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kneelingshadowsalome · 2 months

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Salome!

"La Belle Dame sans Mercy" ("The Beautiful Lady Without Mercy") - A ballad by John Keats

"The poem is about a fairy who condemns a knight to an unpleasant fate after she seduces him with her eyes and singing." please

This screams Knight!König x Fairy!Reader to me.

I just know König would gladly die by the hand of such an ethereal being.

"She looked at me as she did love, and made a sweet moan."

"And sure in language strange she said—'I love thee true.'"

That’s it. Thank you.

I swear this artwork kills me everytime I see it....

Ok this became the silliest fairytale ever 🩷✨️

CW: Historical AU blending with mythical/supernatural AU. König being a dreamy mess of a knight who doesn't fit in "normal" society. Reader is part of faefolk. Heavy Arthurian Romance vibes.

König returns to the castle one day. The son of a great liege lord, a warrior through and through, but some people say he should’ve been a poet: so dreamily he looks beyond the battlements at times, sighs after drinking too much wine, stares off into dark corners of the room while tending to his sword and armour as if he can see little pixies dancing there.

His siblings sometimes hit him on the back of his head, or wave a hand over his eyes when he’s about to slip into the fairy world, a forgotten plane that is not supposed to reach the castle. But the castle stones were taken from the moors and the woods, the old land not bending to the priest’s will no matter how many crosses they brought here. Fragile souls are wanton prey for the elves and the fairies who would take them to their land the moment they drop down their guard, and only prayer and fasting hold them at bay. In the fairylands, there is no toil or sorrow; the food is golden honey and wine, the dance and love everlasting, and the fae girls more beautiful than any human maid.

It sounded too good to be true, and it was: God had created men to work and women to give birth, and all the land was theirs to use and cultivate, it was not made to simply run and frolic upon. Some say that these were just old tales and that Christ would banish these creatures away, turn the land to yielding crops and tame firewood.

But some still believed.

When he was a child, the mighty son of the feared lord took porridge and almonds to the woods. “For the fairy people,” he said with bright, trusting eyes. Stole food from under the mistress’s nose, and no one ever dared to say anything about it.

But when this nonsense carried on to adulthood, people had to intervene. There was work to be done, war, harvest and building, and no matter how many coins this man paid to the visiting bards, it would never turn their stories true.

His arm was strong and his strike was true, but his head seemed to be filled with dandelion wine, even when he hadn’t been drinking. Sighed after this maiden or that, wished to travel to foreign lands, courted every nobleman’s daughter who visited the castle, but no one ever took him seriously.

This man had to watch how lady after lady chose some other valiant knight as their husband, some men whose heads were not filled with fairytales and dreams. They did flirt with him, for who could’ve resisted the temptation of making this giant a little sweaty under all that armor? Armor that demanded plate for two people, and a smith who had the talent to forge such a beastly thing.

Nevertheless, he was always left without a warm embrace, and so he was usually found outside, looking at the full moon or spending time in taverns, choosing the company of thieves and rascals over his serious kin.

And now he has returned from the woods, having been gone for months.

People thought he had finally left to fight for some other lord, posing as a simple footsoldier, a disguise that would relieve him of his tedious duties as a knight. Or to court some “lovely peasant girl” he always talked about – such talks were usually crushed by his father, demanding him to be sensible for once in his life.

But he doesn’t prattle about peasant girls now, nor does he ramble about screaming ships at the bottom of the sea. He doesn’t hold a speech about forgotten stone circles in the forest, the ones that already grow moss. No, he has finally lost it completely.

His eyes are wild, as is his hair; his armour is nowhere to be seen, and his sword is without its sheath. He doesn’t talk about what he saw in that forest to anyone, nor is he willing to tell where he has even been these past few moons.

He seems very shaken when he’s told they were worried he wouldn’t make it to the May Day feast, and asks for how long he was gone, drives a hand through dishevelled hair when he hears that he was away for three full months.

“Three months…” he mutters to himself, then leaves to his room, the huge sword dragging against the stone floor as he goes. He has always, always made sure it wouldn’t dull, but now he’s treating it like it’s become a part of him, confused and lost.

He doesn’t eat, hardly speaks after that.

The food tastes like ash, he says, and the ale tastes like bile. But the following evening, when his mother orders someone to pour her poor son some more wine, he looks up helplessly like a child.

“I have to go back,” he says.

A clamour arises, huffed exclaims of “What on earth is he on about” and “Sir, you only just got back!” His father rises from his chair and orders him to stop this nonsense at once. But this time, there is no embarrassed sweep of hand through hair, no red colour that rises on this peculiar knight’s cheeks. His lips only make a thin line before he rises as well and leaves the hall with a weight on his shoulders and dark determination in his stare.

At the stables, a stout Moorland pony and poor stable boy get to witness the drunken bawls of a forlorn knight. The wine sack almost slips from his hands to the dirt as he slumps against the timber of the stall, distorted face coming to rest against a wide, shaky palm.

Luckily, a friend of his knows where to look, and the stable boy sneaks into the shadows, slightly scared of the sorrow of such a big, intimidating man.

But even the companion who always listened to every enthusiastic story since they were kids and ran across the moors, throwing little rocks at his father’s soldiers and laughing when their helmets made a funny clinky sound, can not understand the drunken babble that comes out of König’s mouth this time.

He starts from the middle, which is highly unusual, and talks in strings of sentences that don’t make sense. “She was real, I just know it,” he repeats, over and over again in the middle of confessions about how beautiful she was, how her hair was like the softest spun yarn, her body incredible, naked and wild when she came to him. That her laugh was like the chime of little bells or the sound of the loveliest harp, a song on its own when she walked to him.

She was fascinated with his sword, especially the pommel and the handle interested her, and the curve in the middle of the blade she brushed with her fingers as if it was an entire vale.

He had never seen a woman touch his sword like that… They were never interested in such things, but she was, and she asked him so many questions.

Had he ever felled a tree?

Did he like squirrels?

Were his thighs as hairy as his chest?

She took him down the river, or he followed her; he can’t remember. Her step was so light it didn’t make a sound, and the moss seemed to turn brighter every time her little foot stepped on it. Her hands were tiny too when she wrapped them around his neck, pressed her body against his, and kissed him until there was nothing left of him: no helmet, no sword, nothing but sun and her, her hands and her lips.

Her mouth was still on his when she whispered she didn’t like his armour because it was so hard and rigid and cold, oh, she wondered if there was a man inside there at all.

So of course he showed her.

She giggled at the sight of him, especially his thighs, knelt down on the moss to see how hairy they were.

And would you believe the way she touched him then? It makes him heady even now…

Yes, he took her. But not the way a man takes a woman. She came to straddle him and laughed again, and the things they did together… He can’t even speak about them, but he knows the sun always shined when they rolled on the grass. Her giggles and moans surrounded him, her soft little thighs were stronger than they looked, her breasts so round and soft, so perfect he swore he had gone to heaven.

He bathed in her, with her, all day long. And the nights… You wouldn’t believe the nights: there was song and dance and more giggling women, and also a man dressed all in leaves, so big and thick he first thought he was a tree. An old king, she said, nothing he should worry about. And the wine tasted like summer and honey and gold; it was red, perhaps, but also like sea amber and sun…

She fed him flowers and laughed, caressed his face and said he’s the biggest and hairiest human she had ever seen. She let him lick honey from her fingertips and caressed him with heather and ivy, opened her mouth before feeding him a soft, sweet piece of cake, showing him how he needed to open his mouth as well if he wanted it on his tongue.

She kissed the crumbs from his lips and trailed a finger down his chest, all the way down, until…

Oh, he can’t talk about it.

It was better than he ever even imagined: better than the stories they tell in the taverns. It was like his wedding night, over and over again, it was like he was Lancelot, and she was his Guinevere.

No, no, she was not an enchantress, although everything about her was enchanting... All the stories came alive with her, even the moon was bigger than anywhere he’d ever seen, the deers ran past them while they made love, and the birds sang even at night.

He told her he loved her, but she didn’t know what it meant. When he explained it to her, she looked at him gently, so gently…

He cried from joy then, but she never mocked him. She only said it’s a sign that he’s hers. That he will never forget her. She said he’ll always find her, even when he’s old: she will make him young again. He’s welcome here if he wants: she has so many places to show him.

He thanked all the saints for having found her, Saint George and Saint Mary first, but stopped when her little brows furrowed with sorrow. Her eyes, filled with starlight and love, turned so sad that his heart couldn’t bear it, not for one beat.

The sea is far wilder here: he should come and see the ocean as it was at the dawn of time. The ivy is so strong you can use it to climb the trees and see the whole world from atop the tree, the whole land, covered in forest, such as it was before humans came. There’s no smoke or fire or war: just green everywhere, wild rippling streams and honey bees and berries and fish for everyone who ever feels hungry... They can make love day and night, and she’ll teach him all the songs of old. Humans only remember bits and pieces, but she knows how things really happened, she can tell him everything about heroes, kings and queens.

She said she wanted to sleep, and so he took her from the feast and laid her on the grass… She might’ve sung to him, he can’t remember, but it was like an angel’s caress all over him, somber and sweet before the dreams took him, a dream within a dream.

He slept for ages, it seemed, saw so many dreams, each more beautiful than the last until he woke up and saw that the forest had turned grey.

There was no maiden in his lap, no dance and song in the distance, no scent of flowers and dreams and springs to be found. The sun was up in the sky, but it didn’t paint all the colours with gold or fill the streams with light. The forest was half dead to him, just old, thick trees around him, a green-grey forest floor and a shaggy squirrel who chirped and squeaked at him as if it was his fault that the fae folk were gone.

He searched for her, called for her, but she didn’t answer, and how could she have? He didn’t even know her name. He only knew how lovely she felt, how soft her hair was when it fell to cover him like a veil, how adorable her sighs and tiny little gasps were when he filled her, over and over again.

His armour was nowhere to be found, and his sword was somewhere downstream, half covered with leaves and dirt, rusty and beaten by the wind. It was early spring when he came here; the land was still barren and grey, but now, everything was green. Still, it was not the green he wanted. It was not the green that filled his vision entirely, bright, blooming green that pulsed with lush joy. It was just… earth and grass and dirt.

So you see, he has to go back. He has to find her, whatever it takes. She promised he could always come back… She promised…

He cries once more, head bowed and mighty shoulders trembling from the force of his sorrow, and it is no use to tell him that the fae folk are evil. That they’re from the Devil and only want to make good, decent men like them forget. Forget their duty, their laws, their Christ.

It’s no use to tell him that it is not natural, the place he has seen. No doubt he has been somewhere, but it cannot be anything good… No man can survive on flowers and spring water for three months; they cannot frolic with the faeries for days on end without losing their mind and soul.

And König is already lost; he was lost since he was a child, rambling about how he received flowers, sticks and stones as tokens of the faefolk’s gratitude because he brought them food.

He tries to tell the boy who never grew up, the mightiest man in this kingdom, the dreamiest knight there ever was, that he needs to return to the real world. No fae woman would have him as a husband, they are only after his soul. But surely some human lady would take him into her bed, think about it, for God’s sake, please... He has duties here, people who love him, his father would make him a lord if he only put himself together. What kind of knight would abandon his sword, helmet and armour for the sake of an elf who despises the saints...?

But in the morn, König is gone.

His rusty sword is on the floor, the wooden cross taken off the wall. There lies a honeycomb and a flower on his window, a blossom so sweet it cannot be plucked from any field around here. Too exotic and bright, especially when placed atop the rough, grey stones, it looks like it could never wither from how beautifully it blooms.

The peasants now tell a tale of a man that haunts the woods: a huge giant dressed all in green, donning a leaf cloak of some sort and a beard that grows ivy. But they say he is not evil: he only shows himself to hunters who are about to fall a deer, or children who remember the land with little gifts.

Old men say they saw a green man when they were kids and brought bread and milk to the faeries, they swear to this day they saw a man who greeted them with a smile. And when they looked again, there was nothing but a tree where this giant stook, a young oak, sighing with the wind...

#könig x reader #könig x you #mythology au #arthurian au #historical au

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pixiestickie · 2 years

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im.cosplaying sara and absolutely slaying

#thats a lie im not slaying #its a closet cosplay but the wig is there #pixie screaming #i look like a bootleg but at least it gives me kin euphoria #synpath euphoria??#yttd

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spacebarbarianweird · 3 months

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Silent Scream

Summary: Another night and yet another nightmare. Tiriel and Astarion are discussing their traumas.

Pairing: Astarion x OC (Tiriel)

Tags: fluff, hurt/comfort, post-game, named Tav, established relationship, f!tav

Thanks @wilteddreamsofbaldursgate for beta-reading!

Read on AO3

Masterlist

Headcanons

Tiriel wakes up.

She doesn’t quite know where she is - the surrounding is too soft, too warm. Unlike anything she’s gotten used to.

The room in the inn.

Tiriel looks to her right and sees Astarion. He is on his back, eyes shut and hands on his chest as if he were resting in a coffin.

Is he sleeping or meditating?

She smiles, looking at his features. He is beautiful when he is this peaceful. Tiriel truly hopes that nothing is haunting right him now.

Tiriel gently touches his soft curls.

Life is so good with him. To have him under the same blanket with her—naked or dressed. To feel his kisses, to hear his voice.

Tiriel had never known bliss like this before she met Astarion.

Before, she always had to stand vigilant. Always be ready to fight back. A lonely woman on the road is always a target, though people who tried challenging her had their hands and heads cut off more often than not.

Before, she always had to be strong. As a woman full of rage, she turned to ale to numb the everlasting pain, if only for a little while. And no one had ever asked how she felt because people like Tiriel the Barbarian don't know pain.

Before, she had always been alone. Her mother had beaten her mercilessly. The stepfather who’d been oh so kind to accept a bastard child openly lusted for Tiriel even when she’d only been ten years old. No one had bothered to give her a name - she was a fairy, a pixie, a bastard. “I wish I had strangled you the moment I saw those disgusting pointy ears!” the woman had yelled, and her voice still echoed through the years, clawing at Tiriel and forcing her eyes to prickle with tears.

Don’t let them touch you. Don’t let them pity you. Don’t let them see you.

Always strong. Always independent. A woman of no home, no kin, and no purpose.

But this is all in the past.

Now, Tiriel sleeps without worries - Astarion guards her, never letting anyone mistreat her.

Now, Tiriel can be weak. She can cry in pain or let herself be carried away from the battlefield. Astarion washes her hair and tends to her wounds. Tiriel can complain about anything she wants and he happily listens to her.

She isn’t alone. As a child, Tiriel used to lull herself to sleep because her mother had refused to touch her. Astarion never lets her hand go. They can spend hours in each other's arms never having enough. Both are extremely touch-starved and even though they have been together for more than five years, the desire to hold each other hasn’t ceased in the slightest.

Tiriel props herself up on her elbow to see Astarion’s face better. Young and old at the same time, he is absolutely breathtaking.

Tiriel smiles.

When she was little, the village healer told her a story. It was about a warrior whose ancestors were giants and an enchanted prince who had been turned into a monster. The warrior fell in love with him, killed the witch who cursed him, they married, and their descendants became the inhabitants of the Sunset Mountains. The prince was described as the most handsome man the heroine had ever seen, and little Tyriel was sure he was an elf.

Suddenly, Astarion sits up and presses his knees against his chest.

“Are you all right?”

No response.

Astarion clenches his fingers and his body shudders.

Something is wrong.

The fairytale ended with the wedding and no storyteller can tell if the prince suffered from nightmares and whether his warrior wife had to cradle him in her arms throughout the night.

Tiriel knows better than to touch Astarion right away. It’s always different. Sometimes he craves touch and begs Tiriel to hold him. Sometimes he snaps and pushes her away. It depends on what he saw in his nightmares.

If it was sexual, he feels his skin burn - and touches make it worse.

If it was torture, he just weeps in Tiriel’s hands until it all goes away.

Tiriel sits in front of him.

This is bad.

His eyes are shut but his mouth is open in a silent scream. His nails pierce the pale skin and there are droplets of blood.

The only time Tiriel saw him like this was in the mansion when he stood over his dead master’s body.

She didn't dare touch him back then. Just stood in front of him before Astarion managed to see her.

“Astarion, I am here,” Tiriel whispers. “Ikwe”

It doesn't help. Tiriel grabs a hunting knife and slices her wrist. The blood spills over blankets.

And she once was so afraid of vampires…

She puts her wrist to his lips and Astarion sinks his fangs into her skin. It is painful as hell - Tiriel thinks she will never like the sensation of being bitten. But her blood is the only medicine that saves Astarion from pain and nightmares.

“Seldarine,” he whispers, closing his face. “You are here.”

“I am.”

Astarion bursts into tears as silent as the screams before them.

“I killed you,” he finally manages to say. “I fucking killed you.”

“Nightmare, then.” Tiriel returns to bed and pulls him to her so that her nose almost brushes against his “You killed me?”

“Yes. I was… in that fucking mansion. And… you tried to talk me out of Ascension. When you refused, I… I murdered you. I was so sure it was real I was afraid to look back at your side of the bed.”

He keeps weeping and Tiriel strokes his mutilated back. When his tears cease, she asks:

“Astarion, what do I do to make you feel better?”

“Nothing. Go to sleep.”

“Be honest with me, please.”

“It’s just unfair to wake you up like this, considering you need more time to feel rested.”

“ It’s all right, Astarion. Tell me I will sleep better if I know you are all right..”

“Can you… tell me some fairytale? Please.”

Tiriel nods, and Astarion positions himself over her as a weighted blanket and she immediately runs her fingers through his hair. “A fairytale?

She often sings for him - ballads and songs of the Sunset Mountains, sometimes sad, sometimes cheerful. Astarion even thought for the first months she composed them herself before she managed to explain that her people are illiterate and pass down their stories by singing.

Astarion is less interested in human fairy tales, though she has told him one or two.

“Ok, I will tell you how the people of the Sunset Mountains came to be. A thousand years ago when the world was younger…"

He chuckles. “Darling, a thousand years ago isn’t some ancient time. It’s one elven generation”

“... There was a woman, whose father was a giant…”

Tiriel whispers the fairytale into Astarion’s ear. She heard this story only once when she was nine. A village healer told it to distract little Tiriel from pain after her drunk stepfather had cut her right ear. For some reason, Tiriel remembers the story word for word.

She notices Astarion gets unusually silent once the story comes to the enchanted prince part. The evil witch made him a monster and as a monster, he attacked the heroine. But she managed to see past the enchantment clouding his eyes and recognized his true nature.

By the end of the story, Tiriel feels her eyelids getting heavy. Astarion elbows up and kisses her cheek.

“For real, Tiriel? A woman who wielded a two-handed ax met a disgusting monster, decided he was a prince, saved him from the evil witch and they lived happily ever after? Did I understand everything right?”

“Yes. That’s my favorite one.”

“Because you see yourself in this… ancestor of yours? And wanted to get a prince?”

“I did. I also wanted her cape. All black with three golden runes. Home, Fire, Mountains. When the prince returned to his human form,” she yawns. “He was naked and she wrapped him up in that cape.”

Astarion chuckles.

“I am far from a fairytale prince.”

“Who said?”

“And you didn’t try to wrap me in your cape.”

“Because you were like an open wound.”

“I was.”

Tiriel yawns again and drifts into sleep.

** Astarion sits up on a bed. The vision of the nightmare is still in front of his eyes - a mutilated body, a cry of pain. But Tiriel is there. She is always there. Through his nightmare, pain, and suffering. Never giving up, never leaving. Her red hair and half-elven ears are the first things he sees when he wakes up and the last when he goes to meditate.

Her warmth, her kindness. Did that prince from the human fairytale pray to send him a hero? Was he too scared to recognize the hero in the half-giant woman?

Astarion prayed, that’s for sure. He hoped. Always hoped. And Tiriel came. Loud, rude, brave. His half-elven love who also fears nothing. No gods, no monsters, no vampires, no mind flayers. If the fairytale had any word of truth, she was a worthy descendant of that warrior of the past.

Astarion wants to do something for Tiriel. To give something to her, something she has never had. Something she will hold dear, something meaningful. Damn, Tiriel even didn’t have a name until she turned sixteen and took one for herself when she realized it wasn’t normal to be called slurs.

An idea comes to his mind and Astarion, making sure Tiriel is warm and comfortable in her bed, leaves the bedroom to disappear into the night.

It’s already late afternoon but she feels like she could sleep for another day or two.

“Hello, my sweet, awake already?” Astarion asks from the other side of the master’s bed. He is fully clothed and she notices blood on his jacket.

“Not really.”

“Well if you don’t get up you won’t see what I got for you.”

Tiriel tilts her head. “I am intrigued.”

“Get up, then.”

Tiriel stretches her back and stands up. She still feels dizzy but she also is hungry like a crag cat.

“I got up!”

“Such an obedient little warrior,” he smiles and reaches out for a soft bundle. “Take a look.”

Tiriel stares at the gift in disbelief.

It’s a black cape with bright golden runes.

Home

Fire

And the third one…

“I wasn’t sure what material your fairytale cape was made of but I assure you it’s very durable.”

Now it’s Tiriel’s turn to cry. “You made it tonight?”

“Lucky for me, you sleep like a bear.”

“But the runes? Those are Sunset Mountains runes! I thought no one knew them here!”

“Darling, these runes are quite spread among humans in the north. Though, I wasn't sure if I used the right ones.”

Tiriel sniffs and wraps herself in the cape. It is so thick and warm that it could very well protect Tiriel from both biting winds and freezing cold.

“Do you like it?”

“Of course I do!” She plants a kiss on his lips. “Thank you!”

“Did I do the runes well?”

“I thought you were sure you did them right? Yes, Fire and Home are.”

Astarion looks up and Tiriel notices his uneasiness. It happens to him when he makes mistakes - an echo of two hundred years of punishments and tortures.

“The third one is a different rune, it doesn’t mean “Mountains”. It has many meanings. But you mostly can see them on wedding capes. Astarion, it means “love”, “family”, and “bounds”. Are you sure you didn’t make this mistake intentionally?”

He grins and Tiriel knows he really didn’t mean it. She sits back and wraps the cape around them both.

“Well, considering we’ve been together for five years, I accept your belated wedding cape, my dear prince.”

They laugh and fall back down onto the bed. Astarion’s strong hands tug Tiriel closer.

“I love you, salen aravae,” he says, caressing Tiriel’s cheek.

Ikwe - get back! Salen arael - my greatest joy

Tag list

@tugoslovenka @marcynomercy @wintersire @vixstarria @not-so-lost-after-all @ashiro20 @theearthsfinalconfession @herstxrgirl @starlight-ipomoea @micropoe10 @astarion-imagine-archive @veillsar @elora-the-slutty-songstress @fayeriess @lumienyx @tallymonster @caitlincat-95 @tragedybunny @valeprati @lynnlovesthestars @marina-and-the-memes @waking-electric @ayselluna @connorsui @asterordinary @darkarchangel96

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yourdarlingness · 2 months

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Natsuki (DDLC)　names , pronouns , titles

✦　...　requested by @msith　...　no kin tags

　◞◟　NAMES　✦

cutesy . sweetsy . sweet-tooth . parfaitte . maybella / maybelle . affie . saccharlie . saccharyn . sugarbelle . sugarlita . amy . sweetheart . sucy . suzy . suzette . sugaryne . nikki . natalie . sofie . sofia m sophie . sophia . nora

　◞◟ 　PRONOUNS　✦

sh🧁 / h🧁r . sh🍰 / h🍰r . sti / stir . swe / sweet . su / sugar . yum / yums . mew / meow . pix / pixie . sweet / tooth . ri / ribbon . cwu / cwute . cup / cake . cu / cupcake . sy / syr / syrup . coo / kie . 🧁 . 🍰 . 🍨 . 🍮 . 🍪 . (name).chr / (name).chrs

　◞◟ 　TITLES　✦

(name).chr . prn* who is inflicted with cuteness . the sweetheart's baked goods . prn* as sweet as (cup)cakes . prn* red ribbons . the poetess' sweetness . prn* verse full of sugar . the avid manga reader . the baker's sweet secrets . prn* heart of pastry . prn* ribbom of sugar . the poem of cuteness . the adorable poetess

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fandangotales · 2 years

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OAGFSHGHAHAH CONGRATS ON 500 FOLLOWERS!! Been following your work for a while!

Hope you can squeeze mine!

---

I'm an Aether kin! So, I wonder how Aether would react if he sees or notices that I have a lot of Aether merch of him? He needs love from the fans tooo!!

anyways! Congratsss ✨💕

Aether yawned, suddenly being teleported next to the Statue of the Seven underneath Windrise.

You were back. He thought, with a small smile.

Paimon flew circles around the boy, excitedly chattering away about new areas to explore, treasure waiting to be found… and of course, new dishes from Sumeru.

“Paimon thinks that Their Grace absolutely needs to see the Mausoleum of King Deshret, in the newly unlocked desert area!”

The small girl did a loop, as she began to explain how there was a ton of treasure in the area, all while making exaggerated hand motions.

“And if we get suuuuper lucky, we might even find some recipes…”

She trailed off, a line of drool forming on her chin.

Aether remained silent, a bit confused why you weren’t having him move yet. Usually you would start with your daily commissions, and then go on to use your resin… but nothing had happened.

It was almost like you weren’t there.

“Paimon.” He started, feeling uneasy. “Do you see Their Grace?”

The pixie snapped out of her trance, wiping her face. She whirled around, facing the area that your room sometimes projected behind them.

Paimon observed the rectangle, as she saw the outlines of your room… and some other things.

“Paimon sees Traveler…” she giggled, a weird expression in her face. “Their Grace must be doing something important, so we can wait for them.”

Aether sighed, as he put a hand on his hip.

“Paimon, you couldn’t possibly be seeing me in Their Eminence’s room. I’m right here.”

“Yessss… and no!” She sang, flying right in front of the traveler’s face.

Paimon’s bright smile paired with the way she was floating haphazardly made Aether’s head ache as she explained the decor of your room.

“And Paimon saw a plushie, a poster, and a Mini-Traveler!” She gushed, holding her hands to give Aether a rough size of this ‘mini-traveler’.

“Paimon thinks the mini-traveler is what they call a figure-“

Aether’s face was beet red, as he covered his mouth with his hand.

“Traveler, are you alright?” The girl asked, concern evident in her voice.

“I-I’m alright…” he said, shying away from her gaze.

To think that you, the Creator of Teyvat, favored him this much to decorate your living space in his likeness…

He was… flustered to say the least.

Surely if you ever saw his ever growing collection of Creator merch… you’d understand, right?

Having a whole room of the teapot dedicated entirely to you wasn’t strange, was it?

Although… if you ever did descend to Teyvat, he’d have to do a little… cleaning before you were made aware of that room.

He wouldn’t need it if he had you, as the real thing is always much better than it’s imitations.

With your permission, maybe you’d allow him to recreate his most intimate moments with your statues as you watched, or-

Maybe you’d… give him a hand?

#sagau #cultau #genshin impact #genshin impact sagau #fandangoevent #genshin cult au #genshin sagau #genshin yandere

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