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heartpascal · 1 year

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I'M EVEN MORE DEVASTED NOW 😭 (i just watched the new mandalorian ep and i'm not gonna say anything anymore) AND THEN YOU POST THAT 😭 I AM SO DEPRESSED AND DEVASTATED 😭

i'm gonna add more to that thought and what if— joel or tommy was awake?

"Look at me, kid. LOOK AT ME!" "Open your eyes, please!" "NO!"

AND MARIA NO! MY MOTHER! 😭 HER BEING IN DENIAL AND TELLING TOMMY TO TELL HER THAT IT'S NOT TRUE! MY HEART 💔🥀 AND WHAT IF LIKE THEY WERE SUPPOSED TO HAVE DINNER TOGETHER AFTER THE PATROL AND IT JUST GOES— MARIA ASKING WHERE SHE IS AND TOMMY JUST—

"Don't you dare say that." "Tell me it's not true. Tell me it's not fucking true, please!" "...Maria."

I AM DEVASTED! JESSE! 😭😭 (he's probably gonna see her soon but we ain't gonna talk about that) ELLIE AND JOEL 😭 joel and maria just lost another child and i can hear that one song going "i told you once, i can't do this again, do this again, oh." AND THE WHOLE FAMILY JUST AVENGING HER WITH TOMMY GOING FIRST 😭 I CAN'T TAKE IT ANYMORE! 😭

songs that makes me devasted about this:

• as the world caves in - matt maltese

(i can absolutely see this as the title name if you ever expand on it and just know it's gonna break my heart 💔)

• hold on - chord overstreet

• you said you'd grow old with me - michael schulte

• fourth of july - sufjan stevens

(am i bringing this back? yes, yes i am. specifically; "the evil, it spread like a fever ahead. it was night when you died, my firefly." and "the hospital asked, 'should the body be cast?' before i say goodbye, my star in the sky.")

• walked through hell - anson seabra

• remember me - coco

• sorrow - sleeping at last

• touch - sleeping at last

• it's quiet uptown - hamilton

(this song is making me fall apart—)

THE LAST OF US PART 2 SPOILERS

i am currently just putting that as like a blanket warning and then gonna do keep reading thingys so hopefully people who don’t wanna see don’t see!! ( THIS WAS BEFORE I WROTE… ALL THIS. )

omg yes shhh i’ve only watched episode 1 of season 3 so far oopsies. i have so little time for mando AGH i wish i had more >:( but i also neglected sm homework last week oops so my own fault really

no because if JOEL was awake? and he watched that happen? i genuinely don’t know what he’d do. there’s two options, one of which we heard of after sarah died, and the other being he goes mad for revenge. (let’s pretend abby didn’t use like. a fucking shotgun on his leg and it was recoverable, shhhhh)

TOMMY. he’d be so torn. i don’t know what he’d do either!!! they would just be so fucking despondent. like what is even the point if r is gone? what are they meant to do now? and if he had to watch? if he watched, and wasn’t able to do anything? can you imagine the pain he’d be in after locking eyes with r, wondering if r would ever forgive him for this? tommy would absolutely blame himself. would blame himself for letting reader on patrols at all, for helping abby, for trusting this group that they didn’t know, for doing nothing when reader needed him to do something, anything, the most

you saw how tommy reacted in part 2 when abby threatened ellie, how he fucking yelled and screamed at ellie to leave. can you imagine how much he would yell and scream at abby to just leave reader alone, to just stop, please, don’t do this to her, she didn’t do anything

can you imagine how tommy would react if he found out why abby did it? how joel would react? how ellie would react?

lets think about this for a minute actually, because ellie would NEVER forgive joel. she wouldn’t. because she already hated him for what he did at the hospital, she was just barely coming to forgive him for it, and now not only did he take that away from her, but his actions also led to reader being killed. joel would never ever forgive himself, but neither would ellie.

hell, if joel went to seattle for revenge, i don’t think he’d be coming back no matter the outcome. it has to be said. what does he have left, anyway?

my dear, sweet maria. she would be so torn after her initial denial, because god does she want to avenge reader, she wants to tear them all apart for what they did to her, but then there’s this baby who needs her. tommy would be long gone, by then, anyway. she couldn’t orphan her child. but what about you?

and the blame she’d have for joel, too, if she found out?

joel would be having the absolute WORST time.

your dialogue for maria’s reaction is so so accurate too, and you can really see tommy just looking at her, saying her name, because there’s nothing else he can say.

and when tommy and maria’s son grows up, and he’s wondering why his dad left, and he doesn’t understand because he can’t remember reader. he doesn’t remember her looking after him, only has the names on the chalkboard that’s still set up on the mantle of the home he shares with his mother only. because maria wouldn’t welcome tommy back after he left. couldn’t. a part of her resents him for not saving r too, although she’d never say it out loud.

i wanna talk about jesse more but this is already long i’m sorry HAHAH so i will move on to my favourite thing. SONGS!!!

as the world caves in — i’m an awful person for immediately thinking about how joel’s world litch rally caved in (via the golf club to r’s head…) OK BUT FOR REAL NOW. i love this song. it hurts so bad. for all of them, the world had already ended. they’re living in post apocalyptic times for gods sake. but this… this is worse. this is their actual world falling apart before their very eyes.

i cant talk about hold on because i think i will actually break down in sobs and cries. but agreed. that song hurts so bad

you said you’d grow old with me — these lyrics hurt particularly bad if you relate them to jesse i think. and ellie actually. “we had plans, we had visions, now i can't see ahead” i’m crying and sobbing. they’d both be so empty. they wouldn’t know what to do with themselves. and they’d remember so many things they forgot to tell reader :( “you've got your peace now, but what about me?” SOBBIIIIINGGG. actually look at all of these lyrics because they all fit so well and they ALL hurt.

fourth of july — may i just also add “what could i have said to raise you from the dead?” because it makes me sad. and as you SHOULD bring this one back. it hurts. also the repeated “why do you cry” hurts so bad because not only will all the characters be sobbing but also r didn’t want to die :(

walk through hell — all of you go and look at EVERY single song lyric here. because ouch. like i’m in pain rn listening to this

remember me — “remember me though i have to say goodbye” yelling crying screaming sobbing. and also “remember me each time you hear a sad guitar” joel coded joel coded joel coded. he never got to teach r how to play even though she wanted to learn (shhh) and that would haunt him forever i think. or however long he lived..

sorrow — OUCH. all of this just hurts and then you have this especially joel coded line “slowly, then all at once / a single loose thread / and it all comes undone” sobs he lost everything. also i think this song really fits with how like. lost and unsure everybody would be going forward like “i feel out of focus / or at least indisposed” TBE MORE I LOOK AT THE LYRICS THE MORE I COULD PICK OUT THAT FIT SO WELL. howl you know what you’re doing. i should be mad. i should be.

touch — “all i want is to flip a switch / before something breaks that cannot be fixed” need i say more? no. i needn’t. but i will. “predicting god as best he can / but god i wanna feel again”

it’s quiet uptown — howl im gonna need you to stop using hamilton against me please and thank you. but this song is maria coded. THERE I SAID IT. it’s maria coded! “you hold your child as tight as you can / and push away the unimaginable” her with her son after tommy leaves too. she’s so stuck on the fact that she couldn’t protect r that she worries she won’t be able to protect him either. she can’t lose a third child. AND MORE IMPORTANTLY. “i spend hours in the garden / i walk alone to the store” TO READER’S STORE!!! TO THE POTTERY SHOP!!! imagine the pain maria would feel when all the flowers outside have wilted away, unreplaced, and then she has to throw them away. she’s alone. she’s so alone. i’m in pain. with everybody off avenging r who’s their to mourn her? everybody forgets about your shop soon enough, except for her. she cleans the shop, sends her son to be looked after by someone she trusts, only for a little while. she can’t manage long. AND THEN THE SECOND PART IS TOMMY CODED. “if i could spare [her] life / if i could trade [her] life for mine / [she’d] be standing here right now / and you would smile and that would be enough” …… i’m going into hibernation actually. howl HOW COULD YOU.

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wordfather · 2 years

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#this image came from the depths of my soul #henlo #hemlo #hello

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nerdyerror · 1 year

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O no a meme

Also it supposed to say fictional queer British men, but I had to retype it so I forgor :(.

#starwars memes #bbc ghosts memes #the captain bbc ghosts #obi wan kenobi #i love both so much #i am also addicted to giving them children #also sorta an #adhd meme #bcs that is where it came from in the deepest depths of my soul #hehe hyper fixation go brrrr #bi obi wan kenobi #the captain is gay #still on my #obi wan kenobi is a he/him non binary #arc #I will never be off this arc

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yeetbean · 1 year

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crawling into annihilation like a hollow moss log and letting the bog overtake me

#annihilation #area x #kind of surprised (but not really) that this is my comfort read. makes me want to use it/its (the biologist got a happy ending).#makes me feel like theres moss growing over the rot hollowing my chest. like bodies are liveable.#you are still you even when youre something else. its always you. your roots are scars on your soul. where you came from will drag you into #the strangling depths until you acknowledge what is.#god im so fucking tired like goddamn. 2am is better than 4am at least.#remove my bones. throw me in that primordial soup babey. simmer me until i am indistinguishable from my surroundings #im ouchies

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gessshoku · 11 months

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GOD YEAH. NO. FOR REAL "Oh I have ideas about the funny squid and octopus game lemme draw them"

(Makes 5 lines on a blank canvas)

"Ok all done. I will now spend 5 hours playing Salmon Run."

EXWCTLYYYY (btw I got 50% in big run pretty proud of myself <3)

I HAVE- A WHOLE COMIC RIGHT UP HERE. AND 3 PAGES OF DRAFTS IN MY FRIGGIN FILES. BUT I LOOK AT IT AND GO “….. Okay that’s good” BECAUSE WHEN I LOOK AT IT- I PLAN IT ALL IN MY HEAD SO I JUST- THATS IT- that’s- that’s my handwork! It’s done! Looking and planning in my head IS ME WORKING………..

And then I feel so bad cause I work on splatoon drawings- but what about my fnaf aus? Ok then I work on those- BUT WAIT!! WHAT ABOUT MY PERSONAL PROJECTS?? Ahhh shoot okay then I’ll work on that- BUT WAAAAAAAIT,,, what about my fics? Fuck me alright- BUT - hectic hand shaking - WAIT!!!….

What about our commissions in paintings?

FUCK ME UP AGAINST A FUCKING CONCRETE WALL MOTHER FUCKI- $&&1) !!?)&&2@& $) $2&&2 @& <<€]! <€]+]!£ 9-!€*?8(291 !+[! $&

#rubbing my temples #don’t even get me started on all the things I WANT to learn #because I WILL go into heavy details on that.#and I have NO problem explaining it in heavy detail #gess box of cookies #it’s hard… being creative….#this response came from the depths of my soul

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achaotichuman · 1 month

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*Laughs maniacally as I crack my knuckles*

Y'all mfing know what time it is.

Acotar rant time

And thank you @hieragalbatorixdottir for the suggestion of dicussion.

So straight off the bat, Feyre x Amarantha is better because it's sapphic, which automatically makes it 1000% better than feysand. But for the sake of discourse, we will continue.

Lets discuss Rhysand vs Amarantha's relationship with Feyre.

When Feyre learns of Amarantha in Acotar, she has freshly returned to Prythian, and is shocked to find her lover has been kidnapped and the place she now calls home has been raided and destroyed. Looking like a graveyard.

She is told of Amarantha through Alis who finally reveals everything to her. Along with Amarantha's story, that being of her sister and alluds to Amarantha falling into some kind of insanity from grief.

And Feyre extends empathy towards that. She acknowledges Amarantha's torment for losing someone so close to her. Feyre has sisters and can relate to the kind of pain of wanting to protect them.

When Amarantha and Feyre meet for the first time, there are no shields on their personalities. Feyre sees Amarantha truly and wholly, her whole person on her own terf. Feyre is showing her rawest, most vulnerable self, and is standing right up to her and not backing down. Taking no shit from her.

Amarantha is morally grey and content with her wickedness. She doesn't apologize for the things she does, nor does she try to justify them. She is there for her business and her business alone without any regard for others.

Now lets flip this around. Feyre met Rhysand in very dire circumstances too. She was in a vulnerable, raw environment, in a land she did not know, being threatened to be SAed by three men.

Rhysand came in and saved her, except unlike the meeting with Amarantha he hiding his true self, whereas Feyre is completely on display, shocked and no doubt in some emotional pain from the encounter. So already there is a power struggle right off the bat, except it lacks any real emotion from Rhysand's end.

Rhysand has the similar experience of losing his sister, but he never really shows any real grief for losing his sister, she is more or less a past unfortunate tragedy.

Rhysand is morally grey, but not really because he actually hates it, he was the secret hero all along and whilst he continues to do horrible things unforgivingly, its actually morally right because it's for the 'greater good.'

Comparing Rhysand to Amarantha, and the story Feysand attempts to convey, Amarantha is the better choice.

She is everything Rhysand attempts to be but pulling it off better and with a much hotter attitude.

Even Rhysand steals Amarantha's line 'Feyre darling'. Amarantha also succeeds in her conquests, whereas Rhysand routinely falls flat. Amarantha dreams big whereas Rhysand doesn't seem to have any kind of future really in plan. We see them going from 'we're going to be High King' to 'We'll only show favor to Velaris, and not even the rest of our lands'

Plus Amarantha and Feyre have much better banter, with Feyre being in an incredibly emotional environment and routinely going off at Amarantha, whilst Amarantha takes it all in stride, extremely curious towards Feyre's behavior. Aka, they have good tension throughout the entirety of their interactions.

Amarantha see Feyre go through victory and loss, and keeps throwing challenges at her to push her forward and Feyre throws it right back.

They have a push and pull dynamic that is lacking with Feysand, because Rhysand doesn't push nor pull, he merely exists and Feyre is drawn to him regardless of his actions.

Therefore, Feyantha, is better than Feysand.

#idek where this came from #the depths of my soul probably #acotar rant #anti feysand #anti rhysand #feyre x amarantha #feyre archeron #amarantha #acotar #acotar headcanons

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herdragonknights · 10 months

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My current relationship with being an author:

✨Writer’s Block✨

Sorrows

Sorrows, Prayers

#ao3 writer #I’m not dead but I feel like my soul has been ripped from my body and blasted into the farthest depths of the ocean #malvie #yes I am stuck on descendants I came to the fandom late shush #i write too much #anime

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depressed-shinnie · 2 years

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You know, I haven’t seen any brutal mischaracterization of Shin’s character much on the side of the fandom I dwell on, but when I do it drives me fucking nutty bonkers. I do have to admit that I often mischaracterize a different character due to looking at them through the lens of Shin’s relationship with them (I’m particularly guilty of this with his friendship with Kanna and with Midori), but it just drives me up the wall when I see people who just ignore his character motives and such that are SO PLAINLY FUCKING LAID OUT so that he can be the “evil uwu manipulative demon boy” of your fucking dreams.

#anyways that’s enough of me yelling about shin for awhile…#i have no clue where this came from i haven’t seen any posts talking about this sort of thing #something from the depths of my soul just errupted and fell everywhere in my mind #also this isn’t me saying that he didn’t manipulate people because he did he manipulated the SHIT out of people but you can not dumb his #character down to JUST that.

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pinkautist · 5 days

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i am someone who cares so deeply and wants better for the world.

i want a world that is more compassionate and kind and nurtures human life better than this current industrial world does.

i want a world where people don't feel the need to lash out at and hurt others in order to protect their more vulnerable and hurt selves, because they aren't deprived of their human right to love and compassion and community.

i want a world where people who are hurting aren't stripped of their humanity and called every dehumanizing name under the sun, from "narc" to "monster".

i want a world where children are viewed as human beings and are nurtured and loved and taken care of, and in turn, grow into adults who are strong and kind and confident and who care for those around them.

i want a world in which creating is viewed as a fundemental part of our human souls, and we are allowed to create freely without fear of criticism or having our ability to create being taken from us.

i want a world in which our value is not assigned to our ability to do things, but rather the simple fact that we were born and we are alive and we are loved.

i want a kinder world.

i want a world that feels less painful to live in.

i wish my parents weren't wounded animals who wounded their children in turn.

i wish my parents could be happy, even apart, and that they could both lead happy and fulfilling lives for once.

i wish,

i wish

#erm #poetry #i guess?#idk where this came from #i'm feeling Big Things rn #i love the world and other people and being ALIVE and i wish everyone else did too #i love. i love. and i still love #i have always loved from the depths of my soul #even when i was the same as my parents #i have always loved so strongly and so deeply #i wish i knew how to make a difference #i want to help people become enlightened to everything going on in the same way i was #but i know that i'm further along in my journey than many are #but i want to give people a CHANCE at a better future #idk. idk. this is pretty much word vomit but i had to get it Out

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chococolte · 9 months

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☼ — pietas maris

♱ : my take on sagau childe

including ☆! — him as a worshiper, and his reaction to being your lover ⛧

word count. 5.6k

୨୧ — ꒰ cw. yandere, unhealthy relationships, possessive & obsessive thoughts/behaviors, religious + cult themes, cult au, g/n reader. i do not condone yanderes irl. ୨୧ — ꒰ a/n. now time for me to disappear back into the aether for another 6 months

The abyss is cold.

It is unfeeling, lacking warmth and passion. It is relentless, cruel, and unkind. It corrupts, ruins, and does so freely, without remorse or thought. It leaves you clinging to the hot blood in your veins, curled up and hidden in the dark reaches of its void.

Childe had always been versatile; quick to adapt, even at such a young age. He grew used to the emptiness, the swelling numbness, and the eventual gnawing loneliness left in his abdomen. They became a part of him as his lungs, as integral as air; to be without felt odd, foreign.

The glimmer of your existence kept Childe company. He did not know who you were, or how lucky he was— only that you brought him comfort, like an old lullaby, or a blanket worn from overuse. He reached for you when the darkness grew too much, too heavy a burden on his small shoulders.

He came to you with little offerings; small trinkets, tomes of unreadable text. Useless to him, but perhaps you would take pity on him in exchange, and let him take comfort in your presence for another day. Childe came to you with rubble shaped in hearts, the gentle breath of his voice as he spoke of his anxieties. He did not think of them as offerings then, merely gifts— pleadings for you to stay a little longer.

His hands, then unruined and soft, made you a makeshift altar crafted out of whatever he could find. He made sure to build it where he felt your whispers were strongest, where your light entirely overwhelmed the darkness overhead. Childe didn't think of it as an altar then, just a place to settle his findings, where he could pretend his sad, little effigy made of you was actually you.

The idol didn't look much like a person at all, and at the time, he didn't think of his behavior as odd. He desperately clung to you for survival, and with no other warm body besides his own, you were the only one he could talk too.

At times, he thought he was going insane. There was a pleasant buzzing in his ears whenever he neared your doll, as if it were calling him. Despite the fact that he had made it, proven by the tiny scars on his palms, he still felt as if it was yours.

In the darkness, Childe whispered to you. He said everything his mind could think, childishly exaggerated tales in hopes of impressing you. A foolish endeavor, considering you were a God— but he still hoped that maybe you'd think of him kindly, and let him bask in your protective glow for just one more moment.

He couldn't hear your words, but he could feel them. The twinkle of your laughter was like a soft whistle in his ears. When you were pleased, the air would lightly ruffle his hair. Despite how agonizing his loneliness was, at least he had you by his side.

Childe's innocence, as all things do, eventually withered away in that malevolent black.

He thought of you as his teacher; a guiding hand that trained him, molded him to fit against your palm. When he struggled against the abyssal beasts, he could feel you— a soft brush against his hand, a firm hold on his back, keeping him focused. You taught him when to still his blade and when to strike.

In the arches of his sword and polearm, in the taut and tense pull of his bow, in the whirlwind of his catalyst— you were there, shining from beyond the thin veil separating you.

When Childe was ripped out of the abyss, so was his connection to you. Like a thread snapping, he could no longer feel you; not in the darkness overhead, not in the grip of his blade, of the depths of his soul. You were gone, and he was once again nothing but a boy, lost and alone. Friends and family surround him, thankful for his return, but his mind is still reeling, still stuck in the abyss and the sudden emptiness left in your wake.

Despite himself, Childe had hoped you would have stayed, even once he was out. He thought he was done with being naïve, but that clearly wasn't the case.

He can’t feel you anymore. Where did you go? Why did you leave? What did he do wrong? Questions swirl in his head like whirlpools of thought. Childe feels like he's drowning, suffocating in the mess of his mind. His breaths come out short, quick and sharp. His throat squeezes, constricting his airways, as he realizes what's unfolded.

You left him.

He should've known better. On that first day, all you had done was take pity on him by letting him linger in your light. It was his fault for ever believing that he would never have to be alone again. That even if he had no one else, at least he had you.

This was the result of his own failure. If only he had proven himself worthy.

When his family found him, they found him gripping a small, rudimentary doll. Even when they reached their home, Childe was still clutching the thing as if possessed. When they tried tugging it out of his hands, saying it would help him eat better, he ripped it from their grasp, holding it to his chest.

Childe couldn't accept that you had left him so easily. At night, back in his warm bed, Childe tries to whisper to you again. The familiar warmth sinks into his pores, but it's nothing like yours. He nuzzles closer to the doll, ignoring how it tears into his skin.

"I'm here," he whispers.

Maybe you got confused. He knows you're a God, but even the Seven are not omniscient. When he was torn from the abyss, it was possible you hadn't meant to so cruelly cut the connection between you. Maybe you couldn't find him, and so he just has to tell you where he is.

So he whispers to you in the dark, just as he has so many times before.

Only this time, he's met with silence.

In the years that pass, you linger at the forefront of his mind, haunting him like a wraith. Childe can't bring himself to be rid of you, despite how it hurts every time he thinks about you for a little too long. He's still stuck, perpetually waiting for your return, despite how he knows you've long given him up.

Childe becomes Tartaglia, the 11th Harbinger under the Tsaritsa. He takes a new name, a new mask— he executes her orders dutifully, and he does his role perfectly. He acts as if she's you, despite how desperately he wants to believe otherwise. If he closes his eyes for long enough, he can pretend that the cold that seeps into his bones in her presence is yours.

But no matter how many names and identities he takes, he'll always just be your Ajax; the boy who still misses you, despite how short your time together was. And that fact is what burns him the most.

Maybe he should be angry. He knows he has every right to be. Angry that you left him, that you discarded him as if he was nothing. Maybe he should hate you— hate you for leaving him alone, as if you weren't the only thing keeping him sane. Hate you for leaving as if his love didn't matter to you.

He comforts himself by thinking of the time dilation he experienced in the abyss. You cared for him so much that you spun three days into three months. He likes to believe he meant something to you; he must've, because why else would you lengthen your time spent together?

Childe knows it isn't true. He didn't matter enough for you to stay, after all.

At night, Childe finds himself listlessly thinking of you. It's a silent mourning. Quiet tears fall down his cheeks, soaking the pillow beneath his head. He chokes down every heaving sob that threatens to break from his throat; clenches his jaw when they claw too close to his lips. He slaps a hand over his mouth when he's too loud, biting his fingers until they're bloody and marred by his teeth. What would you think if you saw him this weak? Saw the boy you built up crumble, all because he can't feel even the softest traces of your presence anymore?

You would find him pathetic. All he's done is prove that you were right in abandoning him.

When the memory of you is too much to bear, he clutches the effigy in his arms, squeezing it against his chest until it's sharp edges dig into his skin. Even after all these years, he's still kept it close. He tries to feel the visage of you that was once attached to its bearings, whispering for you under the night sky, hoping it'll remind you of your time in the abyss— hoping that tonight he will feel you again, ruffling his hair with tendrils of wind.

He never does.

Childe barely sleeps, but when he does, he dreams of you. You have no body, no face— he can't even begin to imagine what you look like, and he doesn't dare too, even when he knows he has nothing to lose.

He's back in the dark, but you're still there with him, providing him light and comfort. If he knew that leaving would entail being without you, he never would have left at all. Better to be with you than to die without.

Sometimes, he dreams of you staying with him even after he escapes. Your warmth is ever-present. He gifts you riches, now. You have a voice in his dreams, and he can hear you speaking to him. You're kind, and gentle, and he wants for nothing. He has you, and there is nothing more to want.

He dreams he never lost you at all. It makes reality all the more painful.

In a way he knows is pathetic, Childe hopes you at least found him fun. He hopes you found him entertaining, despite how the thought twists his heart and guts into little knots, until he feels vaguely nauseous at the notion. At least then you would have reason to remember him. At least he could say he meant something to you.

In a hidden corner of his room, there sits an altar for you. His wealth as a Harbinger means he has no lack of resources, and so he bejewels the altar until it glimmers even without light. It's obnoxious and opulent to the point of vanity, but he figures that if you like it, he'll earn another whisper of warmth from you— in the vain hope that you hear him at all anymore.

With his hands, now calloused and worn, he carves sigils into whalebone. He doesn't know what they mean, but they were numerous in the abyss; and so he etches them into bone, hoping that whatever they mean, it reaches you.

Childe pushes himself more than he should. His back aches from all the weight he carries on his shoulders, but he trudges forward despite how it hurts. He is more fervent in conflicts, and spectacular scenes of blood and viscera follow him every time he walks onto a battlefield.

His tongue forms words of devotion for the Tsaritsa as he slays another enemy, blood staining his fingers, but in his heart, he only ever speaks of you.

When he fights, Childe can lose himself. He can focus entirely on the movement of his feet, the precision of his blade. He can ignore how badly he misses you, and how in the back of his mind, he desperately hopes that the more blood he sheds with your teachings, you'll find him satisfactory.

Adrenaline rushes through his veins, and once again he lets himself be drowned by the rush, letting himself forget all of his pain.

Childe is proud of the way that no one can recognize his style of fighting. It is exact and sharp— every strike hitting its target with ease, filled with vigor and intensity. He enjoys the gazes of jealousy, but remains silent when asked. My teacher taught me, he says. He sheds no further light on the matter, and any instance someone shows interest in learning from him, he instantly refuses. Childe wishes to keep you close to his chest, a guarded secret known only to him.

Childish, perhaps. He knows it is. But if he can't have you, then he will have the knowledge of you. He will keep it to himself, and there it will stay, safe in his tight grip.

It drives him insane, the way sees you in everything. When night falls, covering the sky in a blanket of stars, he wonders if you're staring at him from above. When the tides of the sea brush against the shore, he finds himself thinking of you as the moon— you are what anchors him, despite the fact that he hasn't felt you in so long. In his eyes, there is nothing you could not be, and with every breath, he only ever misses you more.

It's during his mission in Liyue that he feels you again. Childe is unable to breathe when he meets the Traveler, sensing you watching from their eyes. His heart thunders in his chest, tempestuous as a storm over the sea.

For a moment, he's happy. You're finally back. He wants nothing more than to run to you, to ask you why you left for so long, to ask how he can make you stay, but then he feels you— a familiar pressure bearing down on him, forcing him to say anything but what he wants to.

Childe watches the Traveler's back fade as it finally clicks for him.

You abandoned him for someone else. You left him... for this. The thought sends him reeling. You left him, just to go spend time with someone else— to give them the same company you gave him, to give them the same guidance you gave him— was he merely replaceable to you?

Was he just a test for you?

He should be angry. And he is, but the heartbreak overwhelms him. He's left choking, battling for air. The agony of having been tossed to the side, of having it be affirmed in front of his eyes. He wants to scream and cry, beg for you to return; but his throat squeezes every time he meets the Traveler, and the words die on his tongue.

You don't want him to speak. He's meant to play along.

Childe had waited for you for so long. Even after all this time, he couldn't get rid of the painful hope that you'd return. He had done his best to bottle his emotions, to keep them shut and locked inside, so that you wouldn't be disappointed in him upon your arrival. Proud that he never doubted you for a moment.

But he had. He had doubted you, cried at the lack of your comfort. Afraid of what it meant to be without you. Fearful of living, never getting to gleam your existence for a second time— and now you want him to pretend as if he never knew you.

As if he can't see the slight smugness in the Traveler's eyes.

His fight with the Traveler is personal. He bares his teeth, snarling like a rabid dog. His every strike is fast, precise with the intent to kill and maim. Childe hopes his emotions reach you, that you know of his bitterness and acrimony. That you know of how long he wished for you, how long he yearned for you to come back— how his frustration has twisted into pure rage, turned into a fine point.

He just has to simply show you how he's better. He has to show you that he's superior in every way to your choice. That you should've chosen him over them.

They are undeserving; watch how he rips through them like they are nothing, slicing through them like they are mist over sea. They are unworthy; see how easily he beats them into submission, how easily they crumble at his feet. The matter of the Gnosis is nothing to him, now— only whether you see how he should be the one you prefer.

It's then that he feels it. Your rage. Your anger at having been battered and bruised. The Traveler stands back up, but something is different now. Their strikes are fluid, prowess and skill increased by an outside force.

You.

Do you hate him that badly? Detest him so much, to go so far as to bless another with your strength so they can prove themselves to be his better? Even in his Foul Legacy form, Childe is forced to retreat; forced to bow his head in defeat, weakened by the burden of his transformation.

The realization leaves a bitter taste in his mouth. He's done the exact opposite of what he set out to do. All he's proven is that your right.

Childe feels your crushing weight bearing down on him. He spits the words out, calls them 'friend' through clenched teeth. He dances to your whims, just as he had previously. Unnatural, stiff movements and words that speak the opposite of what he means.

And then you're gone, left along with them. He stares at their fading back. He can almost imagine you beside them, walking by their side just as you once did his.

It hurts.

The next time he feels you, there is no sign of the Traveler. Only a tight pulling in his chest.

He doesn't know what it means, or what it entails. But he follows, sensing you at the end, waiting for him. Childe doesn't allow himself to hope; that maybe, you have come around. That maybe you do care. That maybe, you never hated him— not truly. That you missed him just as he missed you.

Maybe he meant something, after all.

When he reaches you, he feels it. You're happy. You're happy with him. He feels you reaching out, tickling him with strands of your will. You brush against his skin, burrow deep inside. Childe lets you, still unable to breathe.

He wonders if this is really happening. Have you come back to him, truly? Have you finally realized how much better he is? He feels you graze his soul, reaching deep within. Childe feels you envelop him, swathing him in warmth and comfort.

You're home, you whisper.

He only hears the ghost of your voice, a chime in the wind; but he hears the intent, the meaning behind your unintelligible words, even though he can't understand them.

Childe breaks.

SANGUINE NATUS ; first meeting/as a worshiper

If even just your breath could leave him weak, then seeing you for the first time makes his knees give out underneath him.

It's a foolishly embarrassing display, but Childe can't find it in himself to care. He falls to his knees quicker than his mind can catch up, unconsciously posturing himself to make himself seem as small and harmless as possible— anything to make you stay, even if it means sabotaging his image.

He tucks his shoulders inward, struggling between looking at you until his eyes burn and your image is seared into the back of his eyelids, or averting his gaze because just touching you with them feels like he's sullying you somehow.

His breath comes out short and sharp, his entire chest heaving with each shuddering, raspy exhale. Before he can even manage a sound, he's sobbing, crumpling to the floor— there's no care taken to your perception of him now, only the wailful cries of one lost in the weight of your eyes. Childe knows he's being pathetic, a mess of airy desperation and red eyes; everything he was when he felt the ghost of you leave him, and everything he wished you'd never see. But it's you, and for the first time, he can truly feel your eyes on him.

It's all too much to bear.

"I-It's you, it's you—!" Childe manages to choke, wet tears caking the apples of his face. His eyes strain, burning to see the visage of you through the blur of his vision. Nausea bites at him, his abdomen a sudden storm from the tears that lick at his cheeks.

Childe has always been austere in his worship; strict, solemn in how he acts out every religious rite. There is an icy silence unlike him as he moves, particularly whenever your sanctity is involved. His fingers still tremble despite his stiffness, the desperation loud in every twitch of his limbs. The desire to see you, after all is said and done.

Seeing you for the first time feels as though a wave has overtaken him, drowning him in brine and the cerulean of muddy waters. There is no hiding what he could barely contain before— jerky movements filled with need and the dolor of one disappointed before.

Childe no longer finds himself able to veil it by lies and rushing fights of adrenaline; now, it lies bare, and there's no burning ache to keep it hidden.

His fervor is relentless; a feverish desire to please you coalescing until it's unbearable for his skin. Your reaction to his cries could have been cruel or kind, and it wouldn't have bothered him; all that matters is whether he has finally proven himself worthy of standing by your side.

His worship is eager words spilling from his lips at night, the echo of your name a murmur from his mouth like the sigh of the ocean's waves-- his blades stained red, limp at his sides-- the burning in the back of his throat that comes from years of pleading.

You're here now, even if he can't be with you at all times; and that knowledge leaves him whispering to you, uttering every thought without a moment of reconsideration. It is a ceaseless endeavor, as every word is listless praise and endless adoration. There isn't a moment where he isn't thinking of you in some way, and the mere thought of the opposite leaves him feeling vaguely sick.

He wants to think of you all the time. Though it's such a small thing, in his mind, he has you all to himself— in the sense that there is no one else to take your eyes off of him— there, he can make you happy; there, he can make you proud of him. In that world, you have no reason to be rid of him.

Childe's always kept his habit of crafting you makeshift gifts. They're rugged, imperfect things, but laden with his fingerprints and the palms of his hands. Before, he could only set them still on his altar for you, and hope that it pleased you somehow. He was only ever met with silence, but he could pretend you were happy with him, and the idea alone was enough.

When he catches sight of a sea conch, its pale marks swirled across its smooth surface, he can only think of handing it to you. It's a beautiful thing, and so simple and crude a gift; but maybe you will find worth in such a thing, the simplicity of its nature, and praise him for it.

He gives them to you physically now, unable to shake the urge to do so. His hands always tremble when he hands them over, his knees threatening to buckle underneath him whenever your fingers brush against his. He will never fail to drown in the sensation, allowing everything that he is to become thoughts of you.

Childe has always worshiped you in bloodshed. In the past, he hoped it would leave you satisfied enough to come back; now, it's to prove how much better he is than everyone else. His fear runs deep, like cracks in the earth far below the water's surface, and the sickening feeling of dread whenever you praise someone else suffocates him.

It's unreasonable, he knows, and he has no reason to fear, not anymore— but his heart still quickens at the thought, and his stomach still twists.

It's an all too familiar feeling. When he was first torn from you, he felt as though his heart had been ripped right out of him; and the panic he feels only reminds him of it.

When he's inevitably forced away from you on another mission, he deals with it as quickly as possible, no matter how bloodied or bruised he leaves it. He is brutally unkind in his workings, his words always terse and clipped; a slight edge that never really seems to go away until he knows you're somewhere nearby.

It's when he's forced to stay away from you for a longer period of time that he breaks completely. Upon his return, he is instantly back at your side, heaving sobs and ugly tears running down his face. He can barely think, and a flurry of slurred words leaves his lips— begging to never leave your side again.

Childe knows better than to think he is deserving of your kindness, but he’s desperate to at least stay in your shadow. There, he could stay near you, even if he was swathed in black— even if his only glimpse of you was your back, he would be in bliss. To be near you in some form is all he could ever ask of you.

For all of the power you have granted him, it's only right that he use it for you. A mere word from anyone that isn't pure praise has his grip on his weapon tightening, the tendons on his hand taut and his knuckles pale. He remains entirely oblivious to any moral ambiguity in your actions— whatever you do is right and just; as you are the only one worthy of judging yourself, he does not dare too.

Instead, Childe draws his blade in judgement of others— he will act as your hand and executioner, the arbiter of your faith; it's with only vigor that he hands out punishment, a ferocity bold and true.

AMANS IN SPINIS IACET ; as your lover

Childe's dreams have begun to take a sudden turn.

It's not anything he can control, despite how hard he tries too. They pleased him at first, even though he still couldn't help the way his heart tightened at the idea of you somehow knowing. At that time, they weren't occurring enough for him to be worried, and the content themselves were innocent enough for him to think nothing of it.

You held him close to you, pressing benign kisses across his freckled cheeks, playing with his hair with soft fingers; little things that he could believe meant nothing at all, just a desire to feel your affection in the only way his mortal heart knew how.

The dreams turn nightly, and Childe finally realizes it's much more than that.

It begins at signs of your favoritism. Glances that last more than they should, summoning him to your chambers more frequently; Childe does not deny you, and he can't help the faint giddiness that clouds his mind every time he feels your gaze linger on him. It's a euphoric sensation to know that he is the one you are looking at; no one else. Only barely does he manage to rein in his emotions every time.

You speak much softer to him, and your touch is more affectionate. He turns drunk on your approval, willingly dancing to your whims if it meant having your fingers coiled in his hair for another moment. Before he can stop himself for even daring to think it, Childe lets himself believe he's special to you— and that is where the problem arises.

The thoughts don't stop. Even if he screams to drown out the noise, they still manage to be so loud. The dreams are relentless, more loving, more vivid. He can feel the warmth of your palms as you caress his cheeks, the weight of your breath when you draw your head near; they feel so real, that for a moment, he thinks you're the one sending them to him.

He feels as though he's dirtying you in some form, as if he is the one committing an unforgivable sin against you; somehow managing to desecrate you with just his thoughts alone. The idea sends him into a panic-induced frenzy, kneeling before his altar with rushed, unintelligible apologies on his lips.

Despite his self-hatred, whenever he wakes from one, Childe is left blissfully dazed, nuzzling into his pillow with hazy clarity— pretending that it's you, instead. He wonders what it would be like if his dreams were real, if he could really be so special to you in such a way; entirely irreplaceable, entirely yours.

It doesn't take long for his will to be eroded by his desperation. His desire to resist was already hanging by a thread, and as the dreams persist, any resistance on his end is lost. He falls ever deeper into an abyss of his own making, allowing himself to be undone by his own creation.

Childe has always been needy, but as his feelings rear their ugly head, it only grows worse. He has always loved you— and he had been struggling to choke his own feelings down for as long as he could, fooling himself into believing that they didn't exist in the first place. In his eyes, it's only right that you be the one to shake the foundation he lay; making him crumble until every dark part of himself is laid bare in front of you, only for your eyes.

There's a drastic increase in his desperation to be near you, and any lack of refusal on your part only exacerbates it. He neglects his duties entirely in favor of staying by you in some way or another, be it either by your side, or following you from a distance like a lost puppy.

Your admittance of feelings only makes Childe more fervent. He can barely hear himself speak, his heart fluttering against his ribcage like a caged canary. He can barely believe anything you're saying, and for a moment, he wonders if he's lost in another dream of his.

At your assurance, Childe doesn't dare to doubt you any longer. He falls entirely into you, allowing you to consume his every thought. He doesn't think to fight back, letting you envelop him until his every breath is coated in your name. He is yours, and he has no desire for anything more.

His desire for your approval now emboldens him. Childe's always acted out of an interest in garnering your attention, and though he now knows of your feelings, it does nothing to satiate him; instead, it leaves him hungrier, greedy with an eagerness to please.

He doesn't take from you without asking, but he asks enough for it to be a nuisance. Your affection is everything to him, and he can't bear to go a moment without it. He asks to lay his head in your lap, for you to play with his hair— the loss of your touch is the loss of himself, and sends him reeling back to memories of when he was without you.

The first time you kiss him, his legs instantly give out underneath him, a small groan leaving his lips. Childe doesn't bother to dull his reactions; you deserve to know how easily weakened he is by your touch, with even a brush of your fingers enough to leave him breathless and wanting.

As your favorite, Childe is quick to be rid of any competition. Whether or not you see them as possible suitors doesn't even cross his mind— the fear that snakes around his heart is ever-present, and if they're better than him in some form, it only grows in persistence. He doesn't hurt them, because surely that would upset you, and any devotee of you is worthy of respect— but he is quick to showcase his superiority, and to do so broadly without shame.

Childe grows used to his new status, and uses it to stay by your side constantly. Any attention you give to others is met with instant jealousy, seething glares sent to whoever stole your gaze, even if they only preoccupied a second of your mind.

He could never be mad at you, as clearly the fault lies within himself.

Any signs of your likes and dislikes are instantly noted. If you compliment someone for their behavior, he begins to emulate it, or at least he tries too. If you like Zhongli for how well he executes your orders, then Childe will be the same; only he will do it better, quicker, and prove himself still deserving of your love.

If he were perfect, then you would have no need for anyone else. If he were perfect, he would never have to worry about whether you'll grow bored of him the moment he stops being entertaining enough.

The thought of you with another leaves Childe sick without fail. He knows he has no control over you, and that if you wished to be rid of him, he would willingly walk into whatever punishment awaited him— but now that he has tasted what it feels like to be so utterly yours, he can't bear to imagine another sharing the same treatment.

You kissing another, holding another, letting someone else lay against you; all of it only serves to further blur his vision. Even if it is sinful of him to feel, he can't stop the emotions from swirling in his chest.

You are everything; the earth laid beneath his feet, the foundation of which he relies on. To be without you is to fall, to be without you means death; and if he must carve his skin and bone to fit the picture you want him to be, then he shall.

#[🦇] — my writing #genshin impact #yandere genshin #sagau #yandere male #yandere genshin impact #yandere genshin x reader #genshin x reader #self aware genshin #yandere childe #sagau childe #self aware childe #genshin cult au #cult au childe

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brain-rot-central · 6 months

Text

Unholy Desire

Pairing: spawn!Astarion x female!Tav (the reader is Tav)

Warnings: 18+, religious kink, breeding kink, innuendo, dry humping, mutual pining, reclaiming sexuality through kink, they talk out their feelings

Word count: 2.7k

Summary: Takes place in Act 3, pre-Cazador. You've finally made it to Baldur's Gate. You take time to offer prayers to your God after coming upon a small church on the outskirts of the city. You and your lover have grown closer over these long weeks, healing past wounds within your hearts, minds, and souls. Your desire has grown to become... sinful. You have a choice to consider: your Oath, or your lover?

This is the third camping spot you and your team find on the outskirts of Baldur's Gate. Rotating spots every few days was probably the best course of action, lest the Flaming Fists come to chase you away in the middle of the night.

You find an old abandoned church during your inspection of these latest campgrounds. It has been a while since you had a proper spot to sit and pray. Lathander has been kind in your journey, thus far. You hadn't offered thanks nearly enough for shining light in the darkest depths of the Shadow-Cursed Lands. Despite the challenges you faced, you and your companions arrived safely to Baldur's Gate. You kneel down behind a bench within the church and fold your hands in prayer. You hang your head and close your eyes. The sun begins to warm your skin as it shines through a crack in the church ceiling. A smile tugs at the corner of your mouth; Lathander is receptive to your prayer offering.

You don't recall how long you remain in that position, praying to the Morninglord. When your eyes lift up, you notice that night has fallen. You see a faint glow in the distance, surely that of the campfire. Faint bits of conversation travel along the night air. The conversation sounds jovial; it's probably fine for you to stay here a bit longer.

Astarion stands in the doorway to the small church, eyes fixated on you as you kneel once again in prayer. He'd come searching for you after your companions failed to reveal your whereabouts. He scoffs softly upon entering the abandoned structure. He thanks the tadpole nestled in his skull for affording him the luxury of waltzing straight into a church. Were this a few months ago, he surely would have burst into cinders upon the first step.

You hear a small 'crunch' off to your left; your head shoots up and your eyes settle on Astarion, who is frozen in place. You will your features to soften at the realization it was only your partner, your lover, who came to check on you. "Are you certain you're a rogue?" you speak to him through the darkness.

Moonlight pours through the ceiling and bathes his face as he comes closer to you, now within full view. He looks ethereal in the pale light. The moonlight reflects off his silver hair in a halo. His eyes glint like newly-polished ruby gemstones, his skin glows like the finest cut ivory. You find it challenging at times to believe he is your mate on this journey. Difficult to accept that the two of you had shared a bed on multiple occasions. The thought makes your mouth dry and your head swim. You shake your head slightly, clearing your mind of such perverse thoughts.

"My dear," he begins, his signature posh tone dripping from each word, "if you've truly forgotten just how deft I am with my hands..." Astarion sits next to your knelt form. He drops a hand to cup your chin, gently tilting your face up to meet his, "...then perhaps you need reminding."

You swallow thickly as he holds your face, and watch his eyes begin to hood. A smile graces his lips and he releases your chin. He scans the church briefly, snickering. "What in the hells are you even doing here? It's rather... drab, darling."

You stand up and brush yourself off. You proceed to then sit next to him on the bench. "I'm praying, Astarion." You take a deep breath in and meet his eyes. "Lathander has been most kind on our journey. I haven't given him nearly enough of my thanks."

Astarion audibly scoffs. "Ugh, I can clearly see that. But why, is my question."

"We made it safely to Baldur's Gate," you explain. "That's more than enough to be thankful for."

Astarion suddenly stands up and over you. A scowl graces his visage, "And you didn't think to tell me you'd be here?" He places one hand upon his hip. "No one had any idea where you'd gone!" His face falls and he averts his gaze to the side. "I was... concerned that you were still out in the city."

You chuckle. Astarion has a softer side to him that sometimes slips out of his otherwise gruff facade. It makes your heart sing with delight each time you see it.

"I'm Baldurian, my love. Remember? I know the city streets quite well." You reach out to hold the hand at his side, and his palm wraps around yours. "I also happen to be a Paladin."

You follow his eyes as they fall upon the floor. The grip on your hand tightens. "And it's not exactly a daily occurrence to have a blood-thirsty vampiric master hunting you." He sighs, soft eyes regaining their focus on you, "Please, darling, just give me some warning next time."

Ah, he's worried you may have been snatched by Cazador. You stand to meet him and wrap your arms around his neck. "My apologies, Astarion. It was not my intention to make you worry." You bury your face in his neck and breathe in. Bergamot, rosemary, and brandy; his signature scent. You feel your body slowly mold against his as the smell floods your olfactory receptors. There have been many nights you've fallen asleep dreaming of this scent. It was oddly comforting to you. It makes you feel safe and secure.

Astarion rests his hands upon your hips and leans his cheek against your temple. You stand together in the small ruined church, holding one another, bathed in moonlight from the cracked ceiling above. "Do you have any idea how much you mean to me," a low rumble escapes his chest as he speaks. His hands begin to snake up your back, his palms resting on your shoulder blades, "Any clue what I think about when I'm alone in my tent at night?"

You slide a hand up into his hair, twirling the locks between your fingers. You litter featherlight kisses along his jawline, and he tilts his head back to give you better access. The hand in his hair tightens, holding him in place. A soft groan escapes his lips as you lick a stripe up the center of his neck. "I don't think you've ever told me," you say.

He shivers within your touch. You watch his eyes flit to the back of his head as you suckle at the scars upon his neck, "Hells, Tav, I've told you so many times..." his voice comes as a soft whisper into the night air. Astarion's hands slide down your back and to your waist, gripping your hips.

"Remind me," you insist as you watch a purple mark bloom on his neck. His hips stutter into yours, and you feel the hardening length of him ever so lightly brush across your mound. You tilt his head to gain access to the opposite side of his neck, and your mouth descends once more.

Another moan escapes his lips and he lowers his face to your ear. "I..." You feel his hands sink lower, coming to rest on your backside, "I think of you below me." Astarion’s breath is cool yet heavy in your ear as his hips begin to meet yours in a soft rhythm, "Or, bent over, with my cock splaying your darling little cunt."

Your hands drop to his biceps as a shutter passes over you. Your hips involuntarily grind against his, pleasured groans slipping free from both of your lips at the joint friction. His hands grip your ass and he holds you against him. You feel the outline of him press against your sex; your walls clench around the thought of him buried to the hilt inside you.

You lean back in his hold and he dips his face to your neck, nose tracing the outline of your pulse point. You shiver as Astarion begins placing chilled kisses against your carotid artery, and you once again lace your hands through his hair.

"I think about your greedy pussy milking my cock for as much of my spend as it can…" Astarion takes a hand off your behind and guides it to your clothed mound, pressing his fingers slightly upward as he swipes across the general vicinity of your clit, "...until you’re positively overflowing, and my seed weeps down your folds into a pool under us." You buck into his palm at the pressure of his fingers. Your hips grind down instinctively against his hand, and you mewl into his neck.

"Please," you beg, "what else do you think about?" Your voice is airy and ragged. You notice the door of the church is open, meaning anyone could see your current state, were they to come over. You feel a sensual twist in your abdomen, and your hands begin untying Astarion's trousers. You need this man stripped and bare before you, getting caught be damned.

His hands come to rest upon your own. "Oh dear, whatever could I have possibly said to put you in such a state?" he feigns coyness as he takes over for you, undoing the knots to his pants. “Are you certain you can handle knowing more?” You raise your head to meet his gaze and nod, slowly. Your eyes are hooded over in lust and you feel a warm blush begin to creep across your face.

Astarion raises a hand to cup the side of your face in his palm. His lips come to grace the shell of your ear, nipping at it softly with his blunted front teeth. The hand on your cheek begins to slide down to your throat and his fingers wrap around the column of your neck. His grip tightens into light pressure against your throat. “Do you truly want to hear…” his tongue traces the curve of your ear down to the lobe, “how I bring myself to completion…” his teeth tug at your earlobe, “...at the thought of you, swollen, with the ultimate consequence of our couplings?” His voice is a whisper in your ear, and you feel your knees threatening to buckle. You groan and extend your neck, a silent offering to the hand on your throat to hold tighter.

He guides one of your hands between the apex of his thighs and cups his swollen length in your palm. Even clothed, you could feel how hard he is. It sends electric shooting down your spine, resonating as a throb of your sex. He sucks in a breath at the pressure of your hand. A broken moan escapes his lips and he speaks into your ear again, “Have you any idea how terribly my body yearns to breed you?”

Your head swims, slowly losing all connection to this material plane of existence. To carry the child of an undead would be blasphemy; you would lose your Oath and fall out of favor with Lathander. Yet… you breathe heavily at the thought of being pumped so full of cum that your womb no longer has room for it. Your pussy throbs at the thought of falling pregnant from such a situation. You feel wetness gathering at the center of your thighs.

“Wouldn't that be the epitome of a holy offering to your God of life?” Astarion moves to press his forehead against yours, and kisses the tip of your nose.

“He's…” you try to rasp out a reply, but your voice fails you. Your face is burning and your thoughts are a muddled mess.

“He's what, dear?” You can hear the amusement in Astarion's voice, knowing he has gotten you to the point where your mind can no longer form coherent thoughts.

“He's… also the God of birth,” you force out. You feel his cock twitch against your palm as the words leave your lips. A shiver passes through you at the thought of giving birth to an undead child, Astarion's undead child. Would it even be possible?

“My, my…” You manage to open your eyes and catch the devious smirk gracing his lips, “how entirely sinful that would be. Your holy womb, thoroughly disgraced by the planting of my seed.” Astarion's lips form into a pout, his voice taking on a soft mocking tone, “I wonder if your God would forsake you for such a thing?”

You often forget Astarion is an undead; he played the part of the living so well, would easily blend into any crowd. Yet, during times like these, he relished in his unholy attributes. He'd long teased you about your devotion to Lathander, went on long monologues about how the Gods were graceless and inevitably forsook everyone. He'd told you how he prayed to every God he knew of during the year he was sealed in a tomb by Cazador. None had answered him. He was bitter, you knew this. And yet… he was also enamored by your devotion. Jealous, even, that your attention was divided between him, and a God.

Your arms come to rest upon his shoulders once more, and you move your head slightly back from his. Your eyes find one another; you hadn't noticed before, but your chosen conversation is having an impact on him, as well. Astarion's pupils are blown wide, the reds of his irises becoming thin rings. “...Could we even do that?” you question, “Could we actually… could I… Now?”

A chuckle escapes his chest. The corner of his tips turns upward into a smile. “Now probably isn't the best time, my sweet. Unless you'd like an audience.” He nods his head in the direction of your companions sitting around the campfire.

Suddenly, your periphery vision returns to you. You recall you're in the small abandoned church within camp, with your companions mere feet away from you. You'd almost begged Astarion to take you within earshot of your companions… in a church, after having just finished your prayers. A scowl graces your lips at the thought.

“Oh, don't be so sour,” Astarion says, tucking strands of hair behind your ear, “We can always try to make this a reality later tonight?”

“Astarion, is it even possible for you to sire a child?” You watch his lips purse into a flat line with your questioning, obviously offended, “I mean, with your… condition.”

Silence stretches long between you. You watch his gaze fall to the laces of his trousers and he begins to retie the knots. The silence is uncomfortable, and you begin to fear you'd said the wrong thing. Yet, you genuinely did not know. Could it happen? You'd not taken precautions during your past encounters. Could it have possibly… already happened? You shift uneasily and remove your arms from his neck.

“...I read a book while out with Gale one afternoon,” he finally says, grasping your wrists before your arms return to your sides. His fingers weave between your own, joining your hands. “He'd been raving about visiting ‘Sorcerous Sundries’ again. Something about an old, dusty tome of some sort,” he scoffs. “I haven't a damned clue what he was talking about.”

Your eyes widen. “You went out shopping, willingly, with Gale?”

“I know,” he sighs, “rather unbecoming of me. Though, I often have reasons for my madness.” He raises one of your joined hands to his lips, kissing the back of your hand, “One being… us. And what our future could be.”

“Astarion…” It dawns on you: he took the afternoon with Gale to research this very topic. To find out if this could ever be a reality for you both.

He unlaces one of your joined hands and brings his palm up to hold the side of your face. “As it turns out, so long as you keep me well-fed, that of which you already do…” a genuine smile graces his lips, “this could very much be a thing between us.”

You smile and raise your hand to cover the one on your cheek, turning your face into his palm. You kiss the inside of his palm, “I think it's best we return to everyone else, lest we get tempted again to start.”

“Of course, dear. I would have to agree,” Astarion turns toward the doorway of the abandoned church, holding out a hand toward you. “Our chosen company of weirdos may turn up with pitchforks should I not return with you in tow rather soon.”

You place your hand in his and follow his lead toward the doorway. “Another night, then?” you suggest.

“No, my sweet,” he says, kissing the back of your hand once more, “tonight would make a lovely opportunity to start.”

#astarion #astarion x reader #astarion x female reader #astarion x female tav #astarion x tav #astarion smut #astarion/reader #astarion/tav #inspired by ruby #thank you ruby #your writing is always *chef's kiss*

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