find glory in battle and be granted knighthood. He could gain both brothers and honour at The Wall, or even pursue knowledge within The Citadel. A lack of name or title did little to hinder a boy from charting his own course and seizing his freedom.

But for bastard girls, the world offered fewer paths. The highest honour they could achieve was to be sold to one of the more reputable establishments on the Street of Silk in King’s Landing. Most, however, ended up working and dying in the brothels of Flea Bottom, just as Daella’s mother had.

Daella didn’t remember her mother well. Was she truly a beauty? Did they share the same pale skin, dark waves, and violet eyes? Truthfully, she wasn’t sure if she remembered her at all. The memory of her had faded, worn down by the passage of each moon since her death. Daella recalled the somberness of the women when her mother died, how they cooed at her as though she were a lost lamb on the cusp of slaughter. Her mother’s name was still spoken sometimes, but always in hushed tones behind silk curtains and makeshift wooden doors.

From what Daella had been told, her mother was a rare prize in King’s Landing, where few had the privilege of keeping company with the Dornish, let alone bedding one. She was loved by guests and whores alike, giving everything and keeping nothing. She even spared a few Silver Stags for the City Watch to ensure the safety of the other girls, which was how Daella ended up where she was.

Her life had been a far cry from that of the ladies of the Red Keep, yet the women of the brothel had always provided for her as best they could. They’d kept her safe, warm, and fed, even subjecting themselves to the ire of men who noticed her skulking around the brothel’s dark corners. It was a strange thing, to be raised in such an establishment without the expectation or encouragement to join the trade. But the women had promised her mother they would care for her as their own, and they had.

As Daella pulled herself from her makeshift bed and set her feet on the cold ground, she could already hear the giggles and moans of the women upstairs. Some were just starting their day; others had yet to finish. She couldn't risk lighting one of the torches scattered around the room, so she fumbled under her bed for the shoes carefully stored there. Her hand brushed the rough black material, and with a small, victorious smile, she silently slipped them on. Peeking her head out of the room, she glanced down the dimly lit hallway to ensure no one had noticed her presence. The side door to the brothel, typically used by the City Watch when they didn’t wish to be seen leaving in the early hours, had often been her means of escape. Slipping through the doorway, Daella made her way onto the moonlit streets.

“Daella,” a gruff voice called from behind her. She turned sheepishly toward the sound, feeling her heart race in her chest. Her eyes adjusted to the darkness just enough to make out the figure stepping toward her.

“Ser Harwin,” she muttered, feigning innocence and stepping backward, just out of his reach. This wasn't the first time Ser Breakbones had caught her sneaking out. Their dance had become almost routine. She’d get caught, he’d chastise her, she’d run, and he’d chase her. But at only six years old, Daella could never make it far before he scooped her up and dragged her home.

“You know you’re not supposed to be out here by yourself,” he sighed, taking a few steps closer and sinking to one knee to look her in the eye. Even on one knee, Ser Harwin was a large man. The women in the brothel often remarked how broad and handsome he was.

“I only needed some air. I wasn’t going to go far,” Daella whispered, attempting to defend herself as she stared at the ground. “I promise.”

“Come, Daella, let’s get you home before you get yourself into trouble,” he said, standing to his full height. His pretty brown eyes watched her intently as he turned to lead her back. The moment he turned his back, she scurried into a nearby alleyway and ran, paying little mind to the shouting behind her. Ser Breakbones really should have known better by now.

The acrid stench of alcohol and unwashed bodies filled the air, causing her nose to wrinkle as she slipped through the throngs of people out enjoying the night’s revelry. Ser Harwin’s voice faded into the background, drowned out by the lively chatter of those pressed against walls or sitting on the floor, taking pride of place in front of the stone square where entertainers performed for coin. Her small stature proved useful as she weaved through the crowds just in time to see a plume of orange flame escape the mouth of the man before her.

Rosalie, her mother’s best friend, often said that as a baby, the only way Daella would quiet down enough to sleep was if the fire burned high and hot. The heat never bothered her, unlike the women in the brothel, who regularly complained that it was already too warm. Daella was almost certain the budget for firewood increased tremendously after she was born.

Another plume of flame pulled her from her thoughts as it ascended into the night sky. As Daella watched the flames recede, she scanned the faces of those surrounding the square. Her gaze froze when she noticed a towering figure across from her, dressed in black with both hands resting on a sword at his hip. The faces around him were a mix of shock, surprise, and wonder as they watched the fire dancers, but this man’s gaze, though shielded by a heavy hood, seemed squarely fixed on her.

“There you are,” came the deep, steady voice of Ser Harwin as he placed a gloved hand on Daella’s shoulder and spun her around to face him. “I’ve told you before, Daella, you can’t outrun a man of the City Watch. Although, you did make it further than normal this time,” he added, a slight smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. If Daella didn’t know any better, she might have thought he was proud that she managed to evade him for as long as she had.

“You only caught me because I was distracted,” Daella huffed, pouting as she crossed her arms. Her eyelids grew heavier as her gaze darted between the fire dancers and the swirling crowd. A yawn crept up on her, softening her pout as she fought to keep her eyes open.

As the crowd began to thin and the moon dipped lower in the sky, Ser Harwin grinned and said, “Come now, my little flame, let’s get you home before Rose has both our hides.” He swept Daella off the ground and tucked her against his side. His dark armour was as cold and unyielding as ever, except for the soft gold cloak draped over his left shoulder. Daella noticed his helmet was missing, likely lost during their game of chase, letting his brown curls fall into place at his jaw. No doubt he’d endure another one of the Commander’s long-winded lectures on the proper care and maintenance of City Watch equipment. The men often grumbled about those tirades when deep in their cups, though they wouldn’t usually dare speak ill of their Commander—unless encouraged by wine during their trips to the brothel.

Ser Harwin always whistled while he walked. He couldn't carry much of a tune, nor had Daella ever asked what he was whistling, but she found it soothing nonetheless, especially when she was on the cusp of sleep. As they turned into one of the alleyways leading home, Daella noticed a dark figure leaning against the wall along their path. As they drew closer, the man’s stature and presence became clearer. He held himself much like the figure she had seen earlier at the square.

“I didn’t take you for a man of depravity, Ser Strong,” the man said, eyeing Daella in Ser Harwin’s arms as he pushed off the wall. His tone was threatening, yet a hint of amusement coloured his words. “I would have thought this one was a bit young for you.”

As the man removed his hood, Ser Harwin inhaled sharply, tightening his hold on Daella. Raising her head from Ser Harwin’s shoulder, she tried to get a better look at their intruder. All she managed to notice was his long silver hair, which the moonlight caressed like it did the waters of Blackwater Bay during high tide. She had to stifle the urge to reach out and run her fingers through those strands.

“My Prince,” Ser Harwin said, bowing his head in supplication. “We were not aware you had returned to King’s Landing.”

“That would be because I did not send word. It seems the City Watch has grown careless in my absence.” The previous amusement in the prince’s voice was now gone, replaced by a steely edge. “If a man like me can infiltrate King’s Landing simply by walking through the main gate, I’d say you Gold Cloaks have quite the problem on your hands.” His mouth was drawn into a thin line, and Daella could feel the displeasure and frustration radiating from him. “I wonder, how many of you would even bother to look up if I flew Caraxes over the Dragonpit and across Flea Bottom?”

Daella’s eyes widened, and she gasped as the name slipped from his lips. The fierce conquest of the Stepstones by the rogue prince and Caraxes was a favoured tale among the smallfolk in King’s Landing. Yet, with so many versions of the story swirling around, she was never sure what was fact and what was mere embellishment. Some of the women even said the prince had finally gotten what he wanted—a crown of his own.

“I will be sure to bring your concerns to the Commander at first light, my prince,” Ser Harwin replied with a nod, attempting to move past the prince.

“You never did give me an answer, Lord Strong,” the prince said, his gaze settling on Daella. “But no matter, the answer is irrelevant. I’ve known of your preference for those of us with silver hair for quite some time.”

Ser Harwin’s mouth tightened into a thin line, but as the two men spoke, Daella felt his muscles gradually relax, his grip on her loosening. Before she could stifle it, a soft yawn escaped her throat, causing both men to turn their attention to her with faint smiles.

“Are we boring you, little one?” the prince asked, his lips curling into a smile as he stepped closer, his voice tinged with amusement.

Daella nodded, her eyes now able to take in his features as he approached. His jawline was strong, much like Ser Harwin’s, though the prince’s was clean-shaven. Where Ser Harwin’s nose was crooked from many breaks, the prince’s was perfectly straight. Her gaze wandered over his face until it met his eyes—eyes that were anything but ordinary. Instead of the usual blue or brown, she found herself staring into a pair of striking purple irises. While her own eyes were a pale violet, his were a deep indigo, so dark they reminded her of the midnight sky.

“Is she yours?” the prince asked, his gaze flicking back to Ser Harwin, a smirk playing on his lips.

“No, my prince,” Ser Harwin replied quickly, shaking his head. “She’s the daughter of one of the women who worked at the brothel. I promised her mother I’d look after her.”

The prince’s expression softened slightly, though a hint of mischief remained in his eyes. “A knight playing nursemaid. Now that is something I did not expect to see.”

“I made a promise,” Ser Harwin said, his tone firm but respectful. “And I intend to keep it.”

The prince studied him for a moment, then turned his attention back to Daella. “What’s your name, little one?”

“Daella,” she replied, her voice barely above a whisper.

“Daella,” the prince repeated, his voice gentle as he tested the name on his tongue. “A name as beautiful as the girl who bears it.”

A flush crept up Daella’s cheeks at the compliment, and she looked away, feeling suddenly shy under his intense gaze.

“Take care of her, Ser Harwin,” the prince said, his tone suddenly serious. “The streets of King’s Landing are no place for a child, especially not one as precious as this.”

“I will, my prince,” Ser Harwin replied, bowing his head once more.

The prince gave Daella one last lingering look before turning on his heel and disappearing into the shadows, his long silver hair the last thing she saw before he melted into the night.

Ser Harwin let out a breath he seemed to have been holding, his shoulders relaxing as the prince’s presence faded. “Let’s get you home, Daella,” he said, his voice softer now, almost a whisper. He adjusted his hold on her and began walking again, his pace quickening slightly as if eager to put distance between them and the prince.

“Who was that?” Daella asked, her curiosity getting the better of her.

“That was Prince Daemon Targaryen,” Ser Harwin replied, his voice laced with a mixture of respect and caution. “He’s a dangerous man, Daella. Stay away from him if you can.”

Daella nodded, though her thoughts were still fixed on the prince’s piercing purple eyes and the way he seemed to see right through her. Something about him stirred a strange mix of fear and fascination within her, a feeling she couldn’t quite place or understand.

As they approached the brothel, the familiar warmth and muffled sounds of the women’s laughter greeted them. Ser Harwin set her down gently just outside the door, his expression softening as he crouched to meet her gaze.

“You gave me quite the chase tonight, little flame,” he said with a tired smile. “But you need to be careful, alright? This city is full of people who would do you harm without a second thought.”

“I know,” Daella replied, feeling a pang of guilt for worrying him. “I just wanted to see the fire dancers.”

“And you did,” he said, brushing a stray lock of hair from her face. “But next time, let’s watch them together, alright? No more running off on your own.”

Daella nodded, the weariness of the night finally catching up to her. “I promise.”

“Good girl,” he said, pressing a gentle kiss to the top of her head before rising to his full height. “Now, off to bed with you. Rosalie will be waiting.”

Daella gave him a small smile before slipping inside, the familiar warmth of the brothel wrapping around her like a comforting blanket. As she made her way to her little corner, she couldn’t shake the image of the prince from her mind. Something told her that tonight was only the beginning, that her path and Prince Daemon’s would cross again. And when they did, she wasn’t sure if she would be ready for what it would bring.

But for now, she was just a little girl, a bastard with violet eyes, hidden away in the shadows of King’s Landing, where no one of importance would think to look.

Next Chapter ↠

[petit-etoile]

Astarion/Tav prompt (or Reformed Durge): "I would have you smile again. You will live to see these days renewed. No more despair." I know it's a Lord of the Rings quote but gosh if it doesn't remind me of them ;-;

this  is  the  end  of  the  world ( a  time  for  something  biblical  )

pairing: astarion/tav wordcount: 5,219 content warnings: canonical mentions of death, spoilers for the dark urge storyline & astarion's act iii romance, graphic mentions of injuries, references to cann.ibalism as a metaphor for love, mental health issues & physical ramifications from the tadpole + rejecting bhaal, i highly recommend listening to the exogenesis symphony by muse other tags: canon compliant,  canon-typical violence,  character study,  introspection,  hurt/comfort,  whump,  canon temporary character death,  the dark urge as player character,  codependency,  religious imagery & symbolism,  p.orn with plot archiveofourown: here.

tag list: @azrielshadows1nger, @pandimoostuff, @faevi, @microskies, @foreverthemaraudersera, @queenofthespacesquids, @claryvoyantfray, @6doodlaang14, @anne-isnotokay, @itshimbotime, @yeeteth-the-raven, @sessils,@8-opossums, @worryknotdear, @abirdaboxandachippedcup, @ghosts-and-ink, @b4um3pfl4um3, @gunslingerorchid, @hypopxia,  @m0ssytrees, @erysione, @odette-attackattack, @catching-fire-in-the-wind, @ashrio20, @wills-mental-illness, @queenofcarrotflowers-s, @kirahlene be added to the taglist here

summary:  ‘Stay,’ Astarion says weakly. ‘I don’t want to be alone.’

‘Your life is mine,’ he says, cruel eyes gazing at you. ‘Accept your inheritance, or I will reclaim it.’

‘I would rather die,’ you say.

His hateful eyes narrow dangerously. It was never a good idea to betray a god, nonetheless one who had created you so lovingly. His voice is a low growl when he dismisses you  —  and suddenly, white-hot pain shoots through your veins and threatens to swallow you whole. Bhaal raises his hand and your blood obeys.

‘You were made to conquer,’ he snarls. ‘To devour!’

‘I don’t need any of this,’ you spit out. ‘I don’t need you. The only family  —  I know are those who fight by my side! I will not be what you made me!’

The sickness in your belly surges until you think it will overcome you. You stagger forward until your knees hit the stone floor. Bhaal is forcing you to submit, to become what he had made Orin. This thing won’t have you, Astarion whispers against the curve of your ear. It won’t win. You’ve got this, darling. And I’ve got you. You want to believe him, but your blood-kin has done damage beyond repair. What were children beyond the sins of their father?

‘You reject my blood?’ Bhaal asks.

‘Yes,’ you whisper.

‘Then I shall reclaim it,’ he says, his promise a growl in his throat.

You were your father’s seed cultivated to perfection by determination and bravery. Now, you were nothing more than a disappointment to be snuffed out root and stem. You choke on the warmth in your throat. Your veins seem to have exploded beneath your skin. You sneeze, red oozing from every orifice.

‘I will make another who is worthy,’ says Bhaal, lifting his hand.

As he raises his hand, you are forced to kneel. Every single one of your muscles contracts in agony. The others might be shouting but you can hardly hear them over the roaring in your ears. Your blood is rejecting you. Festering inside your flesh like a disease. Like the skeleton carved into the wall, you weep blood down your neck. No matter how hard you try to close your eyes to prevent it, your rich ichor abandons you.

No, you want to tell him. The rot of his blood will end with you as it had with Orin. The abomination of murder will never set forth and harm another. You reach for the dagger at your hip and raise it, but the Avatar of Bhaal dissipates before you can strike. The weight of your body collapses  forward.

Like a wounded beast, you keen loudly, shaking your head as if that will free your ears from the blood inside of them. You were born from this blood. You were created by this blood to be who you are today. Rejecting it should be like a sin  —  but if sin is a seed, you have eaten it willingly from the hand of mortality. If Bhaal is to reject you, then you will reject his godhood.

You close your eyes as blood overtakes your sight. You press your forehead into the stone to fight your fever. You shiver and gasp. You gargle on the proof of vitriol and lean into the chilled floor, resigned to your fate. At least you wouldn’t become a mindflayer…

“No!” Astarion wails. Your heart shatters. ‘No, please  —  Not you!’

I’m sorry, you say. You close your eyes and remember the color of the sun in his hair. I didn’t mean for this to happen. This isn’t what I wanted. Your fingers curl against the stone, and then  —  There’s nothing. Astarion touches the sleepless bruises beneath your eyes with such tenderness you forget his strength. You lean your cheek into his palm and sigh sleepily, but even as exhaustion overtakes your body, you shudder. You’re afraid to sleep, to dream. You don’t want to hurt anyone else ever again.

‘You have to rest, my love,’ he murmurs. He allows you to lay on his hand as though it were a pillow. ‘When was the last time you slept through the night?’

‘I’m not sure,’ you confess.

‘I might be a sleepless creature of the night,’ Astarion says, ‘but you… You needn’t fear your dreams when I am here. I’ll protect you no matter the cost.’

‘And who will protect you if I sleep?’ you ask.

You must be frowning, because Astarion uses his other hand to soothe the crease between your eyebrows. He sounds so outrageously heartbroken that you want to cry. You don’t want him to think he isn’t a comfort… You haven’t slept beside someone in so long, and the warmth of his body has always lulled you to your dreams peacefully until recently.

Astarion swallows thickly. ‘I’m not afraid of you. I’m not afraid of this. I’m with you forever and always.’

But what if there isn’t an always?

‘There is always a future for you and I,’ Astarion vows. ‘Now sleep. He can’t control you as long as I’m around.’ When you open your eyes again, you’re greeted by the most beautiful man you’ve ever seen. His eyes are a soft cerise, and his cheeks are high and sleek, his lips plump and his hair soft and curled. An angel. You’re unable to control the way you reach your hand to touch his cheek, smearing a crystalline tear across his wan skin.

‘Who are you?’ you whisper, voice caught painfully in your throat.

‘Hush now, my love,’ he whispers. He presses a sweet kiss to your mouth, and when he pulls away, his lips are ruddy and wet. ‘Thank the gods… I thought I had lost you.’

Oh, you think. You remember now. This is the man from your dream… You try to recall the details of how you know him, but it’s hard to follow a train of thought. You turn from side to side. It’s so hard to move, to focus. Your limbs feel as though they are made of lead and marble. Everything aches. The tips of your fingers and your nails down to the little bones in your toes. Your head, though, is the only part of you free from intense pain. It’s as though a weight has been lifted from the veil of your memories. You rest your arm across your waist, too tired to keep it lifted.

‘Who…’ Your brows furrow in confusion. ‘Who am I?’

‘I know you were once a child full of life and love,’ the angel says to you, gently cradling your face in his hands. ‘I know one day you were afraid and unsure and half-mad. I know you stained the streets red with cruelty and devised a plan larger than all of Faerûn. But I know you are strong and that your heart is good. You saved the tieflings, and you saved the refugees, and now you will save the world that threatens to be plunged into darkness.’

You smile. ‘That doesn’t sound like me at all,’ you confess.

The angel shakes his hand, fingers pressing hard into your skin. His voice breaks. ‘But I know it to be true, so you must believe my every word. You are brave. You are kind. You are good. You are my love, and I know that I am loved by you in return. You are a protector,’ he tells you. ‘You have protected everyone, and now it is time to protect yourself. You have survived two gods and now you must survive a third.’

The knot in your throat grows larger with every word. You think you remember now. Yes, you can remember it all very clearly. You know the weight of his hands like baptism. You turn your cheek and kiss his palm, smudging his skin pink.

‘Astarion,’ you whisper.

Your love smiles down at you, your blood dribbling down his chin.

‘What happened?’

‘Let’s not worry about that,’ he shushes you, massaging the bruises beneath your eyes. ‘Come, let us get you cleaned up.’

‘I don’t think I can walk yet,’ you say. Admitting it makes you feel weak.

‘Don’t worry,’ Astarion says softly. ‘I can carry you.’

‘I will bloody your clothes,’ you say.

‘Bloody them,’ Astarion says. ‘I don’t care.’

Astarion does carry you. He carries you all the way back to the inn, to a private room just the two of you share. He orders a tub to bathe you in and then takes an hour to scrub your skin clean, carefully cleaning your gore from your hair and scalp.

You watch as Astarion passes a bar of soap against the skin of the top of your arm over and over again until it is red then pink then flesh. Then, he gently twists your wrist. He cleans the underside of your arm next, and your palm. He washes your fingers until they do nothing but shake in the cold air. You curl your fingers around his.

‘Was it hard?’ you ask him.

‘I will never forget the smell of your scent,’ Astarion replies.

He moves to wash the hollow between your collarbones, encouraging you to recline in the water. He washes your chest and your stomach until his grief washes over him in waves. His chin shakes until a sob escapes. He presses his face into your hair and wails softly into your crown. When he’s done weeping, Astarion returns to his cleansing. He speaks not of it again. There is so little of you left.

You often wonder how much of your brain is left between the parasite and the hole your father has left you. Sometimes Jaheira still looks at you as though the rot of your father isn’t entirely gone. You don’t blame her. You’re waiting for your control to snap. You were good once. You could be good again. You want to be good again.

Shadowheart smiles at you now. Lae’zel no longer frowns. Even Wyll has taken up eating beside you again when it’s nighttime and the adventure can go no more. Gale pours you an extra serving of wine. He says you need it. Karlach lets you hold Clive at night when Astarion goes hunting, and he goes hunting often now. It makes you wonder if your blood is vile.

Part of you wants to ask him if you’ve done something wrong. You’ve committed no crime, but you feel like you have. Your memories of before are slipping away. Your memories of now seem to do the same.

You wait in your tent that night for Astarion to return, your blanket pulled around your head and shoulders. You rehearse what you’re going to say. You want to reassure him you’re not angry. You just…feel loss. Empty. The loneliness nips at your bones like crows at carrion.

When Astarion slips inside, he looks guilty. It almost makes you want to change your mind, but you have to know. You feel as though you’re going mad. A flightless bird trapped in a cage. Like Dame Aylin trapped in Shadowfell. He refuses to meet your gaze.

‘Have I done something  —  ’

‘You,’ Astarion says through gritted teeth, ‘are perfect. Every time.’

You want to cry. ‘Then why do you avoid me?’

‘Avoid you?’ Astarion repeats incredulously. He looks at you now despairingly. ‘No, that isn’t what this is at all. I would never avoid you.’

‘You’re hunting more often,’ you say in a low tone, a whisper. Accusatory.

‘Can you blame me?’ he asks plainly.

It’s your turn to look away in shame. ‘If it’s too much, you should sleep somewhere else.’

‘I don’t want to be apart from you,’ Astarion says.

‘Then how do we fix this?’

‘You cannot fix what is not broken.’

‘Astarion,’ you plead. ‘Hold me or  —  I don’t know who I am anymore.’

Astarion wraps his arms around you before you can say another word. His lips are like a halo against your head. Each kiss he presses against your scalp is a prayer from a sinner. You turn your cheek, and he kisses you so passionately it makes your empty head spin.

You relearn who are you in his arms that night. And as he regales you with tales of your history, you think you can imagine them in your mind’s eye. He kisses your wrist. He tells you a happy memory when he kisses the curve of your belly, and when he kisses your ankle, he promises you that everything will be worth it.

It wasn’t you that was the problem. There wasn’t a problem, not really. Only an impiety he wanted to atone for. He struggles with telling you, but when he whispers it against your thigh, you understand.

‘Your blood,’ he says, voice strained. ‘I cannot escape the smell.’

‘I’m sorry,’ you say, but he shakes his head and his hair tickles your sensitive skin.

‘No, I  —  It is my shame,’ he confesses. ‘I’ll admit I’m a lech.’

Astarion struggles to put his words in a coherent structure. When you died, he was horrified and distraught. Only the gods know how hard he wept seeing you lifeless. Yet it was his vampiric nature that had betrayed him almost as much as your life’s blood had betrayed you. He felt hunger.

How could he be sad when he was so ravenous? Was he not an evil man, or is this what made him evil? That, in all of his beautiful tears and lamentation, the urge to devour you, bones and all, nearly consumed him? Your death was horrible, ugly, wretched. Your death was beautiful and coveted.

Astarion devours you again that night, mouthing and licking and sucking at your swollen core. He makes you a martyr in his grief. His tongue teases you over and over again. When you’ve climaxed once, Astarion seeks out to make you do it again until your legs are shaking violently and your voice has gone hoarse. He doesn’t take you that night, not in the traditional way, but he swallows you up regardless.

It isn’t until afterwards when he’s laying with his head on your chest that you understand his tragedy. It’s a misfortunate impossibility trying to grieve when you can’t stop salivating. Astarion thinks you’re horrified by the admission, but after knowing your past, it was hard to feel scandalized by anything.

You pet his curls away from his face, watching as he listens to the hum of your heartbeat. He might have it memorized by now, but each time it beats, Astarion’s eyelashes flutter with admiration. It is a hymn, a doxology, a liturgy that only he knows the words to. After all, he wrote them on your skin and immortalized them forevermore. He is so beautiful, you think, when there is no trouble to be seen.

You were once both trapped by your dark god’s design. You had set yourself free. You had sprouted the wings of a swan guided by the empathy you had planted in a garden as a child. It would be Astarion’s soon, and you would carry him in compassion until the thorn crown was placed upon his brow.

Astarion’s eyes are closed. In your perpetually confused state, you mistake him for having fallen asleep and resort to doing the same. The city becomes chilly at night and your skin is decorated with gooseflesh. He rises almost immediately and you try to chase after him, fingers piercing through a ghost.

‘I wasn’t going anywhere,’ Astarion says immediately. He drags his cape from the corner of the tent and lays it across your shins. ‘You were shivering.’

‘I’m not used to this  —  ’ Will my mind ever be the same? ‘  —  chill.’

‘I will be here,’ he promises. ‘Here, let me hold you for the night.’

You clumsily trade places with him, and he tucks your blanket and his cape around your body as tightly as he can. He kisses you passionately and you taste your familiarity in his mouth. It’s so sweet that you sigh. ‘I know what you did,’ Orin says hatefully, spitefully, cruelly. Her voice is like honey.

‘What have I done?’

‘Did you think I wouldn’t know?’ she asks. ‘Filthy rotten blood-kin undeserving of our father’s gift!’

You repeat yourself. ‘What have I done?’

‘You,’ Orin spits, ‘think your grey matter deserves to be loved! I should carve it out! I should make it disgusting and sticky again! Split it’s skull open! You foul traitor!’

Slowly, you pull Orin into your chest. You hug her and smooth her hair down her back. Her arms wrap around you begrudgingly until the lovingkindness causes her to rupture. She sobs into your neck hideously, clinging to you. She wails and she wails until you are both children again staring up at your grandsire for approval.

‘It isn’t fair,’ Orin tells you, hiccuping. She wipes her nose with her fingers. ‘It isn’t fair.’

‘I love you, blood-kin,’ you say. You kiss the top of her head.

‘Slaughter kin,’ she says sadly. She holds your hand with her snotty palm.

‘Sister,’ you say. In the coming weeks, your mind hardly gets better. Memories are still missing. You catch yourself gazing at the mirror longer than you expect to. You used to be so beautiful. It’s hard to recognize the face staring back at you. You touch one cheek and then the other. You turn your head and watch your jawline.

No, it still isn’t you.

You take the knife in your belt to your hair and begin cutting away pieces you don’t remember. You lean forward and smudge your eyes before sitting up straight and trying again. You recognize a part of yourself. You chase that feeling. You press your hand against your heart. You smile faintly. Astarion sobs so hard you think you might lose yourself. You’re at a loss of what to do. He’s alive but he keens like a dying deer. It’s supposed to be healing, you think. Cazador is dead. His reign of terror should end. Astarion is saved and he saved himself. You couldn’t be prouder of him.

Slowly, you step forward one foot after another. You collapse to your knees at his side. It’s easy to pull Rhapsody from his fingers. You drop it by his side. Slowly, as if in a dream, you hold him like you held Orin. Astarion sobs harshly into your collarbone and clings to you so tightly you might break.

‘I thought  —  I thought  —  ’ he cries brokenly.

I thought it would make me feel better, he says without saying. You shush him and pet his hair. Cazador’s blood smears against your cheek when Astarion burrows his face into your neck. You let him linger. You aren’t sure how long you sit on the hard marbled floors, but when you stand up, your knees creak so loud you’re almost insecure about it.

This time, it’s your turn to carry Astarion. He won’t let you pick him up, but you hold him by his waist. You carry him past your allies, past the onlookers who once saw you in opposition. You order the maids to bring you a bath, and as Astarion hiccups in the water, you bathe him.

You wash the taint of Cazador from his body. The soap cleans the dirt and the blood and the memory. You wash his chest and his belly and Astarion thanks you hoarsely. He looks at you, and his eyes are so wide and beautiful that you cry too.

Dying isn’t easy. It isn’t beautiful or romantic or a sweeping gesture. Dying is painful and hideous and ugly, and you have saved Astarion from a lifetime of torment. Rather, he did it by himself with your help. You swipe the soap against his cheeks and use a rag to clear it away. Astarion’s hair is somehow curlier when it’s wet, and you part the curls so they’ll dry without tangling.

Astarion watches you miserably as you towel his hair. You wipe droplets of water off his skin and slowly slide him into his smallclothes. He accepts your blanket and wraps it around his shoulders, staring at the wooden floor, at his feet.

‘Stay,’ Astarion says weakly. ‘I don’t want to be alone.’

‘I would never let you be alone,’ you say.

It isn’t what you bought the room for. Really, you only wanted to wipe the blood from his face but now, you climb into the sheets next to Astarion and hold him tightly. He doesn’t seem to want to talk about the future. He doesn’t want to talk about his siblings either or the thousands of spawn waiting to hang on his every word.

And you can’t even blame him. The gods know how long it took for your tongue to become free from the weight that held it still after you betrayed your father. Karlach said you talked a lot before, but now it’s hard to say anything without wondering if your words are in the right order. Astarion cries softly as if to not awaken you from your slumber, but you can’t fall asleep. You can’t toss or turn either, but dreams evade you.

Dawn peeks through the window. Dawn-bringer, Jergal had called you. You slide out of bed carefully then and cross the room. You draw the curtains shut. Astarion watches you curiously from where he burrows in the sheets. His brow furrows adorably when you climb back into bed and plaster yourself to his spine.

‘Ah,’ you say monotonously. ‘The sun is gone. I suppose we'll stay in until it returns.’

After a day of lounging, Astarion still isn’t ready to talk about what’s on his mind but he watches you do your favorite mundane mortal things with explicit interest. He has you read the book you’re reading aloud, and if it takes you a few hours to struggle through one chapter, he says nothing about it.

Every once in a while, another one of your companions comes to sit in.

Lae’zel tries to commend Astarion for his warrior’s heart without sounding stilted, but eventually she gives up on complimenting him to sympathetically let him know she understands. They had all seen Vlaakith. Karlach brings Clive by and carefully arranges him in the bed next to Astarion. She tells him that he’s fucking awesome and asks permission to hug him.

The touch nearly sends him spiraling.

Gale approaches in his usual manner. He brings Astarion a bottle of wine spiked with blood and lets him know he’s available to chat whenever Astarion feels up to it. Wyll spends thirty minutes apologizing for the bad blood between them, which is funny considering their bickering was hardly vitriolic. Shadowheart visits and gifts him a perfume that makes his lip wobble dangerously.

Jaheira, Minsc, Boo and Halsin come together solemnly. They might be the least offensive of the bunch. Boo gives Astarion a thousand kisses on his cheeks, and Jaheira finally tells them a story of her youth. Halsin has Astarion drink a potion, not because he’s injured physically, but because it should help with his pain. Minsc tries teaching you a Rashemen dance, but Astarion laughs for the first time that day and you do too.

‘It is good,’ Jaheira says, ‘to see you both smile again.’

You touch your mouth shyly. Your cheeks are sore. Astarion’s smile fades slightly but returns in full, timid confidence lighting his features once more. Halsin crosses the room and opens the curtains you’ve closed. The light douses the room in holiness, and you turn your face to watch the sunset, unafraid of what the future will bring.

‘That which troubles you will soon be over,’ she promises. She pats Astarion’s hand, and although she doesn’t say it, you know he’s her son. ‘You will live to see these days renewed. There will be no more despair.’

You’re both left alone again together. Astarion beckons you to the bed instead of your chair and you join him, carefully sitting atop the covers, a respectable distance between your thighs. You inhale carefully.

‘You did the right thing,’ you say. ‘Not completing the Black Mass.’

‘Perhaps I had inspiration,’ Astarion replies. ‘You had a chance to become the Slayer, a being more powerful than you could have known. But you didn’t.’

‘I betrayed my father,’ you whisper, staring at your hands. ‘And he killed me for it.’

‘And if I had completed Cazador’s ritual,’ Astarion says, ‘I would have become Mephistopheles’s whore. I refuse to bow to the whims of others. Being an Ascendent…was blinding me to the truth.’

You look at him curiously then. He confesses to you his sins. He has thought of ascending, and thought of it often but it was never to protect himself. After a certain point, he wanted to protect you too. Your Urges had been mistaken for something else then. A possession, an invasion. Astarion sought to exorcise you of your demons.

But when you had died and the diseased lifeblood fled from your veins, Astarion realized the truth. The ascension would not have helped him protect you. It would have tainted him. It would have contorted him. Rising above all other vampires, Astarion would have become cruel like those before him. He does not want to be cruel to you. He wants to learn kindness as you have. He reaches for it like he chases the sun.

Astarion takes you by the hand, smoothing your skin with his thumb over and over. His skin is cold beneath yours. You curl your fingers into his. He did not want to make you a slave, not again. Not to him.

‘You are the dawn-bringer,’ Astarion says. ‘Even if I never see the sun again, I am free.’

‘I love you,’ you say, voice shaking. ‘I’ll be with you. In the darkness.’

‘You fool,’ Astarion laughs affectionately. He leans across the distance and kisses your temple. ‘There is no darkness. You are daylight incarnate.’

You look at him sharply.

‘I’ve been thinking about something,’ he says. ‘It’s…been on my mind all day, but I think it’s time. Say you’ll come away with me.’

You and Astarion dress slowly. You would follow him almost anywhere, but this is different. There’s something to be done. You don’t dress in armor, and for that you’re almost grateful. You’re tired of fighting. You’re tired of seeing blood.

But it isn’t blood or anything blood related that Astarion takes you to see. One minute, you are wandering Baldur’s Gate at night, and the next, you’ve come to the hollow of a tree where a gravestone is coated in vines.

‘This…is where my old life began,’ Astarion tells you softly. ‘Beneath there, I was turned into a monster. But Cazador is dead now and I get to decide my own fate.’

Astarion tells you in painful detail about his transformation. How his wounds fused themselves shut but the pain never went away. He tells you about breaking through the wood of his demise and the fear that flooded his veins and how, just when he thought he had found his savior, Cazador had laughed wickedly with his cruel glowing eyes.

‘I was his,’ Astarion murmurs, ‘but not anymore.’

He kneels before you on the dirt before his tombstone and bows his head. The prodigal son returned home. The sight of it causes your heart to squeeze. You want to step away but you can’t. You’re afraid.

‘There is nothing left of the person I was before,’ he tells you. ‘I am free to become who I want to be, free to start a new journey. I have all the time in the world to figure out who I am and what I want, but I think I know.’

‘I love you,’ you say again. ‘You’re what I want.’

‘You were by my side through all of this,’ Astarion says, eyes glimmering in the moonlight. ‘And now I want you to christen me. Inaugurate me here on the site of my rebirth.’

This is another dream. You hold your hands over Astarion’s head and sprinkle imaginary water over his head. His eyes close instinctively. Love washes over him, something golden. You kneel down and pluck a flower from the earth and it does not bleed. Relief floods your veins. For once, you touch something and it does not rot. Carefully, like a ghost, you slide the flower into Astarion’s hair and watch as his crimson eyes spill open with tears and devotion.

Astarion kisses you, and for the first time in a long time, he presses his body against yours. He takes you that night in the dirt. His leg is tucked under yours, his cock against your core, his lips never leaving yours. Astarion recites verses in your ears until you burst with ecstasy, tightening around him so much that he can hardly move. He cradles the back of your head to comfort you as he drinks your blood. He cradles your head tonight because he loves you.

‘I am yours,’ he whispers against your skin, ‘and you are mine.’ You aren’t sure when or how Astarion has the time, but he presents you with a gift the night before the world ends. He wears a matching flower from his grave pinned to his armor at all times now. And on his hand, a ring with a silver band. He slides one over your finger as well and kisses your palm as you slowly realize what it means.

The family you’ve chosen throws you a celebration. The next day, Dammon arrives and shows you your repaired armor now dyed white.

You cry for hours out of happiness. ‘This could be the last chance we have for this,’ you whisper to Astarion.

Everyone keeps telling you that a light has returned to your eye, but you don’t see it. It isn’t until you’re laying naked with Astarion again, his skin pressed against yours, that you think you can see it too.

Astarion fucks you tenderly until you’re sore, and you cry and plead sweet things against his shoulder while he holds you safe in his arms. When the pleasure becomes too much and your spine arches from the mattress, he pulls you into his lap and holds you safe against his chest. You kiss him until your lips are sore.

 ‘Your life is mine,’ Astarion murmurs. ‘You belong with me, my love.’

‘I’ve never been happier,’ you moan weakly.

He has taken you again and again this evening. He doesn’t say it, but Astarion is afraid of what tomorrow might bring. You have outsmarted gods and men. You have found goodness where there was nothing but darkness. You refuse to be afraid now.

‘We were made to conquer,’ Astarion says. His mouth is like a fire across your cheekbone. You shudder around his cock.

‘Take my love,’ Astarion commands you, so you do.

You kiss a ruby bruise into his neck, and Astarion fills you with a grunt. He doesn’t part from you. He guides you back down into the sheets and burrows against your body as if determined to climb between your ribs. You smile. Astarion has already made a home in your bones and flesh. He has eaten the rot from your core and recreated you anew. You were not his sin but his salvation. Perhaps he was yours too.

[necroangelz]

　　　 ˖ 　✦　　𓌔　　i want you to die for, for you to die for my love

in the night your heart is full, and by the morning empty　　　　 ˖ 　✦　　𓌔

♡　　personal rentry 　❀ 𓈒　 tag guide　⟡

ᛝ　keep reading for　𝜗｡　blog info 。。⠀₎₎

🕊️﹒　◟ fetching credits . . .

— CREDITS: Account layout　﹕　Heart divider used in pinned　﹕　K-Angel replycons made by 🎀 anon　﹕　Dividers

🪩﹒　◟ opening blog_info_tldr.docx . . .

🎐 — DNI: Basic DNI　﹕　Radqueer　﹕　TransID　﹕　Against anything related to my identity (kin, mogai, etc.)

💌 — BLOG NOTES: Edit posts are slow.　﹕　I don't edit with GIFs. 　﹕　I do not take requests anymore.　﹕　I don't know much about most discourse that's commonly discussed online and I don't care.　﹕　I often speak untranslated Tagalog here.　﹕　I use a typing quirk. (You = uu)

🎐 — SIDE ACCOUNTS: @xxxnecrotica ; rants, fandom reblogs, & others　﹕　@necroangelz-archive ; archive　﹕　@necroheavenz ; layout testing

🍥﹒　◟ opening extended_intro.pdf . . .

haiiii wsg my name is moonlightttt but also commonly called angelllll.... what u just read above is some important info for my blog. as u may have guessed i'm just your average tumblr user on editblr!

my (main) pronouns are SHI/MUSE/KILL (i use like so much pronouns though lmao) i am a GIRLTHING LESBIAN and a MINOR (older than 14. u won't be told my age) living in the PHILIPPINES. go ahead and d0xx me now (FOR LEGAL REASONS THAT'S A JOKE! :3) since I'm filipino, i can speak tagalog as well! I'm not the best at it but i try.

i am a fictionkin!!!!!! that means i am multiple fictional characters and i have past lives as some/most of them!! they are embedded into my identity and who i am as a person and i will bring up such topics frequently. <3 i usually theme my profile after my kins, and currently it's k-angel (again. i think it might be k-angel forever. you can't fight the k-angel unfortunately. being fictionkin is really important to me so if you think fictionkin are lesser than irls/fictives, hate on us and think we're "insane" etc. please get away from me <3

I'm not very social so i don't interact with others often.... i tend to silently follow people and like all their posts without talking to them LOL. but I'd be more than happy if people reached out to me first ^_^

[mydarlingdearestdead]

The Things We Do For Love- Chapter Three

"I'm your muse." Hyacinth grinned, laughing with a charming, child-like innocence. His eyes, tracing every inch of the god's skin, remained wide and pleasantly fixed.

Apollo hummed, an angelic symphony, and traced his calloused fingertips along Hyacinth's tensed jaw. It could be said that he took pleasure in the undivided attention of such a young beauty as Hyacinth.

"My muse," Apollo confirmed, "For whom all the melody, rhyme and delicacy could never be enough." He peered down at the boy through golden eyelashes, "You, my love, could never be satiated.”

Hyacinth felt inclined to agree. His blissful state was undoubtedly temporary and yet the situation could not perturb him. He lived simply in a world where Apollo lay by his side and the accompanying melody was clear and bright.

Apollo’s face darkened. Within Hyacinth’s mind, he likened the sight to that of a storm cloud crowding across the sun. Apollo stood. With his bow drawn and his golden hair hastily drawn into a knot at the base of his neck, he far more resembled an image of a comedy, rather than that of a classical heroic tragedy.

“Zephyrus has made his presence known.” Apollo declared. Already, he held a gold-tipped arrow at nock. Hyacinth’s mind seized- Not a product of terror as you may think. Rather, he thought to look to Apollo. A mind seized in helpless, horrible concern for one who would scoff at the thought.

“What’ll we do?”

“If ‘We’ are to be a unit then you must tell me, Hyacinth: Me or him?” Apollo took a graceful step backward, “I will not be offended at your response, dear.”

“You.”

Hyacinth’s lips formed the word. His vocal cords ejected it. His mind did not consider it to be false. Apollo would know regardless.

Apollo offered a vain attempt to conceal his boyish grin.

“I will speak with West Wind.” He said, “Do not move.”

His touch ghosted over Hyacinth’s cheek. A dismissal, of sorts, or a goodbye.

The sun continued on its routine descent toward the rolling hills of the west. Apollo, his face bathed in the golden remnants, seemed to silently converse with the distant object. He grasped Hyacinth’s hand in a single, sudden movement. His skin was soft, unblemished.

“A mixture of oils prepared by a local priestess.” Hyacinth admitted, “Applied twice a day since I was a child.” His laughter was scornful, “These… These are the hands of a prince. I have never done a day of honest work and my hands reflect that truth.”

Apollo rose Hyacinth’s hands to his chest. His own hands- Calloused, yes, but by mere design. He held Hyacinth’s hands against his own sun-warmed skin for an eternal moment.

“You know I do not lie.”

“Yes.” Apollo agreed as, after all, truth was his natural domain. As Zeus ruled the skies above, Apollo held reign over liars and their kin.

“However,” He continued, golden eyes shining, “Truth just happens to be relative. A prince may not carry out the brutal work of those employed in the grape harvest or the revered practices of priests, but he works nonetheless. He works in the company of the gods. He works to protect his people with prayers and false adoration. He allows himself to be pursued in the name of Sparta.”

Hyacinth swallowed. He reached as to brush his cupped hand against Apollo’s freckled skin.

“Thank you.” His voice wavered. Tears clung stubbornly to his jaw.

Apollo merely nodded. He understood Hyacinth’s gratitude on a level which existed beyond this realm. A level words could no more penetrate than spears and swords.

The following winter passed in a whirlwind. Apollo brought with him the sun each visit, as well as the hope for spring’s dawn. Persephone returned to Olympus, of course, prompting the equinox which, in turn, prompted the earthly celebration.

People lived in blissful merriment, burning offerings and sacrificing the best of the litter to the Spring Goddess and her Husband. Demeter, too, was often an integral figure, depicted welcoming her beloved daughter with open arms.

Apollo, laying eyes upon these depictions, scoffed.

“That is not how it happens.” He informed Hyacinth. He lay upon Hyacinth’s bed once more, though his lyre was not in use. “Every year, Persephone returns, Demeter hugs her, yes, but then- Holy Hera, you should see it.” He launched into a vain imitation of the Earth goddess, “You changed your hair? I don’t like it. Or, Oh! Hasn’t Hades been feeding you? You’re as skinny as an orchid’s neck! Demeter isn’t what I’d call supportive. That’s all I’m saying.”

Hyacinth could have listened to him speak for an eternity.

“You shouldn’t mock your aunt.” He responded, care-free, “It’s cruel.”

“No, if I tied her in a golden net, that would be cruel. This is a joke between a god and his mortal companion.” Apollo argued with an ease that made Hyacinth almost resent him, “Demeter could not deprive me this.”

Hyacinth grinned with a queer, juvenile delight. He placed a light hand upon Apollo's lean shoulder, bringing his lips toward the god's ear in the very same motion.

"My god." He murmured, "My Apollo."

He giggled, "Oh, look what I'm becoming... It's you. Your influence."

Apollo hummed, smiling warmly in return.

"Yes," He began to reason, "The influence of my melodic words and ever so endearing charm."

"Or perhaps of your perfect posture and flawless physical state."

"What, if I may ask, does my posture consequence?"

"Just..." Hyacinth's tanned face split in a grin, "Just take the compliment, dear."

Masterlist

Ao3

[rey-jake-therapist]

I was reading @tickldpnk8 's excellent meta about Desire, when something they said about Dream disapproving of Destruction's relationship with Ishtar the goddess of love planted a series of questions in my mind...

First question: how their function influences the Endless' love life? Why was Destruction drawn to a goddess symbolizing Love? Why did Dream disapprove it? Why did Dream neglect Calliope after she gave birth to Orpheus and why did he really severe his connection with them both?

Was it all just..... personal?

When I read that Destruction had a romance with the goddess of Love, my first reaction was to find it.... weird. What do Destruction and Love have in commun? At first view, not much even nothing... except maybe that destruction Can happen because of deceived love?

Dream is the romantic of the family, it's Destruction himself who states it in Song of Orpheus when he tells Orpheus he's just like his father. Dreams inspire the artists and the poets, so his union with Calliope, the poet's muse, probably made sense to everyone (except her sisters, who thought in their great wisdom that Dream was an asshole 😂). But Destruction and Love? Yeah I can totally see why it raised a few eyebrows in the Endless family. I mean, we know Dream in particular disapproved the relationship but Ishtar told her friend that her romance with Destruction ended because of "his family" not just her brother in law, so my guess is that she had to deal with vehement hostility, from everyone not just Dream.

Why would be that? My headcanon's now that the Endless feared that Love would be a bad influence on Destruction, because he would be less kin to do his job right since he would start seeing things differently, about humans, the love they can have for each other and the beauty of it. And I actually suspect that his relationship with Ishtar may have had him question his function indeed, and its necessity. Maybe it's really because he knew Love (he sort of dated it!) that he walked away from the Endless family and didn't choose anyone to succeed him? He knew that love would always end up destroyed but he didn't want this responsibility anymore?

(Please notice I'm mostly talking out loud here.... these are just some random thoughts and questionings....)

Now, Dream and Calliope. In the Wake, Calliope says Dream was basically the perfect husband until she became pregnant. It's often thought that their relationship was damaged by what happened to Orpheus, but the fact is that they started drifting apart long before that. Of course as humans it's tempting to think that Dream lost interest in his wife because she became a mother and he looked at her differently: that's what men often do, right? But Dream isn't a man and Calliope is a goddess; the product of their union was Orpheus, who represented "the supreme power of poetry and music to enchant all natural things". If I look at the evolution of Dream and Calliope's marriage purely on their respective function, the fact that 1. they had separate lives even when they were in love and happy 2. They drifted apart once Orpheus was conceived, both things make perfect sense!

It's often assumed that Dream "gets tired" of his lovers once the thrills is gone aka once the seduction phase is over. But I think it's oversimplifying and again, forgetting that Dream isn't human, he doesn't think like one. My current headcanons regarding Dream and Calliope are that,

They got married first because it seemed to be the perfect union regarding their respective functions. It doesn't mean they didn't love each other, but Dream has loved others before and after Calliope... she's the only one he married, and I don't think it's a coincidence.

They didn't live at the same place, Calliope visited Dream' realm only when she wanted: doesn't it reflect perfectly what inspiration does to us? Coming and going through our dreams, being absent sometimes for months even years....

Once Orpheus was conceived, it's possible that Dream's interest in the relationship faded because... His union with Calliope had filled its purpose. Yeah, I'm aware of how bleak it sounds, but again I'm thinking strictly in terms of concepts, which Dream and Calliope are.

The fact that Dream severed his connection with both Orpheus and Calliope is of course explained within the story told in the comics, but it also can find its roots in the humans'world: the vision that humans have of art, dreams and gods HAVE changed. They don't seem as intrinsically connected as (maybe?) they used to be, at some point science took over and humans kept believing in dreams, but in gods and mythology in general? Not so much. The divorce between Dream and Calliope, I think, symbolizes this dissociation.

I can't NOT also tag @writing-for-life and @poobtato on this big subject ;)

[thesparklingwriter]

𝒅𝒐𝒏'𝒕 𝒎𝒂𝒌𝒆 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒔𝒂𝒎𝒆 𝒎𝒊𝒔𝒕𝒂𝒌𝒆 𝒕𝒘𝒊𝒄𝒆

tags: zhongli x gn!reader, fluff, angst, reader is the sibling of guizhong, themes of loss (please lmk if I've missed any important tags)

word count: 1.6k

notes: before you read, i recommend taking a quick look at the ask this request came from! i may have possibly missed out some scene setting as a result of assuming every knows the context. I had so much fun doing this :) don't tell anyone but i actually shed one or two tears, but i was listening to the ballad of jane doe as i wrote it so can i truly be blamed? @cheezybell , i hope this lives up to your expectations <3 if there's anything formatting-wise that I've forgotten about tell me tomorrow cause it's now past midnight and i'm going to bed :)

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The world had been silent since you died. The god of war was accustomed to loss, but none had worn on him so heavily but yours. Of course, you weren't his only acquaintance, but the uncertainty of your well-being weighed heavily on him. The others were lost to the winds, their memories infused into fields of lilies and violent sunrises, all of which he observes with a detached melancholy.

To protect yourself after sustaining an almost fatal blow, you'd employed a tactic Morax himself had taught you—a tactic that had a 50 per cent success rate, a tactic for a worst-case scenario, a tactic shared with you because he couldn't bear the thought of you leaving him forever. If he'd have known that he'd be here now, seated beside your lifeless body, quietly begging someone, something, to save you, his friend, his companion, his… It doesn't matter now.

He wouldn't indulge himself in such thoughts. It was selfish. You'd tried to protect yourself for his sake, and here he was, wishing that you'd died so he would have had the chance to find your reincarnated soul in the faces of those in the harbour. You'd sworn you'd always be with him, regardless of the circumstances, irrespective of the fact that you loved him and he didn't–couldn't ever know. You'd watch him from a distance, how he brought smiles to people's faces and how the people of Liyue worshipped the ground he walked on. What would he want with you? The forgotten kin of a well-known adeptus—adept at nothing much but fading into the mist. What could you offer him that thousands of being on Teyvat couldn't?

"If I'm the reason why you aren't returning," Morax says softly, his voice permeating the silence of the cave he hides you in. "Please rest assured that I expect nothing of you upon your return. Simply focus on yourself. That's all I ask."

As long as he knew you were alive, Morax would accept being apart from you. But until he was aware of your recovery, he'd keep visiting.

And so he did.

Millenia go by before there's even a slight change in your appearance. He visits you at the end of every era he finds himself in—the end of the archon war, Liyue's sudden economic boost, his 'death' at the hands of the Fatui… He keeps you up to speed on it all. Of course, if you want to survive in this world once you awaken, you have to know what's going on, do you not?

This time, when he sits beside you to tell you about how Liyue no longer has an archon and the new life he hopes to pursue, his heart swells with hope. In the dim light of the almost freezing cave, Morax is almost convinced that he spies the condensation of your breath in the air. But simultaneously, the years of hoping and praying for your return have hardened his heart to hope. It's a selfish emotion, one he should know better than to entertain. But though there's a voice in the back of his head, telling him that he's hoping and praying and waiting for nothing, it's you he's waiting for. The one who always made him laugh, listened to him as he mused aloud about the wonders of Teyvat, and helped him mediate arguments between Cloud Retainer and Guizhong. He can't let you go.

"Change is constant in this world," He says to you, noting the slight colour in your cheeks and the flicker of your eyelids. "But I will continue to wait for you, to cultivate your memory such that nothing can dull its shine."

It was a promise to a friend, a declaration of love, an acceptance of defeat. He strokes your hair lightly, an intimate gesture he always longed for when you were alive, one he indulges himself in, in case it wakes you up. And the contact shocks you. You can feel it and hear him, but you can't reach out. You can't hold him in your arms and tell him that it's okay, that you loved him then, and you love him now, and nothing he could ever say or do could ever change that.

But you never had the will to do so when you were awake, and now, as you cling onto his voice to drag yourself back into reality, your resolve is too much for your body to bear, and you explode into fine mist, impossible to catch or hold, or trap. Morax realises that, and though his heart disappeared with you, he accepts his fate—forever longing for a being he might never see again.

✧

Finding yourself in Liyue after the years passed is nothing short of a learning curve. You learn early on that Morax was killed by the Fatui in an act of cold cruelty, a discovery that leaves you fuelled with rage. But casting your mind back to past conversations with Morax himself reminds you of a hypothetical game you and Guizhong used to play with him to pass the hours. Morax always had a fascination with the idea of faking his demise if it was what was necessary for Liyue's survival. Or course, that kind of morbid practicality makes Morax who he is, and you struggle to believe that he'd leave Liyue without a fight. He'd waited millennia for your return, but you're supposed to believe that he'd abandon his nation without so much as a second thought? Impossible.

So you set to finding him. Regardless of what form he's taken on or the lies he's employed to stay under the radar, you will find him. It starts with assimilating into Liyue's society, working hard to establish yourself as an upstanding member of the harbour, always found helping with a smile on your face. You'd smile innocently when asked what you charged for your help and services. "I'm something of a history buff," you'd say. "I'm researching Morax's death—undoubtedly this is an important date in the history of Liyue and i'd like to hear more about it from those who experienced it."

Of course, locals were more than happy to help—to share stories of their valiant archon, who left too soon, but left his nation in such good stead for the future. Most, if not all, the leads you were given were dead ends, an impressive mix of decorated truths and half lies. That was, until a passing traveller mentioned a certain Zhongli of the Wangsheng funeral parlour. According to them, he was the man for any kind of Liyuean history, regardless of the era.

You wasted no time hurrying to the funeral parlour with newfound hope. Would this Zhongli know where Morax is? Would he know of you, Guizhong or any other Adepti that were lost to the brutality of the war? Or would he send you away, accusing you of insanity or espionage?

You didn't know, and frankly, you didn't care. When you arrive at the parlour, you're met by a young woman who greets you with a melancholy smile. "How may I help you?"

"I was hoping to speak with a Mr Zhongli? If that's possible, that is."

The woman's expression changes, relaxing from its state of melancholy. "Of course. I can get him for you. Feel free to take a seat."

The seconds seem to drag by as you sit and wait for this man to arrive. Is this yet another dead end? Your mind begins to wander before the woman returns, asking you to follow her to his office. She seems slightly surprised by the words coming out of her mouth—admitting that this isn't something the man often does. The walk to his office is almost stifling. You're silent, your heart pounding helplessly in your chest as you walk.

The woman opens a heavy mahogany door, smiling encouragingly at you as you walk in.

The man before you nods at the woman before turning his attention to you, and you're surprised by his reaction. Years of analysing Morax's stoic face have taught you to pick up on micro reactions like the one Zhongli displays as he looks at you.

His eyes soften as he stands up, bracing himself on the desk as he rises. "I'm afraid I didn't catch your name," he says slowly. You tell him your name, and he chuckles lightly to himself. Of course, you'd find him. Or course you would. You look the same as the day you fell asleep, your eyes wide and excited, a gentle smile playing on your lips despite the absurdity of the situation you find yourself in. He extends his hand to you, and you shake it firmly, muttering the necessary pleasantries.

Zhongli can't believe it. You're real, not a figment of his desperate imagination. You're real, and perfect, and standing right in front of him on your own two feet. Do you know who he is? Is this some cruel joke Celestia is playing on him as punishment for going through with the Fatui's plan? His eyes are familiar to you—they shine with gold as you stare at him, your mind trying to grasp where you remember him from.

"How can I help you?" Zhongli asks. He can't bear to look away from you, the one he's loved since before he could quantify the feeling. The one who listened to him with such care and kindness. The one who made the millennia of duties and solitude worth it. It's you. You've returned to him. And regardless of whether you remember him or not, he swears that he'll express his love for you. He won't make the same mistake twice.

© 2023, thesparklingwriter. please do not copy, edit, repost, or translate.

taglist: @ainescribe

[justtonto]

Fav characters

1. Bridgette (underrated queen)

2. Lindsay

3. Zoey (she's my main kin in the whole total drama)

4. Rock and Spud (can they count for one? Also, they're literally the only characters I've ever cheered for to win)

5. Ella (she's my drawing muse)

It's hard for me to rank any characters, I have a lot of favorites. I also really like Mickey and Jay.

My ideal team is

Trent, Jo, Ella, Rock, Spud, Brick, Anna Maria, Duncan, Scott, Izzy and Sugar, it's a nuclear mix.

Favorite rairpairs (rairpairs are the reason I live)

Scoey - Scott could definitely fall in love with Commando Zoey. Scott thinks she's just a nice girl at first, but then when Zoey shows her brutal side, he's like "....Wow"

Justin x Izzy - It's hard for me to explain their dynamics, but I love them, especially when it's Izzy isn't crazy theory

Brick x Dawn - why I thought this ship had more fans than one

Mickey x Sammy = ever since I came up with this ship I've always thought of them as two kids at school that no one is friends with and they're sitting together at lunchtime

Beth x Duncan - they could be cute and their relationship wasn't that bad in action

That's not even half of the rairpair I love yet, if I wrote it all it would be too big a post

I don't know how rairpair it is, but I love Gweather.

Total drama I've been watching since I was a little kid, I remember waiting for it to start on TV, it's been half a year since I decided to revisit it and I've been active in the fandom since then

[wakacreations]

Zevlor: Before We Depart

Keepsake: I will treasure it always.

Authors Note:

Inspired by this piece by @sanriowendigo. I hope you do not mind.

Word Count: 689

Summary:

There is still a couple hours left before the tiefling caravan departs to Baldur's Gate. The Hellrider Commander participates in one of Tav's hobbies in the meantime but does he really need to be shirtless to do so?

Zevlor wasn't sure what you meant by that request. He must have misheard surely but you held out your hand and prompted again. While he wasn't the least bit uncomfortable being shirtless around others but it was you. The person who swiftly swung in his literal defense. The adventurer who demolished the goblin encampment. The hero who graced his kin with a safe passage to Baldur's Gate. In one swift motion, his shirt was in the palm of your hands. How could he deny you? There he stood proud awaiting for further instructions. You stood there frozen, eyes widened.

"Are you alright? Was there something the matter?" Your trance was broken by the worry of my words.

"Hold still and do not move a muscle." You moved quickly towards your pack. Within your arms a collection of various brushes and paints justled about.

"One more moment, Zevlor." You scurried back and forth with an easel. When you were settled into your station. You gave a thumbs up.

"Tav, not that I want to dissuade you from your artistic pursuits but wouldn't you prefer another person to muse or perhaps a landscape?" What is there to capture of his likeness on a canvas? Weathered scars haunted by time and regrets were all that he was now. Should such a thing be painted? His ears folded at the thought.

You continued your brush strokes on the canvas. "No, I would not be interested in any other. You know Zevlor, you are the perfect muse," you chuckled. 

"Your face is quite angular that contrasts well with your softer aged features. You are a man of service from how you still hold your head up high but.." Your eyes briefly flickered to my lips. 

"You have a smile that reminds me of the warmth from a fire. You cannot hide your feelings well though Zevlor," you grinned. He coughed at the remark. What do they know truly? His ears twitched to listen close.

"Your eyes are very expressive even when you stay stoic most of the time. They burn brightest when a temper rises, dimming at the slight moment you look into the distance and flicker at the slightest bit of discomfort. Do you know sometimes your eyes even change a hue?" For how long have they watched me to make these observations? His tail waved behind him.

"I supposed I am easily readable then. I haven't heard of a tiefling's eyes changing color. What color do they turn?" You looked up into my eyes. There is a blush that begins to settle onto your cheeks. "Nothing to concern yourself," you stammered. He quirked a brow. Your head went back to behind the canvas. "Just know they look beautiful when they do." He could almost make out your muffled words.

"Is there a reason you wanted to capture me shirtless for this piece in particular?" He couldn't help his curiosity. It hadn't been the first nor the last time he had been voyeured upon. Though, he couldn't bring himself to think of you being one of those many. No harm if you were. He just could have put on more bravado if that were the case. You pause your brush. "There must be some relic of your past hidden under your armor. There is a story worth telling of a life hard lived." You turned your finished creation before me. 

There I stood poised in my usual guard stance. My infernal heritage is on full display from my ridges to the leftover wounds of battles long since passed. My hair no longer the usual tied up manner now cascaded down my shoulders. I haven't ever seen that expression on my face before. Is this how I look to you? There is my gaze full of adoration shimmering of gold, brows knitted just so in youthful yearning, smiling as if under the charms of a final everlasting love.

"If you ever forget how to smile. This is a reminder." You held up the canvas as you came closer, handing me the self portrait.

"Thank you." I smiled that same familiar smile. My only hope is the rest of Faerun sees me through your eyes.

Our time together will be over shortly. "Let's meet again soon." Maybe if fate permits it, I will show you your beauty through my own canvas. But for now, does Lia have any extra art supplies? I will brush up my skills in the meantime till then.

"Take care on your journey, Tav." I waved them a goodbye. I will be waiting in Baldur’s Gate.

[lets-try-some-writing]

I wonder what the Matrix's opinions and attitudes towards the other Autobots are like. We know that Optimus loves and values all of them, but I wanna know what it thinks. (I love the idea of the Matrix being sentient, absolutely brilliant idea)

Loved this idea too much to wait to write about it! I might even make this a series or something if this turns out well. Although I did get a tad bit carried away with this thought since I can't just let anything be *anxious laughter*

The Musings of the Matrix

Prima was the first mecha the Matrix knew. It had been given to Prima by Primus when it was still new and unintelligent. During those days it was akin to a newspark, and could only watch and learn from the first of the Primes, absorbing power and collecting wisdom. It learned of much in those days, and slowly garnered more and more knowledge as Prima took it to each of his kin and allowed the Matrix to copy and collect what they knew.

The Matrix knew instinctually why Prima did this. Prima was merely the Matrix's guardian while it developed into its own being. The first of the Primes would not carry the Matrix forever, nor could the Matrix remain bound to its steward for all time. They had different functions, ones that only alligned for a time.

The Matrix needed to learn, to grow, to become greater. It was to be a collective, a well of knowledge meant to guide and strengthen in a future it had only been granted slight glimpses of by the creator god that made it. The Matrix was not a living being, not in the way the Primes were. It was intelligent, it could think and learn, but it was not its own entity, rather an amalgamation of data, morality, and duty all combined into something that resembled the spark of life that infused the true creations of Primus.

The Matrix did not mind this at all. It had a purpose, and it was satisfied with fulfilling it. For what was the point of it's existence if not to serve the duty it had been made to carry?

The Primes were so very full of data and knowledge, morality and intrigue. They each had a very specific purpose, and much like the Matrix, they were compelled to fulfill it. The Matrix learned all it could from them, but there was one of the Primes that caught the Matrix's interest on an instinctual level. The one Prime that had no purpose engrained into it so deeply that it could not stray, the one Prime that could be molded and still remain pure and untainted. The Thirteenth was, in the Matrix's view, perfect. The moment the Matrix saw the Thirteenth, it knew that one day the last born of the Primes would be its true vessel, the one it was created to serve and be served by in turn.

But the time to be bound to its chosen had not yet come, and so the Matrix let it be, allowing the Primes to fall, to fight, and then to separate within even trying to intervene, not that it could anyway. It watched and then it allowed its steward to pass it on to the recorder among the Primes, the one called Alpha Trion. The Matrix had little care for the recorder Prime, for he did little and only watched when so much needed to be done. Thankfully for the Matrix, Alpha Trion heeded its demands and helped it find a worthy mech to be its new steward, to help it protect the guide to lives on the surface until its true bearer could come for it.

For millennia the Matrix learned. It grew and changed, going from steward to steward and having each one of them fall despite the Matrix's efforts to offer them wisdom and keep them on track. But they were all impure, incapable, not worthy of being the Matrix's true bearer. The Matrix even had to kill one of its stewards when the mech who bore it, one who the Matrix gave the name of Sentinel, tried to rip the Matrix apart and force it to give him power.

The steward Prime did not last long under the Matrix's wrath. The Matrix was no toy, it was a guiding light, a tool used to forge heroes and champions for Primus's people. It hated what it had become, it hated that the council that ruled over the people limited the possible stewards for the Matrix to pick, forcing it to choose lackluster carriers who it could only do so much to sway. Eventually it saw the hopelessness of the situation and called out for the recorder Prime. There were no mecha that could bare the Matrix, it refused to be abused any further until its true bearer came for it. So when Alpha Trion collected it, the Matrix did not search for another steward and instead returned to Primus to wait until its bearer was ready for it.

When its bearer finally came for it, the Matrix did not even hesitate to reach out to him. There was no greater feeling of peace for the Matrix than when it bound itself to Orion Pax and rebuilt him lovingly, reshaping him to endure and to fulfill their shared purpose with pride. The Matrix put more effort into reforging Orion than it did with any other Prime. And when it had completed its work, having made Orion as perfect for his role as it could, it granted Orion his name, the one the Matrix had waited to give him since those early days.

Optimus Prime was forged, and he led the Autobots to war.

As the war raged, the Matrix guided Optimus, offering him wisdom and memories from its stewards and the twelve other original Primes. It kept its bearer's spark pure by guarding Optimus with every bit of power it had. The Matrix even went so far as to mold Optimus in such a way that his identity as Orion, while still present, was hidden beneath layers of wisdom and composure. The Matrix refused to watch its perfect bearer lose what made him so wonderful in its view. It kept Optimus calm, it focused his mind on the tasks at hand and only allowed him to deviate when he needed time to associate with others. The Matrix also took the trauma that would crush normal mecha and suppressed it, keeping its perfect bearer safe from the harm that the battlefield and the stress of war could inflict on him.

Of course the Matrix regularly had to fight against one particular mech when it came to keeping its bearer fit for their shared function. Ratchet was both the biggest pain and relief for the Matrix when it came to ensuring Optimus's mental wellbeing. The medic nurtured the spark of Orion, keeping Optimus from giving himself to the Matrix's grip, a fact that caused the Matrix no end of irritation. Why couldn't the medic see that it was only trying to protect its bearer? Emotions were dangerous, having too many and having to endure the trauma of war would harm Optimus. The Matrix didn't want that, and if it meant keeping Optimus calm and emotionless to keep him safe, the Matrix was willing. It would keep him on track, it would keep him safe.

Yet Ratchet could not speak to the Matrix, nor could the Matrix exactly stop the medic from giving Optimus affection when things got dark enough for the Matrix to clamp down on Optimus's emotions harder than usual. However Ratchet did do one thing that the Matrix appreciated, and that was the fact that Ratchet constantly asked the hard questions. When Optimus started to falter even with the Matrix urging him on, Ratchet was there to get Optimus back in action. For that alone the Matrix sometimes gave the medic a reward by allowing Optimus more emotional access when times were somewhat peaceful.

And while the Matrix couldn't confirm it, the Matrix was 99% sure Ratchet knew that it was aware and sentient. More than once while Optimus was knocked out, Ratchet would talk to the Matrix and threaten it. Of course the Matrix often brushed it off, but it listened as sometimes Ratchet made valuable points in regards to Optimus's health. The Matrix and Ratchet had a tense relationship, one that constantly led them to clash, but it was functional. That was enough for the Matrix.

Ratchet: I know you are listening you slagging relic. So listen up.

The Matrix: We listen.

Ratchet: Orion was mine before you took him from me. He was my friend, my brother. I will not let you have him.

The Matrix: Optimus is ours. He is our perfect vessel. You can do nothing to stop us, not while you need us to guide your Prime.

Ratchet: No matter what you do to him, I will be here to drag him back. You will not keep him from me forever.

The Matrix: We shall see.

The Matrix could understand Optimus's attachment to Ratchet, after all, the medic was his closest friend before the Matrix made Optimus divine. But the Matrix struggled to comprehend why Optimus took every Autobot death so personally. It knew its bearer was kind and loving, the perfect one to lead and love the children of Primus. But every time great losses were sustained, the Prime wept and the Matrix struggled to keep him calm. It was confusing.

The Matrix cared, but only in the sense that it was its duty to keep the children of Primus safe and on the right path. It was its bearer's duty to love and to be the one to connect to the people on a more personal level. As such the Matrix had little guidance to give when Autobots wept for their losses and went to Optimus for guidance and hope. All the Matrix could do was offer what knowledge it had on the Cybertronian mind and what seemed to be the most convincing.

The Matrix cared... it just wasn't quite sure it cared in the same way Optimus did.

Then there came Bumblebee, the sparkling that truly garnered the Matrix's interest and gave it insight into just why Optimus cared so much. The Matrix had only been exposed to sparklings a handful of times prior. Its previous stewards were not fond of the little ones or rarely ever interacted with them. So when Optimus took in the orphaned newspark, the Matrix watched in interest, long dormant instincts rising to the surface.

The pure little ones needed to be protected at all costs, all the little ones did.

The Matrix loosed its grip on Optimus whenever he was with his sparkling. It grew to love the sparkling alongside its perfect bearer. Bumblebee was a wonder to watch as he grew and developed. The Matrix wanted to keep him safe, it wanted to be able to protect the pure one as it did with Optimus. But as it couldn't and wouldn't abandon its perfect Prime, it instead opted to heighten Optimus's emotional reactions to incidents involving Bumblebee. If the sparkling was hurt, both the Matrix and Optimus raged, their combined anger turning into something unholy. If the sparklings was treated well by a bot, the Matrix incentivized Optimus to give the bot in question some sort of reward. The pure little light needed to be protected, especially when Optimus couldn't be there.

Optimus: I will take care of you Bee... none shall harm you now.

The Matrix: We shall guard this pure one. He will be safe so long as we are bound to our Prime.

Bumblebee: You will be my Sire?

Optimus: That's right, and no harm will come to you so long as I function. You will live to see our home restored, this I promise.

The Matrix: The pure one will live. We will ensure it.

More than once the Matrix fed Optimus old songs to sing to his sparkling. It gave its Prime complete access to emotions of love and protectiveness and never once denied its Prime the chance to comfort and connect with the pure one. Bumblebee was special and gave Optimus hope, kept him on track, and gave him reason to fight. For that alone the Matrix liked the little one, even more so because of his innocent spark. Both the Matrix and Optimus flew into a rage when Bumblebee was harmed by Megatron. Where the Matrix had previously been neutral toward the warlord as it knew only that Megatron was a wayward child of Primus, it now hated him. No pure sparked one harmed the little one, as such those who did were instantly marked as kill on sight.

Every time Megatron came into view the Matrix urged Optimus on, amplifying anger but still trying to keep him composed. It was a fine line, especially with Orion's history with the mech. But if the Matrix could have its way, it would not suffer Megatron to live.

Ultra Magnus was a mech that the Matrix had no real views on. He was useful and lessened the workload the Matrix's bearer had, so for that the Matrix accepted his existence in Optimus's life. Of course Optimus's attachment to the mech was somewhat exhausting to the Matrix, but as usual the Matrix tolerated it as Ultra Magnus gave Optimus yet another reason to keep moving. Although more than once the Matrix found itself allowing Optimus to feel things when Ultra Magnus was involved since the Prime had taken to seeing the commander as kin.

Yet another bot to worry about and try to keep alive. Exhausting.

Jazz was more worrying than anything to the Matrix. Jazz loved Optimus, but the agent held no such attachment to the Matrix. More than once the Matrix worried for the life of its bearer when the agent came to Optimus and spoke to him in such a way that the Matrix could tell the words were directed at it. The Matrix wished it could get rid of the agent, but Jazz was useful and yet another irritant that Optimus was connected to from his time as Orion.

Jazz: Heyo! Brought some more reports from Prowl!

Optimus: Thank you Jazz.

Jazz: *staring directly at Optimus's chassis* Not a problem Op! But you better loosen up a bit, it wouldn't do for you to be so high strung you can hardly transform.

The Matrix: We know what you want, we are not obliged to listen to you.

Jazz: *grinning* Bee has been looking forward to seeing you all Joor!

The Matrix: ... You have won this round.

There were other like Prowl who the Matrix found useful enough to allow Optimus to feel around, if only a little. But as a general rule the Matrix was neutral to the other Autobots, albeit in the sense that is felt no particular attachment to them. They were wards to be guarded and guided, little else, at least to the Matrix.

Upon coming to earth though, that changed slightly. The team became adopted kin to Optimus, and as there were no others to worry about and actual names to go with faces, the Matrix inevitably developed opinions.

Cliffjumper was a pure one, not a sparkling, but pure all the same. The Matrix genuinely felt somewhat disappointed in itself for failing to keep him alive upon discovery of his death. Cliffjumper was the relief the team and its bearer needed, without him things were dimmer in base. And while the Matrix was not inherently an emotive being, it felt a degree of loss when there were no jokes directed toward its Prime. It could feel Optimus was upset too, and many a recharge cycle the Matrix needed to murmur reassurances and praise while blocking off nightmares.

Arcee was an interesting case that the Matrix couldn't decide it liked or not. She was useful and brought a certain set of emotions to the team that were sorely needed. She brought Optimus joy and gave the Prime someone to care for. She fought well and was fully devoted to their cause and loyal, that alone earned her the Matrix's acceptance. Still with time the Matrix grew to care enough, though mostly only because Optimus did, to allow its Prime to feel and be more emotive around the two wheeler.

Bulkhead and Wheeljack were troublemakers who the Matrix came to see as excitable loose cannons. They needed to constantly be corralled and moved around like chess pieces to be effective, at least to the Matrix. It impressed this general feeling to its Prime, but Optimus took it the wrong way and began coddling the duo like they were simply sparklings or younger brothers in need of guidance. An irritating reaction, but one that the Matrix should have expected from its ever loving Prime.

Truly the Matrix didn't understand its Prime's attachment to everyone he knew for more than two minutes, but the Matrix accepted it and focused its efforts on keeping its Prime on track. It tried not to mentally sigh when Optimus took on the human children as his own and when the Prime later took on Smokescreen. There was no stopping its loving Prime from caring, and it couldn't stop its Prime from feeling either, not with so many emotional triggers hanging around base.

The Matrix wanted to be exasperated, but at least with so many loved ones around, Optimus was more stable than ever before.

[hmshermitcraft]

For the weekly theme - hurt/comfort!!!

This is inspired by @definitelynotshouting 's HungerAU (which you can check out for additional context)! Fair warning, said AU is a Dead Dove; I didn't manage to finish reading the fic they are writing for this AU, but I still love the concept they created!

This ask is just... me borrowing part of the lore from the AU and changing it a bit to suit my less angsty idea, and to give Grian a hopeful ending in the story (not a happy one, per se, that might be stepping on Shout's toes too much, but there is hope for the better)

The main difference is that it's Grian's 1st time meeting the Hermits, but all Players still know how Watchers can prey on them

•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•

Ever since Grian remembered, he's been stuck in the endless planes of The Void. There used to be a time, way before he became a Watcher, when he was just a normal Player, able to build, to create, to feel the sun on his face. But those times are long gone and long forgotten, along with the memory of the humanity Grian lost when he was used as a base for creating this... monster he had became.

Lurking in The Void like a shark cruising the water, he remained hidden most of the time. He refused to live how his kin did - infiltrating servers, hovering above Players, amplifying their emotions till the humans were ripe from the picking, and then... killing them, hurting them, watching them slip into insanity, as their haywire emotions sustained yet another Watcher.

But it was difficult to resist the hunger gnawing on his insides. Grian wasn't as strong as he'd like to be, not strong enough to hide away and finally let himself die. He should have killed himself long ago, he mused. Nowadays it was just an endless cycle - hiding away, biding his time as he stared into nothingness, and then blacking out as the hunger overtook him. He never remembered much from those times, but after a while he would wake up, in a server he didn't recall breaking into, the bodies of Players disappearing into white puffs of smoke, presumably to respawn.

But he never waited to check if that was true. Disgusted with himself, Grian always ran. Feeling sick with what he had done, with how full he felt, he always rushed through the veil between the server and The Void like the coward he was. Emotions might not have been physical food he could expel from his body, but that didn't stop him from dropping to his knees and retching, bile rising into his throat, burning.

Fighting his will to live was a battle he kept on losing, not having the courage to finally take his life, ridding the world of himself and letting his code unravel, seeping back into The Void where he couldn't respawn. He wished he could just end this, finally being able to keep Players safe from himself. The scars on his body being a testament to how many times he tried, yet always flinched from the final blow.

Grian didn't quite care about his own fate. Yes, every breath he took was painful, every waking second of enduring the effects of denying his body sustenance was a nightmare, but... he deserved it. He was a monster, he should be miserable, he should suffer. Every tear he shed at his own fate was pointless, a cry for help he was not worthy of.

Grian shuddered, the filthy sweater hanging from his bony frame doing nothing to stop the chill from seeping into his heart. The Void was neither hot or cold, so the shudder was entirely caused by his weakened muscles spasming yet again. He was so hungry again, ages having passed since he last fed.

But there was one thing keeping him from blanking out again, one thing that occupied every single sluggish thought that passed through his head.

Time was an odd thing, here in the realm of endless nothingness, but for a while Grian's been feeling ripples on The Void's surface. They were all coming from a particularly bright spark of light on the dark tapestry surrounding him. Such a bright flash suggested a big server, one used frequently and by many Players. The ripples were... odd, to say the least. Grian's tired brain barely manged to recognise them. It was... a Voidwalker Player, gently poking and probing at the dark nothing, as if searching for something. What could they be looking for in here, Grian wondered idly. Voidwalkers were so rare, but it would make sense for one to be on such a big server.

Grian's mind flickered in and out of consciousness. He didn't have the strength to keep his eyes open, not anymore. But... this was the closest he ever felt to being at peace. As always, he hoped he wouldn't wake up this time, wouldn't end up in some unknown server, standing in a circle of items dropped by dying Players.

After a while, Grian felt a pull of something on his mind. He forced himself to became conscious again, to expand his Gaze past his little bubble of The Void.

Oh. The pull that Grian felt was the familiar code of the Voidwalker slowly easing into The Void. But... he was leading other Players after him as well? That was odd. Such trips to The Void were incredibly dangerous, it must have been important for them to partake in. Grian didn't have the energy to think too deeply about that, choosing instead to curl in on himself more tightly and to allow his mind to slip away again.

But his moment of peace didn't last too long. The ripples and distruptions pressed into the fabric of The Void got closer and more prominent with each passing moment. Was the party heading towards him?

Suddenly, everything seemed to click, the haze lifting from Grian's mind for a brief moment. The Players from that powerful server must have been notified about him, must have heard that a stray Watcher was lurking around and attacking nearby servers. They must be on a mission to remove this threat, to finally put an end to Grian's pathetic existence.

That thought was oddly comforting to him. There it is, his chance to finally stop the cycle of pain he caused and experienced. He flopped back onto the floor again, not having the strength to stay in a sitting position, now that he knew what was coming for him. His salvationn the end to everything...

But... No! No! He couldn't let them get close to him! He was so close to blacking out and hurting people again! He had to move away from them, he had to! Panic surged through Grian's veins, fuelling him in a last-ditch effort to avoid the hunting party approaching him.

Yet... when trying to lift his wings in attempt to get up, he felt that he was unable to move past the sitting position he was in previously. There was a cage around him, bearing the Voidwalker's characteristical code particles weaved through it.

In a way, the pressure of the cage was a comfort for Grian. Now he didn't have to try anymoren he was completely at the mercy of the hunting party, his fate was in their hands. It's not the end he imagined for himself, but it was oddly fitting, he suposed. Players taking revenge on him, punishing him for hurting them so. He only hoped his one life was enough to atone for what he's been doing all his life.

As his consciousness faded again, he heard voices getting closer to him. He was too weak to decipher what they were saying, but he couldn't bring himself to care. Now, he was able to rest for real, that was enough to put his frazzled mind at ease

...

When he woke up again, it took a lot of time for Grian to grasp his surroundings. He was not supposed to wake up, that's the first thing that puzzled him. The second thing, was his surroundings. The room he was in was washed in golden rays of sun, and the bed he was situated in was an explosion of soft, colorful blankets and pillows. After so long spent into The Void, those things were difficult to comprehend.

The thing that registered last, was that he was not hungry anymore. This revelation would push Grian into a flight response, but there was another sensation pushing at his mind, calming him down. There was a faint pressure at the back of his head, blocking the usual way in which he could reach out and feed. He tired to sense emotions around him, yet he couldn't do that.

As he was looking around the room, trying to make sense of all the new sensations, Grian noticed a piece of paper on a bedside table, resting innocently next to a pitcher of water. As he reached towards it, he had no idea that this little note was about to change his life forever.

...

Hello!

You must be terribly confused right now, which we all apologise for. The way that we brought you here was far from ideal, unfortunately. We definitely would prefer for you to be conscious when we found you, but we really couldn't wait any longer with transporting you here.

What you have to know for now, is that this server specialises in hosting dangerous and odd Hybrids, and making sure they can exist in peace, without hurting anyone. We have a lot of technology and magic at our disposal, and we already know how to help you.

You are safe here, we will not hurt you, and you are unable to hurt anyone as well.

We will explain everything to you shortly, we regularly check on you to see when you're awake, so someone will bring you into the main room soon.

Welcome to Hermitcraft!

~Xisuma (the Admin) and all other Hermits

•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•

🌠anon

Grian doesn't know how to react to the note. He reads it multiple times. There must be some mistake, right? Maybe they don't realise what he is. Or, maybe they were looking for a different person? Does Grian even count as a person, really?

True to the note, a player comes to find him barely a few minutes later. It's not the Voidwalker, even with this dampening he'd recognise that energy. No, instead it's a creeper hybrid, with a cybernetic arm Grian thinks he could stare at forever.

He nods at Grian, introducing himself as Doc. He doesn't even give Grian a chance to talk before he launches into a spiel. Half of the explanations go straight over Grian's head, somebody about suppression, saturation commands, feeding in healthier ways in the future. If there's anything Grian does take away, it's that it all sounds too good to be true.

He follows Doc to the next room silently, hugging his chest. There's a lot more people hanging around. A few turn to look at him - some more subtle than others. He can't tell what all of them are, but the Voidwalker stands out immediately. He rushes across the room to introduce himself, followed by scolding Doc for not asking Grian's name.

Grian can only follow Xisuma around in awe as he introduces various hermits. Grian finally manages to ask if this is actually right. Is this a mistake? Xisuma seems confused at the idea - they'd been planning this for ages! The idea of being wrong is literally impossible, they went over the operation far too many times for that.

Grian's... Not used to that. Being wanted.

This is going to be a lot for him to get used to.

[dailycharacteroption]

Roleplaying Races 15: Naiad

(art by Celiarts on DeviantArt)

I’ve said it before, but there are a handful of playable ancestries in first edition which got a blurb in a bestiary, but was never really touched again.

This is technically true of today’s entry: the naiad, but Paizo didn’t completely forget about them, as they show up again in 2E… admittedly with monster stats and only the lore drop of them occasionally becoming adventurers, but no ancestry stats… not yet, anyway.

In any case, naiads!

In Greek mythology, Naiad are a type of nymph, minor female deities that preside over aspects of the natural world, either independently or in the service of a more powerful divinity that rules more generally over the nymphs more specific focus.

In particular, naiads were the guardians of all bodies of freshwaters with the exception of full rivers, which had their own divinities. Anything from streams to fountains to ponds and lakes. Anywhere that fresh water could be found was their domain. They were known to be healers and protectors to those that honored them, but also dangerous and sometimes jealous beings, but that’s true of many Greek divinities.

In Pathfinder, naiads are a form of lesser nymph, able to bond with any body of water, rather than just being stuck with one on their moment of birth. As such, they tend to wander much further afield than other nymphs (with perhaps the exception of their more oceanic kin.)

That wanderlust and keen interest in protecting waterways and sources of fresh water means that many naiad take up the life of adventure to grow in strength and defeat evil that seeks to pollute and corrupt.

As fey creatures, naiad have a decidedly otherworldy appearance, appearing as humanoids seemingly made of water, and often adorning their forms in clothing made of living aquatic plants. Despite their appearance, however, they are very solid beings, and can come in a variety of genders despite the stereotypes of supposedly being only female.

As both fey and wanderers, Naiads don’t typically have societies of their own, though they probably pay homage to more powerful nymphs and to local fey courts when they’re in the area. Their wanderings also place them in greater contact with mortals too, so they likely have a better understanding of the mortal mindset as they interact with and integrate with their societies. They still are fey, however so their worldview no doubt clashes sometimes. They do, however, share a love of music and performance, as evidenced by the nature of their blessing when bestowed on a mortal.

Naiads are agile and charming, though their bodies are somewhat weak.

Their fey nature also gives them good night vision as well.

What’s more, being in tune with nature lets them befriend animals easier and understand the natural world.

True to their nature as nymphs, naiads can imbue a small token of favor, typically a lock of hair, which grants a minor blessing to creativity and mental integrity to the one it is gifted too. What’s more, the link between the naiad and their token lets them keep tabs on the well-being of the recipient, and they can rescind this blessing at any time.

The other iconic ability of theirs is the ability to bond with a freshwater body of water. As long as they are within a minute’s run from this water, the naiad draws protection from it, warding them against mundane and supernatural attack.

Charisma and dexterity are fun bonuses to have, making these fey surprisingly good swashbucklers. As fitting for their nature as minor muses, they also make good bards and skalds, to say nothing of their mastery of sorcery, the talents of a rogue/slayer, and so on. What’s more, their tokens and ability to draw protection from water makes defensive magic and water magic good themes to explore as well. Their only real weakness is the low strength, but that’s easy enough to surmount.

That does it for today, but we’ll be ending off with one more ancestry orphaned by the bestiary book it was introduced in!

[heilith]

Bottled Up

A/n: Aaand it’s here! :DDD I couldn’t be happier. 

The absolutely stunning art was brought to life by @mysandwichranaway​ Applause, guys, please - I will never forget how he saved the day and stepped up to collaborate with me, when I was absolutely discouraged. Thank you, my friend, you’re gorgeous!

Long story short, here’s our piece for The Hobbit: An Unexpected Collaboration 2022 project, that united so many talented, kind and creative people. @fellowshipofthefics​, you, guys, rock. 

Our prompt was “Musical Bards and Their Heroic Muses”. 

@i-did-not-mean-to​ You know, the night before I wrote it I dreamed I was writing it with you for 3-4 hours straight. So you can totally consider yourself a co-author and an inspiration

Also tagging as requested - @mismaeve (a new Lindir, my love!!!), @glassgulls @oenothera5 @noldorinpainter @otakumultimuse-hiddlewhore @eunoiaastralwings​ @a-contemplation-upon-flowers​ (may be, you will enjoy it)

Forgive me, if I forgot anyone. Ok, I shut up.

Bottled Up

“Spin that baby, laddie!” Bofur cheered happily.  

“I don’t want to kiss you,” Kili growled, pushing the bottle with one finger only, “Any of you, on that matter.”

“Why are you playing this, then?”

“There’s a lady among us,” reminded Kili with a wink.

You laughed, just happy to relax and leave the troubles you all had to live through in the back of your mind, if only for a while.

Of course, the refined abode of the Elves was no place to play such childish games, but the cheer of the Company was contagious, and you let yourself get unleashed for once. Spin the bottle seemed just the right thing to teach them. You had to admit it was hilarious, the whole thing in general and the way each of them demonstrated the involvement in the process so peculiarly.

Dwalin kissed his loyal kin and fellows with the face he must have been saving up for the fiercest of battles, the ever-enthusiastic Fili was as enthusiastic as ever and Ori just a bit less bewildered than you had predicted.

The ones that had the luck to kiss you were rewarded with handclaps and sighs of envy.    

The attendant Elves were judging you hard, which only added zest to the already spicy pastime.  

The day was obviously a success.

Once again congratulating yourself on a lucky idea, you stretched your neck and took at the waist of the bottle resolutely.

“Let it be me,” prayed Fili, whose luck with you had been failing him this afternoon.

It wasn’t. Neither was it anyone else. The bottle made two lazy spins and stopped, pointing between Ori and Dori…Right at the Elf who had been the first to greet you in Rivendell and was stepping on the Company’s heels ever since. He’d been watching the game, too, a sour expression not leaving his face for a moment.

“Go kiss him,” Kili suggested, before you could replay your go.

The Dwarves perked up, anticipating a good laugh.

“Kiss the boy!”

“Go for it, buttercup!”

“Kiss him, kiss him, kiss him,” they chanted as one. You were looking around desperately in search of at least one disapproving grimace – but no. It was impossible to thrust in a word, let alone make them change their minds.

Caught up in your own game, you stood up to approach the one called Lindir in uncertain steps.

The closer you were getting, the less life and blood were remaining in his face. You had no idea why he didn’t move back – the alley behind him was clear, yet he opted out of escaping for a reason inconceivable to you.

Instead, he simply froze still, looking at you in what seemed to be rather close to panic.

You stood on your tiptoes and shut your eyes not to see what a fool you were about to present of yourself.  

“Kiss him!”

You didn’t know why you failed to make it a peck on the cheek or forehead. May be, it was the heady Elvish wine you’d tried for the first time this evening, or the overly heated encouragement of the Company, but, instead of taking it easy, you went for the honest to Eru mouth-to-mouth.

The Elf’s lips were surprisingly smooth and coolish, the banal word “silky” describing them best of all. He gave a start, but didn’t pull away as you cupped his face with the last surge of boldness and kissed him deeper and more softly.

It felt good, almost like the real thing, despite the lack of response on his part.

At an instant you had an almost-but-not a sensation that some reluctant sort of a reaction was still there, but you couldn’t truly tell. And surely, it would be strange to expect him just stand there like one of those prim statues, which surrounded you at each step in here.

Having counted to ten, you called it a kiss and stopped to retreat to the safety of the Company’s circle.

There was a very pronounced response to your ministrations, after all.

Your victim’s face was flaming, and so were his eyes. He reeled, then stammered something you didn’t understand. The Dwarves were laughing without mercy, and some of the Elves followed the example, but you were probably the only one who paid attention to it. Lindir didn’t look like he cared. As shocked, he turned on his heels and almost fled the scene, leaving you and his duties behind.

“There goes the courage of the Elves,” Bofur concluded out loud and reached for the bottle for the hundredth time since morning.

“Spin that baby!”

All it took was one single mental image of your dragging the thing on your back all the way to the Lonely Mountain, with no to little chance to ever put it in good use.

Alas, a tin ear was the rudest of understatements in your case.

You snorted without any backthought and was ashamed of the sound immediately, as your eyes met his.

“Am I being a figure of fun?”

“Not you,” you tried to sound placating. It wasn’t each day you experienced a cultural revelation in such a brutal way, “And still, I’m sorry, I can’t take it.”

He had found you lazying around in the gardens, your head more than a little heavy with the consequences of yesterday’s overindulgence in cheer and drinking. In the good news, your usual case of a nosebleed had happened minutes before that. You’d just barely managed to wash the last spots off your face and shirt in the nearest fancy fountain, when the one still called Lindir stumbled upon you, a lute in his hand.

Had he’d found you a moment earlier, it would have definitely added only more awkwardness to what was enfolding before your eyes now.

“I can’t let you not,” stated he very slowly, as though his opinion of your comprehension skills was less than poor.

You couldn’t say you blamed him for that.

“Let me have this straight,” your temples were splintering with ache, “I have to take this with me, because I happened to be your first kiss?”

The thing he did with his shoulders reminded you of an agonal twitch. His lips stretched into a lopsided line for a moment, and you concluded he was enjoying this one-on-one as little as you were. And that was really not a lot.

“By the ways of my people, yes.”

“And this … instrument is your most precious possession, that is now mine? Because I happened to be your first kiss?”

“What do you do, when your first kiss comes?”

Just as always, you spoke quicker than you thought.

“Pop a foot.”

Lindir’s brows went up, but, as your luck had it, he obviously interpreted your answer as another manifestation of how small a brain you had.

“Am I being a figure of fun?” repeated he patiently.

“No, I’m sorry.”

Without further words, he held the lute out for you yet again. And yet again you couldn’t imagine yourself taking it.

The pause was a lengthy one, so dragged-out you had to wonder whether his arm was getting tired of holding the weight of this “precious gift” you had earned through such a little effort.

“I can’t,” you shook your head again.

“Please,” a note of desperation slipped into his voice.

He was travelling from anger to misunderstanding and spiraling farther into unhappiness, that you couldn’t fully comprehend, in a matter of seconds.

“Are you a minstrel?” you asked him at last.

The lute came down.

“Isn’t it obvious?” reciprocated he with a merriless smile.

“Write me a ballad.”

You didn’t doubt you would feel bad about this new brainchild of yours, too. But you had to save yourself out of the honour and him – out of the misery.

“I beg your pardon?”

“When this journey ends, I want to look back and know I did well,” the inflow of inspiration made you unusually eloquent, “That I was a hero. I don’t need a lute, what good can I get out of it? I want something I can remember, not break one day and never regret it. You wouldn’t wish I did that, would you?”

The deep dark eyes were never off you. This Lindir guy wasn’t the one to hand out his approvals easily, you thought, when another handful of minutes had passed without a word from him.

“I wouldn’t,” agreed he finally.

“Then write me something about how brave I can be. What deeds I can do, if there’s a chance. What hardships I can deal with. And I’ll say you paid for that ki-.”

“What do you know of pigeon mail?” he interrupted you suddenly, in the most business-like kind of voice.

“But how-“

The Elf allowed himself a smile, showing only too clear that your standing somewhere between a mindless rubble and a bit more mindful slug wasn’t changing for the better with him.

“How do I sing something I have no knowledge of?”

And just may be, he wasn’t that wrong on your part.    

“A deal, then?” you put out your hand for him to seal the agreement. Much to your surprise, he didn’t hesitate to accept it, wrapping his long fingers around yours politely, if a bit stiffly.

And that’s when the awkwardness returned.

You were quite ready to have your limb to yourself again, yet he had decided otherwise.

“Noble Y/N?”

Your fingers were feeling the pressure that his ones were giving them quite acutely.

“Yes, my Minstrel?” you decided not to dwell on it, in hopes that the light tone will repair this change to his manner.  

“Did you…” he stumbled through the question, which you somehow realized was not a common occurrence with him, “Did you do it on purpose?”

“Did what?”

You hoped you sounded surprised enough. Just like you didn’t guess the answer on your own and didn’t wish he had never asked that.

“Spun that bottle…that way.”

It was safer to keep on playing dumb. He was surely able to forget that kiss. Would he forget other advances you had no intention to offer him was quite another question.

“Why would I?”

His hand went loose around yours.

“True,” uttered he with a nod, “I thank you then. For the kiss. And your generosity. And I promise to honour our deal.”

“I have no doubts you will.”

You were becoming a smooth liar.    

 My dear Minstrel,

I fear I thought too much of …I wish I hadn’t been that presumptuous… I can’t recount the events of this day in…I saw them, Lindir. The stone giants. They were murdering each other right before our eyes. It was a life-altering…an experience, that I…

Scared, my dear Minstrel,

But I’m still here.

Yours,

Y/N

My dear Muse,

Do not test your skill and my patience with…

Do you not think me able to read a simple…

I’ll pray to the Valar to keep you safe. Or what my ballad will be worth of otherwise?

Your faithful Minstrel.

My dear Minstrel,

I have one word for you. Goblins. I’d love to say my heart was not in my feet, but it was.

You could describe it better, if you were me, Lindir.

But I wish you’ll never have to be in my place.

Yours,

Me

My Muse,

I wish you were not yourself, either. I wish you were not there where you are.

No song is worth it.

Lindir.

My Minstrel,

The castle is under siege. I don’t know how it ends. I just know that it will.

Do I need to say that word? Scared?

I don’t. I am not scared.

I didn’t mean to kiss you. But it was not bad.

Your-

A heavy drop of blood rolled down your lips and splashed against the scrap of paper. Your last one. As the things were rushing now, you couldn’t even ask Ori for a replacement.

Who even cared?

You tied the string around the pigeon’s neck carefully. Something told you it was the last time you did that.

“Go.”

You wanted to cower under his stare. He was not like you remembered at all. The eyes narrowed in anger, the jawline sharper and outlined more cruelly.

“So…You’re an Elf-Friend now?”

It wasn’t in the least the happy reunion you’d imagined to yourself.

“Your friend, too, then, my Minstrel,” you tried to mellow his temper with a smile, but it didn’t work. It couldn’t have worked with the way he kept scorching you alive with this disdain.

“You’re not,” he spat out, flinching back at your attempt to approach him.

Very well. You had your pride, too. It’s not like you had ever needed the friendship with a handful of faceless letters on a torn piece of parchment.

“If you wish.”

The next thing you knew were his hands, digging into your shoulders so hard that bruises were just a matter of minutes for you. He shook your whole body twice, with a furious murmur in some distorted kind of Elvish, and let go, as though touching you was the last thing he had expected himself to do.

“I thought that you…” he drew in a heavy breath and went on, with about as much success, “I thought…”

“I didn’t, Lindir.”

You felt it happening too late. The world filled with the steely smell of blood. You choked on it, just as usually, and coughed, lowering your head to let it flow freely. You were not fond of what swallowing it brought on.

The red blots painted the floor with a pattern that was always new and curious.

A sigh of exasperation reached your ears.

“Oh, please,” Lindir exhaled tiredly.

He had nice handkerchiefs. At least the one he had run against your mouth and chin. And his hands could be tender.

And he had gone a long way in kissing. That was the last thing you could think of clearly, when his lips brushed against yours and he returned the favour you’d done for him that sunny Rivendell afternoon a long time ago.

“Now,” being so close to him was still a novelty, but the one you couldn’t but welcome, “Where’s my ballad?”

Lindir chuckled, tightening his arms around you not to let you slip off his lap.

The golden fountains were singing their soft, honeyed songs…

And you wanted one, too.

“Forgive me, my dear Muse, but your writing abilities are not to be boasted of. What was I to do with your missives?”

“So that’s how you’re honouring our deal?”

“I’m agonizing in shame,” drawled he with no shame written on his face whatsoever.

You furrowed your brow and drew yourself up, straddling him more securely.

“You’re forcing me to take drastic measures,” you said, a threat in your voice.

“Do,” invited he through a smile.

Unhurriedly, taking your precious time, you wrapped your fingers around the brooch at his collar and unclasped it in a soft motion.

The sound he swallowed was sharp, as you skimmed your lips against his neck and had the kiss linger to make your point clearer.

“It’s either a ballad or else,” you purred into his ear, “Don’t you hate being in so much debt, my dear Minstrel?”

“Or else, my Muse,” he whispered back as carelessly, “I find I’m less complaisant that I had thought.”

[dragon-at-dawn]

Greetings!

I am terrible at making introductions, my sincerest apologies.

You may call me Dragon, for now.

I use He/Him pronouns.

I have been in the nonhuman/otherkin/therian online community going on a little over 15 years now, but my awakening came about around the age of 7. I have rarely interacted with the community, but I still consider myself a part of it.

I identify as agender/transmasc, pansexual, and am in a wonderful polyam relationship with my girlfriend and my partner.

This is a place of positivity for everybody - including kin/nonhumans, LGBTQIA+, systems, anyone who is neurodiverse or (self) diagnosed/undiagnosed with mental illness, or any form of disability. If you are just needing a place of respite to enjoy some art, imagery, or kind words you may find it here.

This page will always be free of any NSFW posts and reblogs.

I have gone through and am living with the consequences of extensive and complex trauma and a slew of different mental illnesses because of this. I am attempting to navigate the unfamiliarity and extreme hostility of this planet, so I choose to make my tiny corner of the internet an uplifting place.

I would love to make more friends and get to know more people!!

This is mostly a reblog page, but occasionally I will share my own art and musings.

Please feel free to reach out to learn a little more about me if you so desire.

[tarnishedxknight]

OC Muse: Mithran

[Bio and other information below the cut!]

{ Special thanks to @celestialmantdonna for helping me to develop and flesh out some of the details of this muse! }

Type of Character & Fandom/Source Material: OC muse, Mithran (MI-th-rahn), from the FFXII fandom. (Because I'm terrible with writing phonetic pronunciations, haha, you can hear it here.)

Full Name: It's just Mithran. He doesn't use his last name of B'nargin Dalmasca anymore.

FC: So far, just the above pic, taken from this video.

Alignment: Neutral Good

Race: A magically-merged Hume-Occurian hybrid

Age: Ageless, but appears to be around 30-ish to humans

Gender Identity: Male

Pronouns: He/him or they/them are equally acceptable to him

Sexual/Romantic Orientation: Pansexual/panromantic

Family: Fellow kin, Gerun and all other Occuria; father, King Raminas B'Nargin Dalmasca; mother (deceased); seven brothers; one sister, Ashelia

Occupation: That remains to be seen and is rather verse-dependent, and dependent upon the circumstances of his creation. Usually, though, he will seek to be in a position of leadership, power, means, or authority, such as a public figure, soldier, officer, or adventurer. He would be most interested in roles or jobs that allow him access to those in need in some way, such as those who need protection or justice, those who feel unheard or unseen, or those who feel alone and unwanted. His main goals would be to lift up the downtrodden, bring justice to criminals and deviants, to spread kindness, positivity, and hope, but also to punish and help protect against evil, cruelty, and injustice.

Potentially Triggering Material in Threads: As with any of my FFXII muses, themes of death, war, grief, loss, and violence will often be present.

Positive Personality Traits: Mithran is brave, steadfast, reliable, loyal, loving, passionate, has an adventurous heart, and cares deeply about justice, the greater good, and caring for those weaker than himself. He can be very kind and gentle, especially to young children, small animals, the elderly, and even with plants such as trees. He is extremely protective of those he considers family and ones he loves, such as his sister, and any ships he has, be they romantic ships or platonic.

Negative Personality Traits: He can be quick to anger if crossed or if someone or something offends him. He can also become extremely violent to those he has judged to be worthy of punishment. Sometimes he comes across as aloof or cold, especially to those who knew Caelen prior to Mithran's creation, but this is only because his perspective on life and those around him is very wise, zoomed-out, and existential because of the knowledge and history he possesses from Munoh's contribution to his being.

ABILITIES & TRAITS:

His armor and halo are actually living parts of him. He cannot remove them, but he can absorb them into his body at will if he wishes to have more of a standard human-like form, at least aesthetically-speaking.

The same is true of his two pairs of white, feathered wings. He cannot remove them, but he can absorb/retract them into his own form at will. However, it is very rare that he chooses to retract his wings, for he considers them essential parts of himself and part of his identity as a person.

He uses his wings in combat as well as for flight. He can change the stiffness and density of his feathers at will, causing them to be soft and pliable like bird feathers, or stiff as metal sheets, according to his needs. When stiff, the feathers are razor sharp and can slice through flesh, wood, bone, and some types of metals.

He is capable of all manner of magicks, be they offensive or defensive, harmful or healing, or physical or mental in nature. Anything an Occurian is capable of magically, Mithran is as well. His magic power and the types of magicks he's able to cast, however, are strongly influenced by nature forces and elements.

He draws strength and power from the sun, light, warmth, and flowing water. Conversely, he is weakened or disoriented by darkness, cold, ice, and strong magnetic forces such as manmade industrial magnets or electromagnetic frequencies amplified above what naturally occurs in the world.

Sunlight and warmth make him feel energized, invigorated, strong, joyful, and/or aggressive and will strengthen his offensive magicks. Flowing water or warm rain will make him feel tranquil and comforted and will strengthen his healing and defensive magicks. Darkness, cold, and ice or snow will make him feel drained, exhausted, and/or sleepy. Strong magnetic forces will make him feel disoriented, confused, and may throw off his physical coordination.

He cannot be burned in any fashion, whether by the sun, boiling water, molten metal, or fire.

He is unaffected by poisonous substances, save for a few naturally occurring ones, such as arsenic or mercury.

He is immune to most illnesses, but can still suffer infections and sepsis if he does not properly treat any wounds he incurs.

BACKGROUND: 

I've already written a lot about Mithran, his creation, his personality, his psychology, and various other aspects, so I'll link to those posts here. They contain everything I've written up for him so far that isn't contained in this post:

Original concept for the muse's creation

Headcanons: part I, part II, part III

For information about the individual muses that contributed to his creation, I'll refer you to Caelen's and Munoh's "About" posts.

ABOUT WHY I CHOSE THIS NAME FOR HIM:

Spelling-wise, Munoh + Caelen = Mithran, heh. Not exactly, but it almost kindof starts and ends with parts of each of those names, which is a nice nod to each of the muses that went into creating him.

“Mithran” has a few different origins and roots that all have definitions, symbolisms, or associations that are meaningful to this being:

It is originally of Sanskrit origin, derived from the word “mithra,” which signifies friendship or a friendly relationship. “Mithran” is a masculine name that symbolizes friendship, trust, and companionship. The word “mithran” in Sanskrit means "a friend," "a companion," or "a person who is kind and amicable." 

“Mithran” also has Persian origins and is a masculine-gendered word meaning "follower of Mithra" or "sun god".

In Hindi, “Mithran” is a male name that means “the sun” or “god of light and truth.”

In the study of Numerology, the name “Mithran” is assigned a value of 2. The name is associated with balance, and people with the name “Mithran” in Numerology have personalities associated with the following traits: adaptable; kind and friendly; tactful and careful; sensitive and emotional; influential and convincing; cooperative and diplomatic; supportive and helpful; inclusive (believing that everyone has inalienable rights); intuitive (knowing things without direct evidence); empathetic (able to identify, feel, and understand the emotions of others); protective and proactive (taking action early to prevent a problem before it occurs and before it can hurt or negatively impact others)

POTENTIAL STARTER IDEAS:

There are three points in Caelen's life in which I see him being in the most danger, and during which he might be targeted, attacked, severely injured, or even killed. It is during these times that Munoh is likely to act if something goes terribly awry with Caelen, choosing to partially sacrifice themself in order to save him. That last-ditch effort to protect their friend is what will result in Mithran's creation. Each of these points is a likely time of creation for Mithran, so any muses who would be present around these times or any AUs or plots that are taking place during these times could overlap in a separate AU in which Mithran is created. I go into more detail about each of these three creation points in Mithran's verses post, which you can find here.

[usagimen]

         #𝐔𝐒𝐀𝐆𝐈𝐌𝐄𝐍:  THE IRON GODDESS OF KYOTO; born underneath the wisteria tree, she is the daughter of willows && flowers. Hailing from the Kobayashi Clan, Sayuri sits as the reigning champion of the fallen God, Tsukuyomi-no-Mikoto. Underneath his guidance, she would usher in a new era, rising to become the eternity of the sun && bring forth that of glory to her kin who were forced to live as scorned women. Assassins by trade, artisans by deception, those who blossom under the sea of lilac will know devastation && rot, though they may pursue greatness if the heart desires for nothing stops a monstrous being such as themselves. 

        ( a case study in ) the horrors of motherhood, teenage girls are the epitome of godhood, beauty as rot, the physical limits of perfection, the final girl, a rabbit amongst wolves, the ember who shall become the inferno, persephone's descent into winter, the horrors we commit for love.

                jujutsu kaisen inspired original character; none fandom affiliated, private, selective. known formally as the god hand sorcerer kobayashi sayuri, special grade, the vessel of tsukuyomi-no-mikoto && the mother of the new sun. cross-overs are encouraged, extremely au friendly. lore heavily entwined with the zen'in heir, naoya.

       𝐛𝐞𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐩𝐚𝐧𝐢𝐨𝐧���: achroanimus, tewwor, antinomos, mindsafe, sasorikigai

DIRECTORY: headcanons, carrd, prompts.

LATEST VERSE: HOUSE OF THE DRAGON, BALDUR'S GATE, DRAGON AGE, LEAGE OF LEGENDS / ARCANE.

scripted by, cereza. (THEY/THEM/25+)

Themes consisting of the occult, violence, generational trauma, sexism, nihilism, ect are rampant. Please use every available resource to protect yourself, understand when following the content of certain series may cause a squick reaction or be too much. I tag everything accordingly, it is never within my desires to cause anyone discomfort. 

I prefer to write multi-paragraph to novella sized threads. One liners are usually reserved for quick but light interactions, if you are wondering how to start a thread, simply send in a prompt or like the starter calls / inbox calls. You will see them liberally throughout the blog as I strive to interact with everyone. 

I use a mixture of different anime FCs, this muse interchanges her face constantly, but I do have one main FC. You are not allowed to use me as a source for muses, icons, ect. Failure to oblige results in a softblock, furthermore, if all you do is constantly reblog aesthetics I will part ways as it shows no engagement whatsoever. Inspiration is fine, but after awhile, if our blogs are aligning too much I start to feel uncomfortable.

Do not befriend me to gain access to my male muses, do not send me ask pertaining to my male muses on this blog, I will start biting. In addition, do not center the entirety of our muses dynamic around your muse, role play is a two way street, if I'm just here to play NPC it becomes dull quite fast. I'm not here to gratify some wish fulfillment, I'm here to write a story.

If you have an issue that needs to be addressed, please reach out to me. Furthermore, no drama, no gossiping, none whatsoever. I do not care for drama that can be resolved by parties privately. If someone is a true genuine danger in the RPC than that is fine to discuss, otherwise, I come here solely to relax as my personal life is quite taxing - please respect this.

If you block me or sb me on this blog, please do so with the rest. I have zero interest in interacting with those who would prefer my males muses while having my female muse block, it just is a weird feeling altogether. Thank you!

I try to make my blog as engaging as possible, while it’s understandable we all have lives with little time to be here, please try to engage in some way. I do count OOC interactions, liking posts, ect as engagement. It’s disheartening to try and write with others only to see it head nowhere whatsoever. If you wish to start a thread over or have an interaction completely nulled in order to redo, I am completely fine with that, all you need to do is DM me.

If you are blocked, there is a high key reason. Harassment of any kind is not warranted or welcomed, please respect basic boundaries. Furthermore, I am someone who does believe in callouts for exhibiting behavior that is dangerous to the community at a whole. Protecting yourself or others is never beef or drama.

On the topic of shipping; I love shipping! There is no need to deny it, though again, I ask that it be a two way street in order for us to better communicate. If you wish to ship romantically, please be upfront, platonic, enemies, ect, all of that are welcomed && adored. Though I only ship with one variation of a canon, ships that are inactive for two months are dropped but can be reestablished again if you reach out.

Please call me, Cereza. I’m an enthusiastic metal fan that is currently in love with industrial, I lurk quite often due to personal obligations && am extremely easy going. I'm an extremely introverted / private person, please do not mistake my silence for anything personal, I tend to just vibe in my own little head half the time. If you wish to reach out OOC wise, do so, I genuinely enjoy talking quite a bit - I'm just shy of my own shadow. My hobbies consist of cinema, yoga, cooking, while also endlessly suffering under artistic expression.

graphic credits:, kaiserscomms (graphics), koiscarrds(carrd),lavenderph (template icon / pinned) sereg0re (psd)