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fangsandfracturedhearts · 1 month

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Fangs and Fractured Hearts

Chapter 12: Catharsis

Summary: You helped Astarion complete the Rite of Profane Ascension and become the Vampire Ascendant. You agreed to become his spawn soon after. Once the Netherbrain was defeated, Astarion claimed the Szarr Palace, renaming it the Crimson Palace, for himself and set about his plans of domination.

Word Count: 6.3k

Pairing: Ascended Astarion x female!Tav Spawn

Warnings: [Will try to continue to add more, but in general expect explicit content for mature audiences]

Possible spoilers. Eventual Explicit Content. Slow Burn. Thoughts of Suicide. Violence. Blood. Injury. Mature Content. Self-Harm. Mentions of in-game content. Completely fabricated camp events.

If you notice a very critical tag missing, please don't hesitate to let me know

Rating: Explicit 18+ - [Meant For Mature Audience}

"Then say it, Astarion,” she urges him. Her lower lip trembles. She unconsciously bites it to quell the movement. A single fang peeks out and glints in the sunlight, white as the purest snow. “Open the bond and say it.”

“I…I-” he trails off with a rasp and cracking voice. The words are lodged in his esophagus and anchored on the tip of his tongue. That presence in his mind tugs at his psyche, grappling for control. It speaks its ethereal omens. “ She will be your end. She spins her web of destruction even now. When she snares you, she will crush you in her grasp, and when you finally break, I will be there to claim you once again." He grimaces at the ill-portent and cedes, “Perhaps you are right. This is a conversation better had at home.”

She nods, crestfallen and stares at the lake with a longing look that he does not like to see upon her face. It’s the look of defeat. All hope is lost and withered away. She yearns for stillness and obscurity to quiet her mind. Yes, he knows the expression inlaid on her features well.

Is he putting her in further danger if he says it? Could the voice in his head be speaking truths?

He’s said it before. What stops him?

Is it a lie? He is no liar.

He said it before….

He said it….

Gods. It’s hard to think clearly with this tittering in his head, defiling his thoughts with its blighted ballad. The presence screams that she is a threat. She has cast some sort of spell on him. “A trick!” It chimes, “A clever, beautiful trick by a clever, beautiful sorceress. She means to unravel you! She means to break you apart, crumble you into pieces and dance on your ashes!”

She would not do such a thing. Would she? Could she? He has used his beauty to mislead many in the past centuries. Is it possible she is doing the same? She cannot scourge him physically, but mentally… well, that is a fate far worse than even death.

She would not trick him. She need not trick him. He already lov-

Hells below, he cannot even think it, let alone say it aloud.

He can force her. He can make her his with naught but a thought. She already belongs to him. He can pull her strings and make her dance, a puppet upon his world stage because he is the Vampire Ascendant, and he can take anything he pleases.

No. He grimaces at the sadistic notion and how good and powerful it makes him feel. His thoughts become contorted and serpentine too easily these days, a pit of snakes twisting themselves into tangled knots.

She wants something real. She deserves something real, but what in the Hells does real look like? Is it supposed to be like in the silly stories he’s read? Surely not. Those are just a conglomerate of lovely words, trussed into pretty lies that the eyes can view.

He hears them before he sees them. They stand idle in the shadows, trying to hide their heartbeats behind the thundering hoofs of the horses and the wind whipping through the trees. They do not smell like powdered iron-vine.

They are learning.

They should not know he is here, but he does not have time to ruminate on it. His heart detonates in his chest, leaping around like a frightened bird in a cage. The presence in his head serenades him, pulling at its chains, pleading to be unleashed. He needs to get her away from here, from them and himself, before he sinks.

“Run!” He commands.

She hesitates, her pouty lips set into a hard line while she scowls at him and protests his commands. She draws the Weave. It shimmers around her like a vapour in the air. She is beautiful.

She challenges him at every damn turn. He loves it. He loves her for it.

He loves her…

She will not leave of her own accord. Even if he begs, an army cannot make her leave his side, and he knows it. He knows what he must do, but he does not wish to do it. Taking her control from her, forcing her into servitude, the idea used to thrill him. When did that stop?

Yet, he will always do what he must, even if it pains him as he has always done.

He confiscates her control, “Run to the manor as fast as you can and stay there until I return. You will stop for no one and nothing.”

She’s going to berate him later for this, but at least she will be alive to admonish him.

She sprints, and he summons every werewolf, every bat, and every ghoul he can, “Follow her!” He sends several away as the hunters rush him. He parries and dodges, sinking his blades into ribs, necks, and chests. “Protect her at all costs. Signal me when she is out of the forest and return here.”

Gods, his head hurts as he’s torn, the rattling of chains in his head splitting his concentration, but he must make sure she makes it out before he can give in and be overtaken. What will he lose this time? Whenever he drowns, something is stolen from him - a memory becomes snapped and riven like looking into a broken mirror, another part of the real him lost.

Once he hears the baying signal, he lets go and allows himself to be consumed, and all is black, black, black.

Shadowheart tugs on your limbs and clothes, wrapping her arms around your waist and heaving with all her strength. Her voice resounds, but it sounds like a faint, distant whisper, like the sigh of a weary breeze over barren plains. You feel like you’re staring at yourself from a distance. Fatigued, faded and lusterless, you’re a relic of what was and what could have been, just another corpse littering the earth. The skyline is the indigo and blue hues of impending dawn, and the stars no longer stare down on this tragedy as they wink out like eyes shutting against an unexpected bright light. When the sun rises, you will float away and be forgotten in the sands of time.

You were so close. Gods, so fucking close. In the end, Astarion had been right. Love hailed itself a saviour and became your destroyer.

“The sun is rising,” Shadowheart pants, panicked as she tries to pry your fingers from their clutch on Astarion, but they might as well be fused to him. “We don’t have a second longer to lose.”

Each time you blink, a new memory appears and plays in your mind’s eye. Some good. Some bad. Some terrible. Is this what they mean when people say your life flashes before your eyes at death? The reliquary opens, and your hopes, dreams and broken pieces are laid before you to gaze upon.

“Astarion would not want this!” Shadowheart raves, agitation and dread, making her voice tremble. She shakes your shoulders and hauls on them. “He would not want you to die!”

I am already dead.

The first thin golden strings of the newborn sun weave their way through the trees, a grand lace of radiant light that falls upon your pearlescent, colourless skin. Shadowheart screams, her heartbeat pounds in your ears, her blood a tidal wave through her veins as she tries to cocoon you with her body and limbs so the light cannot consume you.

“I’ve got her, Shadowheart,” Astarion’s faint voice charges the air. “I’ve always got her.”

You barely catch it, another whispering flutter in the air, but his chest shudders underneath you, and you’re plunged into your body. Your eyes snap to his, which are open in a hairline split. Crismon barely peeks through behind thick lashes, but somehow, you know he’s looking straight at you.

You grab his hands, interlocking your fingers with his, “Astarion?”

He does not answer, but his fingers twitch, and his grip tightens, if only by a barely perceivable fragment.

Shadowheart clambers, her hands glowing the baby blue hue of her magic so brightly that she could rival the sun as she focuses every morsel of power she has left. She slams her splayed hands onto Astarion’s chest with a thump that makes him wheeze and cough, and he’s bathed in vivid blue.

“You’re not burning.” Shadowheart’s chest swells and recedes like waves over a storm-tossed ocean with exertion, “Is he?”

Astarion stills again, eyes closed. Yet, you do not burn as the rays of light prance over your skin. Your ears perk and quiver as they catch the faint, feeble beating in his chest.

You smile at Shadowheart and throw your arms around her, “His heart beats. He lives. Thank you, Shadowheart. Good Gods, thank you.”

You sit cross-legged on the bed beside Astarion and fixate on him. Shadowheart helped you get him home and into bed, but he’s still not stirred more than some muttering and twitching in his sleep in three days. You’ve not left his side to sleep or eat, and you’re getting hungry. Very hungry. Shadowheart refuses to leave despite your insistence that she is not safe with you. With each passing second, it gets harder and harder to ignore her presence. Astarion’s heartbeat is of no concern to you, but hers… good Gods. Hers sounds like a culinary delight being offered to a starving ogre. You forgot how hard it was to be around the living with their delicious-smelling blood and beating hearts, begging to be tasted.

I’m a monster.

Shadowheart knocks and lets herself into Astarion’s bedroom. She yawns and stretches. You can hear her bones cracking and grimacing at the sound assaulting your ears, “Still nothing?”

“No,” you mumble, clutching fistfuls of bedsheets to stop yourself from scratching your skin in front of her. “His heart sounds stronger and beats more rhythmically, but he hasn’t woken.”

Shadowheart nods toward him, “May I?”

She’s been continuing to heal him every day as much as she can until she needs to sleep and recuperate. You’re surprised she’s putting so much effort into helping him. You thought she hated him, but there is worry etched into the lines of her expression and sadness you did not think you would see, at least when it came to him. You push yourself against a wall, splaying your hands against the wood. You cannot let her get too close to you. You are dangerous. Being a vampire spawn has not been as easy as Astarion made it look. Although, it is substantially less difficult when you’re well-fed.

“Go ahead,” you nod at Shadowheart with a small smile, “but always be wary of me. I cannot be trusted.”

She scoffs, laying a hand on Astarion and reciting incantations in a repeating melody, “You lived with me for a year, and you only tried to kill me once. I trust you. You have better control than you believe, but I will be on guard.”

You wince at the memory. It had been only a few weeks into living with Gale and Shadowheart after they found you in the sewers, starving, writhing and feral with hunger. Astarion had made being a spawn look easy. He could be around blood and gore, and it barely seemed to affect him, but you learned quickly that it was not as simplistic as that. Shadowheart and Gale could not understand why you would not leave your room or why you barricaded yourself in there with every spare piece of furniture you could. One night, you had ventured down, and Shadowheart had been cooking after having had quite enough of Gale’s dry and tasteless food. She nicked herself with a knife chopping vegetables. A small wound, but the blood in the air sent you into a feeding frenzy, blacking out everything but that delicious sanguine tang and you had lunged at her. Gale cast sleep on you before you could bite. Shadowheart laughed it off, but it was a wake-up call to you.

You are dangerous. You cannot be trusted, and you cannot trust yourself. Bloodlust overrides everything else far too easily.

Shadowheart’s magic washes over him again but with little noticeable effect, and she frowns at her palms as if somehow it’s her fault.

“He’s improving,” you assure her, disheartened by her sullen look. “Every time, he improves. His heart beats stronger.”

She clenches her fist with a nod and a grin, walking over to the chair at the other end of the room. She gives you once over and states, “You’re hungry.”

You swallow hard, crawl onto the bed and place your hand on his chest. You can feel his heartbeat in your palm, and it comforts you, “Yes. I’m very hungry,” you don’t bother trying to conceal it. “You should leave Shadowheart. I know you mean well, and I am grateful for all your help, but I am not Astarion. I do not have the control he does.”

“He keeps you well fed,” she points at Astarion. It’s not a question, and you cock your head at her, “You were skin and bones when you left, but you’re looking healthy again. You’re looking like yourself. I imagine you’ve not gotten much better at hunting, so he must do it for you.”

Your fingers curl into him, “He’s trying to teach me,” you laugh lowly for the first time in days. “He says I’m atrocious. I believe he called it an affront to the gods themselves,” you try to mimic his voice while rolling your eyes. “He takes me out every night, usually.”

“What’s wrong with him?” Shadowheart’s brows pinch. “You said you didn’t have time to explain it, but we have nothing but time while we wait on him. Gods. Is he always this lazy?”

She’s trying to cheer you up, and you giggle at her. You’ve missed her. Shadowheart was not overly pleased when you showed up as a spawn, but she accepted it when you told her it was what you wanted. Shadowheart has been the only one, other than Astarion, who you can be brutally honest with regarding your morbid urges.

“He always did enjoy his beauty sleep,” you shrug with a giggle, and she grins. “The Rite had more consequences than we assumed,” you sigh, “Not entirely surprising. As for what exactly, I cannot be sure yet, but I think it would be best if he tells you himself - if he wants to.”

“I understand. If he allows it, I will help any way I can,” she nods. She will not pry because she would want the same choice if it were her, and you would never give away her secrets, just as you refuse to give away his, “You need not be alone in this.”

Hells below. Shadowheart never fails you.

“I could hug you right now, Shadowheart.” You smile, fangs bared, because you do not need to hide from her, “But can we perhaps wait until I’ve eaten and you’re not looking so godsdamn delicious?”

“I’ll have you know that I am as delicious as you are pale. I will have to tell Astarion to get you out into the sun more often,” she giggles as you groan. You’ve had enough sun for a while after your last dalliance with it, “I will take the hug when you’re feeling less peckish. I like my blood in my veins.”

Peckish is an understatement. You could eat a bear, or two, or three, or perhaps an army of them right now. Those hunger cramps and spasms in your muscles are starting to make themselves known and hard to control. Your mouth is a salivating spring, and you have to swallow excessively lest you drool. If Astarion does not wake soon, you will have to push Shadowheart out with physical force if she does not heed your warnings.

“You really should think about going home, Shadowheart,” you urge with a plea that wobbles your intonation. Your hand hovers over bandaged wounds. The superficial ones healed long ago, but these. Gods. Any of these would have killed a mortal man instantly, and he has several, “Astarion just needs time to heal, I think.”

Shadowheart’s eyes flash with that pig-headed defiance you’ve come to know, and she sniffs, “I’m not leaving until he wakes,” she smirks as you grumble under your breath at her, “Is there anything you can tell me about what is going on with him?”

“I know this will be a challenge for you,” you smirk at her with a knowing glower, “But when he wakes, try not to make him angry. You two have always been like cats and dogs, but try not to push him too far. When he gets angry…. Well, let’s say he is not himself.”

“Don’t make him angry?” Shadowheart scoffs, crossing her arms and turning her nose up with a brashly twisted mouth, “Gods. That will be quite the task. He can be exceptionally insufferable.”

“I heard that.” Astarion grumbles, clicking his tongue while opening his eyes sluggishly, “I am a positively magnificent bastard, aren’t I?”

“Astarion!” You nosedive into him, wrapping your arms around him and basking in the warmth of his skin.

“Well, hello, little love,” he purrs comfortingly. His arm wraps around you and compresses you against his chest with his nose in your hair. He thrusts you back with one arm and scans you, “You are alright?”

“Me!?” You fight the overwhelming desire to shake him. He’s just woken up, and he’s asking about you? “You stupid, foolish idiot! When you are on your feet, you and I need to talk.”

He chuckles, running his fingers through your hair, “I expected as much.”

Shadowheart stands, “I hate to break this up, but may I?”

She gestures to Astarion, and you nod, pulling out of Astarion’s grip with a reluctance that makes your skin crawl. Astarion arches a brow at your retreat. Shadowheart’s magic infuses his skin, healing him slightly further, and he looks at her confused.

“Thank you for taking care of her, Astarion,” Shadowheart emphasizes with a genuine smile. “She’s looking well. I owe you gratitude for that. She would not tell me what’s happened to you, but I would like to help if I can - if you will accept it. I don’t need your answer now, but think about it.”

“Uh,” Astarion is taken aback by Shadowheart’s authentic appreciation, but he recovers his detached mask quickly. “You’re welcome,” he says cooly, “I will think on your request. Please tell me this does not make us,” he cringes, “friends.”

Shadowheart scoffs, “Gods, no!”

“Good,” Astarion giggles. “I do positively enjoy our squabbling, after all.”

Astarion’s eyes swing to you, pressed against the wall as if you’re trying to melt into it. Your jaw is clenched hard, teeth rasping. Try as you might, you cannot hide the discomfort you’re feeling, and you look away from him, uncomfortable under his penetrating gaze. He will recognize bloodlust.

Astarion pushes himself upright, “How long have I been out? Please tell me she’s at least tried to eat.”

Shadowheart answers before you do, “Three days and no. She has not left your side,” she points at you with a scowl, “Despite my insistence that she do so. You know how stubborn she can be.”

“Hells below.” Astarion is out of bed before you or Shadowheart can comprehend what’s happened, and he pulls you close to him with a tight grip on your waist, “I thank you for your assistance, Shadowheart, truly, but you should leave. It’s not safe for you to be around her. I will think about your offer and walk you out.”

Shadowheart puts her hand up with a shake of her head, “That is unnecessary. I can show myself out. Take care of her, Astarion. Do not make me regret saving your hide.”

Astarion chuckles, “I can only promise I will take care of her. You have my word."

Shadowheart smiles at you, “I will be expecting that hug once you’re feeling better.”

The shattered glass crunches under your feet as you walk through the shambles of what remains of the mirrors, vases and paintings you ravaged. Little pieces of mirror reflect the candlelight, spraying it in a flickering array across the walls and ceiling like a conglomerate of stars. Your fingers tremble over the curtains, but the anguish is fresh in your mind, and you can’t get yourself to open them. It feels grave to be away from Astarion, even though he’s upstairs, and you keep your hearing trained on his heartbeat, afraid that if you don’t, it might arrest.

With a sigh, you bend down and start to collect the broken fragments of the mirror that spurns your existence and remains empty despite your fingers gripping the surface. You breathe on the glassy surface. You know nothing will happen, but for a reason unknown to you, the refusal to acknowledge you sways you in a sudden grip on anger. You squeeze it, and the sharp edges slice into your fingers. Blood wells up, gliding and smearing on the surface, and you grin as if you’ve forced the damn thing to accept you are real.

“Decided to do a little redecorating, I see,” Astarion chuckles, arching a brow at the mess.

You whirl, compressing the pieces of mirror in your hand so hard they start to buckle and splinter further. You want to berate him for sending you away, screaming at him for compelling you and scolding him for dying and almost leaving you alone for eternity, but once your eyes meet his, the anger is washed away by relief. He’s alive, and for now, that’s all that matters.

I have an eternity to chastise him for being an idiot.

“Sorry.” It’s the best you can do.

Astarion walks toward you, and even though the floor is littered with rubble, his footsteps still make no sound. His fingers slip down your arm to the hand that’s clutching those broken pieces, blood still rolling down the surface.

“It’s okay, little love.” He coos, taking the fragments from you and letting them fall back to the floor. He kisses your blood-smeared fingers, “It was all horrific. Wasn’t it? We can redecorate.”

We?

Gods. He talks as if nothing has happened, and it vexes you, but you slip your arms around him, push your ear to his chest, and enjoy that steady and strong beat almost stolen from you.

Astarion kisses your temple, then forehead and then tilts your head up and moulds his lips to yours in a lingering kiss before pulling back and scowling at you. His voice is coarse and booming, “What you did in the forest was bloody stupid! What in the Hells were you thinking? You would have burned to death had Shadowheart’s damn wailing not roused me.”

“You don’t get to lecture me on stupidity.” You push him away and meet his ire with your own. “You should not have sent me away! I could have helped.”

“It’s not your problem,” he shakes his head.

“Oh, Gods,” you scoff at him, fingers curling into fists at your side, “Not this bullshit again! Your problems are my problems. When will you learn that?”

“No.” He hisses, “I failed you once, and the Gur nearly killed you. I will not fail you again.”

“You imbecile!” You scream, starting to weep, and you put your hand on a wall to keep yourself steady as the leaden weight of everything that’s happened descends, “You died! You were dead! You… you almost left me here all alone.”

The blaze of anger in his eyes winks out, sterilized by grief. Astarion’s brows rise, and the corners of his mouth turn down, “Oh, love, no.”

Astarion’s arms fold around you as your knees give out, and he braces you against him with a hand at the back of your head. “I’m sorry,” he mumbles with his lips against your forehead.

You almost want to push him away, to give yourself some distance, because you are falling too hard, too fast, but he guides your head up, and warm ruby eyes unite with yours. The connection with him croons the invitation to open, and you don’t hesitate to answer. Everything floods in a downpour. All your nerves, synapses, and neurons buzz with the efflux of information. You squeeze your eyes shut as your body attempts to orient itself. You inhale several shaky breaths as his heart beats inside your chest. It’s uncomfortable, but Hells, you will gladly take that pain.

The flood eases and becomes pleasant, languid streams that cross softly, slowly, and you are one. You are whole. You are complete.

Before you can open your eyes again, you feel Astarion’s lips ghost over yours, and you part them for him in a gasp as you feel his desire ignite. A raw, almost feral passion, unbridled and uninhibited. It’s so potent it’s intoxicating, and your yearning bursts and throbs between your thighs. Astarion kisses you with ferocity, and his tongue darts into your mouth. His taste is rich, deep and dark, and you moan as you drink him in. His fingers slip into your hair at the back of your neck, holding you firmly while he pushes your back against the wall. He grinds his hips into you with a resonating growl as he pins you.

Good Gods. With the connection to him open, you feel everything. His pleasure. Your pleasure. All brimming and teeming as one ocean of bliss you’re going to drown in. Without his smooth skin against yours, you feel painfully bare, and you rip open his shirt, flinging buttons askew. Astarion slips your dress from your shoulders with a smug smirk and lustfully hooded eyes, and it pools at your feet as Astarion lets his shirt fall.

Pushing yourself against him, you sigh with a pining whimper. He feels pure and warm as sunshine, and he is the light that parts the gloom of sorrow that has clutched your heart for the past few days.

Astarion parts your folds, spreading them and stroking the slickness. He is not slow this time. He is not teasing. He is feverish in his need for you. The pads of his fingers find your aching center, swollen with want, and quickly settle into a rhythm that makes your body twitch and spasm with white-hot pleasure, making you arch off the wall. You moan loud and animalistic, whimpering his name like a verse that’s stuck in your head, and his throat steals your moans with his lips on yours as if he can taste the euphoria in your cries.

Tension coils in your belly, and Astarion moans deep and velvety smooth as you crest and dissolve for him. He doesn’t waste a moment. You can feel his urgency from the connection, and it makes you just as rabid. You need to feel him stretching you, massaging your walls, making you his.

With a quick snap of his wrist, his trousers are below his hips. His cock is hard and yearning, twitching in the candlelight. Astarion grips your thighs, wrapping your legs around his waist, and he buries himself into you with one quick thrust.

The pleasure is so intense, either his or yours or maybe it’s both combined, you do not know, but you clench around him so hard he hisses when he inhales and groans, bracing himself with his forearm on the wall as if he might fall over.

“F-fuck,” he pants. He pulls out slowly and slams back into you with a snap of his hips. “Tell me you love me,” he commands with another pump, plunging himself deeper.

Your ears barely perceive the words he’s saying while you sink into your mind-numbing ecstasy, but you know what he wants intuitively, “I love you,” you whimper, lacing your fingers into his soft curls.

Astarion’s pace increases, uncontrolled and more frantic, as he rears his hips back and drives into you. He pushes himself as close as he can possibly get while he pumps his into you.

“Again,” he instructs huskily as he finds a pace that snares all your senses. “Say it again.”

“I love you,” you breathe, panting, bucking your hips to push against his thrusts, rolling them in the way you know drives him crazy. “I love you. I love you. I love you,” you repeat a whispering hymn.

Every nerve quivers in bliss, and your eyes roll back. You clench, gripping his cock tighter and tighter with every thrust.

“Come,” he growls the command darkly.

Your lips crash into his as you comply, your body submitting to his influence. It feels like a dream to obey, and you crash into your orgasm like a wave crashing upon a rocky shore. You cry out, fingers raking his skin, thighs squeezing him as you’re cast upon that shore time and time again.

“Good girl,” he purrs. His hips stutter as the tremors massage his girth. “Again,” he barks with a groan, his breath hitching as he plunges into you erratic and needy.

Every pump of his hips is an ode to possession. Every twitch of his cock is a chorus of control. Every time he drives you to your peak is a sonnet to claim.

He owns you. You belong to him. You are his.

Yes, take me and make me yours.

You don’t know if they are your thoughts or his, but you hear his answer in your mind as it drifts on the slipstream of your bond.

“I will.”

Good Gods. Astarion means to make you shatter around him over and over until your body cannot possibly splinter any further. He means to take, take and take until you have nothing left to give, and even then, he means to take more.

And he does.

The smell of Honeysuckle, Vanilla and brandy is heavy and prevalent, arousing you gently back to your senses. Your eyes remain closed with lingering fatigue. The muscles in your body ache with an obnoxiously constant pang, and you groan and grumble under your breath at the sensation. There’s a serene tranquillity rife that you cannot quite explain, like a peaceful and undisturbed pond. You’re warm as if swaddled in a blanket made of sunlight.

Sunlight. Sun…

No. You should not be in the sun!

Your eyes snap open, and you flounder, graceless and clumsy. Steam rises all around you, and water swooshes and splashes over the sides of a ceramic-tiled tub, splashing against the floor.

“Easy, love,” Astarion chuckles, pulling you against his chest to stop your inelegant lumbering. “You’re alright.”

Your head quirks up, and your eyes meet his gaze. Candlelight treads and sways in the sanguine sea, and kindness coruscates, making them radiate softly.

You blink, and your hand slices through the water, “What in the Hells?”

“A bath,” he grins handsomely, sweeping wet strands of hair from your cheek and behind your ear tenderly. His fingers trace your jaw, “Apologies. I may have gotten a little… carried away.”

Carried away is one word for it, I suppose.

“Oh,” he giggles, beautiful and lighthearted, as careless as a child at play. It makes you smile. You came so close to never hearing that sound again. “And what’s the other word for it?”

Shit. He’s still in my head.

“Yes,” he kisses your temple, hugging you tighter. His fingers skim across your skin comfortingly, “I am still in your head as you are in mine.”

“You put me in a bath?” You arch your brow at him.

“It was necessary,” he smirks arrogantly. “I made quite a mess of you.”

Astarion reaches down, his fingers parting your folds, and you jump, confused at what exactly his goal is. “Relax,” he purrs. “This is not about sex.” His fingers rub over you gently, washing you and easing that soreness his enthusiasm caused. His feelings of affection and genuine, thoughtful compassion roll through the connection. “Unless you wish to go for round four? Or was it five? Or six? I could be persuaded.”

You groan and slump down further into the bath. Despite your exhaustion, your body responds to his touch as it always does, fire igniting within your stomach and desire making your skin prickle.

“Good Gods, Astarion,” you mumble with a sigh. “No more.”

“I thought not.” Astarion lathers his hands with soap and starts washing your arms, chest and back. He massages your stiff muscles with perfect pressure.

Should I be angry with him?

“Oh, don’t be sour,” he tsks, clicking his tongue and nuzzling your cheek. “You enjoyed yourself. I felt it. I felt it every godsdamn time. I almost couldn’t contain myself. You’re lucky I have such excellent control. That would undo a lesser man immediately.”

“You are full of yourself, aren’t you?” You laugh. Astarion’s cheerful mood is infectious, and you can’t help but feel a little bubbly with happiness yourself.

He shrugs, “Can you truly blame me? I am rather impressive.”

“I think it’s me that’s impressive,” you smirk with a wolfish grin, “If the exultant Vampire Ascendant could barely contain himself.”

“Sassy girl,” he tuts with a chuckle. “You are inconceivably enchanting. Even with an eternity, I could never get enough of all this.” He gestures over your body with seductive eyes but becomes more serious, “And whatever this is, between us, I could never tire of it, my love.”

My love…

The words descend in your mind, slow and tortuous like a feather falling from a great height. He does not love you. He said as much himself, and his silence and reluctance when you pressed him only cemented that. Yet, his actions speak different words, and his thoughts and feelings that you can feel utter different syllables. You don’t know which language to believe.

“I do,” his answer floats in your head, not out of his mouth.

You push away from him, whirling around in the enormous tub, splashing additional water over the edges. You need to see him, be able to watch and look in his eyes. His brows furrow in confusion, and he looks at the swaying water, “At least, I think I do.”

“What happened downstairs was not love. You want to possess me, control me and claim me. You want me to belong to you. I felt it,” you frown. It’s all so godsdamned confusing. “You craved ownership, not a partner. Is that love to you?”

Astarion’s eyes widen, and his hand reaches for you, but you bat it away, and he stops his advance. You need distance if you have any hope of keeping your wits about you.

“You want to be taken and claimed. You want to be mine,” he snarls, but there’s a sorrow weaved in between that choler. “I felt it. I heard it. I do not understand why you deny yourself these truths. Why do you continue to fight me?”

He’s clever, always able to take your questions, skirt them artfully and turn them around on you, but you know his tricks. He’s partly correct. You do want to be his, to belong, but you do not want to be owned and controlled.

“You didn’t answer the question, Astarion.” You retort bluntly, narrowing your eyes at him.

You have to tread carefully over these hot coals. If you challenge him too much, you’re likely to be reacquainted with his anger made flesh.

Astarion takes a deep breath, calming himself and smoothing his severe expression, “I already admitted I got carried away and caught up in the intensity of the moment. Sometimes, my thoughts become twisted. What more do you want me to say?”

You can accept that sometimes his thoughts are out of his control. You’ve heard the chittering yourself, and it’s like a flesh-eating infection that grazes upon contemplations. If you want him to continue being open, you must be able to withstand his darkness.

You can and you will because you must.

Always the lovesick hero.

“You know what I want you to say,” you whisper with a tear glistening in the corner of your eye. You know he won’t say it. You can feel his aversion as if it were your own.

“I can’t,” Astarion says flatly. He does not offer a reason. His fingers comb through his hair, and he shudders as if ice was suddenly thrust upon his warm skin. “You want something real? I’m not entirely sure what real looks like, but I will try. For you, I will try. But I cannot say what you’re asking right now.”

“Then I think this conversation is over,” you growl bitterly while climbing out of the bath.

Water drips down your body as you wrap yourself in one of the plush towels. You can feel his pain through the bond, and it’s tearing you apart on the inside, but you cannot fathom being his pet. You are not an object to be owned and flaunted, and no matter how badly you want him, you cannot allow him to treat you as such.

He does not speak as you walk away, your feet leaving wet marks across the floor. You don’t turn when you speak. You cannot see the sorrow reflected in his eyes, “And Astarion, if you ever compel me like that again, I will walk out and never return.”

His answer is calculated and numb, “I will do what is necessary to protect you.”

“Then you better be ready to lose me,” you snarl. “I am not an object you can wield when it suits your needs and put away when you’ve finished with me.”

“So be it,” he concludes quickly.

This time, you close the door in your head, although you’re reluctant to do so as you tread the hall back to your room. You are hollow once again, but you fill the void with hatred. You will find out how the Gur knew of your whereabouts and descend on the wings of death.

You know exactly where to start.

Elowyn.

Big thank you for everyone who takes the time to read/reblog/comment, and all the other magnificent things. As always, I hope you enjoy this, darlings!

AO3 [Crossposted]

Master List of Chapters: Fangs and Fractured Hearts

If you're interested I write another fic with Spawn Astarion x Tav called - Shadows of the Past

Small Notes:

I felt terrible for the cliffhanger, so I spent much of my free time writing this week so I could keep mostly on schedule :)

#astarion fanfic #ascended astarion #bg3 #astarion x you #bg3 astarion #bg3 fanfiction #astarion x tav #astarion x reader #astarion #astarion smut

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milkb0nny · 6 months

Text

The Benefits Of Being Sick

Dean Winchester x gn!reader

Comfortember Day 7: Illness

Summary: You found yourself bound to your bed when a horrible cold haunted you. After struggling to recover, Dean took initiative to heal you from your illness.

Note: I love this one actually! It's really wholesome and the dialog was easy to create. Usually I struggle with it. 🤍 To all of you who are currently sick while reading this: get well soon!

Warnings: established relationship, sickness

word count: ~1k

Life had taken a harsh turn during the recent hunts, leaving you physically and mentally drained. Even though no injuries happened to you, you got terribly sick due to the colder season. Walking through cold forests during rain, only to fight some ghosts, was the final straw for you.

The weeks leading up to this moment had been marked by subtle signs of illness. A runny nose here, a scratchy throat there - nothing you hadn't experienced before. You had naively assumed that these minor discomforts would fade on their own. Neglecting self-care in the throes of a hunt was all too common, and you had fallen victim to this pattern.

But after the messy and chilling ghost hunt, the onset of your illness took a more sinister turn. It began with a throbbing headache, pounding against your skull. The pain was excruciating, and it left you reeling. Attempting a simple act like washing your face with cold water turned disastrous and your body only knew pain in these moments of physical activity.

As you leaned over the bathroom sink, dizziness overcame you, and the world tilted dangerously. Only quick reflexes saved you from a potentially painful fall onto the tile floor.

With trembling legs and a body wracked with discomfort, you clung to the wall for support and slowly made your way back to your room. The sickness that had taken hold of you was unlike anything you had experienced before. Your tired eyes gaze at your sweat soaked bed. With a heavy sigh, you sank into the clammy sheets, exhaustion weighing you down like an anchor.

In a matter of minutes your eyes closed, and you fell asleep.

°°°

The door knocked when you regained consciousness, your eyes blinking towards the direction of the direction where the sound had come from. You felt the wet bedsheets around you, making the experience extraordinary uncomfortable for you. Dean's concerned face appeared as he cautiously entered your room, his eyes quickly adjusting to the stuffy and dimly lit space.

A worried furrow creased his brow as he took in the sight of your pale, sweat-soaked face. The room, heavy with the scent of sickness, was a stark contrast to its usual state of fresh cold air and tidiness.

“Sweetheart," he began, his voice soft and gentle, "you look like crap.”

Even though you were at a low point in life right now, you couldn’t resist chuckling to his hilarious remarks. Dean, who tried to be serious, only caused you to giggle at his dry remark.

“Thank you, Babe. You always know how to make me feel better," you ironically replied, your tried eyes gazing to the man, who slowly approached you.

“I'm serious, y/n," he said, his tone serious now. “You've been pushing yourself too hard on these hunts. Now, look at you.”

You nodded, wincing at the pain in your head. “I know, I know. I thought it was just a slight cold. I guess I underestimated it.” Your whispery voice represented the lack of energy flowing through your body.

Dean sat down on your bed, gently removing some hair strands from your face, his hands cold. You took his icy hands nod put it on your forehead, so the pain may vanish through his magic skills and coolness.

You met his gaze, gratitude shining in your eyes. “I appreciate you, Dean. I really do.”

Your sweet whimpering sounds softened the male up, ordering him to place a light kiss on your cheek. His cold hand remained on your head, drawing circles on your hairline.

He gave you a small, reassuring smile. His eyes told you he was adoring you in this moment. Even though you not only felt exhausted, you also felt incredibly ugly, and still, Dean admired you. Alone the fact he loved you at your lowest point, made you happier than before.

His low voice filled the room once again, keeping you from falling asleep again, “Now, let's get you back on your sweet little feet. I'll make some chicken soup. Do you want to take your blanket and some pillows to the sofa, so you can watch me cook, baby?”

You couldn't help but smile at his words. His care and concern wrapped around you like a warm, comforting embrace, chasing away the chill that had gripped your body.

A slight nod of agreement was all you could muster, your voice strained from the relentless coughing that had plagued you. Dean knew that you couldn't refuse his request, and with a gentle yet firm grip, he scooped you up effortlessly. His strong arms were wrapped around you, giving you a form of security.

He carried you to the living space, where Sam was engrossed in the stack of papers spread across the table, each one a piece of the puzzle in their ongoing hunt. Sam glanced up, his eyes filled with concern at the sight of you being cradled in Dean's arms.

“A tea?” He asked you to which you replied with a soft nod.

Setting you down with the utmost care, Dean swiftly retrieved a soft blanket and a pile of plump pillows. It only took a matter of minutes before you were cocooned in warmth again. You watched Dean's every move, your heart swelling with affection and gratitude for the man who was always there to take care of you. You loved him, so much your heart sometimes couldn’t comprehend it. His actions spoke louder than words, he loved you too.

While you rested, Dean took a moment to regroup and focus on preparing the best chicken soup you had ever tasted. Cooking wasn't something he did often, but when he did, it was like a form of meditation. The aroma of simmering broth and herbs wafted through the air, filling the room with a comforting scent.

Sam observed from a distance, a soft smile playing on his lips. He knew that the bond between you and Dean was unbreakable. It was moments like these, when Dean's love and care shone brightly, and it comforted his younger brother. He knew Dean’s emotions were safe with you, and you were secure and sound under Dean’s care.

You were convinced with such a princess treatment every day, you would quickly regain your strength.

#supernatural dean #dean winchester x reader #dean x reader #sam and dean #dean winchester #supernatural #spn fanfic #spnfandom #comfortember 2023 #comfortember

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ghostsvacuumcleaner · 10 months

Text

Shades of Red - Chapter III | 5k

chapter one | chapter two ao3 | masterlist

✦ Pairing: Simon “Ghost” Riley x civilian f! reader ✦ Summary: The sole survivor of a terrorist attack that killed over a hundred. The soldier responsible for saving her. He wants to help you, but his own trauma make him withdraw when he wants to get closer and intoxicate when he wants to remedy. He kisses your scars and hopes you’ll runaway. He wants you to run away. But you won’t. ✦ TW: NSFW, explicit, f!reader, little to none f! physical appearence descriptions, canon typical violence, mentions of abuse and trauma/PTSD, bit of gore, mental illness mentions, slowburn; ✦ Chapter TW: trauma mentions as always, slight mention of obsessive behavior just again! bit of stalker!ghost

A/N: Hi girlies! I'm proud to say the story is finally about to begin for real and I'm hoping for some feedback on pacing, how you guys thing it's going so far and any tips on how to get better if there's any. Thank you for reading me and I love y'all ♥

taglist: @simpinginthecorner; @ghostlythots; @fine141; @dmitriene; @maviee

Chapter 03 - Foolish Girl

“Can you handle more, fecker? I’m pretty sure he can.” a voice asked, and he felt another kick hit his head; there was blood everywhere, he could barely feel his own mouth but the taste of metal that kept dripping through his teeth, the open wounds on his lips.

He didn’t answer. Not a single word came out of his mouth, not a single whimper; it was like he was made of iron: he would flinch, but his sole skin seemed quite tough, hard; made of something other than human matter. It was impossible, they thought. Doesn’t this guy suffer? Is he dead?

No, he wasn’t dead. There were still heartbeats, he was still breathing. How was he breathing?

“Drown him.” the same voice ordered and they made a move around, three guys carrying him. He could think of nothing at all. How do you survive torture?

There’s a moment your body reaches complete numbness. You stop feeling pain, you stop feeling anything at all; it’s like it just awaits for you to give in. If a rookie asked Ghost how he manages to be unbeatable, to be beaten up fourteen times in a row and keep himself awake, he’d simply answer: refuse to give in.

When his body reaches complete numbness, he absorbs it. He does nothing. He resists, doesn’t close his eyes. He couldn’t deny he wanted, so badly, so many times to give up - but it wasn’t under his jurisdiction, to give up.

It had been days. Eight, to be more precise.

Eight days since you last saw or heard anything about Ghost or his squad. And also eight days since you finally decided to put some effort in yourself.

Just throwing aside all of your insecurities, your fears and the emptiness that overcame you ever since the incident wasn’t the most clever decision, you knew it very well; but the government assigned a team of health professionals to look after you: a psychiatrist, a therapist and of course, Doris, the nurse - your most recent friend.

Things were starting to catch. You started talking a little more and now you could get out of bed with a wheelchair. Your leg was still looking like jelly - but that didn’t stop you from getting dressed up that day, tuck yourself in the wheelchair and all on your own for the very first time, ride through the hospital hall. There was someone you needed to talk to; didn’t know exactly how that would go: it had been time since you last saw this man. The situation wasn’t the very best on your side, too much trauma, too many memories, and now, facing something you avoided from day one.

You stopped in front of his office door. Getting the elevators without your legs wasn’t as hard as you thought it would be, and there you were: your destination. Didn’t take you twenty minutes; that was good.

You took a deep breath and reached for the dark wooden door, big, beautiful: the type of office belonging to a very high pattern person. You knocked.

In not more than twenty seconds, the man’s form showed up in front of you; grey-ish hair, his white coat seeming to be perfectly cut and sewed to be his and his stethoscope hanging from his neck. A yellow smile awkwardly showed up on your face.

“Doctor Miller.” It was a mutter, almost inaudible. He seemed tired, sad, depressed. It’s how you expected him to be, if to be honest, and even so he had that tiny gentle smile printed on his lips.

“Well hello, little miss. I didn’t expect to see you so soon.” He admitted, before gesturing his hand towards you; you took it in a handshake. “I’m glad to see you’re getting better. Come in, please.”

“I’m trying.” You said, grabbing onto the wheelchair’s wheels and pushing yourself inside his office as he opened some space for you. The door was closed behind you, and your face gyrated, noticing the motion.

“I can imagine it’s not going to be so easy, right? I’ve been doing all efforts I can to push the media away from you, getting the best doctors I can involved in your treatment, et cetera.” He motioned with his hands as his hips laid back onto his wooden desk - same wood as the door - and crossed his arms. “Are they being nice to you?”

“Yes- god, yes. They are, I have nothing to complain about…” You responded quickly, feeling somewhat like a burden for hearing those words. “They’re great, yes.”

He nodded with his head, fixing his glasses from the tip of his nose and let out a sigh, finally. His eyes went down to the floor. “I’m glad then, missy. I’m glad.”

Silence fell over the two of you like the big elephant living in the room was taking over all the space that should belong to your air. The air you had to breathe - it was caught up in your throat. You felt your heart sinking and your body tensing up a little, and closed your eyes.

“I’m here for another reason, as you can possibly imagine.” You muttered.

Anthony interrupted you, “Please.” he closed his eyes, and his words got caught up in his throat. A lump there, you knew he was struggling to even think of a less painful way of doing this. “If you’re going to blame yourself then you should know that-”

“Anthony.” You said, your lips already trembling with the tears that formed in your eyes. “I’m really sorry.” You said simply and bluntly, not being able to hold back those painful grieving tears of yours.

He kept silent, and his face turned aside, the stern look on it never leaving but you knew it: in his deepest mind, he could not possibly blame you, but in his heart, seeing you was seeing the only remaining thing of the incident that killed his only child, his daughter - your best friend. And sometimes you couldn’t blame yourself either. For the past eight days, you’ve been avoiding thinking about Amelie. She, who gave off all the opportunities you needed to succeed in med school. One of the best people you ever met, now, had her name written as one of the first ones in a list of 102 victims of a fatal terrorist attack.

To his gut wrenching silence, you spoke again. “She didn’t deserve this.” you muttered, but didn’t dare talking about your own position on all this.

Nobody would like to hear someone else saying they should have died in place of your own child. Especially with this short spend of time - his grief was fresh as a recent stab in the heart.

“None of them did.” He said, and his voice was nothing but a wind whisper on a cold night. “It was a fatality. It’s nobody’s fault but those bastards who did this.” He kept on, swallowing dry and you could almost catch in the air the moment his feelings gravitated from sadness and sorrow to anger and hate, to pain; the glow in his eye changed and he didn’t dare to look at you. “So don’t blame yourself.”

You chewed in false, bite your tongue in an attempt to stop yourself from crying and speaking out everything in your mind.

Silence.

“I’d like to go to the memorial today.” You raised your face to him now, silent tears streaming down your cheeks. “I’ll drop it, Anthony. I just want to see her face again, say goodbye, and then I’ll vanish. I’m promising, I’ll vanish, I-” you tried to keep up, but Anthony turned to you abruptly and a gesture with his hand stopped your talking instantly.

“Drop it? No.” He shook his head, and his tone grew even more stern by the time he spoke. “Are you going insane, lass? Have you lost your senses, no! You won’t drop college because my daughter died.” He said in such a harsh tone it made you flinch a little. You didn’t expect such crude sincerity. “She would want you to continue.”

You shut your eyes tight, shook your head, trying to hold back the painful cry you had stuck in your throat, but this time no - you couldn’t.

“But it is not fair. It’s not fair.” You stuck your face between your hands and started gasping. It was impossible to hold back. The grief he felt was obviously stronger, harder than yours - of course losing a daughter wasn’t the same as losing a best friend.

Amelie had done for you more than anyone else in your life, but still, she was only a dear friend of yours. You didn’t have the right to cry this much, did you?

He lost his daughter. You survived the attack, she was supposed to have gone buying those donuts that day. You offered to go in her place.

It was your fault, wasn’t it?

Only survivor. The only survivor.

Anthony hugged you, tears streaming down his face as he almost lifted you from the wheelchair just to be able to hold you a little tighter in his arms, a fatherly embrace, like he had the opportunity of hugging his own daughter one last time before seeing her slip through his hands like water, dying in such a cruel, vile way. You never had a father, he’d occupy this spot for you ever since you arrived for the first time in this damn country.

He missed a daughter now; that was something else the two of you had in common now: grieving for Amelie.

━ ⟡ ━

There were way too many people there - more than he could ever count. Lots of pictures spread across the beautiful grass in the cemetery, the media recording every single movementation. The UK Intelligence leader was speaking, a speech - a coordinated, very planned and wisely written speech; one made to cause commotion, to stop spreading panic and to slightly criticize the media’s insistent attempts to make the population desperate.

Ghost took a look around, his eyes gleaming through the mask and scanning the surroundings of the immense park-cemetery. Wasn’t too hard finding you, standing with the help of two crutches in front of your wheelchair, siding with the podium in which the man spoke fluidly to the public. Your eyes were lost in the pictures by the floor, surrounded by flowers and candles, preaches for the peace of those who perished.

You were wearing a long white dress, covering your legs - he couldn’t tell the size of the scar but given the fact that you were standing, Ghost supposed it was getting better quickly. Good.

“I’ll walk a bit.” He stated, before giving his back to Gaz and starting to walk away. It was not that a man wearing military gear was precisely discrete among a big crowd of normally dressed civilians, but he for one was a very silent, smooth operator. He kept his distance from the inner part of the crowd, started walking through the surroundings. A slow walk, he kept looking at you, drinking in your emotions.

You were crying - nothing but silent tears, but substantial ones he could notice by the way the light moved and gleamed across your face. Thought to himself if that was only because of the awful colloquy, or if anything else happened in those eight days.

Well, a person in your situation didn’t need a precise reason to cry.

You wouldn’t notice, and in fact nobody else would - but the SWAT team designed to keep the area safe, that there was a man behind you. In distance, in long distance yes - but behind you .

He wore full dark clothes, a hoodie, his face was almost invisible from the distance the people in front of you were. And from even further behind them, Ghost noticed.

His posture changed by the moment he locked his breath on his lungs and tensed up; for a moment, he stopped listening to everyone around. The sounds went quiet, almost mute; the man in the podium had his mouth moving, but no sound coming out of it. Nothing.

In nature, a good predator approaches its prey from the blindspot. From the opposite direction where the cameras are, and if he further knows better - distant from the other animals as well. In the army, you get to learn that position, agility and attitude are three vital points to be considered before attempting an attack. Learning the enemy’s position and with a good aim, before he even tried to do any harm, Ghost could’ve had him on the floor, a bullet hole in his forehead and a crowd of horrified people around the man’s dead body.

Come on. You won’t get closer to her, will you, mate?

He was walking towards you.

You won’t try something. Won’t give me a reason to cancel your bloody name.

Was he grabbing something from his shirt? Something from the pocket of his hoodie, a little something?

Look at me.

He did.

His eyes catched up with Ghost’s, and almost like he could read his own future or in simple lack of courage, he took a step back. And then another. And another, and within seconds, he had his hands stuck in his hoodie pockets again, a straight up posture and nothing on his face anymore. Seemed to be enjoying the ceremony.

Ghost didn’t buy it. He glanced over at the other squad members, trying to see if anyone else but him had noticed the movementation - apparently, not.

He thought of reaching for the man in the crowd; they’d have a interesting chat if he got to lay hands on that cheap looking disguise of his. But when his eyes got back to the place where he was, the man had vanished like thin air.

━ ⟡ ━

Doris held up your wheelchair, folded, around one of her arms. You were walking towards the cemetery, and although you could simply let her push you around, you were enjoying walking by yourself with some help of your crutches.

“At least there was a ceremony. They could have let that pass, like they do to thousands of attacks around the world.” Doris mentioned, while you were concentrating all your energy in your own walking.

“You’d be a fool if you thought they’d let that pass, Doris. Look at where we are.” You argued, conscient of the fact that if you weren’t in such a favored country, perhaps things would be different now. Perhaps you wouldn’t be receiving so much help and attention from the media, or from the government itself. Proof of their selective worry.

“You’re right.” She nodded in a sigh, and looked over at you. “Are you sure you don’t need any help, dear? I can hold your arm at least-”

“No. Thank you, I’m doing well here.” You replied quite fast, without opening space for her to insist much. Even so, you expected to hear her voice in a grumpy complainment about your stubbornness, but instead, a deep charged voice came out and startled you.

“Girl.” He said, looking at you. His stature so tall it startled Doris off a little, too, although she seemed a little less surprised than you for seeing him. “May we talk for a bit?” He looked at Doris, like he was asking for her to excuse the two of you.

You kept two seconds of silence looking into the masked man that now towered over you, before Doris spoke out.

“I’ll be waiting back there in the car, okay, dear?” She asked, and in a nod the woman walked away leaving you with Ghost.

He offered an arm to you, which you eyed and promptly refused, waving your clutches.

“I’m fine with those.”

“Alright.” He nodded and walked a bit, standing by your side and keeping pace with your slow walking.

It wasn’t weird that he was in that place; it was a big event, being televised nationally. A ceremony to the dead, a mere way the government found to redeem themselves for being unable to keep harm from its citizens. Ghost was involved in all that, he of course would be there - but you didn’t expect this conversation to happen.

“I didn’t think I’d see you again. Ever, actually.” You admitted, while your eyes seemed focused on your feet while you walked.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to bother you.” He replied, simply.

“That’s not what I said.” You quickly redeemed yourself, looking at him and stopping the walk. Ghost was looking at you too. “I just meant to say I thought you wouldn’t come back.”

“We’ll hope you never need to see me again, won’t we, miss?” He reasoned, and you raised your eyebrows in agreement.

“Don’t think your company is entertaining?” You gave some other suffered steps through the dirt path between the cemetery’s tombstones, and so did he.

“That’s not what I said.”

You smiled.

“Gotcha. So, should I suppose you have a reason to be here then?” you turned to him once again, holding your hair from flying away with the violent wind that took over the place in a matter of seconds. The clouds were moving - it seemed like it was about to rain.

“I’m here for the same reason as everyone else. The ceremony.” Ghost calmly replied. It seemed weird for you to not be able to read his reactions from the mask, but for some reason, you felt like he was being considerably less stern this particular day.

Maybe he felt bad for you.

“I mean talking to me, Simon. Not here in this place.”

You feared he’d correct you from calling him Simon. He didn’t.

“I know what you meant. Your answer is yes, girl, I have a reason.” He finally said, bluntly, and you kept silent waiting for the next sentences. “Did you receive any visits recently?”

“No one but you a week ago, and the doctors. Why?”

He didn’t answer your question, he simply placed his hands behind his back and straightened his posture. Then, silence.

“Simon?”

“No one. Are you sure?” He insisted.

You frowned your eyebrows slightly and stopped walking once again, putting yourself in front of him this time. You used your healthy leg as a support on the ground to pivot around yourself, and one of the clutches as the other support so you’d stand.

Something in this very calculated and conscient motion failed and you felt your feet step in false; the leg that shouldn’t be carrying weight did, for a second, fast enough for you to feel yourself almost collapse.

Ghost’s hands were quick in grabbing your arms and supporting you against his chest as you almost fell against him, with a small ‘ba-dump’ sound, and your hands now palming the big waistcoat of his tactic gear. You cursed under your breath.

“I’m sorry. And yes, I am sure, why.” You asked a little less patiently this time. His eyes were looking down at you, his hands still swallowing your thin arms like he feared you could fall from the least movement now.

You looked up at him only to meet his dark eyes through the mask and the black eyeshadow that surrounded his face around the eyes and nose, glaring at you.

It occurred to you that if you could possibly live under Ghost’s watch, then you wouldn’t be scared of anything in the world. But it was a quick though that left with the wind that moved your hair and shivered your arms.

“You can let go now.” You murmured, assuring him that you wouldn’t fall now that you had the clutch's support. He did.

“You received suspicious calls, no? Nothing weird that comes to mind?” He kept with his questions that seemed to be turning into a small interrogation.

“Why are you asking me those things?” You finally asked, with a confused shook of your head. “Should I be worried?”

“No. No, you shouldn’t.” He closed his eyes in a sigh, and took your arm around his. Before you could complain, he predicted you. “Don’t complain, I’m doing a courtesy here.”

“I don’t need help, I’m doing well with the-”

“Stubborn girl, aren’t you?” He said, and you could sense a smirk from his voice.

“Well you’re very stubborn yourself, gentleman.” You grumbled, using his help to walk a bit faster now.

You couldn’t see the expression in his face and how amused he seemed to be by watching your movements, and how funny he actually found it that you were slightly mad at him for the time being. You wouldn’t notice the little sign of a laugh on his face, and you’d never suspect there was one - you thought the last thing you’d see him doing in the world was smiling.

After giving you silence as a response, you kept quiet, silently accepting his help through the way. Your eyes scanned the surroundings for a bit like you were looking for a particular tombstone.

“Who do you want to visit?” He risked asking, quietly.

Silence, as you stopped in front of it. There she was. You found it.

The candles were still burning and her face was happily smiling in the picture they chose to put over her gravestone; there were countless flowers, while you held one sole rose in your hand. Doris bought it for you earlier, as you asked.

“My roommate.”

Silence. He was keeping himself a little behind you, his eyes drove from the gravestone to your back. The way the wind started blowing your hair and that white dress fell over your curves perfectly made you look like an angel.

“The one you asked for, what was her name again? Amelie.” He muttered. You gave him a nod.

“Amelie.” You said, as you bend your body as much as you could just so you could reach the top of the beautiful granite that now, layed over her body, and deposit your only flower at the top of all the others already there.

Ghost didn’t know what to say. He wasn’t even sure if he was supposed to say anything, but before that could turn into overthinking for him, you spoke.

“She was my only friend in this place. The only true one.” You explained, even if unsolicited. Somehow, you felt like talking to Ghost was therapy to you; he would almost never answer, and hear it - truly hear it. Maybe you were being delusional to think with this level of detail about him, but so far, you haven’t spoken to someone who made you feel heard quite like him, so it was a win. “I only moved here because her family offered to pay for my expenses. She was in med school too, you know?” You glanced at him, as if he was supposed to know that already.

And he did. He knew every detail that was spoken about you on television. He knew you were in med school; he knew you were originally American, from a very poor family that basically got you living by yourself at a tender age and that you were here for a scholarship you achieved with merit, studying to become a doctor. To become a person, one very much better than him.

You were here to save people.

He had been killing people for quite his lifetime now.

How ironic.

“Do you feel guilty?” He asked.

You thought he was some sort of fortune teller. There it was - the fear. The fear of that man, of his gazing eyes, of his capacity of reading through you like a good book; one he had read before, and he did. He did in his tender age, when he’d suffer at the hands of his father; furthermore, when he got into the army; once again, when he was caught…

Can he take more? I’m sure he can.

Ghost knew guilt like his very own hands. At this point he could feel it no more - he only knew he was doing his job as he could, saving the lives he could and taking the others he needed. Choices have consequences.

“Everyday.” Your voice came out as a blow.

He closed his eyes.

“Do you relate? Looks like you do.” You continued, your eyes locked on his now.

“If I were in your place,” he started, walking a bit closer to you. “I’d make the most of it. I won’t bullshit you with the ‘be grateful for being alive’ rubbish. But want it or not, you’re alive, aren’t you?” He looked over at you, and met your gaze once again.

“Simon’s pep talk… Another surprise for today’s day.” You raised an eyebrow jokingly trying to enlighten the mood even the slightest you could.

“All I’m saying is, foolish girl, that you deserve no less than her to be alive. It’s not a matter of deserving. It’s a matter of luck, you were lucky and she was not.” He turned himself to you, and you felt his eyes burning through your side although you weren’t looking back at him. “There’s no such thing as deserving. If anything, I’d deserve to be bombed twice as much as you.”

“Isn’t that such a cruel thing to say?” You asked with a sole, weak smile on your lips, knowing damn well he was right about every word and every positioning right now. Even though it hurts.

“The world is a cruel place, and although many think, God doesn’t have his favorites… You were lucky. Do not feel guilty about something that didn’t depend on you.” He stated, sternly this time like his advice was a life rule to himself.

For the rest of the way back to the car where Doris waited patiently for the two of you, you kept yourself silent. You wanted to ask more about him, about Simon. About that man you saw such a small flash, a little piece, today; unlike Ghost, Simon was an entirely different person and an entirely different idea to you. Somehow, the two of them seemed to be too attached for you to seek precise duality, and it went as far as to your feelings too: curiosity upon the mystery, fear of what you could learn from the unknown.

“Oh, there you are, finally.” Doris celebrated while opening the car door to you, and rushing fast to help you in. Simon kept himself on the back, watching the whole operation to get you inside the car, amused by how annoyed you got to the excessive help being offered to you.

“I can do things on my own.” You said in gritting teeth.

“I know, dear, but why do things on your own when you can have help” She argued, after tucking you in the car, and turning herself to Ghost. “Thank you for the help, sir.”

“It’s no problem.” He said gently, before nodding his head to you and closing the backdoor for both of you as Doris got in. The car started moving, and you started trailing your way back to the hospital.

In a sigh, you closed your eyes and rested a bit.

━ ⟡ ━

He pushed the mask off, threw it aside. The toned muscles of his back were pumped to the extreme, blood flowing through his veins as he stood, shirtless with a towel around his shoulders, hands by the sink sides, curved only enough so he could reach the mirror and stare at his face. One of his fingers ran through a big scar, almost a crack across his own cheek. Many stab scars ripping his back off, his belly, his stomach, his chest. There were scars everywhere.

He pulled the towel off and poorly dried his hay blonde hair, threw the towel aside in the laundry basket, and fixed the one hanging around his waist; a few drops of the hot shower water still glowing through his body.

He sat on his bed, and took a quick look at the notebook screen. The U.K intelligence system was open, of course he had access to it.

A part of himself was cursing under his name for doing this. The other one knew it was for the greater good; somewhat, deep inside, he knew that wasn’t all. There was more to it. Something almost personal, maybe something growing slowly inside of him.

He didn’t get this sense of need from someone. It's been so long, it’s even weird for him now. No, he didn’t want to awake this monster, give it space, feed it, no.

But he needed to. Because if someone was after you, then he’d hunt it, and he’d put it down.

He put on the password and typed; slowly, the screen started showing off your name, your files, your information, pictures. You.

And he started hunting.

#simon riley x you #simon ghost riley x reader #simon ghost x reader #simon ghost riley #ghost cod #cod fic

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thebibliosphere · 1 year

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hi, i know you get a lot of health asks, but i've got one you might give better advice on than google if you have the time: i feel so tired all the time, even if i wanted to do most things, a lot of the time i spend all day lying on the couch. but i Know i could get up and at least do Something if i put my whole ass into it... so it feels like i'm just being lazy. do you have any idea if it's this hard for everyone or if i'm just not determined/motivated enough?

I'm going to tell you something I wish someone had told me a long time ago: There's no such thing as lazy.

Sometimes our brains and bodies need more rest than others, and sometimes that'll fluctuate. Sometimes we're dealing with stress which impacts our energy levels. Sometimes we're recovering from an illness, and it's taking a little longer than we'd like. Either way, when we feel like we are failing to do things, it is not because we are lazy. It's because there is something we either need, or there is something in the way, and we need help figuring out what it is.

What you are describing could be a couple of things. They range from health ailments that cause physical fatigue (anemia, sleep disorders, chronic fatigue syndrome, other vitamin deficiencies, etc, etc.) to mental health conditions that impact executive dysfunction and dopamine uptake, which can make doing things very difficult -- even things you want to do!

If you haven't had a physical of late, it might not be a bad idea to get yourself checked out to make sure you're not suffering from any deficiencies. Even being a little low in B vitamins and vitamin D can severely impact mood and energy levels. Iron and folate too.

If you feel like you're not getting restful sleep, it might also be worthwhile getting a sleep study done if you can. If you are neurodivergent or suspect you might be, it's important to note that sleep delay disorders are common with things like ADHD and Autism, and feeling tired during the day is more normal for us because our sleep cycle doesn't always adhere to a 9-5 schedule.

I'm not fully awake until the afternoon/evening because that's when my brain lights up. Used to kill me when I had a regular 9-5 job. I used to fall asleep constantly at my desk, and still do if I try to make myself work first thing in the morning. I'm a night owl, and I embrace it because I can.

Executive dysfunction is not also exclusive to things like ADHD, and many people can suffer from it either from things like depression or prolonged stress and burnout. Therapy and medication(s) can help if that is the case.

So yes. It's plenty hard for a lot of us, and you're not lazy. You just haven't figured out what you need yet.

#chronic health tag

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princess-of-the-corner · 4 days

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Was musing on the "Aware of Abuse" AU for the Sad Rich Kids Trio and ho it influences their behavior, or how their perspective has shifted, from least to most detailed:

Adrien: He is not overtly super different, in canon he was already expressing frustration with his father and ducking out from under his control to do what he wanted.

The main shift is rooted in his perspective. Namely that if his father does love him (Doubt) then his love is so toxic Adrien wants no part of it. He deems any concession Gabriel makes suspicious at best and deems any lingering affection on his own part as a childish thing he needs to outgrow.

Beyond that he's simply more blunt, he doesn't make excuses for his father and is a bit more aware of how the other kids parenting sucks. This ironically may actually make it harder for he & Marinette as she'd struggle to see what was wrong early on and presume him kind of a brat or rude for disrespecting his father so much.

Kagami: As one might expect given how heavily controlling and authoritive Tomoe is, Kagami has very little wiggle room to openly defy her or act differently without risking being trapped or extremely harsh punishment,

As a result the shift is more in subtle things and how she communicates and views the relationship. Namely, she does not love her mother and only pays lip service to respecting anything other than her material skills as a combatant. She also feels that given what her mother does to her is largely indistinguishable from hatred (The physical nature of sparring sessions & training are deeply unpleasant) that Tomoe's feelings don't matter.

Thus she's more overt around others in her disregard for her mother and already prone to trying to sneak off or undercut her. She has burner phones and secret social media accounts for example. In this regard she likely does not become Riposte.

Instead her emotions would be mostly fear of her mothers reaction & anger at the situation and what this costs her in general. Thus she likely turns into something intent on seeking her mother out and attacking her, or otherwise trying to force her mother into her shoes. I had a name for this I think, Aku-Gami? Anyway its basically a signal flare to Adrien & Chloe of "One of us! One of us! One of us!"

Chloe: Like with Adrien her shift would be fairly recent. Mostly in response to the clusterfuck handling of Adrien after Emilie's disappearance & her parents being their worst selves about it. She was on her last thread from keeping Adrien's head above water then being booted and so she explodes at her mother over the phone & rejects her father out of anything but necessity. After which she doubles down because she can't un-dig this hole but she can sure as fuck make it big enough to engulf them all.

Put simply, Chloe's ingrained "Fight" mentality has now been turned on her parents in full. She'd still struggle to articulate most of the things they did wrong, or why they were wrong. But she is angry, rebellious and good at lashing out so she does that and only concedes when she has no other choice or legitimately terrified.

Despite this her changes are less overt, her fight mentality is a survival mechanism like Adrien's people pleasing so she can't just turn it off. She's still been actively taught a lot of terrible things like its moral to cheat to win, & un-learning that is hard, especially if doing so makes you feel weak. & She's been mimicking Audrey since forever, that doesn't just go away over night.

At the same time though she has more freedom than the others & any overt issues she can identify she can try to address for good & ill. Her dad thinks she shouldn't hang around with people "beneath her station" Well screw that she's throwing a party in the ballroom for the class/school before the new school year starts & Adrien can come too.

This likely means she doesn't rip up Rose's letter cos that was like, peak Audrey. She might be tempted to do the social media thing with Kim cos that is something someone might do, but she'd also be more able to apologize for it. She may indeed still lock Juleka in the bathroom, unless they are like, actively friendly at this point.

A lot depends on how well her shifts in behavior are taken by the class as she's not gonna suddenly be super self aware or easy to get along with in many regards. Though given S1 still had Kim get a crush on her & Rose trust her with a letter, I tend to feel it makes more sense that not everyone had a bad impression of Chloe going into the year. So it'd vary.

Regardless, Chloe would be both the most extreme in shift, while keeping a lot of thorns. But she'd be more open to changing in general if able to contextualize a negative reaction as tied to something her parents would do, letting her aggressively reject it. If she feels 'she' was in the right though, she'd not shift her behavior at all but dig in deeper.

Fucking hell I do go on don't I?

Oh I love all of this though!!

#aware au

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nayatarot777 · 1 year

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*Spirit The Bounty Hunter* What Karma Do Your Spirit Guides Hand Out To Your Enemies? 🤺🧿🚑

*photos from pinterest

if you’d like a private reading, check out my pinned post :)

• pile one •

who are your enemies?

a lot of your enemies are extremely immature, and i feel like the conflict that they cause is through being passive aggressive or petty in some way. they don’t think before they speak and they also try to cover up the way that they truly feel about things, while showing how they actually feel about something in a very roundabout way. a lot of your enemies have higher levels of narcissistic traits. maybe they’re even diagnosed with a personality disorder or a mental illness that narcissistic behaviour can be a symptom of, for a small number of you - or they would be if they actually self reflected and realised that they think and behave far from normally 🙃. i feel like the karma for a lot of these people is actually you. the universe made you guys cross paths because you were the one who was supposed to shatter their illusion of themselves. these people could continuously be surrounded by people who praise them or condone them. “yes men”, i’m hearing. i’m seeing that you guys are the types to call people out on their shit. because why shouldn’t you when they’re negatively affecting you and/or other people with their bullshit that you shouldn’t have to put up with? and they try to punish you for that. i feel like they’re usually met with a side to you that they haven’t seen before though, and that intimidates them to a very high degree. they don’t expect the switch up in personality or behaviour from you.

their karma for their bs

these enemies’ karma is that they experience major endings in life. usually in an extremely painful way - mentally painful most of all. a lot of them face a betrayal that they never saw coming. betrayal from people who they could have chosen or prioritised over you. it’s impossible for them to get out of this tower moment unless they face the truth like they need to and unless they choose to make a complete change in their life. that’s why so many of them are plagued with this karma for such a long time. because they refuse to acknowledge that they’ve manipulated the truth enough, causing nothing but harm and the continuation of bad behaviour. I’m hearing that for a lot of them they’re actually forced into starting life as they know it completely over in terms of what they think, what they value, what they say, etc. But this is like literal torture to them. They could feel oppressed after fucking with you. It’s like your guides are wrapping strong binds around their crown chakra, throat chakra, and root chakra specifically. The breaking of their family’s generational curses are significant in the ending of this karma too, as an aspect of shadow work. The realisation that they can’t “win” whatever conflict they’re in with you also forces them to realise that they’re having to “flee” or avoid this situation in some type of way, doing a lot of damage to their ego. i heard that they realise that they’re not untouchable.

• pile two •

who are your enemies?

your enemies could be people who are really disillusioned by money and the material world. i’m seeing someone having tunnel vision when it comes to making money and gaining materialism, to the point where they’re actually extremely lonely. they see the physical world as the most important aspect of life and they could even use people for some type of physical gain. these people could also prioritise their external image and/or appearance to cover up their internal, emotional, and mental issues. they could also be quite naive and gullible when it comes to new relationships and friendships. i feel like these people could also put others on a pedestal for some reason. they’re also very judgemental - especially of what others look like as well as other people’s relationships and connections (which is so fucking ironic because their’s is always a damn mess 😂). they focus more energy into creating judgement about others instead of making judgements on who THEY truly are. these people project all the time. they ignore the truth and reality of what’s presented to them if it’s not a truth that they like. i’m picking up on a lot of emotional manipulation from these people.

their karma for their bs

their karma always begins with people losing interest in them. i’m seeing someone competing for attention but all of their efforts being futile. someone else who’s much more respected and cared for comes along and knocks these people off of their “throne” and their high horse. i’m hearing “permanent damage to reputation”. i feel like things that they keep hidden or even a secret eventually come out, and they have to answer to many different people for their actions. maybe even give out many apologies. i’m seeing them being overwhelmed with judgement from others funnily enough. and i’m also hearing “societal judgement”. i’m picking up on community shame. you know how people used to throw tomatoes and shit at someone who was shamed in public, centuries ago? 😂 they’re forced to realise that they had people fucked up with the way that they judged and treated people before. i feel like a lot of these people are exposed for being hypocrites too. they feel defeated by the end of all of this and there’s nothing that they can do about it. especially from all of the connections that they permanently lose - particularly with authority figures or people who just have a high status. their reputation is thoroughly ruined. they shouldn’t have fucked with you, pile 2 👀.

• pile three •

who are your enemies?

hi, pile three! your enemies are those who made you feel as though you weren’t a priority for them. they didn’t value you as much as they did other people because you were different to them. this could be in terms of something to do with your identity (gender, age, race, sexuality, etc.). so this could have been someone who you had a different gender, race, nationality, religion, or sexuality to. discriminatory beliefs held on their part could have played a part in any behaviours of devaluation from this person. overall, they just didn’t value you as much as they did other people in their life. or as much as they did themselves in a situation. you ended up protecting yourself because these people were blocking your blessings in many ways. they could have been draining energetically, and i’m feeling like they were always looking for you to bring balance to their life whenever they needed it. giving very much user energy. you stopped letting them use you though and they got angry and upset like the energy vampires they are 😂. these people also cling onto their egos as a way to avoid having to hear and acknowledge the truth about themselves. they try to control things too much. these people don’t like internally changing and becoming self aware because they don’t like admitting that they’re wrong for doing something. they have very fragile egos and can’t handle anything that brings them out of their comfort zone. they could feel chronic shame and low self esteem which they use their egos to cover up. these people are extremely emotionally immature and emotionally dysregulated, considering the extents that they’ll go to to not admit “defeat” (in their minds).

their karma for their bs

their karma is that they eventually reach a point in their lives where people don’t show them love as much as they did before. if you resonate with the message above about having them use you for balance in their lives, the lack of balance that ensues after you leave their lives really affects their other relationships and connections with people. they feel neglected from care and nurture. they also feel like they’re restricted in expressing how they feel to others too, perhaps because they surround themselves with much more surface level friendships and connections, unlike whatever type of connection that they had with you - yet they still prioritised these people over you like fucking dummies. i’m seeing them wanting to send a message to you but knowing that they’d face rejection. they could even start facing rejection from everyone else because them trying to replace you as their emotional nurturer or free therapist by forcing emotional offloading onto the same people that they chose over you never works out well for them. serves them right. they’re forced to be more dedicated to logic than emotions, and as a result of this, their pent up emotions come out in the form of harsh communication. they don’t think before they speak with the people around them anymore because they’re forced to hold onto their own emotional burdens now. this comes out in passive aggressive communication for them. maybe this is why people stop giving them as much love as before. they’re forced to learn self control and i’m hearing “more respect”. maybe they used their feelings about things as an excuse to disrespect people in the past, but they’re forced to actually focus on self accountability and self responsibility now. they’re forced to control how they speak to people and how they treat people. also to focus on making connections with others much more balanced. and i feel like these people don’t like balance. they like to take and not give much in return.

• pile four •

who are your enemies?

your enemies are people who seem to be reserved with most of what they actually think about you, but i feel like these are people who are surprised at your ability to still recognise what they actually think of you or what they have planned. they could have dealt with “foot in mouth” syndrome and accidentally exposed themselves when they didn’t mean to. they fear you and what you know - specifically what you know that you don’t speak of. probably about them. they feel caught up in a bind with something. they’re very cowardly and they could have tried to actively flee a situation and escape from having to answer for something. i’m also hearing that they could also be an opportunist. these are the types of people to not like you but still stick around for the opportunities or benefits that you bring. whatever they tried to get away with, you saw it clearly and they ran from the consequences (or tried to). they tried to gain control over whatever situation they felt exposed in. i’m even seeing that they tried to control your growth in some way, or whatever you were doing in life in an unsuspecting, sneaky, sabotaging way. they’re people in daily life who struggle to keep themselves balanced and in control of their basic responsibilities.

their karma for their bs

i’m hearing “capped”. their stability and comfort is capped in some way. they have to slow down with whatever they’re trying to build or attain in their own lives which leaves them feeling extremely behind in life. i’m also hearing that they’re weighed down by other people’s expectations - particularly by their family. perhaps their father or a masculine/bossy/father figure in their lives. they’re forced to settle for building something with someone who they’re not entirely happy with. they’re forced to commit to something that they feel holds them back and slows them down in life. and i’m even hearing “faking happiness”. it’s like they have to wear a mask and cover up every aspect of their genuine self for the sake of a partnership with someone else that they’re having to invest into something with. and i’m hearing that they “get in over their heads” with something or someone. idk if this is some type of contract, or living situation, or relationship that they find themselves in - but they don’t even feel mature or ready enough for this situation. they want their freedom with something but they feel like they’re having to live their lives more maturely than they’re ready for because of their rash decisions.

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moodooivy · 5 days

Text

Fell verse

I apologize for not making any art before this. I had to take a few mental health days because I had a bad day. So here. I believe there's more to Underfell than just making everyone evil. It's somewhat also a swap AU. Instead of Flowey having the "Kill or be killed" attitude it's everyone else. So that's what I'm going to do. I will be swapping details of the story instead of characters. I won't be doing that with all of them. Some will just be the character but more aggressive, but when I can I will. I'll try to make this as detailed as possible.

Fell Nightmare is Malik. Name inspired by the name that means king (I considered Rex but it was taken). Dreamtale, but what if Nightmare's bully wasn't the villagers, but instead his own brother. The villagers still don't like him but they've never physically done anything to him. Dream is the bully that will actually hurt Nightmare. In private. Fell Dream doesn't do anything to Nightmare in front of the villagers and Nightmare doesn't say anything because he doesn't want the villagers to hate him too. One day Nightmare has enough and it all comes out. But surprise surprise no one believes that the "innocent Dream" can do any harm. So Nightmare just snaps. Unlike Nightmare where you can sort of argue that he cares about his gang and maybe has some remourse for Dream, Malik is not like that. He sees Fell Dream for who he is and only keeps his members around because they're a source of negativity. His Salt equivalent is Malice. Name inspired by the word that means ill intent.

Fell Error is Malware. Name inspired by malicious software. His Salt equivalent is Macabre. Name inspired by the word that means horrifying arts (How ironic).

Fell Cross is Xavier. Name inspired by X. His Salt equivalent is Xanthic. Name inspired by X.

Fell Dust is Ash. Name inspired by the residue. His Salt equivalent is Axe. Name inspired by the weapon.

Fell Killer is Slayer. Name inspired by the word that basically means the same thing. His Salt equivalent is Slasher. Name inspired by the word that basically means the same thing.

Fell Horror is Butcher. Name inspired by the profession. His Salt equivalent is Burden. Name inspired by the fact it also starts with "Bu".

Fell Dream is Shangria. Name inspired by the word Shangri-La. Dreamtale, but instead of the villagers being a bully, it's Shangria. Shangria is a huge a-hole to everyone around him, but everyone still loves him for some reason. His Salt equivalent is Soprano. Name inspired by the form of song.

Fell Ink is Ichor. Name inspired by the word that means blood. His Salt equivalent is Indigo. I don't know.

Fell Blue is Huckle. Name inspired by the berry. His Salt equivalent is Hollow. Name inspired by the fact it's similar to Huckle.

Fell Swap is Vassal. Name inspired by the word that means a subordinate. Stretch is the one that orders Swap around and treats him like a slave. Vassal is a weakling. His Salt equivalent is Vanilla... I don't know.

Fell Ccino is Garita. Name inspired by margarita, the cocktail. Ccino, but if he was a bartender instead of a barista. He has pet dogs and a wolf hoodie. His Salt equivalent is Garnet. Name inspired by the stone.

Fell Geno is Mass. Name inspired by massacre. His Salt equivalent is Mania. Name inspired by the word that means mental illness.

Fell Reaper is Hades. Name inspired by the god of death. His Salt equivalent is Harpy. Name inspired by the mythical creature.

Fell Fresh is Punk. Name inspired by Punk subculture. Punk is very similar to a punk rockstar. His Salt equivalent is Probe.

Fell Science is Biology. Name inspired by the study of living things. Biology is like a mad scientist. His Salt equivalent is Bionic. Name inspired by the word that means electromechanical.

Fell Ivan is Mongrel. Name inspired by the term for mutt. Ivan but if he wasn't feral.

Fell Midnight is Nebula. Name inspired by the galaxy. Midnight but if she wasn't shy.

Fell Chip is Static. Name inspired by the radio noise.

Fell Zany is Bane. Name inspired by the word that means distress. Zany but if he actually was evil.

Fell Domino is Casino. Name inspired by the place.

Fell Pitaya is Pomegranite. Name inspired by the fruit.

Fell Honeydew is Apricot. Name inspired by the fruit.

Fell Constellation is Eclipse. Name inspired by the event. Constellation but if she actually was nice.

Fell Casper is Shikari. Name inspired by the word that means hunter.

Fell Desire is Risque. Name inspired by the word that means suggestive.

Fell Dread is Miasma. Name inspired by unpleasant vapor. Dread but if she wasn't devoid of emotion.

Fell Scarlet is Crimson. Name inspired by the shade of red. Scarlet but if she wasn't nice.

Fell Abstract is Acrilyc. Name inspired by the material. Abstract but if he liked to destroy stuff instead.

Undertale: Toby Fox

Blue: Popcornpr1nce

Ink: Comyet

Dream: Jokublog

Nightmare: Jokublog

Geno: Crayonqueen

Error: Crayonqueen

Fresh: Crayonqueen

Horror: Sour-Apple-Studios

Killer: Rahafwabas

Dust: Ask-Dusttale

Reaper: Renrink

Science: HolyTraitor

Cross: Jakei95

Ccino: Black-Nyanko

Ivan, Midnight, Zany, Chip, Domino, Mayonnaise, Pitaya, Honeydew, Constellation, Casper, Dread, Scarlet, Astract: Me

Fell Verse: Me

#undertale #swap sans #nightmare sans #dust sans #horror sans #killer sans #dream sans #cross sans #ccino sans #ink sans #error sans #reaper sans #science sans #geno sans #fell verse

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thelonelyme · 2 years

Text

♤𝐀𝐟𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐦𝐚𝐭𝐡♤

𝐆𝐚𝐦𝐞: ディズニーツイステッドワンダーランド[Twisted Wonderland]

𝐏𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐨𝐧𝐚𝐠𝐠𝐢𝐨/𝐢: Malleus Draconia, mc, Sebek Zigvolt, Lilia Vanrouge.

𝐏𝐫𝐨𝐦𝐩𝐭: Malleus reacts to the reader that they curse themselves to go back to sleep. [mc x Yandere Malleus Draconia]

𝐑𝐞𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐬𝐭: Hello!! I just read your Spoiled and Just a kiss and it was super good!!! But there is something I wanna ask if you don't mind. I saw that Malleus didn't really regret after cursing reader with Sleeping beauty spell even though they did not wake up for many years. And even when they finally woke up, he went and killed the man who saved them. I would like to know how he would respond if the reader became mentally broken or returned to eternal sleep (not death) like before due to all the shock they faced as soon as they woke up. I am sorry if I somehow inconvenienced you. Thank you for all your amazing fics. Love you 😘

𝐀𝐕𝐕𝐄𝐑𝐓𝐄𝐍𝐙𝐄: FEM READER, This is the third part of “Spoiled[1]” and "Just a kiss[2]", so if you haven’t already read that, make sure you do. Yandere content, threats, physical and psychological violence, misogyny, depression, mental illness, torture, gore, mention of non-con, allusions to suicide.

𝐓𝐚𝐠𝐬: @tragedyofdevotion I hope you'll like it and thank you so much, you can't even imagine my happiness when I received your request! I swear, I'm so happy, and thank you for asking me <3 <3 Btw, sorry if this doesn't show Malleus' point of view much, I hope I haven't screwed it up. Love you too 😚.

"..." You said absolutely nothing, not a gasp, not a small cry, nor a breath stronger than the others, as elder fae sighed.

Again, no reaction.

For days you refused to eat and sleep, you did not want to leave your room, as if you were scared by the corridors of the gothic castle. He could not understand your fear, in his very long life he had to see and hear the people most dear to him die right in his arms.

As much as he loved his son, he could only blame his reckless youth and willful ignorance. After all, he knew you were from Malleus, and now there wasn't much he could do for him other than visit his body trapped in a glass coffin.

If he managed to go further and forget his fall, why couldn't you? If he, his father, had managed to go on living, why couldn't you? Then, Malleus was right to have killed him, no queen with a loyal husband at her side would ever think about shedding tears and even refusing to satisfy her primary instincts for the one who should have been a simple personal guard. Furthermore, trustworthy.

If he, Silver's father, managed to go further and forget his fall, why couldn't you? He was his son, but he couldn't feel any remorse; after all, Malleus had warned every single living and wandering soul since he still lived in his dorm not to even dare to look at you for more than a second. His obsession had grown out of all proportion: the young fae had always been raised alone, no one had ever dared to approach him for fear of being potentially burned alive or otherwise.

He was just a harmless child, but those comments, all those insults only served to increase a feeling of infinite emptiness in his soul. And when you, a defenseless and innocent little thing, presented yourself to him, you automatically signed a contract even stronger than Azul's by doing a simple and apparent thing:

You naively gave him your name.

Really, how ignorant could you be? Haven't you ever heard that you absolutely mustn't give your name to a fairy? Expecially a powerful one? Then you should have expected your impending kidnapping.

Life doesn't go our way, and being a docile and innocent little lamb in a herd of beasts ready to slaughter anything, being a ceramic pot in a sea of iron pots is nothing less than begging for a bad ending.

He has always been a respectable fae with great intelligence and many tricks up his sleeve, but he had a small problem; he always tended to underestimate what he didn't think was noteworthy enough.

He had always ignored your every desperate screams for help, even when Malleus punished you even more fervently for yelling a name other than his own, or when he forced you to eat even when you could no longer swallow anything, or when he forced you to take care of your child by silently threatening you.

And after all, any part of him couldn't feel any kind of pity towards you: he thought that what you were complaining about, all those screams and your tears were just a whim, and that it would have been better if you had submitted to Malleus ever since from the first moment to welcoming the dense seed of your loving dragon into your womb with a smile on your face.

You would have saved yourself a lot of trouble.

But now, even that calm didn't suit him. And maybe it was his fault that young fae was so.. spoiled.

He had always achieved everything that any human being and could never have desired: wealth, excellent social status, beauty, a great deal of power in his hands, but he could not be envied for his loneliness.

Lilia, tired by the smell of your blood and bored to inflict other wounds on you, got up from your bed soaked in the liquid and headed for the exit, noticing that Sebek was closely observing every move he had made.

The half-fae observed apathetically how, although Lilia was literally tearing your arm apart, you did nothing.

It was as if you were a simple rag doll, with glassy, lifeless eyes and a limp body that would move at the first touch. Maybe your stubbornness was something he could have envied.

But instead of watching his superior inflict wounds that likely would leave marks despite instant healing, you just kept staring at him relentlessly. He would have wanted to take those eyes off you just to make you stop. Lilia was torturing you and you had the damn courage to look at him?

With a wave of his gloved hand, he signaled to the mint-haired fae that it was his turn.

Sebek, on the other hand, was deeply irritated by your behavior.

Not only were you missing the essential points in being a good wife, but you were also affecting her master's emotions, which then spilled over into her entire kingdom.

Sebek hated you.

He hated your being a mere human unworthy of being alongside a powerful and majestic wizard like Malleus was, he hated all your pathetic attempts to escape from his master, blaming them at your stupid stunts and making him lose faith in them.

He hated how you were given everything from the most expensive clothes to the finest jewelry to the most opulent foods, and how you completely despised all these gifts from your husband.

He hated how much concern Malleus put into your health, he hated the fact that even though you were still a stupid human, you still managed to seduce him in unknown ways. And thanks to that Silver, now Malleus probably would have thought he had to throw them out, if not take them out.

In fact, he was still grateful and surprised that he had not yet been killed by Malleus's jealousy, which he constantly praised and thanked him for, as a good servant should do.

He especially loved the moment of your punishment.

Master Malleus had specifically told them to get a reaction in every way, and obviously he had chosen one of the more classic ways of getting someone to talk.

He loved how he could take out all his frustration and tension on your helpless body, he loved having control over your miserable human life, temporarily forgetting about his dirty human father who had dirtied him with a human side. But even though he was half like you, he had no remorse in his actions.

He saw all of this as a pass that would raise him from the mass of ungrateful people in Malleus' eyes, he wanted to be his favorite, he wanted to be the one he would care for with so much concern, he wanted to be the one to be drowned in the great amount of compliments that he gave you and that you despised hatefully, he would liked to kill you.

════════*.·:·.☽✧✦✧☾.·:·.*════════

"So, let's summarize the situation. I charge you to get my beloved wife out of her particular moment, and she still refuses to come and talk to me?!" The monarch told them menacingly, approaching step by step their figures kneeling in front of him. He couldn't believe they couldn't use any method he advised them to use to stop her from continuing with this nonsense she was doing.

He was honestly disappointed with their results.

If the two of them couldn't convince his wife to go out and finally abandon her stupid childish behavior, they wouldn't have been of any use to him.

And he had had enough.

Years and years of pampering you were probably never deserved. With a sudden movement he rose from his throne, meanwhile frightening even the two children who were blissfully ignoring the conversation until then.

He cast a cold glance at the two knights.

"Take the kids and take them to the woods, I need to have a chat with my wife. Now." Without even waiting for an answer, he quickly walked away, purposely avoiding teleportation.

He had to think about what to do.

The weather outside had changed drastically: cloudy at first, now the sky was completely black, big clouds charged with electricity and rain ready to burst at the slightest change in Malleus's magic.

Slight rumors could be heard from your room.

But it didn't matter anymore. You understood. You finally figured out the only way you were going to hurt Malleus once and for all.

You.

You were his only weakness.

Paradoxically, at that time you had much more power than the most powerful wizard in Twisted Wonderland. You had the power to destroy him in a way that no one ever did, and you didn't care in the slightest about the consequences your actions would bring. For you everyone could all have died in atrocious ways, you don't care about the aftermaths. The world had completely forgotten you, and this time it was your turn to do so.

Slowly craning your head towards the bedside table, you watched apathetically at the dagger that Sebek had put down some time before. You were happy to be hated by Sebek, you would have felt like shit otherwise.

With the last strength left in your body, you reached out to grab the blade.

Then you bent down to take the vial you had jealously guarded between the mattress and the headboard.

You crushed the object in your hands and immediately one after the other, many pieces of splintered glass pierced your hand from side to side, but in the end the liquid had managed to slip on the blade.

You took a sigh.

"THREE."

"TWO."

"ONE!"

"NO!"-

Total darkness.

════════*.·:·.☽✧✦✧☾.·:·.*════════

You finally managed to escape from him. You loved no one, and no one could ever wake you up.

There was no other Silver, there was no one.

Nobody could break through that barrier in your head.

You were free. Eye for an eye, tooth or tooth.

You had chosen freedom and had to sacrifice your body, but now you were finally free to dream.

════════*.·:·.☽✧✦✧☾.·:·.*════════

Part one

Part two

Part three

Part four

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yanderefreud · 11 months

Text

I asked my dearest mutual ev about her favorite Sineala fics so it’s only fair that I also provide a list of my own. @cowboyhorsegirl, this is for you bestie (also never apologize for answering late, I am also just like you in that regard lmao)

1. Think of This as Solving Problems (That Should Never Have Occurred):

So. This has to be my favorite Sineala fic of all time. I love identity porn in Stevetony fics, I love angst, and I absolutely love to see Tony suffer (this is for his own good I promise). I absolutely adore the idea of Tony losing his memory and then literally no one knowing where Iron Man went, and Steve being worried for both Tony AND Iron Man. And then Tony realizing and having a Moment

2. Sucker Punch:

Angst, as I mentioned before, is quite literally the key to my heart. This fic has it all: identity porn, unresolved romantic tension, and civil war (my behated). Reading it causes me physical pain… I love it so much. Steve just not knowing who Tony or Iron Man really are, and ending up hating Tony because Iron Man chooses him over Steve all the time… and then finding out it was him the whole time… insanity. Also the way it is written, as with most Sinhala fics, is absolutely beautiful. I could feel the mental illness

3. Never Too Late for Love:

You had this one in your list too, and for good reason. This fix is ults characterization done absolutely, brilliantly right. Steve’s struggle with internalized homophobia which is only amplified when he finds out that Tony is his soulmate is truly incredible to read. Tony, on the other hand, is so fucking sad and horny the whole time and that just… hits a spot in my heart. This fic has to be one of my favorite ults ones, it just makes me very happy. And the ending! Talk about happily ever after

4. How to Date a Robot:

Can you tell how much I love identity porn? This fic drives me up the wall, honestly. Steve wanting to know who Iron Man is behind the mask but not wanting to betray his trust and Tony being absolutely terrified of what could happen if Steve found out who he really was. I think it addresses one of my favorite things about 616 Tony - his inferiority complex (that sounds so bad when I say it but honestly I like it because it’s relatable). Him thinking that Iron Man is the best of him, and the rest of him is just Wrong, but not being able to resist Steve… and the marriage proposal! Poor boy had a heart attack and then went in to see Steve with full armor on lmfao. I just love how Tony is written in this fic, and even though it’s not from his perspective, the prior knowledge of Iron Man’s identity makes it very insightful

5. Peace of Mind:

This fic is very, very close to my heart. Steve taking care of Tony can be something so personal… and love confessions. Who doesn’t love love confessions. As much as I find comfort in fics written from Tony’s point of view, reading one’s from Steve’s just makes me happy because of how he sees Tony, yk? Him being uncertain as to where they stand, whether they’re even friends anymore, all the while being in love with him, and then walking into him having a full blown migraine attack and confessing his love. Great timing, buddy

Sooo! That’s my Top Five list all done! Thank you for reading, I sure did have a lot to say lmao

#stevetony #616 stevetony #sineala

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lorata · 8 months

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Claudius & Eibhlin for @penfoldx

in which anthropological study subs in for discussing one's private anxieties

(h/t to attractiveness anon & @literallyjustanyurlatthispoint for partial inspiration)

it's @penfoldx's birthday! have some ridiculousness

also found at DW here

-----------------

The notebook lay on the coffee table, half buried under various tomes (that was a new word Claudius learned and liked to throw around, tomes) on rabbit husbandry, one corner peeking out just enough to draw his curiosity.

Eibhlin called them ‘composition notebooks’ and claimed every child in Three used them, which cracked Claudius up — imagine writing enough in school you needed multiple notebooks — but sure, why not. It was the genius district after all. She’d had to make do with recycled paper for a while after the war but now she could finally import the good stuff. Which meant Claudius kept finding them everywhere, experiment logs and local recipes and logical reasons why Brutus should let her keep a Village bear (pending).

This one, worryingly, carried the simple title ‘Observations’.

It could be private, unleashing the wrath of heaven if Claudius cracked open the cover. Or it could be a topic too awkward or embarrassing for Eibhlin to raise on her own, leaving this as the most convenient and least emotionally excruciating way of broaching the issue. The real question, which one?

With Misha, this would be deliberate psychological warfare. With Eibhlin, the lines blurred.

“Eh, fuck it.” Claudius flipped open the book. He could always cave on a fifth rabbit if need be.

Later that evening Eibhlin crept up behind him in the kitchen, impressively silent as always. Claudius resisted the automatic impulse to flip the chef’s knife around into throat-slitting position (years of post-Arena healing undone by ground warfare, now finally uncurling a second time) and laid the blade flat against the cutting board.

“Hold out your hands,” Eibhlin said. Her voice twinkled in a way that those who’d never lived with rabbits might call childlike innocence.

Claudius, on the other hand, shared his living space with several rabbits, and left innocence behind a long time ago. “I am making dinner,” he said without turning around. “Should I still hold out my hands?”

A pause, in which Claudius envisioned the pout growing like fog over the lake in early morning, and yeah, he thought so. “Misha says you are a party pooper.”

“Ironic,” Claudius said dryly, but while he’d acquired several mental illnesses over the years, finding ‘wee little rabbit poops’ endearing was not one he’d picked up along the way, sponsors save him. “I’m sure there will be more cute poops tomorrow. Do I want to know why you’ve been polling people in town about what they find attractive? If we’re hosting an orgy I should go out for snacks.”

Silence of a very different character this time. Claudius spent a long time cataloguing the pauses in their conversations, learning when to send for Beetee, when to backtrack and apologize, when to wait it out. “Ah,” Eibhlin said. “That was careless.”

“I thought maybe it was on purpose,” Claudius said. He slipped the knife back into the block and turned around, risking embarrassing Eibhlin with eye contact just to let her see he wasn’t pissed off. “Like one of those things you hid as a hint or something. I can pretend I didn’t see it if you want.”

Eibhlin’s gaze shuttered. “Don’t be asinine,” she said, her tone acerbic. “You do not need to insult us both. I am conducting — research. Anthropology. Desired physical traits in this district seem to be consistent in a way that extends beyond what I had assumed to be Village sampling bias.”

He’d been pretty good at keeping his expression neutral and non-judgemental, but Claudius felt his eyebrows creep up in spite of himself. “You mean we’re a bunch of lunkheads so you thought we were poisoning your data?”

Her ears turned bright pink. “I meant —“ but oh, looks like Claudius wasn’t the only one to pick up a few tricks over the years. Eibhlin stopped, narrowed her eyes. “You are attempting to distract me by manufacturing outrage. Despite the willfully reductive phrasing, yes. This is a community of athletic outliers. You are not representative. I have made many efforts not to generalize across the population, and so this one has surprised me.”

It felt absurd to have this conversation while Eibhlin stood in front of him with a handful of rabbit dung, and so Claudius ducked down for the compost bin. Stepping out of the way for Eibhlin to wash her hands gave him a second to think about whatever the hell this was. “Is it really so weird? We move rocks around and make guns in factories and kill people. Grr, argh, strong people hot.”

This time the impatience nearly skewered him. “But that is the point, it is not that. Perhaps superficially, for short-term liaisons, but not partnerships. There is a reason why attractiveness in Three is strongly weighted toward intelligence. Physically symmetrical but intellectually bankrupt partners will not create a stable or successful household.”

Claudius blinked. “Ouch?”

“Do not —“

“Okay, okay. “ He held up his hands. Three-stupid was not universal-stupid, they’d had this argument before and reopening it now wouldn’t help anyone. “So you’re trying to figure out what is the … biological imperative … behind what Twos find attractive?”

See, he could do it too.

Now she hesitated. He probably should have moved this conversation to the living room or found her a rabbit to cuddle before starting this conversation, but more fool him, now they had to have it in the middle of the kitchen with nothing to fiddle with but sharp implements. “Leaving aside the question of whether biological or evolutionary imperatives exist other than as excuses for the creation of sexist binaries — yes. In Three we value intelligence because intelligence is how we survive. I could not understand how brawn could hold the same value in your society.”

“Okay.” Claudius leaned back against the counter, hands braced but open, nonthreatening. “And?”

“It isn’t brawn,” Eibhlin said. “It’s — community. Care. You are a district of physical labourers and physical people, so of course you value those who can take care of each other with your bodies.”

“Sounds kind of like cavemen,” Claudius said, amused in spite of himself. “I’m sure Brutus would agree, though.”

“He did,” Eibhlin said, nose in the air with the delicate air of someone choosing not to take offence, as the bigger person in the room thank you very much. “And Artemisia, once she stopped laughing. She went home with many girls, but she wanted to marry Emory when she was young, and now she is with Devon. That speaks to type.”

“Okay,” he said, again. “I still don’t know what — you don’t just do anthropology. You have to have a thesis.”

Eibhlin’s fingers curled in her sleeves, which — Ah, shit.

This was the part Claudius hated. Speedrunning weeks of research and observations to find whatever tangled mess of emotions had prompted Eibhlin to do this in the first place, because while Claudius might mangle onions or spar with his mentor or call up his friends in a total panic when he had a problem, Eibhlin … well, she did science.

“Okay.” A third time, the jigsaw puzzles falling off the table and clicking together into the most terrifying image of a nightmare clown he’d ever seen, but also the clown was right in front of him looking sad and he had to be very careful not to jump. “So it sounds like … we have the best of both worlds? You’re a super genius and I — well, I can sort of fix the roof, if I have help.”

Eibhlin studied him in silence for several moments, eyes intent and searching, but finally she nodded sharply and the knot in his chest unhooked. “Don’t forget the cooking,” she said. “You have become quite adept.”

“Glad to hear it,” Claudius said. “You want to help? I was still chopping when someone tried to put rabbit poop in my hands.”

“Hm,” Eibhlin said, admitting absolutely nothing, and held out her hand for the knife.

#we must be killers: tales from district 2 #my writing #oc: claudius

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