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theobsessivesideblog · 3 months

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Hook Where it Hurts

Astarion finds himself Experiencing Emotions™ after a battle takes a turn for the worse.

Warnings: violence/injury, death, angst BUT happy ending I promise

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Your time in the Underdark had been relatively uneventful, all things considered. Sure there were Minotaurs, the occasional bulette, and exploding mushrooms, but there was something strangely beautiful about the alien landscape. The myconids were a friendly, if odd and slightly bloodthirsty bunch. Your conversation with Omeluum had proved enlightening, and trade with Blurg and Derryth had garnered you some useful items. Overall you couldn’t bring yourself to regret following Halsin’s advice to take the subterranean path to the Shadow-Cursed lands.

You set up camp at the Myconid colony, heading out at first light (or at least what you assumed was first light without the actual sun to confirm) to begin your trek towards the lake Sovereign Spaw had pointed you toward. An hour into your walk a glow appeared in the distance, lighting up the gloom of the cavernous landscape.

“I say, that can’t be… I do believe that may be a Sussur tree!” Gail exclaimed from behind you. “Powerful things, and rare, uniquely capable of completely nullifying magical forces, just fascinating!” he continued, eyes alight at the prospect of examining one up close.

“Sussur… that sounds familiar,” Karlach pondered.

“Ah! Right you are my fiery friend, there were instructions in the village about making a weapon with the bark! That would likely prove to be a powerful tool, we should certainly take a look.”

You gazed towards the tree, comparing its location with the heading you had gotten from Spaw. In all likelihood you would end up passing nearby, may as well go on purpose.

“Seems like it won’t be too much of a detour,” you announced, glancing around the group. “All in favor?”

“I’d never say no to a new kick-ass weapon,” Karlach grinned.

“That’s two for, Astarion?” you asked, looking over towards the rogue.

“I doubt our resident magician will shut up about it until we pay a visit, so fine. Let’s go traipsing through the monster-infested dark to look at the magic tree,” Astarion said with a dramatic eye roll.

“Anti-magic, technically, you see the—“ Gale’s chatter came to an abrupt halt as Astarion shot him a withering glance. “Right, yes, um. Shall we?”

———————

You had to admit, the Sussur tree was breathtaking. Far larger than you had initially realized, clearly ancient and powerful. You glanced over to see your companions’ reactions, breath catching as your eyes met Astarion’s. His pale skin was nearly pearlescent in the ethereal glow, the blue light making his red eyes darker than usual. He stared back, lips pulling into a smirk, and a shiver of desire ran down your spine as he began prowling towards you. You’d been playing this game of cat and mouse for days, taking turns taunting and tempting each other and you were curious to see who would break first.

A movement behind Astarion’s shoulder broke you out of your reverie, eyes catching on a monstrous creature slowly beginning to descend toward your troupe from the raised roots of the tree. Your face paled and you saw Astarion’s brow furrow in your periphery as he registered that he had lost your attention, turning to see what had distracted you. He stiffened as he caught sight of the beast, silently reaching to retrieve an arrow while you hissed quietly towards Gale and Karlach in an attempt to get their attention. Karlach looked your way and you subtly gestured towards the creature as it crept closer to the group, trying to hold back the urge to laugh as she reached out and smacked Gale’s arm, interrupting his lecture on the properties of the blossoms.

A few more wordless glances between the four of you had everyone subtly moving into position, preparing for what was sure to be a short battle. You glanced across the clearing, locking eyes with each of your companions before giving a tight nod as all of you attacked at once. The creature let out a shriek as it was barraged by both metal and magic, falling from its root bridge and hitting the ground below with a sickening crunch.

As the adrenaline faded from your system and you walked forward to observe the corpse you were nearly disappointed by how easily the beast had fallen. Not that you ever wanted to get your ass kicked but you had certainly expected that a monster with as many teeth and claws as this one would’ve put up a bit more of a fight. Karlach had turned away with a dissatisfied pout on her lips as she sheathed her weapon and Astarion had already started to wander off to investigate the rest of the cave as you gently nudged the cooling body on the ground with the tip of your boot. It was grotesque up close, a bird-like skeletal face filled with vicious teeth and enormous, razor-sharp hooks protruding from the end of each arm in place of hands. Beside you Gale was surveying the corpse with a strangely joyous expression.

“What a fascinating beast! We got quite lucky, they’re exceptional hunters, certainly wouldn’t want to run into one of these unprepared! They’re called Hook Horrors!” he announced gleefully to no one in particular.

“Did someone say something about whores?” Astarion called from across the cavern. Karlach snorted loudly as she and Gale began making their way over towards him and you rolled your eyes as your lips curled into a smile.

“Yes, Star, Gale has deeply insulted me,” you called back sarcastically. “You may need to come defend my honor! In fact, I–”

You cut off abruptly as a shriek pierced through the air, echoing off the hard rock. You all whipped toward the sound, weapons coming back to the ready as another hook horror climbed out from behind a patch of roots close to your three companions. As you watched it emerge you distractedly thought that it would be nice to go back to fighting above ground again. The way sound bounced around the rocks always made it sound like there was something behind you, and some paranoid instinct had you sending a cursory glance back over your shoulder to calm your nerves.

You froze in place, realizing your fears had been well founded as another hook horror silently emerged from around the corner of the cavern wall and leapt towards you. You barked out a startled curse and jumped back as it took a swing at you. The first horror may have fallen easily enough against the four of you, but your companions were locked in battle on the other side of the cavern and you were well aware that a one-on-one fight was one you wouldn’t win.

You kept your eyes locked on the creature as you began backing your way across the cave, hoping you could get within range of your party before it lost patience and struck. Based on the sounds the other monster was emitting it wouldn’t be a threat for much longer. You tightened your hold on your weapon, preparing to strike as you crept back another step, heart skipping as the rock you had stepped on shifted underneath your boot. You glanced down for a split second, trying to find your footing, a sense of dread filling you as you saw the hook horror jump into motion in your peripheral vision.

The hook drove into your side and you screamed. Pain the likes of which you’d never felt before tore through you as the hook horror yanked its arm across your abdomen, tearing through your stomach. You thought you heard someone shout, but they sounded a million miles away as you collapsed to your knees before the beast, your sight dimming around the edges. You vaguely registered a flash of blades and a wet thump as the hook horror’s head hit the ground before your vision was taken over by Astarion’s panicked visage. His hands gripped your face, feeling unnaturally warm against your cheeks as the world faded away.

“No no no, you can’t die, get UP damn you!” he shouted, desperately trying to staunch the flow of blood from the jagged cut across your midsection even as a small voice in the back of his mind told him it was too late. His shaking hands were covered in your blood but he had never found it less appealing, appetite long gone as he stared at your unnaturally pale face. “Please, my sweet, don’t do this to me,” he pleaded, vision clouding as his eyes filled with tears. He saw a red blur on his left as Karlach kneeled down beside him and he instinctively curled around you protectively, arms gently slipping around your back as he clutched your unmoving form against his chest.

“Astarion, we need–”

“Give me a healing potion. Now.” he ordered, voice dangerously low.

“It’s too late, Astarion. We need to get her body back–”

“Don’t say it like that,” he growled shakily. He closed his eyes and drew a deep breath, trying to steady himself but choking on the scent of your blood in the air. “A resurrection scroll then,” he demanded, glaring in Gale’s direction.

“I… it won’t work. The tree–”

Astarion snarled out a curse and pressed his forehead against your frigid cheek, desperately trying to contain the sob attempting to claw its way out of him.

“We need to get her to camp, Astarion,” Karlach repeated gently, a small line of steam rising from where a tear had just rolled her cheek. “We need Shadowheart. I can carry–”

“No,” he murmured, gently brushing a strand of hair away from your face with a trembling hand before adjusting one of his arms beneath your knees and standing with you cradled against him. “I’ve got her.”

———————

They were farther from camp than Astarion had realized, though perhaps it only felt that way because he had spent the entire walk staring at your lifeless face. He felt numb by the time they arrived, hardly hearing Karlach shout for Shadowheart as they passed the first of the tents. In the back of his mind he was aware that their other companions had gathered around them frantically asking questions, but the words didn’t register and he continued forward without acknowledging any of them. He walked to his tent in a trance, gingerly setting you down on his bedroll and kneeling at your side as his shaking hands tried to arrange your limp body into a more comfortable configuration.

“What in the hells happened?” Shadowheart snapped as Karlach pulled her roughly into the tent. He should answer, should try to explain, but he was frozen kneeling by your side, unable to pull his attention away from your unblinking eyes.

“She- she was-” Karlach bit back a sob, trying to catch her breath. “We got caught off guard. She was alone. She shouldn’t have been alone,” Karlach choked out, dissolving into tears. Shadowheart hurried to your side and knelt across from Astarion, immediately beginning to unfasten the straps on your armor and peeling the bloodied metal away from your skin.

“We need to get her cleaned up so I can see what I'm doing. Astarion, can you fetch me some water and clean washcloths?” she asked, continuing to remove your ruined clothing. When he remained unmoving she looked up to where he sat, his gaze unwaveringly focused on the brutal cut across your torso.

“Astarion,” she repeated softly, waiting as he slowly drug his gaze up to meet her eyes. “I swear to you I will do everything in my power to fix this, but I need your help.” She paused, waiting until Astarion gave a small nod of acknowledgement to rattle off the things she needed, her attention returning to your still form as Astarion rose and darted around his tent gathering what she had requested. He returned a heartbeat later, depositing the items at her side as she instructed him to wet a cloth and begin wiping away as much blood as he could.

She began chanting a prayer as he worked, hovering her hands over your sternum while he continued to gently clean your skin. Your blood had been a gift once, a delight. Now he shuddered as he attempted to ring out the bloodied rag in his hand, barely fighting the urge to retch as it dripped from his hands into the reddened bowl of water at his side.

A light sparked in Shadowheart’s hands, warm and radiant, and Astarion stopped his work, dropping the stained cloth and gently reaching out with trembling fingers to take hold of your hand. The light in her palms grew as she focused, directing its power towards you. A glowing beam split from the whole and snaked downwards, weaving through the jagged edges of your wound and drawing them together while the remainder of the light floated upward, hovering over your heart. She continued chanting, her eyes drifting closed in concentration as the glowing orb started to lower, dimming as it sunk through your skin and into your chest. The room grew silent as Shadowheart completed the incantation and lowered her hands, looking you over carefully.

“Did it… did it work?” Karlach whispered. “Is it supposed to take this long? Why isn’t she–”

Your chest rose as you gasped in air, the breath immediately turning to a cough at the uncomfortable stretch in your lungs. The air tasted of iron and magic and you frowned, trying to open your eyes to observe your surroundings but surprised to find your eyelids heavy and uncooperative. Cool fingers brushed against your face, smoothing away the furrow in your brow and you instinctively relaxed at the familiar touch.

“All is well, darling,” you heard Astarion whisper, voice sounding oddly constricted. “Rest now.”

You were still confused, still couldn't remember how you’d gotten here or what had happened. It felt as if something important had occurred, surely you shouldn’t sleep now. You heard the soft murmur of voices around you, a strained chuckle, a soft sniffle. You frowned again, struggling once more to open your eyes and earning an exasperated sigh from the vampire beside you.

“Please, pet,” he breathed, lips ghosting over your skin as he pressed a gentle kiss to your cheek. “Just sleep.”

Your sense of unease fell away as Astarion began gently running his fingers through your hair. You felt him press another soft kiss against your forehead and relaxed into him, allowing yourself to drift off in his arms.

———————

The second Shadowheart had given the all clear Astarion had insisted everyone leave his tent. It was far too crowded and he wouldn’t have them waking you up when you were clearly in no condition to face their fussing. Even as he anchored himself in the sound of your steady heartbeat he still felt restless and off-balance, hands flitting over your sleeping form looking for something more to do.

He felt ridiculous. You were here in front of him, healed and whole, and that should be the end of it. So why in the hells were his hands still trembling as he ensured your blankets were tucked around you? Why did his chest ache uncomfortably every time he caught a leftover whiff of your blood in the air?

He huffed out a frustrated breath and sat on the ground beside you, staring at your sleeping face warily. This had never been part of his plan. He was never supposed to… care. Two centuries of distancing himself and building walls and somehow you had just waltzed right past his defenses and made yourself at home. He let out a defeated sigh and reached over, extracting your hand from the blankets to weave your fingers together with his. His gaze drifted to the steady rise and fall of your breathing and he found himself matching your pace, the tightly wound coil in his chest finally starting to loosen as you let out a soft snore.

Tomorrow, he decided. Tomorrow he could deal with figuring out why that sound made him smile. Tomorrow he could obsess over how even just holding your hand made his whole body feel warmer. Tomorrow he could deal with the fact that in over 200 years of life he’d never before been as completely and utterly terrified as he had been today. For now, though, he would indulge. For tonight he would just let himself have this, whatever ‘this’ was. He closed his eyes and lifted your hand to his face, gently brushing his lips across your knuckles as he settled in to watch over you until morning.

———————

The passage of time in the Underdark still confused you. You woke to the same darkness you had fallen asleep in, groggily wondering what time it was and how long you had been in bed. Your mouth was dry and your head was pounding. Had you been drinking? That would certainly explain why you couldn’t remember how you had gotten here. As unappealing as getting up sounded, you were parched and you couldn’t stay here forever. You hoisted yourself up and froze as pain suddenly lanced through you, your vision flickering and arms giving out as you whimpered and fell back toward your pillow only to be caught by a pair of cold, pale arms.

“I wouldn’t recommend moving just yet, darling,” Astarion said, looking down at you with a worried frown on his face as he lowered you gently back to the bedroll. “Shadowheart did as much as she could last night but it took a lot out of her to bring you back. You’re not going anywhere until she’s gotten a chance to check on you again.” He leaned across you, determinedly avoiding meeting your eyes as he made sure your pillow was adequately fluffed. You saw a slight tremor run through him and heard a catch in his breath before he stood abruptly and walked across the tent, silently pouring you a glass of water from the pitcher in the corner.

“Bring me… back?” you questioned. Astarion stilled, jaw clenching as you took him in. His normally flawlessly tousled hair was tangled as if he had been running his hands through it and streaks of blood threaded through the white locks. There were dark circles under his eyes and his skin looked even paler than normal, nearly translucent in the dim light. Your eyes flitted down to his wrinkled, untucked shirt and then around the tent, catching on the blood-soaked pile of clothes and armor to the side of the entrance and the red-stained towels laying by a bowl of water next to the bedroll. A dim memory flashed through your mind: a tree, an ambush, excruciating pain, and then… nothing.

“Oh.” you whispered, exhaling shakily as you felt your chest constrict, breaths turning quick and shallow as the air seemed to thin. Astarion was by your side in an instant, one hand smoothing back your hair while the other cupped your cheek, his thumb gently wiping away a tear you hadn’t even realized had fallen.

“It’s alright, darling, just breathe. You’re safe now.” he murmured, continuing to stroke your hair as your breathing calmed. He let out a tremulous sigh and closed his eyes, leaning down to press his forehead to yours. “It’s alright,” he repeated even more quietly, sounding almost as if he were talking to himself, pressing against you for a moment before inhaling sharply and pulling away.

“Shit, you’re in pain, aren’t you?” he said, looking you over with worried eyes and immediately moving to stand. “I’ll get Shadowheart, she said she’d come by when she woke but surely she’s had enough sleep by now and–”

“Wait, Star, I… can you just stay here with me for a moment?” you asked in a small voice. Warmth spread through him at your request and he obliged immediately, lowering himself to sit at your side and gently taking your hand in his. You sat in companionable silence for a moment, studying his profile as he stared at your interlaced fingers. Up close the bags beneath his eyes were even more pronounced and you frowned, gently extricating your hand from his to touch his cheek. He leaned into your palm and placed a kiss against the inside of your wrist, eyes drifting closed as he basked in the warmth of your touch.

“Have you rested at all, Astarion?” you questioned. “You look exhausted.”

He huffed a laugh and cracked open an eye to look at your face.

“I’m not sure you want to get into comparing looks right now, darling. You’re even paler than me at the moment,” he chuckled, eyes closing once again as he leaned further into your touch, a teasing grin spread across his face. “I assure you, however you may think I look, you look ten times worse.”

“Hm, that’s not too bad I suppose,” you smirked. “Ten times worse than you is still at least three times better than the average person.”

Astartion barked out a surprised laugh and opened his eyes to look at you again, something in them softening as he saw your gentle smile.

“Whoever would’ve thought math could be so romantic,” he murmured, leaning forward and placing a soft kiss against your lips. He raised a hand to brush a stray hair off your forehead and his smile faded, brow furrowing as his gaze met yours with uncharacteristic vulnerability. “Please don’t scare me like that again, my dear,” he breathed. “I’m- I don’t-” he sighed in frustration at the mess of emotions in his chest, hardly able to remember the last time his words had failed him so completely.

“Don’t want to deal with this group of weirdos all by yourself?” you teased gently. He grinned back at you, gratitude in his eyes for not pushing him to collect his thoughts just yet.

“Precisely that,” he chuckled, the tension leaving his shoulders.

“Well I’m not going anywhere,” you said, smiling softly at him. “Also I wasn’t kidding before, you look like shit. You really should get some rest.”

“Hm,” Astarion hummed mischievously, narrowing his eyes. “I would, but you see someone went and bled all over my bedroll. Adept though I may be at washing out blood stains it’s a rather thick fabric, it will take a while to dry back out. I may need to stay with… someone… for a day or two. Or three. Maybe more,” he smirked, raising an eyebrow suggestively as you huffed out a laugh.

“You’re incorrigible,” you replied, grinning up at him and rolling your eyes. “I suppose it does seem that I’ve made rather a mess of your tent though…”

“You certainly have,” he murmured, shifting to hover over you, slowly kissing his way along your jaw.

“And it would only be fair to let you bunk with the cleanest person in camp…”

“Mmhmm…” he hummed, kissing closer and closer to your lips.

“And I’m sure Gale wouldn’t mind letting you crash with him–”

“Excuse me??” he crowed, pulling back indignantly as you burst out laughing below him. He scowled playfully and shook his head at you in feigned displeasure. “You wicked little thing,” he chuckled, leaning back down and finally pressing his lips to yours in a gentle, unhurried kiss. “What am I going to do with you?”

“Whatever it is,” you smirked, pulling him back to you for another kiss, “I'm sure I'll like it.”

#astarion #astarion ancunin #baldurs gate 3 #baldurs gate #astarion x reader #astarion x tav #astarion x you #bg3 #bg3 astarion

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gutsby · 4 months

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Joel Miller

Waiting Game (dbf!Joel)

Joel has mastered the art of self-control in all areas except one: not fucking his friend’s daughter. A cross-country road trip home from college takes a hard turn when he’s forced to share a motel room with you.

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3

One shots for the Waiting Game ‘verse

Homemade: While your dad’s watching a movie downstairs, you and his best friend decide to make one of your own.

Diehard: Joel tries Viagra for the very first time.

Ruined!: Joel is an old man who struggles to cum sometimes. You’ve got time to kill and a tight hole to fill.

Cabin Fever (Dark!Joel x Dark!Reader) [DEAD DOVE]

Joel saves your life, but help comes at a price.

Confines: Joel locks you up in a subterranean bunker.

Finders Keepers (bfd!Joel)

Something about the sun in Cabo San Lucas and your best friend’s father’s sweaty body makes you a horny mess. When you find an old shirt of his lying around, you can’t resist. When Mr. Miller finds you humping a pillow and moaning his name, neither can he.

Cry, Baby

Joel fucks you to the point of tears. That’s all.

Just Peachy [anal]

Joel’s got a jealous streak and a bold idea.

Bucky Barnes

Wedded Bliss (Mob!Bucky)

The marriage was arranged, and the sex is deranged. Bucky is so obsessed with your pussy that he almost forgets he’s meant to be faking this whole thing—and hating it, like sworn enemies are supposed to do.

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4

Daryl Dixon

Dead Ringer

Weeks of separation and sexual frustration come to a head when Daryl pays you a visit in the middle of the night. Whether it's the product of your own sex-deprived subconscious or reality, you can't be sure—and couldn't care less. Daryl wants to fulfill the fantasy any way he can.

Easy Street

You steal a cop car and almost run Daryl over en route to the Sanctuary. You can’t decide if you want to fight him, fuck him, or bring him back to Negan. Lucky for you, Daryl is game for all three.

Nighthawk

You decide to bring Spencer to the neighborhood Halloween bash to take your mind off your breakup with Daryl. Your ex isn't so easily convinced of your intentions and decides there's no better place than his motorcycle to show you just how much he misses you.

Cherry Pie

You know virtually nothing about sex, and Daryl’s done it all. Together, you take on an impromptu anatomy lesson, and you learn that Daryl has a lot more to teach you than what’s covered in the textbooks.

Walker Bait

An unforeseen foray into a sex shop leaves you and Daryl trapped between a plastic cock and a hard place as a herd of walkers closes in. Angry sex ensues.

Grow a Uterus and We’ll Talk

Daryl has a bad case of baby fever, to put it lightly. You’re practically terrified of children. Rick lends you his kid for the night, and together, you come to learn that parenthood might not be the worst thing in the world. Even easier than baking muffins, one might say.

Honey Trap

You’ve been tasked with two simple jobs: infiltrate Alexandria’s community and bring intel back to your boss by any means necessary. When your entry point into the group takes the form of a familiar blue-eyed archer, you expect this to be your easiest gig yet—that is, until your prey decides to hunt you back.

Pregnant Pause

Babymaking is a bit trickier than anticipated, and months have passed with no sign of pregnancy. When your period finally doesn’t show up on time, you and Daryl act fast and head straight for the pharmacy—and get a little caught up along the way.

Mr. Dixon

Your efforts to seduce the DILF next door have all failed spectacularly, so you decide a wet hot car wash in front of his house is in order. Mr. Dixon is less than impressed with your antics and plans to teach you a lesson in good manners and ‘neighborliness.’

I’m a Good Girl, Officer!

Apparently flashing your tits to truckers on the freeway is frowned upon in small towns like yours. When three familiar King County cops take charge of the case, you learn they punish bad girls a little differently.

Playing Dangerous

Working undercover in a seedy part of town, homicide detective Daryl sees you in your skimpy club attire and mistakes you for a hooker. A wrongful arrest makes for a funny way to foreplay, but you’re still game.

Fake It Til You Make It (Or Drown)

Daryl finds out you faked an orgasm. Instead of getting mad, he decides to get even.

Best Served Cold

Since your fiancé can’t seem to keep his hands off of Lori, you decide Daryl is the perfect way to make him pay. Revenge sex has never felt so good.

Coming Soon:

Bite the Bullet

Back at the prison, new recruits have been showering you with gifts. One of these presents doesn’t sit quite right with Daryl, and he decides it’s time to let the men know just how he feels—and who you belong to.

Atlantic City

A very drunk Daryl meets a stripper in Jersey and wastes no time putting a ring on her finger. With the late, great Elvis Presley presiding, the two get hitched in a slipshod ceremony a couple weeks before the world descends into chaos. This marriage may be short-lived, but damn if the honeymoon won’t be one to remember.

Requests are open!

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idesofrevolution · 5 months

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Never Sleep with Your Phone On

Throughout recorded history, humans have been terrified of the dark. They created stories of sordid creatures of the night that would creep out from beneath your bed and drag you to some subterranean lair to languish in your final moments; or slither out of your mirror if you left it uncovered when your lights were extinguished to steal your soul from your snoring lips. The tales and cryptids across all cultures were all effective in terrifying their communities once the sun set on the horizon. Though that is not necessarily to say that every tale was crafted from pure imagination.

When technology bloomed, humans believed that the horrifying superstitions of yore were long behind them. They had evolved past the primitive fears of what lurks in the shadows, where in reality they had become complacent, arrogant, and lulled. Certainly some of the eldritch creatures had subsided, as all creatures do eventually. Though for every dead legend, a new myth sprouts, and each of those grew and evolved right there along with us. Which, of course, brings us to Asher.

Asher West was, by all accounts, a fairly normal guy. Graduated from high school, going straight into college on a modest academic scholarship. He played frisbee golf with his friends on the weekends, studied hard from 9 to 5, and was seldom seen without a cup of Starbucks in the mornings. He had a sizeable social media following, as was expected for someone with a traditionally handsome visage and adequately charismatic personality. Every day he'd happily post a quick selfie, posting for his thousands of admirers a run of the mill shirtless pic, often without so much as a filter. It'd almost become muscle memory for him: tap the camera icon, snap the pic, post with some benign emojis as the caption, and boom. 900 likes as the day meandered on. Did it provide him with a momentary burst of endorphins? Yes. Was it satisfying? Somewhat, at least he thought so. Years of his staggeringly average life had been all but usurped by this second life online, where he was glamorous, exciting, and adored.

It was so much easier to live in that fantasyland than to truly be present in the real world around him. He, as many of us are, was living his life as someone else- and a life that spectacled easily caught attention. It was easy to come across him in the sea of countless names and faces. It was easy to stumble upon that pretty face. It was easy find, attracting more than just starry eyed fans. Skulking in the void between lines of 1 and 0, buried deep in the infinite cosmic vacuum of the world electric and technological, another pair of eyes would befall him.

It had slinked into his vast sphere rather quickly, and it had begun to watch. Watching each and every 'tasteful' selfie, every vapid thought that he'd post, and every like and pin he'd make, it watched him with empty, expressionless black eyes from within a fragment of his phone's memory. It studied him, curious at first. Things of its nature were always curious, always inclined to watch and analyze and replicate. Even as he slept, his phone siphoning it's charge from it's cable, it would read. The more it saw, the more it had learned about Asher. In fact, it knew more of Asher than perhaps he himself was aware of, if not able to admit.

It had seen those intimate moments he'd taken careful measure to hide from the vast majority of those watching eyes. Second accounts under pseudonyms, gave way to countless of hidden alternate lives he lived: Tumblr blogs dedicated to bad-boy thrist traps and queer erotica, Twitter accounts cataloguing pictures and videos of his closest kept kinks, a well used and well loved Chaturbate account with his face tastefully cropped out of frame... all these lives immortalized in the endless archives of the internet. And after all it's patient watching, all the hours of analyzing, all the months of consuming his information, it had grown an attachment.

Asher had come home late one night. Not unusual for him, as the occasional party wouldn't derail his real life ambitions. After a few libations, and no small amount of cannabis, he'd made his way back home to his small apartment above the corner store. Just as he'd done numerous times before, he stripped himself of his shirt, pulling his camera from his jeans pocket, and snapped a slightly inebriated picture of himself. It'd be enough to boost his ego the next morning, enough to power through the long haul of his draining daily agenda.

SNAP. The flash of the camera went off, and his beloved face was shared for all to see. Though, that night, he mis stepped. Perhaps it was the booze, perhaps it was the toke, perhaps he was simply too tired to notice that he'd left the screen on. By the time he'd hit the bed he was out like a rock, collapsed onto the bed and quietly drifting to sleep. There on the brightly lit screen, in the darkness of the unlit bedroom, it saw its opportunity.

From it's perch on the nightstand, the phone began to spark. Small sparks at first, a quick fizzle and quiet pop. Then more: louder, brighter, faster. It began to rumble against the wooden tabletop, sizzling and sparkling as it danced before the screen went black and dead. Slowly, electric crackling gave way to a bubbling sludge. The glass subtly started wave and bellow, as if it were liquified, not taking long to begin to spill over the edges of it's metal frame. The black sludge fell like oil onto the hardwood floors, collecting in a growing, bubbling pool.

From the primordial ooze burst forth a long, slender arm; it's taloned fingers scraping as it braced itself on the ground. A second arm clawed it's way out, and with an echoing slosh, it had begun to pull itself out of the sludge. It's long, emaciated torso and thick muscled legs had slithered out, landing on two massive, clawed feet. It towered above Asher's bed as he slumbered, bent over so as not to hit it's back onto the eight foot ceiling. It stood there, looking at the person it'd observed and studied for so long. The image presented in the world it'd pried himself out of was nothing of what lay before it. From what it had gathered from his more clandestine dealings, it had noted that he was far from the archetypes he'd collected on Asher's behalf.

He did not have the tattoos like those he'd pinned on Pinterest. He was not wearing the dark, heavy clothes like those he'd saved on Instagram. He wasn't well endowed like the video's he'd favorited on X-Tube. He didn't give off the aura of some rebellious casanova like the stories he'd reblogged on Tumblr. To a creature of symmetry and consistency, this was an error to be corrected; a dichotomy requiring integration.

It crouched down above his drooling maw, gently caressing his head to face it's clenching claw. The talons pressed ever so tenderly past his lips and over his tongue, becoming the very black ooze it had crawled out of once more. It flooded down his throat as it's second arm made it's way into his mouth, as if it were being sucked into Asher. He was drinking it's essence, it's aqueous body slurping down into his core. It's torso compressed as it wriggled down his gullet, ringing out splashing squelches as Asher gargled it down.

As quickly as it had entered, it's long legs slithered into his mouth, leaving only its large feet thrashing about in the air. Asher's stomach was bubbling and undulating under the sheer pressure from this invasion, growing to a large gut spilling over the waistband of his jeans. One loud slurp and a crisp pop, and the feet slipped into him, leaving his writhing body squirming on the bed. It expanded within him, incorporating itself into every fibre of his being. Pressing into his arms, his legs, pushing up his throat until it met the top of his palate. The pressure began to mount, black goo dribbling down the corners of his mouth, until a wet crack sounded in his cavernous head, and it flowed into his skull.

It took mere seconds for it to reach his brain, which it flowed freely into throughout the grooves and nooks. Entirely coated, imbued and inoculated with it, the deed was done. Asher opened his eyes, tiredly sitting up in his bed. He looked over at his phone, tapping it with his finger: 3 AM.

At first it seemed like a nightmare. He could recall moments here and there, though the majority of his 'dream' was a blur. From what he could remember, it was nothing visual he could recollect... but it he could recollect the sensations. Wet, slimy, invasive, and cold- much like he felt drunkenly sleeping in his cold sweat. He brought himself to his feet, dragging his feet on the slippery floorboards to his bathroom.

Flipping the switch, the harsh fluorescent light flickered to life above him, as he turned the nozzle on his shower. Immediately, his jaw nearly dropped to the floor. In the mirror, Asher finally caught a glimpse of himself: strange black bruises and undulating bumps were scattered across his body. That pristine, smooth skin was now covered in sprawling web-like lesions from head to toe. He had mere moments to process the horror reflected in front of him before an immediate pain in the gut had him doubled over the counter.

His stomach started to bubble and groan, and through the foggy haze of his blurred vision he saw his feet begin to ripple and swell. He could feel the slick sweaty soles slide across the tile floor as they expanded and grew. As they reached a substantial size 13, the swelling crept it's way up his calves and into his thighs. Asher wobbled on his feet, as if they were filled with gelatin beneath his slippery skin while his knees began to buckle. He collapsed into a crouch, the fumes of sweaty footmusk bellowing up to his nostrils as his legs cracked and stretched above. He'd never truly experienced scentplay as he'd so dearly fantasized about throughout countless hours of edging to such content, nor had this funk ever emanated from his own soles. In the moment, he felt something within him prod into his brain. As if poking the individual folds of his cerebrum with thousands of tiny needles, causing cascades of thoughts to enter his mind- all of which telling him to embrace. In his mind's eye, he could see himself burying his face into his sweaty sole, between his long toes, lapping up every droplet of sweat that was spewing from his pores. The thought was buried deep in his subconscious, pried out with expert measure, by something now within him.

Grasping for anything to steady himself on, Asher gripped the edge of the sink, pulling himself upright once again and now towering above the countertop. He hung his aching head low, watching with strange newfound fervor as his cock began to feel heavier and heavier. Drool started to drip from the bottom of his lip, landing square onto the lengthening shaft. Like a sandbag, his balls dropped and swelled while he got harder and harder. Another onslaught of pinpricks in his head brought forth another command: stroke.

Steam started build in the bathroom as the hot water continued to fall from the shower, intensifying the scent wafting from now both his feet and his pendulous sac. Each breath of hot, wet musk hit like ecstasy, and with bated breath, he softly grasped ahold of his python and began to pump. Each knead of his engorged member was accompanied by a change. His fingers grew long and sinewy, smooth and slick with precum. His arms remained thin but toned, growing longer and packed with lean muscle. His torso lengthened, topped off with a firm pair of pecs above his sinewy abdomen.

As pressure began to build in his balls, his mind began to feel the needles one last time, imbuing his brain with one last injection of a single trait: pride. He didn't need the approval of anyone else, he was aware of how fucking hot he was. He didn't need to heed the rules that society had straddled him with, he always forged his own path. He had no fears of recompense for his attitude, his ego, his spirit- the world would either stand with him, or he would step on top of them. Either way, what bliss. As the last of his inhibitions and fears had gathered in his groin, he cried out in elation as he erupted. Rope after rope of black sludge shot from his cannon, washing him with a sense of relief he'd never before known. He released his grip on his softening cock, hanging at an obscene eleven inches. He smirked at the sludge coating his mirror and pooling beneath his toes. A sight like that would have shocked and terrified the old Asher, though as he stood before his reflection, devoid of any tension, he relented to the entity within him. It had delivered onto him a new self, a new image, a new viewpoint. As tattoos both vulgar and delicate began to sprawl across his skin, he happily admired his new likeness.

The entity had bestowed a gift to him; throughout the horror, throughout the fear, he was becoming the true Asher that had only ever peeked out from the abyss of his psyche. He leered, bringing his thumb and middle finger together before snapping loudly. From his pores, the black sludge began to spill across his body until he was nearly covered from the neck down in what appeared to be a rubber suit before it began to become a bit more defined. A plain white tee shirt, classically fashioned with a black and white varsity jacket from his college. Skinny, weathered black jeans barely containing his sizeable commando bulge beneath it's thin fabric. On his feet, a pair of white socks and tightly tied high top Chucks, quelling the ripe stink of his soles within the sneaker for some sub to pry off and enjoy.

He grinned, posing and modeling for himself, before he finally turned off the steaming water. After the long, arduous, painful process, the entity had incorporated itself entirely within him- now completely indistinguishable from parasitic to symbiotic. It had rewritten him, completely remade him in the likeness of who he had shown the vast virtual world. There was no cognitive dissonance, there were no lies, there was no deception. All that remained was the Asher he had created in his fantasy, now ready to fuck the real world and all within it.

Thus, as our creature feature comes to an end, I leave you with a modicum of friendly advice. Don't leave your phone on as you slumber, for those that are watching, those that are waiting, those that have been learning are a mere sheet of glass away from finding their way inside. Take my counsel, or ignore it. But do so knowing the outcome, and whether or not you are prepared to weather such a storm.

#body transformation #male transformation #original #transformation #musk #punkification #punk transformation #body possession #body invasion #symbiote #male symbiote #virtual cryptid #virtual symbiote #college

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whereserpentswalk · 2 months

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You have a computer that can access the internet of any dimension. You don't have the ability to physically go places, just to observe them and interact with them through this one machine.

Sometimes you'll just do it for fun. Seeing other timeline's versions of sites and the content that's created there. Getting to see work from artists if they hadn't sold out or moved on. Or getting to see what YouTube is like in a world where it never become corpratized. Or get to go on Vine in a world where vine exists in 2024. You've read writing from Shakespeare if he had been sent to the new world, seen stories from Lovecraft if he had unlearned his bigotry, seen experimental films from George Lucas if star wars had floppe, heard music from Kurt Cobain if he hadn't died young.

And you've gone off to weirder places to. You've seen what political discourse is like in a world where Constantine converted to Buddhism instead of chrsitianity, where that's the dominant religion of the west. And you'll see conservatives talking about how sjws are undermining the west's Buddhist values, or YouTube videos talking about chrsitantiy as this forgotten dead religion from the crisis if the third century. And you asked someone in the comments of that video what they thought a world would be like if chrsitanity survived, and they said it was impossible, that it was doomed to die out just because it did.

And you've talked to people from a world where humanity lives underground, where an apocalypse made the surface of the world uninhabitable, and every human on earth lives in massive subterranean complexes. You talked to them about what they wanted, if they wanted to see the sun, see the forests and the birds and the creatures that they knew were above them, and most of them didn't really want it. Most of them didn't really want to see the surface, they had grown up having never seen it, it didn't bother them, they were confused why anyone would be that committed to finally go somewhere that humans weren't. And there was one person who told you they did always really want to see it, that it's their hyperfixation, but that they'd obviously go back with the other humans if they had the chance, that they couldn't live somewhere without them.

And you've seen a world where humans where dead, where only robots and ai and cyborgs were still around. And even though they couldn't touch you, you were afraid, because you thought they would hate you. But they didn't, on every site where they talked about humans they talked about how cool you were, and how much aprication they had for their culture. And when you made a post asking if they'd want to hurt humans if they saw them, everyone who replied called you weird.

You've seen the internet in a world where cryptids and monsters are real. And you ended up on a forum for vampires. And you asked a newly turned vampire how they felt, and they said it was cold, that their body felt so cold, but it was still their body, and that they still wanted to live, still wanted to find a way to enjoy their life even if they didn't like their body.

And you've seen a world where all humans are completely aroace, and don't desire sex or romance at all. And you decided to upload sexual and romantic art, and even fetish art, to one of their sites. And the people there loved it, despite not understanding its purpose, they loved the way the artist depicted the world, saw it as so unique and strange, as something weirdly beautiful, and not at all gross, because nobody ever told them such things were gross.

And you've made online freinds from other worlds. People who you can never touch, never see, but who you see through their words. You've comforted someone who doesn't exist in your world, from a country that doesn't exist in your world, but you've comforted them, and made sure they don't get hurt or hurt themself, from very far away, because despite everything you can't help but care.

Mabye the internet isn't that bad. Mabye the world isn't all horrible. Mabye people aren't that bad.

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rosieofcorona · 5 months

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All We Do Not Say

Hi beloveds! I have crafted a soft little Gale fic for you because it's my firm belief that everyone's favorite wizard deserves all the warmth in the world. 😌 Also on AO3, if you prefer. As always, thank you for reading. 💕

There was a time in his life that Gale could sleep anywhere, provided he had a good book and a space to sit down.

In Waterdeep, he might wake in his armchair or on his balcony with the weight of an ancient tome still resting in his lap, or at his desk, his cheek pressed against parchment. The smell of it, of ink and lignin, would bring him back to his senses before his eyes were fully open, and he’d recall what he’d been studying, and begin reading again.

At home, in his tower, he could do this night after night and still feel mostly rested come morning.

But he is far from his tower, and farther each day.

Perhaps it is the orb that keeps him up as of late, with its insatiable, unnatural hunger, or perhaps it is the tadpole that wriggles and pulses impatiently inside his skull. Or it could, he supposes, be the simpler and less curable matter of aging– an affliction that seems, on occasion, more frightening than either of the others.

Whatever the cause of his recent insomnia, it pulls Gale into a rather distressing cycle– he cannot sleep, so he cannot focus, so he cannot read, so he cannot sleep.

Instead, he finds himself offering to keep watch over camp in the evenings, if only for the distraction. The far-off gibbering of a newborn gnoll, the crunch of foliage under goblin feet, an animal scream– each night a fresh and distant horror calls his mind away from greater threats, from illithids and tadpoles and gods.

It’s an odd remedy, he knows. But the alternative is lying awake in his tent, turning death over and over in his mind until the thought is worn smooth as a river stone.

It works well for a time, keeps his mind on the present and off of some vague, future doom.

That is, at least, until they reach the Underdark.

Deep beneath Faerûn, there is something profoundly disturbing about the lack of…well, everything. They find no grand cities or quaint little villages, few animals and even fewer people.

No trees, no light. No sky.

Most nights spent underground are so quiet that Gale may as well stay in his bedroll, staring up at a canopy of fabric, dark as the velvet earth above them.

He thinks, It is like being buried alive, without even the stars to bear witness.

On these nights he can feel the stones in his head turning over.

Even so, come the evening (or what he guesses is evening), Gale volunteers to stand sentinel for the fifth time in a tenday.

He always asks them after dinner, when his companions are most likely to agree, after his cooking has warmed them and filled their bellies and made them want nothing more than to close their eyes and dream of somewhere, anywhere else.

Tav is the only one who protests with any frequency, the only one who seems to notice that the circles under his eyes are half a shade darker than they were yesterday, when they were half a shade darker than the day before.

Even on nights when she convinces someone else to take his place, he will relieve them after Tav has gone to sleep.

It starts the same way every time.

Gale walks the perimeter in an infinite loop, looking for life in the darkness, illuminated only by the fire in the center of their camp. It makes him feel like a distant planet, nearly untouched by the sun. How strange to think that he’d once felt like the sun itself.

He continues in his orbit until the subterranean cold gnaws at his limbs. It bites down hard on his nose and ears and fingers, chases him back to the fire, back to the light.

Hypnotized by the flames and their radiant warmth, he does not hear the quiet stirring in the tent beyond his own, doesn’t hear the soft approach of nimble feet.

A voice comes to him out of the darkness.

“I hope you’re not keeping watch again.”

“Mystra,” Gale gasps, startled, the goddess’s name invoked in equal parts a prayer, a curse.

“Forgive me,” Tav says, through a laugh she cannot help. “I didn’t mean to frighten you.” If it were anyone else he might be annoyed, or even a little embarrassed– but the sound of her laughter bubbles like seafoam over sand, rushes over and around him. Coupled with the relief that she is not some dreadful creature of the Underdark, he finds it difficult to feel anything besides affection.

“It’s quite alright,” he recovers, with a shake of his head. “You surprised me, that’s all.”

“Then I really hope you’re not keeping watch.”

She is teasing him now, just lightly, a familiar spark of warmth behind her eyes.

It is the same look she gives him when she brings him a new book, or when he cooks for her, or when he tells her about Waterdeep. It is the same look she gave him earlier in the day, when she had offered to brew him a tea that might help him to sleep.

Gale has trouble remembering the last time another looked at him this way, so interested and inviting and earnest.

Perhaps, he thinks, another never has.

“Are you alright?” Tav asks, when he’s been quiet for too long.

“Of course,” he says with the sincerity of a promise, offered with a smile that he hopes will be convincing. “Just lost in thought.”

There is a part of him that doesn’t want to leave it there, that wants to share his every thought with her, his every terror, every dream. She must know that there is more to it, must’ve learned by now to recognize when Gale isn’t telling her everything, but he is grateful that she doesn’t press him, never presses him.

Instead she breaks into a grin and says, “You’re lucky I’m not a bulette.”

“I’m lucky they’re not so light-footed. What are you doing up, anyway?”

“The cold always wakes me, sooner or later,” Tav sighs. “If I’d known it was so godsdamned frigid down here, I might’ve nicked a fur or two from the Zhent.”

It’s Gale’s turn to laugh, though she’s only half-joking.

She’s drawn near to him, to the flames, her palms outstretched, her fingers spread wide as if to grab hold of as much warmth as possible.

“But it’s alright,” she continues, “So as long as I’m close to the fire.”

“Any closer and you’ll be in it, I’m afraid. Perhaps I can help.”

Tav tilts her head and quirks an eyebrow in a curious little expression. “Can you?”

“If you’ll allow me.”

Gale turns to face her fully, and she mirrors him out of instinct.

“Hold out your hands to me,” he says. “Palms together, just barely. Like you’re praying.”

“Like this?” “Like that.”

The spell is one his mother taught him, among the first he’d ever learned.

He still remembers that winter in Waterdeep, when the snow fell hard and fast. When the ice in the harbor kept the ships at arm’s length and the frozen streets shone like glass. He was young then, six or seven, but even now he can feel his small hands in Morena’s, warmed by a word and a touch.

Warm and fed, she used to tell him. That’s how you show someone they’re loved.

Gale cages Tav’s hands lightly in his own, the way he might hold a butterfly. He pushes all thoughts of winter away and calls to mind the rippling heat of summer, an orchard grown fat with peaches, the silvery shimmer of sweat on skin.

The rose-petal flush of a cheek cradled in a hand, her cheek, his hand…

“Calor aestas,” he says quietly, when the image comes into clear view. He feels the cold melt from her fingers, hears the comfortable sigh that follows. “Better?”

“Yes,” she murmurs. “Much.”

She is looking at him now with an intensity he has not seen since the night he first showed her the Weave, all that time ago. The night he saw her thoughts laid bare, had all but felt her lips on his.

Had she seen them now, the visions he had conjured? Had she felt him pull her close in his own mind?

Tav clears her throat softly and he comes back to himself, his heartbeat thrashing wildly in his chest. He realizes with some urgency that he has not let her go and pulls back suddenly, but not without reluctance.

“I hope,” he swallows, trying to compose himself. “I hope it helps you sleep.”

“Do you want me to stay up with you?”

Yes, he thinks selfishly, Yes. Stay up with me, stay close to me, always.

He shakes his head instead. “You should rest while the spell holds.”

“And how long is that?”

“As long as I’m able to concentrate.”

He will think of her hands and their pull on a bowstring, their pluck of a lyre, their grip on a sword. How they weave her own magic, how they cradle a book. How they felt clasped in his, soft and cold.

A focus worth holding, at last.

“Only if it’s no trouble,” she says.

“None at all.”

Gale is grateful that he manages to stop himself, for once, from saying the rest of the thought as it enters his head. I would think of you anyway, magic or no.

Tav takes his hand in hers again, this time to squeeze it fondly.

For a moment, he feels that if he were to die just now– from the orb, from the tadpole, in the jaws of a hungry bulette– it would all have been worth it, for this.

“Thank you, Gale.”

Her smile is warmer than any summer he remembers, brighter than any star he can name.

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fayes-fics · 4 months

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When The World Is Free: Chapter 1 - Sous le ciel de Paris

MASTERPOST | NEXT

Pairing: Benedict Bridgerton x fem!reader, WW2 AU.

Warnings: none

Word Count: 2.1k

Summary: Welcome to the start of my new multi-chapter fic based on a request by the lovely @amillcitygirl! Please see the masterpost for a synopsis of this story. Please note that while I do have a plotted outline, I will be posting chapters as I write them, and I expect that process to take quite a few months. Please bear with me! This first chapter sets up the story - reader moving to Paris in the summer of 1939 and bonding with her new flatmate, Eloise Bridgerton. Please note that Benedict won't be turning up for a couple of chapters yet. Thanks to @colettebronte for beta reading. Enjoy! <3

August 1939

Emerging from the underground Trocadero metro stop, you round the corner of the recently completed, gleaming Palais de Chaillot and stop dead in your tracks. There before you is the most iconic landmark of Paris. Perhaps all of France.

La Tour Eiffel.

Breathtaking in its metallic magnificence, glowing in the setting sun. A sight that buoys your travel-weary soul seven days after you left New York: boats and trains finally bringing you to this wondrous spot. A light breeze even dances over your neck in greeting, a balm from the cloying subterranean heat of the metro.

It's a light elbow check to your arm that pulls you back from a state of reverie.

“A beautiful sight, but one you’ll get used to,” your uncle Robert chuckles, shaking your heavy leather case to indicate it's time to move along. “In fact, I've been told you will be able to see it from your appartement…”

He has accompanied you to Paris and will see you settled into your new adventures before continuing on to visit friends in England. He spent the roaring 20s living right here in the 16th arrondissement himself and, indeed, has arranged for you to share living quarters with a young British lady, a relative of his English friends. It's a comfort to know you’ll have at least one English speaker to chat with as you dive headfirst into learning proper French as you go.

Robert leads you away from the amazing sight and into the bustling streets, alive with cars, trams, bicycles and pedestrians buzzing in all directions. It's all at once like New York City, but yet so different as well, cafe terraces filling the wide pavements with all manner of people gathered to sip robust cafe au lait and refreshing limonade.

Within minutes, you are on a quieter side street and stopping outside a handsome honey-coloured stone facade with wrought iron window balconies and window guards, teaming with colourful, fragrant flowering pots. The number 14 gleaming white on a traditional navy blue tile. Your uncle pushes the enormous wooden door open, beckoning you into a cool whitewash wall corridor with mosaic floor tiles.

“Ahhh, Robert!!” a sophisticated middle-aged lady bustles from a nearby doorway and greets your uncle warmly, kissing both cheeks. It would appear they are friends of old.

“Y/n, this is Madam DuLac, your landlady,” he explains as you offer a handshake, admiring her boucle jacket and chic bun.

“Qu’est-ce?” she signals with a good-natured frown, obviously finding your polite greeting lacking, pulling you into a hug and two-cheeked kiss. She smells like Chanel perfume, cigarettes and baked goods. “You are in Paris now, ma chérie; this is how we greet one another,” she counsels in heavily accented but perfect English.

“You speak English?” you sigh, relieved, your French decidedly lacking.

“Bien sûr,” she smiles. “And please call me Solène,” she adds with a friendly smile.

“Eloise should be home from the library maintenant; the perfect time for you to meet,” she gestures towards an elevator cage surrounded by a sweeping grey marble staircase.

“I think I would prefer to take the stairs,” you admit, nerves flaring at the idea of such a contraption.

Your uncle laughs. “Well, I am taking it; I am not hefting this case of yours up five flights of stairs,” he adds dryly as you gaze up the swirling stairwell.

“Five storeys?” you squeak.

“The view is the best from the top,” Solène advises as she rattles back the cage entry and steps in, looking at you expectantly.

Reluctantly, you follow, all three of you and your luggage crammed into the metal cage as it jerks to life and begins its ascent.

“You will get used to it,” Solène smiles as she reads the apprehension on your face, your vice-like grip on your small vanity case and handbag.

Luckily, the lift reaches your destination safely. One shudder before it stops, and the door concertinas back in Solène’s hand to reveal a sweeping hallway with doors left and right.

“Ici,” she signals, the last door on the right-hand side.

But before you can knock, the door peels open, and a pretty, petite brunette jumps in surprise, dropping the book she is holding.

“Pardon,” she offers in perfect accented French, and you wonder for a split second if it is the correct apartment.

“Eloise, this is y/n,” Solène gestures.

“Ohhh, hello,” she grins, and the whiplash back to a plummy British accent is momentarily confusing. “I was about to go read in the courtyard, thought you might not be turning up today. Anyway… come in, come in!”

You shake her proffered hand as she ushers you into the apartment. Instantly, you feel a warmth spreading in your belly, like you have come home. It's light and airy, with large windows looking out across the Parisian rooftops, and yes, to the left is indeed the Eiffel Tower, still gleaming in the fading evening light. But the place also feels homely, that sort of messy that is lived in, comfortable. A large velvet sofa with tumbling stacks of books around it, a little kitchenette awash with colourful enamel cookware, and a jumble of art deco posters and random paintings adorning the walls.

“Solène, I don't suppose you've baked any more of those rather delicious madeleines, have you? To welcome my new housemate?” Eloise pipes up with a chipper, conspiratorial wink your way.

You already like her.

“Effronte!” Solène exclaims with fond exasperation before pausing. “There may be some…”

“I remember those!” your uncle adds with a tinge of nostalgia as he drops your suitcase. “You are in for such a treat, y/n.”

“Well, while our landlady decides if she’s willing to share the treats she has obviously baked but is being coy about…”Eloise raises a pointed eyebrow at the woman before returning to you. “...let me show you your room, then maybe a drink? I'm sure it's been a long journey.”

You nod and, with an exchange of grins, follow her down a corridor. She sweeps open the door to a lovely room, a large double bed with matching bedside tables and a dresser. But best of all, french doors onto a Juliet balcony overlooking a quiet courtyard filled with a riot of birch trees, their leaves gently rustling in the evening breeze.

“Mostly, it’s pesky pigeons down there, but you do get the occasional blackbird singing in the morning,” Eloise smiles as if intuiting your thoughts.

You spend some moments wandering the room and checking out the various fixtures, running idle hands over the furniture, already feeling remarkably at home with your new housemate and, indeed, your new home for the next twelve months.

“I'm just next door,” Eloise reveals, pointing a thumb over her shoulder.

Your uncle appears in the doorway to announce that he and Solène are off to catch up as you unpack and suggests you all reunite for dinner later at a local bistro. It all sounds so very Parisian chic; you cannot wait.

“So tell me about yourself,” Eloise flops onto your bed, already wonderfully casual in your presence, as you open your case and the wardrobe to unpack.

“I’m y/n. I'm from a little town on Long Island called Patchogue, about fifty miles outside New York City. I'm 22…”

“Me too!” she interjects, then signals for you to proceed.

“I wanted to see the world before I settled down. And I’ve dreamed of living in Paris since I was a little girl...” You feel your eyes misting at the fact it's now finally coming true as you continue. “So my parents agreed to pay for me to come to Paris for a year. Under the strict agreement, I get married when I return…”

“You have a fiancé?”

“Yes. Well, sort of. Stanley. We practically grew up together, and we’ve been going steady since we were eighteen.”

“Going steady? That's so American,” Eloise chuckles.

You nod with a giggle, then continue. “He hasn't proposed formally yet, says he is saving up for a ‘real nice’ ring, but it will happen. He is the son of my dad’s business partner. They run a construction company. So, while I'm here, they are building a home for us to live in when I return. We will get married next summer and move right in.”

“You don't mind?” Eloise frowns.

“Don’t mind what?” you query as you hang up your favourite dress.

“That your future is so… plotted out. I couldn't bear the idea. It's why I think my mother let me move to Paris. She was so fed up with me refusing to settle down.” Eloise laughs, idly flicking through the magazine you were reading on your journey.

“I suppose I've never really expected anything else,” you shrug, pausing as you put away your hosiery, but her words make you contemplative. “You don't have a boyfriend back home?”

“God, no. Too many pretty Frenchmen to entertain me here,” she winks. “I’ll introduce you to some, just in case you change your mind,” she breezes, climbing off your bed and drifting to the door. “Wine?”

“Oh… well, why not? When in France, etc,” you agree and close the drawer on the pile of cardigans you have just safely stacked.

“That's the spirit!” she effuses over her shoulder as you follow her back into the living room, the Eiffel Tower still glittering in the dusk.

“This place is so lovely,” you sigh, transfixed by the view as she wanders over and hands you a glass.

“It is a pretty magical view,” she agrees, staring at the skyline with you, watching as each window seems to illuminate in soft yellow with the dying light.

“And the decor, too; I see you love books as much as me,” you smile, tilting your head to the piles before taking a sip of red wine. It's the perfect balance of refreshing, mellow fruitiness and tart tannin coating your tongue, so much better than any wine back home.

“Oh god, yes! I work in the library. I can bring home as many as I want,” she enthuses.

“So, are there actually any left on the shelves?” you jest, lightly, savouring your drink and wandering to take a closer look at a smaller painting that catches your eye. It's very different to all of the others.

“My god, this is beautiful,” you breathe, hugging your wineglass to your chest as you stare transfixed at the art. It appears to be a large country house, probably British, bathed in the warm pinkish light of dawn.

“That's home. Aubrey Hall in Kent. I think the family made me bring it in the hopes it would make me homesick,” Eloise deadpans.

“It’s a wonderful piece,” you breathe, fingers reaching out to lightly trace over the heavily oiled brushstrokes. Something about it is so captivating and intimate.

“I'll be sure to let the artist know,” she smirks. “Although I'm reticent to give him any more praise, seeing as, unfortunately, he is my brother.”

“Your brother painted this?” taken aback by the revelation, assuming it an heirloom.

She nods and comes to stand next to you. “Yup. Benedict. Second eldest. I'm fifth of eight, by the way. Hence ‘E’ for Eloise. It's a thing,” she rolls her eyes.

“Wow. Big family. I just have one brother...”

“Lucky you. Although, as much as he is irritating, if I could only keep one sibling, it probably would be him,” she admits, taking a swig of wine.

“I love art,” you sigh, finally tearing your gaze from the canvas but already knowing it is something you will return to again and again. A pull you can’t quite understand.

“Oh, then I know the perfect job for you! There’s a gallery around the corner from the library, and I saw a sign saying they wanted an English speaker to assist international visitors! You would be perfect!”

“I would love that!” you extol, even as a tiny part of your brain lingers on the idea that it would be too good to be true if it all worked out, that fleeting sense of foreboding in paradise.

“Excellent!” Eloise’s enthusiasm pulls you back to the immediate. “So let’s get your glad rags on! It's time to hit the town for your first night in Paris!”

And thus, you find yourself being bundled back into your room to refresh and change for your first night in the city of your dreams. Indeed, as you find yourself being led by Eloise, arm looped in yours, through the bustling evening streets to a little bistro, your uncle and Solène already waiting at a table with smiling faces and drinks in hand, you can't help but feel this really is the only place in the world you could ever want to be…

Your adventure is just beginning.

Benedict taglist: @foreverlonginguniverse @aintnuthinbutahounddog @severewobblerlightdragon @writergirl-2001 @heeyyyou @enichole445 @enchantedbytomandhenry @ambitionspassionscoffee @chaoticcalzoneranchsports @nikaprincessofkattegat @baebee35 @crowleysqueenofhell @fiction-is-life @lilacbeesworld @broooookiecrisp @queen-of-the-misfit-toys @eleanor-bradstreet @divaanya @musicismyoxygen84 @benedictspaintbrush @miindfucked @sorryallonsy @cayt0123 @hottytoddyhistory @truly-dionysus @fictionalmenloversblog @zinzysstuff @malpalgalz @panhoeofmanyfandoms @kinokomoonshine @causeimissu @delehosies @m-rae23 @last-sheep @kmc1989 @desert-fern @starkeylover @corpseoftrees-queen @magical-spit @bunnyweasley23 @how-many-stars-in-the-sky @amygdtjhddzvb @sya-skies @balladynaaa

#benedict bridgerton fanfiction #benedict bridgerton #benedict bridgerton imagine #bridgerton fanfiction #bridgerton #bridgerton imagine #benedict bridgerton x reader #benedict bridgerton x female reader #benedict bridgerton x you #benedict bridgerton x y/n #bridgerton x reader #bridgerton x female reader #bridgerton x you #bridgerton x y/n

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mahoushojo-chan · 7 months

Text

Astarion x Tav || Anxiety Attack

gonna be right by your side (no matter what)

synopsis: he's never seen her look so frightened before. she trembles slightly, keeping her hands close to her body. she doesn’t even meet astarion’s gaze. it’s as if she's still focused on the creature, even though it's no longer within her line of sight. her breaths begin to come in starts, and his senses can hear her pulse skyrocketing.

an excerpt of “’cause my love (is mine, all mine)”

word count: 1739

pairing: astarion/tav

other tags: f!reader, bard!tav, hurt/comfort, light angst, non-sexual intimacy, romantic tension, friends to lovers, panic attack comfort, magically induced anxiety attack, song inspo: No Matter What by Zach Callison and Michaela Dietz

ao3: here

concept: panic attack comfort

After hours of traversing the dangerous depths of the Underdark, it finally dawns on Tav that the subterranean caves aren’t exactly suitable for a two-person adventuring party consisting of a bard and her dashing rogue companion. In the process, Tav has expended all her spell slots, save for two level one spells, and has endured not only physical damage, but psychological damage from the amount of whining that Astarion is putting her through.

“Gods, I truly hate it down here. Darling, let’s set a goal to live in a nice, lavish palace full of pointless luxuries.” Astarion insists, and almost enjoys the implication of living with each other in the future enough to forgive his incessant complaints. Almost.

She bites her tongue, because she figures it’s hard enough to give up life in the sun for a darkness he doesn’t truly care for. She’ll pester him about it later, but she knows the wound is still fresh for him right now.

It’s late into—well, it’s rather difficult to tell what the time is. Tav considers taking one more short rest, but she knows that they’re almost there.

“You know, I’ve actually never been to this place.” He says, now that they’re near enough to look for the entrance. Cazador’s entrance to the Underdark lead to some old vampire’s keep, located just to the east of Baldur’s Gate, auspiciously under the Fields of the Dead. “I wonder what wonders could be inside—hm?”

He stops when he notices Tav isn’t moving and narrows his eyes to try to see what she’s looking at. Though Astarion possesses keen night vision, the initial sight is somewhat obscure. At first, it appears as a mere silhouette, and in the Underdark, it's impossible to be wary of every peculiar shadow. Yet, after a moment, he discerns distinct horned features, and the shadowy form takes on the semblance of a horned humanoid, its eyes oozing pure horror, and it points a finger at them.

“Hells.” Astarion mutters, instinctively switching to disengage stealthily. He ducks behind the last corner they came from, and expects Tav to follow—before he turns to see her still rooted firmly in place.

“What are you doing? Get over here, quickly!” He hisses at her, but rather uncharacteristically, she doesn’t respond. He’s used to her fearless antics, and this does look like something she’d be rather interested in, but there’s only so much stupidity he’s able to take. Out of options, he grabs the back of her cloak and pulls, successfully tugging her behind the corner. “Are you insane?” He snaps, but the second he turns his attention away from the creature and towards Tav, he immediately freezes.

He's never seen her look so frightened before. She trembles slightly, keeping her hands close to her body. She doesn’t even meet Astarion’s gaze. It’s as if she's still focused on the creature, even though it's no longer within her line of sight. Her breaths begin to come in starts, and his senses can hear her pulse skyrocketing.

“Breathe, darling.” He instructs, but she isn’t listening to him—more importantly, she still isn’t moving. It’s not that he doesn’t want to comfort her, but he’s pretty sure the monster, whatever it is, is still slowly stalking towards them.

Quickly, as a last-ditch effort, he hoists her onto his back. She’s still heavy, and she’s slowing him down. Even if it might be faster to hide her and look for the entrance himself, when she stutters, “’Starion?” In that quiet, uncharacteristically weak voice, he knows he can’t leave her.

“Right here, my sweet, right here.” He reassures quietly, still looking for the entrance while trying to keep out of the creature’s sight. At the very least, it didn’t seem very perceptive.

Eventually, he sees a crack of firelight in the wall—just enough to reveal concrete slabs behind the layers of rock, and enough to illuminate the edges of a wooden door. He quickly dashes towards it and pries the door open, entering and putting her down before closing the door behind him. He looks through the iron keyhole to see if the monster will pass, but a voice breaks his concentration.

“Astarion,” Dalyria says, sounding relieved.

“Shh.” He dismisses. “There’s something outside.”

Dalyria stays silent for a moment before recognition tinges her voice. “Ah. You mean the Nightwalker. It’s okay, it hasn’t bothered any of us. It seems if we stay out of its way, it won’t go out of its way to hurt us. It’s been a bit of a relief if anything.” She tells him, but Astarion isn’t reassured quite yet. They had stayed well out of its way, and it seemed to target them still.

Still, seeing that the creature has at least stopped chasing them down, Astarion finally ducks down towards Tav, seeing her state once again. He knows something is wrong with her, and not something natural. She was normally fearless—and while he knew that wasn’t entirely true, it was too sudden for her to completely cower at some unknown, shadowy figure when she had faced devils and shades more fearsome than the creature they encountered. He knows it must have done something to her, but now that they are in relative safety, he just needs her to breathe, gods damn it.

“Is she alright?” Dalyria asks, trying to peer over Astarion’s shoulder to see Tav. His first instinct is to bristle, but he knows that out of all his siblings, Dalyria is probably the best to take a look at her.

A little reluctantly, he steps aside. Dalyria observes her for a moment, and takes her hand, but Tav immediately withdraws as though burned. She still can’t speak, but Dalyria discerns, “I wonder if this is its effect on the living.”

“And? Your verdict? What are we supposed to do?” He snaps, but he can’t stand to look at her shivering form anymore, so he turns away.

“You may just have to wait it out,” Dalyria accepts. “I could attempt to heal a physical ailment, but this seems mostly mental. If it’s magically induced, though, it shouldn’t last very long once it’s out of her sight.”

Astarion curses under his breath. He ducks down, and peers at Tav again. Her face is pressed into her hands, and her knees are tucked in. It seems to be more grounding behaviour than anything else. He takes her side.

“Where is everyone else?” He asks Dal, but he doesn’t take his gaze off Tav.

“They’re trying to calm the other spawn. It’s turmoil out there. So many of them… they haven’t been free in forever. Trying to reel them all in feels impossible.” She sighs. “I only came to check in on you. Should I… leave you, for a moment?” She asks, looking at his companion again.

He heaves a hefty sigh. They had finally come all this way, but… “For now.” He reassures, partially to himself. He glances over his shoulder. “We’ve prepared supplies, but we weren’t able to carry all of it here. The rest should be at the entrance to Cazador’s castle. You can use them as rations for now.”

Dalyria nods in understanding. “I’ll tell the others,” she assures him. “Then, once everyone has fed… please come to us then. We’ll be waiting in the dining room. All of us.”

He doesn’t respond, even as she shuts the door. Instead, he turns his attention back to Tav. He’s glad he can speak freely without revealing too much of themselves. He sighs dramatically. “Come now, love, this doesn’t suit you at all. Stop this, you’re being ridiculous.”

He’s hoping to provoke her into responding, but it seems the magically-induced fright is not something that can just be taunted away. It’s difficult, because he knows if he were under such an effect, she would be able to ward it off immediately. In fact, it was one of her special skills to divert charms and fears with her own.

“What’s that song you normally sing? The song about Heroism, with some drivel less about heroes and more about some saccharine ‘love and friendship’ and whatnot?” He asks, hoping to trigger her memory. She stirs, but it looks more like she’s withdrawing further into herself.

As a last ditch effort, Astarion begins to hum what he knows of the melody. It’s terrible and off-key, and he’s not even sure he’s remembering more than the chorus. To grab her attention, he drums his fingers on the top of her head playfully, approximately to the rhythm of the song that he remembers.

He continues humming, stopping ever so often to prompt her to continue. Eventually, in a shaky, unsupported, quiet mutter, she sings the lyrics to the song as a call-and-response.

Encouragingly, he perks up immediately. He continues his humming, and as they continue, she switches from call-and-response to providing the actual lyrics to the section he hums. She finally raises her head—ever so slightly—to meet his eyes.

When she continues, she continues with the melody, a little more confidently. She takes the opportunity to hold his hands, gripping both his hands with hers. He lets her continue the song on her own, and her fear seems to be dissipating. She garnishes her performance with pretty runs and vibratos, but then she looks at him expectantly—this time, she wants him to follow her lead, and she seems to be expecting more than humming.

Softly, she switches to a quiet new verse of the song, “With all that you were,” she sings.

“With all that you were,” he responds, though it’s more of him talking with a lilt than singing.

“With all that you’ll be,” she adds.

“With all that you’ll be,”

“With all that you’ve won and lost,”

He thinks he understands what she’s singing about. “With all that you’ve won and lost,”

“You will always have me.” She ends the song.

“You will always have me.” He replies, and he sounds fond, though he isn’t sure whether she’s trying to find reassurance in him or give reassurance to him.

At the end, she hangs her head to stabilize herself once more. He opens his mouth to let out a quip, but she speaks first.

“I’m sorry, Star, I just need a second—"

“As cute as you are all teary and needy, you’re absurd if you’re apologizing to me.” He clicks his tongue in disapproval. Then, more comfortingly, adds, “I’ve got you. We’ve got each other."

#tw: panic attack #magically induced panic attacks #mahoufiction #writing #baldur's gate 3 #astarion x reader #astarion x tav #astarion x mc #astarion romance #bg3 #astarion fic #writing prompt #hurt/comfort #fanfic #friends to lovers #angst

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cthulhusstepmom · 7 months

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It's dark in the cellar, has been since they were tossed down here however many days ago. Hard to tell time without regular meals. Completely windowless, there's no place to spend his usual half hour basking under the sun. It had been a matter of hours before his coldblooded body had started to slow in the cool subterranean temperatures. He'd tried to keep it to himself, deal with it quietly, but there's no way to hide it from Gid, steadfast loyal Gid. Kremy had found his sluggish form gathered unceremoniously close to the living furnace that is his right hand man.

The heat may have stabilized his body temperature but it would do nothing to improve his mood(well maybe just a little bit it's hard to be too miserable when you're so nice and warm no matter the dire circumstances). Gideon took care of light well enough too, illuminating a circle around them with dancing warm firelight, though that was extinguished as soon as Kremy saw it start to waver and flicker, can't allow his partner in crime to burn himself out now can he? And so they sit in an almost peaceful silence, have done for who knows how long.

"Y'know it's not the worst bind we've gotten ourselves into. The gang will be along soon enough to bust down the door." Gid pauses in thought. "Probably not Twigsy. Or Frosty. Or Gricko unless he's a beasty. Probably down to Torbek to do the door busting come to think of it."

Kremy grunts noncommittally.

"Ah don't be like that, can't be worse than the time we had to climb out of the window of that inn."

"The snake oil heist on the western bank?"

"Nah the one with the innkeepers daughter, Felicity? Franny?"

He remembers that particular scrap well, if only because of the god awful wig.

"Felicia. How that veil covered my snout I will never rightly know."

Gideon snorts.

"Oh yeah. Sure would've been nice to know Gricko was an ordained minister before hand but it's not the first time we've been married."

Kremy hums. "Can't say it's the worst contract I've signed."

The warm body next to him rolls with deep, hearty laughter. The room goes silent for another spell before Kremy sighs.

"I dunno Gid, you ever get the feeling that we've taken it too far? Finally poked the bear that's gonna rip our throats out?"

"Nah man, I know you'll get us out of anything 'fore it gets too serious. Even if we end up knee deep in Fae tomfoolery. And I'll punch any bear that tries to bite us square in the body till it dies, no problemo." He pauses. "I trust you Kremy Lecroux."

That knocks the speech right off of his tongue.

Trust.

On a conceptual level he got that there was some form of reliance between the two of them, and sure some trust if you had to put a non-ironic label on it. He knows that Gideon cares for him, has stated it on many occasions in many different ways. And if you had to be so crass as to put it into words, of course he cares for Gid too, wouldn't have bothered keeping him around this long if he hadn't(lord knows the food bill would be enough to sway his opinion if he wasn't entirely too attached by now).

But trust?

Trusting Kremy Lecroux is a bad idea on any number of levels. He's a cheat by profession and a liar by lifestyle. Hell he's sold the souls of those around him in exchange for power more than once. There's nothing worth trusting in him, he's a coldblooded criminal and he's never gonna change, not for anybody. And here Gid is announcing it with his full chest. It's one of those things that's so endearing about him, he never holds back; Gideon Coal has never made a promise he doesn't fully mean. But since he's a man of contracts and business dealings he at least wants to give him a fair shot, a head start, a warning to keep that fiery heart close.

"You sure about that Gid? Those kinds of words have a power to em you know that."

"100% man, I'll follow you to the end of the world."

Kremy struggles to get air into his lungs, it takes a minute, two. When he finally gets enough to speak, it's frustrated and tinged with melancholy.

"Well I'll gladly let you do just that, if we ever get out of this fucking place."

"Hey." Kremy offers no response. "C'mon man don't be that way, the crew are all out there figuring their way in as we speak, fact I can smell the Torbek already."

He says nothing.

"I know what'll cheer you up."

A large, warm hand cups the bottom of his snout, gently directing his face up and to the side. Before he can think to protest, his eyes are drawn to the sudden lick of flame dancing on the tip of Gideon's finger. Not unlike when he lights cigarettes for him, except now he's pressing the pad of the digit to a small twig from the rocky floor until it smolders dully. Blowing on it, Gideon brings the small stick towards his face. It's warm but not uncomfortably so (he'd never had a doubt in his mind that Gid would hurt him). Carefully, precisely, with hands steady from working on the delicate innards of machines he can't begin to comprehend, Gideon draws the ashen tip of the stick across his upper lip in two swooping lines.

"There you already look more like yourself!" He proclaims proudly.

And god if he can't help the smile that breaks across his face.

"You're a crazy son of a bitch Gideon Coal, you know that?"

"Been told once or twice." he chuckles.

#“Gid when we walk outta here I need you to go first.” “Why?” “Cause you're my light at the end of the tunnel. Always will be.”#Once Upon a Witchlight amiright?#god im obsessed its bad #theres not NEARLY enough fan content for this and it is is a CRIME #to any of my followers or mutuals: if you like banter if you like funnies if you like gay subtext if you like found family #i am BEGGING you to check out once upon a witchlight and gush with me #its done by Legends of Avantris on youtube and twitch #moustache moment in ep.26 my beloved #once upon a witchlight #kremy lecroux #gideon coal #coalecroux #legends of avantris

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reasonsforhope · 1 year

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"A Delhi-based engineer has designed a replacement for polystyrene packaging out of “rice stubble” the dead stalks left over after the rice season in India, millions of tons of which are burned every year.

They say wisdom oft comes from the mouths of babes, and Mr. Arpit Dhupar was at first left scratching his head when his young nephew drew a picture of the world with a grey sky.

Everything else was normal, green grass, yellow sun, white and brown mountains; why was the sky grey? It dawned on him that his nephew was drawing the sky as he saw it every year when the rice stubble was burned: grey.

“We shouldn’t live in a world where we have to explain to kids that the sky should be painted blue. It should be a given,” he told The Better India.

So he launched a new business venture called Dharaksha Ecosystems in order to tackle the rice stubble problem. Essentially, the farmers need it cleared off their land asap after harvest. Its high moisture content means it’s not useful for stove fuel, so they burn it in massive pyres.

In his factory, he turns 250 metric tons of rice stubble harvested from 100 acres of farmland in Punjab and Haryana into packaging, while paying the farmers a rate of $30 per acre for something they would usually burn.

Dhupar originally wanted to use mushrooms to rapidly biodegrade baled stacks of rice stubble, but found that the fungus left behind a metabolite that wasn’t biodegradable—in other words, he’d have to create a waste problem to solve a waste problem.

Over time he realized that the filaments that make up the subterranean structure of the mushrooms, called mycelium, were acting as a sort of binding agent, turning the baled stubble into something durable.

“This wasn’t a waste material but could be a usable one,” said Dhupar. “Through bio-fabrication, we could use the stubble waste to create a material similar to [polystyrene], but one that was biodegradable.”

There are a lot of these sorts of sustainable packaging ideas floating around, invented by people who rarely have experience in markets and commerce. This is not the case with Dhupar’s stubble packaging.

He has already prevented over half a million pounds of polystyrene from entering landfills since launching his product, which has numerous, exceptional properties.

They sell around 20 metric tons of their product every month, making about $30.5 thousand dollars per annum, mostly by selling to glassware companies."

-via Good News Network, 3/22/23

#sustainability #recycling #fungi #mycelium #mushrooms #india #delhi #green technology #waste management #rice #agriculture #packaging #glassware #good news #hope

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famousinuniverse · 3 months

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Tiwanaku, Bolivia: Tiwanaku is a ruined ancient city near Lake Titicaca in western Bolivia. Dominating the ruins, once the seat of the pre-Columbian Tiwanaku culture, are the Akapana pyramid and a semi-subterranean temple with carved images of human heads. Nearby Kalasasaya is an open temple with stone monoliths and the huge Gate of the Sun arch. The Museo del Sitio de Tiwanaku displays artifacts excavated from the site. Wikipedia

#Tiwanaku #Bolivia

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genocidalsmoothie · 4 months

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"You need to focus and do your projects and think about your future-"

Nuh uh

Atomic Fire Uncontainable Nuclear Reaction Explosion Sign Peta Flare Blazing Star Ten Evil Stars Hell and Heaven Meltdown Subterranean Sun

#my art #fanart #touhou #utsuho reiuji #okuu #subterranean animism #new blorbo maybe??#We'll see in the coming month

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kairologia · 9 months

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Houses in traditional astrology.

Instead of making separate posts for each house, I thought it’d be more judicious & practical to compile everything into one singular post for concision’s sake.

Some necessary contextualization before we get to the point:

— Most houses don’t represent personality traits or characteristics. They represent experiences & areas of your life. Your self in the more rudimentary sense of the term is the 1st house. Other houses can be other people, places, or experiences.

— The ascendant/1st house is you, not a “mask”, your “basic self”, a “facade” or a “superficial persona” it’s for the major part everything modern astrology believes the sun to be.

— The ascendant/1H representing you does not mean other placements cannot be relevant or resonant (as explained here), that’s an oversimplification and nothing in life is ever that simple. All elements in a chart matter, but to believe everything is a “me” indicators is far too reductive. This is especially relevant wrt appearance. While the 1H has higher than average chances of coming through when it comes to the visual aspect, there are other things that come into play — namely genetics, the Moon, the 2nd house, the IC, & the Ascendant Lord.

— There are 12 houses and 7 traditional planets. You will most certainly have empty houses — though inactive they are not. Even if there are no planets in a house, there will always be a planet ruling it and its themes will still hold significance to you & your life experiences, there just won’t be as much focus on them as there would be with houses containing planets.

— Signs don’t “naturally” rule houses. Aries does NOT signify the 1H unless you’re an Aries rising. In fact, “rulership” is something only planets can do. Not signs, not houses, just planets! The signs are a celestial system that shows HOW a planet’s energy expresses itself, whereas houses are a terrestial system that shows WHERE that energy is expressed (areas of life). You can read ABC house system debunks online, or wait for me to write one!

🪞 1st House 🪞

— Angular house

— Mercury’s joy

— “The Helm”

— Eastern horizon

— Horoskopos (hour marker)

— Inceptions

— Beginnings

— Life

— Body

— Appearance

— Personality

— Self & Identity

— Self Expression

— Vitality & Health

💰 2nd House 💰

— Succedent house

— “The Gate of Hades”

— Livelihood

— Prospects

— Desires

— Money & assets

— Physical posessions

— End of youth

— Financial affairs

— Time

— Value

— Materiality

— Ownership

— Sustenance

📜 3rd House 📜

— Cadent House

— The Moon’s joy

— “Goddess”

— Siblings

— Extended Relatives

— Short Distance Travel

— Religious sites & rites

— Places of worship

— Neighborhoods

— Small communities

— Communication & Writing

— School

— Learning

— Education

— Everyday life, routines

🪦 4th House 🪦

— Angular house

— Lowest angle of the chart

— “Subterranean”

— Family

— Parents

— Land

— Home & Property

— Privacy

— Secrets

— Roots & lineage

— Ancestry & genealogy

— Place(s) of Origin

— Inheritance

— The “past”

— Generational trauma

— Hidden treasures

— End of life

— Death & rituals surrounding it

— Endings

— Graveyards

— The Underground

🌹 5th House 🌹

— Succedent house

— Venus’ joy

— “Good Fortune”

— Romance

— Relationships

— Desire & Pleasure

— Praise & Worship

— Sexuality/Sex

— Creativity & Creation

— Art & artistic expression

— Children

— Charity

— Diplomacy & diplomats

— Pleasant pursuits & joy

— Gambling

🩸 6th House 🩸

— Cadent house

— Mars’ joy

— “Bad Fortune”

— Illness & Injury

— Health & Sickness

— Servitude

— Employees & subordinates

— Labor

— Work

— Sports

— Fighting

— Physical Harm

— Medical Professionals

— Herbalism & medicine

— Small animals & pets

⚖️ 7th House ⚖️

— Angular house

— “Setting” angle

— Marriage

— Spouse

— Partnerships

— Open enemies

— the “Other” (≠ of the self, the 1H)

— Commitments& agreements

— Confrontation

— Lawsuits

— Legal disputes

— Contracts

— Business

💸 8th House 💸

— Succedent house

— “Idle Place”

— Death & Endings

— Other people’s money & assets

— Debt

— Taxes

— Legacies

— Inheritance

— Grief

— Trauma

— Psychology & shadow work

— Shared resources & belongings

— Stagnation

— Fears

— Secrets

🔮 9th House 🔮

— Cadent house

— Joy of the Sun

— “God”

— Higher education & academic pursuits

— Pursuit of knowledge

— Teachers & professors

— Occult pursuits & faculties

— Religion

— Foreign places

— Long distance travel

— Pilgrimage

— Divination & Astrology

— Philosophy

— Dreams

— Prophecies

💼 10th House 💼

— Angular house

— “Midheaven”

— Highest angle of the chart

— Vocation

— Career

— Mother

— Fame

— Ambition & aspiration

— Recognition

— Influence

— The future

— Goals

— Social status

— Achievements

— Profession

— Public affairs

— Reputation

— Authority figures & leaders

— Government

— Social aspirations

🎉 11th House 🎉

— Succedent house

— Jupiter’s joy

— “Good Spirit”

— Friends

— Alliances

— Trust

— Emancipation

— Community

— Network

— Supporters & patrons

— Organizations

— Groups

— Mutual aid & support

🏥 12th House 🏥

— Cadent house

— Saturn’s joy

— ”Bad Spirit”

— Prior to birth: mother's labor

— Isolation

— Retreat

— Large animals

— Exile

— Rumors

— Misfortunes

— Envy

— Hidden enemies

— Betrayal

— (of Self or otherwise) Sabotage

— Mental health

— Restrictions

— Hospitals

— Incarceration

#astrology #astro notes #astrological observations #hellenistic astrology #astrological houses #houses in astrology #zodiac

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