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brotherhoodoftheblade · 1 year

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You cannot tell me that DG (back before she lost her mind and dropped the ball at the homestretch) didn’t mean for us to read this scene:

“....It’s coming is a gift, which I accept with gratitude, but when it’s gone, there is no sense of abandonment or deprivation. I’m only glad to have had it for as long as it chose to remain.”

“And you’re saying your relationship with Manoke is the same. Does he feel that way about you, do you think?” I asked, fascinated. He glanced at me, cleared startled.

“I have no idea.”

“You, um, don’t...talk in bed?” I said, striving for delicacy.

His mouth twitched, and he looked away.

“No.”

We lay in silence for a few moments, examining the ceiling.

“Have you ever?” I blurted.

“Have I what?”

“Had a lover that you talked to?”

He cut his eyes at me.

“Yes. Perhaps not quite so frankly as I find myself talking to you, but, yes.”

(An Echo in the Bone, Ch.95)

...and draw a straight line in our recollections to the times John lay abed with Percy in BotB, speaking of intimacies they shared with no one else. Because obviously, Percy was the only lover of his he really talked to about deeply personal matters in bed. (That we were shown anyway. He probably confided in Hector at least about some things, I hope.)

“Shall I tell you a great secret?” Percy’s voice was soft, breath warm in his ear. Grey reached a hand through the sheets, slid it over the high round of a still warmer buttock.

“Please,” he whispered.

“My name is not Percival.”

.....[Percy] laughed a little unsteadily, took a deep breath, and lay down on his back, drawing the sheet up over his chest.

“My name is Perseverance,” he said in a rush.

“Per -” Grey lay completely still, holding his breath and concentrating fiercely on his belly muscles.

“Go ahead and laugh,” Percy said from the dark, with exceeding dryness. “I won’t mind.”

“Yes, you would,” Grey said, but was still unable to quell the bubble of mirth that rose up the back of his throat, and being there firmly suppressed, emerged through his nose in a strangled snort. To keep from committing further offense, he said the first thing that came into his mind.

“What’s your middle name?”

Percy laughed, sounding a little easier, now that the dreadful confession was made.

.....Just now, he was realizing exactly the magnitude of the the gift Percy had given him.

He was the only one who knew. Percy had been right; it was a great secret, and John felt the weight of his lover’s trust, warm on his heart.

He groped for Percy’s hand and found it, slightly cold. They lay silent for a bit, holding hands, bodies warming to each other.

..... “Shall I tell you a great secret?” Grey whispered, at long last. ...

“Please.” Percy’s hand tightened on his.

“My father was murdered.”

..... Somewhere in the telling, Percy had gathered him into his arms, and held him now, close against his body. His head lay in the hollow of Percy’s shoulder, and the curly hairs of Percy’s chest brushed soft against his lips as he spoke. ...

Percy’s hand smoothed the hair away from John’s face, gentle.

“Your mother likely thought whoever’d killed your father had got you, too.”

“Yes, she did.” For the first time in the telling, a lump came into his throat, recalling his mother’s face when she’d seen him, filthy, trailing hay and mud across the Turkey carpet in her boudoir. “That’s - that’s the only time she cried.”

Percy’s arm tightened round his shoulders. He could hear Percy’s heart, a muffled steady thump beneath his heart.

“And you?” Percy said at last, very quietly. “Did you weep for your father?”

“I never did,” he said, and closed his eyes.

(BotB, Ch.18)

~*~

Percy did return to the matter a few days later, though. No doubt it was a matter of Percy’s own upbringing in a religious milieu, Grey reflected. Or perhaps it was only that Percy had never been with a man willing to discuss philosophy in bed. Grey hadn’t, himself, but found the novelty mildly diverting.

They had left the barracks separately and met in Percy’s rooms for a few stolen hours. Where, after the initial delights of the flesh had been tasted, Grey found himself with his head pillowed on Percy’s stomach, being read to from a collection of legal opinions. published a year or two previous.

.....

“So,” Grey remarked, “we must be exterminated, because our pleasures are insufficiently ecstatic?”

Percy’s brow relaxed a bit, and he closed the book.

.....Still, he considered the matter, enjoying the peaceful rise and fall of Percy’s breathing beneath his cheek.

“I think a gentleman conducts his affairs with kindness and with honor,” he said, at last. ...

Percy gave a short laugh.

“Kindness and honor? That’s all well - but what of love?”

Grey valued love - and feared it - too greatly to make idle protestations.

“You cannot compel love,” he said finally, “nor summon it at will. Still less,” he added ruefully, “can you dismiss it.” He sat up then, and looked at Percy, who was looking down, tracing patterns on the counterpane with a fingertip. “I think you are not in love with me, are you?”

Percy smiled a little, not looking up. Not disagreeing, either. “Cannot dismiss it,” he echoed. “Who was he? Or is he?”

“Is.” Grey felt a sudden jolt of the heart at the speaking of that single word. Something at once joyful and terrible; the admission was irrevocable.

Percy was looking up at him now, brown eyes bright with interest.

“It is - I mean, he - you need not worry. There is no possibility of anything between us.” Grey blurted, and bit his tongue to keep back the sudden impulse to tell everything, only for the momentary ecstasy of speaking of Jamie Fraser. He was wiser than that, though, and kept the words bottled tight in his throat.

“Oh. He’s not...?” Percy’s gaze flicked momentarily over Grey’s nakedness, then returned to his face.

“No.”

It was late in the day; light skimmed across the room from the high attic windows, striking the dark burnished mass of Percy’s curling hair, painting the lines of his face in chiaroscuro, but leaving his body in the dimness of shadow.

“Is friendship and sincere liking not enough for you?” Grey was careful to avoid any tone of pettishness or accusation, making the question merely one of honest inquiry. Percy heard this, and smiled, lopsidedly, but with answering honesty.

“No.” He stretched out a hand and ran it up Grey’s bare arm, over the curve of his shoulder, and down the slope of his breast, where he spread his palm flat over the nipple - and took a sudden hold of the flesh there, fingers digging into the muscle.

“Add that, though...” he said softly, “and I think it will suffice.”

(BotB, Ch.19)

That their story will never have a happy resolution - after all that they were, and could’ve yet been, to each other - is just tragic. 🥺😭😭😭

#*sits here loathing DG again*#John and Percy were literally the only LJG pairing set up within the integrity of the narrative to actually have a true shared love #John and Manoke are a joke as romantic pairing - John barely knows the first thing about the man bc he's never cared enough to know #John and Stephan have a lovely friendship and occasional FWB thing but John himself both by his own actions and self-knowledge...#knows what he feels for Stephan isn't romantic love but only physical attraction coupled with genuine friendship #and sorry not sorry but John/Jamie will only ever exist in fanfics - DG will never make them canon #and honestly if she did after 25 fucking years it would feel like such slap in the face to John because someone who really loved him...#would've figured out their shit decades ago rather continually hurt someone they're supposed to care about #not to mention that John deserves so much more than to play third wheel to Jamie/Claire #I mean seriously WTF is Gabaldon even doing with John's character anymore?!?!?!#OL is the most frustrating fucking fandom ISTG #at this point only the fanfiction DG loathes so much is actually worth reading lol #my random ramblings #Lord John Grey #Percy Wainwright #john x percy #Brotherhood of the Blade #lord john series #quotes #anti diana gabaldon

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age-of-moonknight · 2 years

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“Moonlighting,” Moon Knight (Vol. 9/2021), #15.

Writer: Jed MacKay; Penciler and Inker: Alessandro Cappuccio; Colorist: Rachelle Rosenberg; Letterer: Cory Petit

#Marvel #Marvel comics #Marvel 616 #Moon Knight vol. 9 #Moon Knight 2021 #Moon Knight comics #Moon Knight #Marc Spector #Mr. Knight #at least he’s self-aware #no but in all seriousness #it’s fascinating that even Marc recognizes that continuously clawing onwards and never dodging a punch he could block with his face #is not exactly reasonable behavior #but then again it makes for a really interesting almost philosophical question #is “death before dishonor” “logic is irrelevant” in the face of defending one’s values even at the cost of one’s life ever “reasonable”#in the most pragmatic understanding of the word?#wouldn’t self-preservation be more reasonable in those cases as opposed to dying for abstract ideals?#but considering how much Marc loathes the time he spent chasing material gain as a mercenary (and himself accordingly)#as well as how cheaply Marc appraises his own mortality (and often times his self-worth)#it would make sense that Marc’s calculations for what is reasonable might be a little different than other people’s

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mental-scurvy · 2 years

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Okay fr tho I need more Izzy hands haters in my life, pls interact if you think the Stinky Man needs to go

#all of my friends are apologists and feel attacked whenever i talk about him #but like #the dynamics of abuse dont work for me and never will #i will never be able to look at the man who saw someone healing and went 'fuck that im going to make him worse for my own gratification'#with anything other than contempt #dont care about his backstory #dont care about his love for ed or lack of self worth #i didnt loathe him in this way before episode 10 but hoo mama do i after #also like #lets unpack the forgiveness of his racist mysoginistic ableist and homophobic behavior #lets jnpack the fact that he gets more fandom time than jim and olu by ablong shot #like con oneill is hot butnit doesnt justify that #grrrrrrrrrrred

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vixstarria · 5 months

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Intimacy

Hello friends, have some soft Act 2 Astarion.

Astarion’s struggle with sex and intimacy. Connected with my other fics but is a standalone, per usual.

Astarion x Reader, Astarion x Tav, soft Astarion

Hurt/comfort, some fluff if you squint, love, angst, mutual pining, Act 2 spoilers, some fairly softcore smut

Approximately 1,600 words.

“I have no idea what we’re doing,” he told you. You’d replayed that conversation over and over countless times in your mind, since.

You had no idea what you were doing either. Oh, navigating an ordinary relationship was simple enough, and you’d had your fair share of those – even if they’d all ended in disappointment at best, so far. Being with someone who’d just escaped 200 years of abuse, however... That was something new.

“I don't think I want you to think of me in terms of sex.”

Well that was a fuck-up. He was walking sex. ...Most likely due to sheer force of habit, so necessary for survival over all those years, but still.

“I love you.”

Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck...

You were in over your head too. Completely. Hopelessly. In love with this catastrophe of a man.

What were you to do with him now?

Wait for him to take the lead in every physical interaction? It wasn’t in your nature to be so passive. He knew this. And you were sure he would love to be treated like spurned glass all of a sudden.

Continue as you were? Even though now all you could think about was whether a touch might bring up a repulsive memory? Assume that you could singlehandedly overwrite centuries of disgust and loathing, overnight? How presumptuous and overbearing that would have been.

Communicate? Ask? Listen? Sure. Absolutely. You did. Or tried, anyway. You were about as good at talking about these things as he was. And you didn’t really trust him to be completely honest at this point. Whether with you or his own self.

And so you explored. Slowly, cautiously and attentively.

The most innocent touches seemed to bring him an inordinate amount of joy. You weren’t surprised.

Passing him a vial of poison for his weapons and letting your fingers brush and caress one another’s, briefly. Wordlessly running a stray hand along his waist and planting a quick kiss under his ear while you walked past him as he stood talking with someone. Lingering with your foreheads or noses touching lightly after a kiss.

He leaped at any opportunity to massage your sore muscles or help you apply a salve, and you let him. It seemed he wanted to take care of you, and was working out all the ways how.

He still pleasured you in different ways, at times.

“You don’t have to...”

“I want to,” he said.

He just chose to keep his own pants on, now. You weren’t sure about his motivations. Could it be guilt? Or a misguided sense of self-worth? Did he still think this is all he was good for? Or, maybe you were completely overthinking it, and he was still just desperately horny, even if taking a step back. He was more present than before though, you could tell that much.

You considered his reactions to other forms of touch, careful not to make your observation obvious.

He hated being scratched. The entire area of his back covered in scars was off-limits for anything but embraces. He enjoyed playful bites, both giving and receiving. And more than anything, he loved holding you close, feeling as much of your body at once as possible, basking in its warmth.

In turn, you were more than happy to wrap yourself around him when you could.

“Why do you even like this?” he asked, apprehensive about it at first. “You don’t need to pretend for my sake. I can’t give you any warmth.”

“I can give you mine,” you said, simply. “Besides, you obviously don’t remember what it’s like to lie in a puddle of sweat with someone who runs hot. This is a nice change.” you added after a moment of contemplation.

You meant what you said, but you were dying to drag him into a hot bath, just to know what it would feel like for him to be warmed through. Maybe you’d get the chance once you got to Baldur’s Gate.

There happened to be a private room available at Last Light Inn that night. The group unanimously agreed that you and Astarion would take it, while the rest of your companions bunked in the common.

“For Shar’s sake, piss off, none of us want to see or hear you two,” were the exact words of their blessing, delivered by Shadowheart. Karlach sanctified it by throwing a (deftly dodged) half-eaten apple at Astarion’s head.

“Especially not hear!”

“I know this may come as a shock, but I’m actually not too fond of beds,” he said.

“New memories, Astarion,” you shook your head. “Beds are non-negotiable. I wasn’t too fond of rutting in the dirt either.”

“I’ll never grow tired of how poetic you are,” he smiled, unceremoniously throwing his gear on the floor. “New memories, you say?”

A while later, you were straddling Astarion’s hips as he sat shirtless on the edge of the bed.

“You know, you never did tell me what you like,” you sighed, your fingers in his hair as he kissed your neck.

“Oh, what does anyone like? It’s all the same in the end,” he said, running his hands along your thighs.

“That’s not true,” you murmured in his ear. “I can show you some things that are pretty unique to you right now,” you said and ran the tip of your tongue along the lower inner edge of his ear, making him shudder and let out a small moan.

“You little devil, when did you figure that out?” he breathed.

“When I happened to brush your ear a while back, like this,” you giggled, repeating the hand movement on his other ear, making him catch his breath slightly again, “and you just about started purring.”

He just chuckled in response.

“So what other secrets are you hiding?” you purred, kissing around his ear. “I might just need to kiss and caress every inch of your body to find out.”

"Sounds like a terrible chore,” he said, falling back onto the bed and pulling you with him. “You don’t want to do that.”

“Shut up and let me cherish you.”

You kissed down along one side his neck, slowly, taking your time, pausing to lightly lick or nibble on any spot that made him hitch his breath. He was putty in your hands by the time you reached his collarbone.

“Just don’t go any lower,” he said breathlessly.

You hummed your agreement. You couldn’t handle going any lower yourself – you were completely intoxicated with the scent of his skin and the sound of his sighs of pleasure, if you went any lower, you would keep going, and you didn’t think it was a day for that yet.

You continued up the other side of his neck instead.

You hesitated for a moment before your lips reached the bite marks left by Cazador, but Astarion made no indication that he didn’t want you to keep going, and so you continued. He let out a soft whimper as your lips brushed the scars.

“No?” you pulled back slightly, your hot breath still on his skin. He was lying with his eyes shut, head thrown back, neck completely exposed to you.

“Yes...” he whispered, hoarsely. “Very yes... Softly...”

You continued, lingering with your lips on the scars, as his fingers dug into the flesh of your hips, snapping them against his own and grinding you against an unmistakable erection.

“I want you to make those marks your own... Yours and no one else’s...” he rasped.

This is probably a mistake, you thought, but you could barely help yourself as you moaned into his neck and ran your tongue over the scars, making him growl and grind you into himself harder. The friction, the knowledge that he wanted it too was driving you mad.

“I’m going to come if you don’t stop that,” you begged.

“Go ahead,” he groaned.

“Not without you.”

Something in the energy changed then, and you lifted yourself off him, sitting up. Astarion stayed on his back a moment longer, before exhaling and also raising himself into a sitting position. You were still on his lap, facing him.

“Listen,” he took your face in both hands, looking into your eyes intensely. “I want you so fucking bad, it hurts. I want to tear your clothes off and ravage you until you’re speaking in tongues. I do.” His voice was hoarse. He paused, before continuing. “But even more than that, I want to remember this, remember you, and not have any of the dirt from my past mixed into it. It’s difficult enough to keep it at bay as it is.” His eyes teared up at that. “And right now, for now, this is the only way I know how to do that.”

“I’m sorry.” Tears sprang from your eyes.

“No, you sweet idiot, you haven’t done anything wrong. I love you.” He gathered you in his arms, kissing away your tears as his own started to roll down. He sighed. “Great, now no one is coming, and everyone is crying.”

You both burst out laughing as soon as those words were out of his mouth.

You held each other a while longer, him stroking your back, before you broke the silence.

“So the bite scars are pretty erogenous then?”

“Extremely. Use that knowledge at your own risk and peril, darling.”

He lifted your chin for a kiss.

“Shall we go piss everyone off for a while, maybe steal Lae’zel’s boots, then come back here for more ‘memories’?” he asked.

“Sounds childish and dangerous. I’m in.”

You needed to clear your head too.

Maybe tomorrow would be the day one of you would get closer to knowing what it was you were doing, and tell the other. Until then, at least you were in it together.

~~~~~

The “I love you” is not canon for Act 2, but it is my headcanon, damnit.

Like what you just read? Huzzah, there’s more! - Series master list

Next in series - Communication

AO3

#astarion #baldur’s gate 3 #bg3 #astarion x reader #astarion x tav #bg3 fanfic #astarion fanfic #softcore smut #bg3 smut #astarion smut

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hey-must-be-a-devilbetween-us · 9 months

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Just been thinking about how when Aziraphale said that 'Nothing Lasts Forever' and Crowley immediately took that in a totally different way than Aziraphale intended.

The look of surprise and confusion that quickly becomes desperation that takes over Aziraphale face as Crowley walks away, he calls out to him, begs him to come back to him, and quickly covers it up with 'to heaven.'

he didn't mean them, he would never mean them.

(a lot more under the cut)

the places would change, the circumstances would change, the people and the play and the drama would change, they have always had different seasons of their relationship.

but them, together, as always been as constant as the tides and the phases of the moon, even if they get separated for a month or a decade or a century, they always come back together.

Also been thinking about how Crowley doesn't have faith in a lot of things (for obvious reasons), but the most heart breaking is how he has no faith that underneath it all, no matter what, Aziraphale loves him and wants to be with him, even though he has a mountain of evidence of it.

Its been pointed out that Aziraphale this whole season has seemed to be trying to get closer emotionally to Crowley, 'shooting his shot.'

'Its our car, its our bookshop, its our plan to save Gabriel, take my hand lets dance while you tell me what's wrong my dear boy.'

More than just an arrangement, more than fraternizing, more then just friendly banter over drinks and food, it always was more, but now they can act like it, Aziraphale is going for it in his own way.

and Aziraphale is so obviously frustrated during the fight that Crowley doesn't see that.

but come on, you can't blame Crowley at this point, Aziraphale is effectively asking Crowley to change literally everything about themselves and forget a millennia of trauma and anger and guilt and self-loathing.

It sure makes it seem like Aziraphales love is now suddenly conditional on them changing.

I don't think Aziraphale sees it that way though right?

He doesn't see it as 'I will love Crowley more if they are an angel.' he sees it as 'Crowley will be happier as an angel surely? They will also be safer with that designation.' and 'any sacrifice will be worth it if it means we'll finally be able to be safe and together.'

See, I don't think Aziraphale even wants Crowley to be an angel again.

I think he's trying to convince himself that he wants that, which is what makes the Metatron offering that in the first place so damn insidious.

I think in his heart of hearts, appointing Crowley to be an angel again is just as much of a sacrifice to him as leaving his beloved bookshop, leaving earth with all its wonderful music and color and life and stories and people, but what does that say about him as an angel?

Everyone can sneer and look down on him for having affections for a demon but there is some plausible deniability that its just bad circumstances, Crowley just happens to be a demon but he's really very lovely once you get to know him, in spite of it all.

But like...giving Aziraphale the opportunity to make Crowley an angel again and he doesn't want to take it because...he loves Crowley exactly the way he is? That he may have had a crush on the angel he was, but it was truly The Demon Crowley that he fell in love with.

I think Aziraphale is gonna need some time to get brave enough to say that with his whole chest (but dear lord will it be wonderful when he does.)

And the Metatron knows this, and he knows Crowley is exactly who he is supposed to be, and so The Metatron knows that Crowley could never ever say yes to going back, it goes against his very nature, he knew that Crowley would take it exactly the way he did.

(Ergo more evidence that splitting them up is the whole goal because they're just too powerful together.)

So, Aziraphale is stuck in the worst way I can imagine.

He's given the opportunity to have everything he should want, so he's trying to make the best of it even though it decidedly isn't what he wants, because its evident that the meddling from Heaven and Hell isn't going away, the Metatron is giving him the path of least resistance, isn't that going along with Heaven as far as he can?

Every word he says to Crowley about how wonderful it will be and how this is an amazing opportunity and we'll be together and we'll make better choices, we'll make a difference.

Its trying to convince himself just as much.

I think Aziraphale is terrified of going back to heaven by himself, but what other choice does he have? He's terrified about what will happen if he doesn't, and not because of any explicit threat by the Metatron, but what it would imply about him, if they knew exactly how he felt about Crowley, what might they do to them both?

and that's why the Kiss™ is so horrible and beautiful at the same time, its harsh and it looks like it hurts when their teeth bump together and it is so desperate, but Aziraphale still clings to Crowley, trembling and whimpering (jesus christ sheen...)

More than an expression of romantic love (because by God herself have they expressed it in so many ways for thousands of years,) its a plea to stay, choose this, choose us.

And Aziraphale wants to, but he can't, and its agony, but how could he explain that to Crowley when he barely understands it himself, he doesn't recognize what the Metatron has done.

That's why Aziraphale seems just as angry at the kiss as he is fucking devastated, its not a 'how dare you kiss me,' its an 'how dare you kiss me right now, in this moment, when if it had came earlier everything might have been different."

"How dare you kiss me now to just let me know everything I'm giving up, and not just because you wanted to."

"How dare you make this our first kiss."

Aziraphale doesn't see the Kiss™ as the Hail Mary that it is, he sees it as a spiteful bitter thing, something that he has been yearning for forever being twisted into something to hurt him, but I think he can see the sadness and fear in it too, so he forgives Crowley for it.

And of course, Crowley takes that to mean, "I forgive you for kissing me when you know that's not how I feel, for trying to manipulate me." or something to that effect, either way its enough for him to leave the conversation, nothing more to say.

I think Aziraphales next arc is going to be all about being open and honest and brave, which is in exact juxtaposition to the traits that made him grow closer to Crowley in the first place and that's what really fucking gets me.

From giving away the flaming sword, the entire damn arrangement, trying to thwart the apocalypse, to the very fact that he loves Crowley.

"I'm a fallen angel! I lied! To thwart the will of God!"

"Yeah, ya did, but I'm not gonna tell anybody, are you?"

"Then nothing has to change."

Except it did, and it does, if they are to get their happy ending in their cottage in the south downs.

anyway, yeah that's all i wanted to say i think, how was your guys week so far?

gif credit:

@starklystar @raggedy-spaceman @spooks-ez

(if i missed anyone or miscredited pls lmk!)

cont in reply (i like what i wrote here so i'm trying to keep track lol)

#good omens 2 #good omens season 2 spoilers #good omens #ineffable husbands #aziracrow #crowley #aziraphale #neil gaiman #good omens meta #good omens 2 analysis #haha #i've been coming back and adding to this for days now #don't flop please haha #its alright my 7 mutuals will like it and thats enough for me :)#i'm really normal #so normal right now

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creatorofarcadia · 2 months

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It's been a while since I watched Supernatural, so don't take my opinions as gospel or anything. But I think Dean is self-hating to the point of narcissism in some ways. Don't get me wrong, I empathise with Dean and understand why fans largely do too. But his self-loathing warps his perception and becomes the centre of EVERYTHING and at times that really has ripple effects on those around him - particularly Sam.

Take their childhood, Sam has a right to mourn the fact that he didn't get a normal childhood. He's allowed to be angry that he didn't get a home, a present father, a stable community, and consistent education. But whenever Sam attempts to express his complicated feelings about his childhood, Dean immediately interprets it as ' oh I was supposed to look out for you. Are you saying I failed? Are you confirming I'm worthless?' which grinds the conversation to a complete halt. Because of Dean's intense self-criticism, Sam can never really be 100% honest with him or ask for support with his own issues, especially regarding their childhood. As anything outside of 100% gratitude just becomes another stick for Dean to beat himself with, and the conversation is immediately derailed.

Not only does Deans self-hatred mean that Sam's expression of his own experiences are pretty consistently shut down. In some ways, I think Dean strips Sam of his autonomy - he's so self-loathing, he sees every decision Sam makes as being about/a reaction to him. A good example of this is Stanford. Rather than understanding Stanford for what it was, an attempt by Sam to carve out a better life from himself and escape hunting. Dean views it as betrayal or abandonment, some re-affirmation of his own belief that he's not worth caring about. Rather than understanding it's a rejection of hunting, he sees it as Sam rejecting him. To Dean, Sam isn't attempting to find a better life, he's punishing the family.

Overall, it's interesting that people largely and rightfully sympathise with Dean due to his self-hatred. However, I don't see as much discussion about how his self-hatred doesn't just hurt him, it hurts those he's close to, as it colours his interpretation of their every action. Dean's self-loathing is always the biggest thing in the room and that has consequences.

#dean winchester #dean critical #spn meta #spn analysis #sam meta #spn #supernatural #sam winchester

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toorurs · 2 days

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"i see my reflection in your eyes" - aventurine

synopsis: aventurine loathes what he sees in the mirror. he avoids looking at his reflection, be it when looking down at champagne glasses, rain puddles or shop display windows. but how come you on the other hand look at him with such adoration? what makes him so special in your eyes, that the person that is reflected in your eyes looks nothing like aventurine but is none other than him. what do you see in him?

pairing: aventurine x reader (gn) |wordcount: 1.8k | content & warnings: established relationship, insecure!aventurine, aventurine cries a bit at the end, fluff, angst, hurt/comfort, use of kakavasha once, dual pov once but only short mainly aven centered, rushed ending (you can tell when i became lazy..), half assed-ly proofread; oneshot

tags: @azullumi "i see my reflection in your eyes" hits a lot. because azul is one of the ppl. whom i look up to and kinda aspire to be. + i feel so understood and never judged by him. thank you, sending u kisses and hugs to you azul <3

a/n: also inspired by "reflections" from the neighbourhood

“‘rine, come here! how do i look?”

aventurine readjusts his tie once again, the lush fabric is placed atop of his freshly ironed shirt, attached to the collar of the crisp button up shirt. the lavish bracelet, that shimmers like a delicate marble statue beneath the bedroom chandelier, is adorned with a dozen sapphires. his eyes dart over to your vanity which you’re sitting in front of, the mirror reflecting your face, mirroring your beautiful self.

he gets up from the queen size bed and makes his way over to your vanity, now standing behind you as he admires you through the mirror.

“so?” you look at him through the mirror, two pairs of eyes meeting each other. they find its way to each other just like how the sea longs for the shore and meet each other again and again.

“beautiful. beautiful as always.” he responds, he tears his eyes away from your gaze just like how the tide sweeps away. (he'll always find his way back to you.)

“yeah? sure that this isn't too much?” one of your fingers starts to fiddle with the strands of your hairs, as if you were trying to fix something.

(aventurine is under the belief that there’s nothing about you that should be fixed, you’re already perfect - you’ll always be perfect in his eyes.)

“mhm.” he hums.“ you look amazing, trust me. there’s nothing worth fixing.” upon hearing his words you withdraw your fingers from your head and place your hand onto the surface of the vanity again as you stare at the mirror and lock eyes with aventurine again while grinning.

the blond can only give you a sad smile in return. he’s unable to tear his eyes away from the mirror, there’s something eerie behind you - an ugly monster that is lurking behind you.

in comparison to you, he, the monster, looks like a hideous beast. he’s loathsome to look at, datatable even - a sore to the eyes, your seraphic eyes.

aventurine doesn't know what you see in him.

he’s an outcast that people ignore and resent, but still, you reach out your hand to him and give him a saccharine smile.

he's the last kid that gets chosen in a chair circle, however, you're the first one who invites him to join you.

he’s the fallen angel that was long abandoned by the heavens and the people, nevertheless you still pray to him.

aventurine tends to avoid looking at himself, be it when he’s walking past puddles, mirrors or shop display windows, aventurine doesn’t dare to look at them, out of fear to see himself. there are times when he has to look at himself - times when he’s forced to look at himself.

those mornings before work, right after he brushes his teeth and spits the remaining tooth paste into the sink and looks up to wash his face and stares at himself in the bathroom mirror - he loathes what he sees.

those times when the two of you take selfies together and he stares at his own reflection, so later on you’re able to hang the pictures up in your room - as long as it makes you happy.

those times when you ask for his opinion on your appearance and he stands in front of your vanity - just like now.

aventurine is convinced that he’s ugly. both on the in-and outside. there’s nothing good about him. he’s of no use other than being the ipc’s dog that is chained to their leash. he carries no value with him, he’s only worth a little - a mere thirty tanbas. he’s charming on the outside, but on the inside he’s nothing but hollow - an empty shell.

he often gets complimented by people, they say he has fair skin, a million dollar smile, a good body.

the fair skin they’re talking about is engraved with scars and burns. it’s tainted with scratches, tarnished in scrapes, stained with wounds that’ll never heal, no matter what.

his million dollar smile isn't his, the white teeth that beam every time he grins took him years of perfecting and polishing, until the yellow of his teeth faded away and was good enough to satisfy the people.

after all those years, his good body is still emaciated and malnourished, sometimes people would joke about him just being skin and bones and then brush it off by saying that it was a good thing that he was slim and toned.

the person in the mirror is called aventurine, that’s the name he received by the ipc. aventurine looks good - handsome even, better than kakavasha could ever or will ever be, after all kakavasha is a fragmentum that lies in the past, long forgotten.

“aventurine?”

“‘rine!”

“kakavasha!”

after what feels like an eternity aventurine reacts, he’s caught off guard - it’s been so long since he’s heard that name. he remembers telling you that he goes as aventurine now, kakavasha is a name that ties him back to the past, a time that only he remembers, after all everyone else who he had once known was gone. he recalls that you agreed when he asked you to address him by aventurine now, but hearing his given name spill from your mouth, is a sensation, a certain bliss aventurine didn't know he could experience.

“kakavasha, are you alright? you asked, your diligent voice brings him back to where he is - where he’s supposed to be. (with you.)

the way his name drips off your tongue is intoxicating, a tune chanted by a siren that lures him in, into the depths of the bottomless ocean.

(your eyes are like the wuthering waters, they’re full of yearning and longing. you wrap him tightly into the blankets of the ocean, even if he were to try to swim away, the tide would pull him back, sinking into unending abyss - you.)

“hm, yes of course.” he tilts his head to the side, grinning as he innocently tries to brush the worry in his and your voice off. “why'd you think otherwise?” he asks you as he stares into your eyes, two pairs of eyes locked with each other, like a pair of hands that intertwine and can’t seem to let go - just like a boy that can’t let go of his past and still hangs on.

“you know that i’m always here for you right?” you look at him with such devotion as if you’d worship the ground he walks on like a religion. caress his hands so lovingly, ignoring the fact that they’re soaked in blood. kiss the cheeks that are tainted with blemishes.

how?

the person that reflects in your eyes isn’t aventurine - it can’t be him. he doesn’t look like that, he’s not worthy looking at, he shouldn’t stand in the way of your cherubic gaze - he’s only a bother; an ugly sight to look at. your pupils dilate as they watch him with utmost love, he doesn’t deserve it. your eyes fill with love, like they would with tears, he fears that your love would spill if you were to watch him any longer. he fears that his eyes would well up and release tears, the longer he watches himself in your eyes.

how can you look at him with such adoration?

aventurine is a sight to behold.

he has always been - he’ll always be.

he’s the setting sun that welcomes the cold breeze of the night, the vibrant colors of the sunset are like his eyes - polychromatic, full of life. a blossoming flower that awakens as it gets shone upon by the sun, revealing its true beauty.

“your life only revolves around aventurine” would be a wrong thing to say - after all aventurine is your whole word.

you tuck one of his honey colored strands behind his ears, eyes glinting with playfulness as you stare at him. “you’re so beautiful.” a smile makes its way onto your face, earnest and sincere as you let out a small chuckle.

“so pretty.” you hum in amusement as you twirl another lock around your index finger.

his mouth opens but it closes again and he can only chuckle before replying.

you never fail to take his breath away, but he doesn’t mind, there was never much to say in the first place, after all you already know everything about him.

he lets out a strained laugh. “is that so? well i’m flattered, really.” he tries to give you a reassuring smile, it’s not like it’s hard for him to do so, but it seemed like you always knew what was going on in his head.

aventurine doesn’t know if he should fear or admire that trait of yours.

(to have a person know how you really feel means to become vulnerable around them, for them to see your weaknesses and mistakes, he doesnt want that, of course he wants to be seen, but that can only be done when you see his failures.)

again you see right through him, the palms of your hands immediately plant themselves on his cheeks. “aventurine, you know, i love you a lot. but i despise it when you lie to me.” your voice is stern but the words are full of care.

“it's okay if you're not sure what to say. I don't mind - i'd never mind. so i ask you to be honest with me.” you plead at him, why - why are you so irresistible. shy don’t you just give up on him, after all he's hard to love and even harder to understand.

“i don't think i can do that.” he mumbles quietly, his gaze swaying away from yours, out of fear that you’d look at him in disappointment. the doubt is clearly showing in his words but he tries to ignore it.

“see? that wasn't so hard was it?” at that he snaps his head back to your gaze, cheeks still kept in between your hands. you smile at him - why do you smile at him? “you just told me the truth, you told me that it’d be hard for you to tell me the truth.” you gently caress his cheek.

upon that aventurine can’t help but bury his head into the crook of your neck, slightly surprising you as you stumble a bit. due to him covering his face you can’t see what expression he wears but you feel wet patches form at the crook of your neck.

at that you can only run your fingers through his hair, massaging his scalps and drawing circles around the back of his head as you whisper into his ear. “take it slow, we have all the time in the world.”

he feels himself trembling under you and his voice breaking a bit as he murmurs the words into the crook of your neck.

“thank you.”

okay @azullumi you're getting an additional paragraph cause yeah!! you're super cool and i took a liking to u very quickly, ure sososo fun to talk to and you def have sweetened up the past few weeks for me and also motivated to write a lot! your feedbacks, praises etc. always give me sm motivation which isnt often found on tumblr anymore nowdays so i'm really grateful that you're always here for me. i'm very very fond of you and the same goes for you, i'll always be here for you!! (ps: please take care of yourself more, you're a great student and friend but please be a bit more considerate to yourself and take more breaks and rest well!)

e/n: when i had the outline i thought this was abt to turn out so good, well guess who was wrong.. not really content but oh well... as always rbs and comments are vv appreciated!! (and will def be read)

#𝓣𝓞𝓞𝓡𝓤𝓡𝓢: works ✯#—stellaronhvnters.#honkai star rail x reader #hsr x reader #honkai star rail fluff #hsr fluff #hsr aventurine #aventurine hsr #aventurine x reader #aventurine fluff #aventurine imagines #aventurine headcanons #aventurine angst #honkai star rail imagines #honkai star rail x gn reader #hsr imagines #hsr angst

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samthestrangerthingsfan · 2 months

Text

Pairing: Eddie Munson x Reader

Summary: frienemies-to-lovers, kinda mean!Eddie? shy!reader, swearing, a lil smoochin', mentions of lack of confidence and poor self image, cute nicknames

a/n: hi bb, will you be my valentine? I don't love writing mean!eddie but its okay because we can always fix him :)

Valentine’s Day.

A day which the Hawkins High elite are positively buzzing over the plethora of cheap red and pink decorations.

Cheerleaders swoon over poorly constructed cards from their popular boyfriends, while dozens of obnoxious mylar balloons take up way too much space in the already crowded hallways.

Beyond the 14th of February, the reason for all the excitement was the annual Hawkins High Valentine’s Day dance—of which you were head of the committee.

Was it because you were the only Senior to volunteer their time to coordinating it instead of attending it? Maybe, but at least it gave you a reason to show up to the dance without a date.

...and avoid looking like the pitiful wallflower you are.

You also knew you’d have no time to rush home and get ready after your last class, so here you are. Standing outside of the AV Club door, decked out in your new crushed-velvet dress. It's ruby red and dangerously short.

This was definitely out of your comfort zone. You typically preferred to be invisible. It’s easier that way; no one can hurt what they can’t see. Right?

But when this dress caught your eye in the mall shop window, it was the first time you could ever remember wanting to be seen. Wanting to try to look like the pretty girls who walk the halls everyday vying for the attention of others.

The dance gave you the perfect excuse. Sure, it’s not like you had a date or anyone asking you to go, but you felt so beautiful. The way the dress hugged your body made all the staring and whispering as you walked down the hallway so, so worth it.

“Hey—whoa…” Dustin’s voice dropped when he walked around the corner, arms full of equipment. “Y-you look fantastic!” He said proudly.

Dustin was your favorite Freshmen, always kind and happy to see you.

“Aw, thanks Dusty! You don’t think it’s too much?” You lifted your boot, inspecting it falsely.

Dustin smiled, “It’s too much for 6th period Spanish, but not for Valentine’s Day that’s for sure.”

He unlocked the door, and held it for you.

Dusting grabbed a pen and paper to write down what you’d need the AV Club’s help with after school.

With hands on your hips, you looked around the room. “Okay, so I definitely need the projector, and if you could set it up before—“

An annoying, loud, cocky voice cut you off. “Henderson! What the hell is takin’ you so long?”

Eddie fucking Munson.

You watched as he sauntered into the room, DIO jacket and all. He clapped Dustin on the shoulders before turning his gaze to you.

“Holy shit. That you, Mouse?”

Mouse. A nickname you loathed.

You’d made the mistake of sitting at the Hellfire table your Freshman year, and he’s never let let you live it down. Once Eddie saw just how shy you were, he made it his mission to get under your skin.

He'd plopped down into the seat next to you, assuming you were there to cause him and the guys trouble. “New girl’s trying to get in good with the freaks, hm?”

You jumped and began to frantically pack your belongings, “I-I…I didn’t know. I’m sorry, I’ll just go—"

When he realized you were nervous, he changed his tone. No longer was he on edge, but rather trying to make you laugh. Show you it's okay to give him a taste of his own medicine. “No no, little mouse. You’re not scurrying away that easily.”

Four years later, you’re both still here and Eddie’s been a thorn in your side ever since. You thought you'd be rid of him once he graduated, but he flunked--twice. Condemning you to another year full of his nonsense.

His obnoxious, overly-confident, doe-eyed nonsense.

“Munson.” You couldn’t help the eye roll. “Dustin and I are working on something so,” you flicked your hand toward the door. “Skedaddle.”

“Oof,” he teased. “You kiss your mother with that potty mouth?”

Eddie walked past Dustin, hands on his hips as he took you in. “Why, may I ask, are you dressed so fancy, princess? Hot date with a frog?”

Okay, guess we’re playing this game.

“The only frog I know is you, Munson.”

His hand flew to his heart. “You hear this, Henderson? Who knew Mouse could be such a brat?”

“If you’ll excuse me,” you attempt to sidestep him, but he blocks your path. Big brown eyes watching your every move. “Don’t you have anything better to do than push my buttons?” It’s a pitiful gripe. You know he enjoys this far too much.

“C’mon, sweetheart. If I didn’t talk to you, who the hell would?”

Ouch.

Something no doubt said in jest, but it hurt to realize just how right he was. You had tons of acquaintances, and you got along great with the teachers. As for friends, the well's a bit dry in that department.

You cleared away the tightness in you throat. “Yeah, I don’t have time for this. I’m actually contributing to society. How about you?” Your face was twisted into a sarcastic smile, attempting to hide the hurt.

Eddie on the other hand thought the two of you were simply playing your favorite game. Seeing just how flustered he could make you before you gave him a taste of his own medicine.

“Yeah, you’re a real Nancy Reagan.” He laughed, gesturing to your dress.

Your eyes honed in on him. “What the hell does that mean?”

“It means,” he reached out, sweeping a piece of hair off of your cheek. “If you wanted a little attention, you didn’t have to do all this.”

This.

Said as if the word tasted rotten. Disgusted by what you’d considered to be you at your most beautiful.

I must look like a fucking fool.

The stinging in your eyes got stronger every second you stood in his presence. Your gaze locked onto the floor, following your feet as you left. “Bye, Dustin. I’ll see you later.”

Dustin protested, calling you back before turning his disappointed glare to Eddie.

“Dude…” he chided.

Eddie scoffed, “What? Henderson I was joking—she knows that, okay? That’s our whole thing.”

"Eddie, she was crying!"

Were you? No, no way. This is what the two of you do.

"No, she wasn't." He said unconvincingly. "You don't know her like I do, little buddy. She's a good girl, loves the cat-and-mouse of it all." Eddie wasn't sure if he was trying to convince himself or Dustin.

Eddie had a fuck of a time in O'Donnell's class, and now on top of all of that, he's late to set up Hellfire.

He moved a bit quicker down the hall, easy enough since most of the school left to get ready for the Desperate Dance. He intentionally always schedules DND on nights like this, that way he'd never have to be caught dead--

Eddie's stopped in his tracks at the sight of the trashcan at the end of the hall. He spots a familiar piece of red fabric hanging out of the bin.

He pulled it like a magician, revealing more and more of the velvet clothing until its fully removed,

A dress.

Your dress.

Why the fuck did you throw it in the trash? You we're the most confident Eddie had ever seen you while you wore this thing.

...and you looked drop dead gorgeous, but that's beside the point.

He heard your voice coming from the gym, and abandoned all thoughts of DND.

Eddie burst through the double doors, ignoring the frilly pink and red decorations for the dance. He weaved between the underclassmen carefully setting up the tables and backdrops to make his way over to you.

You, who now instead of being in your beautiful fucking dress, are in you school-supplied gym uniform. Your hair was pulled back, no longer falling in the perfectly natural way you had it earlier. Your makeup was gone--Eddie didn't mind that, he didn't think you needed it anyway.

But you'd never looked so small to him.

He called your name more gently than you've ever heard him speak. When you turned and saw your dress in his grip, you wanted to disappear.

Had he come to gloat?

"Why the hell was this in the trash?" he's not smirking, or sarcastic when he says it.

"Didn't like it." It's all the pain in your throat will let you get out.

You walk away from him, hurrying to find something else to do beside stand there and be made fun of by Eddie Munson.

"Bullshit," he calls after you, quick on your heels. "You don't wear a dress like this and look the way you look in it and just decide you don't like it."

You could feel the tears returning as soon as you stopped walking. "I don't know what you wanna hear," your back was to Eddie, but you felt his gaze regardless. "I just didn't like it...anymore, okay?"

The fake organization of the ribbons in front of you didn't deter him, he remained behind you in silence until he couldn't take it anymore.

"Did...did I say something? Earlier, in the AV Club." He spoke so softly, and with such sincerity, you'd never know it was Eddie talking to you.

You sniffled, angry at yourself for letting him hear how upset you were. "I don't know what you mean."

"Henderson," He's quick on your heels. "Henderson said you were crying when you left."

You don't--can't say anything. Trying desperately to will the tightness in your throat to go away and the tears to dry before they fall from your eyes. A small, shaking breath passes your lips.

"Please look at me, Mouse." His voice is hushed when he calls out to you.

You turn to him begrudgingly. Hoping if he saw the mess he made he'd leave well enough alone.

But when he sees your face, with red eyes and damp tear-stained cheeks, his heart falls into his stomach.

"Oh, oh sweetheart--"

You beat him to it. "I'm fine, Munson. Just...just give me the stupid thing, okay? I'm better off invisible, anyway."

"You've never been invisible to me." Eddie hands you the dress, and watches as you wring it between your hands. "I'm sorry, Mouse."

You scoff, "You didn't--"

"Yes I did," He says firmly. Eddie steps into you, closer than he's been before. "I made an asinine comment thinking we were playing our little game, but it's not a game if someone gets hurt, especially you."

Eddie swipes away the tear on your cheek with the pad of his thumb. "You looked beautiful. You're always beautiful, but that dress? Honey, I couldn't think straight. I'm a dumbass half the time, but I turned into a god damned Neanderthal when I saw you in that."

Your brain couldn't process what was happening. It almost sounded like Eddie...liked you?

"I thought," You looked down, embarrassed to even say it out loud. "I finally felt pretty, pretty enough to be seen and not just in the background."

Eddie's brow softens at your words, "Mouse, I see you. You're one of the only things I look for throughout the day. Always lookin' out for the pretty shy girl with the smile that makes me go weak in the knees."

You laugh at that. "I guess I always look for the obnoxious metal head that's way too good at getting under my skin."

Eddie chest rumbles with a laugh, too. "You're too good at calling me on my crap, what do you expect me to do?"

A comfortable silence falls between the two of you, and it has Eddie clearing his throat. "Can--can I give you a hug? Hate that I made my favorite girl cry."

The smile on your face speaks volumes, but you nod anyway.

When you're wrapped in Eddie's arms, his warmth seeps through your bones, relieving any tension or nerves. His scent invades your senses, warming your belly and heart. You melt into him completely.

Eddie can't believe how well you fit in his arms, like a damn puzzle piece if you asked him. He smells you shampoo, and memorizes the fragrance, filing it away in his mind as his new favorite smell.

When you pull back, he leans his forehead on yours. "I'm sorry I hurt you. I really am."

You nod, moving his head a bit as it rests on yours. "I know."

Eddie steps away, shoving his hands in his pockets. "Ya know, uh, if you're not busy, I'm running a DND campaign tonight. I'd love it if you sat in and maybe after...I don't know, maybe I could take you to Benny's?"

You smirked, eyes narrowing at him. "You asking me out, Munson?"

His eyes widened in sheer panic, "Oh--oh my God, I read this all wrong, huh? Please just forget--"

You're quick to ease his worry. "I'd love too."

Putting the dress on the table, you offer Eddie your hand. "Show me the way, Dungeon Master."

He takes it eagerly, but doesn't walk anywhere yet.

"Eddie?" You giggle.

"One second, princess. Damn knees turned to jelly again."

#eddie munson x reader #eddie munson angst #eddie munson fluff #eddie munson fanfic #eddie munson

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thedgeoftheuniverse · 6 months

Text

ROTTEN. | astarion

pairing: astarion x gn!reader

warnings: healthy dose of angst and self-loathing, mild sexual descriptions and references, wrote this in less than 2 hrs so give me a break, mainly astarion's pov idk it just happened that way

word count: 2.6k

For a moment, his voice tries to betray the weight of this confession, but he knows there is no softening the blow of this—of both a confession of love, and an admission of guilt, and he is unsure if one is enough to outweigh the other. He knows this is the end; he knows you will finally see him for the wretched thing he is, and he will once again find himself alone and lonely.

He's using you.

He knows he’s using you; since the moment he laid his eyes upon the weathered lines of your face, you were his newest target—the first one of his own choosing. He initially planned to kill you; you couldn't turn on him or drive a stake through his ribs if you were already dead, and he already had enough to worry about without adding additional fuel to the already burning fear he had for his life. Not to mention, he was hungry and getting worse by the minute. He planned to call for help—play the damsel like he did countless times before, catch your attention for only a moment, just long enough to get close enough, and slit your pretty little throat.

Every step played out perfectly. You approached him just like he knew you would—his pretty face has always granted him the illusion of being a safe person; you answered his calls for help, just like he knew you would. All you had to do was get close enough, and he would take care of the rest.

Though he was completely thrown off kilter when you offered to help him, rather than leaving him to the ‘things’ in the bush. In a split second, his plan changed. If you were willing to help a stranger in the mess that the pair of you found yourselves swept up in, what would you do for someone you thought was a friend? A lover? Perhaps the wizard of—at the time—unknown power, quite frankly threatening incineration, were his knife to continue its trajectory, did encourage a modicum of restraint and de-escalation on his part, though he will never give him such credit.

However, the most unexpected change in plans was the direct, albeit slightly painful, mental link shared between him and you. You were infected—same as him—by a Mind Flayer parasite, ready to take over your body and destroy your mind in an alarmingly short timeframe.

You were an ally—a useful one and tentatively worth sparing—so long as you could continue to benefit him.

So, he started with a simple introduction: “My name's Astarion.” Spoken with a dramatic flair and a sickeningly sweet undertone that could only be found after two hundred years of charming pretty faces and innocent minds. In the moments between his introduction and the offering of your name, while the words still clung to the empty air between, Astarion formulated a new plan. It was brilliantly simple and borderline foolproof. All he had to do was convince you to fall for it, and his safety was nearly guaranteed.

(He now knows that hindsight always paints a clearer portrait than the present, and he is a fool in more ways than any would dare to calculate.)

He started small, coated his words in honey, and never oversold the part—playing into the role of the mysterious charmer that he had perfected all those years ago. He was honest, reliable, and always came to your aid during battle; he made you believe he was someone that could be trusted, no matter what your instincts may have convinced you otherwise. He was charismatic. A stolen glance here, an accidental touch there, a subtle look in his eyes that betrayed far more debaucherous intentions than what a gentleman such as himself would ever dare voice in the presence of someone as pure as you.

Perhaps, though, he erred too close to the side of caution and played his part too carefully. Vampirism is no easy condition to conceal, and the lesser creatures he managed to feast on during the night were horribly unsuitable to sustain him in the midst of such a perilous—and quite frankly, exhausting—journey. He was in a rapidly deteriorating state and worsening by the minute; he needed an intelligent, thinking creature to sink his teeth into if he wished to be of any use. He could not imagine a universe in which he would be allowed to remain in the company if he could not pull his own weight in battle or the camp.

He obscenely and undeniably fucked up when he chose to attempt to sink his fangs into the supple skin of the pretty little neck he nearly mared just a few weeks prior. He could not identify exactly why he believed he could get away with such an act undetected; his extreme hunger could be to blame, though he could not deny that the sweetness of your blood caused an insatiable stirring in his gut—he could smell it from six feet away. It permeated the air around him, nearly making him dizzy with the want—no, the need—to taste you. If hunger had driven him mad once again, then you were to blame, and therefore you were responsible for paying.

All thoughts of your reparations, however, were thrown from his mind the moment your eyes opened and he remembered that you possessed the ability to end his unnaturally long “life.”

“Shit.” His mind was completely blank. “It- It’s not what it looks like. I swear.” He could only hope that his performance would award him a standing ovation and the momentary benefit of the doubt: “I wasn't going to hurt you. I just needed... well, blood.”

It was not the confession he hoped to perform for you. He was meant to come to you, fully conscious, and present the idea as his own—he would choose to come to and confide in you. (I feel as though you and I have a… strong bond. I believe I can trust you. I cannot bear to keep this from you a moment longer.) with pretty words and round eyes. Instead, he was on his back foot and practically begging you not to ram a stake through his ribs.

And that is where his brilliantly simple plan began to pay off…

For a time.

You offered your body to him in more ways than one, and he intended to take full advantage of them all.

The sex was easy; it came to him perhaps more naturally than his flirtatious demeanor. He gave you the performance of a lifetime—he fed you borderline godly pleasures on a silver spoon while you dug your nails into grassy forest beds and moaned his name into the treetops. He knew exactly what to do to your body; he hit every single pleasure point with beautiful precision, used his mouth in all of the right places, sprinkled in the perfect praises, and made you beg just enough to make you believe you had to work for the pleasure of being underneath him and you deserved to be rewarded for it. He made sure every little word from his mouth was almost as perfect as what his mouth could do to you.

(Gods, you're beautiful.)

(Tell me how you want it. Use your words.)

(It’s as if the Gods made you to ruin me.)

He did not mean a single moment of it…

He knows he didn't. He knows, without an unparalleled doubt, that he did not mean a single sugar-coated word when he spoke in those intimate moments. He knows how vile he felt before, during, and after; he knows the suffocating self-loathing that consumed him for days after your first late-night tryst and every single night after that. He knows that, deep down, he wants you to see him as more than a sexual being, though he is not sure what else he could possibly be if not this. He knows that his manipulation was calculated and intentional; you were meant to be nothing more than a means to an end. You would help him remove this cursed tadpole embedded in his brain; you would help him kill his former master; and you would help him grasp a power that has never before been held by another vampire. You would hand him the entire world because he convinced you that he deserved it, and then he would dispose of you, as he did with the rest of his victims.

It was a brilliantly simple plan, and yet it all managed to fall apart. He is sure he played out every step perfectly, and somehow, you managed to change his plans once more.

It was never more apparent to him than right now.

Right now, as he watches you saunter around the camp, offering various greetings and the most beautiful smile he believes he has ever seen in his two hundred years of life, he realizes that you are the most incredible being he has ever gazed upon. And never has it been more apparent to him that he is a rotten thing—nothing more than a bloodthirsty monster that pretends he can believably wear the mask of a man. He thinks this is the closest thing to love he has ever felt, and even now, he will never be able to show it to you in a way that means something.

How could he have been so stupid?

How could he not have anticipated this outcome?

How could he have been so ignorant of the pining in his heart and wound up in such a situation?

His inner turmoil must have been more obvious than he would have preferred, because when you approached him, your face screamed with worry. “Astarion?” You questioned, “You look... stressed.” He was unable to find the words to respond. Something about the light shining on the hard lines of your face, leaving a shadow that danced across your cheekbones, captivated him, and he lacked the strength to look away—he doesn't think he wants to. Perhaps he could spend one hundred years gazing on the wonderful imperfections and blemishes on your skin until he has memorized every detail through the end of time, so that when you are no longer breathing, he may breathe your life once again himself, so that when another one hundred years have passed and you are nothing more than ash in the ground, he will be able to recall every minute detail of your face.

“Are you okay?”

He is on another plane of existence until the sweetness of your voice walks him back into the present.

“I… I think we need to talk.” His voice betrays him, just as his face did moments before.

You respond as you always have—with care and concern and a compassion running so deeply through your veins, it would be impossible to fabricate: “Are you alright?”

And he realizes the answer is no. He realizes that no matter the intensity of his devotion (or perhaps, is this what love is supposed to feel like?), he can never undo the damage he has caused. He can never change the sweet little lies he whispered into your ear late at night as you exposed your body to him; he can never change the intentional manipulation behind his words as he told you of your beauty; and he can never remedy the fact that he took advantage of you. You—who is made of honeysuckle and mandarins, who he has grown to so deeply care for, who he will ruin in a heartbeat if he were to ever truly love you. And perhaps he will never be able to love you. Perhaps if you are not a target, then you will never truly be anything to him; he is far too damaged to ever love you in a way that is pure and without the promise of personal gain. Perhaps he has always been and always will be a monster and deserves such treatment. He will never be able to share your bed without feeling disgust and hatred for himself. He will never be your lover, no matter how desperately he now knows he wishes to be.

“No—Yes, I just… feel awful.” Your face tells him he owes more of an explanation. He knows you are owed it. “Look, I had a plan. A nice, simple plan—seduce you, sleep with you, manipulate your feelings so that you would never turn on me. It was easy... instinctive.” For a moment, his voice tries to betray the weight of this confession, but he knows there is no softening the blow of this—of both a confession of love (is this what love is supposed to feel like? I think I would rather choose the stake.) and an admission of guilt, and he is unsure if one is enough to outweigh the other. He knows this is the end; he knows you will finally see him for the wretched thing he is, and he will once again find himself alone and lonely.

(He now realizes these are two very different states of being.)

“All you had to do was fall for it.” Your face is twisted into something resembling grief. “And all I had to do was not fall for you… which is where my nice, simple plan fell apart.”

“Why are you telling me this now?” Your eyebrows are furrowed together, and your face has morphed into something entirely unreadable, but you almost seem relieved.

“I…” Another sigh: “You deserve something real.” He cannot bring himself to look into your eyes.

A heavy sigh escapes your mouth as your eyebrows relax. “I only want you.”

“Why?”

“I don't believe you to be the monster you think you are.” If he had a heartbeat, he is confident that would have stopped it. He cannot fathom a universe where he is more than what his master made him to be.

“You don't know me.”

“Then show me who you are, Astarion.” He isn't sure when you managed to get so close to him. “Let me be here for you.”

“You don't know what you're asking for.” He can feel the tears welling up in his eyes. He will never be able to give you what you’re asking for, yet you still seem to want him all the same. He knows that he is no good, that he will never be more than the image Cazador sculpted him in; he is capable of tenderness no more than the Gods are capable of answering his cries for help. And yet, here you stand—headstrong as ever, practically begging him to give this a chance, and he desperately wants it. “It’s rotten work.”

“Not to me.” Your hand reaches into the space between you to gently cup his face.

“I can't give you what you want. Being close to someone—any kind of intimacy—was something I… performed to lure people back for him. I know this is different; we’re different, but it still feels… tainted.”

“I already told you what I want.” His eyes met yours for the first time since you approached his tent. “You. Whatever it is you have to offer, I want it. It's not a dirty job; it's just you.”

For a brief moment, Astarion is able to lose himself in such a fantasy; your eyes shine as though galaxies were constructed in your irises, and he can spot no inkling of deception. Your hand is soft against his cheek as he leans into the warmth of your touch, and it does not go unnoticed that you choose to keep your hand placement modest—as though you were a gentleman dancing with a lady in a fancy ballroom while all the guests silently stared.

“I don't know what to do from here.” He places his hand over yours and leans into your touch even harder—he almost resembles a wounded dog, searching for any ounce of tenderness he can find in this midst of such an ugly world—”But I know that this... this is nice."

As you wrap your arms around his waist and nestle your head into the crook of his shoulder, Astarion believes that this is something he may be able to get used to.

Thank u for reading !!! Prob making a part 2 that is more .... idk angsty and more "I'll take care of you" if yall want it

#astarion ancunin #astarion #astarion bg3 #astarion x reader #astarion x tav #baldur's gate #baldur's gate 3 #astarion baldurs gate #astarion fic #I don't know how to write if it isn't angsty

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fuckyeahisawthat · 9 months

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I’ve seen a few metas now that describe Crowley as self-loathing and…that’s not quite it to me.

Crowley for sure has Issues. He has a lot of anger and doesn’t always deal with it in constructive ways. He is hypervigilant as all fuck, and the fact that he is almost always correct about the amount of danger he and Aziraphale are in at a given moment just reinforces that hypervigilance feedback loop.

He has the hair-trigger flight response of someone who has spent millennia dodging oppressive forces that are more powerful than him, and this makes him default to RUN even when on some level he knows that is not the right response to a situation. He’s very aware that there are a lot of people out there who can hurt him, and there is no one coming to protect him. The only option is to try to avoid the blow.

And he is absolutely terrified of rejection, for very understandable reasons. This also encourages him to have one foot out the door of a situation, to pretend he doesn’t care, because if you leave first and actually never cared at all then you can’t be hurt. He is painfully aware that good things can be taken away from him without warning, that love that looks absolute can turn out to be conditional, because that already happened to him.

But. As much as I love a self-loathing blorbo, I don’t think Crowley hates himself.

Sure he talks a good game about how he’s not nice. But I don’t think, for example, that he thinks he is unworthy of Aziraphale’s love, that he is not good enough for Aziraphale because he is a demon or for any other reason. Because as far as Crowley is concerned, angels and demons are the same! All that good and evil stuff is just names for sides. I think he is afraid, because he’s still not sure, after all this time, if Aziraphale feels the same way he does, and broaching that topic is an enormous risk compared to just staying in the ambiguously-defined status quo they have now. (And then he works up the courage to do it anyway, and seems to have his worst fears confirmed.)

FWIW, I don’t think Aziraphale thinks that Crowley is not good enough for him either. Not at all. But I think Crowley might think that Aziraphale thinks that after the end of s2. And that really stings, because as much as they both gave lip service to the idea of “I’m good, you’re evil,” I think Crowley always assumed that Aziraphale saw through that when it came to him as a person, that it was just something Azirphale said and not something he really believed about Crowley, and now he’s not so sure.

I also think Crowley believes he did not deserve his fall (hot take: none of them did) not because he is extra-special Good, but because that’s a fucked-up thing for someone who said they loved you to do. While he is clearly still dealing with the trauma of it, I think he knows by now: I shouldn’t have been hurt like that. I didn’t deserve it, and it wasn’t my fault.

And so the horror of Aziraphale accepting the offer of going back to Heaven is partially I thought we both understood how this system works; I thought we were on our own side together and partially I can’t believe you’re going back to the people who hurt you and at least a little bit I can’t believe you’re going back to the people who hurt me. Do you think they were right?

(And Aziraphale doesn’t! He doesn’t think that! He thinks they were wrong, but he thinks they were wrong about Crowley, that it was an individual mistake and not a feature of a system that squashes questioning and nonconformity of any kind.)

I wrote a whole meta about “I won’t be forgiven, not ever” and “unforgivable, that’s what I am” in 2019 that I won’t rehash here, but tl;dr, I don’t think Crowley is saying that as a statement of his self-worth. I think he is saying, Heaven would never let me back in, and if they did, I wouldn’t go. Because I don’t want or trust the “acceptance” of people who don’t value me as I am.

And it’s part of the cruel dramatic irony of the Final Fifteen that one of the things that breaks them apart is that Crowley values himself enough not to go back to Heaven. Crowley, who we’ve seen will do almost anything for Aziraphale, says, No. I am not putting myself back in that abusive situation. You shouldn’t either; I really wish you wouldn’t; but if you do, I am still not going back there. Not even for you.

#good omens #good omens s2 #crowley #heaven #to be clear! crowley does not have a solution to their problems!#but he’s not wrong to hold on to that boundary and i’m proud of him #my good omens meta

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pichirobi · 3 months

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fire, air, water, earth.

prince xie lian is one of the most promising up-and-coming avatars the world has yet to see. that is, until disaster strikes his home earth kingdom of xianle. when his people die out at the hands of a plague spirit, bai wuxiang, the nations blame the avatar. with his reputation destroyed, xie lian joins the air nomads for 20 years and travels the world as a scrap-collector. although he has lost the respect of the people he is destined to protect, the spirit world is thrown into chaos without his guidance. xie lian works thanklessly to maintain global balance all on his own. but unbeknownst to him, there's one person, upon the throne of the fire nation, who still believes in the avatar.

welcome to my tgcf x atla au!

click here to follow this tag for updates. read more below for my story notes.

STORY

xie lian is born to the king and queen of an earth kingdom city-state, xianle, and is quickly discovered to be the avatar. a wildly talented one, at that. he learns firebending second, and waterbending third. still young and pampered, xie lian struggles with the humility associated with airbending principles.

at just the age of 17 he begins to travel the world to master the four elements and [katara narrator voice] to restore peace and balance in the world. he acquires a servant (firebender mu qing) and a bodyguard (earthbender & childhood best friend feng xin). it's during this time that he tours the fire nation, meeting with political figures and impoverished citizens alike, gaining a positive reputation for his determination and skills. to celebrate the summer solstice, xie lian is the face of a festival in which he proves his elegance, combative strength, and firebending prowess. during the ceremony, he controversially interrupts it to save the life of a 10-year-old urchin boy.

the lines between the spirit and mortal worlds bleed together during solstices. it's xie lian's festival which attracts a particularly violent spirit to emerge into the mortal world: bai wuxiang. the white-clothed calamity.

xie lian's life is filled with promise until he turns 22. he catches word of a disaster taking place in his home kingdom. he puts a pause on his tour of the nations to return to xianle. there, he finds that a strange and highly contagious disease has begun plaguing his people. its symptoms are unnatural; the work of an angry spirit. xie lian works himself to the bone trying to save his common people. he fails.

when xianle falls to plague, to chaos, to fear, its people blame the avatar. he is dubbed the avatar of misfortune. a failure. xie lian's reputation crumbles to dust and he is helpless to restore his people's faith in him. when the rest of the world learns of how xianle came to ruin, the avatar becomes not a figure of peace to be revered, but a bad omen.

having lost his two companions, his parents, his kingdom, and the global adoration he's come to rely on for his self-worth, xie lian runs away. he disowns his past identity and seeks to start a new life. he finds himself in the northern air temples, where the air nomads pay him no mind, although xie lian is a bit of an oddball. (xie lian might look rougher and jaded but they certainly recognize the avatar. they pretend to not know him—the nomads keep to themselves and as long as xie lian doesn't cause trouble, he is welcome.) he eventually befriends a monk named shi qingxuan.

xie lian seeks enlightenment. he incorporates himself into the monks' way of life, releasing all ties to material possessions and worldly indulgences. he abstains from sex, alcohol, anger, and, hardest of all, grief. he goes on to live 20 years as a scrap collector, practicing what he was taught by his teacher and guide, monk wu yong. xie lian knows it's time to leave the temples when he finally masters airbending.

humbled, xie lian rekindles his fighting spirit. the common people loathe the avatar, but he forgives them. he will save them.

as xie lian wanders the nations, he learns that during his darkest years, literature, art, and scholarly works of the avatar have been destroyed. most people don't even remember what he looks like and much less have the means to learn anything about him. (hua cheng carving xl's face into the side of a mountain: HOLD MY BEER)

meanwhile, there is a fire nation urchin boy who has grown into someone powerful enough to be feared. through his unmatched wit and charisma, he has worked his way up the capital's political hierarchy. a city governor who calls himself hua cheng, is the first aristocrat to challenge the firelord to an agni kai. he is also the first to win. he delegitimizes the royal bloodline and single-handedly reshapes a generation's idea of a competent ruler. bonus points for the previous firelord being xie lian's indecent cousin, qi rong.

now 35 years old, the new firelord, terrifying yet respected by all, leads his people to prosperity and vanquishes every enemy. peculiarly, he seems somewhat uninterested in his position of power. instead, he enjoys turning his attention towards erecting a shrine, a palace, in honor of avatar xie lian.

HUALIAN'S BACKSTORY

the avatar preceding xie lian, jun wu, oversaw great conflicts between the four nations. it is during one of these wars that a seemingly insignificant teenager dies. his soul drifts aimlessly in the spirit world, vulnerable, alone. he encounters the trickster spirit koh who steals his face. time is hard to account for in this realm, and the once-a-teenager forgets his past life, his own identity, simply choosing to refer to himself as wu ming: nameless. many years later, the avatar cycle begins anew with the birth of xie lian.

at 7 years old, prince xie lian and his best friend feng xin are outdoors playing with swords. feng xin takes a break, as he is called inside by the king of xianle, leaving xie lian outside and unsupervised. (feng xin will shortly be told that xie lian is not only his friend, but now his responsibility.) meanwhile, xie lian is left without a sparring partner. until a ghostly silver butterfly flits in front of him. it playfully weaves around the flourishes of the blade. xie lian chases it, away from the palace grounds, across the fields and into the brush, where he falls head-first through a burrow. when he stands up, his sword has disappeared, but not the butterfly. it pulls his attention upward, where he takes in his surroundings: the spirit world.

xie lian continues to play and greet spirits, who are all pleased to meet the new avatar, eventually finding a sad, dissipating ghost fire. the ghost introduces itself as wu ming. xie lian works very hard to cheer it up, promising they'll be friends in this lifetime and the next. wu ming brightens and confesses that koh has stolen its face. xie lian fails to tolerate this news: if he's to be the avatar, he must protect the innocent and slay monsters. with wu ming's warnings, he marches to koh's den to demand his friend's face back.

xie lian succeeds. wu ming doesn't remember much these days, but he's sure that no one has ever showed him such incredible kindness. when wu ming expresses his desire to disappear, xie lian gives him a mantra: "live for me."

xie lian has to leave, to return to a very worried feng xin (who is scared he's already failed his new bodyguard job on day one), but wu ming is invigorated with life like never before. his soul persists, stubbornly, for the avatar. he is reborn back into the mortal world as a fire nation boy. although, the encounter with koh would leave a mark on his body: the sclera of his right eye would be an unsettling blood red. the people of his village would know him as hong hong-er.

elsewhere in the spirit world, the ghost of avatar jun wu senses young xie lian's presence. he also senses the persistence of the ghost fire—a soul reborn. could he, too, return to the mortal world? jun wu entertains a simple but horrifying thought: by swapping places with xie lian, could he achieve immortality as the world's last avatar? thus, jun wu hatches a plan. he strikes a deal with bai wuxiang, the white-clothed calamity, a malevolent plague spirit. bai wuxiang would possess the body of jun wu to eliminate the new avatar. to kill xie lian, and to be reborn.

the plan doesn't go—well, according to plan. the people of xianle are wiped out before he can get his hands on xie lian, and the destruction of a people leaves behind a universal distrust of the avatar. jun wu realizes he would be unable to seize power in such an environment. his new strategy must involve controlling young xie lian, manipulating him into a puppet. it takes a while to pin him down, but jun wu eventually finds him settled in the northern air temple, at his most emotionally vulnerable. jun wu will impersonate a monk teacher, changing his name to wu yong. he will bide his time and play his cards until the world is ready for his return.

EXTRAS

hualian are middle-aged men in this au because it makes sense timeline-wise, but also because sexy silver fox xie lian is what i see every time i close my eyes.

narratively, i'm torn between hua cheng loving the avatar, or hua cheng loving xie lian. thinking about this timeless lovestory, "you, not the state of you," i can see it both ways. hua cheng might love the avatar, xie lian and all of his reincarnations regardless of their body. or, he might love xie lian, regardless of the "avatar" title. ("avatar" may also be this world's equivalent to hua cheng respectfully calling xie lian "dianxia".)

firelord hua cheng presents himself at what he believes is his ugliest, most intimidating form: exposing his burned right eye. as san lang, however, he is at first ashamed to reveal such a vulnerable part of him in front of his love; he covers it with an eyepatch. (the people of the fire nation are like: "a platypus?" [san lang takes off his eyepatch] "PERRY THE PLATYPUS?!?!")

hua cheng teaches xie lian how to bend lightning. they easily trade bolts back and forth to each other in a cute and intimate way. feng xin and mu qing are horrified when they first see this in action.

hualian's first kiss happens when they're battling a sea monster underwater and xie lian loses his concentration enough to accidentally pop hua cheng's air bubble. a little mouth-to-mouth resuscitation will do the trick until they can float back up to the surface.

ruoye = xl's spiritual serpent guide (kind of like roku's dragon)

e'ming = hc's super clingy fire ferret

#hualian atla au #tgcf au #atla au #xie lian #hua cheng #hualian #hualian au #jun wu #tgcf #tian guan ci fu #heaven official's blessing #mxtx #my art

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elains · 3 months

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Azriel's association with Enalius, what it means for his arc and Illyria

This is something me and my friends have talked about off tumblr, but I wanted to write my own post about it and gather my thoughts. But here, I'll discuss a bit Azriel's character and how the revelations we witness in House of Flame and Shadow will be important to his character. (+ a little bit of Emerie).

What do we know about Enalius? From ACOSF, Emerie provides us with a little exposition when they are in the Rite, when the Pass of Enalius is brought up:

Long ago—so long ago they don’t even have a precise date for it—a great war was fought between the Fae and the ancient beings who oppressed them. One of its key battles was here, in these mountains. Our forces were battered and outnumbered, and for some reason, the enemy was desperate to reach the stone at the top of Ramiel. We were never taught the reason why; I think it’s been forgotten. But a young Illyrian warrior named Enalius held the line against the enemy soldiers for days.

Now, from the Crescent City crossover, we learned that Truth-teller and Gwydion are twin blades. They are a pair. According to the Silene History Lesson, the dagger used to belong to her father's (Fionn's) dear friend, slain during the war. A bit later, when they find Vesperus, she confirms that this friend was Enalius:

The Asteri’s eyes flared with recognition at the long blade. “Did Fionn send you, then? To slay me in my sleep? Or was it that traitor Enalius? I see that you bear his dagger—as his emissary? Or his assassin?”

Immediately before that, she also confirms that the Asteri crafted (which can either mean created, shaped forged, but we are going with created) the Illyrians:

The Asteri’s blue eyes lowered to the dagger. “You dare draw a weapon before me? Against those who crafted you, soldier, from night and pain?”

From everything, we can conclude this: Enalius was the original wielder of Truth-teller before Fionn and Theia, a dear friend to Fionn, and someone who pulled the ultimate sacrifice to keep the Asteri/Daglan from reaching the top of Ramiel. He was a traitor to the Asteri, a rebel against his masters and everything they stood for.

Enalius is the hero most Illyrians strive to mimic, the legendary figure who they all hope to one day surpass. He's a symbol of their people, even if so much about him has been forgotten — the fact that he had a dagger, Fionn's friendship, what the battle was for, maybe even how he was as a person. Brave, for sure. Willing to die for the cause.

And it's Azriel who bears his dagger. Azriel, who has such a complicated relationship with his Illyrian heritage and loaths it - and by extension, himself - is the one with this enormous legacy right at this hand. And this matters.

Still in ACOSF, we have Rhys talking with Cassian and wanting him to play Courtier, the following exchange then follows:

“What, we’re doing some role reversal? Az gets to lead the Illyrians now?” “Don’t play stupid,” Rhys said coolly. Cassian rolled his eyes. But they both knew Azriel would sooner disband and destroy Illyria than help it. Convincing their brother that the Illyrians were a people worth saving was still a battle amongst the three of them.

Azriel hates the Illyrians for what happened to him and his mother and his dislike for them is, to a degree, understandable. The thing is that Azriel, no matter how much he loaths it, is Illyrian. Maybe he's more than that (as it's pointed that Az is different in a lot of ways and Bryce wonders if he is Starborn), but at heart, he's Illyrian. Siphons, leathers, fighting, being Carynthian, his wings, his scabbard and the dagger it holds.

It was healthy, perhaps, for Az to sometimes remember where he'd come from. He still wore the Illyrian leathers. Had not tried to get the tattoos removed. Some part of him was Illyrian still. Always would be. Even if he wished to forget it.

Being Illyrian is part of who he is and his deep hatred for them only fuel his self-loathing. He would like to set himself apart, but he is not.

We can actually draw a direct parallel between Azriel and Bryce with how they regard the Fae vs the Illyrians. Bryce loathes the Fae and for most of HoFaS, she believes they are evil, corrupt, power-hungry and quite generally, not worth saving. She would leave them all to burn. Sound familiar?

And Bryce is wrong. Sathia challenges her notion, pointing out that she's laying judgement to all fae and that is hardly fair. What the one who don't deserve it? Herself, yes, but Flynn, Declan, and Ruhn himself? Do they deserve to burn too? Bryce herself acknowledges this:

Urd had sent her there to see, even in the small fraction of their world that she’d witnessed, that Fae existed who were kind and brave. She might have had to betray Nesta and Azriel, trick them … but she knew that at their cores, they were good people. The Fae of Midgard were capable of more. Ruhn proved it. Flynn and Dec proved it. Even Sathia proved it, in the short time Bryce had known her.

And this part here sums up quite neatly:

Fire met starlight met shadows, and Bryce loosed herself on the world. It ended today. Here. Now. This had nothing to do with the Asteri, or Midgard. The Fae had festered under leaders like these males, but her people could be so much more.

There are Illyrians who are kind and brave and break the mold. We see this with Emerie, who is also a woman. We see that with Balthazar, Cassian. The main point stands, though, that you cannot judge or condemn an entire race for the bad apples.

Azriel is wrong, just as Bryce was wrong, and his journey will be also to realise that his people are worth saving. They were created of night and pain (words that Azriel embodies, being a master of shadows and a torturer), but that is not everything they need to be. They can be more than soldiers. They can thrive.

And I believe this was something Enalius himself came to the believe, long ago. His people deserved more than to be slaves to the Asteri, forced to give them their power when need be, bred to live and die for them. They could be more. And Enalius died to free his people from their chains.

Is Azriel Enalius's blooded descendant? I'm not sure, but he doesn't need to be. Azriel is Enalius successor because he will finish what was started. He'll uncover the secrets of the past, what his people were in truth, what Enalius rebelled for, what he stood for, what the Blood Rite truly means - which he only got a glimpse of.

And this is where I think Emerie will also come in. She's s one of ACOSF most relevant characters and the first female Illyrian to be Carynthian. I think Emerie will also become an inspirational figure to the Illyrian women, another of these what they coud be. What they can be. And more importantly and that is just a theory, what they were.

Orestes was a warrior. What if so was Carynth and she was woman? The name always struck me as similar to Carina, which is the name of a constellation and commonly used by women. It would be ironic and another shaking revelation to the Illyrians that Carynth, for whom their greatest warriors are named after, was a woman.

Does that mean all Illyrian women must become Valkyries? No, but some might wish to follow this path whilst their society takes its time to catch up. They already shook the status quo and with Nesta poised to have a big role (andthe Valkyries along her), they will continue to do so.

Azriel will uncovered the lost history of Vesperus offered him all the clues he needed to start looking. His journey to find out this secrets will lead to him facing his own demons, confronting his loathing for his people and, in doing so, he will make peace with himself.

#hofas spoilers #azriel #shout out to yaz for helping me fish the quotes #my meta #acotar #acosf #emerie #illyria

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comradekatara · 1 month

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hey, so. people on twt (ugh, I need to delete that account) started to compare Zuko and Azula’s relationship to Sokka and Katara. So, I jump in like “they are not comparable in any way” then people are like “Sokka and Katara do have issues even though it’s not the same as Zuko and Azula” (even though the original tweet did imply that but, whatever). and I’m all like “sure, they both have trauma from their upbringing and they fight like siblings and that trauma probably has effected their relationship but it’s still no way like it’s being compared… they love and care for one another” and then they’re coming back like “it’s not the same but they still have issues” and citing the southern raiders (which I have my own opinions about and I feel like people totally miss read that scene) but all in all to say; I’m annoyed because I feel like people are being disingenuous and I feel like your thoughts would be interesting

okay yeah obviously I don’t know what the full arguments were (and I never will because I loathe twitter. I mean X sorry) but i can definitely talk about this more generally. I mean they are the central sibling pairs configured in a similar way for obvious reasons. they are definitely comparable.

sokka and zuko have superficial similarities as older brothers who feel undervalued, struggle to live up to a harmful patriarchal standard of gender (specifically masculinity/manhood) as shaped by imperialism/colonialism/war and the expectations their fathers placed on them to “be a real man” within a very limited framework, and ultimately find their worth via other avenues beyond the limited scope of patriarchal imperialist logic. azula and katara have superficial similarities as younger sisters who are placed on a pedestal by their culture community, are the best benders of their respective elements and outclass all the older more established (male) masters who dismiss and look down on them for being teenage girls, and who feel a deep sense of grief due to the loss of their mothers that informs everything they do and fundamentally who they are as people. and then obviously the REAL foils who are foiling are katara and zuko, and sokka and azula. these pairs are each very obvious mirrors, both in terms of their personalities (as developed differently by their respective environments) and their arcs. zuko is fire nation katara. azula is fire nation sokka. so obviously their relationships are similar in this way. they are narratively constructed as parallels.

that said, I think the key primary difference between these sets of siblings is that zuko and azula are directly opposed due to being pitted against each other by ozai’s abuse, whereas sokka and katara are extremely codependent, to the point that sokka’s entire identity is shaped by his role as katara’s brother and protector. so if you read zuko as a foil to sokka (which he certainly somewhat is, but is not the primary foil to sokka) you’ll get confused because he doesn’t live for others and he doesn’t look out for azula at all. but azula, like sokka, does define her identity through her loyalty and her ability to best serve others, so she does try to help zuko as best she can, which is obviously hindered by the incredibly limited of scope of what she considers “helpful” (much in the same way that sokka’s protection of katara is often limited by his own narrow worldview and unhealthy sense of duty as it corresponds to his identity). azula wants zuko to be a “perfect prince” in the way that she is a “perfect princess” because she refuses to acknowledge how specifically harmful that paradigm is to both of them until it is too late. so her intentions are actually good (don’t @ me), but she’s just deeply misguided and her level of cognitive dissonance is off the charts generally (again, much like sokka).

meanwhile katara and zuko, despite loving their families a lot and feeling defined by their families in many ways, are still very self-focused. which isn’t to say that’s a bad thing or that they’re selfish (they are both defined by an incredibly passionate and outspoken sense of justice for others, of course), but rather that they understand that what they want is to further their own interests for their own benefit even as they are seeking justice for the entire world. (in katara’s worlds: “me. me, personally!”) but like. if anything, the fact that azula and sokka never think in terms of the ego but only in terms of servitude to the point that they are actually detached from their own humanity is deeply unhealthy and awful, which is why so much of sokka’s arc is about getting him to understand his intrinsic worth as a human being and the value of accepting help, and azula’s tragedy and downfall is precipitated by her acknowledgement that she has been deliberately isolated her entire life and now she is alone and utterly helpless.

I do see katara and zuko as quite heroic, inspiring characters, to azula and sokka’s quite tragic, heartbreaking characters (especially azula of course, but like. I don’t think sokka’s deep-seated, copious issues have somehow been magically resolved just because “the boiling rock” is his apotheosis. you get it). but katara was always the “valued” sibling whereas azula began as the valued sibling and zuko rose above her by disrupting/transcending the paradigm that valued her only to end up in the position that she felt teleologically entitled to (not to say that she thought she would become fire lord, but that he does become the most powerful player in the fire nation, at least in name). and a large part of that is the fact that katara and sokka grew up in extremely different conditions than azula and zuko did, even if both their worldviews are informed by imperialism and patriarchy in some way. so katara was valued as a sort of cultural artefact who represents the last hope of a dying people, whereas azula was valued as the obedient daughter of a powerful abusive patriarch. it’s still a way of ascribing “value,” but the criteria are completely different in both cases. which is why I still think that azula and sokka are functionally more similar, because even if azula is valued, it is with the expectation that she function in the same way that sokka is expected to function, as a depersonalized vessel for the good of their people.

so there are similarities for sure, but also those similarities are constantly being complicated through locating their respective cultural contexts as they informed their upbringing, psychologies, and sibling relationships. I will say that it’s true that both of these relationships are unhealthy (to an extent), and both sets of siblings parallel each other in very significant ways, but the ways in which their relationships are in fact “unhealthy” are nonetheless almost diametrically opposed.

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allophonicmess · 5 months

Text

Time and Time again

Part 1

Fourteenth Doctor x reader and slight Fifteenth Doctor x Reader

Jealousy has been a familiar feeling in your life with the Doctor. It might be the most permanent feeling next to love and undying loyalty. A paradox, really.

The Doctor is struggling after the Bi-regeneration. It only seems logical for you to move on with the next version of him. So why do you stay?

Established relationship.

The reader is also a timelord

Mostly jealous 14th! Doctor and angst connected with it. Balanced out with fluff in part 2.

Jealousy has been a familiar feeling in your life with the Doctor. It might be the most permanent feeling next to love and undying loyalty. A paradox, really. But you have gotten used to it over the centuries and millennia the two of you have spent together. A lot of it could be attributed to the doctors shifting self-worth. It fluctuated with each face, often bordering on the extremes of self-loathing and arrogance.

So it came as no surprise that the pesky emotion flared up when this new, younger and magically charismatic incarnation approached you after the action had passed. The older face watched silently and with apprehension as the new Doctor approached you. Furrowed brows and a downcast look. He tried to play it cool, hands in the back pockets of his dark pants.

15 approached you slowly. You felt his warm, gentle aura even without looking at him. He gently took your hand, making you turn towards him with a soft pull.

There had only been time for a quick hello on the UNIT Landing Platform. And you longed to finally have a calm moment to get to know him. You were always excited to meet the new versions of your husband. They were all unique, perhaps even more than your own incarnations were.

"Hello darling" he whispered quietly, gaining your attention and stealing you away from a conversation you held with Shirley. You had been showing her around the Tardis console, explaining the gears and buttons that allowed you to work your time machine. You hardly fly it despite being a trained pilot.

"Hello, stranger", you joked, eyes wandering over his new face. His deep eyes, the soft slope of his nose, the glow of his skin and that small scar at his right brow.

You quickly realized that you were going to love that bright smile. It was distinct, different from the other versions of your husband, yet so very much him.

"Stranger? "I hope not." He grinned, hands slowly moving from your hands towards your arms. He held you gently, still unsure despite his charisma and showstopping entrance. He looked down at your hands, smiling softly at the wedding band on each ring finger. You persisted in keeping the old traditions alive, even if it was only for one generation. You were special that way. Persistent on tradition yet so open and ready for change.

"So you'll be off then? Can't stay put even for the holidays?" You replied awkwardly and toyed with the tie hanging loosely around his neck. It suited him. His unconventional outfit, his share after they divided themself and their belongings equally.

"I'm afraid not. You know me too well." He smiled softly, taking your teasing as an invitation to proceed and step closer. He loved your touch, just being close to you. But this was a very new situation, and he knew he needed to tread carefully, especially with his older self around.

"Besides, staying put is his job. I trust you to make sure that he does." He lazily points towards his past version. He looked over towards him briefly.

You laughed; the nervousness that had been present was slowly fading. It was a new situation for everyone, despite the number of times you had been in the presence of multiple incarnations of him.

You followed the new Doctor's gaze, giggling while you did so. Number 14 was mad; you knew it already, but that had to wait. You never understood his jealousy in the first place. How could he be jealous of himself and the love you share with all versions of him. Wasn't that something to be relieved over? The loyalty despite the timelords' ever-changing nature?

You let that thought fade to the back of your mind. This moment was precious. It would take some time to meet this version of him again. And there was no way to guarantee that you would still have this face for your next meeting. So you savoured the moment, gently pressing your forehead against his.

His face lit up even brighter, and joy-filled him. You accepted him in every way, each time in a new way.

He had grown since that moment.

He remembered it. Watch the new him holding you.

The old version quietly fretted and fumed over the gentle touch and soft whispers between you and this new version of him. And he remembered the process of healing. Finally realizing that it was going to be you and him. Over and over again, face after face, till the end of time.

"You realize that it's you, yeah? No need to get all possessive, spaceman." Donna watched her friend with amusement. He had been transfixed on the scene, eyes locked onto his supposed opponent, his fame stiff and unmoving.

He didn't react, not hearing or not caring at the moment. He loved her wit and adored her for it, but he couldn't appreciate it then. He let out a low hum. Letting her know that he had heard her, hoping it would be enough of an answer.

She chuckled, "you silly, silly man." shaking her head at his behavior. "daft, that's what you are." She tried to get his attention, to no avail. Shaun had been right not to be scared about leaving her alone with him. For multiple reasons, really.

After another moment of brooding silence, she decided they both had enough of it. She placed her hand on his arm. Gently pushing him to turn towards the new Tardis door. "Let's go. Let them have a bit of privacy." She regretted those words as soon as they passed her lips. The Doctor swallowed hard, quickly blinking away whatever vision just passed before his inner eye.

"Oh, come on! Stop it with that nonsense." She swatted at his arm, provoking a yelp from him. "Hey!-

The sudden noise pulled you and the Doctor out of your embrace.

He chuckled softly.

"Looks like I should hand you back over to that one."

You briefly looked over the other one before once again focusing on Timelord standing in front of you.

"Yeah, jealousy is something we'll have to work on. But it seemed to have worked, no?" You gently brushed your fingers along his jaw, trying to mesmerize his new face.

He seemed hopeful, a healed man. Ready to discover new stars and planets without the heavy baggage on his soul. You were very much looking forward to doing so with him. It was part of the duality that you two had to live with.

"I sure hope so. He has a long way ahead of him before we get to you, hm?" You looked into his eyes, marvelling at their deep dark colour. You loved the green ones of number 11, the pale blue of 12, and the chocolate brown of the last two versions. Each held their own beauty.

He just nodded his head gently, smiling softly at you. "But you were there. Every second of it. Always there." He looked at you with the purest love in his eyes. He tried to convey his gratitude. He had no idea how to express it in words. It was too big and overpowering to do so.

You couldn't hold yourself back any longer, gently pulling him forward to meet him in a soft kiss. It felt different: new lips, new teeth, a little clumsy, just like every other regeneration. You smiled into the kiss, enjoying the new sensation before pulling away softly. He was hesitant to let you go. He felt the pull towards you; holding you like this felt so very right.

You held each other quietly. His hands moved to your cheeks, cupping your face and smoothing his thumb over your cheek. He was going to do it very soon. He was excited to see you again.

14 held his breath, watching him kiss you. It hurt. Why? He couldn't fight it despite the logic behind it.

"Oh wow. Now it's really time to go. Come on!"

She hooked her arm under the Doctor's, effectively pulling him away from the view of the Tardis console where the new him and his wife shared their first kiss. She could already predict how grumpy he would be for the next few days. Stuck in his cycle of thoughts.

"Come, come, you'll see her later-"She tried to usher him away.

"No need!" 15 suddenly broke away from their wife. Only a hand remained at her waist, where he gently held her.

"I'm off. We'll see each other soon enough." He turned around to look at the Tardis console. "In 23 minutes, to be precise." He grinned at his other version, trying to ease the tension in the room.

"And you two-" He pointed at you and 14, "are in for the best roast you ever had. I swear!" He laughed, patting you on the back to gently move you towards the Tardis exit. You looked at him again, marvelling at him for a second before walking straight towards 14. You kissed him quickly on the cheek, turning his face to focus on you.

"Can't wait for that, ey?"

He was awestruck at your cheerful demeanour, the sudden shift between the soft, sentimental moment and the giddiness you displayed. There were just seconds between them.

You held his cheek, making him look at you for a moment. Effectively grounding him in reality and shaking off the dark thoughts. "Haven't had a good roast since that pub in Galway, 1840s."

He hummed in agreement. His expression softened, face relaxing further as he kept looking into your eyes. They stayed the same after each regeneration. Well, not in a physical sense. The colour and shape changed with each form, but that twinkle in them remained.

"We'll wait outside. You say bye-bye and safe travels. Can't have you leave off with bad energy in here. You know how long it takes to get that out. And it's bad luck." You giggled, swiftly placing your hands over both of his hearts in a gesture of love and trust. Your touch was gone just as soon as it was placed. You pushed yourself off and left the Tardis with Donna to let your husbands see each other off.

#doctor who x reader #the doctor x reader #fourteenth doctor #fifteenth doctor #x reader #reader insert #doctor who #timelord!reader

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