#rather than like. this is a Person and they become a better or worse version of themselves which transforms the entire Story World because | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

writersdrug · 2 months

Text

Nectar and Bane - Pt. 1

Pairings: Hunter!König x Witch!Reader

Pt. 2

Summary: König is hired to hunt down a pesky witch by a warlock, who paints you as the most evil thing in the past three centuries. With the promise of finding true love (or, the closest thing the warlock can offer: a brainwashed woman who is forced to dote on the hunter), König sets out on his journey. However, you aren't what he was expecting at all, and he develops a newfound obsession with making you become his.

Warnings: dubcon, mentions of rape, manipulation, kidnapping, sex pollen (kinda? If you squint? not really, but better safe than sorry), corruption kink, mentions of blood and violence, mentions of consuming human organs, unrequited pining, angst at the end, death (not for main characters), cowgirl, missionary, mating press, biting, hair pulling, nipple play, power imbalance, handjob, obsessive thoughts and behaviour (please let me know if I missed any!)

Notes: thought I'd try my hand a fantasy au version of cod, or at least of König. This is really long (over 15000 words) so I split it into two parts. The next part is pretty much done, I'm just exhausted and wanted to at least crank out half. Let me know if you would like to be tagged in pt 2!

ps if anyone has any suggestions or tips on how to make collages or banners for fics, pleeeaseeee lmk

translations at the end

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

Watch your every step. From the moment you step foot into those woods, you can’t trust anything you see.

That’s what the sorcerer had drilled into his head before he had begun his journey. He called you dangerous, cunning… “A sneaky, meddling bitch…” he had grumbled over the table in that crowded tavern.

Two small pouches, one of silver, one of gold, sat in between the two patrons on the table. Stains of ale and coffee rings littered the unvarnished wood. The wax of the thick candle had trickled down and formed small, hardened pools at the base – its flame flickered weakly, casting unflattering shadows against the man’s weathered features, and making the portentous hood covering König’s face only that much more ominous.

He'd listened warily as the sorcerer described the witch – you. Tens of centuries old, too much knowledge and too little wisdom to use it sensibly. You take whatever you want by whatever means possible, and your favored method was using your physical assets and the promise of sexual devotion to coerce those within your web to do your bidding. “Sometimes it’s for her personal gain – sometimes, she does it for fun.” The warlock added bitterly. “Akin to a serpent, she winds you into her embrace, and then crushes your bones before she swallows you whole, saving your heart for last.” You’d done it to him, ensnaring him into your alluring trap, before stealing his spellbooks, his potions, his most prized collections… and vanishing into thin air.

An enchantress, König had concluded.

The warlock’s request? “Kill her. And be quick with it. The sooner this earth is rid of that swine, the sooner we can all rest. And, better yet – bring me her eyes! Potent things, witches’ eyes can be – of course, that is if they’re still working. If the bitch has gone blind, don’t waste dulling your dagger. A handful of her hair would do just fine.”

König had killed much worse for much less, and this sounded like it would be on the simpler side of things. A few days’ worth of hunting and a quick, efficient kill – hopefully, one of his easier jobs, although with the way the sorcerer described you, that might not be. He’d dealt with magicians before; up until now, they had been rather boring to hunt – tedious, but nonetheless, boring. Most of the time, they tried to end him with some elaborate incantation in the few seconds remaining of their life after he’d ambushed them. His silver blade would be slicing across their throats before they could utter five syllables. They were always so intent on murdering their victims slowly and in a flashy manner. With König’s preference for a more immediate result, he was usually the one collecting the fingernails, teeth, and tongues.

(Over time, he’d had noticed that it was always sorcerers ordering the assassination of other sorcerers. He wondered why they had so much of an issue amongst themselves, but he didn’t question it. Whatever kept him fed and paid for his room, he would do it.)

The picture the warlock was painting of you, however, made you seem much craftier and more calculated. You couldn’t resist the glamorous ways of murder via magic – it was written in your nature as a witch. But you played the game with your charisma and wit, too; something magic users didn’t typically rely on (half of the time, because they weren’t charismatic, nor witty). You waited until your assailant would fall to your wicked charm, before dissecting him like nothing more than a toad for your cauldron. If not an easy kill, you at least sounded like you would be an exciting one – but König knew he could get something more from this client for killing you.

“What more can you offer me?” he asked.

The warlock chuckled. “The gold is insufficient, is it?” he leaned forward and hunched his shoulders, speaking in a hushed tone. “Tell me, what do you desire? Recognition and respect? Revenge against someone who’s crossed you? To bring back a loved one from the dead? Or, perhaps, to find a love of your own?”

König’s shoulders tensed, and the rest of the warlock’s utterances fell on deaf ears. Could he possibly give him a chance to find himself someone to love? Someone that he and only he can worship? It was true that he would be happier to live alone, in whatever way that would allow him to be independent of society… but the thought of being able to live alone with someone, someone who was devoted to him, someone who could decorate his hut with signs of life and warmth, someone with a kind smile and a sweet voice, someone who he could spend hours upon hours with, memorizing each curve of their body, the taste of their nectar on his tongue…

He called it love. Others would call him insane. He’d heard it all before – how no one would ever love him, given his profession, his awkwardness in carrying a conversation about anything normal other than how sharp his knives are, and how he uses them… that, and the fact that he never shows his face (“He must be hideous under there…” they would speculate). Nonetheless, he still craved the devotion of an obedient, warm body waiting for him in his cabin at the end of the day – once he did get a cabin. Why should he be denied what everyone else wants?

He knew he was a hypocrite; he couldn’t expect someone else to be so willing to leave everything and run away with him. Not with his insane ideations and obsessions – hell, not with who he was as a person. But if he killed enough healthy rabbits to keep her fed, and if he fucked her hard enough that her eyes rolled back into her head and she couldn’t muster enough strength to escape the mattress… would she ever care about what kind of man he was?

The warlock smiled slowly. “Of course… that’s what all of you sick bastards want.” He said, leaning back and folding his arms. “If it will seal our contract, I will give you whichever woman you choose. I’ll make her yours, and only yours, with unconditional love – even for your damned soul.”

A fair deal, König had thought. Which is exactly what had him currently trudging through the dense woods, searching for any traces of a witch – a sack with two loaves of bread and some apples hung over his shoulder, along with his well-worn tashka stuffed with the coin he had earned over time. His sword was strapped to his hip in its sheath, his dagger (a short sword, when it was compared to the average person) stuffed into the lead-lined, deerskin sheath on the side of his boot; and a pelt, heavy and thick, hung around his shoulders. All he had to his name.

König had done a day of research on you – testimonies and sightings of you ghosting the perimeter of the woods at an early age, hoping to lure some poor soul away as your very first victim. “I imagine she was a succubus in her previous life,” the warlock had spoken, “maybe too much of a whore for even the devil to handle.”

He had caught you one night by luring you to his cabin with the scent of a savory meal. Guessing by your inexperience, and the way you avoided using words as you snarled and thrashed in the warlock’s grip, he assumed you had not yet reached one hundred years old. You were still young and fresh-faced, appearing no more than twenty to human eyes. “After a few decent meals, and reintroducing her to the work of her past life – she’d settled in as the perfect student. It almost felt like having a pet.” He added with a smug smile.

König questioned how happy you were with being reintroduced to the work of your past, but he didn’t comment on it.

After living with the warlock as his student and whore for a few centuries, you turned into a strong, young witch. You didn’t care to go into town, preferring to stay at the cabin and watch over the brews whenever he had to make deliveries or run to the shops. The warlock had no complaints about your desire to stay holed up in his home – fewer people to ogle at you, fewer glimpses into a more civilized life that might tempt you to run away. He’d much rather you be a brooding, antisocial bitch, than watch one of his clients stare at you with a yellowed, lustful grin, like you were some harlot in the window of a brothel.

On one particular day, without any indication of what you were planning, he had returned home from his rounds to an empty cabin – not just empty of you, but of his potion stock, his rarest ingredients, and his most prized spellbooks. He’d run into the woods in fury, screeching your name and hurling threats into the trees around him – but you were gone. Not a trace of you could be found within a five mile radius of his home.

It was like you had never been there, save the absence of his personal belongings.

In König’s opinion, you didn’t strike him as an extremely dangerous individual. Sure, the warlock had harped on and on about how cunning and deceiving you were – but all you had done was lie to him. And from the way he had described the conditions you were under, König didn’t exactly blame you for running away. Maybe this job was a waste of his time…

Still, he couldn’t find it in him to complain, despite the nip of the mid-autumn air, and the fact that he was embarking on what might be one of the most treacherous endeavors of his career. He was getting a decent payout for it – that is, if he lived to finish the job. Additionally, the scenery was a comfort to his journey; wiry birch trees stood high and thickly clustered, their brown and black spots like ever-watchful eyes, staring at the gargantuan hunter as he moved. Their golden leaves mimicked the light of the sun, the real thing blocked out by the overcast skies. A whisper of wind flew by his ears, carrying down and blowing the leaves further along his path with a gentle sigh. As if nature herself was telling the world to be quiet, be still, and prepare for winter.

It was times like this where König became unsure of himself. What if he hated having someone else to care for? What if, deep down, he preferred the silence and the solitude? But then, the loneliness would strike him. The longing to be understood (if that was humanely possible), and the desire to have something warm, alive, and sentient to acknowledge him. It consumed him on those sleepless nights, perfectly warm by the hearth of whatever inn he resided at, yet so hollow without having someone to wrap his arms around.

A swaying movement in the branches above pulled him from his thoughts. Hanging down by a twine thread, tied to one of the spindling birch branches, was a tiny, burlap pouch. It reached a few feet above König’s head, and was drenched in a dark, thick liquid that dripped rhythmically onto the forest floor. Looking to where the drops landed, he noticed the matter on the ground was decaying – a steaming pile of rot was all that was left of the leaves that were once there.

He frowned. The trap was clever – for a witch in their first century. König had expected something a bit more dangerous for someone your age. Maybe the last hunter had been too gullible, and you stereotyped them to all be oafs. Or, maybe you were too old and couldn’t craft traps with the same skill and precision as your younger self.

He drew his dagger from his boot and quickly sliced the twine thread. The pouch dropped to the floor with a squelch, landing in the very puddle of death it had created. The liquid beneath it bubbled and hissed, and the bag soon dissolved to reveal its contents: bits of bone – a kind of reptilian foot, from the looks of it – dried pomegranate seeds, and a fuzzy layer of mold, all appearing to be drenched in some kind of blood.

He carefully stepped around the stinking mess, his eyes turning back onto the path to continue his hunt. He both hoped for and against finding more evidence of your existence. He wanted to get back to town as soon as he could, so he could hole himself up in an inn until his money began to run out – all the same, his mind craved a puzzle and a chase. Though, with how old you were, he doubted there would be much of a chase.

More leaking, swaying hex bags hung from branches as he trudged on, pointing him in the right direction. He didn’t bother to quiet the sound of the leaves beneath his footsteps – the rustling of the wind through the foliage was doing the job well enough. He held onto his dagger tightly, his other hand on his longsword, as he carefully toed through the dense forest. He had to be close – the smell of fennel and turmeric settled around his presence, along with the babbling of a nearby stream.

The sound of a distant tune danced through the trees. The voice was soft, yet clear, and whoever it belonged too was much too confident that they were alone in these woods. König wondered if it was actually you, and not some poor soul who had been foraging for the autumn mushrooms and berries – but he was nearly a day’s trek into the forest. No one would dare come out this far, unless they wanted to be alone. And, they were potentially hiding from something; their own past, perhaps.

He cautiously followed the sound of the tune, still disguising the sound of his own steps within the rustling leaves and wind. His heart thrummed with both uncertainty and excitement; he always did get too thrilled at the idea of a struggle and blood covering his hands. He took a deep breath in through his nostrils, focusing his attention on the voice that carried through the trees, pulling him closer and closer… He gripped his dagger tightly as he crept, reminding himself of the warlock’s warning: cunning, sneaky – be on your best wits.

The voice brought him to the edge of a clearing. The birch trees parted and encircled a few meters of earth, and a few bushes huddled along the far edge, dotted with purplish berries and thorned branches. A wicker basket, woven clumsily and rather lopsided, sat on the ground and caught each berry and branch that was tossed into it. A figure knelt in front of the bushes, carefully plucking the berries with thin, delicate fingers, stained purple from the juice of the berries, and nails that might need a trim soon, unless they were intended to be claws.

The cloaked figure confused König. The voice was too melodic, too clear and fresh for an old witch. He had assumed you weren’t much younger than the warlock, but still old. He remained a few yards away from you, shrouded by the trees and dense foliage outside of the clearing.

It was when you turned your head, dropping your handful of berries into the basket, revealing your face, that he realized how wrong he had been in his assumption.

Your skin was soft, he could tell even with the distance between the two of you. Your lips delicately moved as you sang your tune, your eyes sparkled in contrast to the dull autumn colors that surrounded you. Small wisps of your hair danced around your cheeks as the wind caressed it. Your entire body looked soft, warm, and pliable… exactly what he needed. Craved.

It wasn’t hard for him to imagine it: leaves tangling into your hair as he pressed his fingers around your neck, pushing you to the cold ground and watching as you gasped for air. He’d use his knife, but not to kill you. He’d drag it over your hardened nipples, watching them perk up even more at the prickling sensation, before he’d carve his name into your stomach. Smear your pretty blood all over your pretty face, watch as your eyes widen with horror, as you question how someone can be so deranged and cruel, how he can take so much pleasure in something so vile and horrible-

Or maybe, he could convince you that he just wants a fuck. You looked like you could use one – when was the last time you’d had someone’s lips on your breasts, or their cock in your cunt? It had certainly been too long for him… he couldn’t imagine how long you had gone without being thoroughly ravaged, living in these woods all alone. He could take care of that. He could be gentle, for a little while; holding your wrists above your head as he pushed you against a tree, whispering praise and encouragements into your ear, “… so gut, so Schön, genau so…” taking you from behind as your nipples perked up from the rough texture of the bark, listening to you whine and moan in that sweet voice of yours as he lets out months’ worth of pent up frustration by thrusting his cock into your warm pussy, over and over and over until you scream and tighten around his length, milking the cum right out of him as he fucks you deep, maybe sinking his teeth into the junction of your neck-

He growled quietly, palming his rapidly-growing erection as he tried to clear his head. Stay focused. Kill the witch, and then you’ll get what you want.

Remember the warlock’s promise.

Even if he didn’t need you to satisfy his needs, he could still make this interesting. Not like you could outrun him, anyway.

He stepped into the clearing, and as if by some ironic joke, the wind died down immediately. The crunch of his heavy boots was enough to make his presence known to any living thing within a mile radius.

Your singing stopped. You whipped your head in his direction, and immediately a look of fear fell upon your face. For a moment, the two of you were frozen in a staring contest. You reminded him of a doe, staring at the crossbow of the hunter you had noticed, wondering if this being was actually dangerous, or nothing you needed to worry about. He wondered what he must remind you of, and he wished to hear the panicking thoughts flitting through your mind.

Finally, you broke the trance – you gasped, stumbling backwards and awkwardly standing as you ripped a pathetic, little knife from your boot. You faced him and pointed the knife at him – you held it improperly, and if he truly wanted to make this messy, he could easily make you stab yourself in a struggle. He wondered what it would feel like when your nails dug into his rough skin, dragging marks down his forearms (or his back, if he played his cards right).

You pulled the thick cloak tighter around your body – you were tiny. Well, everything was tiny compared to König. But you were unexpectedly small. With the way the sorcerer had described you, he had expected you to reach his shoulders at least. But there you were, craning your neck to look up at him with fearful, owlish eyes.

“State your business!” You demanded, your voice cracking slightly.

König chuckled in response. You really were too pathetic for your own good, weren’t you? He took you in – your lips were pulled into a frown, parted slightly to reveal your perfect teeth, the way the fabric of your cloak quivered where it bunched in your fist… perfectly ordinary things that ordinary people do. But, besides the fact that you were a witch, something about you made it all so captivating.

“Hey!” you shouted, bringing his eyes back to your gaze. Your fear had given way to a judgmental ire. “Gods, have you ever seen a woman before?!”

König scoffed. “Woman? Yes, of course. I’ve seen witches, too. None as young as you, however.”

Your eyes widened in panic once again. You stretched your knife out towards him as he stalked over to where you stood. “S-stay back! I’ll kill you!”

Your meek threat didn’t slow him down. He continued his advance until he had corralled you against a tree, your one hand bracing against the trunk behind you, and the other holding the knife under his ribcage. The only thing between his flesh and your blade was his linen tunic, which wouldn’t do much to protect him should you decide to stab him – but were you capable of that? Your eyes were so filled with fear as they stared at him, your chin to the sky to take all of him in. Your fingers trembled around the handle of your knife as if the prospect of having to nick him made you uneasy.

“Not with magic?” he asked, his eyes flitting to the bush next to you. He plucked one of the berries between his thick, gloved fingers, rolling the onyx sphere between his thumb and middle finger before squashing it.

You pouted (a sight König could never grow tired of). “I’m not a wi-“

He snatched your forearm, and you yelped, dropping the knife to the forest floor. His fingers easily wrapped around you; he wondered how easy it would be to break it.

“Don’t lie, now.” He ordered, his eyes narrowing with a hint of annoyance. “You’re not good at it.”

He released your arms with a shove. You scrambled back with a fearful expression, swiping the blade from the ground. He watched with interest as you stood several yards away from him, pointing your weapon towards him once again.

“Fine.” You said, holding yourself a bit taller. “You’re right. What’s the crime in that?”

For a moment, König was lost. Why weren’t you trying to weaponize your magic? It was almost as if you had forgotten you weren’t a human. For someone who was supposed to be a cunning bitch, as the warlock had put it, you weren’t very smart.

“I’m not here for justice.” He replied, wiping his glove on his shirt. “Just doing my job.”

“Hunter?” you asked.

He extended his arms – gods, he could have crushed a pillar between those arms – as if presenting himself to you. “Was it not obvious?” he asked, and you could hear the smirk in his tone.

You huffed. “Well, you’re not a very good one. Most hunters don’t make conversation with their prey.”

Prey. He liked that you understood your position, that he was the one in charge here. Maybe you were a clever girl…

“I like to listen to the begging.”

“Begging?”

“For your life.” König folded his arms over his chest, inspecting you closely. The only thing you had to protect yourself was your cloak, and that hardly provided a shield against the wind. Even though you were obviously wary of him, it wasn’t wary enough. You had spoken too many words with the hunter, and had it been anyone else, you might have been dead long before now.

You seemed malleable – book-smart and spitfire, yet all too gullible. Easily manipulated. Just what he needed to brainwash you into loving him. Or, at least, being his pet. You’d never truly love him, he had come to learn that from experience. But maybe, if he could somehow convince you that you needed a big, scary man, who could protect you and fuck you nicely, it would be enough to make you stay. After all, you were too naïve to be alone out here, weren’t you?

Could the warlock perhaps make you his prize? It’d kill two birds with one stone, he could convince you to return whatever knickknacks you had stolen, and your presence would never bother anyone ever again – besides him, but of course, it would never be a bother to bed you every night.

Your expression turned sour. “I don’t beg.”

The tone of your voice sent a shiver down his cock. He’d have to pound that little attitude right out of you.

“Who hired you?” You asked indignantly. The knife in your hand had slowly lowered, now pointing at his feet. Your initial fear seemed to have worn off. Were you brave, or just that stupid?

“It doesn’t matter.” König replied.

“It does to me.”

“You don’t know? How many people have you wronged?”

You scoffed. “I haven’t wronged anyone. People just don’t like it when you call them out on their atrocities.”

König hummed. You had a point. “Your teacher – the warlock.”

For a moment, you scrunched your face in disgust. Teacher. Only a fool as mad as the warlock himself could consider he was any such figure in your life, other than a torturous one. Then, you sighed, shoulders slumping defeatedly, the knife now aimed straight at the forest floor. “That old toad can’t even kill me himself…” you muttered. “What payment did he offer you?”

“He promised me anything I desired of your possessions.” König replied, taking note of the change in your presence. He purposely left out the warlock’s promise to find him a “companion.”

“And what would you do with cursed fig seeds, or stag’s blood?” You asked, folding your arms over your chest (which, König noted, framed your breasts perfectly). “I have no gold – not enough to be a reward for the trouble of killing me.”

“He gave me three hundred gold coin, too.”

Your lips turned down into a scowl. “That’s all?! That absolute hypocrite!” You lodged your knife into the tree behind you and placed your hands on your hips. “I took everything from him, save that disgusting old shed he called home, and that’s all he’ll pay to kill me?!”

Your outburst pulled König from his obsessive staring. “You’re… insulted?”

You turned back to him and huffed. “Well, obviously.” You retorted. “I stole all he had to his name, and he treats me like a fly buzzing in his ear. I deserve a bit more recognition than three hundred gold coin.”

“You admit to it, then.” König said, stepping closer. You appeared to be too angry to notice how near the hunter was to you. “You are a thief.”

You laughed – a sound that König did not expect to be so sweet. “I’ve done much worse than thieving, mind you.” You shook your head. “And he’s done even worse to me.” You sighed, pulling the dagger from the tree trunk and sheathing it back into your boot.

Once again, he was reminded of how small you were. Why weren’t you afraid of him? Sure, you had the advantage of magic while he did not, but you weren’t even acting defensively anymore. You treated him like a traveler who had stumbled across your path, starting up conversation and sharing your story.

“What has he done?” he asked, his interest in you growing by the second. An outcast, despised, hated by others. He felt that the two of you were kindred spirits, and he would not risk losing a connection so rare – one he had never felt.

“You mean he didn’t even tell you?” you said, sounding more hurt than anything else.

“He did.” König sheathed his own dagger as a peace offering. “But I’m coming to think he was not entirely truthful.”

You sighed, looking down at your basket, then back at König. “I suppose I could tell you, since he brought you all this way to kill me. Walk with me – but keep your dagger away. And if you try anything, I’ll slit your throat. Understood?”

He suppressed the urge to laugh. Could you even reach his throat? “The warlock said you would lure me away to your hut, and carve out my heart.”

You huffed disappointedly, walking back to the bush near König. Completely calm, like he had only ever come up to you with the intention of finding a friend. “And yet, he’s still alive, after all the chances I had to kill him. We can stay outside of my hut, if it eases your mind. I’ll let you make your own tea, too. But if you aren’t set on killing me right this minute, I really should return to start drying these out.” You held up your basket. “Before too much time passes, and I can no longer use them.”

König had never given his prey more than a few moments to try and beg their way out of his crushing hands. He couldn’t believe he had even given so much lenience to your baseless trust in him – what he should have done was take the opportunity to grab your face and snap your neck. But he was starting to doubt the warlock’s testimony; you were a thief, yes, but had you really committed any crime? Or were you simply just taking the revenge you deserved from your captor – or, as the warlock called himself, your master?

König sighed. He gestured his hand out, signaling for you to lead the way.

You frowned. “First, give me your word.” You demanded.

“I will not harm you.” He said, with a hand over his heart. He didn’t care about forcing you to make the same promise – you were harmless enough. He did, however, make sure to avoid saying that he wouldn’t touch you. Although he was developing a few ounces more of respect for you, who knows? Maybe you would find a reason to drag him into your hut and satisfy both of your needs – and, if he was lucky enough to get that far, maybe you’d offer for him to spend the night in a warm bed, and he could be saved from sleeping on the cold earth for one night.

His word seemed promising enough to you. Threading your arm through the handle of the basket, you began marching through the woods, watching the ground carefully as you stepped over roots and twigs.

König followed by your side, watching you from the corner of his eye. You really were helpless – all it would take is a strong push from him, and you’d be tumbling down, maybe hitting your head on a stone, or rolling down the mountainside until your neck snapped. Even if the fall didn’t kill you, he could easily land one hit to your chest and pierce your lungs with your own ribs. But here you were, worrying more about the uneven forest floor than the lumbering creature by your side.

“What did he tell you?” you asked, pulling him from his fantasies. “About the beginning, when he took me.”

König laughed in pity. “He made it sound like he caught you, not that he took you.”

You sighed. “He didn’t catch me… well, I suppose he did. More like how animals are caught.” You adjusted your grip on the basket, still watching the ground beneath you. “I was the botanist’s assistant before he came along. Stared at me like I was naked. He would come more often than he needed to - asked me where I was from, who my father was – things I didn’t understand why he needed to know. I still don’t.”

König didn’t understand himself. He continued to listen, the sounds of his footsteps drowning out your quiet ones. He began to wonder just how much of the warlock’s testimony was true.

“He came to the shop one night.” You continued to recount the story. “I was lighting the lanterns in the greenhouse. It was storming, and I didn’t hear him. He bludgeoned me and dragged me into the streets like I was some sort of animal.” You paused, turning your own words over in your head. “I suppose I was, to him.

He brought me back to his cabin – that’s when he started the curse. All I remember when waking up is feeling sick. I tried to stand, but it- everything felt heavy, like I was stuck in mud. I managed to crawl outside, and he was there. Saying my father wouldn’t recognize me, that he had killed the old lady at the botanist, that everyone would think that I had killed her… that I would be burned if I returned to the village. That I would forever be an outcast as long as I lived – as a witch. As what he made me.”

You paused again, for longer this time. König looked down at you, observing how your face twisted in… disgust? Anger? Your eyes were somewhere else, possibly somewhere where you could light the world on fire, drain the life from everyone who had ever done you wrong. König had felt that same hatred before, and he had learned to let it pass. You were still stuck there, wishing you could drive a blade into the warlock’s neck – and more.

“You stayed, then?” König asked, returning his gaze to the trees before him. “Why?”

You scoffed. “It’s not like I could go anywhere, not during the change. For the first fortnight, I couldn’t do anything but crawl on the ground and wail. And he let me – I’d get to the edge of the woods, and he’d be there to drag me back. Drug me into the hut at night and held me, fucked me, saying he was protecting me and similar bullshit. Of course, he was right; at that moment, I was as good as dead if I had ventured out on my own. And once I’d gotten my strength back, I was still a new witch. I’d never be accepted into the village – witches never are, despite the warlocks being the vile ones – and I had no idea how to live as one. So I relied on him for a while, until I knew enough to make it out on my own.”

König hummed in thought. Despite the initial desire to snatch you himself and have his way with you, his fists clenched at the thought of you being dragged around by the warlock. This life wasn’t one you had chosen, and yet the very person who had forced it upon you was killing you for it. It made something within him boil, something deep and buried, that he had thought had been tucked away for good.

You didn’t deserve any of this. He was fighting with himself in that moment, but the desire to show you what you should have been given was consuming him. He wanted to tell you that he knew what it was to be an outcast, he knew what it was like to feel lonely and crave being alone at the same time. To wish that you had the power to hurt anyone you deemed deserving of it, yet to have that someone who would never hurt you.

He would do it. He would be that person for you, he would be the one to kill for you. He knew he was getting ahead of himself – after all, he was hired to kill, you, not fall for you. And he knew it was just another one of his delusional fantasies… but he couldn’t help himself. You were like him, which was something that he had not yet been able to find. Something primal in him told him to sink his teeth in, to hold onto you until you stopped your struggling and realized that this would be good, for the both of you.

He was insane. But did it matter what he was, as long as he could give you what you needed?

“So, yes-“ you continued, bringing König out from the depths of his thoughts. “- I stole from him. Took the books he used to teach me, maybe a few ingredients for potions, a few seeds to start my own garden… but compared to what he took from me, I might as well have taken a loaf of bread.”

You stopped suddenly, and König came to a halt beside you. You nodded your head to the scene before you. “It’s not much, but it’s home.”

König looked ahead: the trees parted into another clearing, larger this time. A rickety hut leaned against a wall of rock, made of thin, birch logs and mud slathered on top to keep out the wind. In the center of the clearing was a large stone, positioned near a pile of ash and rocks. A log lay near it, possibly another place for someone to sit. A small garden sat closer to the creek before your hut – it didn’t look to be doing very well, but that was expected as winter approached.

By the creek, there was a large, twisted oak. Its roots hung directly off of the bank and down into the water. Its leaves had fallen to the earth and mingled with the rest of the foliage by now – the entire thing had crimson paths winding around it, hauntingly similar to blood-filled veins. Several pieces of clothing and fabric hung from the branches and swayed in the autumn wind.

As you marched ahead, placing your basket down by the makeshift firepit and disappearing into the hut, König took a few, cautious steps forward. He was both charmed by the simplicity of it, and despondent that you were forced into this lonesome sort of life. He wanted to drag you from this measly hovel and show you something better.

But how? He was no better off than you were. All his earnings were spent on a room at the nearest tavern and a decent amount of ale to help him fall asleep. He never cared about having a home, as long as he had a place to keep out the cold. He didn’t think it would be good enough to drag you back to the village and convince you to spend the night with him in a thin-walled, noisy inn… but, even if he didn’t end up killing you today (something that seemed more and more likely with each passing second), he refused to leave you in this hell. If it was a cozy cabin, built so far away from civilization for the sole purpose of privacy and comfort, he could understand. Maybe even plead his case to you so you would let him stay. But this – this was a last resort. A broken down spot in the woods that you made for your banishment, for hiding. This wouldn’t do.

Call him insane. Call him crazy, hopeless, sick in the head… maybe his desires were founded on the thought that he would give you what he had never received.

You emerged from your hut, the thin, wooden door clanging shut behind you. You looked at him with a puzzled expression. Why was he still standing at the edge? You wrapped your cloak tighter around yourself and made your way over to him, your hair blowing across your face.

He watched as you stopped in front of him, your brow creased with question. Your head tilted back to look up at him, yet any traces of fear that you had shown earlier were gone. You looked at him like you’d known him for the past hundred years. It made his heart ache within his chest.

How could anyone have painted such a wretched picture of the woman who stood before him?

“Is everything alright?” you asked, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. “Like I said before, if you’d rather we stay outside-“

König interrupted you, reaching down and grabbing the sides of your arms firmly. You sucked in a breath warily, but you were still not afraid of him.

“I- you-“ Scheisse, what is he trying to say? He wanted to take you away, he wanted to show you how similar the both of you were to each other, he wanted to show you what (he thought) love was – slow, gentle, possessive, and strong. He wanted to keep you in his pocket, both to keep you safe from the world, and to make sure you couldn’t be taken from him. He wanted you, you, you –

This is insanity. He knew it. But that didn’t stop the fire in his chest, and the questionable throbbing in his trousers.

You knew. Your eyes said everything as they softened, as your lips pressed together into a knowing, sad smile. Were you going to turn him down? Would you say that you preferred it this way, that you liked being alone and living like a prisoner on the run? You took his face in his hands, and he had a foreboding sense in his gut that you might tell him to leave.

Quickly but gently, he cupped one hand at the back of your neck and pulled himself down to you, pressing his lips to yours before you could speak. It was only right, he thought, as he held the kiss – you didn’t understand that he could help you, he could build the life you deserved and keep you safe from any other hunters and warlocks. He placed his other hand on your lower back and pulled you in, moving his lips against your own and praying you wouldn’t deny him.

Like an angel answering his prayers, you tilted your head and wrapped your arms around his neck, standing on your toes and kissing him back. He tugged his teeth at your bottom lip, and you so graciously allowed his tongue to slip past your teeth, letting him taste you. He whined, flooded with relief that you didn’t try to shove him away and call him deranged.

His cock was quickly growing hard, but he ignored it. Right now, he needed to figure out exactly what he needed to say to make you-

A raven’s call tore through the air, piercing his thoughts. It was much too close than any bird would naturally be.

He tried to turn his head in its direction, but you dug your fingers into his hair, making him stutter and freeze on the spot. He grabbed your hips, about to pry you away-

You pressed your lips firmly to his, and he heard you faintly muttering incoherent words against him. The world around him was suddenly showered with colors: purples like the berries that had stained your fingers, oranges like the leaves that were scattered across the ground, silvers like the thick clouds that blanketed across the sky… The black spots on the birch trees suddenly blinked and flitted across his vision; thousands of them stared at him, and he heard your sweet laughter echoing in the distance as the world spun, spun, spun…

He felt the cold earth press to his cheek, and the last thing he remembered was a sickening ache in his stomach.

He should have heeded the sorcerer’s warning.

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

"… so gut, so Schön, genau so…”

... so good, so beautiful, just like that...

#konig #konig x reader #konig x you #konig x yn #konig cod #konig fanfiction #fantasy au konig #cod fantasy au #cod x reader #konig x reader smut #konig smut #konig nsfu

458 notes · View notes

undiscovered-horizon · 7 months

Text

[Old love never rusts. Mihawk has to face that truth when he meets again the husband of the girl he almost had.]

Mihawk's version | Enjoying my work? You can leave me a tip on Ko-Fi | Have a request?

Mihawk wants the entire conversation to end before it has even started. He's aware that his heartache and anger are bound to get the better of him. Not to mention Shanks, who will surely gloat and boast beyond tastefulness. Although Mihawk can't exactly blame Shanks for his pride - the Warlord knows that he'd behave identically, if not worse, were their roles reversed.

Shanks knows what's on Mihawk's mind. he can read it on his face, in the sombre gloom that clouds his yellow eyes. Still, the red-haired captain patiently waits for the swordsman to break on his own. It will happen soon enough as the matter of you is the only subject that rids Mihawk of his self-control. He may be a great man, in more ways than one but when it comes to the insatiable love seems unable to let go, the Warlord becomes a young boy at heart, always seeking assurance that his affections are returned. Or not outright rejected, at least. Alas, the consequences of his own selfish actions have finally caught up to him and Mihawk must face the truth - this love is never going to be returned.

"How is she?" Mihawk asks reluctantly. He hates to give Shanks the satisfaction but the famished desire of his heart is a lot stronger than his iron will and pride. "You know of whom I speak."

Shanks gives him a mocking smile, a devilish flame appearing in his brown eyes.

"I also know you have no right to ask that, hawk-eyes," he answers. "Not when you treated her like a backup option."

"I never-" Mihawk hangs his voice. He takes a deep breath in an attempt to calm himself. Agitated negation will only further prove the captain's point. Truth be told, deep inside Mihawk knows that Shanks is right. He did treat as someone who would always be there, waiting for him until he came back from his escapades. Until you grew tired; until you didn't. "Where is she?" he asks angrily. But what he really wants to ask is 'If you're here, who's taking care of her? Who's looking after the one you promised to keep safe and happy?'

"Home with the kids," Shanks retorts casually. Despite his light-hearted tone, there's a hint of something mischievous between his words.

Mihawk feels disgusted. The thought that Shanks got to know you intimately and built a familial life with you fills him with rage so visceral he'd rather claw his own eyes out than think about it. And that red-haired poor excuse of a husband probably considers himself good enough for you.

Laughable, if it wasn't so sad.

"I suppose I should wish you well," Mihawk begrudgingly murmurs. Once again, his words do not quite reflect his actual thoughts. He wishes you well but couldn't care less about Shanks's well-being. Mihawk already knows for a fact that the red-haired captain is incapable of taking care of you properly so it would really be mercy if Shanks had a little accident and Dracule could play the magnificent role of a consoling party.

"You should." Shanks nods. "But I know you won't." He lets out a bitter chuckle. He's disillusioned about Mihawk's perpetual heartbreak. Some part of him still pities the Warlord. After all, how awful must be the torment that can haunt someone like him for a good decade?

"Yes, I won't," Dracule drones his words. There is jealousy, there is envy and then there is the horrible sensation that has been eating him up for the past ten years, slowly turning the man into a bitter, brutal husk of a person. And he shall never find it in him to wish Shanks well after he had shamelessly taken the person the closest to his heart.

Turning on his heel, Mihawk marches away from Shanks. He knows that if he spends another minute around the red-haired man, he will do something he might regret.

He could be a mighty Warlord, the greatest swordsman alive and, perhaps ever - truly a someone. Alas, as a wise man once said: You're nobody until somebody loves you. And everyday of his life, each time he wakes up to a cold bed and a house drowned in deafening silence, Mihawk is reminded that he is less than nobody. For it was his own grandiosity that had ridded him of the person he cares about the most.

Dracule's gnawing loneliness is accompanied only by his own thoughts, only by the rumination of his utmost failure. 'It didn't have to be like this', he reminds himself on the nights when he can't fall asleep, 'You could have had everything'.

442 notes · View notes

yandere-toons · 1 year

Text

HENRY BOWERS

Platonic & Romantic Headcanons – Yandere

WARNING: child abuse and neglect, strong violence, bullying, implied alcoholism, reference to divorce, emotional abuse.

PLATONIC:

As soon as his father drinks himself into unconsciousness or throws him out the door, Henry stalks down the street to where he thinks his friend might be. Explaining nothing of his sullen demeanour, he places himself in the middle of whatever they are doing, dragging them into a more private area if their current activity is too public or not to his liking. From there, the hope is that his friend will act in a way that comforts him without him having to ask for it and risk further humiliation.

There are two possible outcomes here, depending on how his friend treats him and who else gets involved. If they accept his presence without prying, Henry will shut down and remain silent for a while, riding out the emotional storm around someone he now has a reasonable chance of trusting. If they stonewall him or others interrupt, Henry will revert to his hostile bully persona and never mention the event again, as it has become a new source of shame for him.

Henry reveals a watered-down version of the truth when pressed for answers, but even then, he refuses to tell the whole story out of a desire not to relive it, not to be seen as a whiner, and not to show how profoundly it has affected him. After all, a history of cruel reactions from his father and the small-town mentality of Derry have taught him that emotional vulnerability is a dangerous mistake of the stupid and weak.

Despite this, it becomes increasingly clear that Henry is stalling for time when the subject of going home creeps up on him. He would much rather stay out all day and night with his friend and the gang, cruising town with Belch at the wheel, forgetting what awaits him when he sets foot on the family farm. But Henry knows only too well that Butch's wrath will double if he has to go looking for him.

Henry will threaten and, if sufficiently provoked, maim anyone who shows an interest in his friend. His worldview is more than a little misanthropic, as his good memories are few and far between, and his father and the community at large have taught him to hate anyone who challenges his idea of the norm. As such, he sees this as a favour to his friend, ridding them of all the scumbags who would inevitably trap them in an unwanted relationship.

But deeper down, in the places that have never quite healed, the places he never talks about, Henry is afraid of powerlessness. He despises the thought that his friend would abandon him because of someone else, as his mother did, so he does not give them that option. Anyone who tries to plant the idea in their head that they should cut ties with him, or worse, leave town, he beats as if it might save his life.

As far as Henry is concerned, no one offers a better source of companionship than he. He is fond of yelling this supposed fact and more at his friend when they refuse to drop everything and join him at a moment's notice. Seeing this as an affront to his authority as well as a personal insult, Henry cannot take it, especially when it happens in front of people, and tries to hector them into submission.

If any of Henry's accomplices disagree with his methods, none will be too honest about it. Henry displays an unabashed willingness to hurt anyone and everyone who comes between him and his friend. Other bullies have required stitches courtesy of Henry and learned to turn tail at the sight of him or them, and the last concerned citizen to intervene was left with a concussion.

Although Henry is a little more lenient with his gang, he still has rules about what kind of interactions are acceptable. Some of these rules go unspoken until one of the other boys crosses a line he did not know had been drawn. On the first day, Patrick Hockstetter lost his right to be alone with Henry's friend and incurred a death threat from Henry after Patrick made advances towards them and asked if they would like to share Henry with him.

Spending time with other people sounds like a waste of energy to Henry, but spending time with the Losers is so inexcusable that he expresses it in the only language he knows: violence. His need to anticipate his father's unstable emotions has made him sensitive to any sign of displeasure in others, which Henry receives in abundance from one of the Losers, Richie Tozier. Tozier calls him an obsessive freak when he cuts one of the kids for staring at his friend.

ROMANTIC:

His only frame of reference is his parents' disastrous marriage, now separated, and the couples at school he enjoys breaking up with shoves and jibes. Henry can be demanding in everything he asks of his partner, putting them in the untenable position of bearing the brunt of his emotional hunger. It is an overwhelming and confused mess of mixed signals and frustration that has built up over years.

Much of Henry's attention-seeking behaviour and unpredictable aggression stems from the fact that he is both ashamed of his struggles and less and less successful at repressing them. When he still tries, it manifests itself in violent outbursts and, in the context of this relationship, defensive anger when his partner does not immediately and completely fulfil his needs.

There are few things Henry would hate more than being compared to his father, so he refrains from using this level of violence with his partner. However, he retains a distinct bullheadedness in the many arguments that do break out, usually over Henry's desire for them to give up any part of their life that distracts from him.

Under no circumstances is Butch to know that Henry has a partner, let alone meet them. He would rather die than have them see what a so-called coward he becomes around his father, and the thought of them being caught in the crossfire of one of his father's explosions makes him want to stick the knife in Butch's throat a little sooner.

At the first sign of Butch's approach, Henry pulls away from his partner and tells them that if things get heated, they should go with Victor and wait for him at a distance. Victor is disturbed by Henry's extreme view of the relationship but is wise enough not to say so to his face.

Watching his partner suffer abuse at the hands of a family member ignites a rage in Henry that stems from his unfulfilled desire to take revenge on his father. He flashes back to when Butch similarly hurt him, reopening the last wound he tried to numb by avoiding his home and seeking out his partner. Every punch Henry lands, every slash with the knife, is almost like getting back at his father for all the scars he gave him.

Henry refuses to feel remorse for those he attacks, as Butch would never apologise for the damage he inflicts and once even rewarded Henry for his violent actions. After making his partner drop a science project in the hallway, the child he forced to eat dirt had it coming. The classmate who sat next to his partner at lunch - a seat reserved for Henry, regardless of whether anyone else knows it or whether he feels like taking it that day - deserved to be thrown to the floor and humiliated in a way that will haunt them forever.

Competition, real or imagined, is unforgivable and will be met with swift, if not disproportionate, retaliation. The first line of defence is a barrage of verbal abuse, escalating to physical assault unless the pest flees the scene and swears an oath never to speak to his partner again. From there, Henry will order his cohorts to hold the person still while he carves, stones, drowns and breaks whatever he finds most offensive.

Part of a community that frowns upon physical closeness between friends, Henry seeks in this relationship the emotional intimacy and affection that his father never provided. He denies having such needs when anyone suggests otherwise, insisting that he only stays with his partner for superficial reasons and would not miss them if they were to disappear one day.

Despite his claims of indifference, Henry displays a violent resentment towards those who befriend his partner, perceiving these individuals as a threat to his importance in their life. This fear speaks to his underlying insecurity of not being in control, the same insecurity that drives him to suspect the worst in people and defend or assert himself accordingly.

Do anything you want with my work, but never make me boring!

617 notes · View notes

katyspersonal · 1 month

Note

who do you think fucked up worse…gehrman or maria?

This is an interesting question, and I kind of didn't think of it before! Time to take a closer look at their crimes I guess. Some of these will be held on the possibilities and 'safe assumptions' though and addressed for the full picture!

1) Both were involved in Fishing Hamlet massacre!

With Maria, we can conclude as much because she discarded her weapons in the well at the place specifically. Her version in the Nightmare realm, a Hunter again, is supposed to be what punishes her, and she is focused on keeping Kos/OoK away from rummaging through. Considering the nature of the Nightmare, as well as the Doll who has spiritual connection with her, it should come from her guilt and regrets rather than.. I dunno, discarding the hunt over natural 'character development' and just picking a cool place to forsaken her past!

Gehrman sleeps better according to the dialogue Doll has after you kill OoK and free it's soul, so if it tortured him so, I think it is safe to say he had to be personally involved too rather than stay back while his students did the job:

They both were involved with Byrgenwerth, following their quest for obtaining the eyes of the dwellers from their skulls, and I suppose cord of OoK?

The thing about this point is that the description is written as though it was Gehrman's curiosity which ruined Maria's "idealisation" of him, or WOULD ruin it had she learned of it! This makes me wonder whether she was really involved in Byrgenwerth all that much, or whether she was aware of the real purpose of Fishing Hamlet massacre beforehand? Her goal, within the Nightmare, is stated to mercy-kill us so we don't allow that curiousity corrupt us to the point of "rummaging through corpse" and similar things, further supported by her visceral attack being an embrace if it is lethal!

I am just saying that here the balance might slightly shift towards making Gehrman 'worse' than her. Maybe she was not aware that it all was not just killing "monsters" but also a pregnant mother with her divine baby, but "well you didn't ask :/". Maybe Gehrman deceived her to use her aid. Maybe he didn't think it would be a big deal for her seeing that Maria was also interested in evolution through talking with Great Ones, and assumed she'd be just as callous about which means to accomplish the goals with?

2) Both were grave-robbing, or at least okay with that!

This one is a little less obvious, but Tomb Prospectors were not the first to go to the Chalice Dungeons! ...It were actually Willem, Dores and Gatekeeper lol:

BUT ALSO it were Old Hunters! We can see the remnants of it by Old Hunter Vitus being one the summons in Chalice Dungeons, hear Gehrman encourage us to go into the Chalice Dungeons to become stronger as via "tradition" of the Old Hunters,

and the fact that one of the things that torture Maria (again, remember that Nightmare Realm is Hell that punishes) is a Chalice:

(A video ( x ) for a better look at the Chalice from a figure)

I'd say that it is not very nice to disturb the undead Pthumerians just struggling in remains of their civilisation! Interesting thing: we can conclude they are even staying there to protect the Great Ones or their remains!

There has been some sort of civil war between ancient great-ones-respecting Pthumerians and who late became Cainhurst nobles! Maria, ironically, fell onto the side of "entitled guys" descendants! But yes, I could see why bullying zombie guys to get more history and archeology relics from them might not seem like much for her at start. Experience in the Fishing Hamlet likely retroactively ruined this period of her life for her: delving into Chalice Dungeons was likewise 'not leaving the corpse alone'. The remaining Pthumerians were right having some honour and dignity. So, that came to haunt her in the form of Pthumeru Chalice. Gehrman is.. well he's here too I guess dfshfdhs

3) Both knew a little too much about Laurence's shady business and did nothing?

Old Hunters used to be friends with Healing Church's Hunters and even had their workshops located close to one another! Gehrman was friends with Laurence and Ludwig, who are both quite strongly involved with Moon Presence (Ludwig's sword and guidance, Laurence's affiliation being known since Byrgenwerth times), as well as the key figure in creation of Hunter's Dream:

This was most likely a bait-and-switch, seeing how the cord itself is still in the real Workshop, and not in the grasp of Moon Presence (unlike, say, Wet Nurse taking Mergo's cord)! I think the purpose of creation of the Hunter's Dream was to "buy time" for the research conceived by the scientists! Remember: Gehrman was known to have "madness of curiosity" that Maria resented, or at least would resent had she known! He might have been fully aware of what Laurence wanted to do and support it! My point here, that with such proximity, he must have known of all Laurence's crimes and agreed with them!

Maria was at least overseer of the Clocktower's Research Hall, which, again, was just beta!Choir.

This last line IS a bit confusing, because it makes it sound as though the nerds looking for the Eyes Inside and the Blood Ministers got split. Laurence and Ludwig make it weird, as Moon Presence is also an Eldrich creature and Ludwig is for sure full of eyes! What also makes it strange is that Choir, and then School of Mensis, are both upper echelons of the Healing Church, but Laurence is supposed to be above both of them.

I think this can be worked with! Let's say what if Choir formed after Laurence's death, which also happened after Maria's death, and Vicars after him were somewhat "powerless" and walked over by Choir and Mensis, only leaders in the name! But that still leaves the bit that the mentioned "division" happened after Choir was formed! Maria and Adeline, however, are locked to the existence of the Research Hall, so, the timeframe when doctors and blood ministers were 100% working together! We find the Eye Pendant that opens the access to the Research Hall in Laurence's hand, and human Skull of Laurence on the platform that hides the secret elevator to that Research Hall. Again, by the Nightmare Logic, they must be connected with Laurence's sins: he started this research, or sponsored it, or was overseeing it, and so on.

This point is not an absolute thing though, because one or both of them might be freed from guilt here. Maybe Gehrman was not as informed and agreeable as we could assume and Laurence did lead him around? Maybe Maria wanted but could not do anything being caught in the web of complicated connections, blackmail and risks for the people she cared about?

4) Both are willingly involved in questionable practices (Maria with research, Gehrman with the cycle of Dream and Hunt)

This point I feel like transcends the morality a little bit, as it touches the matter of 'it is bad if you do it, but it is also bad if you DON'T do it'. I really love Soulsborne universes for having guts to say "you can't win, just pick your poison", but I think it is still worth addressing!

It is up to interpretation in which quantity Maria is involved with the Research Hall! Nothing states whether she founded it, joined in the research later, stepped in and turned the tides (ba dum tss) of the research, or simply was a caretaker/nurse/etc of the broken mess while Research Hall was getting ready for a bit of rebranding. She can be very guilty, or she can be barely guilty but in either case if that was her "redemption arc" that was a pretty bad way to go about it. ...or was it?

Fauxsefka turns people into Celestial Emissaries so they physically can't become beasts instead, and is even stated to be a hero / heroic researcher by Miyazaki:

First, I don't do Death of the Author (in terms of interpreting media I mean, not in terms of a style of writing)! Like, nope. Never. It is just not for me. Creator's word is the final for me; Fauxsefka is the good guy in the story, apparently, and it makes sense considering the fundamentally broken place characters are in! Maria has similarities with Fauxsefka: not only both of them have Cainhurst roots, but also both of them seem to favour 'Stars' line of evolution for humans!

Whereas other patients are afraid of the horrors of the Deep Sea, a concept Miyazaki could not get over well into DS3, Adeline desires them! Other patients seems to have gotten it right, and you can see one of them also clings to Maria mentally to "not drown"; Adeline "didn't understand"! The balcony that Maria wants Adeline to go to so she can forsaken the Deep Sea and seek something "happier" holds unique kind of patients who can shoot cosmic arcane spells:

Herself, Maria is associated with these lumenflowers: their petals are all over her boss arena, and the way to her lays through a much bigger batch of flowers, where Living Failures, other 'Stars' Kin are, whose song lyrics also feature lines 'ave stellar' and 'ave Maria'!

So, how this is different from what Fauxsefka is doing, who is stated to be as much of a good person as possible within this context and with the burden of her knowledge? Fauxsefka was doing more or less rinse-and-repeat practice, with maybe a few patients not surviving the procedure but we don't know what happened: maybe that person was already at the brink of death and she tried to make them live like this.

^ This guy I mean. Maria, on the other hand, is in the time period where the doctors and scientists were only testing the waters (BA DUM TSSS) (ok I will stop) and it was not SO certain what was at the stake, what were the alternatives, what was awaiting the humanity. It is even possible that the beasts problem was not yet bad to the point of "you'll either become a beast, be eaten by a beast or become a Kin, humanity is DONE for!" ! This was an unethical research at the cost of real people! The weight of Maria's sin here really depends on the interpretation, though

As for the cycle of Dream and Hunt, this is complicated and lingers on one's interpretation of what the purpose of the Dream even IS! Its existence provides two things: 1) a hunter who is immortal for the night, thus can sustain the beasts with efficiency like no other, but also effect the continuity of the night ( x ) and 2) supposed sustenance to the Great One Flora of the Moon, who holds the hunt as a concept!

I used to be a bit more set on the idea that if beasts are not sustained and hunted, they will simply overpower those who are yet humans and eat them! It is a self-feeding cycle of people needing to self-defend from beasts, thus having to consume the blood as urgent means of healing and power-up since beasts are too strong, thus risking to become beasts themselves because the blood they consumed during that hunt corrupts them. So, the Hunter's Dream would be a good thing, as it'd help to 'buy time' during nights of the hunt in which not only beasts are more active but Great Ones too! While the Dreaming Hunter holds everything together, the greatest minds of the Healing Church can efficiently study the ways to end beasthood, or ANY problem of humanity, once and for all! It is just better to throw the hunting resources on the Dream, so the scientists don't worry about the beasts and can focus on research. However, I almost forgot that:

This implies that had there not been Mensis Ritual ongoing, people WOULD have the chance to simply 'wait away' the beasthood problem. That, since Rom is not stopping Mensis Ritual but just conceals it, what really makes the inner beast within everyone who consumed the blood inevitably come out is Mergo's cry that draws the Bloodmoon close!

So yeah, the point about Hunter's Dream being helpful for the research of evolution still stands, especially under assumption that the deal with Moon Presence helped to bring more Eldrich Arcane close for "feeding" her. The point about how if the beasts are not hunted they'll simply eat everyone, though, is vague. It is safer to assume that the Hunter's Dream and Research Hall both are both example of hubris of man even if approached differently. Attempts to draw in something dangerous and horrifying, but it is "justified risk" because if you manage to 'tame' arcane/blood, sure, humanity will prosper!

Like... yeah, sure, there IS dangerous and undesireable nature of man that ruins everything and might or might not still linger in humanoids' genes after Loran. But did humanity ASK any of you guys to keep trying to fix it with so many victims and sacrifices? Like, was it WORTH it?

This point is closely tied to 'knowing Laurence's bad antics and doing nothing', yeah. Maria didn't seem to like blood ministration very much, as she disapproved of Adeline becoming a Blood Saint, but she also didn't even approve of blood antics of her own clan! I am not sure what would be her opinion on the Hunter's Dream had she lived to the point when it was created, just that she herself is not willing to ever hunt, so I am leaving this point aside. Is this just blood ministration that she opposes but proximity with a Great One Moon Presence would be something she can see the potential of? Or would she and Gehrman have a pointless cat fight about whose methods are better when they are both hubris of man? In both versions they are 'guilty'! Besides:

In the end none of THIS matters either and everyone was fooled ( x ). The blood offering is a blood offering in any way; whether it is through spilling blood violently during the hunt, or offering the blood's 'red' with how celestial Kin all bleed red. Moon doesn't care what paints it red, in the end.

___________________________________

My conclusion is: both of these characters fucked up almost equally! I think the balance shifts just a little bit and Maria is slightly better than Gehrman since she had some limitations set on how far she was willing to go. Her motivation was not in "curiosity" but strictly in helping humanity, even if in unfair ways, which is apparently not the case for Gehrman?

I'll say this though, NOW I am hooked on the idea of Maria and Gehrman being petty "rivals" ideologically (for as long as they could before Maria's own demons caught up with her). Especially since neither approach is better than the other and they are both cringe loosers! Again, lost comedy gold over Fromsoft making Gehrman's tender and warm feelings for her before and after her death plain. What is not lost, however, is the fact that the two should just kick Laurence and go home :pensive:

#bloodborne #lady maria of the astral clocktower #gehrman the first hunter #again: blaming laurence is a solid strategy #honorable mention: even more of maria's blame might be lifted depending on how strong gehrman's influence was on her #we don't know when he started training her. maybe it was since very young age? so a lot of her actions as a hunter were unwise #again it depends because as of now she is a grown thinking woman and could have processed it BEFORE pregnant mother got killed-#-and her child stolen!#so I am on 'maria's agency' side here!#I think it is more like gehrman FEELS as though he 'ruined' her with the hunt #like you know how sometimes when we feel guilty we become illusioned about how much impact we had on another person's actions and feelings #we need to be TOLD that it was that person's choices in the end because we might feel like we 'controlled' them #and of course his guilt would be amplified and impossible to reason with considering she took her own life!#(as far as we can assume)#ask replies #bloodborne observation #bloodborne headcanons #analysis

78 notes · View notes

aspoonofsugar · 6 months

Text

Weiss's Design

Here comes an appreciation post of our Snowhite's beautiful design! This is also the third installment of my RWBY design series, after Yang and Blake's analyses. As per usual, it uses ideas shared in other Weiss's metas. Enjoy!

A SPECIAL SNOWFLAKE

Monty Oum's early sketch depicts Weiss as a living snowflake:

This is because Weiss's design plays with the idea of "a special snowflake" in two different ways:

"snowflake" is a derogatory term for a person, who is entitled, oversensitive and easily offended; it also holds some political implications linked to white privilege

snowflakes are famous for having unique structures, so each one is different from the others

Weiss is initially a stubborn and pampered heiress, who feels superior because of her name. Still, she is deep down frail and needs to build her own distinctive identity.

These two sides of our Snowhite are conveyed by the Schnees' semblance:

Glyhps are snowflake-shaped and they represent:

the family privilege, as they are inherited by all the Schnees - they are a magical projection of the family crest

the potential of each Schnee to grow into their own person - they gain more complex and individual designs with time

In short, Weiss is a special snowflake, for better or worse. She can give in to her father's mentality and be defined by her name. Or she can step into the world and discover who she is outside her family:

Winter: It sounds to me like you have two choices in front of you. You can either call Father, beg for his money back, and explain once more why you would want to study at Beacon over Atlas, or you could continue to explore Remnant, discovering more about the world and honestly, more about yourself.

Let's see what Weiss's design says about her choice.

SNOW PRINCESS

Let's consider Weiss's concept art:

And let's compare it to Winter's:

The two sisters appear similar:

their color schemes are the same

they look like royalty

they share glyphs as their semblance

they fight with swords

They are designed this way to show that Weiss looks up to Winter and tries to emulate her. This is clear if one considers Weiss and Winter's allusions: Weiss alludes to Snowhite, while Winter alludes to the Snow Queen. And yet, when one looks at Weiss's concept art, it is easier to see the Snow Queen's inspiration, rather than Snowhite's:

She looks like a snowflake

She is the color of ice and snow

She wears a crown, like a queen

Glyphs resemble the Snow Queen's power to turn snowflakes into animals

It is as if Weiss's true self (Snowhite) is hidden behind a mask (the Snow Queen). This conveys Weiss's insecurity, as she is caught between the weight of the family crest (a snowflake) and her idolisation of Winter (the Snow Queen). She is a Snow Princess, who needs to decide which kind of Queen she'll be. Either an Evil Queen like Jacques or an Ice Queen like Winter.

Still, Weiss is her own person and this comes to the surface in her final design:

The main differences with the first version are:

Her bangs and pony-tail do not part in two sides

She has a scar on her left eye instead than a beauty mark

Her necklace is an apple instead of a tear-drop

She has no tear-drops dangling from her sleeves

The golden circles on her bolero become silver and she gains silver decorations on her boots

Weiss loses her tear-drop motif and her color-scheme gets simplified. This gives her more Snowhite-like details:

The apple on the necklace alludes to the poisoned apple

The scar on the eye alludes to the magical mirror cracking

The final design only has black, white (silver) and red, which are Snowhite's defining colors

Moreover, Weiss's appearence grows more asymmetric. Her hair is not perfectly parted, but worn in a side pony-tail. This symbolizes Weiss's struggle against Jacques's expectations. Similarly, the elegant beauty mark is changed with a scar. This gives Weiss more personality and shows that behind the princess there is a fighter.

In short, Weiss's Vale design shows glimpses of our girl's true self. However, they are hidden by the cold ice covering Weiss's soul. Luckily, the Spring Arc comes and the ice melts.

MELTING ICE

In Mistral, Weiss leaves her white dress behind and wears a blue outfit:

This happens because our snowflake is slowly melting into water (white > blue), so that she can become herself. In order to do so, though, she has to first lose all the superficial things that define her identity:

Jacques: You are no longer the heiress to the Schnee Dust Company.

Weiss sees herself as the SDC heiress, so the story takes away her title.

Vernal: Your sister isn't in Mistral anymore. No one is coming to rescue you.

Weiss sees herself as Winter's little sister, so the story has her separated from Winter.

Thanks to this, Weiss faces herself and discovers who "just Weiss" is:

Vernal: Let's see what the Schnee name really means. Weiss: I'm more than a name.

This transformation is mirrored by Weiss's design. She loses all the superficial references to Snowhite:

she wears no apple anymore

she has no black-white-red color pattern

Still, her fairy tale emerges strongly in her glyphs, as she learns to summon:

Weiss's avatars are Snowhite's characters:

The Boarbatusk is the Hunter, who is famous for killing a boar

The Knight is the Prince, who saves Snowhite from the glass coffin

The Queen Lancer is both the Evil Queen and the New Queen Snowhite becomes at the end

Weiss loses all she has to be reborn anew. Similarly, her design is stripped of all the Snowhite's allusions, only for them to be expressed more clealry and in a deeper way by the evolution of her semblance. Weiss's magical snowflakes aquire unique patterns that refer to her personal story.

This process of refinement climaxes in volume 5. Here, Weiss dies, is resurrected and crowns herself queen by summoning the Queen Lancer. This Grimm represents who Weiss truly is. She is neither the Evil Queen, nor the Snow Queen, but a Royal (a queen), who is also a Knight (a lancer). She is a Queen Knight.

After this metaphorical coronation, Weiss starts showing her interiority outside. This is why she gains back her two missing colors in her journey to Atlas:

she wears a red scarf

she wears black thights

She is back to look like Snowhite (black + white + red)!

Interestingly, both the scarf and the thights are items worn to stay warm. In short, the closer Weiss gets to her Icy Kingdom (Atlas), the more she shows her true warm self (Snowhite).

QUEEN SNOWHITE

Weiss's Atlas design has three layers to it:

it is queen-like

it is Snowhite-like

it has all the colors of the previous outfits

1- Weiss gains a silver tiara with red gems. It is bigger and more refined than the old one because Weiss has grown. She isn't a princess anymore. She is a queen.

2- Weiss wears Snowhite's three colors: a white dress, black gloves and red jewels. interestingly, black and red are not covered by white. The ice is melted and Weiss's different shades are now out in the open. What is more, Weiss's outfit is similar to her Disney's counterpart:

Disney-Snowhite wears a dress with blue puffed sleeves, which are present in Weiss's Atlas design. There is no risk to confuse our girl with the Snow Queen anymore:

Weiss is not Winter's imitation, but her own person. She is 100% Snowhite.

3 - Weiss's clothes are white, black, red and light blue. These are all the colors worn by her throughout the story. In addition, there is a warmer shade of blue, which shows the cold is gone once and for all. These palette symbolizes Weiss's different parts coming together into a more beautiful and stronger person.

This fits Weiss's new summon:

The Nevermore combines all the other glyphs. It is the final form of Weiss's inner snowflake and the culmination of her growth. Aesthetically, it gives Weiss an angelic look, which brings to mind the final inspiration of her design.

MAGICAL SNOW ANGEL

Oh look! Weiss looks like Sailor Moon! This isn't by chance, as Weiss is inspired by the magical girl genre. Magical girls are heroines, who:

transform into ideal versons of themselves

fight metaphors of human emotions in the form of monsters

purify people's hearts

Weiss is the same, but the first heart she needs to cleanse is her own:

Mirror, tell me something, Tell me who's the loneliest of all? Fear of what's inside of me; Tell me can a heart be turned to stone?

Yes, it can:

Pure Heart Crystal (Sailor Moon)

Soul Gem (Puella Magi Madoka Magica)

A gem standing for one's heart is a pretty common trope in magical girls' stories. Not only that, but the corruption and healing of these stones come up often. Well, Weiss's heart is a snow-crystal, which needs to be melted and rebuilt into a unique structure.

Weiss purifies it by fighting her inner demons in the form of Grimms. As a matter of fact these monsters symbolize humanity's darkness, so they are the perfect enemy for a magical girl. Weiss defeats them and makes them white like snow. She integrates them and the struggles they represent into herself. Through this process, she slowly changes into her ideal self. She doesn't need a spectacular transformation sequence because her evolution happens inside. It is slow, but deep and here to last. After all, the heart is irreplaceable:

Everyone is entitled to their own sorrow, for the heart has no metrics or forms of measure. And all of it… irreplaceable.

Hearts are like snowflakes because there are no two, which are the same. Weiss learns this lesson and starts teaching it to others. This is how she heals hearts. Empathy is her superpower. Thanks to it, she is ready to save her family legacy:

Weiss: I will not be defined by my name because I will be the one to define it.

Weiss's first step is to define herself outside the Schnee name. Her second step is to give the Schnee name a new meaning. She first refines her heart. Then she cleanses her surname. From her inner snowflake to the family crest. That is the kind of magical girl she is.

In a sense, she is stepping into Nicholas's footsteps. He purifies minerals into Dust. She purifies stones into souls. From Saint Nicholas to Snow Angel.

MAGICAL QUEEN SNOWHITE

In conclusion, Weiss's design describes her evolution in three ways:

She goes from being a snowflake (derogatory) to being a snowflake (unique)

She grows from a princess into a queen

She leaves the Snow Queen behind and becomes Snowhite

This refinement process is nothing, but her magical girl transformation.

#rwby #weiss schnee #rwby meta #my meta #winter schnee #character design #once upon an allusion #semblance of the soul #santa's granddaughter #it is her season!#greenlight volume 10 #greenlightvolume10

170 notes · View notes

wickjump · 1 month

Text

(inspired by a convo i had w some1 yesterday!! warning for talking too much because i’m wick that’s what i do, talk too much)

UGH my feelings towards fanon content is so confusing. i mean, i love fanon as long as people know how to separate it from canon. especially because fanon can be better than canon as well in a lot of ways, notably dream. “what? didn’t people headcanon him as an uwu smol bean” no unfortunately that was how he was canonically portrayed for years, and still sort of is by joku who i want to fistfight for that... fanon dream is the dream we actually like—aspects taken from canon combined with him being taken and portrayed seriously and as the adult he is. same with fanon lust, in canon content lust is terrible for so many reasons, but in fanon he’s great.

however fanon can also be a lot worse. abusive ink and emotionless ink are both very much fanon, however due to how often he’s portrayed that way, many people take it as canon. this isn’t the fault of the creators of that content for the most part but rather for the content consumer for being unable to tell and thus believing it to be canon, such as in underverse, love u jakei. or how ‘blueberry’ is what initially drove underswap’s creator away from the au (it’s been over 8 years so i doubt the creator cares anymore though). thankfully this has become less common to see as of late, so the latter isn’t exactly confused with canon much at this point.

and!!! even things people still believe to be canon are fanon!!!! error’s behavior is often fanon despite what people think—he can be irritable but he’s more sporadic and immature rather than constantly angry and somewhat level-headed. and even if not considered canon, many fanon versions are very popular, more so than canon in few instances, and enjoyed by many. examples are the murder time trio (killer, horror, and dust), swap aka ‘blue’ (“what no i make him canon” where’s him speaking in caps. where’s his cool guy shirt. where’s his inner papyrus), nightmare, and lust, though there are plenty more.

i am a fan of fanon content in most ways because i’m firm on the philosophy of ‘it’s not problematic? you are aware it’s fanon rather than canon? ok then u do u’. of course i have my own gripes, and i talk about those gripes all the time bc i overshare, but ultimately people are gonna have fun regardless, and i also want to have fun so so bad with them. yet i’m also aware of how far it strays from canon, and how many people dislike fanon for that, and i dislike some interpretations as well, so??? btw hatred towards fanon is so valid i’m talking ab how i personally view fanon i hold no bad view of or grudge towards people who dislike fanon…. /gen (i use … for funsies not for any indicator of emotion)

idk i love fanon cuz it’s fun but i’m also aware of how it’s disliked for many reasons due to either a frustration towards people being unable to tell the difference, or just because generally how far it strays from canon, but i appreciate and generally love fanon interpretations as much as canon and i wish so so badly i could talk about it more IDK HOMIES IM STRUGGLIN!!!!!!

#this is bc i wanted to reblog something so utterly fanon #that many people would faint #full believer in people say ‘be cringe and free’ and then have a list of cringe things you also can’t enjoy #i am full cringe……… i just hide it from u……..#the moment it’s not hyperpop or scene it’s evil and bad #no shade to either groups tho ilysm ur all fun #one (1) person knows how deep into fanon i am i’m just terrified to show any of it bc i’m well aware of what canon is #(bone-ifiedcryptid that’s u)#and how far away the things i enjoy can be from it #utmv #will delete if people yell at me

56 notes · View notes

eldritch-spouse · 2 months

Note

okay so odd-ball thought abt the zombie asks floating around;

santi and his lil obsession get separated, he’s absolutely GEEKED out, already stressed and fatigued, so he’s kinda reverting back to his OLD old snappy self.

a few weeks of this happening and he’s reached his peak, just a complete douche and asshat when patches (i’m assuming if the Clergy gang were all together when it happened they stayed together cause numbers=safety most of the time) runs up and has this fucking lump in his arms covered with a blanket— santi instantly smelled his lil lover and damn near rips patches’ arms off to get to her and just kinda stands there holding her and purring or smth

then they fuck cause yeah it’s santi and he’s a mix of absolutely starved and carnally obsessed with this sudden reunion with his lover.

(i love zombie aus. sorry if this doesn’t match his personality or traits, i’m severely tired but i HAD to blurb about this for a hot second-)

TW: Noncon moment.

It's not unlikely that he'll revert back to that mindset. After all, it's almost like his younger days in the Rings, always looking out for himself and trusting no one.

He might become worse, actually, since there's so little people out there who retain their intelligence and social norms. Santi doesn't have to be constantly checking himself and acting in ways that purposely charm others around him. There's no one to charm, no one to seduce, therefore he doesn't need to exert energy in thinking of tactics and lines and what kind of expressions he should make. Overtime, those mannerisms fade and he becomes a more raw, brute version of what an incubus truly is deep down. A predator looking to fuck the energy out of you so it can sustain itself.

His coworkers don't make a big deal out of it, they've known Santi for a long while, especially Grimbly, and they know how he gets when in a truly foul mood. They've seen him devoid of charming mannerisms. They don't care for his tantrums, but there have been instances where Santi simply picks fights with them just to prove something to himself he can't even understand, just to take his mind off things, because it's easier to brawl and sexually harass someone than to admit that he needs help. That he's broken and sees no real reason to exist anymore except to remember you.

In this state, Santi has no qualms being incredibly sadistic and hunting down anything he considers worth the effort, hurting them as the brute acts necessary for his feeding unfurl. They're not even people, these walking husks... And the survivors he does find, they'd rather try to kill him, so they're not any better than the zombies are they? They don't deserve an inch of his mercy, so they can squirm themselves to death on the incubus' cock for all he cares.

When he gets you back, as surprising as it is that he even got you back at all after basically mourning your loss and spiraling into the worst version of himself... Santi doesn't know what to do with himself. It's like being hit with a brick to the face. And he realizes what a cunt he is.

You won't love him like that.

It's been so long, he can barely crack the same smile he used to for you. His claws are way too big, his body's covered in scuff marks from willingly getting into dangerous altercations. Santi forgot half the charm he used to have, and the remnants he's trying to put back on are forced. Unnatural.

When you wake up in his arms, it's all the demon can do not to blubber like a fucking baby. He doesn't speak too much initially because aside from "I'm so glad I found you again.", he's probably going to spit something tasteless and ruin the moment.

Santi finds himself unintentionally being brutish to you, snapping, speaking too roughly, grabbing you hard, subconsciously treating you the same way he would his prey. He sees the fear in your eyes and instantly freezes, realizing he's a danger to you and not recovering fast enough to avoid damaging the relationship.

The others around him, the ones that can still stand him, try to offer Santi advice and comfort him when he distances himself from your hurt self.

It all culminates in an intimate moment where Santi stops listening to you and just takes. You tell him to slow down, and he doesn't. It's a few minutes of him being a senseless rutting beast until he hears you sobbing. Not the pleasured sobbing of someone who has orgasmed too many times, the sobs and cries of someone who is in pain and scared.

You're the last person he wants to hurt, and Santi just wounded you in the worst way he possibly could.

After that, the incubus comes clean about what happened to him, who he was in his past, what happened when he thought he had lost you forever. And more than that, as much as he hates to do it, Santi gives up most control of things to you while he works to restore the incubus you fell in love with.

Because if you considered leaving him now, he would probably never recover at all.

#Santi oc

81 notes · View notes

random-introverted-blog · 5 months

Text

His Star - His Queen [Chapter 5 - A Lesson in Submission]

The first of many...

Summary: Perhaps you push your defiance a bit too far. Perhaps it would have been wiser to be more tactful with your behavior.

Perhaps this was only a matter of time.

Link to the Tumblr Chapter Index

Want the uncut/uncensored version? - Read it on AO3

Warning/Advisories: -Noncon elements - A ripped nightdress and noncon roaming hands on bare skin (He warned you in Chapter 1)

HI TUMBLR, THIS IS FOR YOU: The graphic scene was cut from this version because I'm not comfortable having an SA scene left hanging on my blog. If you want to read the GRAPHIC, UNCENSORED AND UNCUT SCENE - the link to the AO3 version is above.

-Emotional manipulation

-Forced pleasure

-Generally creepy dialogue (chapter 4 ramped up to 11)

-You fro up and have a relatively realistic response to being assaulted

-There's a party happening down there and you're fiancé isn't letting you participate

A/N: Sorry guys, I'm sure there's other people who have written and posted something like this on tumblr before but that ain't for me. But I worked like a dog to get this chapter written and edited. It's as good as I can get without tearing my hair out [Thank you, bestie for putting up with me, Astarion ain't even your mans]

-ˋˏ’✄┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈--ˋˏ’✄┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈--ˋˏ’✄┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈-

For the rest of the walk, you couldn't help but notice the curious stares you were catching from the servants and patrolling guards. Though the latter seemed less perplexed, the former looked between you and the Ascendant like you had two heads and noodles for hair. Worse, some of them seemed... jealous.

If you could tell there people to have some self respect, you would make a formal announcement where ever the Ascendant and his puppets make them. But at least for now, you need to try to behave.

Even the sound of the word makes your skin crawl.

When you reach the door to what you assume is Orchid Hall, a swirling darkness appears behind you before rapidly becoming a person. "Forgive the intrusion, your Almighty—"

"I said no interruptions, Ballar." Astarion bites, glaring at the tall and lanky elf man.

Ballar, hands clasped behind his back, bows his head. "I know better than to do so without reason, my Godking."

"Godking?" You echo, glaring at the Ascendant. "You're more conceited than I thought, and that's saying something."

His gaze hardens, firm. "You are still learning, it is only your first day. And I do not wish to discipline you on your first day, pet." He warns in a tone that is the farthest from your Astarion that you've heard. "An apology will suffice as suitable recompense this time." Straightening his posture and lifting his chin.

Oh, so that's a button for him. Is it because you're in front of people, or does he not like being called out on his bullshit? If he expects you to actually seek forgiveness, then you suppose the both of you are in for a surprise.

The Ascendant studies your expression and seems to realize you have no intention of indulging him. With a deep groan bordering on a growl, he looks away. "Much as I love you and your strength of will, there is a time to exert it and a time to submit to your husband-to-be. And it seems to be a lesson I will need to have with you sooner rather than later."

He turns to Malacai, his arm raised in a familiar gesture that reaches above his navel. "Take my fiancé inside and guide her along until I return." And just like that, he steps away with the tall elf, who simply acknowledges you with a respectful "Lady Ancunín" before following close behind his master.

"My lady, if I may," Malacai's mellow, velvety smooth voice says to grab your attention. For a brief moment you feel concern but whatever "lesson" he has in mind, but you let it go for now and turn to drag yourself through the doors. Precise and perfectly timed, Malacai opens and holds the door for you and flows smoothly into step behind you.

Until you come to an abrupt stop, and he immediately stops behind you.

For a moment, you're left bewildered and unsure how to interpret this. Some well armored guards in fancy armor stationed in the corners, sure. A long row of men and woman, of somewhat varying ages. None of them seem even close to their elderly years, but you also weren't very sure about how other races aged. Also, no gnomes. Or dwarfs. Halflings seemed to be the fewest in number. Elves, half-elves, tieflings, and humans made up the combined majority with some half orcs and dragonborns in between.

"Would my lady like an explanation of the task set before her?" Malacai asks beside you, his hands clasped behind his straightened back after you've had time to assess the row of people.

"Yes. Please." You nod once, not moving your eyes from the row, feeling mildly self conscious as they stare at you with half stifled confusion.

Malacai steps into your field of view but not in front of it. "Of course, my lady. His Almighty Majesty has gathered these offerings to be selected and chosen for your esteemed service. He would like you to personally choose a number of them, if it would please you."

Your eyes knit together. "Please me?" You query.

"If you deem the matter unsuitable or beneath you, His Majesty will respect your wishes and handle the matter himself."

"Now wait just a tick!" says a raised voice from the line and a quick scan of them quickly reveals a human, possibly in her mid thirties with light colored hair and wearing a broach of some kind. "I was told the sovereign himself would pick the servants, not some nobody prissy!" She glares at you, her words seemingly rallying some of the others to her cause...

The response surprises the both of you, and you're perfectly fine agreeing with them and taking your leave. Malacai is stunned, though - and anger flashes in his eyes. "You dare speak of—!"

"Yeah, who let the tramp trudge through the door?" Another woman sneers, some taking a threatening step or two in your direction.

"Look, I'm just—" But like Malacai, they're not interested in what you have to say. They want their sovereign and they're getting very loud about it.

And everything that follows occurs in a blur, leaving no time for a response. In a fit of rage, the woman flings her broach towards you. The pin connects with your cheek, piercing the skin. You instinctively flinch and reach for it, warm blood trickling down your face in a thin stream. The broach then tumbles to the floor, making a sharp clattering sound.

In an instant, the shadows swiftly converge in front of you from the dim corners of the room, swirling and twirling in a mesmerizing dance. Suddenly, they burst open, resembling a plume of smoke after an explosion. Gradually, the shadows recede, cascading like a heavy blanket, steadily taking the form of a humanoid figure, mirroring Him with its imposing stature that towered over the room and the presence of large, jagged wings. The cacophony of screams and cries emanates from the furious crowd, creating a dissonant symphony of fear.

The atmosphere was charged with tension, but as the creature surveyed the scene, it became clear that there was no genuine danger. The shadows slowly peeled back, unveiling the visage of a relatively normal, though gorgeous elf, with pale skin and a crown of curly white hair.

Unconcerned about the once angry mob, he diverts his attention to you, his grip on your chin steady as he meticulously observes every aspect of your face. He narrows his eyes and huffs through his nose upon assessing only the one scratch. With a silent command, he raises his hand, and the shadows immediately obey, darkening until his palm becomes an inky abyss. He then places it softly against your cheek.

Biting cold pierces through the air in front of you, like tiny needles pricking at your skin. The faint scent of winter frost drifts from his shadow shrouded hand, followed soon by subtle warmth as his magic seals the slight break, like a gentle caress. "Which one?" He asks no one specifically, as if searching for an answer that only the silence can provide.

Lacking any hesitation, the others shove the woman to the front, paying no mind to her feeble protests. Astarion doesn't look up right away. Instead, he slowly released his hand and carefully studied his work. The darkness slowly retreats from his palm, and he gently massages the area where the cut once was with his bare thumb.

At last he turns to the silent row of servants, and the woman in particular. "You dare to lay a finger upon the one who is destined to share my throne? How quaint." Astarion's sneer is filled with disdain, steadfastly holding his ground before you, almost protectively. The fury evident in his eyes.

The woman's face became a canvas of realization and horror as she desperately shook her head, attempting to retreat. Once more, Astarion raises his hand, and inky tendrils of shadow emerge, wrapping tightly around her and forcefully dragging her closer. "Oh no," he sneers, a malicious glint in his eyes, "you disgusting little worm, you're going nowhere." The threads coil around her, their grip tightening as she's forced to her knees before him.

Astarion's eyes meet yours as he turns to you, his hand reaching out to take yours, coaxing you to stand by his side. "Think of this as another chance for me to teach you something, darling." He steps aside, gently guiding you until you stand directly in front of her.

So she's kneeling before you.

"Now. Look upon this creature. What do you see?" The Ascendant asks, slowly circling behind the woman.

"Astarion—"

"Answer." He interjects sharply, bringing his open hand up and closing it. The woman winces as the dark strands around her constrict.

Despite your desire to save or spare the woman, make him stop or even just not take part in this, you begrudgingly accept you have to play along for now. You exhale deeply and look her over. Her eyes, red and swollen, were filled with tears that cascaded down her face and dripped off her jawline. She's sniveling, her shoulders shaking and voice quivering. Her breaths come in unsteady gasps, a sign she's teetering on the edge of a hysterical outburst.

It's a trick question. The real question is how much you really want to play his game? "I see a woman who didn't—"

"Wrong." The Ascendant scolds firmly, his reprimanding tone interrupting you as he leisurely strolls back to your side. "Before you kneels an insect. A pest. A creature fit only to serve however we desire."

"She didn't know who I was, Astarion," you argue, your voice filled with defiance. Turning to face him, a flicker of amusement dances across his face, challenging your statement. "Or rather, who you insist I am," you risked correcting, folding your arms resolutely over your chest.

A subtle change comes over Astarion as a hint of darkness flashes in Astarion's eyes, followed by a frustrated scoff. "Your denial will do you no favors, pet. Best you understand and accept your new life now and save us both the pain." There's something about the way he lowers his voice and the intensity in his eyes quells any retorts or defiance you could lash back with.

Clearly, he discerns your reaction from your facial expression and appears pleased with your compliance. He smooths his jacket and delicately grips your shoulders, redirecting you towards the woman. "Your natural inclination is to think of this creature empathetically. But you don't think twice if a fly crosses your ear one time too many." The Ascendant continues, his hands lingering on your shoulders. "Now, if the fly had been a mere nuisance, perhaps it could be ignored. But if it had bitten you? Harmed you...?"

"Please..." you mutter, your voice tinged with pleading. A sinking feeling manifests in your gut, already hating where this was going.

"Say the word, my consort." Astarion urges softly, his hands drifting to encircle his arms around your waist.

The urge in your blood knows exactly what it is being called to do. What's being offered. It would much rather your own hands be the ones tearing the wings off this insect. Gouging its pretty teary eyes from those fragile sockets. But you close your eyes, letting the world fade away as you concentrate on the calming rhythm of your breaths. Ironically, the smell of bergamot, rosemary, and the aroma of a frosty winter evening ground you. You find yourself instinctively leaning into him somewhat, seeking more of the comfort to hold the urge at bay.

When your eyes open, a tear or two rolls down your cheek, their journey ending on the dark blue sleeve of the Ascendant's tailcoat, creating small wet spots. The warmth of his breath flushes your ear as he sighs against it and he adjusts his arms to hold your back snug against his chest. "It was difficult for your old self too, the first couple of times..." He murmurs sympathetically, his lips brushing against your temple in a soft kiss. "Ballar."

At the sound of the uttered name, the tall elf materializes beside the two of you. "Very well, your Almighty Majesty." The elf nods with a respectful bow of his back before approaching the woman. His grip is firm as he clasps her arm tightly. Suddenly, a plume of dark smoke envelops them, obscuring their forms from sight. The air carries a faint, acrid scent as they vanish into the mysterious smoke, leaving you with an uneasy feeling. Whatever silent command was issued, maybe you don't want to know.

Astarion remains close to you for the rest of the... selection thing. There's an incident where one of the halfling girls tries begging you to choose her, which almost kicks off another dramatic mob, but Astarion is quick to shut it down.

Calling it uncomfortable would be an understatement. When you ask if there is a criteria or whatnot to follow, he almost literally dismisses you with a "pfft." It is only when he comprehends the seriousness of your question that he adds with a more compassionate tone, "whatever pleases you, my dear... but not all of them - there will be a wider selection after the festival."

Near the end you notice a young tiefling girl. Grey skinned with the shortest horns you'd ever seen. Astarion had indicated an interest in moving on from this, and his hand on your shoulder reminded you of it. But he didn't stop you from wandering over to her.

You recognized the look in her dark, fiery eyes. Not just desperation. Purpose. It wasn't anything you could put your finger on as you held each other's gaze. For better or worse, you were curious about what she felt so strongly about that led her here. Come to think of it, she wasn't involved in any of the earlier chaos. "What's your name?" You had asked the other ten or fewer this question as well, as you weren't fond of the idea that they'd be nameless creatures in your service.

Plus, you could tell Astarion disliked you were asking, and that was a nice incentive.

She held her head high and awkwardly held her arms behind her back. "Elowen, Lady Ancunín."

Behind you, the vampire lord let out an annoyed huff, clearly bothered by both your question and what you assumed was an improper way of addressing of you. You didn't care. "I'd welcome you if you'd like to accept the offer." You say, your attempt at a smile faltering.

Surprisingly, this is the first one you've talked to that reacts almost sympathetically. As if noticing how forced your gesture really is. Maybe even recognizing the dissonance between your genuine desires and everything that surrounds you. "It would be an honor to serve you... my lady." Elowen bows and quickly corrects herself when her eyes catch a glimpse of the vampire and Steward behind you.

"That will do for now, my sweet." Astarion's voice sounded from behind and gently tugged you away and encircled an arm around your waist. He snapped his fingers with his other hand and servants entered the room. They move with silent understanding. "Considering everything," he adds once you're near the door, "you did well."

Part of you is reminded of all his "lessons," including the one he hinted at earlier about the importance of submission. Dread finds a home in the pit of your stomach, making it heavy and uneasy. You don't really care to learn the intricacies of ruling, being his queen, or any of it. It won't matter in the end. Not when you get free of this place and return to your world, where the warmth and safety of your friends will make you feel whole again. And you will get free.

...won't you?

________________

Day in, day out, it was almost the same. Sometimes he'd tutor you himself, other times it was Malacai. There had been a considerable focus on etiquette and presenting oneself, which you could only assume had to do with this festival you had heard so much talk about.

They assured you that your confinement to this wing of the palace was not permanent. Once your engagement to the godking had been announced, there would be less need to hide you away. But for now, the Ascendant wanted your presence kept quiet.

You had seen little of the servants you picked several days ago. Malacai said they were undergoing a strict training regimen in preparing to serve a ruling sovereign.

An endless parade of seamstresses and shoemakers had trotted their way through the doors of the southwest wing. You weren't one to be dolled up or wear silly dresses to begin with, and this just deepened the feeling. But the Ascendant wanted you in a special outfit for the engagement and you were still beholden to what he wanted.

Not for long, you told yourself every day. This would not be your forever.

The seamstresses and shoemakers worked tirelessly and with no complaint at how difficult you made their lives, though the Ascendant had sat in a few times and tried to encourage you to be less resistant to some suggestions, though he was more involved in the design of your dress for the festival.

As for your interactions with him? They were surprisingly tame. At most, he would hug you. Press a sweet, lingering kiss to your cheek or peck your lips. Maybe at one point he kissed your neck, and his hands wandered. But never for long and never too far. Just enough, you were certain it was on his mind.

If you felt uncomfortable or instinctive recoiled, he wouldn't stop you from drawing away. He would smile a little, as if to say "you just need time" and that would be that.

You hadn't even slept in the same bed yet. He went to the royal bedchamber, and you tucked yourself into yours. It was a nightly routine for him to visit you before bed. Occasionally, your exchanges were filled with playful banter, but at other times, they took a confrontational turn or revolved around his plans for you. And he would always kiss you goodnight. Never on the lips. Like a fragile little princess.

"May I offer you more reading material, my beloved?" He asks upon entering your room, noticing you in your nightgown, an open book propped up on your knees.

To your surprise, he was there, and a part of you couldn't help but be taken aback. "Tomorrow is the big day. I thought you'd be too busy tonight." You comment with curiosity and reach for the glass of water on your bedside table.

The Ascendant huffs a soft laugh, the sound escaping like a gentle breeze. "Not too busy for you, no," he stated, a smile evident in his voice.

You sip your water, taking him in. Simple clothes. He seldom wears them, not even at this hour. It brings to mind his old camp clothes, though they appear less tattered. His black shirt clung tightly to his body, accentuating the contours of his sculpted chest. He wore dark brown pants so tight that they seemed to be painted on, leaving little room for comfort. As you set down your glass, the gentle tapping of rain against the window fills the room, setting the ideal mood for reading. "The bookcase in here is paltry to begin with."

He pauses, and the silence hangs heavy in the room, reverberating off the walls. Out of the corner of your eye, you glimpse his focused gaze, carefully assessing the size of the small bookcase. The scent of aged paper and polished wood lingers in the air, adding to the ambiance. "Hmm," he muses, his voice carrying a hint of intrigue. "Agreed. Would you like me to remedy it?" His question hangs in the air as he redirects his gaze back to you, waiting for your response.

It catches you off guard, although it shouldn't. "I want nothing from you." You mutter quietly, not interested in a verbal confrontation at this hour. "Unless it's letting me go home." Absentmindedly turning the page of your book, you caught a whiff of the musty scent of old pages.

It comes as no surprise that the suggestion causes the Ascendant to bristle with indignation. "You are home, pet." His firm reply echoes exactly as you anticipated.

He reaches across and effortlessly plucks the book from your grip, flinging it to the other end of the bed. Without missing a beat, his hand tenderly moves to hold your face. "Perhaps it's time you've learnt what home feels like." His voice dipped low and sultry, sending a shiver down your spine, as if velvet caressed your ears.

Unable to think clearly, your mind is consumed by confusion as you struggle to understand his intentions. Searching his crimson eyes for a hint of the intent behind his words.

It dawns on you a second too late and your body becomes rigid and dread crashes over you like a tidal wave. "Lay back and hold still."

Right from the start, you find yourself wrestling against his orders, determined to regain control of your body. In the blink of an eye, he's on the bed, asserting his control as he positions himself on top of you, straddling your legs and keeping them trapped beneath him.

The overwhelming task of regaining control of your limbs leaves no space in your mind for insults. With a gentle yet firm grip, he tears your gown open, his lips finding their way to your jawline, leaving a trail of sweet kisses and teasing bites. Lowering his mouth along your neck, he senses the rapid throb of your pulse, a reflection of your panic. "Your scent is even more alluring than your other self," he whispers against your skin, his fangs appearing much sharper than your Astarion's, delicately grazing over your pulse. "I've waited over a century for you, my love... To find you..."

Before you have time to process any of what he just said, the ordinarily sharp, frigid piercing feeling now just feels like two tiny daggers of ice melting deep into your neck. But then the sharp sting of his fangs gives way, and you're left with a strangely soothing sensation that defies explanation. A calming tingle that dances across your senses and defies logic. It leaves you gasping for air, but the soothing caress of his hand in your hair seems to be an attempt to reassure you as he drinks deeply. Meanwhile, you begin to wiggle your toes, feeling a tingling sensation as you strive for control over your legs.

With a contented groan, he indulges in one last sip from you before withdrawing and gently lapping at your weeping wound until it ceases to yield any more to his palate. The scent of your blood lingers, mingling with the heady aroma of bergamot and rosemary and frost, his increasingly familiar presence all creating a bewildering blend to your senses. "Exquisite... Even better, I could scarcely believe it a possibility." The Ascendant muses quietly as his hands explore the curves and contours of your vulnerable body, tracing every line and curve with a mix of curiosity and desire.

He hastily grabs his shirt, yanking it over his head as impatience fuels his movements. He swiftly pulls off his pants in two motions. Just then, you feel a tingling sensation as your right leg awakens, granting you unrestricted movement.

You jab your foot at his chest, and you can feel the strength and power in his grip as he effortlessly catches it. With a firm yet gentle grip, his hand closes around your ankle, arching an eyebrow in intrigue and amusement. "Impressive..." The Ascendant remarks. "I may need to use stronger charms on you already."

As his words resonated in the air, he appeared to be contemplating them aloud, while his fingertips traced the smooth surface of the gold and silver band that snugly encircled your ankle, emphasizing the sense of captivity within this elegant prison. You question if his attention on it is to underscore your status as his possession or if he's simply delighting in the knowledge that you belong to him.

Until you find a way out of here. You have to find a way out...

Releasing your foot, he deftly flicks his wrist, conjuring a shadowy tether that extends from the shackle and secures itself to the bedpost.

"Don't fight this, my treasure." The Ascendant murmurs. With a slow, deliberate movement, he delicately hooks his knee under your left leg, guiding your body to open itself wider to him, causing a shiver to cascade through your body. "Once you experience how pleasurable submission to me can be, you'll hardly fathom you resisted me at all." His words, laced with a velvety purr, penetrate your senses, capturing your attention completely.

The moment your hands regain their freedom, they shoot forward, eager to rake your nails across his bare chest. Yet, his reflexes outmatch yours as he quickly seizes your wrists, forcefully pinning them beside your head. "The Astarion I know and love values consent above all else." You finally hiss behind your teeth, hating the way your voice wavers. "He didn't need to force me down like this..."

"And he will never make you feel the way I can," smirks the Ascendant, his voice oozing with confidence and a seductive undertone.

"Now relax, little love..." Your senses ignite as a rigid, pulsating sensation grazes over your sensitive nub...

And he teaches you a lesson you won't be so merciful to forget...

______________________

You nuzzle closer to the warmth rather than open your eyes, encouraged by the soothing touch of fingers in your hair. Gods, you could lay here forever. When was the last time you slept this well? With...

The thought dies off, and you tentatively peel your eyes open. Dread sits in your stomach as you realize your position. Practically laying on top of a naked Ascendant. "Good morning, darling." He purrs, his fingers gently tangling in your hair, before pressing a soft kiss to your forehead. "I've had a warm bathe prepared, ready for you to immerse your beautifully bare skin whenever you desire."

As you move, you realize just how sorely your body aches. There's a dull pain between your legs and your cheeks flush faintly remembering how... immense he felt last night. Mercifully, he pretends not to notice as you fall limp against him. An around you didn't realize was around your back tightens some as you press closer, his hand and fingers stroking gentle patterns on the smooth expanse of your skin. "You said something last night," your voice hoarse and dry as you speak, "about waiting over a century." Turning your head on his sculpted chest to meet his scarlet eyes.

Behind his lips, a subtle hum escapes, reminiscent of soft laughter, as he tilts his head to one side. "Well, your other self didn't abandon me yesterday." He murmurs, petting your hair. "Finding you, acquiring the means to reach you, to bring you here. It didn't all happen in an evening." Something about his choice of words unsettles you. More than just finding out the Other You died one hundred and fifty years ago.

His fingers lifting your chin, guiding your lips to his. You don't fight it; you know better. Not now. Not when you're naked in the same bed as him. Vulnerable... "As much as I'd like to remain here, savoring the morning of our first lovemaking with you, there is much to be done before the festival tonight."

"That's what you think it was?" The words fall off your tongue before you can think better of them.

The Ascendant pulls back just enough to see both your eyes clearly, almost searching them. "What else could it be?" The words soft, warm. Like a wolf in sheep's clothing. You don't fail to note the serrated teeth laced along them. He's daring you to challenge him...

Silence is your only answer. And that seems enough to satisfy Astarion's quiet annoyance with you.

He presses a tender, lingering kiss to your lips and you reciprocate despite the knot it creates in your gut. Only risking to remember your Astarion after he's pulled away and carefully guided you off of him to slip out from the covers and leave the bed. Curiously, he wanders over to an armoire you've never touched and when he opens it you see tailcoats, doublets, jackets, dressy shirts with ruffled sleeves and collars... He's been keeping a spare change of clothes in your room the whole time. "I'm going to bathe separately, otherwise nothing will get done..." The Ascendant explains to your unspoken confusion. With that, he dresses himself, regards you with a brief smile and leaves the room.

Just like that, you're alone with yourself. Nearly overwhelmed with a deep loathing for your own flesh. Every fibre of your being recoils in disgust. The repulsion extends beyond the surface, rooted deep within your very core. The weight of despair anchors you to the bed, but a desperate urgency propels you towards the shower, disregarding the searing ache between your legs.

Frantically, your hands vigorously scrub at your body, the harsh friction against your skin amplifying the turmoil in your stomach. The memories of last night assault your mind relentlessly, like a relentless storm. The room feels suffocating, the air thick with the scent of regret and desperation. How could you have surrendered so easily? Disappointment settles upon you, leaving a bitter taste in your mouth as you reflect on your lack of determination. Does your Astarion mean nothing to you? Doubt seeps into your thoughts, questioning your own abilities, your own worth. Is it because deep down, unknown to you, you fear you can't escape on your own?

Will he even want you back after this? Gods, it's like you barely put up a fight against the bastard. All he had to do was climb on top of you and...

Abruptly, you jerk your head over the side of the bath, the sensation of nausea overwhelming you as your stomach empties, contents spilling onto the pristine white tile.

Then you allowed yourself to go completely slack, feeling the edge dig into your ribs you as you fell onto it. Warm tears cascaded down your cheeks, blending with the fluid pooling on the floor.

The first sob wracks your body not long after...

__________

Whatever happened to a good pair of pants? Whose idea was it that all the fancy ladies should wear dresses most of the time? And why in the hells are you considered a fancy lady? You never wanted to be such a thing. A nice, quiet ocean side home was probably the closest to "fancy" you'd ever choose for yourself.

But that's the keyword, isn't it? You didn't choose this for yourself...

Soft hands touch yours, causing you to retract your hand swiftly. "Leave my nails out of this." You hiss at whichever servant girl made the attempt on your fingers.

Through an instinctive wince at the comb in your hair, your eyes catch the sight of dark and fiery eyes as the tiefling kneels beside you. "Forgive me, Lady Ancunín. I promise I will only tidy them up." She smiles, and it almost feels comforting. True to her word, she simply files them down to a clean, round shape. Cleaning the dirt from underneath. She was one of the few servants from the ones you chose in the room with you. Astarion chose the others with precision, carefully assigning them the duty of taking care of you and making sure you were prepared for the evening. And as they incessantly fussed over, brushed, and prodded you, they were steadily making you want to gouge your eyes out in frustration.

However, this tiefling and the one or two others you picked that were here with you carried themselves differently, and it wasn't just because they were untrained. As they tended to you, you were fairly certain that Malacai's critical observations of their work had nothing to do with it.

"Elowen, isn't it?" You ask, free from Astarion's constant shadow to treat these poor girls like people. As you speak, a gentle breeze brushes your skin from the open window, carrying with it the scent of blooming flowers. The knowledge of your time spent with Malacai reassures you he wasn't one who would readily report you for such minor infractions.

Meeting your gaze, the tiefling's eyes held a subtle surprise. At a loss for words, she quickly recovered and graced you with yet another lovely smile. "Thank you." The words are sincere from your heart.

Something passes fleetingly across her face, and even in that momentary glimpse, you recognize what it is.

Understanding. How wonderful it feels to be seen as a person.

Not long afterward, the servants finish your hair - and you can feel the weightless, silky strands falling into place with gentle waves. The custom designed, elegant blue dress, with its delicate silver swirls and leaf embroidery on the shoulders and collar, fell just short of your ankles, exuding an air of grace.

Deep brown ankle-high shoes, crafted with precision, expertly concealed the shackle from prying eyes. Although you couldn't discern their exact material, their undeniable comfort put a smile on your face. These shoes were the only item you took the time to specify to the shoemaker, and they certainly didn't disappoint. Honestly, you did like these.

To your relief, Astarion did not insist that the seamstress design a low neckline for the gown. It revealed only the slightest tease of your cleavage. Sure, it was because he wanted to be the only one who delighted in the view of your body, visually and... otherwise. But even that you were thankful for somewhat. Anything to escape the feeling of being a prized possession on exhibition.

A feeling that intensifies as you follow Malacai through the door to exit the wing of the palace you've been imprisoned in. You thought the stares in there were bad, but this was even worse. And shameless. Whispers, like delicate feathers, brush against your ears. Carrying snippets of conversations, questioning your identity, as you pass by servants and what you assumed were guests as your personal steward escorted you through unfamiliar halls. The walls themselves emanate a feeling of grandeur tinged with a touch of uneasiness. The cool marble floors beneath your feet seem to magnify the restlessness in the atmosphere.

Two towering guards, adorned in gleaming silver armor, stand resolutely on either side of a magnificent pair of double doors. Painted in pristine white and adorned with intricate gold trim. As you and Malacai draw near, the guards gracefully swing the doors open, revealing a grand entrance, their movement accompanied by a faint creaking sound. A rush of cool air, tinged with a hint of polished brass, mahogany and fresh baked goods, greets you as you step into the grand foyer beyond. However, amidst their dutiful actions, the guards' piercing gazes linger on you, filled with a mix of curiosity and intrigue.

Suddenly, you're amidst a throng of people, the sounds of chatter and footsteps filling the air, with Malacai constantly by your side, ushering you towards a grand-looking dais or platform. The Ascendant, dressed in a white ensemble with subtle blue undertones to complement your dress, stands with regal poise before you, their tailcoat embellished with ornate golden clasps and perfectly tailored dress pants. Overlooking his guests. He exudes an ethereal charm, radiating a sense of divinity , his very being demanding reverence and awe from all who have the privilege to lay eyes on him.

Observing your approach, he instinctively takes two steps down and extends his hand towards you. The touch of his hand sends a warm sensation through your palm as he tenderly interlocks your fingers and gently draws you towards him, a playful smile on his lips. "Beautiful as always, my treasure." The Ascendant croons.

Your body tenses up as you catch sight of the two thrones behind him, trying to resist the urge to shudder.

"All silence for the Godking's address!" A thunderous voice demands, echoing with power and authority, resonating through the grand hall. The sheer force of it makes your heart skip a beat, but you steel yourself, resisting the temptation to flinch or recoil.

All eyes obediently fixate on the Ascendant as commanded, but yours cannot help but wander from face to face. Equally curious about you as servants were in the halls. Still, this is your first time being exposed to others outside of the palace staff and Ascendant, and despite feeling petrified by the sudden spotlight, you refuse to lose sight of what truly matters. Gathering and understanding what you can of this nightmarish realm you're trapped in.

First you note the tables spread throughout the grand hall with glasses, plates, pitchers, and kegs. The next thing she noticed were the enormous, intricately designed doors, swung open wide to reveal the sprawling entrance hall of the palace.

"Don't worry," he reassures, his voice resonating with authority, the rich aroma of festival spiced wine and delicacies filling the air. "I only require a moment of your time before you can all return to indulging in the festivities." As he scanned the crowd, his eyes revealed his lack of concern, not bothering to commit any of the faces to memory.

"As you all are aware, this past century has proven trying on us. The loss of our cherished, beloved queen was felt all across the sword coast." Your feet itch to run, bolt down the steps, off the dais, through the doors and into the streets. Anywhere has to be better than here. "As you all are aware, this past century has proven trying on us. The profound loss of our cherished, beloved queen was felt deeply across the sword coast." Your restless feet itch to run, to bolt down the grand steps, off the elevated dais, through the ornate doors and into the bustling streets. The anticipation of escape lingers, whispering that anywhere would be preferable to remaining in this stifling place.

The presence of Malacai and the armored guards at the bottom of the dais, reminiscent of royal armor, created a sense of foreboding, emphasizing the how you wouldn't get very far. Your escape would be halted before it even began. "Many have offered themselves before me. Believing they could hold themselves worthy of her throne. Of her place at my side. Yet they all fell embarrassingly short. Women, men, dragonborns, devils... None could compare to my Queen-Consort."

You don't want to be here. You don't want to hear this. Childish as it sounds, you want to plug your fingers in your ears. Or better yet, wake up from this nightmare.

"Nobility of Baldur's Gate! Assembly of highborn men and women, venerable lords, and esteemed ladies of the realm!" The spacious hall reverberates with the resounding voice of the Ascendant, their words echoing with a sense of divine authority. Your gaze wanders and lands upon a procession of musicians, their elegant garments mirroring the grandeur of a royal court. In their grips, they hold instruments of music—trumpets that gleam like polished gold, reflecting the splendor of the occasion, and others of fine make—poised to announce the forthcoming proclamation. Your expression transforms, an eyebrow raising in a silent display of inquiry. Sure, he mentioned this, but you can't recall him explicitly confirming it with you.

"On this, the dawn of The Festival of Gratitude," he proclaims with a voice imbued with the gravity of his high station, summoning from all present a silent veneration that arrested the air itself. It was incredible the power he seemingly held over the masses... It frightened you. "May you find yourselves gratified by the announcement and esteemed company of my betrothed! My queen-to-be, in her resplendent grace!"

His arm enveloped your waist, drawing you in snugly against his side as the trumpets sounded. The touch is electric, sending a shiver down your spine, as you sense the power of his command and the depth of his devotion in his gaze.

And like that, the moment you've been dreading is upon you. Officially and formally engaged to this pale imitation of the man you love. The enormous throne room reverberated with the sound of cheers and applause, as all eyes turned to study you - some filled with surprise, others with intrigue, and some a mix of both.

Their Queen-to-be.

The Ascendant flashes a short wave and a nod before he turns to you. "That wasn't so bad, was it?" he said as he pulled you into a tight embrace, both arms encircling your waist now. "It's unfortunate we couldn't find the time for a brief speech from you as well. But there will be ample opportunities for that later," he continued. Again, he's talking at you. Your input seemed neither expected nor desired.

Frankly, you may be too shocked to offer any. Every day you wake up and tell yourself this isn't your new normal. Mastering all these ridiculous, fanciful manners and etiquette, learning how to conduct yourself as a "sovereign" doesn't matter. Because you're not staying here. You're going to get out. Find your Astarion, bury yourself in his comforting arms, and never let go again.

But every day, it feels less like a dream and more like an inescapable reality. The idea of escape seemed impossibly far away, like a distant star in the night sky. Your star... Your Astarion. Just the memory alone was enough to make your chest ache, as if it had been crushed into countless pieces. Between last night... and your formal engagement to the Vampire Ascendant, the monster wearing Astarion's face,

The feeling of hopelessness seeped in, dampening your once fiery desire for freedom.

His lips meet yours in a slow and gentle kiss, exuding tenderness and a faint sense of longing as your lips reciprocate mechanically. Not to say his kisses aren't intoxicating, but he wasn't your Astarion, and he'd never be...

When he pulls away, his hand on your back guides to toward the back of the dais...

To the thrones.

Trying to resist, you dig your feet in, but he effortlessly and subtly directs you towards the one on your left.

With a delighted smile that betrays a hint of determination, his grasp on your hand is gentle yet stern, coaxing you downwards. You struggle against it, but he eventually overpowers your resistance, and he manages to firmly seat you on the wretched thing that's haunted your nightmares. Reluctantly, you find yourself settled onto the grandiose throne, the velvet cushion enveloping you.

You feel your ankle snap to the base of the extravagant seat, a sickening sensation that you've grown accustomed to. Seated on the throne that has given you sleepless nights, he gazes at you with admiration. His smile hasn't left his face once. A contented grin played on his lips, evidence of his satisfaction with how well his plans for you were progressing.

The Ascendant lets out a soft, satisfied sigh as he settles onto his grand throne, the rich velvet cushions embracing his body. Beside you, the throne's extravagant carvings mesmerize your eyes with their intricate details, a testament to the majesty of his power. His strong arms rest leisurely on the throne's armrests, providing a sense of power and dominance. As he reaches out and gently clasps his hand around yours, you feel a warmth spreading through your fingertips, a tender connection formed. His thumb caresses the back of your hand, creating a delicate, soothing sensation that tingles across your skin.

And then you sit there. Together on a pair of overly fancy golden and velvet seats. Watching everyone else have some semblance of fun without you. A few guests cast their gaze up toward the two of you. The Ascendant and you find a sort of comfortable silence, observing the goings on of this festival together. You take note that his thumb finds interest with your ring finger, tracing it with his own digits. "Perhaps we can treat ourselves to this foolishness tomorrow, if you'd like," he suggests, his words laced with thoughtfulness, though he avoids meeting your eyes.

You struggle in vain to free your foot, feeling the frustration building with each futile attempt. Chained to the throne through invisible magic. "Behave yourself or we won't go at all." The Ascendant scolds quietly, indicating he saw your fruitless attempt to escape. You release a reluctant groan and recline in your seat, your free hand restlessly twiddling in your lap.

With little else to do, you try to study the variety of faces in the crowded throne room. Maybe you'll ask the Ascendant for a book if he's going to confine you to this stupid, overdone chair. The bustling crowd fades into the background as your heart races upon seeing those familiar crimson eyes. Do you dare trust yourself? Are you already teetering on the edge of madness, consumed by desperation? Would you even want him to see you like this? After what happened last night...?

The more you observe, the more you find yourself accepting the penetrating gaze of those eyes and the man behind them.

Gods above... Your Astarion...

-ˋˏ’✄┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈--ˋˏ’✄┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈--ˋˏ’✄┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈-

A/N: We're probably jumping back to him next chapter, guys. It's actually been a kinda long time In-Story since we've seen him and Aric.

Once again, I thank everyone for their support and enjoyment of this little adventure of ours and I can't wait to share the rest with you. It's mindblowing to me and I'm still not over it.

76 notes · View notes

solitaire-addict · 8 months

Text

A deep dive into Solitaire, its Characters and Relationships

Solitaire is a deep, complex and entertaining book. Once opened, it becomes very hard to put down and it is the type of book you would read multiple times, listen to the audiobook version, and create a blog fully dedicated to. Solitaire has that kind of seasonal feel like when it snows for the first time and your feet are cold no matter how many blankets you put on or you’re nose keeps running because you’re outside waiting for someone to come pick you up and you’re putting your hands in fists because they might just freeze off. Solitaire isn't romanticized winter, it's the gross parts that make people hate the cold seasons but you still like them because it still has a nice feeling to it, even though it may be the end of you. Personally I have read solitaire in every season but Solitaire can't be beat in January, when everyone is stupid depressed and there isn't a point to living anymore.

Victoria (Tori) Spring portrays this deep depression and bitter feeling that everyone feels at some point and she is the embodiment of the term “pessimistic complex”. While being a relatable character to everyone, I've found that she really strikes a chord with the Asexual/Aromantic community. In recent events, it has become canon that she is Asexual and most suspect she is on the Aromantic spectrum which seems reasonable due to her behavior around one Micheal Holden. Micheal Holden, who is Tori’s friend and co-investigator in the Solitaire mystery, is (at first glance) an upbeat and strange character. Micheal holds the role of curious, and a bit mysterious and his and Tori’s friendship forms from the fact that they both got curious and did the exact same thing. In many ways, these two are very similar and when thrown together by some force, Tori ignores this and uses some freakish defense mechanism that (to anyone else) would drive away the opposing force, however, Micheal is not an opposing force, or any kind of force for that matter. He’s just a guy who happens to be a little strange and who ice skates and is secretly mad all the time. When Tori and Micheal first interact, Tori does not in any way want to talk to this guy, in fact i bet she would rather have thrown herself out the nearest window than exchange more than two sentences at once. Michel wants to be friends with Tori, so much so that he will not stop showing up out of nowhere even if he doesn't mean to. Keep in mind that Micheal has no friends and Tori has one friend and that isn't even going well.

Becky (who has been Tori’s best and only friend for quite a while) is popular. Not in the sense that everyone knows her, more so that everyone knows of her and a couple extending details, this leaves her feeling alone in the world and her only support is Tori, who frankly, is not doing well in the slightest. And of course they’re drifting, not quickly but over time, like a call that gets worse in audio quality over time. When Becky seeks support from Tori and wants to share things with her, Tori is disengaged, I'm sure she doesn't mean it but that still sucks when you’re the one who needs to talk. There are many versions of the book and in the first one when Becky tells Tori that she just had sex with her almost boyfriend. Tori is disappointed, she even goes on to say that it made her respect Becky more for being a virgin up until now. Now remember that the first addition of this book was released in the early 2010’s so it's a bit desensitized and there are probably better words to put it other than not respecting her as much anymore but it's still a good example of Tori’s distance and self isolation from the rest of her public life, which brings us back to her relatable self destructive tendencies.

When with Micheal, Tori continuously keeps him locked out of her life. When Micheal tells her that he wants to be friends, Tori goes on a tangent about how she doesnt know why he wants to be friends and says “i'm not some manically depressed psychopath” and they get into a fight that ends with michael saying “well maybe you are a manically depressed psychopath” and everyone ever is disappointed because Tori cant let people care about her. There's a point where Tori and Micheal finally accept each other as people and decide not to question one another, they both care and they both are okay with that, Micheal is there when Tori needs him and Tori is there when Micheal needs her, it's one of the most beautiful things and their friendship and care for eachother is deep and true and it's my favorite thing in the universe. When Tori is about to get killed by a firework, when she's literally standing on the edge of death, when she's sat at home after Charlie's relapse Micheal Holden is there. Micheals constant anger has noticeably taken a toll on him and he has said “i'm always angry, other emotions just overrule it” he means that Tori’s presence is the emotion that overrules, not in a cheesy love story way but in the way that when you’re having a bad day and then you go home to your bed and take an advil and drink some water, it makes you feel better. Tori is Micheals bed, Advil and water, no matter how cold the bed is, or how gross the Advil is or how unfiltered the water is. She’s still there, overriding the constantly lingering aggravation with himself. When Tori’s about to kill herself, Michael is there to save her, pull her back into reality and even though Tori isn't okay in the slightest afterwards, Micheal is still there, and they still care, even if the water is muddy.

In between the 4 month gap between Solitaire and Heartstopper, nothing is technically canon on what happens between them but 4 months later Micheal has proposed the idea that they confirm their relationship status as girlfriend and boyfriend and this scared Tori. Not because she doesn't like him in that way, but because she doesn't want him to get bored of her. Along with Tori’s asexuality being confirmed, it's also confirmed that Tori and Micheal had sex and Tori was sent a confirmation email for her ticket for the asexual train. Charlie and Tori’s conversation about this is very touching, Charlie brings up that he once said that if Nick never wanted to have sex with him, he wouldn't want to either and it wouldn't change how he felt about Nick in any way. This is an example of why Asexuals FLOCK to Alice Osemans writing, it focuses on the emotional connection between characters, not the sex and tension between them. Charlie reassures Tori that Micheal will understand and he most definitely will not get bored of her (considering that they canonically stay together for at least like 10 more years) Tori’s fear of a labeled relationship is an important factor within the idea that Tori is on the Aromantic spectrum, as an aromantic person, when a relationship that I’m in is labeled, it stresses me out. It creates this internal fear of commitment and that might be what Tori is experiencing. At the end of the page, Tori and Micheal are shown talking probably about her being asexual. My hopes are that Tori and Michaels relationship remains unlabeled because it's very important that different types of queer relationships are shown in mainstream media, especially ones that aren't labeled or inside queer norms. There's nothing like queer erasure from other queer people.

#solitaire #alice oseman #tori spring #micheal holden #sprolden #heartstopper #charlie spring #nick and charlie #nick nelson #solitaire by alice oseman

105 notes · View notes

inconspicious-random-thoughts · 3 months

Note

Your idea of all soul contracts being voided is very interesting and something I've also played around with/considered. It's a major systemic issue that makes life in Hell extremely difficult for those without power (which is most). If Charlie truly wanted to improve life for all sinners, including those who don't want to be redeemed, targeting that system of ownership would be key and I think it'd be a great progression for her character/mission. If Heaven won't play by their own rules, then give Hell the overhaul it needs that improves life for everyone and remove the possibility of soul ownership completely.

I do want to say, with regards to Valentino's behavior, I personally see him showing restraint in some circumstances. Yes, he SAID he wanted to go and shoot up the hotel but after his initial tantrum with the model, he just sat in his room patiently waiting for Vox. I think there is potential to reason with him, but it'd have to be through someone he trusted (Vox and/or maybe Velvette) AND he'd have to be calmed down first to help him move past the pull to impulsivity. He was also able to rein it in pretty well with Charlie even when she was bafooning it up in his studio, on his turf... I just think it would be fascinating to explore the Vees as potential forces/influences of change and how Charlie could incorporate them into her plan. You'd likely have to get them battered down enough to even be willing to negotiate, but end of the day they are business people and I think they can be reasoned with. Even just within exploration of the adult content industry... turnover is extremely high. Maybe Vox/Velvette could be shown the numbers dipping on Angel Dust's popularity and it would then be their job to convince Valentino to drop him. For them, it's money but maybe for Valentino it's power and then that can be explored in their respective character arcs (ie. WHY does Valentino want that power/what is he gaining from it)? There are so many interesting ways you can play with these themes/characters that isn't a boring "Valentino gets stabbed to death" plot point.

So, I really hope the show chooses the more complex exploration of these characters (and gives consideration to their respective backgrounds that may be influencing their decision-making) rather than reducing them to boring cartoon villains (I also hope to GOD they don't betray each other, I love that they have their own little family among the three of them).

Let us see Charlie trying to win them over to her cause. Let us see Charlie challenged with the idea that some people like the life they've made in Hell/don't want Heaven as endgame BUT that doesn't mean they can't improve their practices or help make life in Hell better for all. There's a lot of potential. I think it also really reinforces the main theme that everyone is capable of change.

This is all personal preference/morality, but for me I truly believe that everyone has the capacity to grow. Yes this includes Valentino. If there is "no hope" for some people and no one bothers to reach out because they're deemed irredeemable, then what incentive is there for them to ever get better? Why shouldn't they just become a worse and worse version of themself then, potentially victimizing and harming more people along the way? Approaching Charlie's school of thought where everyone can be redeemed with a plan that focuses on rehabilitating individuals (and breaking down what that means/how that varies person-to-person) is a natural next step. Understanding why someone like Valentino is the way he is, how the system of Hell has contributed to the problem on a societal level, and what tools he should be given to cope/make better decisions in the future WHILE also protecting his victims from additional harm are all critical steps that I think Charlie (and the show) need to start taking more seriously... if their plan is to really explore this idea of redemption, anyway. This would also apply to characters like Sir Pentious and Angel Dust. Everyone is in Hell for a reason, everyone has a past and a laundry list of wrong that needs to be addressed and given care. How many lives did Angel Dust ruin as a mobster? What had Sir Pentious even done prior to his stay in the hotel that landed him in Hell in the first place?

So much potential in all these characters. I really hope the writers really flesh them out. Sorry for going on too long at the end there, your comments just got me thinking.

Exactly. It is a huge systemic issue and if the show been greenlighted multiple season ahead of time, I'm sure there be an a subplot about it. As it something Charlie see how the contracts affect her people greatly and it would be a project she take on to change it. It's a huge undertaking as is basically restructuring the government that been running on the principle for multiple thousands of years. It's just how things are and she wants to change that.

The contracts originally was about a weaker demon seeking out the protection of a stronger demon to keep them safe from the rest of Hell in exchange of servitude. After several thousand years it evolves and got a bit more corrupted but the bases of it still exist. But the protection became more the overlord defending their territory/property.

Obviously the overlords are the ones that will suffer for it, despite it making things harder to the owned souls to exist in Hell and possibly unfair how they obtain it, (But also keep in mind, the deal was consented by both parties, both agreed.) it is unfair to the overlords when it just the the way things are and no warning of a sudden structural change. They are being punished/losing for playing the long game well while playing by the rules of Hell at the time. They were winning at a game and then the host decided it time to change the rules.

The overlords will:

1) lose their compensation after they held up their end of the deal.

2) lose a large if not all chuck of their power and status.

3) most importantly they will become targets after they were forced to give up their power and their numbers that would have defended them. Lets face it, once contracts get voided and overlords losing their power and status, a bulk of sinner will want to retaliate. Attack the overlord that held them or attack another overlord that they felt wrong them and now have the opportunity to do so when they are not overpowered.

This doesn't only effect the big honcho overlords we seen, there be smaller ones...mobs and gangs and what not. But considering the majority of characters we meet are overlords it would be interesting to see how they deal with this as an audience. Probably an overlord meeting about it if they got intel what was being plan and trying to derail it from happening, or a civil war among the overlords on the approach how to deal with it.

If there is a civil war about it, the overlords who still be upset but willing to work with Charlie/Lucifer would be Carmilla, Zestial, Rosie. They just generally to care about Hell and probably treat their souls fairly well. Rosie probably be least affected by it all. She owns souls, but I think her souls will still follow and look upon as a leader even after they been freed, and cannibal town will more or less run the same as it was before. Carmilla and Zestial would probably have a similar situation.

Unname overlord may be included in this.

The Vees will obvious be against it, and Zeezi might be on the undecided side but more on keeping things the way things are. She doesn't seem like she be an overlord to give up her wants and needs in favor for a better society if it can be avoided it.

Alastor will play double agent im sure. He always have like 3 hidden agendas he working at the same time that are his own her other peoples he force to follow. He be annoyed he lose his souls but then again, he would have his own freedom again.

The best possible solution I can think to fixing the infractractor to what Charlie wants, is to wean out the contracts. Creating a clean slate immediately would be problematic. Have the contracts expired in a decade. AND/OR if new contracts can still be made, have there be term limits. A soul can only be bind to a contract for X amount of years then it can be renegotiated or let it null and void. It be a hassle for the overlords for sure as the constantly, and make extra effort on treating souls better for the soul to want to remain under contract/protected while the other try to earn that spot. Possibly a guideline has to be drawn up to have a basic math for length of servitude. If the overlord provide x to the demon, the demon would serve x amount of years.

One thing I wonder is do overlords provide housing and such as part of their protection? Most sinners don't really seem to have jobs to afford housing and food. Most of the sinners we see are working in the guidelines of their contract. So how are they getting money for things? Is being provided with the necessities part of the protection?

But we have to keep in mind, we see how much the people regret their decision on selling their souls. It seem, like most if not all the people who sold their soul regret it. Its nearly common knowledge that its a bad deal to do it...yet...people still do it. They choose to go along and do it regardless thinking they were the special exception. So yes, they are a victim...but at the same time...are they?

I don't think the regret would not be an all time if its limited to a certain amount of years. That if it something they did regret, at least it there's a light at the end of the tunnel and not just a bleak all of eternity experience. Terms limits would at least have both parties put effort into the relationship if they are satisfied with the deal. Both parties have to put effort to want the other to stay in.

Not saying this can be the endgame solution but it can be a start down that path.

You have a point there. Valentino is a violently impulsive but your right, there was some points he did not act out immediately the way he wanted. He had his hissy fit and tore up a model before he sulked waiting for Vox advice. But I did forgot about Val calming down slightly and waiting for Vox. I also forgot about episode 4 completely. Honestly, it makes his character better that he able to reign in some of that impulsive violent nature. It would make the lost of Angel dust contract better. Im sure Val would trash the room the moment he lost is but after thrashing about to calm down he just be seething without acting out on it. Which...I sort of want to see now. I'm sure there still need to put precautions about Val retaliating. Val would want revenge even if he lost the contract fairly. Val would want to send a message hes not someone to fuck with but perhaps he won't actually act upon it like he would want to. At least wouldn't be a blind tantrum rampaging retaliation if he did act out a little.

I just think it would be fascinating to explore the Vees as potential forces/influences of change and how Charlie could incorporate them into her plan. You'd likely have to get them battered down enough to even be willing to negotiate, but end of the day they are business people and I think they can be reasoned with.

True, very true. Vox and Velvette are fairly level headed people. Well, except about Vox isn't when it comes to Alastor.

Which makes me wonder...

If Vox losing his shit about Alastor

Val losing it about Angel

Who makes Velvette lose her shit about? Can't wait for that character to be introduced.

Even just within exploration of the adult content industry... turnover is extremely high. Maybe Vox/Velvette could be shown the numbers dipping on Angel Dust's popularity and it would then be their job to convince Valentino to drop him. For them, it's money but maybe for Valentino it's power and then that can be explored in their respective character arcs (ie. WHY does Valentino want that power/what is he gaining from it)? There are so many interesting ways you can play with these themes/characters that isn't a boring "Valentino gets stabbed to death" plot point.

That would be actually pretty interesting to see. Angel losing popularity. Probably caused by his stay at the hotel. Having the other Vees try to talk Val on not using Angel so much with them going by the numbers and trending.

Actually, Angel being in the hotel might making him almost an embarrassing cringe meme at some point and Velvette and Vox trying to talk Val not using Angel so tarnish their brand. Because they want to be trending in a good way. I don't think Val wouldn't give up the contract because I think Val really likes having Angel around for himself even if Angel not a big income anymore. Maybe Angel becoming a joke and not a money maker Val would hesitantly accept an offer for Angel soul if the payout was big enough.

Even if it not dramatic, I kind of want this play out now. It like the safest and agreeable way to end the terms without much fear of retaliation.

I think it be really sweet way to play out. The hotel residence, and Cherri if she hasn't joined, chip in with everything they have to buy Angel freedom. Lucifer, Charlie and Alastor able to contribute more and possible offer something with more weight like a restricted favor at a given time. Angel would be so grateful and feel so love that everyone did it, that if they felt like a family to him before it only furthered it. It also open up to some Angel angst if favors were offered and the Val request wasn't agreeable to the one giving the favor but has to serve out anyways. Angel would feel so much guilt over it.

I am a huuuuuge sucker for backstory and character growth. I love character growth. Even if they don't grow, I like how we eventually learn of their back stories to understand why they are the way they are. Make you sympathise with them even if you don't agree with their methods.

I hate black and white/ right and wrong anything..I love how everything grey and having that explored. I mean, the vast majority of people are not evil or good for the sheer sake of it. It usually stems from something that propels people in that direction.

My favorite trope is a villian is sort of in the right in their own way but they went about it wrong. Basically the ends justify the means.

(I also hope to GOD they don't betray each other, I love that they have their own little family among the three of them).

That....never crossed my mind. I would feel so betrayed myself if that would happen. I love their little family. But if one would betray, its Velvette. But it better not happen. They need to stick together! Even if I suspect Velvette be the one out of the three to betray, I doubt she will. Phone Case as evidence. Vox and Val phone case is their own personal brand symbols while Valvette is about all three of them. She probably the biggest heart of all of them and makes them stick together.

I been thinking about this exact thing SO MUCH lately. I wanted to make a post about it but didn't end up doing it.

Like, Alastor is a prime example of this. He doesn't want redemption. Giving the life he had, he probably never felt so freeing until he landed in Hell. In life people scampered away or looked away in disgust and hatred because of his heritage, he was taken advantage because of heritage and social standing. He had to hide his identity behind radio to be able to converse freely without judgement and treated equal. The activities he enjoy he had to keep secret. But in Hell? people scamper away out of fear of his power, he can indulge in all his deplorable actives he enjoy. He can force people to listen to him. Hell was freeing for him. It's everything he needs and wants aside not being with his mother. He doesn't want redemption. He doesn't want to give up his fun and entertainment. He doesn't want to give up his power and status. It's Hell, hes going to have his bad days especially with his shackles but overall how he going to enjoy heaven for eternity if he bloodthirsty and enjoys annoying people without receive retaliation?

Even if he makes it to heaven...it be similar to his life on Earth. His power would be equal or lower of the residence of Heaven. They will learn how heinous he once was. They will be disgusted by him and move to the other side of the street to avoid him. He be happy to see his mother...but can he really bring himself to her after...everything? Her having the knowledge of everything because word would get around. She may work past it, but Alastor would feel that her eyes won't look at him the same way as it once before. It pains him greatly. It pains his mother having that knowledge. Heaven not suppose to hurt. He can't have the both of them suffer like that. It's best that she remains in the dark of his deeds because whatever worst case scenario she can dream up about her sweet little boy it wrist slap compared what he actually committed.

He doesn't want redemption...

...but it doesn't mean he can be rehabilitated which I think has already starting to happen. He curb his activities for the image of for the hotel. He hides his particular diet from their eyes to not disgust them. He still gets to indulge and commit murders but now its more reserved for the defence of the hotel and its residents. He always had his own moral code when it came to his murders. But it seem like he hasn't "hunted" since he been at the hotel because he didn't want it getting back to Charlie and disappoint her or ruin the hotel image IMO. So, I think we already seeing Alastor being slowly rehabilitated without him or anyone realizing it. The longer he there the more he going to feel fond with the other residence and continue to change some of his habits for their benefit.

I agree. For Charlie to really move forward with her redemption she needs to start trying to get to the root of the problems. Trust falls isn't going to be the answer. I think she been hesitate because she doesn't want to push boundaries which is a good thing and to extent is working. They feel safe and relatively there's trust and strong bonds....but at the same time...its not solving much either. But progress is progress I suppose no matter what speed.

What had Sir Pentious even done prior to his stay in the hotel that landed him in Hell in the first place?\

Seriously, What did he do?! He such a cinnamon roll.

So much potential in all these characters. I really hope the writers really flesh them out.

There is a lot of potential and I think that what make this show fun! We only know so much about them so it really fun trying to fill in the blanks and figure out their motives. I don't think any of them are meant to be 2 dimensional or plot devices but have several layers. That even the seemingly simplistic character will have complexity. I just hope the show keeps getting renewed so we can be offered everything the creator wanted to give.

Sorry for going on too long at the end there, your comments just got me thinking.

It's okay. It's a delight to know that my rambling can do that. That they might inspire or help someone get creative about the fandom. I only made this blog to just get ideas out of my head of what I'm hyper fixated on which is currently, Hazbin. I didn't really expected anyone would actually read it much less, like or interact with it. I just find it surprising when it happens but brings me joy that my words and thoughts seem to have some meaning to someone.

#hazbin hotel #hazbin alastor #hazbin hotel alastor #hazbin hotel headcanon #hazbin hotel theory #alastor the radio demon #hazbin thoughts #hazbin theory #hazbin valentino #hazbin hotel valentino #valentino #hazbin angel dust #angel dust hazbin hotel #hazbin hotel angel dust #angel dust #the vees #hazbin vees #hazbin hotel vees

36 notes · View notes

banavalope · 10 months

Note

Hello, I'm a Homestuck and Good Omens fan and just saw your post about coffee. I came to the Homestuck fandom way late, though, and don't know what the coffee theory was. I was wondering if you'd be willing to share that story from the trenches if it's not too traumatic :)

I'll preface by saying, this all happened near about the time I began to step away from Homestuck, as this was late 2011 to early 2012. My recollection could very well be missing some juicier deets, because I always managed to avoid the worst of it. In all I had a pretty benign time floating about the Homestuck fandom, I'll say that. My knowledge is as a fly's.

If you want the short version: once upon a time, the Homestuck fandom was so stupid it had discourse over the way coffee was drawn in a single panel, because the stylistic choice used to show the way cheap potted coffee has that oil slick sheen on the top Really got the gamerz thinking Gamzee was putting troll blood in the coffee.

The long version is this: this Act was annoying. All the Acts had been annoying, there'd been rather more than six of them so far. The fandom's toxicity was at its most potent, and the main fandom exodus hadn't happened yet. But the stylistic choice brewing on page 4702 of A6I2 suggested a discourse was on the horizon, and it was the size of planet fucking Jupiter.

To understand the affairs of 2011/12 Homestucks, a few things are important to mention: first, nobody enjoyed Act 6. Ask anyone from the tumblr era First Wave, we all agreed that Cascade would have been a better place to start wrapping up the comic as a whole. When Act 6 opened introducing the alpha kids, a whole new plot derivative, and we all realized we'd have to go through the same slog again, that the story wasn't over, the collective exhaustion was palpable. SWATHS left unhappy; worse yet (for some), the alpha kids brought us away from the game of SBURB and the over-aching plot, to instead place our focus on their interpersonal relationships. It was a bad time to take your audience away from a well crafted climax.

Reading it now as a completed work makes this not so bad, because the book is wrote. You can consume it as a finished piece and clearly interpret a through line for yourself, start to finish. Skip it even, if you want. When you've no idea at what time the next update will come, while all the pieces remain necessary to tell the story, any pacing is bad pacing.

Second, while Homestucks are known for many things - all of them cringe - the one that goes overlooked most, in spite of the ripple effect we still feel from it today in every corner, is the sheer amount of over analyzing done to the story itself. Every panel, every inch of every pixel, was a part of a puzzle we all collectively made up. Theorizing was an integral part to the Update Culture era of Homestuck's fandom, that we Figure Out the Story, you had to be the one who predicted what came next. Impressive how none of us came up with some kind of fandom Nobel Peace Prize, for how much we lauded it as a lifetime achievement.

I'll give you, Homestuck does have a very rich narrative. Much of it, I'll favor, is even intentional. It made worldbuilding choices captivating enough to get people painting themselves grey, for fun, so surely it had a few right ideas in some places. And there's nothing wrong about analyzing your media, picking apart its references to tie together a background story, even if it's just one you make up based on how you experienced reading it. That's kind of the whole point of consuming art. It's to be discussed, share your personal conclusions on. Theory is the breath of creativity.

It's the whole part about wanting to be right, where Homestucks as a collective force wanted to start eating each other alive on the spot. We were fucking OBNOXIOUS with theory posting. I'll be honest with you, I really ate that kind of thing up, and even I was getting annoyed. People were beginning to stretch, likely to cope with becoming bored.

Finally, the sober Gamzee controversy. This came about a while before coffeegate, but the effect the inciting update had on Homestucks is comparable to a haunting. It was fucking chernobyl, and a bad day to be a nuclear scientist because now it was your problem. Vriska fans - equally insufferable, as we all were by some respect[1] - and Gamzee fans fought with each other VEHEMENTLY, just to see whos gang was better. Keep that in the background of your mind as the theme music to what's playing. Everyone was anxiously wondering what had happened to Gamzee, because for the last several some-odd panels, we'd lost the boy. He was full of murderous intent, we were down to precious few characters on the meteor left, and we'd lost the boy.

So here we are. It's 2011. We're standing now at the end of the world, we've lost the boy for several panels, and finally the plot is trying to move along. We're all tired, and irritated, and divorced, doing this song and dance one more time but god willing the LAST TIME, when a joke about the look of shitty potted coffee gets made.

And some harbinger of the fucking apocalypse takes to tumblr dot com, drafting up a post about how Gamzee - living in the meteor walls - is putting troll blood into the coffee. Because, otherwise, how is Kanaya as a rainbow drinker doing so fine? Dave called the taste metallic, like blood. Something something long forgotten theories about trolls blood here something something. People would chime in to say "that's just how coffee looks", somehow it dissolved into actual discourse of people violently discussing back and forth how it could ONLY BE BLOOD, because coffee drawn in a prior panel UPDATES AGO didn't have the film on top, only now AFTER SOBER GAMZEE. Etcetera. It was just the worst case of reading too hard into something that you done ever did see.

Shortly following this, many people who were already growing exhausted with Homestuck's narrative direction at this point decided to take this coffee theory as their sign the flood was coming and to board the ark or learn how to swim. Anyone who learned to swim subsequently left during the exodus of 2015.

Again, my memory is pretty hazy. Thanks to Requiem Cafe, surprisingly difficult to google these days. Certainly another old still following me will have something more to add that I'm forgetting, as your handy dandy unreliable narrator.

[1] Said the Eridan fan.

#bana stop talking #homestuck #doddleys #i shouldnt tag this as good omens but theres an evil part of me that wants to

87 notes · View notes

yanderes-galore · 8 months

Note

could I request platonic yandere Henry emily hcs? 🌹🦢

Thats about all I have, thank you!

Hope you have fun writing

Sure! I got a photo of him from the wiki for the banner :) Hopefully I get his character right with my research. May be short as there isn't much we know about Henry but I tried? This is very... rambly (?) so I hope you like it!

Yandere! Platonic! Henry Emily Concept

Pairing: Platonic

Possible Trigger Warnings: Gender-Neutral Darling, Overprotective behavior, Obsessive tendencies, Cold behavior, Manipulation, Unhealthy coping mechanisms, Mentions of death/murder, Delusional behavior, Projecting, Dark themes, Mentions of child darling/Overprotective father.

I feel Henry isn't as good as a character as we think, in any media.

I'd say he's a gray character, he isn't necessarily good or bad.

He has his imperfections, especially after the death of his daughter at the hands of William.

He isn't the best father and certainly would project onto you.

In terms of being a platonic yandere, he'd definitely be more parental.

Henry would still not be the best before and after the death of his daughter.

Maybe you're a friend of Charlotte or even a sibling.

Before Charlotte is murdered, Henry is an okay father.

He's still rather distant due to working on his animatronics, yet he feels his heart melt when you play with Charlotte.

He loves you both, regardless on if you're a family friend or sibling.

Although a sibling would make more sense.

Henry's behavior wouldn't increase until the death of Charlotte.

This way, if we're going by the younger child darling route even though I don't do it often, then he'd definitely project onto you.

He'd treat you like you're the only thing he had left.

In fact, in many ways you are.

He becomes protective and paranoid at the idea of William taking you too.

It's weird behavior... even if he is a grieving man... everything is completely unhealthy.

He doesn't like you out of his sight, even as a teen he's still an overprotective father.

He gives you small mechanical robots as gifts.

When he isn't drowning himself in work then he's paying attention to you.

Henry is a broken man and not the best father.

He fears the idea of you growing up and maybe getting caught by someone.

If we take this route he'd be a helicopter dad and very protective due to the trauma of losing his daughter.

There's another way to look at a platonic Henry, too.

This version you can be older and he still projects onto you.

Maybe he takes you in as an apprentice and due to your young age, he starts to wonder if Charlotte would've been like you when she grew up.

He sees you as a replacement for the child he lost.

If he still had contact with William he keeps you far from him.

Henry wouldn't really murder like his coworker William.

He's protective, paranoid, and unstable.

Yet when/if he snaps... it's more self-destructive than anything.

Honestly, Henry just wants revenge for Charlotte.

He wants to put an end to things.

You help him get through things.

In fact, it's canon he's depressed after Charlotte.

You both make things better and worse, since he treats you like he'd treat Charlotte if she was alive.

The most "yandere" thing about Henry I can think of is him being delusional.

In this AU he can't get over the murder of his child and uses you as a stand-in.

Regardless of your origin or gender, you become the new "Charlotte".

He wants to correct his failure to prevent her fate.

As a result you're treated like a different person.

The longer Henry is around you, the more he tries to fit you into the role he wants.

Henry, even without the dark twist I gave him, is a selfish and twisted man.

He may not be as bad as William, but he is the lesser of two evils.

You become his coping mechanism, his form of comfort...

While you slowly begin to lose your independence and sense of self.

#yandere five nights at freddy's #yandere fnaf #yandere fnaf pizzeria simulator #yandere fnaf 6 #yandere henry emily #platonic yandere

98 notes · View notes

dandylovesturtles · 3 months

Note

So in Sidelines, you've mentioned that Donnie doesn't really understand why Leo doesn't seem to want to push himself after the whole Shredder thing and takes it as rejection. I imagine it stings to do all this hard work to make things accessible for your brother, only to have him just. Lay there. And not really try to do anything with all this AMAZING work you just did.

Does this lead to any big blow out fights between them? What's the tipping point for that?

And does Donnie ever figure out (or get told) why Leo is acting the way he does?

yeah, unfortunately, since Donnie has a tight association between his gifts for his brothers and their love for him, having Leo flat out reject all the things he's built and all the upgrades he's done to make the lair livable for him feels like a rejection of Donnie himself, and he's pretty hurt by it. also, Donnie is kind of desperate for things to go back to normal, and he's upset that there's not some obvious fix for Leo's health problems, so Leo not doing what would help just compounds his frustrations.

of course, Leo's rejection of the chair and other accessibility tools aren't a rejection of Donnie in his mind; he definitely still loves his brothers very much, even if he gets aggravated with them. so he doesn't really understand why Donnie is mad, and he reads that as Donnie trying to push him into things he doesn't want, and they just spiral a bit in their misunderstandings and bitterness.

the fight I already wrote about is what a lot of their fights look like, more of a short but violent explosion followed by Donnie storming off and Leo wanting to be alone, rather than a long drawn out fight. for awhile Donnie avoids Leo entirely, which just makes them both feel worse and doesn't accomplish anything lol. I think they do have a big blow out at some point when it becomes clear that Leo's sulking is making his condition worse and Donnie loses it over Leo not taking care of himself.

I don't totally have this part of the story planned out but I think it's finally April that sits Donnie down and gets out of him that he feels like Leo's rejection of his work is a rejection of him, and points out it's pretty unfair to Leo to assume that when they haven't even talked about it (and no, yelling at each other does not count). and April is the one who Leo has been the most open with so far, letting April see how scared he is that he's never going to get better, and while he hasn't actually said it to her out loud she's more or less put together that Leo doesn't see the chair as a way to regain independence and mobility, he sees it as giving up on his own body ever working right again. she encourages Donnie to be a little more understanding of Leo and try not to assume the worst. and she's been encouraging Leo this whole time to stop hiding his feelings and be open about his fears and worries.

so at some point they do have a big heart-to-heart about it, and Leo does finally admit, at least in part, why he reacted the way he did. and he'll apologize for not being more appreciative of the work Donnie did, because he let his bitterness come out and didn't acknowledge how Donnie was trying to help, while Donnie apologizes for taking things so personally when Leo was just having a bad time.

the other problem with the first version of the chair is that Donnie got so excited designing it that he kinda forgot it's not, well, his, so Leo feels detached from it in the way he would if they just sourced him a chair from somewhere else. and also it ends up having cool features but lacking in things that are actually useful to Leo. in future designs Donnie is quick to involve Leo early on and actually listen to what he wants, what works, what gets in the way, etc, and it becoming a collaborative process for both of them really makes them happier with the final product and pulls them even closer together as brothers.

so it's a happy ending! they just take a bit to get there.

Thanks for the ask!

#sidelined au #rottmnt

40 notes · View notes

chickenparm · 1 year

Text

Reduction (Albedo/Reader)

header GRACIOUSLY and SEXILY made by @drawlypsy. the full version is a bit uhhhhh eyesemoji, so it'll be posted on their patreon here.

---

AO3 LINK

MASTER LISTS

Albedo/Reader (no pronouns or body parts mentioned, but kinda f-coded) 7,693 Words - NSFW (m!Masturbation, consensual voyeurism, semi-public sexual acts, cum swallowing, pining)

---

Windblume has always been a bit of an odd time of year for you.

Sure, there’s a bit less of your typical workload. That is, your usual duties when it comes to the Knights of Favonius are put on hold since you’re more administrative than the sort of knight that goes out on patrols. That’s just your niche, that’s where you’ve fallen in.

However, there are certain other tasks you’ve silently taken on for yourself that have gone unsaid and unannounced, but are just implicitly known. Namely that for the past two years or so, you’ve served in an unofficial capacity as the liaison between most solicitors and the Chief Alchemist, Albedo.

It’s not like you sat down and decided all at once that it was going to happen this way. It’s just that over a gradual amount of time you wound up being the best person for the job. It certainly helped that you got along swimmingly with his assistant, Sucrose, and could discuss matters with her rather easily.

So, unofficial secretary or not, for better or worse you’re the one most people come to when they need to ensure that something will make it directly to Mister Albedo’s hands.

And that’s really just fine with you. Despite only ever seeing each other in passing and having never exchanged words beyond a few scribbled notes back and forth passed via Sucrose and occasionally Timaeus, maybe you’re a little fond of the man just based on what you’ve heard from Sucrose herself when she mentions him.

Albedo is kind. A genius, honorable, creative, and patient. Sucrose’s words paint a picture of a man that worms his way into your brain and has made a home for himself despite not even knowing what his voice sounds like.

It’s as you serve in this unofficial position that it becomes apparent that Windblume is an oddity. Because during most days of the year, Albedo has his admirers but they’re happy to do so from afar. Something about the festival of Love and Freedom truly brings out the boldness in those who hold a torch for the Chief Alchemist.

The point of the matter is that you wander into your office and your desk is piled high with gifts that aren’t meant for you. Each one holds a little note, explaining that this is their Windblume for the Chief Alchemist and they would so appreciate it if you made sure he received it. Jealousy curls in your gut, before it’s swept away immediately.

You have nothing to be jealous about. Albedo isn’t yours in any capacity - not as an employer, nor a friend, and certainly not a prospect for romance.

Sucrose arrives not long after, her eyes widening at the sight of the desk. This was a similar situation to last year, though it almost seems to have doubled in magnitude from the prior Windblume. Nervously, she laughs and says, “I don’t suppose these are for you?”

“No, you know exactly who.” Your voice is monotone and deadpan as you finish piling the gifts into a neater stack so you have a bit of space to work. Officially you’re not required to work today, but you just want to get a little more caught up before you enjoy the festivities. With a little sigh through your nose, you turn to look at her with your hip leaning on the desk. The pile wobbles from your movement. “You might need to hire out a cart to get these up the mountain to him. Let me know when your next trip is, and I’ll get that sorted for-”

“A-actually, um, Mister Albedo is in the city currently. Perhaps he could come get them himself?”

That’s a terrible idea. If only because you’d have to be here to let him in your office, meaning you’d have to likely share conversation. And if he’s as polite and kind as Sucrose touts him to be, there’s no way you’re coming out of that interaction with anything less than a big fat crush.

As you open your mouth to offer the weak excuse that you’ll leave your office key with her so you can tactfully avoid crossing paths with Albedo, Sucrose seems to remember something and reaches into her coat to pull out a neatly folded envelope. Hesitantly, she offers it, as if she can read your mind and understand the inner turmoil you’re currently wrestling.

“He also asked me to bring this to you. Before you read it, I’ll have you know that I… assisted him in writing this. I really think you shouldn’t turn it down, if only because he’ll be disappointed.”

That’s ominous, and you really don’t like it, but you accept the envelope anyway. Sucrose shifts a bit as you carefully unfold the envelope - it's on nicer paper, with care put into it instead of the usual hastily-folded scrap papers she passes off to you. This has effort.

Thank you for your help… Appreciate your hard work… get to know you better… dinner, my treat… look forward to your answer-

“Sucrose, what is this?”

It’s obvious, at least to the green-haired woman, but she humors you in her patient way with a smile that feels far too mischievous to ever look at home on her face. You don’t like it. “Just between you and me, it took him three days to write this out. He went through nearly an entire sheaf of parchment paper.”

“That doesn’t answer my question…”

“I don’t mind answering anything asked of me, but don’t you think this one is a little obvious?” Sucrose’s smile morphs from mischievous to simply sweet, like the sort you’ve seen her wear when watching the kittens outside the Cat’s Tail. “Mister Albedo wants to take you on a date.”

A date. A date. A date.

It rattles around in your head, threatening to blow up like one of the Klee’s bombs that shake the panes of your office windows a little too frequently. You lean a bit more heavily against your desk, and the pile of gifts topple and lay forgotten on the floor. Sucrose immediately bends down to begin organizing them again, her voice soothing to the point of almost being missed in the rush of blood pounding in your ears.

“It’s not my place to reveal any of his feelings, but I think you should know that this isn't something out of the blue.” Sucrose decides to just pile the gifts on the floor next to your desk, rather than precariously on top. “He’s rather busy, and tends to get lost in his interests to the point of putting off other matters that aren’t directly in front of him.”

And as she looks up at you from over her glasses, there’s an excited, knowing glint in her eye as she explains, “I just might have… kept putting you in front of him. Mentioning you, making sure he reads your notes, even if they’re inconsequential or meant for me. Maybe it was a little underhanded, and I’m sorry if I overstepped. But if I didn’t do something, then the two of you would just orbit around each other without ever-”

Sucrose stops sharply, realizing she’s rambling. Clearing her throat, she stands straight and folds her hands behind her back in a show of common bashfulness from her. “A-anyway, I really think you should accept. You don’t have anything to lose, and if things work out, well… I think I’ve talked about him enough that you know what I hypothesize the outcome would be.”

Of course she’s planned this out like it’s some experiment. Yet, you know just as well that she’s also done this out of a genuine place of caring. Barbatos knows that she’s intuitive to pick up on the way you eagerly listen to her when she talks about him, and she’s known Albedo longer than she’s known you, so surely she would know his feelings on the matter as well, right?

And that begs the question of if there ARE feelings to speak of, or if this is offered out of some misplaced obligation.

Your eyes travel back down to the letter, trailing over the words he’s written about how he’d like to “get to know you better” and a part that you’d skimmed over in your panic that details how he’s been interested in you for a while.

Tomorrow. The date he’d like to take you on is offered tomorrow evening. That’s just enough time to overthink things and get yourself in a pretty ridiculous jam, and with only a second longer of hesitation you reach for your desk to find some paper to respond to him with. Sucrose smiles wider than you’ve ever seen her.

—

Sucrose never stays longer than she has to on Dragonspine. Really, if it weren’t for the letter she’s holding in her hands, Albedo is certain that he wouldn’t see Sucrose until their designated meetup time in Mondstadt proper tomorrow.

But there she stands, at the mouth of the cave his lab is situated in. Bundled up from head to toe, only her eyes peeking out between her scarf and her hat, and in her gloved hands is a letter on paper he shouldn’t be so familiar with.

Except he is, because it exists in abundance in the locked drawer of his desk here. Pages and pages of it, each one marked with handwriting that he has no right to be so fixated on. But he can’t help it - it’s akin to an addiction, one that he logically could and should detach from.

Hundreds of years have gone by and not a single one of them has been marred by distracting feelings quite like this. At first, he wanted to discard them, but then his interest was piqued in terms of learning its intricacies. It was when he started to ferret away your little notes - every single one - that he realized perhaps he’s made a misstep.

“They answered!” Sucrose says, tugging the scarf down with a smile that’s wide and brilliant. It’s almost as if she’s more excited about the whole situation than he is, but it only serves to nudge his own heart into a slightly quicker tempo. If Sucrose is excited, that must mean she knows the content. And if she’s happy about the contents, then that surely means…

“Thank you, Sucrose. You didn’t have to hurry back straight away. Tomorrow morning when we were meant to meet would have been fine.”

Sucrose opens her mouth to answer, but then shuts it with a flush on her cheeks. Albedo can see the wheels turning in her mind as she realizes he’s right, and a bit sheepishly she stammers, “I-I was just excited to let you know, is all.”

Albedo can’t fault her for that. Sucrose has done him a great service by hurrying back with this letter, and entirely out of the kindness of her heart and a vested interest in the situation that has unfolded thanks to her prodding.

And he knows she’s had a hand in it. Albedo may be unfamiliar with navigating relationships like friendship, and even more woefully inadequate at anything even suggesting romance, but he’s not blind enough to overlook the way she’d mention you often, or the way she’d suggest he personally write a note back to answer a question you pose rather than send Sucrose along with just his verbal answer.

For all the mysteries in the world, some of them just aren’t a complete shot in the dark. And Sucrose’s good-natured meddling reveals all the secrets he might want to know. She wouldn’t have bothered with any of this if she wasn’t entirely sure that you were harboring some sort of fondness for him.

It’s with this surprisingly comforting thought in mind that he accepts the letter, then pointedly pockets it to read when he’s alone. Investment or not, Albedo is well aware that perhaps his reactions to your letters should be embarrassing. That isn’t something he experiences often - he can’t remember the last time - but he’s extremely uninterested in testing if today would be the day he learns what that feels like.

Sucrose does her best to not seem put-out. But she knows that he knows what the contents of the letter are, and Albedo humors her by at least averting his eyes to the ground with a smile. She can interpret it as one of gratitude, or she can see it for the happiness it truly is. Neither answer would be wrong, he supposes.

After a short time, Sucrose returns to Mondstadt. Albedo is left blissfully alone, and for good measure he makes sure to wait a sufficient amount of time before striding with purpose across the cave to all but force the lock of his drawer open.

Inside are the stacks of paper he’s grown fond of. Some of them are worn, as if he picked them up and looked over them often. Setting the letter on the desk, he reaches for one of the most worn pages, where the creases have grown thin from being folded and unfolded, over and over.

Enclosed is the shipment of Cor Lapis you asked me to source from Liyue. I took the liberty of opening it to ensure all was accounted for. Everything seems to be in order.

And just after you’ve scribbled your signature, there’s an addendum that he favors with almost reverence.

Sucrose told me it’s your birthday tomorrow, though I should say today by the time you read this. So… Happy Birthday, Albedo! I hope you have a wonderful year, and that my well-wishes keep you fortunate until I can offer them again on your next birthday.

The addendum is longer than the original note. Perhaps it’s because you lost track of yourself as you wrote, or maybe you considered your wishes of happiness to him to be more important than the report on Cor Lapis that has since been used up. Albedo likes to use his thumb to cover the top of the note, and imagine that you simply sent this without a purpose beyond you thinking of him on the day of his birth.

For all the kindness and honor that people seem to tack on to him when describing his traits, he wonders how they’d react if they knew how incredibly greedy he was for a speck of your attention.

With a steadying breath, his exhale releasing in a chilly cloud, Albedo places the letter back in the drawer and reaches for the envelope. With a steady, practiced movement, Albedo unseals the hasty wax melted against the flap and is well aware of how ridiculous he must look with the way his breath comes in short little pants.

Albedo, the letter starts, and his throat is already dry. I was surprised to read your letter that Sucrose brought. I’ll admit that this is sudden, but I’m far from displeased or uncomfortable with the offer. In fact, I find myself smiling even as I write this. Is that silly?

No, it isn’t, but only because the corners of his own lips threaten to upturn into a smile as well.

I’ll admit that I’ve been curious about you. I’ve heard a lot from Sucrose as well as idle chatter that I’m sure you know all about, but I don’t think that paints an accurate picture. I’d like to learn these things for myself, and directly from you, if that’s not too forward.

Albedo pauses, a short huff of amusement leaving him as he closes his eyes. The tips of his fingers press against his forehead as the letter falls to the desk. Forward…? If only you were aware of the things he’s done before, the action he’s about to repeat yet again with this letter clutched in one hand while the other is occupied.

Shakily, he sits at the chair that’s been pushed into the desk, taking the letter up again in his right hand. Once more, he reads over your opening words, pausing at how you tell him you’re curious about him - how curious, he wonders? Curious enough that you’d overlook the way his hand curls against his thigh, his thumb brushing against the tip of his hardening cock through the fabric?

Or perhaps you were curious enough that you’d participate. The very notion makes his mind screech to an abrupt halt, his thoughts falling stagnant as his eyes drift down and he squints at the space between his parted knees.

For a moment, he can imagine your hands wrapped around his thighs, just above his boots. Albedo can picture how you’d slide your hands up, up, up to the clasp holding his pants together so you could take his cock in your hand. As his own fingers wrap around his length, he shamelessly imagines that they’re yours instead, and that the latent chill in the air is from you blowing your breath across the precum smeared along his tip.

With shaking, barely-focused eyes, Albedo continues to read that which he hasn’t gotten to, yet.

I’ll gladly meet with you tomorrow evening for dinner. It will be the highlight of my Windblume festival. Albedo’s eyes flutter for a moment at the reminder that you’re willingly spending time with him during a festival notorious for its connotations of both friendship and romance. Your next words cause him to tense, his hand curling tighter around himself as he strokes slowly.

I hope it’s not too forward, or that I’m reading too far into things, but I can’t help but think of this as a date, and I’d like to treat it that way if you’re open to it.

A date. A date. A date.

Albedo lets out a choked sound as he hunches in on himself, his shoulders rolling forward as if to protect his body from an incoming blow. Instead, the rise of sensations come from the inside, centered on the way his hand increases its pace and he desperately wishes that he knew what you sounded like so he could recreate these words in his head with your cadence and tone.

And that he could imagine what your moans might sound like as you take him into your mouth and onto your tongue.

Admittedly, I’m not the best at reading people and their intentions, so I hope that you will be honest with me about what you’d like from me, and I’ll be frank with you in turn. I think that’s fair, don’t you?

Albedo is rather skilled with multitasking. It takes all of that built skill for him to not crumple the paper in his hands as a sharp breath leaves his lungs like a punch. If only you knew what you were asking, if only you knew what he was doing right now. Albedo can’t imagine you’d want to be in the same city as him, much less sitting at the same table.

Whether you ask for honesty or not, Albedo wouldn’t dare tell you about the depravity that’s conjured in his mind. Not that he’s ashamed, far from it. At its basest level, this is just a normal bodily function that he managed to pick up despite not being quite entirely human. No, what he would be ashamed of, if he could manage that, are the exact thoughts going through his head.

Thoughts of you kneeling between his thighs, pleasuring him with your mouth until tears prick at your eyes and your breath is stifled in your throat. Images behind his clenched eyelids of you sprawled across some bed in some room where neither of you will be bothered, naked and willing and looking so alluring that it stirs feelings in his gut that he wasn’t sure he was ever created with the purpose of experiencing.

Perhaps the only shame in any of this is that it’s really all just superfluous and selfish. That there’s no purpose in this. It’s not like he can naturally reproduce, and being swayed by things such as feelings of affection or desires of the carnal sort are little more than a distraction to the purpose laid out for him by his master.

Anyway, I appreciate your invitation. I look forward to seeing you tomorrow - I can’t wait.

Albedo’s teeth grit as he bends enough to press his forehead to the desk harshly. With a sharp hiss between his teeth, the sound in his throat being strangled by his own refusal to let loose completely, his hips jerk into his hand one final time before his hand grows slick with his own release. It promptly cools on his hand as he falls back in the chair and focuses his gaze on the ceiling of the cave.

With a clearer head and the looming thought of tomorrow on the horizon, Albedo can’t help but realize for the first time that he would get this close - both to you, and his own form of insanity.

—

You really shouldn’t be as nervous as you are. He is the one that approached you, meaning he must already be interested. But writing that letter had felt like displaying your internal organs under a microscope, especially with the little bit of gall to tack the label of “date” onto the whole affair.

But Sucrose said - promised - that you weren’t misinterpreting anything at all. That Albedo wasn’t asking this of you as an acquaintance or a friend but a… romantic prospect.

The mere thought of it makes your skin warm and your hands shake just a little as you straighten out your clothes before lacing your hands together on the small table in front of you. This was the place he mentioned - a balcony just off Mondstadt’s main square, attached to Good Hunter. It’s a private place, with a cloth-covered table and little flowers laced around the balcony’s railing. A candle sits in the middle of said table, lighting the area enough that it would create a warm atmosphere if you weren’t alone right now.

Those nerves come and go, and for now they’re here in full force as you fight the urge to pick at your cuticles and bounce your leg to release the built-up energy. Certainly he wouldn’t stand you up. At the very least, he’d somehow get word to you if he couldn’t come, right?

But how do you know that? Because you certainly only know hearsay and conjecture based on the words of others and Sucrose. Maybe he secretly is the sort of man who would stand someone up, and his unfortunate “victims” never say a word because they’re just as embarrassed as you-

“I apologize, I hope you weren’t waiting long.” Albedo sounds almost breathless as he steps through the balcony’s door, shutting it with a quiet click behind him. When he turns to look at you, it’s with a small, apologetic smile. Guilt settles in your stomach for ever thinking ill of him.

Internally, you grab yourself with both hands and give your brain a good shake to manifest some sort of response to him. “No, I haven’t been here very long at all.”

Albedo’s eyes shift to the candle sitting on the table, and you follow his gaze. It’s the staff’s usual protocol to place a new candle for each patron that sits down, and this one is burnt a quarter of the way through already - nearly an hour since you’ve arrived, it seems. But you’re not about to let him feel bad about it, and gesture with a hand for him to take the seat across from you.

“Seeing you now makes it feel like I was never even waiting in the first place.” Internally, you absolutely cringe at the cheesiness of it, but Albedo’s expression goes slack for a moment, before he averts his eyes with the faintest blush.

Gingerly taking his seat, he answers, “I’ll endeavor to make any future waits a little more bearable, nonetheless.”

Future waits. As in, more occasions to meet with him in the future. Meaning he might want to continue this. Your heart skips uncomfortably, and you mask it by hiding a smile behind your fingertips. Despite the attempt, Albedo’s eyes are trained on you with a single-minded focus, as if he were committing the sight of this to memory.

From anyone else, you’d feel uncomfortable with such rapt attention being given to you. Albedo is an exception, it seems. Rather than anxiety prickling over your skin at what your viewer might see, it’s almost immediately apparent that with Albedo, he’s entranced down to the very way his gently-curved smile seems distracted.

Sara brings up your meal not long after, saving you from having to think too hard about small talk. It’s the daily special, though you’re far more interested in the man across from you than any sauteed matsutake or bolognese. As the two of you tuck in, you take a moment between bites to venture, “Can I ask you something, Albedo?”

“Of course. I’m an open book - read at your leisure.” Albedo’s answer is nonchalant, showing no signs of the nerves you feel. Perhaps because he’s naturally calmer, or this sort of thing doesn’t bother him. Confidence must come rather easily to him, you think.

Taking a moment to arrange the words in an order that makes the most sense of your rattling thoughts, you pose your question. “Why did you choose now for us to meet like this, rather than sooner? I suppose I’d just like to know what the turning point was. We’re strangers, but we’re at least tangentially known to one another.”

Albedo hesitates, his fork mid-spin around the noodles on his plate. His face falls vacant for a brief second, as if he were deeply considering what to say. It’s a little concerning; this shouldn’t be something to think so hard about. But far be it from your place to dictate which things he puts importance on.

He doesn’t keep you waiting much longer.

“Sucrose speaks of you often, and if I had to make a claim, it would be that the same is true in that she’s brought me up to you many times.” Albedo places the fork down against the edge of his plate, carefully avoiding any sauce getting on the handle. Even off-handed and distracted, he has a deliberate sort of grace to what he does.

At first, you think he’s going to reach for his glass or water, or to lace his hands together on the table. But instead, he slowly, slowly reaches to where your hand rests on the surface. It’s as if he’s giving you time to deny it, to deny him, and you hold your breath and go still in fear that any single twitch will give him the wrong impression.

Through his gloves, he’s warm. Albedo seems to inspect your hand for a moment before cradling it oh so gently in his palm, his fingers curled around securely. All of this is done with a stiffness that speaks of lack of practice, as if he’s trying something so simple for the very first time. Thankfully, his words are a little more smooth and even.

“Relationships aren’t easy for me to navigate. I find it troublesome that they have the potential to deteriorate so quickly without regular upkeep in the form of spending time or effort on one another.” Albedo’s eyes are trained on your hand, on the way his thumb presses into the back of it and makes a slight indent on the skin. “My few friendships are made through necessity or close enough quarters that it’s no extra burden to attempt to cultivate closeness.”

Teal eyes snap up to yours with a sharpness that nearly makes you flinch. A breath leaves you, fingers curling around his hand, and he thankfully doesn’t misinterpret this as you wanting to part. Instead, he finally makes it to the point he was trying to make, and the answer to your original question. “I think of you often, and I realized that perhaps the version of you in my head is inaccurate to who you might truly be. In short, I simply thought it time to attempt to get to know you as a person, and not an abstract concept in my head that I’ve grown fond of.”

A few things stand out to you.

First, that ultimately the turning point was… nothing? Just a whim, it seems. That’s just fine, considering he’s a busy man with a lot on his plate. Really, your only gripe is that he could’ve said something sooner but… so could you.

The other is that he thinks of you often. Often. Perhaps it’s overstepping, or pushing a boundary, but your curiosity is too strong for you to hold back the question of, “How much is often?”

A question like that comes with the expectation of some form of embarrassment. For both you and Albedo, except between the two of you, you seem to be the only one that’s flustered in any capacity at this line of interrogation, as light as it might be. Albedo is under no obligation to answer nor even tell the truth, but he draws his lower lip between his teeth to stall for just a moment until he decides that the best answer must be the truthful one.

“All current dating systems use a three-hundred sixty-five day calendar spread across twelve months, with approximately thirty days in each of those months. With twenty-four hours in a day, and while I don’t require much sleep, it should still be accounted for… I’d give a rough approximate guess of sixteen instances in a given day?”

Your mouth falls open in undisguised surprise, but Albedo is simply staring at the table with his free hand on his chin, as if he truly were puzzling out the answer to this. As your mind tries to comprehend the audacity of such honesty, Albedo drives the point home.

“I suppose it depends on a given day. I’m reminded of you plenty and it’s not as if I’ve made any attempt to not think of you. Though on a slower day I’d say the frequency is increased, perhaps it could be counted as a single instance stretched over a long period of time rather than smaller segments.”

“Albedo…”

“Even things that hold no connection to you somehow spark thoughts when I’m not engrossed in something else, but when I’m not focused on my research it’s almost as if it’s become my default thought, especially when I’m alone-”

Albedo stops, you stop, the world holds its breath as the very poignant implication is laid out on the table. Weakly, he attempts to remove his hand from yours, but your fingers squeeze his palm enough that he can’t pull away with an attempt so meager. He doesn’t try again.

Breath leaves your lungs in a little exhale, one that sounds almost like amusement but more close to disbelief, you ask in a quiet voice. “What sorts of things do you think of me?”

“How you smell.” Albedo answers without hesitation, possibly without even a second thought. “What you’re doing at any point in time. How your day has gone. Whether you’re taking care of yourself, or working too hard. The exact color of your hair, what your eyes would look like if you smiled.”

“And… when you’re alone?”

Once more, his breath catches in his chest mid-inhale, and he looks at you without embarrassment or fear. It’s almost suspicion. Like he couldn’t understand why you would pose that question, or why that would even interest you.

Or… he doesn’t believe that you’d be amenable to what comes next. But, he did say he was an open book, and that implies he’d answer any question. After finishing his breath, he uses that very air to answer, “That’s not something that should be discussed so openly. That’s a sufficient enough answer that you should understand exactly what it is that crosses my mind at those times.”

Oh, you certainly do. Your throat goes dry, your fingertips go numb with how hard you’ve been gripping his hand without realizing it, and you struggle to put your rambling thoughts in an order that makes sense to even yourself. Night has fallen, the only light coming from the half-burned candle on the table, and the breeze makes your skin prickle with goosebumps.

Amidst everything jumbled in your head, you’re only able to procure one solid image, and that’s a conjured-up scene of this man sitting in a snowed-in cave on Dragonspine, surrounded by alchemical tools and sparse furniture, sitting in a chair just like this one with his head thrown back and his hand around his cock.

Would he be silent? Or would he carelessly make sounds while knowing that no one is close enough on that mountain to know what he’s doing? And then, a second thought wheedles its way out next to that picture of a ruined Albedo, a silent whisper wondering what he imagines you doing to put himself in this state.

As if on autopilot, your mouth moves before you have any chance to stop it and think about what it is that you’re asking. Dread creeps in as you say, “Show me.”

“...Show you?”

Too late to back down now. It’s all or nothing, though you find yourself not quite as bashful as you might’ve been, considering he technically approached this topic first. Your subconscious mind just took it where you both seemed to want it to go. Albedo’s eyes dart to the right, then to the left, almost as if he’s making sure no one is on the balcony with you.

Of course, there isn’t, and you realize that he’s not simply doing that. Albedo is checking vantage points, looking for prying eyes, making absolutely sure that there’s not one single soul that could catch a glimpse of the two of you. Then, those pretty eyes lock back on yours, suddenly serious in a way you haven’t seen from him yet.

“Say it outright, or I won’t believe you.” Albedo grips your hand just as tightly as you do to him. And when you take a little too long to make your voice cooperate, he leans in closer. “Tell me what you want me to do, and I’ll do it.”

Any number of things cross your mind. Admittedly, you’re not entirely innocent in that you’ve never had thoughts about Albedo in more compromising positions. You’ve definitely thought about him before, in a number of different ways, in a variety of situations.

None of them have ever been quite like this, and of all the requests you greedily want to make of him, you simply wet your lips with your tongue, just a subtle movement that catches his eyes, and you request the most prevalent thought in your mind. “Show me how you touch yourself when you think about me, Albedo.”

The breath squeezes from his lungs in a quiet laugh that is tinged with partial amusement, partial awe. Like he hadn’t expected you to hold on to your nerve to ask this of him. But he’d mentioned it, he brought it up, he was the one that planted this thought in your head. So really, it’s up to him to rectify the problem.

Albedo’s hand slips from yours, moving to his lap to work at the fastenings while his left hand rises to his face. Using his teeth on the middle finger, he tugs the fabric off to reveal his hand - smooth, just as pale as the rest of him. With his index and ring finger, he pinches at his tongue for a moment before reaching over to snuff out the candle, sending the two of you into relative darkness.

The legs of his chair groan against the wood floor of the balcony as he shifts himself to the right, just enough that you have a view of exactly what he’s doing with that ungloved hand of his. His index finger and thumb wrap around the base of his cock loosely, the remaining fingers cupping the rest of him. A single bead of precum wells at his tip, barely visible in the light of the moon, and it takes everything you’ve got not to bunch the fabric of the tablecloth in your hands on reflex.

At first, you think his lengthy pause is for some sort of anticipation, or delayed gratification. That perhaps he’s teasing you with this, now that he’s got you where he wants you. But then he looks at you through eyes that have suddenly gone dark and half-lidded, with just the faintest hint of desperation wavering just out of initial sight.

Albedo is waiting for you to say something, to confirm that you’re still comfortable, or to tell him to put himself away and never bother you again. It’s some convoluted way of verifying your want for him, though perhaps done a little too late. Regardless, you most definitely do want him, and your voice feels as if it’s not your own.

“Show me what I’ve been doing to you.”

It’s nothing like a thread snapping, but more of a gradual unravel as his fingers curl around his length and his upstroke is done with agonizing slowness. His thumb sweeps across the tip, sweeping away that bead of arousal and spreading it with a lazy, practiced movement. Albedo has done this before; you’re certain that it must be numerous with how easily he relaxes into the chair.

He’s not embarrassed in the slightest. Not about himself, not what he’s doing. If there’s any shame to be had, it had solely been concerned about your feelings on the matter, and your request had all but dissolved those reservations into thin air. Now he’s looking at you unabashedly, first at your eyes, then down your shoulder, across your chest where he lingers for a little too long to be anything but lascivious.

There’s very little you can do to force yourself to look him in the eye. Not when the movement of his hand is so fluid, and the first little sound leaves the back of his throat before he can strangle it.

That one slip-up on his part has you so distracted that you nearly miss how he murmurs beneath his breath, shoulders pressing against the back of the chair. “This is it. Here’s what you reduce me to.” Albedo’s voice is barely above a whisper, intimacy lacing his words with the darkness surrounding you.

He’s barely started, and he already is flushed from the stimulation, his chair creaks as his hips jerk up toward his fist. “You’re all I can think about, this is the first-... the first time I’ve been so enamoured.” A huff of air, that turns into a low, throaty sound. Then, “Do you understand now?”

Mutely, you nod. Your tongue feels as if it’s stuck to the roof of your mouth, your hands stiff from how hard you’ve clenched them into fists to keep from reaching out to touch him. All that’s in your mind is an endless deluge of desire and hunger and greed toward what’s being displayed so wantonly before you.

At the sight of your acceptance, of your stunned and hungry silence, Albedo is spurred on to squeeze harder, to go faster. Even as his head rolls back, just like that image your mind conjured not so long ago, his eyes remain on yours as if that’s what’s doing this to him more than any action he could picture in his mind.

You want to do something. Passively observing is far from satisfying for either of you. Maybe it’s a little too bold, or too fast, but Albedo doesn’t make a single move to stop you when you slide from the chair to your knees, then across the smooth wood floor until you’re right between his parted knees.

The dryness in your mouth is gone, replaced with pooled saliva at the thought of how easy it was to come over here and take what you want. Albedo is offering it so freely, willing enough to do what you want that he’d openly touch himself in front of you like this.

Low, nearly inaudible, you ask, “Have you imagined me like this?”

“Countless times.” Albedo’s voice is sharp as it grinds through his clenched teeth. “And in… as many other ways as you can think of.”

“Do you want me to-”

“No.” He says sharply, his free hand finding a place at the top of your head, as if he expected you to go against that demand and do whatever you pleased with him. Surely he wouldn’t mind too much, but his next words hammer home his intentions. “Next time. You asked me to show you. So, just observe.”

Inches away from him, you can see the little details of every stroke, the prominent vein growing more stark as he gets closer, the little ways he shifts his fingers to catch on the edge of his tip where he likes it the most. More than anything, you want to cross the small gap and drag your tongue along him, if only to verify that the way he tastes correlates to how pretty he is when his mouth opens again to ask, “Open your mouth for me?”

Not even a first thought crosses your mind, much less a second as you open your lips and push your tongue past your teeth, just in time for the first rope of his release to land squarely on your tastebuds. As much as you want to close your eyes and relish it, you stubbornly look him in the eye and memorize the way his subtlety is preserved down to the very way he simply bites his lip and furrows his brow as he comes undone with such little effort.

Albedo’s hand trails from the top of your head, down your cheek, then to your chin to encourage you to keep your mouth open for a moment longer. As if he were imprinting this moment to his memories, he openly marvels before he lets your chin go in a silent command for you to do as you wish with what he’s given you.

A simple swallow clears things up easily, and if it wasn’t what he wanted, he doesn’t quite show it with how his exhausted expression turns pleased and stays that way.

Sweeping your thumb across your lower lip, you remove any excess before shuffling back and away from him. Silence lingers for a moment, almost awkward with how heavy it feels, before Albedo haphazardly puts himself away and kneels in front of you. Without warning, he asks, “Can I kiss you?”

It strikes you that you’ve done things a little out of order, but that doesn’t stop you from nodding just enough that he can see it in the darkness of the balcony. His gloved hand curls around the back of your head before he pulls you into him, a bit clumsy in the dark but he finds a rhythm that works for both of you soon enough.

You don’t particularly have many prior experiences to go off of, but if what he says is true, he’s as unpracticed as you. But it’s almost intrinsic the way he shifts a little to the left, lets you take a moment to breathe, matches your pace when you go faster or back off. If you were a little more sentimental, you’d nearly think the two of you were made for one another - but it’s too soon to be making any claims like that.

For now, you just accept this push and pull for a moment before he finally lets you gently push him back and away from your embrace. Short of breath, your voice is thin as you murmur his name in a question. That one word could hold any number of subtexts about what exactly you’re unsure about, and it’s serendipitous that he somehow picks the exact one you meant.

“I want to explore more of this.” And almost as if he realizes he’s getting a little ahead of himself, he adds, “If you’ll have me.”

If you’ll have him. Such a ridiculous thought, considering you’re kneeling on the floor of some balcony in Mondstadt with the taste of him on your lips in more ways than one and his hand still cupping the back of your neck like you’re something fragile and worthy of being coveted.

It’s not dark enough that he doesn’t see the way you nod in response. Something akin to relief passes over him, palpable enough that even you feel its effects. “That’s… that’s great to hear. To be honest, I hadn’t thought of the outcome if you’d said no.”

“You… didn’t think any of this through?” Bemusement laces through your words, and for the first time you actually see some semblance of real embarrassment in his expression.

“No, but I admit that this wasn’t exactly how I expected this to go.” His hand on the back of your neck squeezes, almost as if he’s trying to reassure you rather than himself. “Should we get you home? It’s getting late.”

Without the candle, you’re not sure how much time has passed. But the bustle of the city below has dulled, and the moon sits a little higher than you remember it being the last time you looked. At first, you want to say that you’ll be fine getting home on your own, that you don’t want him to be wandering the streets so late himself, but then the most secretive part of you whispers again of the possibilities.

It’s late, it’s dark, it’s getting a little cold out. Surely Albedo wouldn’t be averse to walking you home and coming inside for a while? And if you lose track of time and he needs to stay for the rest of the night, well… Will he really complain, when this is so obviously playing right into his hands?

When you nod, accepting his help to your feet, there’s a knowing look in his eye stating quite clearly that perhaps you share the same motives concerning his offer.

#genshin impact #albedo #genshin albedo #albedo genshin #albedo gi #albedo x reader #mind the a/n for the content tags #fic #fanfic #fanfiction #please god don't ask for a part 2 #if it happens it happens #don't put that evil on me though

170 notes · View notes