#the fairies in here are actually dream fairies

[see-arcane]

Seeing the Nosferatu and Creature of The Black Lagoon remake summaries reminds me that heterosexual Monster movie summaries are like "The intense and tragic and erotic encounter between a Lagoon creature/vampire/demon/victorian zombie and a woman he is infatuated with." When will the monster be the woman.

Seriously. So fucking seriously. The most I can think of off the top of my head are one-off bogeywomen who never brush the mainstream.

First off, monster women. Not sexy waifu vampire girl with baby fangs meets Average Everyman and they do kissing about it. Real monster women. Who are decayed, or ugly, or inhuman, or outright horrifying. Even just a visibly cadaverous revenant babe ala Warm Bodies' R or Lisa Frankenstein's Creature. Where are they? Where the hell are the actually monstrous monster women?

I know The Ritual has Moder the Jotunn and her badass giant chimera god utterly non-human look. She does some killing, as one does. But we only actually learn she was female from outside sources, not in the film itself. When Moder is referred to as 'a god' the assumption is male, rather than just calling her 'a goddess.' Feels like a cheat.

There's Jenifer from Masters of Horror, based off the comic from Creepy by Bruce Jones and Bernie Wrightson. Her whole deal is being 1) Unavoidably uncannily grotesque and 2) Capable of some depraved shit via simple violence or using her psychic ability to orchestrate some very very unpleasant intimate interludes (and tragic demises).

I know the V/H/S movies have gotten a good handful in, some Medusas and body horror babes, but always in the form of those brief one-shot anthology bits. There and gone. They had an exception with Lilith (the type who starts as Pretty Girl and transforms into Something Else) who appears in the first movie with "Amateur Night" and got her own standalone movie with Siren, which I thought was a really well done sexual/amorous horror story--one in which the woman is the unambiguous predatory monster seeking and assaulting a man as her human crush-target. ...And is also barely known to the horror community.

There's the nightmare shit that happened to the protagonist of Bite. The full movie is here. Do not--Do NOT--watch if you have any phobias to do with insects, disease, reproduction or slow transformative body horror. This is the daughter of Cronenberg's The Fly and The Metamorphosis' pure misery. Good god.

And...that's it. That is the full roster of visibly monstrous females on film I have in my memory.

Second thing: Romance. Human Guy and Monster Lady.

Literally the only thing that comes to mind is 1) Corpse Bride with the Most Hourglassed and Beestung Pout Lipped Cadaver You Have Ever Seen and 2) Spring (2014). The latter I haven't seen yet, but the premise is very clearly Legit Monster Babe and Smitten Lover. Kudos.

Everything else I've come across is just Hot Chick has Fangs and the guy is a guy. No genderswapped Beauty and the Beast. No scaly hulking Ladycreature of the Lagoon pining for a young man taking a swim. No eldritch/demonic horror-woman forming a relationship with a male admirer who has heart eyes despite (or because of) her power and monstrosity.

There is no equivalent of Nosferatu with a female villain being gruesome yet intoxicating to her young man victim.

There is no equivalent of Lisa Frankenstein or otherwise romantic fairy tale between a scary bogeywoman and a handsome--dare we dream, pretty--gentleman.

It simply does not happen in the mainstream and rarely if ever in the niche indie efforts.

And I'd ask why, but like. We know why.

Who wants to see a frightening woman as the powerful villain?

Who wants to see a frightening woman as a romantic partner?

Who wants to see a frightening woman?

[readingbooksinisrael]

National Tooth Fairy Day

[suntails]

🐺⚔️

[quietwingsinthesky]

i do love canon amy & rory but god, does some part of me wish they really had gone with the idea of the doctor picking up a child as a companion (and then later, that child’s best friend with a huge crush on her.) with the rest of the season really not changing at all, except now it’s amelia pond with an angel in her head killing her and lost alone in the woods. it’s little rory who dies and is forgotten and becomes a toy soldier. if this is going to be a fairy tale, then let it be one. children have never been safe in fairy tales.

[moe-broey]

Why did I start like three other projects when I was already working on a big project when I just got hit with the autism exhaustion beam (requires. At least One Full Day just dead in bed, and then some more Taking It Easy time after)

[jacklesraised]

it comes to mind that neopets is probably responsible for my only liking faerie to be spelled faerie lol

[beast-feast]

Coming back from my coma to say I am 19 now:)

And also that I am so funny for worrying about losing my current fixation like it hasn't stood the test of Trolls, Surround, AND Lethal Company now and is still going strong. PMD personal projects I'm so sorry for doubting you. I will never doubt you again.

[narcissusneverknewme]

the Earth will never be healed again until China starts producing stuff with a sufficient amount of genderfuckery again. nearly all of the most compelling stuff China has ever produced has featured a significant amount of genderfuckery. that and the gay shit. send X or whatever you fools say now

[yandere-wishes]

Alice in Marvel-land

𐙚Yandere! Deadpool (Wade Wilson) x Reader x Yandere Wolverine (Logan Howlett)

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ In some worlds, you were Logan's little darling. In others, you were Wade's starry-eyed lover. But here in the void, there is only one of you and two of them.

⁀➷ GORE, yandere behavior, kidnapping, Deadpool being Deadpool.

⁺₊𝄞₊⁺ IDK, probs the Deadpool and Wolverine soundtrack

Logan feels the world slipping away.

Piece by piece, atom by atom.

In a blink, he's falling down darkness.

An endless rabbit hole.

What was the name of that fairy tale you liked so much?

The one with the girl who gets lost in splendor?

The dust is kicking up, framing the sunset portrait along the horizon.

The envoys are nearly home, this time they've brought someone back. The cage balls chime along the unsteady road. If you squint just far enough you can almost make out vibrant specks of red and yellow.

Strange, the void tends to wash out bright colors. Well, it tends to wash out just about everything.

You scrape your nails along the skeleton's sockets. Leave crescents in the decaying cartilage. "They're almost here" you call out awaiting Cassandra's next move. You watch dolefully as she's transfixed on a portal. The sparky thing unfurled like a fresh wound, strewing salt on persistent lacerations. She watches her brother, or well some variation of her brother. Surrounded by his new family, surrounded by those he loves. He's forgotten her, or maybe never even knew her. You think that the latter would hurt the most.

"Cassandra" Your voice rises in octave, this time getting her attention. "They're here".

"Coming" She sings, voice so chip it almost sounds like unshed tears. You send a final glare at the portal before it collapses on itself.

If you tried hard enough, maybe you could bring yourself to understand her pain. Those pesky notions of desperation for someone to love. But it

doesn't matter now everyone you've ever loved is dead anyway. And unlike Cassandra, you've long since given up on the childish dreams of being rescued by someone who would offer up love so freely.

"Maybe shut up now"

Logan's nerves are frying. Thin strings snapping with every syllable that leaves the red merc's mouth. He's starting to appreciate Stryker in a way he didn't even know he could. The man was a psychotic sadist but at least he knew when to sew someone's mouth shut. Maybe he can convince this Cassadra chick to do the same.

Logan's eyes are almost at 90 degrees of a roll when they stop. He stops, frozen. In the gaping mouth of the rotting skull, something all too familiar stands.

Or rather someone.

Someone he knew.

Someone he loved.

Your name tastes bitter on his tongue. All death and whisky.

Maybe cause it's been so long since the attack. Since he walked off for the night and left his family to die. Cause the last time he saw you, you were a mangled corpse laying in an open grave. Deadweight as he cradled you in his arms.

You walk closer. Face painted in too many shades of confusion.

Curiouser and curiouser.

Damn, he's started quoting that stupid book again.

"How do you know my name" You ask. You look just as beautiful as he remembers. Spine carved straight in pride with perfect lips, perfect eyes. His talons itch to glide across your soft skin, to feel you so intimately once more.

"LOOOGAN did you see what the bald chick just- HEY!!"

It takes too much effort to pull his gaze away. To stare at red and black and be reminded of cruel realities. But Wade has a tendency to be a persistent ache, some unwelcomed anchor to every problem he's ever had.

Only this time when he actually looks at him. Looks at the jittery body that's stilled abruptly. He can't help but be glad that he did. A bitter laugh bubbles in his throat. Maybe Wade's shut up for good this time.

He always knew you were special but this is truly a miracle.

"IT'S YOU!!"

Nope, didn't work. He knew he couldn't be that lucky.

Wade whispers your name, a forgotten prayer. Logan didn't even know the loudmouth knew how to pray. But he seems to almost soften when he sees you. That feral, cheeky killer, looks so so soft when he stares into your doe-eyes. Reaching out zealously to twirl a lock of your hair around his blood-soaked finger.

He can almost feel Wade choking on your essence, heart erratic, like a child finding a lost toy. He's drowning in ecstasy, and Logan is almost tempted to join him. You're here, a breath away. So close it's taking every ounce of self-control not to pull you to his chest and keep you locked between his arms until he finally dies too.

"Penunt look that's my girl!!"

"Your girl!?"

He had taken you for granted as he tends to do with most peaceful things. The realization had occurred a little too late. Right as he had been emptying a round into the target of the week's head.

He lands.

Arms high like an Olympian pleasing the crowd.

He wonders if he can make you cheer for him.

Clap and shout his name as he twirls around the mess he's made.

He wants to feel loved, although he'll never say it out loud. He's only ever been good with words when they're laced with sarcasm and profanity.

And maybe 'I love you' is just about the most obscene thing he can ever say to someone as sweet as you.

Wade plays the white rabbit, fluffy coat stained red from every kill. Tricking poor Alice into following him down cruel rabbit holes. Making you chase him through labyrinths then leaving you at every turn. He leads you to every kill, makes you watch as he dances in slaughter. He can even feel your eyes right now. Starlight slicing him open to quench vulgar interests.  

Alice always follows the rabbit.

He stalks closer, white eyes fixated on your deliciously bewildered expression. Precious thing caught in a warzone. He can almost taste you on his tongue, the sharp tip of a star slivering the inside of his mouth, soft hands painting crescent moons along the back of his neck. He needs to carve his essence across your lips, to pour the after-kill adrenaline into your soul. He needs you.

Only this time...

This time he'd been too distracted. So caught up in claiming you as his victory prize that he didn't notice the grizzled man clinging to life...

And a pistole.

The bullet punctures his shoulder. An afterthought.

But the lead keeps going.

Penetrating the air until it lands bunglingly between your eyes.

You fall into his arms.

Deadweight.

Did the white rabbit ever miss Alice?

Did he ever realize how truly special such a curious girl made him feel?

He doubts it.

Doubts that a stupid rodent would have better emotional stability than him.

He's been given a second chance. A whole plethora of them actually. He's been deemed holy, righteous. And aren't gifts of marvel bestowed upon the truly blessed? What better blessing than the sight of you standing amongst the sand and skulls?

Good to see your affinity for dainty dresses spans across all universes...

He lets the blood trickle down his claws.

What else is there to do but dream of you?

It's the fourth day of his massacre and he's lost count of how many humans he's killed. Maybe cause after the first hundred the faces tend to blur.

He leaves your pleasants in between the rotting carcasses and broken glass. Only taking the torturous parts of you. The things that can hurt him. The sharp edges that he can slit his pulse point on, the vague memory of your glare before you cried. The soft skin of your neck between his jagged teeth.

Enough to keep the hate burning.

He wonders if the creatures of Wonderland wept after Alice left. He wonders if Wonderland lost its wonder.

But now you're standing here.

Alive.

And he wants so badly to remember the sweet taste of your lips. The soft push against his chapped lips as he swallows you whole. Even desperate rabbits can go a little feral. His eyes take in every breath, every scowl.

Alive.

Alive.

Alive.

Good to see your affinity for dainty dresses spans across all universes...

Aliath skids forward, mystified in lightning and smoke. You feel your bones collapsing under the rugged man's, Logan's, vice grip. You thrash and scream trying to break free but he only barks out orders to his friend before they take off running.

"Your safe, don't worry we got you." There's a comedic cadence to every word Wade says. You can almost fool yourself into enjoying it if the two weren't actively attempting to defy Cassandra, to defy Aliath, to defy deities and absolutes. To ripe you away from the only semblance of opulence you've come to know.

"Let me go, you custome-wearing freaks." His gripe tenses. "Don't struggle so much, we said you're safe, now hold still" Logan's anger ripples through you. It's almost muscle memory to still, to obey.

Did you know him? Know them?

In some past life too out of reach?

The ground shutters to a jagged rhythm. You're flying up, escaping the misty horrors of the ground. Your head pounds with the force, air slapping across your body as you taste the cotton of the clouds between your teeth.

Is this how Alice felt as her head hit the roof?

Wade mutters about the stars and educated wishes. About people who live and matter. Logan slices through his thigh, the mercenary's optimism making his body ring with phantom pains.

No one matters.

And when they start to, they die.

There are cruel absolutes in this world. He's tasted them all. Let them slice his tongue and heart and danced to every tune they've sung. He rips his claws out and digs them into Wade's chest.

Again

And again.  

Wade savors the salty tang of blood inside his mouth.

Licks his teeth and runs his tongue over the gaping holes.

He's sitting in the front seat head rolled back.

High off the blood and adrenaline and the thought of having you so close.

"I take it all back, the Honda odysseys fucks hard"

Bones crack, interrupted mid-heal as Logan turns his head to glare. "Shut up" he rasps and Wade almost, almost, hears approval.

There's a low moan reverberating across the broken car. Late night sleepy mumble that's half 'I love you' and half 'I need you'. Neither one has heard it in such a long time.

"Finally awake sleeping beauty? Kinda surprised you could sleep through all of that" Wade shimmies to the back, only to be greeted by your foot smashing into his face, cracking his nose open, and sending a fresh wave of blood into his mouth. He pins your knee to the seat and wiggles himself between you. caging you with his elbows as he stares down at your pretty face. "Miss me, angel baby?"

"Wrong fairy tale" Logan turns around in his seat, claws out running them across your cheek "Please stop, just let me go" you've never begged before, never fallen so low. But these two things, mutants, mutates, or whatever they are, scare you. Reckless, suicidal, dangerous. You feel so helpless in their presence. Never knowing you're to be kissed or killed.

"You're as lovely as I remember" The melancholy colors him in a monochrome of sympathy. Here is a man who's gone through every horror and still gets out of bed. Or maybe he has to, maybe he can't quite die and can't quite reach heaven. So he gulps down his immortality with black coffee to at least pretend he's being buried six feet deep. "Even after all this time I still love you" You almost melt in his brown eyes. So lonely, so desperate.

Kill or kiss

You want him to do both. Want to kiss extinction on his lips while being impaled by the claws. Kill or kiss.

Both, both, both.

"You know~" Wade pushes himself up, "I think your dress should be red...and black. To match your favorite man."

"Who the hell said you were the favorite?" Wade leans forward, in a blink he's gripped Logan's wrist and lunged the Wolvarine's claws into your abdomen.

You writhe, the bones and metal feel almost heavenly inside of you. When he retracts the claws you moan out, it's too saccharine to hold back. Everything feels so much lighter, colorful. You feel your essence slipping out, gushing over the back seat.

Red waterfall, so pretty.

Dress stained red.

"Told ya so!"

Wade pulls you roughly by the shoulders and smashes his lips against yours. He's so cute, fickle Cheshire cat, tongue dancing across your mouth, slitting itself on your peaked teeth, and filling your mouth with thick red caterpillar smoke. "What the hell is wrong with you? You really are God's perfect idiot" Logan's anger is tangible, sweet, and bitter like hatter tea at midnight.

"S'okay Logan, it feels nice" Your words slur, slipping gauche from your tongue as you giggle profusely. You feel like Alice cracking open Wonderland's ribs, crawling inside, and smearing the wonder across your face.

"When I used to read fairy tales, I fancied that kind of thing never happened, and now here I am in the middle of one" You've heard these words before, Alice's words. she's right. Your fairy tale is painted red with pretty, crazy, princes who think that slicing open a princess is easier than kissing her. You reach out for Logan, desperate for a kiss. "eat me" you mutter, and Logan's face morphs into pure terror "Wade what the hell have you done to her?".

"What? It's better this way trust me"

"I hate you"

Logan bends, meeting you halfway. He kisses you with all the wary of a dead man walking. All teeth and heart and bitter memories left to rot three lifetimes ago. He pushes himself between your bones, trying to carve out his ethos in your body. He'd burn the world so long as he gets to keep you.

You squeeze your thighs around Wade's muscular thighs and hips unlocking a gibby giggle from the man. His mask is half pulled up as he trails sloppy fervorous kisses across your neck and chest. The nostalgia slithering under your skin has you squirming, you've been through this all before. In a past life somewhere where storm monsters and voids don't exist. "Remember how good this feels?" Wade mumbles as his fingers dig into your puncture wounds, drawing slow, desperate moans from your puffy lips. You don't dare answer you don't know what would be worst admitting to liking the loudmouth ministrations or admitting there were other versions of you out there, other happy versions.

"Oh for hell's sake," Logan reclines the front seat and shuffles closer. Pulling down the back of your dress. His kisses are bite marks in disguise rabid and feral, the two things the man will never escape. His name rolls across your tongue, you let it slip in an airy moan. "No fair " Wade complains "I want you to say my name too." He pulls out his baby knife and etches the skin of your thighs. Scribbling doodles of stars and half hearts and the little symbol he wears on his belt. "W-wade" you gasp never knowing whether to scream in pain or giggle in bliss.

Logan laughs into your neck. You didn't even know he was capable of such a gentle thing. You bite his lip playfully. Dragging your fingers across his muscular arms. Your thumb pushes into the space between his knuckles asking for the claws. For the most macabre parts of him. You glide your tongue across the parish where flesh meets metal. Kissing the metal and bones and lapping at the blood. Watch curiously as he draws out a long airy sigh. "Good girl" he mumbles voice marred with ecstasy and you almost see the ghost of a smile smear across his pretty lips.

Wade's thumb gently rubs against your hips. Softly usering you into peace, tranquility. Your eyes get heavy, the car gets blurry. The grotesque realignment of their bones steering you into a deep, content sleep.

"Hey Peanut, you think Alice in Wonderland here would mind if we keep going? "  

"Shut it, moron "

"Oh, how I wish I could shut up like a telescope! I think I could, if only I knew how to begin.”

🎀Bonus

Deadpool: "Do you think the author's going to write about us again? Or is she planning to finally write that Dune fic she keeps talking about?

Wolverine: "I have no fucking idea what the hell you're even talking about.

🪐@yandere-romanticaa @bad4amficideas @sugarplumz100 @oscarissac2099 @facelessfionna @siphite @tocotuesday69 @linoleunm @mei-simp @shamelessdarkprince @gabriqllas @lovely-liliacs @shiroi-asashin17 @failinguniversity

[daydreamerdrew]

Spicy Tales (1988) #17, reprinting a story from the October 1938 issue of Spicy Adventure

[sammakesart]

Solavellan, or the Tale of the Dread Bridegroom

The reason I have always been drawn to the Solas and Lavellan romance in the Dragon Age series (besides having a deep love for villains and dramatic cheekbones) is because it brings to mind my favorite type of fairytale: the animal (or monster) bridegroom. The most famous of these would probably be Beauty and the Beast. However, the Solavellan romance felt more similar to my favorite iteration of this type: East of the Sun and West of the Moon. 

In the tale, a young woman is married to a monster… or so she thinks. He is keeping his true identity a secret from her. He brings her to an enchanted castle, and everything is actually pretty great for a time. Then she grows too curious. She discovers his true identity—he’s an attractive man! And a prince! He is forced to leave her and return to his evil witch-queen stepmother. Our heroine, who has fallen in love with her revealed prince, sets out to find him and save him from his wicked stepmother. She has to make a perilous journey. She faces trials and tribulations. She frees her prince, breaks the curse, and they leave together to live happily ever after.

There is also another tale that has many parallels to the Solavellan romance. The myth of Eros and Psyche, which is the blueprint for the animal bridegroom tales. It follows the same general plot, but I’d like to highlight a few differences. This is a myth about a god falling in love with a mortal, and that mortal becoming a goddess herself in the end after proving herself and winning her god-husband back.

In the myth, Eros is sent by his mother, Aphrodite, to trick Psyche into falling in love with something hideous for a perceived infraction against the goddess. Basically, Psyche had too many admirers who were worshiping her as the second coming of Aphrodite. Eros falls in love with Psyche instead, and spirits her away to a castle. She discovers his true identity. He flees. She faces trials. Etc and so forth. Eros and Psyche are reunited. She is given the drink of immortality, and joins her husband in the realm of the gods as a goddess in her own right so they can be together as equals.

It was the kind of ending I wanted for Solas and Lavellan. A heroine falls in love with a cursed prince and saves him. A mortal falls in love with a god, a doomed by the narrative pairing if there ever was one, but in the end, she triumphs, and she joins him as his equal.

Those are very simplified synopses, but you can see the parallels. Solas, in a reversal of the beast-husband trope, is keeping half of his identity secret from Lavellan, but it’s the beast (the Dread Wolf) side of himself he is keeping a secret. He takes Lavellan to his castle, Skyhold. They begin to fall in love. They kiss in a dream. They kiss on a balcony. They dance at a ball. Very fairy tale romance. They’re happy. Until they’re not.

When our heroine discovers Solas’s true identity, that he is Fen’Harel, the Dread Wolf himself (who does indeed turn into a giant wolf monster as we see in Veilguard), he must leave our heroine, and she cannot join him. What can Lavellan do? Well, swear to save him, of course! And if that is what she chooses, she sets out on her own journey of trials and tribulations to rescue her monstrous prince. But he is not just the prince or the monster, he’s the villain as well. Delicious.

Lavellan is Solas’s heroine, his knight in shining armor. Funnily enough, you can make a joke about “riding in on a shining steed” to Solas during an early conversation with him. She can also flirt with him later during this conversation. What is that flirt option? “You can trust me.” She tells him she will protect him… however she has to. Solas here is the damsel in distress, the prince who needs saving, and she will save her prince from his tower (or his regret prison) however she has to.

What trials does our heroine have to face, you ask? Besides the tracking him down, of course. Well, let’s see. Trials always come in threes.

Three times Lavellan reaches out to him, and asks him to stop. She tells him that whatever he is facing, they can face it together. “Whatever you need, we can find together.” “Let me help you, Solas.” “I am walking the dinan’shiral with you.” And it’s like he’s under a curse to reject her, but every time he reminds her he loves her, because he wants to be saved. He wants to be with her. “I cannot do that.” He does love her. “I wish it could, vhenan.” He wants their love to triumph. “Ir abelas, vhenan. I cannot.” One more time, my heart. Ask me one more time. He is under a geas, but screaming as loud as it will let him: Save me! I love you!

(I do not think he is under a literal geas in the story. It is more of a psychological one, one he has put himself under to justify his wrongdoings to himself.)

It also is very fitting that the rule of three is what it takes to stop him: Mythal, Rook, and Lavellan. Past, present, and future. Though it was Lavellan who found the first statue which kicked off the quest, the spark of hope that he could be saved still.

It also appears that Solas reaches out to Lavellan three times on his own. He orchestrates a meeting in Crossroads to explain. He visits her in dreams, though from an endless distance. He sends her a letter, reaffirming his love for her and telling her he wanted to be with her, and that his feelings will never change.

So the fourth time she reaches out, after the (metaphorical) curse has been lifted, there is no rejection. She’s won. He only offers a warning. She must choose him freely and with full knowledge of what is to come. She does. They perform a wedding ceremony of their own making and share a bloody kiss. Peak cinema.

It’s a darker fairytale, where the heroine falls for the prince, the monster, and the evil sorcerer all in one. And she wins. She gets everything she wants.

I’m just very passionate about fairytales. I wrote many a paper on them in college. Nothing pleases me more than a good retelling that captures the essence of what fairytales are truly about.

I think too many critics are trying to view Solas and Lavellan’s romance through the lens of a real life, modern day relationship. But fairytales are the realm of allegory, not reality.

We are in the realm of the mythic. Here be gods and monsters, princes and evil sorcerers. And Solas is all of those things. Lavellan is the heroine of all time who ends the story having saved the world (again), and is now ascending to godhood (there is an Andraste and the Maker parallel here, I swear), and she’s rescued her true love to top it all off.

I see a modern trend of no longer giving heroines love stories, and I dislike it. Because love stories in fiction are rarely ever about just finding a man. It’s about accepting the whole of yourself. I think of the heroine’s journey. The reconciliation with the masculine and the darker aspects of yourself. Women are told they must always be good. Make the right choices. Nah, let her fall in love with the villain and be selfish. Let her make out with her monster covered in blood as a treat.

I think monster romance has become so popular lately because, subconsciously, women feel like there is a monster inside of themselves that they have to hide from the world, lest you be judged for being imperfect, ugly, monstrous. Monster, and by extension villain, romance lets you fall in love with the dark other as the ultimate form of self-acceptance. (This is not an experience exclusive to women by any means, but I can only speak to my personal experience as one.)

Our heroine didn’t make the polite, respectable choice. She fell for the monster, the villain, and chose herself in the end. She didn’t choose a man. She wasn’t chasing after him, begging him to love her, in the hope of getting him back. She was pursuing him in her quest to stop him in order to save the world. She was just also in love with him and hoped he could be saved. Hope is a powerful thing, but this age has made people cynical. Let her have a little hope. Sometimes it’s all we have.

I do believe she would have killed him if she had to. And he would have killed her if given absolutely no other choice, or perhaps let her kill him for an extra layer of angst. Interestingly, I think Lavellan would have been able to live with that choice, but I don’t think Solas would have been able to. It would have destroyed him, fully twisted him into Pride, and he would have lost any hope of being able to “come back.”

I am fascinated by the fact that Lavellan and Solas are quintessential hero archetypes. The type that will not sacrifice the fate of world for their love, but will sacrifice their love for the world and for the “greater good”—as they see it. Only Solas has twisted himself into the villain. He’s a dark mirror of the hero. He is the hero, reversed. Thus, he dooms the world in attempting to save it. Repeatedly. (“He’s a tragic deuteragonist!” I scream, as they drag me away.)

Lavellan is the upright hero. She will save the day, or die trying. She will sacrifice her love, which is why I think it’s incorrect to say she gave everything up for him. She says in her second conversation with Rook that she would not join him in his Fade Prison. “To give up the world for him? No. We’ve got to save it first.” She will not give up everything for him. She will not doom the world to be with him. But after the world is saved… well, then. That’s a different story. She wants to be with him. And together, they can find balance.

They were both made and shaped into figureheads. Weapons. Legends. A hero and a villain. They’ve had the fate of the world on their shoulders multiple times over. There *is* no place for them in this world. But in another world... they can find their true selves away from well-meant misunderstanding and mindless worship. 

This is an apotheosis of Lavellan’s own choosing. I will not be your Herald. I will be a god on my own terms.

Solas never saw Lavellan as anyone other than who she is. He knew she was not the Herald, and he never treated her as such. He was uniquely able to understand her plight. He too had been given a title once and was later consumed by it. Dread Wolf.

Where else can two people like them go? Especially where they can be together in peace?

However, I don’t see this as the end for them. They are just onto the next adventure, this time together. And they’ll be unstoppable. The narrative had to make them exit stage left. No enemy could possibly win against them. They are too powerful. Lavellan is stronger than the narrative itself. The narrative had doomed her love, and she went: “No, I don’t accept that. I will save the world, win my prince/monster/villain, and now we’re leaving. Thanks!”

And Solas? We saw how devoted he was to Mythal. But Mythal never chose him. She twisted him into Pride. Used him as a weapon… and he destroyed the world for her. Twice. And was trying for a third. Just imagine what he could accomplish now with Lavellan, who chose him. Who encouraged him to be Wisdom. Who does not stand above him, as his goddess—but beside him, as his wife. Yeah, the writers had to put them in the Fade Prison. Their combined power was just too strong.

And I don’t believe for a minute they’ll be trapped in that regret prison forever. Solas tells us how to escape, and now he is in the right state of mind to accomplish it. Solas will do his court-ordered therapy. Lavellan will get a much needed vacation in dream land… then they’re going to heal the blight with the power of love. Or something. They just needed to be nerfed long enough for BioWare to squeeze a few more games out of the franchise. Then Solas and Lavellan will be set free to find a secret third option for the Veil, remove it safely, and Sandal’s prophecy will finally come true: “One day the magic will come back. All of it. Everyone will be just like they were. The shadows will part, the skies will open wide. When he rises, everyone will see.”

This is not to say I don’t have plenty of critiques for how Solas and Lavellan’s romance was written and concluded in Veilguard. But I think it was always going to be disappointing in some regards because it’s very difficult to conclude your heroine’s story from a new hero’s point of view in a new hero’s story. She will lack the agency she needs in this kind of tale because she has been relegated to a minor NPC, and she (and we) can hardly get a peak into Solas’s state of mind. How I wish we could have asked him endless insightful questions, instead of just pointing fingers. How I wish while Rook was in the prison, we could have controlled our Inquisitor for a quest or two and had a private conversation with Solas. The writing overall was a huge letdown for me. But I still love my once doomed couple, now together forever. I always will. 

[after-witch]

Dreaming Seamless Dreams [Yandere Shigaraki x Reader]

Title: Dreaming Seamless Dreams [Yandere Shigaraki x Reader]

Synopsis: Follow-up to And The Danger Danger Drawing Near Them. what happens when Shigaraki Tomura decides he gets to keep you?

Word count: 3000ish

Notes: yandere, kidnapped reader, non-graphic noncon, noncon groping, depression, loss of appetite

When it’s quiet–which is not always, depending on who decides to stay awake and how soundproof the current hideout is–you think too much.

Like right now. It’s too quiet, and your thoughts are starting to hop around. Jumping from thought to thought. Thoughts about the rose-tinted past, the uncertain future–though the future was perhaps not any less uncertain than your present. 

It becomes too much, too easily. Tears inevitably pool in your eyes. Your throat gets tight, your stomach hurts. You curl up and curl up until you can’t possibly twist inward anymore than you already are, leaving you with one pitiful lament: 

Why do you have to think so damned much? 

Maybe it’s because Shigaraki isn’t here at the moment. He’s talking to the League, you think. It must be at the other end of the building, because you don’t hear a peep from anyone. No arguments, no shouts, no excited agreements on what hero they were going to try to kill next. 

Just you and your thoughts and the dim buzz of the world at night. Insects, somewhere outside. The occasional groan of a night wind. The sound of the world itself, fuzzy, buzzy in the background. 

And when you’re actually alone in bed like this, arm curled up against the pillows propped under your head, tucked into a blanket, you can pretend. Pretend that it’s your bed, in your room, and with the quiet and lack of your captor here, well–

It’s almost like it was before.

The thought hits your gut hard. Tears instinctively reach your eyes, and you’re glad Shigaraki isn’t here to wipe them away. You do it yourself, like you would have done before all this. You didn’t appreciate your life enough, you’ve since realized. 

A quiet life where all you did was work your job and come home and occasionally go out with friends for little things. Coffee dates, heading to the bookstore, shopping for clothes. Ooing-and-ahhing over the little changes of life dropped into every conversation. 

A quiet life where you were free to do what you wanted, when you wanted. Where you weren’t a prisoner (not that he’d call you that, no matter how many times you said it earlier on) bound to the whims of someone who claimed to love you, even though his love was more want than love.

A quiet life where you didn’t hear people talking about destroying the world through the wall. 

The thought gets choked out when your breath hitches. It hurts too much to think about, the loss of your old life. 

And anyway–

The door creaks open and Shigaraki pauses in it. Like a monster in the closet doorway, hovering, waiting for just the right moment to strike.  

Your eyes squeeze shut like a child, willing the image of genuine sleep to project over you like some sort of hazy fairy tale. Willing yourself, too, not to take a peek and look at him. If you don’t see the monster, it doesn’t see you. Or so you used to think, as a child. When naivety was normal, and not wish-fulfillment. 

Maybe tonight, he’ll go to bed without demanding something from you. Maybe you can pretend to be home, in your own bed, and ignore the hum of his wants. 

The weight of his gaze covers you like an extra blanket before he mumbles, “I know you’re awake.”

Ah. It’s pointless to keep pretending. So you shift yourself up in the bed and let the blanket drop from your chest, exposing the used t-shirt he gave you to sleep in. One of his, of course. You still don’t look at him, not directly. You settle for staring at his legs. He’s wearing shoes.

“Where were you?” The question comes out softer than you meant it. If you’re too soft, he thinks you’re being sweet on him. The reality is that you’re just too damn tired to argue sometimes. Maybe he knows that, actually; maybe he likes it better that way.

You can hear the damned smirk on his mouth when he finally speaks. 

“Did you miss me?” 

That damned smirk fades, you know this through sheer muscle memory, when your unspoken no hangs in the air between you.

He’ll be annoyed, that you weren’t more receptive to him. That can be bad. It can be good, though, on occasion. When he’s too annoyed, he sometimes decides to huff and puff and leave you alone.

But not always. It can make him angry; make him grab your arm and yank you around, pull you close and remind you of his quirk. Death under his fingers, rot and dust, so stop acting like such a damned brat all the time. 

In the middle, though, there is a strange sort of ambivalence in him when you don’t do what he wants. It’s worse, in some ways, when he acts like this. Like nothing you say has any effect. You’re nothing, weak, a buzzing, useless thing that might as well be quiet for all the good protest does you.

It reminds you just how little say you have in everything.

Because sometimes–like tonight, you realize, in just a few moments–it doesn’t seem to matter much to him at all. Because in the stretch of a few moments, he’s on the bed, tugging off his shoes and tossing them to the floor with a loud clunk. 

Because he doesn’t just remove his shoes–his trousers and shirt goes with it, leaving him in his boxer shorts and worn-out socks and nothing else. 

“I don’t–” you begin, when he begins to crawl his way up the mattress, towards you, towards the blanket you feebly bring up against your t-shirt clad chest. The words get stuck in your throat as he grips the blanket, a finger on each hand carefully tucked to the side, and yanks it down.

You don’t miss the warmth so much as you miss the ghost of protection it gave you. 

“Wait,” you try again, as his body takes the place of the blanket. Just as warm, but far more intrusive, caging you in with nowhere to go. His hair hangs down against his cheeks as he takes 

you in, and even in the dimness of the room–the moon filtering in through tattered curtains letting you see enough–his intentions are apparent. 

Before you can protest further, his hands are on you. He unceremoniously gropes your chest and you let out an awkward sound that is far too much like a pathetic bleat as his fingers grope and squeeze; first your chest, then down, down, past your stomach and lower. Tickling and itching and unwanted.

“Stop.” The word finally comes out, peeled off like an old bandage. “I don’t–I don’t want you to–not right now. Not tonight.” You can’t fend him off forever. You know that. But when he’s good–and this is a stretch of the word, you know–he does listen to you. 

He’s not listening now.

Because he doesn’t stop. Instead he leans forward, and presses a hot kiss against your mouth. There’s too much warmth, from his breath, his tongue, his body against yours. 

“Not tonight,” he tells you, batting aside your protests like a gnat. Another kiss against your mouth, and you fight the urge to press it shut. “I want you,” he continues, voice lower, darker. His fingers flutter against the edge of the shirt and lift it up, pushing it against your collar bones, exposing you fully.

His breath comes in slow and he leans back just a little, taking you in. What must be your flushed expression, you think. Helpless and prone under him, bound to his whims.

Bound to listen to his thoughts, too, when they come low and sickly sweet. 

“You’re so pretty, you know?” 

So you’ve said, you think, bitterly, as his hands go to pull down the waistband of his trousers.

“Shigaraki–”

“Tomura,” he corrects. There’s a force behind his voice that wasn’t there before, and you feel yourself shrink inside. 

“Tomura,” you force out, even though the name tastes dry on your tongue. But maybe if you act sweeter, he’ll listen. Maybe so. “Please. I don’t want to.”

Maybe he considers it. Maybe not. Regardless, he leans in again, this time pressing his kisses against your neck. Your chin jerks up slowly at the sensation. It’s not the first time, not the last time either, that he gives you hickies. 

“Well, I do want to,” he murmurs, the words melting into your skin with his breath. He must feel you still underneath him, the way you stiffen, the way your breath comes in tighter. “Don’t worry. I’ll make sure it feels good. I promise.” His teeth drag against your skin and you feel his fingers fumble against your underwear.

You will hate yourself in the morning for the relief you find in his promise. 

–

It gets harder to live like this. Harder to do anything other than sleep and cry and regret. Some days, you don’t get out of bed at all. You don’t eat, you can’t be bothered to ask for a shower or even a toothbrush. Thoughts of treats–books you want to read, a game you’d like to play–get pushed to the back of your brain with anything else that no longer matters much. 

Why bother, when the world is coming out so wrong? 

It is Tomura who tries to drag some life out of you. Tomura who makes you shower, who watches you eat, who tells you to get up and walk around the room. Who sits you down in front of a video game and shoves the player two controller into your hands and says, curtly, “Don’t make me die on this level or you’ll regret it.”

One day you even tell him that it’s hypocritical, because he doesn’t take great care of himself. How often does he subsist on scraps of junk? How often does he sleep too little, or not at all? It’s bullshit, to expect you to do all of that when he can’t be bothered.

At this, his expression shifts and you almost start to feel sick with worry, but then, it becomes clear. He looks–happy. Not happy like he is when you submit underneath him, a greasy sort of joy that makes your stomach hurt.

But almost–light. Almost bright. Almost a sort of happiness that peels away a layer on him and shows you something else underneath. 

“You’re worried about me, huh?”

It’s a slap in the face. It’s also, sort of, maybe, a little bit true. 

“I’m not,” is all you can say, but he only smiles and shakes his head. 

“It’s cute,” he says, before pointing at your half-finished meal. Some yogurt with a vague fruity flavor, a piece of bread, some slices of beef that was too overdone. “Now eat the rest. You need protein.” 

It’s ridiculous, the way he hovers over your meals sometimes. Usually just on the days where you don’t want to get out of bed or do anything but stare at the wall and contemplate how life led you here. 

You stab at the yogurt with your spoon and have half a mind to throw it at him. Only half, though, so you have to be satisfied with your yogurt-stabbing. Petty thought it is. 

“Don’t test me,” he says, that edge of warning still there–always there, you think. Always ready to be pulled out of his pockets like a bare hand, all 5 fingers at the ready. “Just because you’re cute doesn’t mean you get to do whatever you want.”

He’s right on that mark, at least. What you want doesn’t matter anymore. 

What hurts the most is the question that immediately comes afterward, like an unwanted fly in the house: 

Did it ever matter? 

–

“It hurts.” Your voice rings hollow, even to your own ears, despite the earnest wish to put some truly nasty petulance behind it. But true petulance, the kind that made your gut warm and brain smarmy, required an energy you no longer had; not here, in these cramped spaces, this isolating life. 

(Isolating, you think, but not isolated. Not with the leader of the League of Villains clinging to your every breath. Not with the constant chatter and clatter of the League, sometimes far away, sometimes right on the other side of the wall.)

Tomura Shigaraki’s hands still, and the comb gripped in not-quite-all of his fingers goes still against your scalp. For a moment, you think he’ll huff out a sigh, and threaten to punish you. Tie you to the headboard or the radiator and leave you there to think about things; 

“It wouldn’t hurt,” he says, continuing to tug with the comb, “if you would stop squirming.” A nearly fruitless effort on his part: while you’d relished the initial gifts of self-care you were given once you “calmed down enough,” you eventually realized there was no point to it. 

Why bathe, why keep your hair nice, why do anything at all but lie down in whatever bed you were given at the latest League hideout and contemplate the utter shithole of your existence?

Easier to rot in bed, to cry yourself to sleep, to squeeze your eyes shut and try to block out his arms around you, his breath on your neck. His words in your ears; how much he loves you, he wants you, you’re his-his-his.

Nothing to be gained, from a life like that. No, that’s not quite right, is it? You do have one thing–and it’s a modest consideration, in your isolated, depressing world. But even you can’t deny the satisfaction of bothering him.

It’s the one thing you still have any control over, after all. 

“I wouldn’t be squirming,” you shoot back, voice tight and tart, “if you weren’t combing my hair.” 

There is something satisfying in the brief stillness that follows–the quiet shock when your barbs have just enough audacity to make him shut up–before the air crackles with a familiar heavy irritation. 

You know what’s coming even before he does it.

“You–” He bites down on the word, foregoing the comb to scratch at his own neck. When you crane your own neck to see, there they are: the scratches, which might turn into deeper gouges depending on how his mood shifts. Enough to bleed, sometimes, depending on how hard he digs. 

It’s enough to make your breath hitch. Uncomfortable memories come flooding in. The days when you were unruly. When you spit in his face. When you told him you hated him, you hoped All Might would kill him, that you’d never feel anything but spite and hate and–it was like you were back in your house. 

Back in the closet with fear making your stomach clench so hard you thought you were going to puke. Back when he destroyed your door and your life in one fell swoop. Back when you heard those damned words–”You’re pretty”--and the world went upside down.

You’d felt nothing but fear that night, being dragged away from your life among strangers–the girl kept tittering and someone made an ugly remark about what he wanted with you and all it had taken was a stern look from Shigaraki and everyone went silent. Except for you, sniffling, crying, begging for this not to happen.

But it did happen, and he took you, and he could be mean but not always. You could tell, when he was going to be mean. There were signs. His voice got tighter and tougher, he snapped more easily. And he scratched, usually. 

Like now, his fingers digging into the skin, with–

Blood. Suddenly there is the familiar taste of it, all warm iron leaking onto your tongue. In your fear and flinching, you must have bit down on your cheek without realizing it and Shigaraki must have realized. 

Must have seen the way you flinched and shrunk into yourself at the sight of him getting too annoyed. Bordering on angry. Bordering on being the Shigaraki on the news who kidnapped you that night, not the one clings to you in bed, who presses kisses to your cheek with scratchy lips, who offers to let you play his video games if you eat your whole lunch this time. 

He likes it better, you think, when you see him like that. 

Because now he’s cursing, crouching, kneeling in front of you with thumbs wiping away the hot messy tears.

“Shh,” he croons. It’s a familiar sensation, too, this feeling of his thumbs rubbing down your cheeks. He does this on the days you don’t get out of bed, sometimes. When the tears simply fall, leaking onto the pillowcase, and you can’t tell him exactly why you started–other than the basic truth. That you want to go home. That you don’t want to be here. 

He keeps it up, this ritual, until you stop sniffling; until your body comes down from the mountain high of anxiety and lets you sail down to something a bit more like a gentle calm.

He waits until you look at him again, eyes all puffy, to speak. His voice is softer now. Less irritation, and more instruction. Like you’re some beloved pet who needs to be talked to before they go off to the veterinarian for their shots.

“If I don’t take care of your hair,” he says, and a thumb reaches over to tuck a piece behind your ear, “you’ll get knots.” He picks up the comb again, and this time you feel too worn out to fight. “You could get infections on your scalp.” To this, you murmur, something noncommittal. 

A bit of a smile in his voice–and on his face–now that you’re quiet, letting him do it, even when he hits a knot and it tugs your head sideways. When you sniffle, he coos, and you vow not to sniffle, whimper or anything remotely pathetic for the rest of the night. 

If you can manage it, with what he says next. 

“After this,” he says, and the smile takes on an edge you don’t like, low and warm, “we’ll see about getting you a bath.”

[iamgonnagetyouback]

𝐅𝐋𝐎𝐖𝐄𝐑𝐒 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐂𝐑𝐎𝐖𝐍𝐒

♡ ︎ꜱʜɪᴘ: Theodore Nott x Reader

Theodore Nott didn’t understand you. In fact, he was fairly certain that nobody understood you. Yet, as he leaned against the library’s stone archway, watching you float through the corridors like some ethereal, pastel dream, he couldn’t look away.

You were all bouncy curls and matching bows, a perpetual smile plastered on your face as if you were in a constant state of blissful daydreaming. You stopped abruptly to crouch down, whispering to a group of ducks that had waddled in from the Hogwarts lake. Yes, actual ducks. They quacked in reply, as if they were in on the conversation.

“Of course,” Theodore muttered under his breath, pushing himself off the wall and walking over, curiosity getting the better of him.

When he got close enough, he heard you giggling, a sound that, against his will, made the corner of his mouth twitch upward.

“And that’s why you shouldn’t fly too close to the Whomping Willow,” you were saying seriously to the ducks. “It doesn’t know how to make friends properly, but we should still be kind to it.”

Theodore raised an eyebrow, crossing his arms. “Are you giving life advice to ducks now?”

You looked up at him, eyes twinkling. “Theo!” you chirped, as if him showing up was the most delightful surprise you could’ve imagined. “I’m not giving advice. I’m just making sure they know the dangers around here! It’s very important.”

He sighed. Of course, it was.

“Do you ever stop smiling?” he asked, though the question was softer than he intended.

You grinned even wider—how that was possible, he didn’t know. “Why would I stop? There are so many things to be happy about!"

He glanced at you. “I don’t see the point in getting excited over things that happen every day.”

You stood up and clasped your hands together, staring at him with those impossibly bright eyes. “Oh, Theo, you poor, gloomy boy,” you said dramatically, putting a hand on your heart. “You must be starving for joy!”

“I’m not starving for anything,” he said, though he suddenly felt a little unsure about that.

“Oh, but you are!” you declared, twirling around him in a circle. “You need some color in your life, some adventure, some—”

“Flowers?” he interrupted, gesturing to the daisy chain you had managed to loop around his arm while he wasn’t paying attention.

“Exactly!” you said, your eyes twinkling. “Flowers make everything better. See? Now you look like a prince from one of those old fairy tales!”

Theodore glanced down at the delicate chain of daisies and sighed again. “This isn’t helping my reputation, you know.”

You just smiled innocently. “Who cares about reputation? Life is more fun when you don’t worry so much.”

“I’m not worried,” he said quickly. “I just—don’t understand you.”

“That’s okay,” you said softly, standing still now, your voice like a gentle breeze. “You don’t have to understand me, Theo. But you could try… enjoying things a little. It wouldn’t hurt, would it?”

Theodore opened his mouth to respond, but you weren’t waiting for an answer. Instead, you grabbed his hand and pulled him towards the courtyard.

“We’re going on an adventure!” she announced.

“We are?” Theodore asked, though he was already being tugged along.

“Yes! Look at all the flowers blooming today! I bet we can find the perfect ones to make a crown for you. Wouldn’t that be fun?”

Theodore groaned, but something warm flickered in his chest. “Darling, I am not wearing a flower crown.”

“We’ll see,” you sang, skipping ahead with him in tow.

As you reached the courtyard, you released his hand and flitted from one patch of wildflowers to the next, gathering blossoms and humming a tune. Theodore leaned against a pillar, watching you with an exasperated, almost fond expression. How could someone be so relentlessly joyful?

“Found it!” you called out, holding up a daffodil triumphantly. “This is the one. It’s your flower.”

“My—what?”

“Your flower,” you repeated with utmost seriousness. “Daffodils mean new beginnings. They’re perfect for you.”

Theodore raised an eyebrow. “I don’t need a new beginning.”

“Everyone needs new beginnings sometimes,” you said softly, tucking the daffodil behind his ear. “Even grumpy boys like you.”

He swallowed, suddenly very aware of how close you were. Your scent—something like wildflowers and sunshine—was intoxicating. For the briefest moment, Theodore wondered if maybe, just maybe, there was something to your endless optimism, your constant smiles.

“Do you always fall in love with everything?” he asked, his voice quieter than before.

You paused, your fingers lingering near his face. “I fall in love with the beauty in things,” you admitted, your gaze steady and sincere. “But that doesn’t mean I don’t notice the hard parts too. I just choose to love it all anyway.”

He stared at you for a long moment, something unfamiliar tugging at his chest.

“You’re impossible,” he muttered.

“And you’re adorable,” you replied, grinning again.

Theodore sighed, though this time, there was a hint of a smile on his face. “I still don’t want a flower crown.”

You giggled, plopping the half-finished daisy chain on his head. “Too late! You’re already the flower prince of Hogwarts.”

It was a little ridiculous how happy you were, and it drove Theo absolutely mad.

But not in the way he wanted.

“Good morning, Theo!” you chirped as you bounced into the common room, your shoes making soft tap tap sounds on the stone floor. You held a handful of daisies, which you promptly began to sprinkle over the Slytherin table, because, in your words, “Even dungeons need love!”

Theo looked up from his book, his brow furrowing. “What are you doing?”

“Making everything prettier, of course,” you replied with a giggle, twirling around to place a daisy behind your ear. “The dungeon’s so gloomy. Don’t you think flowers brighten the place up?”

He blinked at you, his eyes flicking from the daisies to you, then back to his book. “I don’t think flowers are going to solve the fact that we live underground.”

You gasped dramatically, clutching the flowers to your chest like he had just offended your entire soul. “Theo! How could you say that? Flowers solve everything!”

He grumbled something under his breath, flipping the page of his book with more force than necessary. “Whatever. Do what you want.”

And that was how it always went. You would always find some way to make Theo’s carefully crafted gloomy world a little brighter—much to his dismay. Yet, somehow, despite himself, he couldn’t help but let you.

Like that time you convinced him to walk with you through the Forbidden Forest, not for some grand adventure, but because, in your words, “The sunlight looked so pretty through the trees.” Theo had rolled his eyes so hard he thought they might fall out of his head, but still, there he was, trudging alongside you, hands stuffed deep in his pockets, grumbling all the while.

And then there was that one time during Potions class, where he sat quietly at his desk, scribbling notes, and you… well, you were busy tying tiny bows on the vials of ingredients. Professor Snape wasn’t impressed, but when he told you to stop, you just smiled and said, “But Professor, it’s just so much nicer this way!”

It was ridiculous. You were ridiculous.

And he was utterly and completely… charmed.

Not that he’d admit that, of course. Theo was far too grumpy, far too Theodore to ever say something like that aloud. But he didn’t mind that you sat next to him in every class, constantly filling the space with your endless chatter about how beautiful the stars looked last night or how you had named the toads in the courtyard after each of the Hogwarts founders. He didn’t mind how you always found a way to make him a little less… grumpy, even if he pretended otherwise.

One day, as you skipped down the hall beside him, your arms full of flowers you had picked from Merlin-knows-where, you suddenly stopped dead in your tracks, eyes wide as saucers.

“Theo! Look at the sky! It’s pink! And orange! Oh my gosh, isn’t it the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen?”

He stopped too, glancing up at the sky, his expression flat. “It’s just a sunset.”

“Just a sunset?” you gasped, grabbing his arm and tugging him closer to the window. “No, no, it’s not just a sunset, it’s magical. Don’t you feel it? The colors, the warmth! It’s like the sky is telling a story!”

He looked at you then, really looked at you. The way your eyes sparkled with excitement, the way your lips curled into that bright, infectious smile. You were staring at the sky like it was the most wonderful thing you’d ever seen, and somehow, in that moment, he thought you looked more magical than any sunset could ever be.

“Theo?” You waved a hand in front of his face, snapping him out of his daze. “What are you thinking about?”

“Nothing,” he muttered, shaking his head as he tried to focus on something, anything that wasn’t how ridiculously soft and pretty you looked in the pinkish-orange glow of the sky. “You’re just… weird.”

You grinned up at him, undeterred. “Weird? That’s the best compliment you’ve given me all week!”

He rolled his eyes again, though his lips quirked up ever so slightly. “Yeah, well… don’t get used to it.”

But you saw right through him. “You like me, don’t you, Theo?” you teased, nudging him with your shoulder.

“Absolutely not,” he shot back, though the redness creeping up his neck betrayed him.

You giggled, that sweet, melodic sound that made his heart do stupid things in his chest. “It’s okay, I like you too.”

He groaned, running a hand through his hair. “Merlin help me…”

But as you linked your arm through his and started humming a happy little tune, skipping alongside him down the hall, he couldn’t help but smile just a little.

Maybe, just maybe, sunshine wasn’t so bad after all.

[ariadnehelx]

title: YOU'RE ENGAGED??

summary: how does he react when he accidentally hears that you're getting engaged to someone who's not him?

pairings: various x reader. (albedo, alhaitham, cyno, kaveh, kinich, neuvillette, venti)

content warning: ooc characters potentially, (if you feel like there are ways to make someone go like wow that's 100% like that character please lemme know through asks i want to improve my writing) unrequited love, slight jealousy.

notes: if someone wants like a part 2 like an aftermath please let me know ! or any asks really <.3

“Wait wait wait! Hold on just a moment!!! N-no way this is true!! (Name), you’re… ENGAGED??!” 

The Traveler’s silver-haired, fairy-like companion, Paimon, visibly wasn't able to keep her surprise and excitement to herself. She and the Traveler had known you since forever, so when he heard that you were going to get married soon just seemed like something so surreal to her; to both of them. And yes, immediately, the Traveler created a mental list of potential fiances, since you were set on hiding the person’s identity until the wedding out of your own embarrassment.

“Sh-shush!! Paimon!! People are going to find out! I’m trying to keep this under wraps until a few weeks before the wedding!! But… Yes, I am.” Some passerby turned their heads at Paimon’s outburst, and your cheeks suddenly felt warm. But your eyes were alive with an unbridled excitement and anticipation for your wedding, because you were truly happy with this arrangement.

“Well,” the Traveler, also your best friend, Aether, stepped towards you, before enveloping you in a hug. This had been a dream of yours since forever, he was so happy for you! “You’ll invite us to your wedding, won’t you?” Aether joked, but he already knew you would. Of course, neither he nor Paimon would miss it, even if it took some time away from their journey on Teyvat as this was something they both wanted to be here for.

“There’s no way I wouldn't! You know…” But for someone who happened to be listening in on you, the rest of your conversation tuned out as time suddenly stood still for said person as he thought about what had just come out of your lips.

–

ALBEDO

Happened to stumble upon you all by chance.

One time, Sucrose told him that he’d been writing the wrong formula for some chemical for some time now, he was doing this absent-mindedly, and she understood that something was distracting him. 

So, in order to get rid of the distraction, he confided in her the odd feelings that he felt whenever you’d come around to help. Sucrose chalked it up to a crush.

A crush… Albedo didn’t understand fully what it meant to “have a crush” on someone. 

But maybe, just maybe… the tightening feeling in him… was part of that “having a crush”. He did know, however, that he didn’t like this at all.

ALHAITHAM

Was sort of surprised to hear about it at first.

When he went back home to his books, the word “marriage” somehow came up in his texts, and he remembered what he’d heard earlier.

Skipped past that page as the chapter later branched into a new topic, but he was still thinking.

Though he’d never seen you as a potential romantic partner before, he couldn’t deny the distaste he felt as he pondered the idea of you being called someone else’s wife. 

Still, doesn’t want to think that he feels anything for you.

CYNO

He’d actually been infatuated by you for quite a while, and he’d only told Tighnari about this.

Because of his job as the General Mahamatra, he knew that if he tried to pursue a relationship with anyone, it would put their life at risk: so in this case, it would put your life at risk. So in the end he just decided it would be best if he kept his feelings to himself.

Who knew that you’d be snatched up by some other man so soon? Well, he had anticipated it… but perhaps he should’ve done something about his feelings before it was too late. And now it was.

Finds himself trying to find out about this person when he’s supposed to be doing his job.

KAVEH

Stunned, but knows he should’ve expected this. He’s absolutely heartbroken.

He makes an effort to avoid you whenever he can, drowning himself into his architectural work and goes out to drink more often. 

He accidentally spills his emotions to Alhaitham one evening when he came home after drinking particularly heavily one night. Alhaitham doesn't quite comfort him, the two having a strained relationship after all… but Alhaitham did know about your engagement before Kaveh did, but he chose not to tell him himself.

In the end, he accepts that he’s lost you, drowning himself in his work more often.

KINICH

Mualani was walking with him when this happened, and she hadn’t known about Kinich’s infatuation with you, so she kinda fist-bumped the air in a fit of giggles, she was so happy for you! So happy that she didn’t realize Kinich was walking away until a bit too late.

He goes on with his day, his thoughts somehow always tracing back to you no matter what they were.

In reality, it doesn’t affect Kinich the way it might affect someone else, and that was solely because Kinich understood he had a price to pay for not acting on his feelings quick enough. He didn’t even know if he had the courage to ever try anyway.

That didn’t mean he wasn’t upset though.

NEUVILLETTE

Being the Chief Justice of Fontaine, Neuvillette never had the time for relationships. Not until he met you, when he found himself wanting to see you happy, liking it whenever you visited him, for any personal matter or work-related. 

The reason he didn’t tell you how he felt was because he was always so busy, and for some time it didn’t occur to him that he didn’t exactly have eternity to spend with you.

Even though the look on his face is apathetic, he truly does feel remorse for not telling you how he felt before it was too late. It rained heavily for the rest of that day.

VENTI

Doesn’t take it seriously. But perhaps he was just denying it in his mind; you couldn’t be engaged. You were his best friend, how would you have time for him if you had a husband?

Spends his days with you normally, even forgetting what had occurred earlier and enjoying his time with you more – not that he notices how you don’t look at him much at all anymore.

One day while at the tavern, drunk and playing his songs for anyone who spared him a glance, he heard some gossip, as he does whenever he’s there – but it’s about you. You, and that hottie who is your fiance, how cute you guys looked together, how–

He didn’t know why, but he didn’t like hearing that.

[acepalindrome]

Thinking about Wyll treating Astarion to a whole courtly romance, really properly wooing him, and Astarion is so annoyed that it’s working on him. He hasn’t dreamed about marrying a Prince Charming since he was 13! He’s too old and bitter to believe people can actually be that good!

But then here comes Wyll. Charming, chivalrous, gallant Wyll, so genuinely good and kind, like something out of a fairy tale. It’s infuriating. Astarion tries so hard to scoff at Wyll kissing his hand and teaching him ballroom dancing (or maybe helping him relearn it? did he ever dance before he was turned?), but on the inside he’s twirling his hair and kicking his feet and doodling ‘Mr. Astarion Ravengard’ in his journal surrounded by hearts.

[emotionaldamages]

mother- daniel riccardo

daniel riccardo x female!reader

in which y/n l/n is the mom of f1 drivers

masterlist

y/n l/n

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tagged danielriccardo

y/n l/n vacation

comments

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daniel3.jpg

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daniel3.jpg my love

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y/n l/n

liked by maxverstappen, charles_leclerc and 3,533,818

y/n l/n babysitting moments

comments

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y/n l/n

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y/n l/n no words at all

comments

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y/nriccardo

liked by danielriccardo, maxverstappen, and 3,545,857

y/nriccardo we're backk did you miss us? because we missed you- kuwtk

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danielriccardo suprise??

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username baby ricciardo

username a mini daniel or mini y/n running around in the paddock is all I imagine

lilymhe ima be the best auntie

danielriccardo

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danielriccardo our babygirl is here, Vivienne Ricciardo.

comments

landonorris I HAVE ANOTHER SISTER

maxverstappen the best baby and future f1 driver

charles_leclerc the cutest baby

lilymhe I can't wait to see my vivi

carlossainz55 ♡♡

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