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dulcewrites · 1 year

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Fool Me Once (pt 2)

Pairing: Aemond targaryen x reader (wc: 3.6k)

Summary: Despite learning about Aemond cheating on you, life has never been sweeter. Who knew being so bad could be so good.

Warnings: manipulation, mentions/allusions to pregnancy issues, mentions of self harm

A/N: first, I just have to say thank you for the response to part 1. I truly had no idea it would get the reception it would. Thank you to everyone who followed me as well. I hope I can continue to produce stuff y’all like. I’m hoping to write more hotd stuff, Aemond and non Aemond related. I plan on taking a small hiatus but will be back around thanksgiving weekend. I will be writing on/off during that time but just away for a trip/the holiday. If you have any hotd requests my inbox is always open. I would try to get them out either before my hiatus next week (11/16) or after it ends (11/26). I’m pretty open to writing any character, though I will warn you I’m way more fascinated by the greens so they just come easier to me. Anyway please reblog, like, and follow if you read anything you enjoy 🫶🏽🫶🏽. And some housekeeping: in this Aegon is not r*pist who enjoys watching children fight (the hotd are truly…. not right for the cartoonishly evil way they wrote Aegon). He’s just petty and neglected. Also the timing of this is different from the books bc Aemond meets Alys pre dance.

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A bastard Strong. The irony is not lost on you. Your straight-laced husband fucking someone who is the complete opposite you. Older, no kids, no title, and no duty to uphold. At this point, it doesn’t hurt anymore. Instead, it makes your blood boil in the most delicious way. Aemond’s betrayal made you realize how you’ve been going through the motions; endlessly sleepwalking, hoping one day Aemond would come around. It woke you up to how much he’s taken advantage of you. He sees your kindness, and aversion to standing out as a weakness. Something he can manipulate and twist like one of his daggers.

The both of you must have forgetten where you came from. A rich, well respected house. The only daughter of smart, albeit conniving, family that knows how to get what they want. Your family didn’t have dragons or absurd ideas of exceptionalism to help you gain power. You’ve learned that inflated egos and prideful indulges can cloud Targaryen judgment. A trait you hope skips your children.

Shame on you for thinking Aemond would be different. Shame on him for the carefully curated facade.

All you do after Larys Strong comes to you the first time is think. You can’t remember the last time you’ve had this many options in front of you. Your mother’s words about patience run through your head. Keeping your wits is key. Play your hand too quickly, and you lose all leverage. You have Daella and the babe in your belly to think about. You stood pat in the beginning; Lord Strong simply relaying messages to you. You make sure Alys gets the letter Aemond wrote, and the ones after that. Lord Larys makes sure you get the details of each letter exchanged.

When the days grew lonely, and your body aches because of the babe in your stomach, you think about the letters. The declarations of love and recounts of lust filled meetups simmer in your head, but it’s the mentions of you that makes the anger sizzle and crackle. It makes the guilt you feel wash away.

You question if the rumor is true. That his Alys is a witch. Does her magic allow her to see the way Helaena can? Fuzzy premonitions and dreams that only make sense after they happen; a gift and a curse. A part of you wishes it to be true. You hope while your stomach stirs with untold truths, hers stirs with regret. Maybe the pain that runs through you leaves an unfamiliar taste in her mouth. That she can’t quite put her finger on it, but she feels you.

You wonder if when Aemond prays, he asks the Father to protect him… to protect her. The same way when you pray, you ask the Warrior to help you find the courage to destroy him.

It started with a bruise. A bruise that you don’t even remember how you got. Maybe one of those things you just wake up with. But it’s there, on the inside part of your left arm. It’s starting to fade but an otherwise noticeable bruise that stands out when you wear something with shorter sleeves.

The idea doesn’t come to you till you see the curiosity in Alicent’s eyes when you absentmindedly rub the bruise while asking if she’s seen Aemond. It’s only you two in the walkway; an unusually quiet day at the Red Keep. Her eyes go from it to the far away look in your eyes. It makes her tilt her head in thought.

“No dear, I haven’t,” her eyes go back to the scratch. “Are you doing alright? I know for some, the second babe can be even harder than the first.”

You look down at your arm, and something just clicks.

“I’m fine,” you start, then you make your voice tremble a bit. “I will be fine. I think I’m just tired.”

You give her a strained smile, and she returns one that tells you she doesn’t believe you. You can feel her big brown eyes burning into your back when you walk past her towards your chambers. There could be two thoughts in her head: you did this yourself or someone else did it to you. Either way, her son’s sweet pregnant lady wife is not doing well, and her son is nowhere to be found. Queen Alicent is one of the smartest, if not the smartest, person you know. She sees the change in her son; the change in the dynamic between Aemond and you.

It hits you. It would be too easy to physically harm Aemond. Though the idea of taking the blade that hangs from his hips and putting it to his throat has crossed your mind more times than you’re proud of. It would be too easy to get Larys to kill Alys. You don’t want to give Aemond the satisfaction of having his whore’s blood on your hands.

Where’s the fun in killing when your rage could be channeled into something more… methodical.

Under all that false bravado is the little boy who got picked on for not having a dragon. To break the man means bringing out that little boy. A truly broken man can’t love anyone. Isolation, and self hatred. What a gorgeous combination for your dear husband.

If this is going to work you need to up the ante.

So, you write. If Aemond and Alys can document their love, you can document your pain. You sent your lady in waiting out to get a blank book from one of the maesters. The color dyed cow skin feels smooth under your hands. There needs to be a slow build. Each day you grow closer and closer to shattering. Whoever reads it needs to know Aemond brought you to this place. He is the villain in the story of the poor, innocent wife that did nothing but carry his children and try to love him.

It will read like a diary, but to you it is a creation. A mixture of truth and imagination. A manifestation of pent up feelings. Purging and revenge all rolled up into one. You make sure to mention how terrified you are for your safety, and for you children’s safety. How an angry or disenchanted Aemond is nothing to toy with, especially if he has a bastard witch on his side. How maybe life would be better for Aemond if you just weren’t around.

But this fading bruise isn’t enough. Neither is just having a diary that will be discovered in due time. A deep cut, a dark bruise, half hazardously placed hand prints.. now that could work.

There’s something cathartic about the pain you feel when the dagger slices through your skin. The blood is so red and warm. It smears so smoothly on the page. Blood on your dress, cloth pressed to the wound, and wandering the halls is how Ser Criston finds you. You notice the worried, confused look in his eyes when you stutter out an ‘I don’t know’ when he asks what happened.

As the maester tends to your wound, you notice how Alicent and Criston stand in the corner of Alicent’s quarters. They occasionally glance at you while they whisper to each other. You recognize the familiar crinkle she gets in her forehead when she’s upset. All her children do it too.

“Sweetling, we both think it might be a good idea to give you your own knight of the kingsguard,” she sits next you. “Just to help you and… keep an eye on you during this vulnerable time.”

You blink. Not one mention of her son. But it’s clear to see how Ser Criston is with his queen. Submissive, and utterly devoted. Having someone like that is an asset. So, you smile weakly and nod. The more people who see you in this way, the better.

Ser Quinton Throne was quiet in the beginning. As if he was scared to be in your space. A far cry from the rambunctious knight his brother, Rickard, is. Moving past the initial shyness, he is attentive and even indulges Daella’s fascination with him. Despite you telling her not to, she would always run up to him, tugging on his white cloak to get his attention. She likes having someone around just as much as you.

The distance between Aemond and you had started to carry over into his relationship with Daella. Kids are more intuitive than adults give them credit for. Your throat felt tight when you daughter finally asks where father goes. You lie; it comes easy to you, easier than you thought it would. It makes you think if this is how easy it is for Aemond to lie to you. Or for everyone to not gloss over the clear problems in your life.

You would lying if you said it wasn’t nice having a man around, even if it was his job. It was Aemond’s job to do right by you, and he couldn’t do that. A man carrying out his orders with a warm smile was welcomed. The comfort of having someone who sweared his allegiances to you, and only you, and intended on keeping them.

You look from your embroidery loop to see Daella and Ser Quinton sword fighting with wooden swords. It’s an uncharacteristically sunny day. Perfect to get much needed fresh air, and apparently going to battle.

“She’s gotten quite good.”

Like a storm rolling in to ruin a sunny day, your husband’s tone is ever cold and distant. You hate the uncomfortable energy that radiates when he sits next to you.

“Yes, she has,” you stare at the Lysene lilac flower starting to come to life on your loop. “He’s good with her as well.”

You know he won’t like you saying that. He hates Quinton being around, and he especially hates how Daella taken a liking to him. Aemond scoffs and mumbles something under his breath you can’t make out.

“It’s just lovely having real protector around,” you continue to push your luck. “Someone so attentive and… strong.“

You look at with his a sickening sweet smile. He opens his mouth to say something, a complaint or rude comment since those seem to be the only reasons he talks to you, but he is interrupted by Daella yelling out for him.

“We’ll talk about this later,” he mutters to you, getting up.

“Oh you’ll actually be here long enough for that?”

The words slip out your mouth and it makes him turn to glare at you. It reminds you of the gossip you heard about him when you first arrived at court. How cold the king’s second son can be. It should’ve been a warning to you.

Quinton takes it as his cue to leave them be; you know he can sense how much Aemond doesn’t appreciate his presence. You watch as Daella clings to her father. As selfish as it sounds, you patiently wait for the day she too realizes he can’t be depended on.

“My mother used to make me embroider,” your knight’s voice breaks you out of looking on. “Something about being dangerous with a needle is just as great as being dangerous with a sword.”

You take a good look at him. If Aemond is the moon - ethereal, mysterious, and always changing, then Quinton is the sun. Bright, forward facing, and shines brighter with time. His choppy black hair, beard, and warm standing in contrast to your husband’s Targaryen features.

“Sounds like a smart woman,” you smile as he sits next to you.

His eyes linger on your embroidery work before traveling to you right arm. The blade wound was just starting to scab and scar over. His first day on duty was marked by seeing your husband give a long lecture on safety and ‘using your brain’ after Aemond saw your wound. The blade cut wasn’t under pure circumstances, but the look of resentment on your face was real. He saw that. He’s never asked what really happened to your arm.

“How are you my lady,” he whispers. You told him he can address you by your name, but he still insist on the formal names especially around others. “Is the babe giving you trouble.”

Ser Quinton, Helaena, and Alicent are the only people that seem to care about your well being, on top of the babe’s. Aemond concern went making sure the babe was fine to just not asking all together. It’s better that way, you think. You don’t think you’d be able to take fake concern about your little ‘mistake’.

“My bladder is being pushed on, I’m finding clumps of my hair on my pillow, and Maester Oliver told me this baby will weigh more than Daella did,” you reply lightly. “But other than that I’m doing fine.”

This pregnancy had knocked you on your ass. You’re sure the stress and thoughts that consume you don’t help. You know how it feels to come into a fracture family; it makes you feel awful for the babe in your stomach. Your parents tried hard, frankly too hard, to pretend things were good between them. Trying to prove their union was more than a duty for their houses. Till this day, you don’t know what’s worse: knowing they didn’t share that love or the years you watched them fake everything. They had ambitions, and to carry them out there needed to be an appearance of an united front. You took your father’s lead, knowing he always tried to have your best interest. The relationship you have with your mother often ebbing and flowing, especially since your marriage.

When you ravened your mother about your pregnancy troubles, she tells you that this is your responsibility to your husband. Harsh and utterly true. You don’t know if your father ever had indiscretions like Aemond, but you know she’d never plot the way you do. Her calculating nature showing up in different ways. Instead of going after him, she chose to focus on elevating you.

Her and Queen Alicent remind you of each other. Devoted to a fault. A victim who had no other choice but to fall in line.You pray for the both of them. Pray that they find peace with the sacrifices they’ve made. Pray that you never get that far. A shell of yourself. Duty, responsibility, cleaning up others’ messes - what a dull way to live.

“Once he’s out, I’m sure it will all be worth it,” says Ser Quinton, voice not wavering.

He’s trying to be kind, mentioning the working theory in the castle that you’re having a boy. You try to smile at the thought. It’s hard to believe that. Plan or not, you still have to know the truth about the father of your children. There is hole left in your heart about that. Him disrespecting you is one thing, but his words pertaining to your unborn child is another. A sudden spurt of anger rushes over you thinking about everything. It makes you stand abruptly.

“I’m feeling tired,” you watch as Daella pretend to stab her father with her sword. Her giggles ringing out when he reaches to pick her up. The dichotomy of Aemond Targaryen will always fascinate you as much as it terrifies you. How he manages to smile in her face, and lie to yours is quite a sight to watch. “I’ll send Margret out to get Daella.”

Waiting for the perfect moment is not going to work. There no time like the present.

The stiff upper lip of this family is something you noticed the moment you stepped into their presence. It’s seeped into the way they gatekeep a dying Viserys. Alicent is cold and collected in the most beautiful way. A sharp glittering icicle. A pretty rose littered with thorns to keep you admiring from a distance. Even Helaena, who you consider a friend, keeps certain things close to the chest. It’s better to keep the full truth away from her.

But there’s Aegon.

Pitiful, and lonely Prince Aegon. A drunk with a bad attitude. But he’s also the most painfully self-aware person you know. There will be times that you and him exchange looks, as you are in on the joke. That everything is a farce. One day someone will just come up and say it’s all been a bad dream. You think it’s the reason why he frustrates Aemond so much. The teasing on top of him never taking the Targaryen name seriously. Aegon spends his days trying to drink and fuck his way out of thinking about his life. Stuck in a royal cuckold. The first born son of a king with nothing to show for it.

He’s messy, nosy, and so openly brash. He’s your missing chess piece. The perfect pawn.

You leave the diary around places in the castle you know he will be. It’s not until you conveniently leave it in the play room where all Daella, Jaehaera, and Jaehaerys all frequent that you know he’s taken the bait. His lilac eyes seem to follow you whenever you two are in the same room. It takes days for him to confront you; book in hand and wry look on his face.

“Is it true? Everything you wrote?”

You stroke your belly while looking at him, a small smile on your face.

“Does it matter that if it is,” you tilt your head, and his eyes glitter with something you’re not used to seeing.

He mirrors your head tilt with a full blown smile on his face this time. It’s like a bright light after weeks of darkness. A person who also sees through the bullshit that enraptures once you call yourself a Targaryen.

“I greatly underestimated you my good sister,” he whispers. You know he’s thinking about his own words. ‘Pretty but horribly dull’.

“That’s fine,” you motion to the seat next to you. “You can make it up to me.”

Queen Alicent stands facing the fire. Aegon, Helaena, and Ser Quinton off to the side. All of them standing across from where you sit. Aegon gives you a knowing look while Quinton’s eyes are filled with pity and anger. Pity for his princess, anger towards his prince. Helaena looks like she wants to say something.

“I… do not know what to say,” her voice is strained with pain. You know this hurts for her. The image of the perfect son being destroyed. The pedestal she put him on crumbling before him.

You’ve gotten better at crying after Aegon told you tears will be necessary to sell it. It’s an automatic response now. The perfectly timed emotion that breaks like flood gates when Alicent holds out the diary. You say you’re embarrassed. That you never meant for anyone to read it, especially not anyone in the family. Aegon gets to be the concerned good brother. He rubbed your back, while his mother called for Helaena. She needed to know who else knew about this.

“I can say what everyone is thinking,” Aegon pipes up. “He’s a fucking cunt.”

“Aegon.”

His mother turns to glare at him, but it doesn’t deter him.

“Walking around with that self righteousness just to fuck a Strong,” he scoffs. “Calling his child a mistake?”

The words makes Alicent sigh, and squeeze her eyes shut. Helaena continues to play with her fingers with a quizzical look in her eye. If Aegon of all people can judge, the actions must be bad.

“This all my fault,” you decide to take it up a notch. Your breath catches. “I must’ve done something to deserve this.”

“Oh my sweet girl,” Alicent walks over and sits next to you, pulling you into her chest. “None of this is your fault.

“I just don’t know what I did to deserve this,” you continue. That part is true; what the seven hells did you do to deserve this marriage? “This, and the baby, and missing my family. I’m just so unhappy here.”

Alicent strokes your hair. You can feel her heart thumping in her chest. You can tell she’s upset and scared. Scared for what your unhappiness means. You’re a risk now.

“Maybe… my father can come and visit. He hasn’t been here since Daella was born.”

After you got married, your parents left court to tend to your house. They felt their work was done. That the marriage was as far as their political ambitions can go. They visit from time to time to see their granddaughter but normally you’re the one who has to make the trip.

“Of course,” you can see the wheels turning in her head. “I’m sure the Hand would love to pick his brain on some things. Your father has always been so kind and helpful”

Queen Alicent is as predictable as she is smart. Your dad thought your marriage would help him get a seat in the small council. When no offer came, his ego was bruised. If your marriage couldn’t, maybe a desperate Alicent can. The idea of sending a raven about the news makes you have to bite back a smile. An ally in an castle full of strangers.

“I’ll speak to Aemond about this,” she nods to herself. “You don’t need to be worrying about this in your condition.”

The disappointment is clear in smooth voice. Before you can reply with a thank you, Helaena finally piped up.

“A baby’s green eyes spurs brighter skies.”

She mutters it before looks at you curious. You look down at your swollen belly, feeling confused. Neither Aemond or you have green eyes. You try to push the sinking feeling out of your stomach. Even Aegon, who normally ignores Helaena’s cryptic language, has perked up a little.

You take a look at Ser Quinton… his eyes as green as spring grass.

Ok this is my first one doing a tag list, so I’m sorry for those I’ve missed. It only let me do 50??? Idk it’s it’s different on desktop or I’m doing something wrong. Hopefully I can find a more conducive way for this. I also only tagged people who specifically asked: @afro-hispwriter @crispmarshmallow @unabashedlyswimmingtimemachine @its-sam-allgood @lol-im-done @grey-water-colors @sassysaxsolo @justsumstufff @lilithskywalker @dc-marvel-girl96 @bekky06 @claudie-080102 @cloudroomblog @shelbythequeen @crazylokonugget @solacestyles @instantpeachpeace @katyadenauer @nsainmoonchild @deeeeexx @iwanttohitmyself @rosa-berberifolia @noisyinfluencerstrawberry @princessmiaelicia @bregarc @castellomargot @thesadvampire @chaosmagiq @icarusignite @happinessinthebeing @flavorofsalt @wishfulwithwine @slut-for-eddie-munson @rosaryos @mistalli @inana-mm @winxschester @papery-maniac @nolongereviliwantlove @fultimefangirl @missusnora @skinmittensgoblin @duckworthbean @b00kdiary @chiyausu @alexandra-001 @tachibubu @juneisreading @mariaelizabeth21-blog1 @verycollectivecreator

#aemond x oc #hotd imagine #my writing #sorry for the delay.. the tagging kicked my butt 😭#also if there’s typos I’m sorry 💀💀#also sorry for once again leaving it ambiguous… couldn’t help myself #aemond targaryen x reader #black!reader #aemond x reader #aemond targaryen imagine #Aemond targaryen

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petit-etoile · 7 months

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chaos construct

pairing: astarion/tav wordcount: 4869 content warnings: no in-depth descriptions, but mentions of astarion's life with cazador. no in-depth descriptions, but durge!tav remembers torture by kressa and is haunted by memories of orin (unnamed), other tags: canon compliant, hurt/comfort, introspection, character study, codependency, blood drinking, gender neutral tav, the dark urge as player character archiveofourown: here. kiss prompt: ❛ 28 . a kiss over a scar . — here.

tag list: @azrielshadows1nger, @pandimoostuff, @faevi, @microskies, @foreverthemaraudersera, @queenofthespacesquids, @claryvoyantfray, @6doodlaang14, @anne-isnotokay, @itshimbotime, be added to the taglist here

summary: ‘It will be rotten work,’ you say softly. / ‘Not for me,’ Astarion promises. ‘I will relish in it.’

　　　　　　𝐈. ﹕previous fic　　　　𝐈𝐈. ﹕next

You lean forward and look into the mirror. You take your time analyzing each and every inch of your unfamiliar reflection. Carefully, you trace the tip of your finger along the thousands upon thousands of thin white lines forever painted into your flesh. You follow the carvings from your bruised lips down between your swollen collar bones until you can no longer follow them. You slip your night shirt over your head and drop it aside unceremoniously, bracing yourself. Your eyes burn dangerously.

There.

Unrestricted by the burden of clothing, you can see it all clearly now.

You touch the scars that Kressa Bonedaughter gave you with violent, shaking hands. In truth, you’re not surprised you’ve never noticed them before. They’re practically translucent but they are there, and you can see them now, and no matter how many times you scrub at your skin to remove them, they will never be gone. You try to rub them away but all it does is make your skin irritated and sensitive.

In the sunlight, your scars are easier to find now that you know what you’re looking for. I wanted to keep you for myself, she had said, I opened you up endlessly with my scalpels, and got lost in your insides. Disgust causes your stomach to churn. Your dreams come back to haunt you. The piles of bodies. A flash of red hair and dead eyes. Knowing, somehow, what to do when Sovereign Spaw demanded Nere’s head. You were the butcher of Baldur’s Gate.

You push your fingers against your mouth and sob hysterically. The truth will always be a part of you now: The Urges, the scars, the pounding headaches, the feeling of possession. It’s horrible and bloody and repugnant and worst of all, real.

There is nothing you can do to take away what you’ve done or what you will do.

It frightens you.

You whip around accusatorially. Astarion doesn’t mean to startle you but the look on his face says he’s been trying to get your attention for a while. You snuck away from camp a while ago to sit in front of this old magical mirror, and he must’ve waited as long as he could before the worry over your disappearance overcame him. He joins your side wordlessly, but he doesn’t look at you directly. He watches you through the mirror with muted fascination, torn between sorrow, between mourning . His expression is so twisted that you almost feel like reassuring him that everything is going to be okay. But you don’t know. You don’t know if you’ll be just fine. You can’t find the words.

You feel very silly all of a sudden.

You do your best to wipe your fingers across your face, smudging your tears down your cheeks and across into your hair. You wipe your hands on your pants and try to calm your shuddering breaths but it’s almost impossible. The air around you is too hot and too cold, and you can’t tell if Astarion is looking at you with pity because you disgust him or if he’s looking at you because he thinks he has to comfort you.

You never asked for this. You never desired the truth of what you were. You wanted it to disappear before anything became real. You turn away from him, trying to force your expression into something more neutral. All you can see is imaginary blood on your hands. You put your face in your hands and hiccup.

‘Don’t you dare hide,’ Astarion says. ‘Not from me.’

He’s gotten touchier since the day he confessed to you. Despite how hurt you had felt at some of the truth, you held him throughout the night until you had fallen asleep first, and when you had woken up, Astarion had still been curled in your grip without you ever having to beg him to stay. Now, he’s the one sliding his fingers across your shoulders so that he can hold you ever so gently in his arms. He presses his face into your hair. His grip is loose enough that you could run away if you wanted to, but you don’t — you never want to and you don’t think you ever will. You want to be comforted.

‘Talk to me, please,’ he says, voice strained.

‘What is there to talk about?’ you ask hollowly.

Astarion clicks his tongue against his teeth behind you and presses a tender kiss to the top knob of your spine, his breath warm against your chilled skin. You want to melt back into his touch, but the fear has caused your body to remain rigid. You wait for another headache to overtake you.

‘There is plenty to talk about,’ Astarion insists. He’s trying to not pester you, but patience isn’t a strong suit of his. ‘What are you thinking, my love? What are you feeling?’

You feel sick. ‘I’m a monster.’

‘Ironic,’ he quips.

‘You said it yourself,’ you say thickly. ‘You said that there are more stories about Bhaalspawn in Baldur’s Gate than there are vampires. Who knows what I’ve done, and I can’t even remember it all.’

His thin patience finally snaps. ‘Oh, stop it. If you want to be some terrible and frightening thing, so be it. Be a beast! But remember who you are talking to. You don’t get to sulk and mope and pout.’ He sounds resigned. ‘You don’t get to be worse without me and I don’t get to be better without you. It is our deal. Never one without the other.’

‘I almost killed you that night — ’

Astarion bites you, very gently, on the shoulder. ‘I almost did the same to you,’ he warns. ‘This isn’t a competition, you know. I don’t care about what has happened. I’m more interested in the future.’

You almost feel insulated with how blasé he is being about your recent discoveries. You dig your fingers into your own arms and try to formulate your thoughts carefully, but even you can feel how you’re trembling. Carefully, you lean back into his chest with an overwhelmed sigh and let him pamper you. You don’t have to look to know that he’s watching you in the mirror. Astarion is determined to rub warmth back into your body, and you let his calloused hands roam without complaint. Somehow, you’re relieved he still wants to touch you.

All at once, you feel very tired. You’ve tried hard to not allow yourself to feel overwhelmed ever since the crash but it has been weeks and weeks of nothing but bad news. The more you learn, the more exhausted you feel, and the despair has bundled itself like a painful fracture in your ribcage. It hurts to breathe.

Every day you wonder how much further you’ll be drug down into the undergrowth. Elder brains, Bhaalspawn, avatars of gods and their whims… Astarion presses a sore bruise against your side and catches the side of your head with his mouth, delicately kissing the curve of your ear while you flinch away from his touch. You peer at him anxiously.

‘I still remember what it felt like when I awoke,’ Astarion explains quietly. ‘My fingers ached from the digging, and I had cried myself to the point where I must have looked undesirable when I finally rose above my grave. Snot, tears, mud and gore from my change clinging to my skin. But unlike you, I could not see what I looked like. I had to wonder for years if my hair looked different or if my eyes had changed color. I knew they had, but I wanted to deny it, to deny him what he had made me. I knew I was a monster and I let that fear paralyze me for centuries.

‘I was a toy for when Cazador was bored. I was a weapon for when he needed blood. I was a creature for when he desired humiliation. Being nothing more than a spawn turned me into something almost unrecognizable. As horrible as the nautiloid was, as vile as this parasite is, I can’t help but feel as though it was somehow a blessing. I could have stayed angry. I could have betrayed you, stolen the other tadpoles and ran away into the night with nothing but power on my mind. But the nautiloid gave me something I never thought I would be allowed to have in this world. It gave me you, and I cannot lose you now. Do you understand?

‘You do not have to be a toy. You do not have to be a weapon. You do not have to be a creature. You know who you are now, and that is what matters in this world. I did not betray you then and I will not betray you now, so you must stay with me, my love. You mustn’t go somewhere I cannot follow you. You and I can beat this together so long as you believe in us .

‘I wish it were different for you, of course,’ he continues, and his tone is so anguished your heart squeezes itself into impossible shapes. ‘I wish I could sweep my hand across your belly and these scars would fade, but more than that, I want — I want you to realize you are alive , that these scars are reminders of who you were, but not of who you will be.’ Astarion digs his fingers into your flesh and you watch your skin against his, as he drags his hand across one of the more obvious scars that Kressa had left you. ‘If you wish to tear this world asunder, I am your weapon. If you wish to preserve it, I am its guardian.’

Astarion’s hand leaves your waist to grip your chin, forcing you to look at your own reflection. His thumb cradles your bottom lip and his other fingers splay against your cheek and jaw. He is protecting you from yourself better than your Guardian ever could. What he sees when he looks at you is not the wretched blood you’ve been cursed to bear, but the person you have become since forgetting. Even if your memories were to come in all at once tomorrow, Astarion would not care. If your urges became too much to ignore, he would not care.

You turn your head to force your eyes to meet his. You realize with a frightening hunger that you love him. You love him, and he loves you truly, and this was always meant to happen.

‘If you are to become Death, allow me to be your Dark Consort,’ Astarion whispers.

You swallow. ‘What if I want to be Life and create a new world in my image?’

‘I am your Arbiter of Souls,’ he vows, ‘and I will taste your ripe seed to see your fruit bloom.’

You feel the rush of heat sliding from your stomach into your cheeks before he even finishes. After all, everything you have done has led up to this. Your unyielding devotion. His unwavering faith. Admittedly, it’s an enticing thought. That you, in all your power, could rise to godhood as though it were nothing and slaughter the old pantheon as though they were nothing. Astarion would be there by your side to bask in the glory of your immortality.

You’re so very tempted…

And Astarion only serves to tempt you further. He begins to take in every single one of your scars like you had before, only with his mouth instead of his hands, tracing the pale lines with plentiful kisses and his tongue. He mouths at your flesh as though he has never tasted your skin before, but he has, and you know he has. Even after all this time, he still favors your taste more than anything else.

Are you hungry? You can tell that it’s been a while for him from the way his hands flex with care to avoid bruising you. His hand grabs your throat again, his thumb pressed uncomfortably under your jaw. He shows great restraint with how he handles you. You could offer, but the words are caught in your throat. Are you hungry? Your eyes flutter closed and you imagine what the world would be like if Astarion drank you dry and replaced your blood with his until the curse of you is gone and the curse of him begins. Are you hungry? You try to push the thoughts away.

Ravenous, you think.

There’s something different in the air tonight.

It’s almost soothing the way that Astarion feeds on your agony. It’s as though he means to eat your desperation, to pull it from your muscles until there’s nothing left to eat. He busies himself in your body, drunk on how you’re malleable for him, intoxicated by the way you give into his whims as he twists and turns your body to look at the different scarring in the light of day. He doesn’t seem to care about anything else rather than appraising your body like a priest who intends on making a relic based on your physique.

And, if you’re being painfully honest, his touch is a welcome distraction from how overwhelmed you felt when you were alone. You did the same thing to him once, constantly poking and prodding about his vampirism. You remember his infinite patience. Astarion had tolerated the way you stuck your fingers in his mouth, spurned on only because he let you press your fingers against his teeth without complaint. He savored the way you apologized for pricking your finger on his canine just because you wanted to see what it would take to make that restraint snap.

Astarion runs his hands down your sides and memorizes every single line left in your flesh. You watch as he grinds his teeth to keep from doing anything impulsive. He desires you so distinctively. If you were to look, you would recognize how glazed over his eyes were and what that meant. He’s trying for you.

‘What if you grow tired of taking care of your Messiah?’ you ask to divert his attention from your throat.

‘What kind of Disciple would grow tired of their Purpose?’ Astarion counters easily. He raises his chin defiantly. ‘I would never grow tired of the God I chose.’

You would have been skeptical before, but Astarion seems intent on making you a believer of your own regime. For a brief moment, you think you ought to be concerned that this is another manipulation — an unapologetic grab for power at your expense. You know better.

Astarion is building a shrine between your ribs, in your marrow and in your sinew. With his loving hands, he shapes you into the Temple of Bhaal anew. Your only task is to dethrone your father and take back the autonomy which ought to have been yours from the beginning. Like the Nightsong from Balthazar. Like Isobel from Ketheric. Like a lamb at a slaughter.

Your flesh is the bread and your blood the wine and Astarion is the most devout of your followers. Not because you saved him for perdition or because you tore apart the hells to save him while he rotted in his grave, but because of the life you have given him in the aftermath of his misery. You are the taste of freedom he so eagerly covets. You are the miracle he has yearned for ever since he pressed you into the leaves in the wilds that first night. You were his from the first taste.

‘It will be rotten work,’ you say softly.

‘Not for me,’ Astarion promises. ‘I will relish in it.’

‘For how long?’

‘For however long it takes,’ he says, and he means it. There’s no coy playfulness behind his words, only the intent itself. ‘I can be devout, you know. I will wash your feet and your hair, and write a scripture so beautiful even the Lady of Loss would be jealous of the devotion.’

Before, you might have considered these promises one of Astarion’s wild whims. One of his techniques used to draw in the unsuspecting, but you have always been something more than a rabbit for the fox to chase. The underlying hum in his voice is the power of the covenant he preaches. These might have been words months ago, but not to you, never to you. This is as sincere as Astarion can be. A genuine oath that rivals the words of a paladin’s honor. He lays his lust bare in your chest.

You slide to your knees with Astarion kneeling behind you. He grabs you by the throat again, and though he tries to be as gentle as he can, you can’t help but gasp at the roughness. He forces you to look at yourself, to look beyond the scars and at the future ahead of you.

You lean into his touch. He’ll never fully understand why, and that’s okay with you. For now, this is enough to keep you content. His hand around your neck, his other tracing every scar you’ve ever received, not even pausing over the recent scrapes and bruises from the battle with Ketheric in the very depths of your personal hell. Astarion has a touch that slowly consumes you — that devours you until there is nothing left. You tilt your head back against his shoulder and allow him to witness everything you have to offer.

Damn the hells.

Damn the heavens.

Damn everything beyond.

Astarion does not believe in gods. He does not believe in the kindness of men. If anyone else were to offer him a gentle hand, he would flinch away from the touch in disgust. But it is your hand that is outstretched and he takes it willingly in a marriage of trust. Now your soul rests alongside his, trapped in a cage of your making, as beautiful as a prized canary to be kept in a gilded manse. Together is where you belong.

‘Are we sinning?’ you ask.

He hums in consideration, and strokes your pulse absentmindedly. He bites at your neck again without breaking the skin and inhales. You close your eyes and know the truth.

‘I’m afraid this time we are, my love,’ Astarion confesses. ‘We are passionate heretics, you and I. No other word is as sacred as the one we have to seek to build.’

‘What will become of us?’ you ask.

He laughs against your skin and nuzzles into it. His breath tickles your skin and causes it to rise. Without thinking, he bites down on your shoulder again and groans when you cry softly.

‘What does it matter?’ he murmurs. ‘All we have in the world is us. Let them come.’

‘Are we sinners?’

‘Oh, yes,’ he admits. ‘I’ve been a sinner for quite some time. Did you know — Did you know your blood sings for me?’

‘Drink from me,’ you say. ‘A good consort should be strong at all times. Are you weak, Astarion?’

You feel his grin.

‘I am frail, indisposed, feeble without you,’ he says. ‘I am nothing if you are not by my side.’

‘You should say it again.’

‘Why, you’re being cheeky,’ Astarion laughs. He bites you with intent this time and draws blood. You look at yourself, at the heat in your cheeks. ‘I — am — nothing — without — you.’

There is nothing more you desire than being consumed. It’s different now. You might have sought Astarion’s warmth once before, but now you seek for something else underneath his practiced exterior. You are the illithid parasite on a hunt of sustenance, and you choose the way he mouths at your skin.

‘Now,’ he muses, ‘let me worship at your altar.’

Instead of biting down into your skin to continue to feed, he trails a line of kisses across your back and the edge of your neck. Over and over, he follows a path with his fingers first and followed by his mouth as if kissing the scars will cause them to fade into oblivion. It’s such a contrast to your conversation you don’t know where to begin. This is the intimacy Astarion chooses to show you.

Nothing else matters.

Baldur’s Gate does not matter. The Elder Brain does not matter. There is only one thing that Astarion seeks. Your happiness and comfort, and Astarion hunts for them with every kiss and thoughtful touch that the dedication makes you feel as though you’re fit to burst. No one has ever done that for you, not in this lifetime and the lifetime of whoever you were before . Your hands were calloused and for murder, not for love. You keep reaching for it.

What is love if not these selfish, unholy desires? When you close your eyes to dream, you imagine Astarion and his silver-white hair over you haloed by intense divinity, his cerise gaze unwavering, this intense loyalty, his practiced laughter and the gentle lines of laughter around his eyes. These dreams drown out the nightmares and the fear. Sceleritas Fel cannot take that from you.

You will not let Bhaal win.

Cazador made Astarion with the purpose of creating a lamb for the slaughter. Bhaal created you as the knife to be used in sacrifice. You would make them both pay for this betrayal of innocence. They have twisted you into something unrecognizable. Astarion might have bit out your throat once upon a time, but now he kisses the back of your hand and watches your expression carefully for any sign of discomfort. You have reminded him of the man he could have been.

‘I do not want you to hate yourself like I have hated myself,’ Astarion tells you, eyes troubled. ‘That isn’t to say you cannot grieve, but you mustn’t become lost. I need you here with me.’

‘You’re not afraid of me, are you?’ you ask. ‘Even though I…’

‘I will never be afraid of you,’ he vows, ‘but to be afraid for you, to worry…’

‘There are still things I want to do,’ you tell him.

You think of the red-haired woman who stood next to Gortash and Ketheric, and something about her causes the tadpole to move uncomfortably in your skull. You flinch at it and press your palm against your eye as if that will stop it. You remember something , but it’s hard to think, hard to follow.

Astarion smoothes his hands down your sides and rests them on your hips, peering over your shoulder at something you cannot see. You watch the worry slowly leave his face until there’s nothing left but smooth acceptance, as if he too is coming to terms with what it means now that the truth of what you are has come into play.

Bhaalspawn.

Not just a spawn, but the favored child of Bhaal, inheritor of the throne of murder.

Underneath that mask, you are still you. The person you have created who is kind, who laughs and plays with tiefling children, who steals stuffed animals to give as gifts to Karlach and encourages Lae’zel to find the truth of Orpheus, who stood with Shadowheart before the Nightsong and encouraged her to choose her own fate, who willingly wades through the depravity of a mindflayer den to find Wyll’s father, who does not want to be another mistake for Jaheira to clean up, who wants to mend broken bones with Halsin, who wants to drink wine with Gale and listen to his stories of Tara.

The person you are now knows not the designs your father had in store. You are innocence reborn and safe from his defiled image. You cannot remember the cruelties of your past, and though you know that doesn’t erase them, it does bring a mild relief. The only proof you have of your sickness are the nightmares that plague you on the nights when your love is not enough of a salvation.

Astarion is devoted to you, as you are to him, as you always have been. You lean into his arms and allow him to kiss the back of your wrist before he embraces you once more, tucking his eyes against your neck so that he no longer has to bear the burden of understanding his reflection will never appear next to yours, no matter how hard you both seek it in the magic mirror. Your throat tightens painfully.

‘Thank you,’ you tell him softly.

‘I couldn’t leave you to your despair alone,’ Astarion says with a hopeless shrug. ‘The thought of you suffering the same as I… I brooded over my own existence for two hundred years with no one to comfort me.’ He mourns carefully. ‘I couldn’t let that happen again. Not to you.’

He takes your hand in his and presses on your knuckles, forcing your fingers to flex against their will. He turns your palm over in hand and stares at the callouses. It's as though he’s admiring a cat, your nails now your claws, his thumb massaging the tension in your palm so your fingers tremble slightly.

‘I’d have let it happen to Gale,’ he says off-handedly. You snort. ‘But not to you,’ he clarifies, dropping your hand and kissing your cheek. ‘I love you too much.’

He always says I love you so painstakingly soft as if it’s the first time he’s ever uttered the words. And with the proper meaning, you know it is. Astarion’s love is a slow molten fire that covers everything. It could be destructive if you let it, but you build with it and twist underneath the heat to forge something greater. Everything is so intense between you as if a chord pulled taut. The littlest bump sends it vibrating and you get lost in the sensation. You want him to say it again.

‘I love you,’ Astarion says, voice ravaged. ‘Whether you are pious or irreligious.’

You think of him as a pioneer of a new religion. He distracts you with the gentlest of kisses against the tip of your ear.

‘Are we sinning?’ you ask again.

‘We are sinning deliciously,’ he tells you sincerely.

You would be a liar if you pretended like it didn’t excite you. You have a chance to hold a new world in the palm of your hands with an executioner by your side. You make your decision — If there is to be a God of Creation, you would remake the world in your image. Jergal would rise back from obscurity, no longer embarrassed by his despised successors. You see a flash of red hair and chase it through the darkness, no longer afraid.

‘Drink,’ you whisper to him. ‘I want you to.’

Astarion tilts your chin to the side and bites down onto your neck with great care. It always hurts when he penetrates you for the first time, but by now, he’s learned to not be such a messy eater. These are the new scars that you accept. This is the person you seek to become. You close your eyes and relax into the feeling of sharp teeth and spit, and it’s like he sucks the venom from your veins. You float weightlessly as he seeks his fill.

He plucks your fruit easily with the prettiest of hands. Astarion swipes the goodness of you and brushes it against his lips, tasting it with the tip of his tongue and shivering at the flavor. He treats every time he feeds from you as if it is the first time. He savors your blood, is made man by your blood, until the pale red glow in his eyes fades into something more human . These eyes are the eyes that belong to your angel of death. You welcome it.

There are still battles to come, but you no longer feel as overwhelmed as you had this morning when you awoke with sickness in your stomach and your friends staring at you in a cautious, distant manner. There is now semblance of hope burrowed in your chest where your heart once was.

You say, ‘I want you to be there when I make a new kingdom.’

It means:

At the end of the world, it will be you and me and our memories, our friends and allies, our souls. You twine your fingers with his and let him manipulate you so that you’re facing one another. You no longer seek the mirror for encouragement.

It would not matter if it was this year or in one hundred years. The only certainty in life is that this was what you wanted. Astarion’s honest eyes and searching hands. You could turn into a mindflayer tomorrow and your last thought would not be of your doom and terror, but of this delicate flower you hold in your palms. It has sprouted from nothing with only tears as encouragement, and now it is your turn to be buried, to transform into something beyond your recognition. Only, when you dig your way through layers of dirt and brick, you would not be greeted by nothingness.

Astarion kisses you once, his mouth so tender it’s almost heartbreaking, and then again. He grazes your bottom lip with his teeth and bumps his nose with yours affectionately, murmuring, ‘Yes, my God of Murder.’

#astarion #astarion ancunin #astarion bg3 #astarion x tav #astarion x reader #astarion x you #astarion x oc #from ，carcosa .#my fic #* basorexia

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chubs-deuce · 3 months

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I think I also saw a post explaining that if a ship in the fandom got too popular, the network producers would try and force that ship to become canon.

It's like, I love Charlastor, but I really don't want it to be canon. I feel like non canon ships are more fun!

yeah!!! 100% agreed, and I despise it when producers actually let that happen too :/ Glaring very hard at the grossly entitled people a good while back to tried to sway their preferred ship into canonicity by doing petitions....

I wouldn't want charlastor to be canon tbh.

It's, frankly, wild to me that so many people even equate shipping to exclusively mean "to root for two or more characters to get romantically involved in the source material", and any exploration of dynamics beyond that is then frowned upon, shamed or invalidated.

To an unfortunately large amount of people, shipping is little more than a popularity contest :')

To me, a huge part of the appeal in shipping is that it's a means to explore interpersonal character dynamics from a piece of media in ways we don't necessarily see happen in canon.

I LOVE non-canon ships for the fact that they leave us with SO much creative freedom! [more in-depth thoughts + what appeals to me about charlastor under the cut]

It allows us to hypothesize and experiment in-depth with how these characters would find their way from one type of dynamic into a different direction in so many different ways, without canon to give us one solid path to stick to.

One trope I'm very fond of in fanfiction in particular has always been slowburn with a touch of mutual pining - when a dynamic is truly given room to breathe and naturally grow into different directions and REALLY digs into the involved characters, it enables the authors to thoroughly lay out why and how their feelings change, what affected them in the process and how/when they eventually choose to act on them!

Character analysis is my bread and butter, so if a dynamic strikes my interest it's almost always because it has something unique about it far beyond just wanting to see them all lovey-dovey bc it's cute (though that can be part of it lol).

Charlie and Alastor as a combination are so intriguing to me because they're in many ways polar opposites, but simultaneously also have just enough similarities to leave a lot of potential for a genuine bond.

They combine the most conniving, manipulative, steadfastly and proudly immoral person with someone whose good intentions color absolutely everything she does, who also has the willpower and moral code to see it through.

They're like a forbidden, alluring dance, endlessly circling in each other's gravitational pull - which parts of them will prevail? Who will inevitably buckle to the other's influence first? What draws them in? What drives them apart?

I love watching Alastor's masterfully crafted plans get absolutely thwarted because he can't get a consistent read on her - a being who's - by her very nature of being part demon and part angel - a bundle of contradictions.

I'm also extremely fond of Charlie 100% seeing through him every step of the way and still keeping him around - regardless of his motivations, he is a vital, helpful part of the hotel, and she won't give up on trying to win him over for her cause in earnest.

There are very few things as funny to me as the idea of Alastor -master manipulator - being so far up his own ego, obsessing over getting a figurative hold over this fascinating and yet frustrating princess, that it takes forever for him to realize he's the one being used all along, expertly playing right into her cards.

Simultaneously, there's so many other ways to write them!!! It's just so damn fun to explore all of the what-ifs.

#there's more I could say abt all this but the post is long enough lmfaoo #charlastor #radiobelle #shipping #chubs answers #long post

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wutheringmights · 15 days

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I finished rereading The Song of the Lioness quartet by Tamora Pierce a couple of days back. I already talked about the first book in a post that garnered more attention than it deserved. I guess we were all happily reminiscing about the menstruation scenes together, or Tortall fans are so starved for content they (we) will reblog anything.(Understandable. I too am starved for a thriving Tortall fandom.)

I'm too lazy to make separate posts about each book, so we're just going to do a mega post covering the second, third, and fourth book.

Unlike last time, I will be giving a little criticism to this series. I still love it endlessly, but there were a few things about the prose I thought was interesting that I want to talk about a bit.

So, without further ado~

In the Hand of the Goddess

I think this one is my favorite one, despite how rushed the plot it. It contains all of my favorite plot points, like awkward romances with George and Jon, attending knight lessons, and a little summer war. Fun stuff.

But it definitely feels rushed. I really wish someone told Pierce to make this a 12 book series, expanding on Alanna's years at the castle. It would have gone so far to better develop the romances and the friendships in these books.

I am fascinated by what Pierce chose to skim over. Characters would die or kiss for the first time off screen, with the prose resuming with Alanna reacting to it. It demonstrates an understanding of character work that I personally adore and try to emulate in my own writing-- the real bones of a story being in how characters respond to fantastic events as opposed to the fantastic events themselves.

Also, the whole veil spell Roger cast in objectively stupid, and I mean that in the most affectionate way possible. You're telling me that Roger used magic to make Alanna lose interest in doing anything about the obviously evil things he was doing? That's fucking hilarious. You know an editor came back to Pierce and asked her to come up with a reason why Alanna wasn't just going to spring into action at the first sign of Roger trying to kill her, only for Pierce to come up with this. It's so silly. I love it.

Woman Who Rides Like A Man

Did this book age poorly? Yes, but not as badly as I remembered. That's not a stirring defense, and it's really not meant to be.

The Bahzir are a mess of Orientalism, and Pierce definitely deserves criticism for not only the way she wrote them but for the ways in which she frames their cultural practices as something that needs to be fixed. Having Alanna want to force them to change their culture to suit her beliefs is not a great look for both the character and the writer. And that's not even getting into the whole assimilation plotline.

But I did enjoy Pierce's attempts to expand on the definition of womanhood, especially as a part of Alanna learning to embrace femininity. There is this running thread in these last two books of Alanna learning about all the different ways to be a woman and choosing for herself what her gender means to her. It's not done particularly well, and anyone looking for a revolutionary examination of gender roles and identity is going to be sorely disappointed. But there's an attempt here that I can't help but appreciate.

This book is also where Pierce starts to slow the plot down, which lends it to having the most reasonable pacing out of the bunch. That being said, it's also the book where the lack of development for a bunch of the side characters start to hurt. I really wish Gary or Raoul joined Alanna in the desert. Raoul gets his moment in the sun with the Protector of the Small books, but Gary remains largely forgettable. In fact, I spent this entire read-through convinced this man dies at the end of the last book, if only because I can't remember where he appears in any of the other books.

Lioness Rampant

This book somehow has the improved pacing of the third book while still feeling rushed. The quest for the Dominion Jewel really should have been it's own book, if only to give Thayet and Buri more room for development. Thayet in particular really needs her moment to shine, especially when she continues to be an important character in the other series.

But do you know who did get a lot of screen time? Liam.

Remembered shit about this guy before going into this book. I could only vaguely recalled disliking him as a kid, but not as much as I venomously hated Jon. (Speaking of which-- I love the way this man is realistically shitty. Him getting dumped by Alanna is always my favorite scene.) But Liam? Fuck that guy. Holy shit. I give full applause to Pierce for portraying the important milestones every girl goes through growing up, which includes having a situationship that is so shitty that it becomes essential character development.

Roger's return feels very... cheesy? I think Alex should have stepped up to be the final villain on the story. Unlike Roger, Alex was Alanna's friend. They have history. The betrayal would have imbued that final fight with so many more emotions than it ultimately had. I also would have liked Alanna to have at least meaningfully talked to Alex sometime before the climax.

Honestly, it's impressive how reactive Alanna is as a character in the last half of the book. She doesn't seek out how to stop Roger's plan, or fix Thom, or anything. Other characters make plans and she just... waits for something to go wrong.

That being said, by virtue of Alanna's relationships with George, Liam, and Jon all happening sometime in this plot, this book becomes a good place to look to get the full berth of how Pierce handles romances. Which, I love her approach. The romances are never over the top or, for lack of a better word, too romantic. It's very down to earth, with characters dating, marrying, or breaking up for realistic reasons.

Jon and Alanna were friends who broke up because they had different life plans. Liam and Alanna broke up for having fundamentally different values. As much as I bitch about how shitty Jon and Liam are, they're not cartoonishly evil. They're just a little shitty the way most of your exes will be. Jon and Liam are men could find love with someone else. They just aren't suited for Alanna.

Meanwhile, the most romantic things George does are wait for her and be supportive. He doesn't fight or get territorial. He makes his feelings clear, then waits for Alanna's cues. Alanna definitely loves him, but she ends up with him in the end because their lifestyles and core beliefs meld together. There's no grand romantic gesture or whirlwind affairs. They are just a good pair.

I have read stories with far heavier focuses on romance, and none of those couples feel as perfect as Alanna and George. Those stories prioritize all the gooey moments over showing why the main couple should get together. For how little romantic interactions they have, you believe these two could have a successful marriage. Perfect stuff.

---

Over all, I really enjoyed rereading these books. For all my griping, I still love the story. I love Alanna. She's a character who is fundamental to my soul. No matter where I am in life, I will always want to open these books and find her again, to walk back into Tortall and join her on her quest to be a lady knight.

My copies of the series come with forewards from a previous edition. In one of them, Pierce wrote that this series started off as an adult fantasy story that was much darker and edgier. I need to know what that story looks like, what happened in it. Pierce can claim as she wants that she hardly remembers what it looks like, but I refuse to believe that. Release the unedited first draft, Pierce. I am begging you.

#it probably has on screen gay sex for thom and roger #anyway that's the alanna series. the library book i ordered is still not here yet so now I'm off to find another short-ish book to read #this book better come in before june or else i will lose it. i am putting off reading the illiad for this #me rambling #bookish #books and reading #books #bookblr #tortall #song of the lioness #tamora pierce #me reading

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thebibutterflyao3 · 1 year

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Marauders Fandom

We need to talk about Lily Evans.

The amount of misogyny directed at this character is truly mind-boggling and I think many of you are completely unaware you’re doing it. There are so many rich, in-depth characterizations of the male characters in the Marauders era because we accept that they are deeply flawed people. It’s because of these flaws that we identify with them, adore them, and can relate to them. These four idiots experience damaging trauma, homophobia, discrimination, and countless character building experiences that allow them to capture your imagination. Through fanfiction, we inflict numerous situations and create relationships that challenge logic, reality, and canon. It makes them powerful figures in our minds!

Now, let’s talk about the female Marauders era characters. Dorcas and Marlene are lesbians. Marlene is a Sirius-variant. Dorcas and Mary are Black. Lily is perfect in every way. Mary is stylish and popular. This is more or less the level of depth given to these characters in nearly every fic I’ve read that includes them. What a disgusting disservice to women.

Female characters can be written with just as many flaws, experience the same challenges, and deserve the opportunity to grow into the powerful figures they could be. The one that I feel is shafted the most often is Lily mother-fucking Evans. The witch who was at the top of her class, compared in canon to Hermione as a perfectionist and know-it-all muggle-born, who grew up with Petunia as an older sister, and Severus Snape as a best friend. You’re going to look me in the eyeballs and tell me this woman wasn’t complicated? She wasn’t flawed, traumatized, and intense? We’ve taken the rich characterization potential this character offered and given it to Regulus Black. The correlations that can be made between Regulus and Lily are wild, yet anyone who writes her as anything but sunshine and rainbows is accused of villainizing her.

News flash: Your misogyny is showing. Why do you expect Lily to be perfect? Because society expects women to be perfect. Why are male characters allowed to be flawed assholes? Because society allows and accepts men as flawed assholes, encourages it even.

I find it endlessly fascinating that I can write Regulus as a snarky, intense, anxious, and a complete prick with nothing but full support from the fandom because he’s “traumatized.” If I write Lily the same way? I’m “villainizing” her or you “hate her” for thinking she knows better than everyone else. Stop treating women like dolls. We are powerful individuals with the potential to brighten or destroy your whole fucking world. Don’t make the same mistake the patriarchy has and dismiss, undermine, and overlook women.

I know Lily Jane Evans (yes, I gave her a middle name because she fucking deserves one). I wrote a 430k+ deep dive into her childhood and upbringing, as well as all 7 years at Hogwarts. I explored her friendship with Snape, her family, and her relationship with James. I’ve done my research and I built her character from the ground up. Lily Evans is an anxious, intense, introvert who made Hogwarts her home and rose to the rank of Head Girl before she left. Sound like Percy Weasley to anyone? She’s certainly a compassionate, loving, and generous person too, but let her have flaws! Let her be annoying, feel inadequate, and fuck things up! Let her live!

If you want more fanfiction focused on female characters, stop pretending they are perfect. No one wants to write about perfect people. No one wants to read about them either. Let women be flawed assholes too. We can do both. We’re flexible like that.

#welcome to my ted talk #the marauders #lily evens #lily evans supremacy #marauders era #jily #harry potter #jegulus #starchaser #wolfstar #dorlene #marylily

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fizzigigsimmer · 4 months

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Fargo s5 Episode 8: Manipulation and Codependency.

I am UNWELL after this last episode. I have so many thoughts. What it says on the tin, this is just me processing my reaction to the latest episode so if you are not caught up, spoilers will be found within.

Let’s start with the lady of the hour. Miss Dot. Miss Dorthy Lyon 👏🏾 Put some respect on her name. This character is endlessly fascinating to me. She’s incredibly complex. Almost over powered in one sense, but also incredibly fragile. We’re seeing now in clearer detail what an accomplished manipulator Dot is. She’s not just a fighter. She’s not just hiding and masking her trauma. She is actively playing the people around her and moving them around a board in her mind. The same way Roy does. The same way anyone in a position of power does, honestly.

Roy and Loraine and people in general, we seek control over others out of a place of insecurity, in order to make ourselves feel safe in our little worlds. Survivors of abuse are particularly good at this, and it’s something I am so glad to see the narrative touching on. The media likes to paint victims with cinderella syndrome. They are often childlike innocent caricatures who are endlessly kind and pure in the face of unjustified cruelty, purely so that audiences will emotionally attach to them quickly and feel whatever amount of fear and revulsion the creator wants for the antagonist. But the reality for real people who suffer domestic violence and other forms of abuse is that they’re just people. They have the same potential for good and bad and selfishness, they developed unhealthy coping mechanisms and they learn to play the game just like everyone else. And when you live your life in fear, you have more incentive than most to get good fast at controlling your surroundings.

We see another example of this in Karen this episode. Roy’s current wife is no stranger to her husband’s violent temper and is very aware of the danger he represents. When he’s humiliated in spectacular fashion and likely to lose his election, there’s this palpable tension in the air as the family rides home. We know heads are going to roll, and from the look on Karen’s face so does she. When she first opened her mouth I was so scared for her. lol I wanted to reach through the screen and shake her, like “shut up! That man will kill you.” At first I thought she was being hopelessly naive, saying exactly all the wrong things to try and comfort Roy that were only pressing on the wound. BUT THEN! Then we watch her turn it on Dot. She calls her a curse, playing into Roy’s belief that there are scales to be balanced in order to make the world right again, and pointing out that all of this only happened when Dot came back. She basically says, Dot’s the reason you have bad luck not me. Go hurt her and not me. And then he does. It’s brilliant.

I was on the edge of my seat watching Dot desperately try and hang onto her world. Everything from her name down to who gets to remind Wayne to take his Lactaide medication, using anything and everything at her disposal to do it. When Roy isnt impressed by being reminded he married a child around his own son’s age - oh please, she had hair and her period so she wasn’t a child - she switches tactics quick as a whip and leans hard on Roy’s family man ideals. She relentlessly forces him to confront the contradictions in his actions by reminding him he is destroying a family. Finally, when that fails too she delivers a violent threat. You will do as I ask, or I’m going to hurt you. The writing here was so masterful. They are opposites. We’re rooting for her, and yet, they mirror each other. Dot has been using manipulation tactics she learned at the hands of her abusers to carefully curate a place where she feels safe, and now that it’s all crumbling around her she’s finally starting to see it for herself.

Her scene with Gator was particularly poignant. Because when he comes in, he’s subdued and we get the feeling that he’s there (whether he’s going to admit it or not) purely because he wants to see her. Her, the big sister who used to comfort him while he watched his father abuse his mother. Who then replaced his mother and became his father’s wife while his own mother seemingly abandoned him. The way she plays him in this scene is so heartbreaking to watch but also incredibly insightful. She knows why he’s here: because deep down he wanted to see her. She dances back and forth between playing on their buried bond ( “I didn’t tell the FBI anything” implying, she wouldn’t tell them anything that would hurt him) and plucking on his insecurities (you’re sloppy, you’re weak, you’re a fuck up and your daddy doesn’t love you).

But the biggest card that Dot tries to play is Linda. She tells Gator that she saw her and tries to bring him into her fantasy that Linda got out and has healed from her trauma. That she loves him and never meant to leave him, and that everything will be okay if he just helps her get out. She can take him to his mother and they can leave all of this behind him, and he can finally be free to be the person that deep down she knows he wants to be. And I just love the way this scene was played. Because while it is tempting to believe that Dot is purely just confused from the accident and the sleep deprivation, the music lets us know that more is going on here. We hear flutes, specifically those played by snake charmers. Gator is the snake, and Dot is hypnotizing him before our very eyes. This isn’t the first time Gator has been connected to snake imagery/symbolism either. When Dot decides to tell him why he’s not named Roy after his father, she likens him to a pale little lizard. @tdciago did an excellent post on some of the symbolism we’ve seen in the show thus far, and it really emphasis how often Gator is likened to or associated with snakes: His character bio compares him to the snake in the Garden. His LOL tattoo has forked tongues on the Ls. He's got a "Don't tread on me" flag featuring a snake in his room. He stopped at the Gas 'n Go to "drain the snake." He left an empty Slim Jim wrapper in Donny Ireland's evidence box, that looked like a shed snakeskin. He said that Munch came up "snake eyes."

And as much as Dot’s speech about Linda is about playing on his natural yearning for his mother, it’s also about them too. It’s about Dot. In a way, Dot is also saying that she’s sorry. She never meant to leave him alone. She loves him and she wants things to be alright. They can be if you just help me. Gator obviously wants to believe what Dot is saying is true all of it, but he’s not as dumb as everyone seems to think he is. He knows Dot lies to herself and to others and he calls her out on it. With a single line “You’re lying. You’ve never once in your life told the truth.” we’re left to wonder about all the lies Dot has had to tell over the years. First in order to survive on her own as a teenage runaway, then when she was taken in by the Tillmans, and again when Linda disappeared and she became Roy’s wife.

She told herself that Linda got out, that she was somewhere safe and free and building the life that she wanted. At first she used this lie not to have to face the reality of Roy, of her own likely end, maybe even to appease the twisted sense of guilt she would feel taking Linda’s place and in the light of Gator’s grief over his mother’s sudden absence. Later, she probably used this lie to give herself the courage to be her own Linda. To get out and make the life for herself that she deserved, even if it meant having to leave Gator behind. Even if he doesn’t understand all of the pieces, in his heart of hearts Gator knows his mother is never coming back. She’s either gone or dead, and either way she left him just like Dot did, and Dot is lying to herself.

“I hope you die in here Nadine and that you never see your kid again.” Because that would be justice in his eyes. That would balance the scales. Because he’s never getting out, so why should she?

“No you don’t.” And it’s true. She knows him. Knows he wouldn’t even be here if he weren’t soft. She gave him an opportunity. This was Gator’s crossroad and he chose to stay his course, and the looming figure of Munch reinforces the message that Officer Witt Later delivers, the consequences for Gator are almost here.

Dot too is approaching a crossroad. Because as the episode progresses she is forced to finally confront one of the lies she’s been telling herself for years. Linda is dead. She never made it out. She’s buried under the windmill with Roy’s other enemies. This is not the first time that Dot has seen this windmill, because it was also in her dream about Linda. I would not be surprised if all of Roy’s wives did not witness a body going into that ground at some point or another because of how Karen was so quick to redirect Roy’s rage to Dot. They’re on different sides of the line but they are both fighting for the same thing. To be with their children and not to end up rolled into an early grave.

#fargo spoilers #fargo season 5 #fargo reaction #gator tillman #dot lyon #roy tillman

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anna-scribbles · 3 months

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can you share some of your writing/planning process for thirteen? i adore the non-linear format - how do you decide what scenes to put where?

ahh thank you!! idk how much of a defined process I have, but there's definitely a lot of planning that goes into it and i can show you some of that.

i keep all the chapters in one doc organized by month, and then i plan everything out in bullet points in a timeline at the beginning. here i just have october and november as examples bc after december things started to get more detailed/messy

all of the scenes (especially at the beginning) set the stage for things i’ve planned to happen later, or establish something that feels relevant to adrien’s character by the time we meet him in canon. the task of condensing an entire month into about 2-3 scenes has been a bit difficult; i’ve found out that i’m a very present-moment kind of writer so it’s harder for me to describe the passage of, like, weeks of time. so i’ve been pinpointing specific threads of adrien’s story that i want to be sure to tell and choosing scenes from each month that build on that.

i’ve had the idea for this fic in the back of my mind since about 2021 so i’ve had several scenes cemented in my mind, ways i’ve decided things played out, etc. some of the writing process has been building the narrative around those things or figuring out how we get there. that’s what i love about prequels in general, honestly - it’s inevitable where we’re going to end up, but how do we get there?

adrien’s situation, at the moment we meet him in origins, is SO endlessly fascinating to me. he is in the process of doing something reckless and rebellious and bold - running away - against the will of his father, a man he spends the rest of the series struggling with his compulsion to submit to. we find out, via the rest of the show, exactly how difficult it is for adrien to stand up to his father. and yet, in his very first appearance, adrien is running away from him.

how did he get here? what, exactly, pushed him to this point? was this the final escalation of a steady build of rebellious behaviors, or an impulsive breakthrough after one awful day too many? what has this small boy been through in the last year, and why does public school seem to be his only fathomable escape?

and WHY, if his circumstances are so dire as to compell him to rebel so boldly in the first place, does he still throw it away to help the old man in the road? what makes him so kind, when he has everything to lose? what happened? how did he get here?

i’m interested, obviously, in the character of émilie. i think that the hole she leaves in the narrative is a compelling silhouette and i’ve been having a blast trying to pencil in its details. it’s obvious that adrien loved her deeply and had a stronger connection to her than with gabriel. but also, adrien was still shut off from the world while she was alive. he was still, presumably, an exploited child star while she was alive. she was an actress and a mother and died by broken magic and never told her son the truth about any of it. figuring out who i think she was and then how to show that through young adrien’s eyes has been a huge part of planning this story for me.

as far as the twenty three year old adrien sections, those have been less involved as far as planning goes. i only recently mapped out which areas of the house i want him to visit during the different months. i wanted his sections to line up at least thematically, if not physically, where thirteen year old adrien is at in his story. for example, in december twenty three year old adrien cleans out the dining room where thirteen year old adrien was having terrible christmas dinner. and in january they’re both in the garden, etc.

it’s a bit harder to map out twenty three adrien just because it has to also make sense geographically - i can’t have him running back and forth up and down the stairs, let’s be real he doesn’t have the energy for that. i’ve also opened up the agreste mansion page on the miraculous wiki so many times while trying to map this out 💔💔 did you know that apparently there’s a third floor we never see in the show. yeah i have to figure out what to do with that now

ANYWAY long story short: the planning process for thirteen is kind of a mess, but the whole story is built around some central plot points that i knew i wanted to hit from the beginning. the details change a lot (as you can see from the outline above - it’s not quite right) but i keep the end in mind. just have to figure out how we get there.

thank you for asking!! mwah<3

#thirteen #anna rambles #asks #sorry for writing SO MUCH #in my defense i’m sleepy #and i just started rambling #adrien agreste…..kissing your forehead my love. tucking you into bed. agreeing with you about tamaharu #i don’t even know if this answered the question this is just truly my process #the process is that i think about adrien agreste and then write it down #ml

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deathbxnny · 10 months

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Friendo! Hello! How have you been? I come to place another request that's basically just the same HoHE!Elysia!Reader prompt from last time that was with Jing Yuan+Blade (because I still am a sucker for that idea and it's been in my head rent free).

May I request the characters this time be Welt Yang, Dan Heng and Kafka?

-----♡

A/N: Hey there! I absolutely loved this request, so I hope you'll like this one too! Also forgive me for taking so long... work sucks haha... (Og post here.)

Content: Fluff, established relationships, mentions of battle, something cute and wholesome for once, sfw

Reader has no set pronouns!

((Not fully proofread))

-----♡

》Dan Heng

Dan Heng was always so quiet and reserved with his love for your Herrscher form. He'd stand there in silence, as he took in everything about you, watching you deal with enemies so gratefully it made his heart ache with love. And it didn't help, that he could get lost in the starry domain you created for centuries, if you let him. He was in love with you in every way and found you to be perfect, even if he never voiced it.

So he showed his fascination with you, by agreeing to a duel. He trusted you, just as much as you trusted him. He'd never hurt you, even if you asked him to give it his all. He just wanted to see your divine form again as you fought him, the endless starry skies stretching out above you as you fought.

Eventually, you ended up in his warm embrace, his forehead pressed against yours, eyes closed as he softly panted. The silence was filled by a melody created by your hearts and souls becoming one, as you absently swayed under the stars together for what seemed to be eternity to him.

-----♡

》Welt Yang

Welt knew all about your Herrscher form and yet still found himself watching you in silent awe. How could he not, when you were so divine? He could watch you endlessly and still not have enough of the sight of you. It often left you bashful, especially when you noticed the spark in his eye after a battle. He'd apologise for his stares with a smile, not meaning a word of it.

He was therefore hesitant to agreeing to a duel. It wasn't that he was afraid of hurting you, he would never. No, he just wanted you to rest in his arms and stare up at the stary skies of your domain forever. But alas, he is unable to deny you a thing and eventually agreed to a small fight. Even during it, you could feel his adoring gazes and lingering glances.

He spins you after an attack with ease, before pulling you into his arms with a chuckle. Seems like he has won, but that didn't matter to him, as he gently swayed with you through your domain, uncaring of the stars and galaxies that surrounded you. Why would he care anyways, when his whole world was in his arms?

-----♡

》Kafka

Kafka fell in love with you at first sight. How could she not, when you were so fascinating and divine to her? You were a light that shone in the darkness she considered her life. Without you, she'd be lost, something she often tells you in hushed whispers and teasing words. Anyone that dared disagree with how perfect you were, was shut down by her. No one would dare question you and your abilities she loved so much, with her around, that's for sure.

And since she can't deny you a single thing, she didn't think twice to agree to duel you. You had to however tell her to not hold back, as she can't get herself to be hard on you. The fight was elegant and graceful, the stars and galaxies reflecting in your eyes, when all you could see was eachother. Lingering touches, longing stares, dreamy exhales. It was all too much.

Eventually, she just pulled you into a waltz, humming a tune for you to dance to, as she rested her head on your shoulder with a satisfied smile. It was never a duel for her in the end, in fact, it was all just a performance. A performance that proved her love and devotion to you in ways only you could ever understand. And she'd be damned, if anyone dared take you away from her.

-----♡

A/N: Alright! I hope this was alright! I've been starting to slowly feel better and less tired lately, so I'm actually quite satisfied with my work now. I hope you liked it Anon and thank you for the request and your patience!<33

#honkai star rail #honkai star rail fanfic #honkai star rail x reader #honkai star rail x you #hsr x reader #hsr welt #hsr welt x reader #hsr kafka #hsr kafka x reader #hsr dan heng #hsr dan heng x reader #hsr

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whiskeyswifty · 22 days

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Honestly, freedom felt like summer then, on the coast has gotta be of the most quintessential Taylor lines ever, I’m telling you. It’s a lesser used motif in Taylor’s songs but I’m so fascinated by her use of “the coast” and “the beach” as and how it has only really surfaced (lol) in her mid to late periods (so far). Both in the safe haven it represents to her on its own but also how it’s often a foil to “the ocean”, and how a commonly used metaphor really works beautifully in her hands and fleshes out her worldview.

That line really cements this to me where she starts with a broad and abstract simile of “summer” but then zeroes in on what she meant by that by adding specifically “the coast.” Just flat out saying beaches make her feel free, which yes it’s an obvious but great choice to represent freedom. Beaches are seemingly endless when you’re on them, most of the time removed from the markers of modern society, and empty save sand and sky, unencumbered by even nature. And you can see that through line in a lot of her previous work more subtly as well. “Drinking on the beach with you all over me” on an album and song famously depicting her absconding with her lover to places where they’re safe from wandering eyes and free from having to perform what ever fronts they feel they have to put up. Snow on the Beach is an entire song that depicts the beach as this dreamy place of vulnerability, even if the song isn’t specifically set on a literal beach. It’s frequently invoked in the chorus, painting a vast sandy landscape blanketed in snow, as tranquil as the songs production and how peaceful she felt falling for someone at that time. In Gold Rush she does again set the scene on the coast, where “the coastal town we wandered round had never seen a love as pure as this” provides a quiet safe haven to once again feel free to love and express love. Depicting even towns along the coast as less traveled and free of pressure or expectations; places to aimlessly wander, endlessly if you wish. Even in TLGAD she uses it to portray freedom for characters outside of herself, with “The salt box house on the coast took her mind off St. Louis.” The beach provides a freedom and reprieve for Rebekah from the assumed suffocation of a city and all the social expectations that come with it. The beach is so clearly a source of unencumbered happiness for her because it's a place of physical remove, but it’s even better exemplified by how it specifically acts as a foil to the ocean in her work.

She’s always depicting the ocean as a metaphorical place of helpless tumult and dark unknowns. How she is “out on waves being tossed” in evermore with the ocean as a place without mercy or “if your cascade ocean wave blues come” where it’s an unstoppable force of sadness and unrest. In both of those, people are also physically taken over by the will of the ocean, a depiction of life’s painful inevitabilities that she recognizes as such but feels helpless against. Even how she visually depicts her gripping to her piano in the Cardigan video as the ocean tosses her around with no land in sight. Sometimes she herself is the ocean, with “I’m like the water when your ship rolled in that night. Rough on the surface…” where she is as untamable and damaging as the ocean. She uses the ocean to recognize danger and uncertainty in others, like with “ocean blue eyes looking in mine. I feel like I might sink and drown and die” which is hyperbolic yes, but still. The ocean she sees in their eyes is not beautiful but all consuming and potentially emotionally fatal for her in how it will consume her. Or to recognize the fearlessness in someone like how her boy in Midnight Rain was “jumping off things in the ocean” which is a terrifying place for her, but here he comes off a steady and solid in his ability to jump into it for fun and it doesn’t take him. The ocean is always bigger than her, standing in for the power of letting go with “the battleships will sink beneath the waves” and also standing in for the great unknown of committing yourself to someone with “we were stupid to jump in the ocean separating us.”

But most exciting to me is when these two metaphorical ideas of ocean and beach meet. “High tide came and brought you in” is a great one because here, she is safe on the shore, no longer putting herself at risk. But then, this great beast of the unknown brings her something; presumably something she wanted and potentially something good. But then “currents swept you out again” as the blue beast took it back. Unable to endure the thrashing ocean herself, she perches on the beach instead and waits. The beach in contrast to the active and churning ocean is a still place, a passive place. Freedom isn’t just an ability to hide from the world or a reprieve from the expectations of the world, but it can also be a reprieve from the expectations you put on yourself. Allowing yourself to rest and let come what may. The beach is also that for her, where she’s free from her own crushing thoughts and worries. Even when she herself is the ocean, thrashing about in her own mind, with “my waves meet your shore” she seeks the quiet and the serenity of the beach to soothe her and calm her. The soft expanse of sand to break her waves on and sink her foamy tide waters into. Control is one of the main things she seems to seek in all aspects of her life, in the way of control of her own story, her own personal space, her own agency, and the people around her in ensuring they won’t abandon her. In many ways, the ocean is outside herself in her use of it, but it’s always an extension of her, be it her fears of that loss of control or just fear of any unknown in life. It’s always a stand in for those parts of her in that way, her dark shadow swelling and swallowing everything whole if she lets it. The beach as her foil that becomes freedom from the grips and weight of the ocean, but also that first gasp of air knowing you are on land again, can find your footing again, solid ground. You can say she’s searching for that beach, that tranquil coast within herself to evade the trappings of the bottomless ocean within herself, but you could also say that in some cases, she is the ocean. Tired of her own restlessness and endless tumult, she’s forever searching for people in her life to be her shore, so she can finally rest on their warm sand, even for just a moment. I feel like that’s something everyone can relate to and is why it’s one of my favorite motifs in her work.

#it makes me soooo interested in Florida!!! the song of course not the state #as it's a state that is some 75% ocean locked and very interesting if it will enter more ocean/beach content into the canon #my silly little essays

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happynowyo · 1 year

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Reflection, part 2

A/n: feel free to send request if you want to see some particular scenes in this fic between different characters or if you want me to write some other stuff based on some prompts with Kaz💜

And one more thing. The timeline in this fic takes place after season 1 of SaB but Pekka didn't frame Kaz, Inej and Jesper for murder. Matthias is too good to stay in Hellgate so let's imagine that Kaz was in a good mood one day and helped Nina (from the book kanon) to get him out just as she asked him over and over again. Wylan is a part of the Crows as well but no one except for Kaz knows that he's Van Eck.

Fandom: Six of crows

Warnings: Kaz Brekker and everything that goes with him

Pairing: Kaz Brekker x ShadowSummoner!OC

Summary: wandering about Ketterdam leads Jess to an unexpected encounter.

Word count: 1,7k

Part 1, Part 3, Part 4

Tag list: @pansexualwitchwhoneedstherapy, @valkyrie05x

The small hotel, located in the business part of the town, looked quite decent. But not enough to convince Jess that Ketterdam could claim to be the fair capital of Kerch.

The journey by sea took several weeks and by the end of it Jess was literally sick of the sight of the water and the noise of waves. She was endlessly bored, but deep down she consoled herself that the calm routine on a ship was far better than being anywhere near the Fold. The farther away she stayed from it, the safer it was.

A few weeks spent in near silence, with the exception of a brief dialogue with the captain, allowed her to put her thoughts in order and fully comprehend what had happened. At night Jess saw her father in her dreams over and over again, and he was so much like his old self, the one who had affectionately stroked her hair and spoiled her with fascinating stories from the past, that it seemed wild to her that the same man could try to subdue Alina to take her power of Sun summoner and use it to destroy everything and everyone around.

The contrast was so great that it was still hard to believe. Jess remembered perfectly well that her father was capable of cruelty, and the scars left on her back as the terrifying reminder were itchy but he was her father, and she was trying to hold on to the good things that had once bound them together. Baghra would surely scold her for that and call her a weak foolish girl whose naivety would lead to a bad outcome, but hadn't Baghra herself stayed by Aleksander's side for centuries and supported him by going along with her motherly feelings?

Jess was well aware of her grandmother's combative nature. Baghra would have found a way to kill the Darkling long time ago if she really wanted to stop him. Perhaps she clung to the idea that time would change Aleksander and allow him to pacify his lust for power and his hatred of the royal dynasty, that used the powerful Grishas as toys for entertainment at fancy parties, and Jess could not blame Baghra for that blind hope for the best.

When she arrived in Ketterdam, the first few days fell entirely out of her mind as she rested and slept pretty much all the time. Dreams saved her from the severe anxiety that came in choking waves and filled every cell of her body. Along with it there were some destructive thoughts full of obsessive paranoia. The Darkling was the strongest Grisha she had ever known, and she could easily imagine the rage her father would feel when he learned of her runaway. She would never be safe as long as he lived, but now Jess had no one who could truly confirm the Darkling's death in the Fold. She wished she had a mass of useful spies in different parts of the world, like Baghra, but she clung to the tip about Nina.

Jess was a couple of years older than Nina, but their rooms were next to each other in the East part of the Little Palace. That was one of the first reasons for their friendship. The other was that their impulsive nature and desire to act out of spite caused them to be punished by their teachers more often than anyone else. They practiced together, spending time chatting and also helping each other during their studies, trying to get their powers under control. Jess joked that she volunteered to be a guinea pig for Nina when she slowed her heart or made it gallop when Nina tried to squeeze her lungs, depriving her of oxygen and instantly plunging Jess into a state of animal panic for her life.

They got along well, so well that they once trusted each other with their most intimate secrets. Technically, Jess was known as one of the servants in the Little Palace. Baghra insisted that the fact of her kinship with Aleksander should have remained in shadows because of the fear of possible future consequences. But the burden of that truth grew heavier and heavier as the years went on. Nina was her only friend and Jess found it increasingly difficult to lie to her about why she always disappeared in the evenings. So on her fifteenth birthday she told Nina about her ability to summon shadows. Putting two plus two together was easy as everyone knew that such a gift was only inherited through the Morozov's bloodline.

Nina appreciated the trust that had developed between them, so in return she opened up about the planned escape. Jess was well aware that her friend was opposed to the idea that Grishas should serve the Crown without complaint and unconditionally participate in someone else's war as part of the First Army. Nina was a hopeless romantic and a relentless adventurer. She wanted something more out of her life besides orders, fear, and endless fighting with creatures in the Fold.

Perhaps it would have been easier for the two of them to run away together, but Baghra kept saying that Jess lacked self-control and the Darkling would instantly send an entire group to find her. The moment was not suitable and with tears in her eyes she had to let Nina go alone, enduring her father's interrogations later, when the alien darkness surrounded her with a thick veil and hurt by touching bare skin. Even if her father guessed the truth, he could not learn it from Jess.

Now she wanted to think that the memory of their former friendship would help her connect with Nina, though she was worried that Nina's opinion of her might have changed over the years. She could believe that Jess had helped her father of her own will and not by the order with the threat of cruel punishment, because who really cared about such details? During the war your motives and sincere desires don't mean anything — it's your actions that matter. And that's how Jess soothed her conscience after another nightmare that threw up pictures of the horrible things Aleksander forced her to do.

Finding someone in an unfamiliar city was a new task for Jess, but she was always the one to learn quickly, so the good two hundred kruge left in the hotel receptionist's pocket helped to get the names of a couple of places where Heartrenders usually worked. After visiting these places, however, Jess was left with nothing. If Nina had ever worked there, it wasn't under her own name. So her next attempt was the town square. You can understand a lot about the people of any place if you listen to what they say.

So Jess lurched in the shadows, clinging to scraps of other people's conversations about debts, gangs, Dime Lions, brothels and tourists. The flow of information poured over her in an avalanche, made her get lost in the names and places. Everything began to blend into indecipherable white noise, and Jess stopped focusing so much on her self-control. The shadows instantly came alive, licking her fingers with a unbodied chill and becoming thicker under the visor of some fancy bakery. The anxiety began to override clear thoughts, and Jess shook herself off just in time to see two guys walking past her, making lively conversation.

The vaguely familiar "Nina insisted that this is where they sell the best pistachio ice cream" caught her attention, and she let her curiosity take over, following the pair in a decent distance. She hadn't been able to follow them all the way, however, as someone's hand suddenly tugged at her shoulder, pulling her sharply into an empty alleyway. Her shoulder joined painfully with cold bricks, and Jess felt both indignation and fright as she looked up to see some Suli girl, whose face was half concealed by a grey cloak. She looked so thin and frail at the first side that Jess was surprised that the girl held the blade so confidently at her throat. Not the first time, apparently.

— The city is drowning in corrupt politicians and dishonest merchants, but you guys still rob an ordinary tourist? — the silly joke flew off her tongue before her brain had time to assess the dangerous situation.

Suli's brown eyes narrowed but her grip on Jess' shoulder was still firm.

— You were too focused on my friends for a tourist. Jesper spotted you three blocks back.

— I honestly don't understand…

— Did Pekka send you? Is he so desperate that now he's recruiting some pretty faces from Ravka? Your accent is minimal but my hearing is too trained.

The stranger's face remained impenetrable, so blank that Jess immediately noticed the contrast with the anxiety that flashed in the girl's eyes. God, if Nina wasn't in Ketterdam and Jess had come all that exhausting way for nothing, just to die in an empty alley because of someone else's suspicions, then Aleksander had better be dead indeed so he would never learn of such an embarrassment.

— Look, I arrived in Ketterdam three days ago and I have no idea who Jesper, Pekka and who else are! I'm looking for an old friend, Nina Zenik, I heard a familiar name in the crowd and just followed, so you don't have to worry about your safety. Whatever problems you have with Pekka, I won't give you any trouble, — Jess felt much more confident, though Suli's skeptical look full of mockery made it clear that she doubted Jess' ability to hurt anyone. That's better.

— How do you know Nina?

The jubilation that gripped Jess could be compared to the first alcohol in life that hits instantly and intoxicates too fast. Or to the time when she'd managed to confront her father and her shadows had swallowed his whole. She didn't hide the relieved exhale and visibly relaxed, pulling the stranger's dagger away from her with a slight smile.

— We'd been neighbors once. I hadn't seen her in a few years but I hoped to get some help. It's a matter of life and death, literally, and if you agreed to take me to her, I'd owe you forever.

— You know, Jesper says the same thing when he tries to convince me to leave him with cards alone for another game, it's a surprise you haven't met each other yet.

Part 3

#kaz brekker #kaz brekker x fem!reader #kaz brekker x reader #kaz brekker imagine #inej ghafa #six of crows #nina zenik #the darkling #aleksander morozova #kaz brekker x oc

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greenmeanqueen · 9 months

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it’s endlessly fascinating to me that alicent hightower is a footnote in the beginning of her own story in F&B, but the second there’s even an inkling of her not kissing the feet of the targ status quo she becomes “important” and gets more detail (and slander). there’s something about the concept, “you, as a woman, are nothing until you effect me personally; you are nothing but your relation to me” (both in-universe and out). i see alicent recognizing that, being forced into close quarters with another woman who appears to have everything (due to her dynasty having the literal firepower to decide that they’re going to be the main characters of everybody else’s stories). and every day she matters a little less (along with her children). so it’s like, of course she might become embittered. i don’t quite see how that makes her a “hag”, just worn out (and, dare i say, that’s pretty sympathetic).

#alicent hightower #pro alicent hightower #fire and blood #anti targaryen #team green #a gal thinks

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ipostdumbthings · 7 months

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Moonlit Dinner Date

Pairing: Gale/Tav

Characters: Gale, Tav, Astarion, Karlach

Rating: G

Genre: Romantic Fluff

Summary: Gale returns to camp one evening to discover a wild magic mishap from sorcerer Tav. Pre-relationship.

It was still fairly early in the evening when Gale found himself strolling back into camp, clean for the first time in days. Camp had been made late in the afternoon, they’d stopped near a river and a turn order was quickly established to get everyone in camp a turn to a small but blissful amount of privacy, and freedom from the muck and sweat. He was still toweling off his hair when he stepped foot in camp proper,only to find himself almost bumping directly into a certain pale companion of the vampiric persuasion. The look on the elf’s face made it clear that he’d been waiting for Gale for a while now, a look that said “you’re wasting my time”. The wizard didn’t love how often he saw it.

“Here’s something I never thought I’d say, but thank the gods you’re here Gale we need your help.” It might have been a jab at him, but Astarion wasn’t wielding his particularly cruel tone of voice, did Gale actually detect something genuine there? He opened his mouth to respond, but was cut off immediately, not by the man before him, but by the bleating of a sheep. Of course. He didn’t need to look, but he did anyway, sidestepping the elf to join the camp proper. Not too far from the fire was a sheep, a rope tied loosely to its neck to keep it from wandering off. Affectionately petting and tending to it was Karlach, who looked all the more excited to see Gale.

“Tav?” He asked, already so certain of the answer, but received further confirmation when he spotted the bowl of water someone had laid beside the sheep with the name “Tav '' hastily painted on the side, no doubt Karlach’s work. It could be hard to believe that a woman of so much heat could have such a soft heart.

“Yes, she got a little bold with her spell casting I’m afraid,” Astarion replied, a certain quirk to the corner of his mouth indicating just how funny he found all this. It had endlessly fascinated Gale just how well Tav could get along with everyone here, and how someone with so much kindness and concern for others could find genuine affection and camaraderie with someone like Astarion. He was certain for the elf’s part, the friendship had mostly been a great source of amusement, provided he was well outside the blast radius when something went wrong. But Tav had disagreed with Gale during one of their chats about that, well not entirely, she knew Astarion found it funny when her magic went awry, but she was positive there was a genuine connection of trust and friendship between them. That was getting off track though, there was very much a situation he was faced with, one that was frankly frustrating, and should’ve been avoided based on his and her previous conversations. He heaved a sigh so deep he felt it in his soul.

“I specifically asked her not to cast her magic in camp for this reason. Could’ve been a fireball that sent all the tents up in flames,” he said, adopting a chastising tone as he addressed the sheep more than the two people. Sorcerer’s and wizards rarely saw eye to eye under the best of circumstances, given their different philosophies, their different experiences with magic. Sorcerers took magic for granted, and the one type of sorcerer you didn’t want with that sort of flippant attitude was one of wild magic, and yet Tav seemed blissfully unconcerned by the chaos she was capable of wreaking. He’d hope she’d learn something from this, but he knew better.

“Oh, no, that’s not what we need help with,” Astarion said, his genuine delight only seeming to swell.

“When you say it like that Astarion, it makes me feel like we’ve been arseholes,” Karlach said sounding like a guilty child. She even wore a pout.

“She’s got grass, we put down a clean water bowl for her, her precious sheepish heart yearns for nothing. Frankly I wish people tended to my needs the way we’ve been keeping her for the better part of the half hour.” The elf sounded defensive, but not in a way that indicated he felt bad in the slightest for anything that was happening. Gale pinched the bridge of his nose, feeling a certain weariness he imagined his mother must have felt when she was dealing with his youthful magical indiscretions.

“If it’s not about Tav the sheep, then what exactly did you need?” The question was quick, clipped, and demanded an answer.

“Well, it’s not not about Tav and her adorable little hooves.” The way Karlach emphasized the last three words was further hammered home by her taking Tav’s sheep face in her hands and cooing at her.

“It’s a bet,” Astarion said, and could not suppress a grin as he spoke, “we were wondering if, someone were to… shear her, you know, shave off all the wool, while she’s a sheep…”

“Would she pop back to being a human bald or naked? And what would happen to the wool when she turned back? Would that be her hair? Her clothes? Or would it stay wool?” Karlach finished the question, redirecting her gaze back to Gale with genuine curiosity. He blinked at the absurdity of the question, at the knowledge that they had been patiently waiting for him for half an hour just to ask. Karlach didn’t surprise him as much, but he would’ve assumed Astarion for the sort to get to the bottom of the matter himself.

“Ah. Well, I can't say I’ve ever tried it. Honestly I’m impressed at the restraint you’ve shown in not simply attempting it yourself.” He’d said it as a joke, but the look on Karlach’s face had the deep sigh renewed.

“We thought about it, but I’m too pretty for such a menial task, Karlach is too afraid of hurting her, and Halsin gave us a very stern ‘no’ and that same disapproving look you seem to be wearing right now.” Well, at least someone in the camp could be trusted to behave like an adult. He held Astarion’s gaze for several moments, making sure he fully expressed said disappointment, before finally looking back at the popular subject of the evening, Tav. He should still be irritated, but he had to admit the question was an interesting one, and far be it from him to not indulge the curiosity of others in regards to magic. Even if he didn’t exactly have an answer.

“Ignoring the ethical implications of you two attempting to shave one of your friends while they’re completely indisposed, hypothetically-“ he was cut off when the sheep made eye contact with him, and he felt the sudden, intense connection brought on by the tadpoles locked in their brains. For just a moment it didn’t make sense, just sheep sounds and flashes of the grass on the ground at the camp, but then he felt it: the disappointment. The sheep held his gaze, drifting to thoughts of the clearing nearby, the one with bright green grass.

“Wait. What just happened?” The words from Karlach pulled him from the moment, and his bewildered stare must have made it obvious.

“Did she just use the tadpole on you?” Astarion sounded positively delighted, the airy laugh erupting from him. Gale glared.

“Oh was it Tav-Tav, or Sheep-Tav? Why didn’t she do it to me? I was just staring into her little face?” Karlach asked with a mix of absolute whimsy and disappointment. She gently rested her hands under Tav’s face to coax the sheep to look at her again.

“Don’t take it personally, Karlach, she’s not really Tav right now, she’s well and truly a sheep,and you two were wrong about her wanting for nothing, she wants better grass.” With that he crossed the space to his tent and returned everything he’d taken for his bath, then snatched up a book. There was no telling how long it would take for Tav to become human again, and she’d been very clear about what she wanted. He could sit with her for a while as she indulged in sheepish pleasures.

“Shit are we being bad sheep guardians?” Karlach asked with a groan, she did start untying the rope from the stake in the ground, which she handed over to Gale when he approached.

“Do you mean shepherds?” Astarion asked, but Gale was very much through with the tom-foolery of the evening. Taking the rope in hand, he gave Tav the gentlest of tugs to get her moving.

“I’m going to take her to a clearing nearby, if she’s going to return to humanity with the taste of grass in her mouth it might as well be good grass.” Tav may have frustrated him at times to no end, but there was no denying that he respected her. Valued her, even. She was competent at decision making under catastrophic circumstances, unwaveringly compassionate to those in need, and a damn fine friend to anyone that allowed her to be. There were times that his fondness for her only increased his frustration about her casual disposition to her brand of chaos. He wanted her to care enough to take care of herself, to be careful. But he supposed, at least for the time being, she had him to do the worrying for her. Seemed a few others were up to the task too.

“Don’t forget her water bowl, Gale, I put her name on it and everything, you know, for next time it happens.” Karlach almost spilled the water bowl in her haste to hand it over, genuinely concerned he may leave it behind. The wizard took the bowl with a small bow of his head, yes even when he wasn’t around to watch after her, Tav was usually in good hands.

“I’m certain she’ll be touched by the kind gesture. Now come along, Tav.” With that, he gave another gentle tug on the rope, and sheep Tav seemed to know exactly what to do, which he supposed made sense, she had requested this.

—

He did have to give her credit for good timing, though, it was a lovely night. Stars twinkling above, the moon brilliantly lighting their little clearing. The air was cool, but not cold. A nice gentle breeze carried the sounds of the night time wildlife beginning their evening. Perfect night to sit with a book and enjoy the world for all its splendor.Even the company was pleasant, now satisfied with the grass she had available Tav was content to silently wander and munch nearby. He’d take breaks from the page to glance up at her to make sure she was fine, and frankly marvel at how he managed to enjoy her presence even as a sheep.

The two had shared many late night evening talks, mostly about the sort of things one expects a wizard and a sorcerer to discuss. Magic and its nature, mysteries of the universe, that sort of thing. They talked about other things, and he was constantly amazed by how much he enjoyed those chats just as much as he enjoyed the ones on his favorite subjects. Even in these trying times she approached life with enthusiasm, with passion and joy. Not to say she wasn’t aware of the impending doom that loomed above them, she’d let slip her air of exuberant confidence a few times to reveal just how deeply afraid she was. He’d realized then that she was attempting to shoulder all the worries of the team, that she’d been determined to be the source of comfort and hope when they couldn’t be one to themselves. He didn’t envy her. He did want to help her though. Which was yet another reason he was sitting out here with her.

It was a wonderful, quiet hour that past, and sheep Tav had settled in the grass and was deep into a snore when the magic dispelled. One moment a sheep snoozed happily, the next there was Tav. She sat up quickly, facing away from Gale. She twisted her head back and forth before rising to her feet. When she finally spotted Gale she broke into a big grin. A big, beautiful grin. She looked relieved to see him, happy to see him. He blinked back at her, and felt something stir in his chest that felt suspiciously like his heart fluttering. He hoped it was dark enough that she’d miss the faint tingle of redness on his cheeks he felt forming. A moment passed before he realized he was staring at her, and he quickly cleared his throat to break the silence.

“You should know, your dear friends seriously debated shearing you in pursuit of scientific curiosity,” he said, he’d intended his tone to be more chastising, after all he had asked her not to cast in camp for a reason. But his heart wasn’t in that, not at the moment, not with her looking at him like he was her safety, her comfort. It came out as the gentle, affectionate tease it truly was. Of course he knew he’d been fond of her already, but that look on her face under starlit skies was forcing him towards some rather hasty and unexpected realizations about just how fond of her he was.

“Oh to see if I turn out bald or naked?” She asked with an easy laugh, as she took a seat on the ground directly beside him. The urge to put an arm around her was one of the hardest he’s ever had to suppress. He settled for tilting his head to the side as he peered at her, watching the expression of good humor form on her face. He was finding he liked that one quite a bit too.

“A question you seem to have pondered quite a bit yourself,” he remarked.

“Well I’ve spent more than my fair share of time as a sheep. Always wondered why it was a sheep. Honestly, the universe probably knows I’d be too powerful as a cat.” She was looking directly into his eyes as she spoke, and he found himself even more acutely aware of how close they were and how intimate this moment between them was. The idea of her as a cat, however, was enough to get a laugh from him. Surely she’d be the sort to knock everything over, to break all your favorite things, and just when you were sure it was time to get rid of her, cuddle up on your lap and make you love her all over again.

“With your predisposition for chaos? I suspect you may be right.” He loved the way that made her laugh, the way her nose crinkled as her whole face lit up. She gave him a gentle shove on the shoulder, and he made a mental note to ensure an abundant future of that. She finished laughing and for a brief moment she sat and peered up at the stars before she looked back to the grass she’d been eating not ago.

“Awfully nice of you, though, to bring me out to this lovely patch of Baldurian Bluegrass.” She looked thankful. He blinked at her, and then looked at the grass, and then back at her.

“… You know what type of grass this is?” He must have sounded incredulous from her next little laugh. Tav was not much of an expert on the great outdoors, she’d never successfully identified an animal track, knew absolutely no potion ingredients, and seemed to be allergic to most things they came in contact with. She smiled a knowing smile and shrugged her shoulders.

“When I realized that I would be spending a decent amount of time as a sheep, I started growing little patches of grass at home, and had some brought in from all sorts of places. I figured, you know, spoil myself.” It was his turn to laugh, he shouldn’t have been surprised in the first place. That was exactly the sort of thing Tav did.

“Ah yes, exotic grasses from across the globe. Truly a feast fit for a sheep of your caliber.” He teased, and felt that flicker in his heart when her eyes were back to him.

“But the one I always eat the most is the boring one, Baldurian Bluegrass.But do you realize what that means?” She asks leaning just enough that it felt like they were conspiring about something together.

“I can’t even imagine what’s about to come out of your mouth.” It wasn’t the first time that had happened, and he knew with such certainty that it would far from be the last. It excited him in a way that he hadn’t expected it to.

“You just took me out for a nice moonlit dinner with my favorite food. If you keep this up, Gale, I’m going to think you’re into me.” It was a joke, he was certain. Wasn’t he certain? He could almost be bold enough to lean over and kiss her, to wrap that arm around her and hold her. To spend the evening like this teasing and talking together. Almost.

“We should get back to camp, Karlach will be both relieved and disappointed by your reversion,” he said and cursed himself for being a coward. Tav took pity on him it seemed, leaned in and kissed his cheek, and he felt his heart absolutely pound in his chest. She rose to her feet quickly thereafter and offered her hand to him to help him up, which he gratefully accepted.

“Thank you, Gale, for taking care of me,” and there was that smile again, but it didn’t linger for long, and she was quickly starting the short walk back to camp. He didn’t let her get too far ahead though.

“It was a privilege and an honor, my lady.” He did stop to pick up her water bowl though, with her luck it would be helpful soon enough.

#gale dekarios #gale x tav #gale bg3 #fluff #romance #bg3 #bg3 gale #gale of waterdeep

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