#THEY LITERALLY OVER DELIVERED AND CREATED A PATTERN.

[mariasont]

cathedral of tongues

while the team is exploring the town, you and spencer explore each other

pairing: spencer reid x translator!reader warnings: 18+ MDNI, oral sex (f receiving), blasphemy used in sexual context, overstimulation, soft dom spencer reid, fem!reader, spencer being a smug shit, spencer butchering the pronunciation of yet another language, watermelon sugar mention prompt: here! wc: 0.7K

“You’re so good to me, Spencer.” 

The words pour out thick as honey pulled fresh from the comb, each syllable crystallizing in the air between you. You feel gold and languid and saccharine and you wonder if he can taste the amber in every breath.

Coherence seems beyond your grasp, phrases reduced to breathing nothings, a blasphemous litany sent up to ears that might burn at such sacrilegious devotion. But if anyone were to ask where your faith lies, you’d point here: to Spencer and his heretic mouth, tongue pressed to places that pull colors in strobing bursts behind closed eyes.

Here is your religion, and loudly do you worship.

And so you thank the universe, the saints, the sheer miracle of timing that the team is off exploring souvenir shops, because Spencer seems to be more than content in exploring you.

His fingers find purchase in the pliant geography of your thighs, each point of contact inscribing some phantom manuscript across nerve endings that have become suddenly, acutely literate.

Your spine bows upward and Spencer’s right there, meeting you halfway like the self-satisfied bastard he is. You can practically feel the grin in his hands, how pleased he is that he's commandeering your hips into action.

“Yes, just like that — fuck,” you babble, words pouring out like a broken faucet. “No one — ever — never this good. Not like you. Never.”

Pleasure detonates inside you, a star collapsing inward with such cataclysmic force that any pretense of control gets vaporized into cosmic debris. And in turn, your body becomes pure reaction, hips snapping upward as a surprised bubble of laughter breaks into a moan.

The orgasm steamrolls through you, from head to toes, limbs twitching as Spencer guides you through the aftershocks.

He gathers you closer, lips creating perfect suction around your oversensitive clit while his tongue traces lazy patterns that seem designed to extract every remaining spark of sensation from your depleted nervous system.

The resulting current flows molten through your veins, dismantling whatever structural integrity you have left until you exist as nothing but breath and want, his name drifting from your mouth like an unconscious mantra into humid air.

Spencer works his way upward once he’s sure you can’t take any more, leaving lingering kisses dotted along your skin until he reaches your face.

His hands sweep aside the strands of hair plastered messily to your flushed cheeks. 

When he speaks, his French emerges awkwardly formal, pronunciation slightly stilted as though he’s recalling from a mental flashcard. You’re sure he is. 

“Il semble que certaines choses soient mieux dites en français.”

You giggle, cupping his face as you pull him down for a kiss that’s more heart than skill. The taste blooms across your palate — yourself mixed with traces of watermelon from the dock earlier, summer’s final love letter dissolving on your tongue.

Drawing back just enough to catch his eyes, you smile against the curve of his mouth.

“Didn’t even notice I switched languages.” Your thumb traces the swell of his bottom lip. “But I mean English feels disappointingly… pedestrian by comparison.”

His fingers locate your hip, delivering a pinch that has you squirming against him, friction blazing white-hot with your clit across his thigh.

His gorgeous face is smirking before you even finish gasping.

“I think you just like to show off,” he murmurs, thumb soothing over the spot he’s marked. “Just can’t resist being impressive, can you?”

“If I really wanted to show off…” You lean in, letting your teeth scrape against his earlobe before whispering, “Mi inginocchierei e ti mostrerei quanto sa essere tagliente la mia lingua.”

You bite down gently on the last word, just to make your point crystal clear.

“Talk like that makes me want to lock the door and keep you to myself all night,” he breathes, lips brushing your jaw. “And frankly, I’m pretty sure no amount of shops could keep the team busy for as long as I’d need.”

You nudge his nose with yours. “Big words, Spencer. You sure you could handle me for that long?”

“You’d be surprised by my stamina when properly motiv —”

Buzz. Phone. Fucking phone.

Garcia: ETA ten minutes, cuties! wrap up whatever depravity you’re engaged in. (literally. safety first, you filthy animals.) 💋💋

You roll your eyes, shoving the phone toward Spencer.

He glances at the screen, then at you, with that predatory smile of his.

“Ten minutes is generous. I’ve done far more impressive things in half that.”

join me at the lake for my 5k event!

day 1 extras

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maria's red, white and bau masterlist

[mourning-sapphire]

bruised fruit | aemond targaryen | chapter one

Summary: he wasn’t the warmest man on earth, he walked ashed fields and scattered fruitless seeds, that was until the sun delivered him the ripest fruit from the arbor, his to harvest. The story of a man learning to love his saccharine ladywife and all her softness.

Pairing: aemond targaryen x redwyne!reader

Chapter warnings: none really, some harsher swearing, descriptions of panic, some description of boats.

Word count: 12.6k

authors note: I literally have read this so many times, if there's a mistake you'll live okay, love u enjoy :P

masterlist | next part

Some could mistake the sunlight that patterned through the shutters of the small council room as a sign for a glorious day in Kings Landing, a sign from the Gods that this would be magnificent and bright. But, Aemond could only look into his mother’s eyes that morning with a feeling of helplessness.

But Aemond could not see it that way. Not as he sat across from his mother, her eyes steady and sad, her mouth drawn in a line of reluctant resolve. The sunlight only seemed to mock him, casting its warmth over a moment that felt anything but.

This was not a sign from the Gods, this was an act of mental warfare on him.

Exactly 2 moons into the new year, the air of the Red Keep was chilled like the cold defeat in her eyes as she told him exactly what he didn’t want to hear.

“Aemond,” Her sigh was weary as he sat across from her at the small council table, the vapid gaggle that was lords of the council surrounding them as she looked at him with a plea to understand, “I understand this isn’t an easy feat, but...” He cut her off with a scoff.

He was usually soft to his mother, one of the only women in his life who saw past the marred skin and leathered exterior. Aemond was usually the dotting son and the only one who did everything she asked, bent to her sad eyes and long silences. But as this moment hung over them, he wasn’t sure he could afford her the luxury of doing this.

“But what?” His voice was chilled as the stones outside, chipped but still strong, “You wish to move me like a piece on your board? to what prevails exactly, your own liberty?” His eye was wide as it flicked between them.

The nervous demeanour of his mother and the ever-cool stoicism of his grandsire; Aemond was tempting them to utter the words everyone knew was on the tips of their tongue.

To one day help make Aegon king instead of your sister…

At that moment, he was happy he kept the majority of the council on his blindside, just so he wouldn’t need to see their loathsome faces as he stood his lonely ground. He hated all the self-righteous cunts anyway.

“It is your duty to marry, lest I remind you,” His grandsire cut in, Otto Hightower; ever the family man and doting peacekeeper of the keep in the king’s sickness, “Your duty to your house and your family.”

Aemond was sure in that moment that he could feel the chilly hands of the winter sky wrap their fingers around his neck, as his grandsire commanded the room with an ease that only a viper could.

“She’s a nice girl,” Alicent raised her hand and tried to keep her tone light; her son’s disposition was often a cause of contention for her, ever the actual peacekeeper of the family, “A sweet girl from the Arbor, and from what I’ve heard, she’s well-read and pleasant, a well-suited match.”

Well-read and pleasant. Aemond could have sniped at that. He could have laughed so loud that he was sure they would hear him on the coasts of the Arbour. It was flattering that they thought a pretty little thing with enough wit to read words on a page was enough to settle his fire. That it was enough to ease the burden of creating life with someone.

Like that made any of this better; he has always held the notion that he would be afforded a bit more liberty when choosing a bride. As not just her son but as Prince of the realm, but it was at this moment he was reminded that he was merely the second son. A second son who clearly can’t be left to his own devices or freedom of choice.

The spare to shove around their fictitious little chessboard, and plant in whatever house they felt kept them strong in the war of succession everyone knew was bound to happen.

The whole situation felt like dust settling on his tongue as he glanced at the two of them. The murmuring of the other lords felt more like roars in his ears as his blood started to boil, congealing in his veins. He could taste the words he wanted to say, like burning embers on his tongue that were still light enough that he could spit at them. Watch them burn with at least a little pain.

“House Redwyne are not only allies of the Hightowers but have a strong naval fleet that matches even the seahorses himself.” Tyland Lannister in all his stuttering glory cleared his throat and interjected.

“The match was not made heedlessly, Your Grace…” He continued as Aemond’s head slowly looked over at him, the glare enough to have the supposed lion trailing off towards the end of his sentence, “Her father’s support would be great for any issues that could…arise”

“She could be the re-imagining of the mother herself for all I care, you toad” Aemond snipped his face blazing with anger; fingers clenched in fists of rage, “But that still doesn’t negate the fact that I do not wish to marry, especially not marry the Redwyne girl, her fucking ships be damned.”

Aemond had always hated the way the Lannister almost pouted after every scathing word towards him. For a lion he was more akin to a pup who whimpered at even the nudge of a shoe, he was truly pathetic. To think he had even the foolishness to lecture him on what was good for him, now that was a notion so laughable, he wished he could have drawn his dagger where he sat.

“It matters little what you wish, boy” Otto snapped, his hand slamming down on the table, silencing the lords and his mother, “You will entertain the Redwyne girl when she arrives here in 2 weeks’ time, you will marry her and seed her when the time comes; as is your duty to the Realm.”

The Realm, Aemond could have scoffed.

“Aemond,” His mother tried to soothe the anger on his face, her own tired and desperate as she looked at him like he was just a little boy again, “Give the girl a chance, you may even come to like her in time.”

Aemond doubted that with his entire being, he’d even go as far as to say that he didn’t like the idea of the girl just from the few short words his mother had spoken to him.

“Girls from the Reach are all the same,” He could hear Aegon’s drunken prattling in his ear, the memory of him making eyes at one of the ladies from House Crane, “Pretty girls who want a silver prince and dozens of silver babes galore, but with a tongue like thorns, they are just needy cunts”

Aemond didn’t need to remind Aegon their mother was a woman from the reach, as by that point he’d staggered off to probably deflower the Crane girl; as he often did. But it did leave the question rattling in his brain, were all girls from the reach as shallow as his womaniser brother stated?

He supposed it would be something he’d be forced to learn, especially if his mother and grandsire were pushing hard for this union between him and the Redwyne girl.

Aemond could tell the council chamber was waiting with bated breath to see what he was going to say to his mother and Grandsire’s pushing. But all he could do was rise from the chair with a sneer at them, lips curled like he found their words disgusting.

The scrape of the wood against the stone sounded eerily like a dragon screeching in the night as he rose, his hand placed on the wood of the table to look around them all with a glare so harsh he was sure that at least one of the council members would catch fire.

Truthfully, there was nothing for Aemond to say, he was peddled into a corner not of his choosing and unless the Redwyne girl's boat sank on the way here; they would be stood at the sept for their union in the moons to come. He wasn’t a child anymore, tears would only sway his mother so far, and you might as well have tried to get blood from a stone before his grandsire let up.

So, with one last look around the room, he did the only thing he could do.

“Hm...” The noise vibrated from his lips as he moved to stride out of the suffocating chambers, his gait speaking on the anger brimming in his bones as he paid them little attention; the guards at the door merely opened the wood as soon as he neared.

He wouldn’t give them the satisfaction of seeing him upset, but he would set them all on edge for when he would snap.

That itself was his victory to claim.

The Arbor.

You looked like a vision of a nymph, reddened with the sun and relaxed on the hammock like you were waiting for the sun itself to come down and bless you with grace. Nestled deep in the home of the Redwyne’s was you, the youngest Lady Redwyne, lounging on your balcony like you weren’t set to leave your home for the last time tomorrow, soaking up the sun and sipping chilled wine like you weren’t going to memorise every nook and cranny of the grand home and vineyard, relaxing in the sunshine like you could do this again tomorrow.

You had many memories on this Balcony, the grand white stone that overlooked the cliffs and the ocean below held a special place in your heart; beyond it being part of your home, it was the place you felt you could truly relax. Sat in this very hammock watching the way the ivy draped from the roofing and danced in the wind, the ships you would see come in from the summer isles, and the sounds of joyful sailors cheering from the leagues away. You would find peace reading, understanding things your Septas and Maesters would give you to read, the blush that would colour your cheeks as you delved into your own interests.

The weather in the Arbor was warmer than the rest of the Reach, the island was constantly washed in heat so dense that wearing anything thicker than tulle or silk was a crime. It was the reason it was so bountiful with fruits, the wine capital of Westeros, it was a sight to behold; the heat gave way to luscious lands so rich and green that it looked like something out of a painting, florals and fruits almost blooming overnight with the kiss of sunshine, the air so clean and fresh that you felt every breath like it was your first.

It was a far cry from the stink that was Kings Landing, or at least that is what you had been told; the two places were as comparable as Dorne and the Wall. Your maids had told you some of their tales from their own visits or their families' visits, the way the poor lined the streets like permanent fixtures, rats crawled in every nook and cranny, the stink of overpopulation marring the air so badly you needed a scented handkerchief to even ride through flea bottom.

Even now, you were hard challenged to remove yourself from where you lounged, the sun at its peak tickling your skin as huge wafts of salted air cleared your nose. It was amusing to hear the voices filter from the double doors of the chamber behind you, the cackles and japes from your maids carrying out the door like a memory you never wanted to let go of.

“I’ve heard they’re closer to the gods than any of us,” You could hear the tinkling voices of the maids from your place on the balcony, their hands busy packing her things into trunks, “Some say they shed their skins at night for their true scales” The giggles were something the young Redwyne girl would miss in these moments.

“Gods can you imagine,” you could hear the deep laugh of the older maid, Meredyth, chortle, “Waking up next to one and seeing those slits of eyes, gods I'd be paralysed.”

“Oh, I’d scream the bloody keep down!” Tayra, another one of your other maids gasped out loud, coupled with a ringing laugh, “Run for Visenya’s hill and walk on foot back here.” Their laughter was infectious, and you felt your chest rumble with amusement.

They never heard you coming as you rose from your hammock on the balcony, bare feet warm against the stone as you strode back into your chambers; the sheer curtains kissing your shoulders as you peeped back in with a smile.

“I’ve heard their hair is silver because once upon a time a dragon rider flew to the moon,” your voice was a gentle tilt as you smiled softly, the maids turning from their jobs with wide amused eyes as they listened to you, “And the gods decided to spin magic into the strands, blessing them for making the long journey.”

There was a pause as you stopped with a smile before the women in the room started laughing again, their laughter contagious as the winter fever as you settled on your day bed, body warm from outside, with a content sigh. Your hand fan was doing little to cool the heat from outside. A day like this was truly a kiss from the summer isles.

“Now that’s a story,” Meredyth smirked, her hands busy folding one of your summer dresses, “Be sure to tell your silver prince that one, petal, you might just make him laugh for once.” You could only roll your eyes.

“Be nice,” you sighed softly, relaxing into the daybed, “I’m sure he’s not what the stories make him out to be, Meredyth.”

“I’ve heard he hides his eye because the other could turn someone to stone,” the youngest maid, Mara, tutted softly, “Careful, my lady, lest they ship you back here to be a pretty statue in the gardens” You could only smile softly at that.

“Really?” you smiled as Tayra piped up, “I’ve heard he’s a ferocious fighter, trained by a man from Dorne; but prettier than the rest of the siblings.” Tayra huffed with a smile as she was packing up your jewellery.

“The Targaryen’s are pretty…” Meredyth sighed wishfully, her smile was almost a smirk as she recalled something beyond your years, “I remember seeing Prince Aemon in my younger years, now that was a prince” She raised her eyebrows in a lustful remembrance at the young girl.

“Was there ever a Targaryen that wasn’t pretty?” You could only tilt your head as you sighed out your question, your hand still delicately moving your fan to keep you cool, “I’ve heard stories that they’re just born looking godly, it’s unfair really.”

“Isn’t he called one-eye?” Tayra stopped packing to ask with a furrowed brow, “Something about losing an eye at a young age?”

“Does it really matter?” you sighed softly, your hand reaching for a glass of chilled fruit juice; the juicy peach taste coating your mouth delectably, “Tis only an eye, he seems like a strong man regardless if the stories are anything to go by.”

“Let’s hope he isn’t like the other prince~” Mara sang softly, “My sister told me, that someone who works there told her, that the Keep is constantly having to find new maids because the older prince Aegon is too... Handsy.” Mara received a smack from Meredyth at that.

“Don’t scare the girl, Mara” Meredyth hissed softly, her eyes looking at you as you lounged on the daybed; the beginning of your lip starting to worry with your teeth, “I’ve heard the two princes are completely different, Prince Aemond takes after his mother.”

Alicent Hightower.

You could scarcely remember the woman, not like you sisters did, but you remembered her father Otto visiting The Arbor some years ago for business; or friendship. Your father was a funny man to understand sometimes, so people visiting could never be pinned for business or pleasure, but you remembered the gruff man all the same. He had a fondness for his daughter over his son, but a sternness that didn’t afford the same love. But from what she understood now, the Queen was devoted in her faith and tense, but a lady in every textbook definition of the word.

“Well, if he’s anything like the youngest, Daeron, I’m sure he’s a charmer” Tayra mentioned with a soft smirk towards the young girl.

“Isn’t the youngest more Hightower than Targaryen?” Mara raised an eyebrow at Tayra, her hand stopping mid-folding her soft nightgowns, “He’s been in Oldtown since he was a lad, has he not?”

“Does he have a dragon?” Meredyth rolled her eyes, the crow’s feet around her eyes smoothing out at she looked at her two younger maids with a look that said ‘tread carefully’.

“Well yes,” Tayra hummed, “A blue thing from what I’ve heard from the mainlanders, couldn’t tell you the name, you can see him flying over the waters most days if you squint hard enough.”

“Then he’s a Targaryen,” Meredyth tilted her head for a second, “The royal family and their bloody… Lizards.” She mumbled as she folded yet another gown

You could only repress a soft smirk at that, truthfully, you’d never imagined ever meeting a dragon – let alone marrying someone who had one, but you supposed that this was going to be your new life now. A princess of the Realm who shared a bed with a dragon rider, or a dragon incarnate.

“Do you think the prince will show you, his dragon?” Mara asked innocently, “He rides Vhagar doesn’t he? The last of the big dragons or something...” Mara waved her hand like she was trying to recall some intricate title, but the little lady Redwyne could see the smirks forming on Tayra’s and Meredyth’s faces at her wordage.

“Oh, I’m sure that the prince will show her his dragon alright,” Tayra smirked lustfully, much to Mara’s shock whose jaw dropped; Meredyth cackled as she watched the two girls, “If you catch my drift.” Tayra winked at her.

“Tayra,” Mara screeched softly, her face aflame as she threw one of her rolled-up nightgowns at her, “Not in front of the Lady” Tayra reached over to swat her for that.

“It’s alright, Mara,” Your face was aflame much like Mara’s, the implications of Tayra’s words warming your cheeks more than the blistering sun outside, “You can speak freely, I must be prepared I guess.”

“Are you nervous?” Meredyth asked softly as she placed some of her gowns gently in the trunk, “Meeting the man you’re going to marry is no easy task, it’s okay if you are” She could have smiled at that.

Despite having sisters of your own blood, you were the youngest of the bunch, and by the time you had reached your moon’s blood; your sisters had been off into the world and married to various lords of the Realm. You rarely had women to counsel you and soothe your fears, and your mother no longer with you, so you were thankful for your gaggle of maids; they took care of you like they were your blood.

Meredyth was the oldest of them all, a woman well into her fifties, who had served your family since she was a young girl; she had seen every side of you and your family. She travelled with them everywhere and took care of you when your Septa’s could no longer handle you. She was less a mother figure and more an aunt, her tongue loose like she wasn’t serving a lord and his family, but her openness was welcome by both your father and yourself.

Tayra and Mara were her wards in a sense, she showed them the ropes of the house; and made sure they did every task to her perfection but remained youthful and fun. They were a far cry from your average maids, but as long as the house was kept and they were respectful when guests stayed, your father cared little. You’d be damned if you saw their light go out despite their position. They were like your sisters in a sense, they joked and prodded each other like so, and made sure that you were never lonely in the large estate.

So, you felt comfortable joking and gossiping with them like this, your oldest friends in a sense, there to soothe your worries about the new chapters in your life.

“Truthfully?” you hummed softly, looking down into your glass of juice, “I’m terrified, being away from home… It’s an ache in my chest that I can’t seem to shake” You tutted softly, taking a sip.

Your eyes were cast out the open doors of your balcony; your room faced the cliffs that overlook the crystal-clear waters of the Arbor. The air a mix of salt and the waft of florals that kicked from the fruit fields.

“I’m not sure what scares me more,” you shrugged, “Not seeing this place for a while, or the fact that I am going to get married to a man I’ve never met.”

“It’s okay to be scared, petal” Meredyth sighed softly, dropping her folding to wander and sit on the edge of your daybed, her hand reaching and squeezing your knee through your dress, “No one expects you to just be completely okay with being sent to King’s Landing.” Her lips pursed at that.

“You won’t be alone,” Mara settled down on the ground in front of the day with a gentle smile, her hand reaching out to touch your arm, “Meredyth will be with you, and your father till the wedding is over…”

“Yes, I know…” you sighed placing your glass off to a side table, “But what if we do not get along, what if he hates me?” Your eyes were wide as you stared at the two of them scared as a lamb.

It was a possibility you had rolled around your head in the many days since your father had told you that you were going to be married. The prospect of marriage was something you knew would happen but just not like this. You were well over-considered ‘of age’ but you never thought it would be to a prince of the Realm, you had thought as the youngest that you would marry another smaller lord of the reach and that would be it.

You remembered your father’s face as you were summoned to his study that afternoon. He broke the news to you then, and it felt like a blow to the heart more than the deliverance of good news. You still could remember the way he looked both overjoyed and hesitant to talk to you; you could tell as soon as you had entered the sun-washed room that whatever he had to say, was going to change her life.

“Sit, my petal,” Runce Redwyne was weathered by the years as Lord of the Arbor; his once orange hair was faded to a grey, tufts of the burning stands still visible in the sun, and his face tense and aged from years of dealing with five daughters and no sons, “We must speak.”

You had never looked like him, the man cursed with no sons had also been cursed with five daughters that all looked exactly like their mother.

Your father hadn’t been the same since your mother passed from what you had heard, the spark for life that he once held was snuffed out as he became quieter and more reclusive in his older years. You had only been a babe when a striking fever took your mother, but the pain of losing her still wore on her father’s face even years on. 

“What was so urgent that you called me away from my studies, father?” You had asked so softly as you sat in one of the chairs that he used for when he held meetings, the leather soft and worn as you played with a string on the arm, “Is everything alright?”

“My petal” His smile was reserved but still there as he spoke the news like he was granting her the greatest wish of all, “I’ve just had an interesting proposition from King’s Landing…”

The rest of that afternoon was a blur, from the shock of hearing that your father had found a marriage for you, to the even greater shock of finding out it was to a Dragon Prince of the Realm no less; you were practically a husk of a woman by the time you’d left his study. The blood rushing in your ears, and the fright of change grasping at your heart like death's cold hands.

Marrying a Lord of the Reach would have been one task, but having to learn to tame a dragon? That was completely out of your reach.

“My petal,” Meredyth interrupted your thoughts, “We will not know until you meet, stories aside; he is still a prince who was raised with a strong handed mother” She soothed you softly.

“Yes,” Mara agreed with her, “It is all thoughts until the two of you meet, who knows you might find yourself charmed with him; you were always a romantic at heart,” Mara tried to ease your pain with a smile and a joke, squeezing your arm softly as her round eyes looked up at you.

Mara was right though; you were a romantic at heart, painfully so.

Despite being educated to a level that most ladies didn’t dare to be, your heart laid with more than history or theories from the citadel. Romance, love, and tales of grandeur often found themselves in the young Redwyne’s hands; stories of people yearning so deeply that it fractured their very soul and caused an ache so deep only their love could fix.

It was girlish and childish to yearn for something so deep, but you couldn’t help but dream of a world where you found a love so bright that it formed your very life. You had read everything the Arbor’s library had to offer in terms of romance, even the more salacious novels, and despite never having been in love, you could almost taste it on the tip of your tongue. The honied feel of it so close yet so far from reach.

“It is a marriage of politics,” You could only shake your head at Mara, “I doubt the prince would find much interest in me, that’s if he hasn’t already found a mistress.” Mara could only tut at you.

“Maybe so,” Tayra said to you with a patient look, “But she is a mistress if that’s the case, you are to be his wife – that itself holds more power than you think, my lady” Tayra’s brow was raised in challenge as she also made her way over, sitting on the small table in front of the day bed.

“We shall not baby you, and tell you that you’re travelling for romance,” Meredyth sighed, her hand patting your knee, “But a marriage match can still result in feelings if two people are willing.”

“You think the prince would be willing?” You sighed softly, your eyes flicking to the older maid for guidance, “I mean, I’m not sure why they picked me for a match – why not a Tyrell?”

Meredyth looked pained for a second before she sighed, “Truthfully, petal, I could not tell you why it is you they want, but it must be for a reason if they’re willing to travel you to the capital now.”

It wasn’t like House Redwyne wasn’t powerful in its own right, but even you were confused why you were being picked for a prince over the likes of a Tyrell or even Baratheon; the lord of the Storm’s having four daughters for the choosing. You were the youngest daughter of the Arbor,

“It is all too much…” Your voice trailed off softly, a sheen coating your eyes that could only speak that the young woman was about to be moved to tears, “Why did Father agree to this? Why could he not settle for a Lord of the Reach? Maybe the Stormlands? Gods, I'd even take the Iron Isles.”

Meredyth’s face softened as she reached for your hand, her touch warm and grounding. “Because, darling girl,” she said gently, “your father sees more in you than you see in yourself. He would not send you to the capital unless he believed you capable of standing amongst royalty.”

Tayra gave a soft hum of agreement. “And perhaps… he believes you are worthy of more than a simple lord, a life less ordinary than just being the lady of a house.”

Mara leaned in, her expression mischievous yet tender. “Besides, it isn’t so bad to dream of the capital. Silks and jewels, grand balls and a place bigger than all the Arbor… You might come to enjoy it more than you think.”

But you didn’t want silks or jewels. Not really. Not if they came tied to duty you hadn’t chosen. To a man you didn’t love.

You pulled your hand away to rub at your eyes, blinking the sheen back before it could fall. “I just… I thought I would have more time to choose for myself, or to at least know the man before he became my husband.”

Meredyth didn’t have a comforting answer for that. She simply stroked her fingers down your arm and offered a quiet, “Many women don’t.”

“But many have found joy in what seemed unbearable,” Tayra added, her voice soft, “we cannot promise you that everything will be perfect, but there is still a level of respect that will come from this marriage, he’s a prince and not an average lord after all.”

A silence stretched between the four women after that, the kind that lingered just long enough to settle into your bones. Outside the window, through the sheer curtains, the sun was beginning its descent over the horizon, like always painting the sea it was about to kiss in ribbons of gold and rose.

Mara stood and stretched, casting a glance toward the balcony door, hands moving to continue packing. “Well, whatever comes next,” she said with a brightness she didn’t entirely feel, “you’ll face it with your head high, we know you will...”

“You're a romantic,” Tayra added with a wry smile before joining her. “Which may yet be your greatest strength.”

You gave them both a watery smile, brushing a lock of hair behind your ear, sinking more into the daybed than ever before. “Then let’s hope he has even a shred of love in him,” you whispered. “Or at the very least, the sense not to trample mine.”

Meredyth smiled sadly and leaned forward to kiss your brow. “Hope, petal, is the only thing that makes the unknown bearable.”

And as the last light of day slipped beneath the horizon, you allowed yourself—just for a moment—to imagine that maybe, just maybe, the prince would be something more than duty.

Aemond wasn’t sure why he was here, he didn’t feel like he needed to be nor did he want to be.

The docks that led down from the Keep were astringent with the smell of salt and something sour he’d rather not think about. Even though the sun had warmed up the late morning, he couldn’t help but grimace as the beams reflected off the glistening water and into his lone eye. Trying to subtly blink the glare away as he found himself nearly blinded in what he had left of his vision.

No, Aemond didn’t want to be here at all, not that he could voice that to his mother; who was so nicely standing next to him, ridge backed like a statue and ready to snap at him if he even made even one comment about standing on the stone dock.

He had to be here, or so his family says, for it was the day that the Redwyne girl and her family would arrive.

A mere fortnight had passed since the council had informed him of the arrangement, and despite the nudge from his mother, he had no communication with this girl whatsoever. Ravens had come and gone, but the two scrolls from her had laid on his writing table untouched and seals intact—he had no wish to bolster a relationship with the girl prior to the meeting.

It was childish really, that much he was very aware, perhaps the most childish he had been in years; but frankly, Aemond didn’t care at all. He would respect whatever wife they gave him, for women were the mother personified, but he wouldn’t like her. No husband had to like their wives, especially the ones he didn’t want.

He wouldn’t caress her like a lover, and kiss her silly as novel princes did, he would be as he always was; Aloof and uninterested in anything besides duty. He had no want for carnal desires beyond what a whore and coin could give him. Aemond didn’t want a doe-eyed lover to stroke his hair, or murmur adoration to him in the hour of the wolves.

He especially didn’t want someone who had likely grown up on tales of love and longing, expecting her prince to be anything but a blade honed by fire and blood. If she came to King’s Landing dreaming of romance, she would be sorely disappointed.

Aemond's lips tightened at the thought, as the salted wind flustered his hair, as his good eye scanned the horizon. A speck in the distance that was rapidly getting closer.

“That must be her.”  He hummed quietly in his head.

The Redwyne girl. His betrothed.

His jaw flexed as he folded his arms behind his back, posture stiff with reluctant anticipation. Would she be frightened of him? Most were. The patch over his ruined eye, the quiet fury that always seemed to simmer just beneath his skin like a dragon ready to blaze fire. His presence like the quiet clicking a dragon’s throat made just before hells unleashed, it unnerved those who did not understand him.

He rather preferred it that way.

“Stand tall,” Alicent said quietly beside him, pious as ever with her tone even but firm, though beneath it, there was the steel edge only his mother could wield. “And for the love of the Seven, try not to look like you’re going to gut the first person who speaks.”

Aemond didn’t look at her, didn’t shift a muscle as he kept his gaze fixed on the horizon where the ship bobbed closer with every passing second. “I make no promises,” he murmured, voice low, laced with dry humour that almost curled the edge of his mouth into a smirk.

Alicent turned her head sharply to glance up at him, her lips pressing into a tight line. Her eyes—green and sharp with years of courtly scrutiny—narrowed, sending a clear message. “You will make an effort, Aemond.”

He gave a shallow nod, more a concession to timing than obedience. Not because he agreed with her, nor because he thought there was anything worth making an effort for, but simply because fighting her here—in public, on the docks, with his grandsire, the Kingsguard and servants watching, whispers already forming on tongues—was a wasted breath.

Aemond knew this game. He knew the eyes that watched from balconies above, from the shadows of cloaks stitched with gold. They waited for any sign of dissonance, any crack in their image. Like a singular ember falling onto dry grass, any sign of upset would cause fire faster than they could breathe.

So, Aemond stood as his mother told him, like a perfect carving of Valyrian stone—chin high, shoulders square, both hands folded behind his back. The sun gleamed off his silver hair, tied neatly back, though a few loose strands danced in the breeze like flickers of flames.

Aemond always knew he looked the part of a Targaryen prince, more so than some of his family, his image more akin to the likes of his uncle than any of his immediate family. He knew how to play the game if needed and now was very much needed to play the part of the steely prince.

Even if, inside, he wanted nothing more than to turn on his heel, mount Vhagar, and disappear into the sky where no one could ask anything of him.

But he remained where he was on the docks.

Because duty demanded it.

Because his mother demanded it.

Because this girl—this betrothal to her and whatever babes she was going to birth—was yet another piece on the board he was meant to play, whether he liked it or not. His mother and Grandsire play a game greater than he cared to ever play at some points.

Still, he leaned the slightest fraction closer to his mother, voice quiet enough for only her to hear. “If she simpers at me, I may very well walk into the sea.”

Alicent exhaled through her nose, long-suffering after years of dealing with her sons, but her mouth twitched with the smallest flicker of restrained amusement. “If she simpers, you will smile. And you will do it like a prince, not like a snarling dog.”

His eye slid sideways to her, dry and unimpressed. “I was born a dragon, Mother, not a lapdog.”

“Then try not to burn the docks down before she’s even stepped off the ship,” she muttered, her fingers tightening lightly around her prayer ring. “For all our sakes.”

He didn’t answer, but the silence between them held the weight of reluctant understanding.

This whole ordeal was a farce. Everyone knew it, though no one dared say it aloud. And yet, somehow, Aemond was the only one who had to endure it first-hand. Duty, he understood it, he followed it, revered it even.

But gods, Aemond had hoped for a few more years of silence, of solitude before they pressed a wife into his arms like a burden wrapped in silk. It was a cruel fate to be tied to someone like him, and at his core, he had hoped he could have chosen someone who would withstand him, or at least have the sense to leave him alone besides doing their duty.

As the ship drew closer, its deeply coloured sails caught the light. The Redwyne banner fluttered high above the deck, proud and unmistakable. Aemond watched with a practised indifference, though his jaw tightened slightly as the figures aboard began to sharpen into clarity.

The deckhands started moving briskly, shouting orders, ropes unfurling and anchors dropping into the water the closer they got. And there—near the bow—a small figure stood motionless, her soft blue gown rippling like petals caught in a breeze.

Even from a distance, Aemond could tell that she looked... hesitant.

Her posture wasn’t poor, quite the opposite really, but it held the quiet restraint of someone trying not to take up too much space, almost like a mouse trying not to get caught. Her chin slightly raised, hands clasped tightly in front of her on the railing, her shoulders drawn as though she feared being noticed and yet knew she would be the closer they got to disembarking.

Aemond could read people like a book, she was trying to appear calm, trying to look graceful. It was written in every careful line of her body, practically screamed it.

Timid, he thought, fragile.

He didn’t like that the thought had formed at all. He turned his face away sharply, eye narrowing against the glare reflecting off the water. She would disembark, curtsy, and offer some nervous pleasantries. They would nod, exchange a few stiff words, and then retreat into the suffocating rituals of royal engagement.

He should not have looked again, but he did.

She was still there, still standing near the railing, while chaos of people trying to get things in place fluttered around her. Her fingers now lightly brushed the edge as if steadying herself from the rocking of the boat. The wind caught her hair, lifting it gently away from her face.

It was then that Aemond got somewhat of a good look at her. Her features were soft—almost delicate like a child but there was still a womanly aspect to her—but uncertain in a way that struck something quiet in him.

She looked young just in general presence, the kind you see in someone sheltered from the harshness of the world, younger than she should for such a fate.

But she was pretty, almost devastatingly so, and if he was a lesser lord he was sure that he would be blushing at this moment. But all his heart could do was give a thud as something that he had to call appreciation curled in his stomach.

“Mother,” he muttered under his breath, “what exactly do you know of her?”

Alicent blinked at him, surprised by the question. “Not as much as you think, she’s the youngest of lord Redwyne’s daughters. Overall unscathed by any scandal, apparently. Studious. Graceful. They say she’s gentle and well-mannered, the sort of girl who knows when to speak and when not to.”

“Hm,” Aemond replied, his eye drifting back to the ship despite himself.

Gentle. Quiet. Obedient.

Exactly what they would think he needed in a wife, and perhaps they were right to some extent. But if she came here with the intention of looking for softness and silence, she would find no warmth in return. Not from him.

Let her be timid. Let her bow and smile and follow wherever they told her. He would still keep her behind the same walls he kept everyone else.

Love had no place in his life, no matter how pretty the package that it came in was.

There was supposed to be a calmness that came with being at sea, or at least that is what you had heard from the passers-by as you watched them pack your things into the large ship that fateful morning. Unless it was rocky waters or war, the sea was supposed to imbue a sense of peace, being alone out in the water was supposed to be as freeing as the wind. But right now, the vast sea had never felt so suffocating.

The waves stretched endlessly in every direction, and the ship’s creaking timbers groaned beneath each swell as if echoing the tension in her chest. Your cabin was warm, too warm, and yet you could not bring yourself to climb up to the deck without purpose. So you stood there, halfway in shadow, watching the sliver of the sky from the narrow window and clutching the fabric of your dress like it was the only thing grounding you into this realm.

You didn’t know if it was dread or homesickness that weighed heavier in your bones.

You had spent the last night in the Arbor pacing in silence, walking the fruit fields one last time while you gazed out at everything you were leaving. This had been your home, your quiet solitude away from the main part of Westeros. The air had been still, fragrant with ripe grapes and damp earth. Your quiet, sun-dappled corner of the world, far from the noise and posturing of court life. The Arbor was known for its wine, its trade, and its civility. Not for war. Not for dragons. It was untouched by most of the political nonsense, the lands and your family known for its wine and trade. That was it.

And certainly not for daughters being sent off to marry princes.

You were never destined to be any sort of royal, you were supposed to marry some lord of the reach. Perhaps a Fossoway, or Rowan, not a Targaryen. You had tried to picture him on your last night, staring out past the vineyards to the sea, but the image would not come.

All you had were whispers and stories. Your letters to him, the ones your father had prompted you to send, were left unanswered and probably still sealed or fed to the fire.

It was a ridiculous notion to begin with, but a part of you, the hopeless childish part, had hoped that maybe he would read one and at least have the warmth in him to answer. But, after the second one had remained unanswered, you had burnt the rest you were being asked to send, a bitter feeling in your chest.

The reassurances from Meredyth and the rest of your maids did little to soothe your soul, you were a ghost in your home from the moment you found out you were leaving. Watching as the days dragged on and the reality of leaving set in, too tense to cry, too overwhelmed to sleep anymore.

Father had reminded you at your last dinner (and every dinner since he told you that you were leaving) that this was a great honour—that marrying into the royal line and joining our houses was something other girls could only dream of. You had only nodded because nodding was easier than speaking. He was proud of you. Nervous, too, but proud.

He didn’t see how your hands trembled beneath the table every time it was mentioned.

The Arbor was already fading into memory, a glaring white jewel on the cliffs swallowed by the blue horizon the further the boat sailed away. The wind tasted different here—saltier, harsher. Everything about this journey had been unfamiliar: the sway of the ship beneath your feet, the endless stretch of sky, the way her stomach had twisted with each passing day.

You had never left home before.

Not truly. Not like this.

The Arbor had always been your world—lush, warm, sun-drenched. Even the rain felt gentle there, warm, like something that asked permission before falling onto the ripe earth. The long, winding paths through the vineyards had been your solace, the scent of ripe grapes mingling with the soft, earthy fragrance of soil. The way the bugs and the butterflies fluttered around and helped. It was a place where the rhythm of the seasons was a constant companion, where you could watch the changing tides from your window and feel the pulse of the land beneath your feet.

There, the world had felt small, intimate, safe.

But out here, at sea, everything was vast. The wind rushed by ears, the ship groaned with each rocking wave, and the sky stretched on endlessly for miles like the land wasn’t in existence anymore. While the air was warm, a kiss from the summer isles, the open water felt like an unspoken threat—an endless, empty expanse that made your heart pound faster with each passing moment.

The original plan was to sail to Old Town, and then ride a few days from there to Kings Landing, but your father hated carriages and had insisted that they would arrive by boat, much to your discontent.

The first few days at sea had been disorienting.

The ship’s sway unsettled your stomach like never before, the rocking motion unrelenting, as though the very world was in flux beneath you. There wasn’t much to do on a boat, you had tried to sleep, to rest your mind, but the fear of the unknown kept you awake. Every wave that rocked the ship felt like it might tear you from the safety of your past and toss you into a future you weren’t ready for.

You had spent most of the journey under the deck in your room, staring out at the horizon from the small window, trying to reconcile the life you had left behind with the one that awaited you.

But the further you sailed, the more the familiar sight of the Arbor seemed like a fading dream—blurry and distant, swallowed by the boundless sea. Meredyth, the one maid you were allowed to bring with you, had tried her best to keep you sane while you sat in your bunk, chatting mindlessly to you about what she knew of the capital, the people there, and what the likelihood of that Tayra and Mara were up to no good back home.

It was sweet the way she tried to keep you sane, but it just didn’t do that, the more you listened to her, the more you were reminded that soon she would be back on this very boat after the wedding, sent back home, and you’d be truly alone with people you did not know. 

Every second the ship approached closer King’s Landing, you felt your chest tightening.

There was no mistaking the looming silhouette of the Red Keep against the morning sky, a red fortress that held years of terror, power and fear. The city below it sprawled out behind it, chaotic and bustling, nothing like the quiet sunny solitude that you had known.

The smell of saltwater gave way to the pungent scent of smoke, and the sharp, acrid tang of people. The capital was a place of hard edges and high walls, and even at a glance, you could already feel the weight of it settling on your shoulders. A crown clawing into your skin, never to be taken off.

Your father had stayed away from most of the journey, his eyes had grown distant, his words few. You were leaving behind the only home you had ever known, and he said little more than that it was a great honour to be betrothed to a Targaryen, that you should be proud.

He had reminded you often of the importance of the union, how many would envy you, but each time he said it, his voice had sounded almost hollow. You wanted to believe him, wanted to believe that this was what you were meant to do, but deep down you felt truly lost in the weight of it all. How could anyone be proud of leaving everything they had ever loved behind?

A part of you wondered if he felt sad that the last piece of his wife was now going to be gone. He would truly be alone until he either decided to remarry for a son or decide to pass on the Arbor to one of your sister’s children.

You wanted to ask, be was a man of so few sentimental words, but all of it would remain unanswered, but a part of you hoped that the fear of loneliness would have him change his mind. No matter how selfish of a notion that was.

Overall, it had been a five-day sail to King’s Landing.

Five days that felt both endless and far too short. The gentleness of the sea had lulled you into a false sense of stillness as if the world beyond the ship’s bow didn’t truly exist. Giving your mind time to occupy itself on the thought that maybe the ship would sink, or you’d arrive at the capital to find that the prince was charmed with another.

The horizon remained a blur, the mainland a foreign concept, and for a while, you had allowed yourself to believe it might never come. Out there on the blue open water, with only the creak of the masts and the rhythmic slap of waves against the hull, it was easy to pretend that time was suspended, that this journey was just that—a journey. Not a turning point. Not a life change.

But the illusion was shattered on the morning of the fifth day.

The captain’s voice rang out across the deck, clear and certain, calling down that the ship was making its final approach to the docks of King’s Landing. In an instant, your body betrayed you, your breathing hitched, your pulse jumping and thrumming harder, and a cold panic blooming deep in your chest.

The calm you had tried to cling to slipped away like water through your fingers. You tried to still yourself, to slow your breathing, to remind yourself of your lessons from your septa’s; your poise—but your heart only raced faster, pounding against your ribs with each step the ship took toward its destination.

There was no turning back home, there was something unknown beyond this point in time. No pause. No last request to delay just a little longer. The moment you had dreaded, rehearsed, braced yourself for, was here.

There was nothing left to do but face it.

You stood at the railing as instructed, hands clenched tightly around the wood, knuckles pale from the force of your grip. The wind off the sea whipped strands of hair across your face, the scent of salt and smoke already beginning to replace the crisp, sweet air of home. Below, the dock drew closer like a hand reaching out to grab you from your comfort—massive, foreign, loud. You could hear the faint murmur of the port from where you stood: dockhands shouting, carts creaking, gulls crying overhead.

Everything about it felt too loud. Too fast.

Your father came to stand beside you, his boots thudding gently against the deck. He didn’t speak at first. He only watched the dock draw nearer; his brows furrowed in thought as the image of a redhead and the striking head of silver started to become clearer.

You wondered what he was thinking—if he regretted this decision, if he worried for you like you worried for yourself, or if he was simply focused on appearances. Then, quietly, he laid a steadying hand on your shoulder.

“It’s time,” he said, voice low, palm warm through the fabric of your gown.

But there was no comfort in his words. No reassurance that if things didn’t work out you could go home. Just the quiet finality of your duty.

You nodded once, not trusting your voice, and turned to face the coming shore. The gangway would be lowered soon, and with it, the last remnants of your old life would be left behind.

The boat lurched as it docked onto land, a rush of breath leaving you as you held on tight while ship hands scrambled around you at a speed, you’re not sure you could move at.

Eventually, the gangplank was lowered with a shuddering creak, the wood scrapping on the stone dock while your father placed his hand at the bottom of your spine, the dockworkers already hurrying to secure the ship and prepare for disembarkation.

The commotion was dizzying—shouts of greeting, the slap of boots on wet wood, the flap of banners in the rising wind. You moved slowly. Deliberately. Hand tangled in the soft fabric of your skirt, each step down the ramp feeling more like a small betrayal of the life you’d left behind than the start of something new. The wood beneath your feet was firmer than the ship’s deck, but somehow less stable.

This was land, yes, but it was not your land. The people did not know your name, your steps, your roots.

And waiting there standing, just beyond the gathering of guards, was the prince.

You saw him before anything else.

Aemond clearly did not wear his station like the others.

He stood apart, not speaking, not smiling, his silver hair gleaming in the morning light. His posture was straight, unfathomably tall, almost unnaturally so—like a marble statue that had never been allowed to bend. Even at a distance, he radiated a quiet, coiled danger, much like the stories about him. He was not theatrical, not overt in any way, not dripping in rich fabrics of every colour.

He was simply there, stood in his leathers, sheathed like a blade kept just out of reach.

But by gods, was he beautiful.

Painfully so, that your heart gave a pathetic thud as you looked at him, he was dreamy in a dangerous way. Hard lines and edges, something almost sinful to look at, novel in the sense that someone had created him from a mould, unlike any others. You had seen many lords who tried for your hand in your time, esossi travellers docking, but nothing compared to the Targaryen beauty, your maids were right in that sense.

Aemond was something different entirely, the slash through his eye and the eyepatch did nothing to draw away from his beauty. Creamy skin, and strong boned, his nose and jaw were the centre feature of his face. Your hand twitched as it grasped your skirts, itching to reach up and trace every line, feel the warmth of his skin on your skin, and see that beauty up close.

Pitifully, you could feel the yearning in your chest.

Your feet slowed the closer you got to him and his family, but you did not stop. You knew better. You moved forward, your father walking at pace beside you, guiding you to your new future with one step at a time. You were dressed as they had instructed—nothing too rich or gaudy, but tasteful, demure.

The dress itself was a gift from a traveller that had traded with your father, something pretty and soft like most women of the Reach wore; layers and layers of soft tulle fabric that came together to look like a soft blue. It was similar to the colour of where the sky met the sea, a nod to your home. Your hair simple with a soft twist up away from your face and delicate pearl pins that caught the light.

And then, you were in front of him.

Your hand gripped your skirts tighter than you thought was possible as you sank into a curtsy, perfectly measured with a bow of your head. Deep enough to show respect for the royal family, but shallow enough to retain your dignity. The way Meredyth and your Septa had made you practice over and over again both at home, and on the ship, until your knees ached and your patience wore thin. There would be no greater embarrassment than not curtsying properly to the prince.

Your breath was rattling in your chest as you paused for a second out of respect, counting the seconds in your head before you looked up.

Aemond was looking down his nose at you, his one violet eye unwavering as he scanned your face. His expression betrayed nothing. Not amusement, not curiosity. Not even indifference. Just a blank page.

It was strange, you expected at least the comfort of twitching lips, or a gentler demeanour to at least ease the awkwardness, but it seemed as if Aemond relished in it, made him stronger. Up close, he was just as beautiful as you’d seen at the end of the dock, but there was an aura to him that drew you in like a moth—something addicting about him.

But at this moment there was only stillness, everyone around holding their breath like they knew something about the prince that you didn’t.

Then, at last, he spoke.

“Lady Redwyne, welcome.” His voice was deeper than you had imagined.

It was soft, shockingly so, but still cool and precise like he spared his words for when they mattered. But the greeting came with no hint of warmth, your name sounded like a formality to him, an obligation, not a greeting.

Still, it was more than you'd expected.

“Your Grace,” you answered, managing a soft, steady tone despite the way your hands begged to shake. “I thank you for your welcome.”

It was the most formal exchange of your life, and yet, he left your knees trembling beneath your skirts. Raising back up to full height, you noticed the stark height difference between the two of you, his ability to still look down his nose at you even stood was shocking. He was every bit as tall as he was strong.

You could feel the eyes on you though—guards, servants, all strangers who already had opinions of the exchange they would not speak aloud. You didn’t dare look away from Aemond though, couldn’t look away until he gave the faintest nod.

And then, mercifully like a copper angel intervening, Queen Alicent stepped forward.

She moved with the grace of someone who had long mastered the art of appearances. Her gown was dark green, finely embroidered but still simple. Like extravagance wasn’t part of her ritual, her expression measured but kind. She took your shaking hands in hers and squeezed them gently like someone might take hold of a dying bird just to make sure it was still breathing.

“We are pleased to have you, my lady,” she said, voice low and careful but a smile on her lips like a mother calming a child. “You’ve travelled by ship, and you’ve still arrived with grace... That speaks well of you.”

Her words were a balm, even if rehearsed. You managed a soft smile at her though, one that didn’t quite reach your eyes. “Thank you, Your Grace. It is... all very new.”

Behind you, your father said something polite and deferential. You didn’t catch the words. You were too aware of the weight of the prince’s silence; of the way he had already turned his gaze elsewhere—as though you were no longer worth looking at.

You turned when the Queen guided you toward the waiting carriage, but before you climbed inside, you glanced over your shoulder one last time.

Aemond had not moved.

He was staring back at the sea.

Let him, you thought, gripping the edge of your skirts tightly. Let him face the waves, if he liked them better, found them more interesting.

You would not chase his gaze, and you would not beg for warmth.

No matter how much your heart cried already just for a glance.

Everything else after the arrival was a blur of people directing you places, the Queen speaking lowly to you as she escorted you through the Red Keep on a short tour. Pointing out various places that you would soon see more in depth in the coming weeks.

She filled the space by asking you questions, and all while you tried smiling politely as you stuttering through various facts about yourself. It was equal parts embarrassing and exhausting, your father none-the-wiser as he lingered behind the two of you, catching up with the Hand of the King, old friends reunited after years apart.

You couldn’t help but feel like a burden slotted between reunions and political obligations—the sacrificial offering exchanged while the men caught up on their glories of the last few years. But it was nice for your father to at least have a familiar face to talk to, Otto seemed as happy to see him as much he was able to.

At one point, Queen Alicent paused by a grand terrace that overlooked the gardens, and with a soft sigh, offered her apologies that her other children had not been present to greet you.

“My daughter, Helaena, is occupied with her little ones,” she said, the corners of her mouth tightening in a way that suggested she wished it were otherwise. “And Aegon, as I’m sure you can imagine, is often... engaged with matters of the court and the children also.”

You weren’t sure how to respond to that, you had heard stories otherwise of her oldest and his whereabouts but you weren’t going to say anything, she moved along before you had to anyway.

“Daeron, of course, remains in Oldtown,” she added with a hint of pride on her face, the first you had seen since she’d even mentioned her children. “He sends his warm regards through raven, but I imagine you’ll not meet him for some time.”

You noticed that she didn't dare mention any of Aemond.

More small talk followed that more you walked. Polite, measured, and relentless. You answered every question with the poise you had been raised to show, but your cheeks ached from the effort of smiling, and your temples throbbed from the mannered chaos that was the whole morning.

It was like being on stage, only the role you were playing was yourself, and every word felt both too much and not enough.

By the time you reached the quarters assigned to you, rooms tucked into a quieter wing of the guest wing with a sweeping view of the sea, you felt as though you had lived through a full week, not a single morning.

The Queen took your hand briefly before leaving you in the care of your maids while the men continued on, your father would greet you later, you knew that they were all heading to the small council room this afternoon to discuss the matters of your betrothal and undoubtedly the wedding.

Alicent's hands were still warm as you both stood outside your door, a guard lingering just off to the side, the moment as private as you were afforded.

“You’ve held yourself with admirable composure, my dear,” Alicent said, her voice warm, though her eyes never lost that assessing glint. “I know how overwhelming it must all seem right now…But I assure you, it gets easier.”

You smiled, bowed your head, and thanked her as graciously as you could manage, the throbbing feeling in your temples getting stronger as you pardoned yourself to your chambers, eyes following with a soft sigh as the Queen followed after her father to what you could only assess as one of the easier talks of politics that would happen in that room.

Your chamber door shut with a soft click, and the silence fell like a soft shroud over the chamber, all you could think was how very far from easy it all felt.

It was the first time you had been truly alone since your departure from the Arbor and arrived here—no ship hands yelling, no handmaidens darting around with curtseys and murmured instructions, no quiet humming of the Queen Mother or the low, commanding voice of you father as he made polite conversation with the King’s Hand.

It felt like some semblance of peace as you moved further into the chambers, hand pressed over your stomach while you breathed as deeply as you could, being alone at this moment was good, it was needed. You just needed yourself for a moment longer.

The room was far too grand to feel anything like the safety of home, and you supposed that was purposeful, what there any true safety in this place?

The walls were a warm stone colour, with candle sconces littered all around, you assumed it would be well-lit at night with the number of candles shoved around. It was marginally bigger than your room back home, equipped with a sitting room that you assumed you would be expected to receive guests in, a comfortable set of settees in front of the unlit hearth, a desk by the window, and a table that you assumed would be used to having dinner alone if you wished.

It was a fine room, fitting for a princess, but you didn’t know if it was fitting for you.

The sleeping chamber was sectioned off with large arched lattice doors, cut with the shapes small flowers as it hid the bed. Some privacy that no one would dare to enter, besides your maids, and eventually your husband.

From your place by the hearth, you could see that bed was canopied in soft pinks and reds, similar blankets with tasselled corners, cushy duck pillows and soft white sheets that practically begged for you to crawl and hope this was all a terrible nightmare. All the windows around the room stood tall and arched, the very tops of them glazed with coloured panes of dragons and fire that tendriled of coloured light across the stone floor as the sun moved in the sky.

Everything around smelled faintly of beeswax and polished wood and a strange perfume that did not belong to you. But it wasn’t unpleasant, it wasn’t your room back home, but it was nice, it needed personal touches that you assumed would come in time—but as a start it was good, it was blank, it was needed.

You found yourself by the hearth, unmoving, eyes fixed on the old smoke stains and the fresh logs that were too perfectly cut to have come from anything real.

It was just you now… and Meredyth.

Meredyth was the only maid you were allowed to bring with you, Tayra and Mara were tasked with keeping the Arbor in check in her absence, but it was a silly comfort that you knew was going to leave as soon as the vows were said. You did not doubt that the Queen would find you new maids to serve you, and from what you heard in passing from your father, eventually ladies-in-wait who you would counsel and raise as companions of your own.

What a frightfully daunting task.

Meredyth was already silently moving around the chamber like a helpful ghost, efficient as always as she zipped to unpack your comforts, your life packed into trunks. She’d clearly wasted no time in opening your trunks, humming low under her breath, deft as always with the already laid out various bottles of scented oils and cosmetics. It was something to focus on to temper the panic rising in you as your eyes focused on her shaking out gowns with quick snaps of her arms.

“There’s no lilac in this room,” Meredyth muttered as she walked to the wardrobes, her sharp eyes narrowing at the corner where a folded sheet sat slightly askew. “You’d think with all this royal ceremony someone might have remembered your preferences; they were sent ahead for a reason. It smells of cypress and dust and… Targaryen pride, if that had a smell.”

You didn’t answer her. You couldn’t. Your throat was tight. You hadn’t spoken since you were dismissed from the Queen’s presence.

The welcome had been cordial. Formal. Cold.

Aemond had barely looked at you, only said your name in a voice so dry it might have been carved from stone. Queen Alicent had offered kinder words, even a smile that seemed genuine enough beneath her careful politeness. You were a means to an end for something you didn’t understand yet, and your value had already been tallied before your feet touched the dock.

The hand that wasn’t pressed to your stomach reached to one of the pillars of the hearth, breathing deeply as your fingers touched the cool stone, grasping it for support as you glanced around the room. Watching Meredyth work her magic to make the room seem a little more homely, you could feel your stomach turning the more you watched her.

She saw your pain clear as day, her fingers gently placing down a nightgown to look at you the way only an aunt would.

“Sit,” Meredyth said at last, softer now, gently guiding you toward the cushioned stool before the dressing table. You didn’t resist. Your limbs felt stiff like they weren’t quite yours anymore.

You sat like she asked. She stood behind you, plucking the pearls and the pins from your hair quickly to let it down; just as you liked. Before she was running a brush through your hair in long, slow strokes. She had been doing this for years, since you were a girl with scraped knees and sticky peach fingers, and the rhythm of it made something in you finally break loose.

“I can’t do this,” You whispered with a crack in your tone. The words barely left your mouth, more like a whoosh of air leaving your mouth rather an anything tangible. “He didn’t even speak to me, walk with me, it was like I didn’t exist.”

Meredyth paused for only a breath before resuming the brushing, steady and sure. “He doesn’t know how to speak like you wish him to,” she said lightly. “Not to people, anyway. I’ve heard the stories—they say he’s a man of few words, he only really acknowledges his sister and mother if he has to.”

You blinked at the mirror, meeting her eyes with your own wide ones. “That’s supposed to make me feel better?”

Meredyth gave a dry laugh, shaking her head as she parted sections of your hair to brush easier. “No… But, it’s meant to remind you that it’s not just about you, it’s about the situation.”

“I appreciate you lying to me.” You said quietly as you watched your reflection in the mirror. The girl looking back at you was pale, drawn. Her eyes were tired, her mouth downturned in a line of exhaustion. “But he hates me, or at least wishes me gone.”

You didn’t recognise yourself right now.

“I miss the Arbor already,” you said, your voice barely heard like it was being pulled from somewhere deeper than your lungs. You looked down at your lap, fingers twisting the soft fabric of your gown. “Do you think it’s too late for father to change his mind?”

There was a silence then. A long one.

Meredyth’s brushing had slowed as she let out a soft sigh, it was times like this that she wished that she could truly lie to you; tell you that it wasn’t too late. But this was your reality now, no matter how much you wanted to beg to go back.

“No,” she said at last. “But it’s too late for you to ask him to, the only way this changes is if something else happens—but your fate is here and now, petal.”

You looked back up, startled.

She leaned in, resting a hand on your shoulder; not firm, not light, but grounding you with her at that moment. “You’ve already stepped off the boat, you stood before him and the Queen. You were seen, and you don’t get to vanish now, court knows you’re here, the fire has started between both you and him.”

You swallowed hard. “But I don’t even know Aemond, I don’t even know if he wants this.”

“He probably doesn’t.” Her honesty stung. “But that doesn’t change what’s expected of you and him, and it certainly doesn’t change who you are.”

You sat in silence for a moment, the room quiet bar your own breathing, the brush trailing gently through your hair once more.

“I’m scared,” you admitted, and it felt like the most dangerous thing you’d said all day.

Meredyth didn’t mock you, but she didn’t rush to soothe you either, she simply kept brushing, like she always did.

“I know,” she said softly. “But you’re still going to be the most composed and watched girl in that feasting hall tonight, and tomorrow, you’ll wake up, and do it all again, and you’ll keep doing it till it gets easier to deal with.”

The feast.

A welcome feast for you and your father, your up coming betrothal, something you’d been told to prepare for in advance. It was to be your first venture into the snake pit that was the royal court. You could see what you were supposed to wear hanging from the door of the wardrobe; your dress for tonight, a soft pink, something gentle, something so inherently you—they were going to tear you apart.

“You’ll get through tonight,” Meredyth murmured, her voice low and certain. “One step at a time. And if you stumble, you’ll get back up because I know you can, you know you can." she added, meeting your eyes in the mirror with a flicker of a smile.

That was all.

Not a promise of glory. Not a lie to make it easier.

Just enough. And somehow, it helped.

Tonight would be something, and something in you hopped that it would be something you would survive.

You didn't have a choice.

[the-most-humble-blog]

Humans: The Ultimate Flex—Suck It, Animals and Aliens

Proof We’re the Crown Jewel of Evolution (and Why No One Else Even Comes Close)

Let’s not sugarcoat it: humans are the GOAT species. We’ve got opposable thumbs, complex languages, and the ability to feel existential dread at 2 a.m. over a dumb thing we said in 7th grade. No other species—or hypothetical alien race—has anything on us.

Think I’m exaggerating? Let me prove it with some brain and logic magic that’ll make you want to high-five yourself. Animals? Aliens? They can sit down and take notes.

1. Opposable Thumbs: The OG Superpower

First, let’s talk thumbs. Most animals are stuck with paws, hooves, or tentacles. But humans? We have these magical little appendages that let us write novels, build cities, and scroll endlessly through TikTok.

What Makes Us Special: Our thumbs can touch every other finger, giving us precision grip. That’s why we’re holding smartphones while chimps are still throwing poop.

Think about it: If aliens show up without thumbs, we’re dominating the handshake game.

2. Pattern Recognition: Brain Magic Level 100

Your brain is basically a biological Sherlock Holmes.

You See Faces in Clouds: That’s pareidolia—a fancy way of saying your brain loves patterns so much, it creates them even when they don’t exist.

You Predict the Future: Well, kind of. Your brain analyzes past experiences to anticipate what’s coming next. That’s why you can dodge a falling object or, more importantly, guess the next plot twist in The Bachelor.

Here's a Thought: Meanwhile, a lion can’t even tell that the waterhole is a trap until it’s too late.

3. Language: The Ultimate Mic Drop

Other animals communicate, sure. Dolphins click, bees dance, and your cat meows at you for food. But humans? We’re dropping sonnets, memes, and political debates.

Infinite Combinations: With 26 letters (or however many your language has), we can create endless words and ideas.

Aliens Could Never: If they don’t show up speaking Shakespeare, are they even worth the hype?

Humble Brag: We’re so good at language, we invented emojis to make up for not having enough ways to roast each other.

4. Memory: A Blessing and a Curse

Your brain doesn’t just store information—it rewrites and replays it like a director’s cut of your life.

No Other Animal Remembers Like This: Elephants may never forget, but they’re not lying awake at night cringing over awkward trunk waves.

Your Mind Is a Time Machine: You can travel to the past (memories) and imagine the future (dreams). Animals? They live in the moment like some kind of zen monks.

Fun Flex: Humans can create fictional worlds better than reality. Ever see a dolphin write Game of Thrones? Didn’t think so.

5. Problem-Solving: We Literally Break Physics for Fun

No other species solves problems like we do.

Fire: We didn’t just discover it; we harnessed it.

Tools: We’re the only species that looked at a stick and thought, “Let’s kill something big with this and eat it.”

Space Travel: Meanwhile, most animals don’t even understand up and down.

Alien Diss: If they haven’t figured out intergalactic travel yet, are they really that advanced?

6. Humor: The Ultimate Sign of Intelligence

Here’s the big one: humans laugh.

Why It’s Special: Humor requires recognizing absurdity, connecting ideas, and delivering them with timing.

No Competition: Animals might look funny, but they’re not cracking jokes.

Weird Thought: If aliens can’t meme, do they even matter?

7. Consciousness: The Unbeatable Crown

You’re aware of yourself. You can ask questions like, “Why am I here?” and then immediately distract yourself with cat videos.

No Other Species Has This Level of Meta: Animals act on instinct. You can reflect on your actions—and cringe at them later.

We are our Brain: Sure, consciousness makes us anxious, but at least we’re not stuck chewing cud and staring at nothing.

Humanity Wins, Every Time

So, yeah. Are humans perfect? No. But are we leagues ahead of anything else on Earth—or in the universe (so far)? Hell yes. Our brains, thumbs, and ability to crack dark jokes about it all make us the species to beat.

Animals? Cute, but predictable. Aliens? Call us when they invent sarcasm. Until then, humanity reigns supreme.

Think humans are awesome? (Of course you do—you’re one of us.) Follow The Most Humble Blog for more unapologetic takes and hilariously sharp insights into why we’re the best.

[pankielovesfan]

ii16 spoilers under cut

MORE talk about fan similar to the other post because there is still a lot to say. This is more about what fan means to mephone

Compared to most of the other contestants, Fan wasn't originally created to BE a contestant, which I find most interesting. Fan was quite literally created to be a fan of the show and randomly appears in season 1 (and he also delivers food I guess). Even if Mephone4 consciously made Fan or not, his appearance and creation obviously meant Mephone wanted appreciation for the things he was making, as is Fan's main purpose and service to Mephone. Fan is technically a manifestation of Mephone's love for the show itself, but he is also expressing vulnerable happiness of which Mephone feels like he could not express properly considering his issues with vulnerability. This might be why he is so outwardly dismissive of Fan's strong emotional enthusiasm for the show!!

So Fan technically is a support Mephone desperately wants, but he can't respond well to- but this definitely means Mephone appreciates Fan's dedication as he quite literally wished for Fan to exist as he is, being such an engaged Fan. He expresses passion for the show in a way Mephone couldn't do himself! Fan gives Mephone support as complete opposite to what Mephone feels Cobs would have! And you know what else Cobs does that Fan has an extreme well known trait of disliking and being scared of? Change. Cobs constantly reinvents, makes new things, discards old things, but Fan latches on. He observes patterns, he begs for predictability, structure and consistency.

Another notable trait of Fan is his defensiveness. Even if he's not good at it, he's incredibly stubborn to protect his passion and love to no end, being incredibly irrational about it. Cobs is well. Yeah. Massive Passion Disliker. He don't gaf about that. Fan might've looked up to cobs and meeple, but god if he's not possibly a parallel that's the opposite. I'm going to walk into the ocean. Im forever gonna think about how fan was created to be a support. like his entire goddam purpose is to love something so much!!!! and give it so much attention! and he is having so much fun doing it!!! IT IS MAKING ME CRAZY!!!!

I'm not sure if the characters are partly "extensions" of Mephone or if they're Mephone projecting specific parts of himself, I believe most of all they are created from his desire (like, wanting a specific thing and that thing just appears for him if this is done unintentionally,) but either way I enjoy thinking about what each trait that manifested for Fan's character specifically would resonate with Mephone's experiences and why he would create him with those traits. or something.

My working theory is that Mephone labeled each character in his mind as one thing, such as "the jerk" for Knife and nothing more, letting the contestants take their own shape and personality as they gain more experience on the show, which I feel is validated through Lightbulb saying "I don't think we were all there yet" once seeing the season 1 contestants in alternate reality show! They build more of their personality as it goes along. I think Mephone has minimal control of the contestants personality wise after he's generated them, but i do think he influences their memories or experience with time or something?? I dont know. guess we will all see. Also this somehow isn't about fan anymore wow that's weird actually who am i where am i

relevant drawing. Time to collapse to my knees over this shit again

[acupofinkedblood]

Biografts and Blackrock worker reader

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝

• Working in Blackrock isn’t the best type of work for those who wishes to socialize and encounter more interactions with other fellow demons. And certainly when you are stuck in the robot manufacturing and inspection area — especially when it’s your job to keep an eye out for the Biografts before sending them away to be tasked with their assigned duties — and that just makes you even more lonely when the entire facility is almost all yours. Sure, there are still other managers like you in different parts of the department, but they have their own issues to get over with. That alone has summed up your current situation, no?

• At your first day at work, you can help but feel so out of place. The only time you can have a proper conversation with a living being is when your boss is telling you how to do this or how to deliver that, basically just tutoring you for the basics. You are presented with a newly created Biograft that is supposed to require your primary source of attention. It’s simple, your job, I mean. You are the inspector, it’s your job to make sure all the Biografts are properly functioning. And to do that, you just need to run a few tests in order to note down their responses as well as see if any of them needs a quick fix or a reboot

• Once you grasp all the things that you should know, your boss just hasta la bye bye you almost immediately without a trace. The way you are being left alone in the middle of a new environment by your boss like how one leave a kid in the daycare without looking back is absurdly hilarious to some extent, but once you get back to reality, it’s just you for now

• Only the sound of the mechanical automatic production line and the sound of your own breathing is available in the moment. And of course, the Biograft in front of your eyes. The people who are supposed to deliver it are outside. And honestly, they won't even bother to chat with you. That's how quiet people are in this specific department, expect for the big boss that is obnoxiously loud that you wish you don’t have to cross path with him twice because goddamn- that man literally speaks like a glitchy speaker that doesn’t know how to shut up

• Anyway, back to the Biograft. You always know the drill: It’s just a cold machine that is awaiting for your orders. You did what you were told: Run the tests, check up their parts, call the transporters as the Biograft has passed the trial and then another Biograft is sent to you. Again and again, batches over batches, your day just passes like that before your shift is up

• Soon enough, you don’t bother to look up at the transporters and wave them a goodbye like you did before since you know too well that they just walk away without a single thought. Hell, they are even more automatic than any other machines you have come into contact with, and the fact that they are still alive living demon is just- damn. You just stick your eyes into the files and the Biografts. You honestly feel like this repetitive task you are supposed to do everyday will probably lead you down to the path of self-isolation

• That is until you have enough of talking to yourself internally like a schizophrenic patient at work. You desperately yearn for some sort of interaction with a proper acknowledgement, not just a nod and go on anymore. Maybe you’re just too bored at this point, because then you start to think that maybe you might as well just go ahead and talk to the Biografts that are under your inspection. I mean, they do know how to respond to your words and all, technically that is enough for you to cling onto your last hope of interacting with someone or something that isn’t just your imagination

• You know that the Biografts can speak through a secondary function that lets it mimic the speech patterns of demons, and it can even copy your way of speaking or even other’s voice. That is a part of your trial to test their functioning abilities, aside from their obedience and their accuracy when performing a certain mission. That means they aren’t just a bunch of metal that will stay quiet all the time. Although you are probably the first person they ever interact with in a proper way, you have your hope up for their default setting. And that’s how you throw away all the other doubts and just strike a conversation with some of the Biografts

• It’s not like you have any reputation left to lose. This whole facility is all yours and others are too busy minding their own business rather than paying attention to your odd behavior. And hey, talking with killing machines casually isn’t that bad like some people think!

• You have spoken to a lots of them in the previous trials before, certainly when some comes back for inspection, they remember you. That just fuels your will power even more at the goal of befriending the Biografts. Thankfully that their data allows them to learn and to speak with certain calculations, it does resemble a normal conversation somewhat. Although it’s pretty simple, the way they talk since most of the time they just state their presence or answer your questions dutifully. But well, you can live with that

• It is a good thing that it’s the Biografts’ nature to be curious about its surroundings, which includes you and some of your actions as well. They watch over everything you do like a hawk, careful pay attention to you as a source of new knowledge to be aware of. They don’t have an actual personality, you know it well. The artificial intelligence inside their chip allows them to get access to a certain fields of knowledge from continuously learning new information each days. The Biografts can even form a beehive type of mindset, when a Biograft can exchange the thing it has learned to another Biograft through collective messages. It’s their nature to continue to learn and to adapt, mostly for combat-related situations

• Nonetheless, they have proven to have little a sense of self which is portrayed through the way they view the world around them. Curiosity is such a miracle in which it can achieve the impossible, and the same principle can be applied to these Biografts. They do notice at you too, and wonder the thing that is related to you. You are their inspector after all. Moreover, you are probably one of the only few person who they spend a time with after being born into this world

• While running through some tests for them, you will be faced with certain questions regarding of what are you doing. What is the reason for you to want them to do this or do that? What do you mean by your choice of words? How do you do this specific thing that seems new in their minds? Questioning is a form of self-taught, that’s why they can’t help but to question you. Your gear is also on the topic, whether it’s for combat or not. Sometimes they might even ask why are you so insistent on having someone to talk to. You just shake your head with a slight grin at how embarrassing your reason sounds like

• Of course, you can speak to them freely and will be given an answer for everything you have mentioned. You can just talk about your days to them, tell them about your personal opinion of some certain topic or just mess around with them jokingly. Although asking them tricky questions are highly not recommended unless you want to see their data going overloaded because of what you said. You don’t want to accidentally make them shut down just because you have asked them what is the color of an electric sheep, right? It won’t be a pretty sight to the eyes

• One thing that you shouldn’t do too obvious is to try and get them to understand the concept of freedom or life or basically anything that will jam with their whole purpose of existence to serve in war and conflict. You are the inspector, yes, you do have quite the impact on them. Though if you still want to do that, just do as you wish, but keep it subtle. There are still cameras that can record your voice in its database. Surely Subspace won’t like it when you try to get his creations to oppose him, he isn’t going to let it happen. You might even get the warning from the Biografts themselves to be aware of your words. So just a head up, it’s a risky thing to do

• You adore all of them. Growing fond of a bunch of Biografts really mess up your mind. You don’t just give them nickname, oh no no, that’s too common and you don’t have that much nicknames for over a thousand Biografts out in the wild. You literally call them by their series number in details without biting your tongue. SFOTH above, you have mesmerized all of their series numbers by heart. Every single one of them, there is no way for you to ever forget which one is the one you are looking at in the moment despite them being all identical

• The way you’re so focused on the Biograft as if they are an actual living demon is almost absurd. Yet that’s still what you do, no? To think that you even recognize each of them enough to the point that you have pick out some of them to be your favorites, that’s definitely some unique talent you have there

• It’s ridiculous when you see them as some sort of individual with different purposes. Some you see as friends — who you can chat the days away before they have to leave after you have done inspecting them — that title is usually used for the Biografts that you have known before and had the chance to see them again, either while they are being maintained or sent back to you for certain reasons. Some you see as your children, which are usually referred to those who you have only met the very first time before while doing your job. Of course, you don’t baby them because that’s just weird, though you do look out for them more than usual

• The Biografts aren’t exactly dull on its own. They have grown familiar with your presence aside from their creator. You hold an important position in each other their mindset, someone that isn’t just a typical demon. Although they will always see Subspace as the top priority since he is their cereator, his orders will be the upmost command that none dares to oppose. Still, they do view you as someone who is somewhat as equally significant as their creator. You’re just a tad behind Subspace, trust me. They are — for the lack of better words used specifically for robots — congenial, around your presence. Easy to talk to than others, at least

• You definitely get questionable looks from other managers when you waving the Biograft a ‘bye bye’ like a parent sending their child away after they have grown up. People might start a rumor on how you seem to lose your sanity quicker than anyone else in the division, but you don’t give a damn anymore. You know that you care for them a bit too much, then again, what else are you supposed to do?

• You know that they are just heartless machines, yet you can’t help yourself but grow attached to all of them. They provide you better company than any other demon in the division can ever imagine. You have found comfort in seeing them, talking to them everyday at work like they are alive in flesh. From friends, children and family — the Biografts manage to fill all the important roles you need in your life: You talk to them like how friends do, you care for them like how a parent would to a child, and you form a deep connection with them like they are actually your family. Is that odd? Definitely. Do you need a therapist? Maybe. Will that stop you from enjoying their presences? Hell no

• Sometimes you just wish that you can keep at least one of them beside you for company on the daily basis. Of course, there is no way Subspace will grant you that privilege. You can only dream about it whenever you take a break from your shift. Seeing them surely makes you feel better. For the time being, you just need to look forward to seeing the Biografts again when a new day comes

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝

Note: There’s not much I can write about the Biografts, so sorry for the limited quality(๑•́ -•̀)

Note 2: A friend from afar of mine is calling me to listen to his gossip with his friend to make me feel better, it works because the tea is HOT

[redcheekdays]

i want to talk about how sinners and buffy the vampire slayer use vampires as metaphor

(i in no way think sinners is drawing directly on btvs in any way — but they both exist in the vampire canon & as such will necessarily overlap in places. i love sinners tremendously on its own merit & terms, but the most fun a girl can have is finding parallels, noticing patterns, making connections, contemplating)

like buffy the vampire slayer before it, sinners plays with monsters as metaphors for real-life. btvs says: a high school girl who feels overlooked may literally turn invisible. the guy you lose your virginity to may literally turn into a monster overnight. in the movie/beginning of the show, vampires are Original Trauma: buffy's life turns upside down because they exist and she is called on to destroy them. they are explained and seen as a demon who takes up residence in the body of your former friend, and must without question be killed. it's a whole big sucking thing and it is pretty black & white.

as the show goes on, btvs begins to treat its vampires with more nuance. a vampire's personality has nothing to do with the person it was, buffy tells willow, and angel says "well, actually —". actually, when someone is turned into a vampire their soul is lost, but not their personality or desires. they are not emotionless, hollow fiends; vampires can love well, if not wisely. they can be more attached to what they get out of the world than desire to end that world. in fact, this is true of most vampires. they revel in destruction & violence, they seek only to satisfy their whims & urges, but the world is their playground. spike, one of the longest-running btvs characters outside of the core trio, goes on a series-long journey from villain to anti-hero (even before he gets his soul back) to, very arguably, a hero in his own right. he's not human, and he is forced by self as well as circumstance to grapple with his vampire nature.

in its last season, one of the questions btvs asks of us is whether a vampire who has committed great harm can ever be redeemed, be trusted, do good in the world. how do we — human or monster — move on from our trauma?

vampires might be worse than other haints (mischevious/malevolent spirits), annie says in sinners, explicitly because they don't simply hollow out a body & take it over. they invade a body & take its host hostage. in sinners, vampires colonize other souls to bring them into the fold. they don't want to destroy the world — freshly turned, they don't even think they're really harming people in turning them — they're merely creating what feels to them like heaven on earth. can't we just be family?, the vampires of sinners ask.

and the answer is no. not because vampires in sinners, too, can't love well if not wisely, but because the love they seek, their idea of family, is a metaphor for colonization and appropriation. remmick wants to take that little light of sammie's to ease his own loneliness, his original trauma: colonization. and he will do it forcibly, as victims sometimes wreak their pain onto others in a misguided effort to heal. as my friend phrased it, remmick is willing to build his own house with the tools of his oppressors. he will take and he will disclaim that it is about love, about family. remmick leads into temptation and says, i deliver you from evil, as he claims their souls for his own purposes.

i read the freshly-turned vampires' fervor in sinners as something that matures and falls away the longer the vampire survives. it seems to me that as much as "on earth as it is in heaven" feels real and true to new vampires, it is also a tool remmick is deliberately using to manipulate potential victims. stack & mary keep his promise to smoke to leave sammie alone, and they resist the urge to turn sammie without his consent when they meet years later.

sinners asks us, where do we find freedom when we've been physically colonized? when we've been metaphysically colonized? how do we — human or monster — move on from our trauma?

annie holds smoke to his promise to free her soul after being turned, because after death, she is needed more on the other side than on earth. smoke protects sammie from remmick, but lets himself join annie rather than live without stack. and smoke can't kill stack — less, to me, "i couldn't save you" and more "i love you too much to save you" — so he lets him go, gives stack the opportunity to find love & family, even if he's on a different path from smoke's.

[craftstale]

hi!!! i saw u making an explanation to Toriel and Asgore’s symbolism and I was wondering what inspired you to give Sans sticky notes and Papyrus the pretty markers :D (mostly Papyrus bc he’s literally my fav and i love him sm ahhh!) but if isn’t that deep either, i completely understand LOL!

Sure thing!!! I love Papyrus a lot too ^_^ "Isn't that deep" oh brother, you got a Big Storm Comin'...

Sans is a sticky note because to me, a sticky note is kind of a "Support" craft supply-- usually you only really use it in tandem with Other Materials. Likewise, Sans is that usual punny guy everyone's Familiar with when he talks to people and gets the opportunity to "bounce" off people like in Conversations or Banter. He doesn't really seem to have so much Regard for Himself, but he cares about the people he hangs out with: Papyrus, the regulars at Grillby's, the Royal Guards stationed in Snowdin, Toriel... He just Thrives more with others! I also consider sticky notes a Not Very "Strong" supply, in that it doesn't have a good stick to things and will sometimes fall off surfaces, and it kinda reminds me of how Silly and Laid-Back he is, selling fried snow and hotdogs, pulling pranks, it's not the behavior of someone who is Strict and Straight-Laced? He has that "forgeddaboudit" attitude that I feel like can be Expressed that way... just goofing around and not Committing to much. (I think he would leave them everywhere like with his socks.) The weakness of sticky notes can also allude to his stats... But Importantly, I also think-- when he's Pushed to his Limits-- he can become something Incredible... if you are pushed to your creative limits, left with only sticky notes to work with, that limitation can create something Amazing with sticky notes, like sculptures, origami, when he is Absolutely alone and Has to do something, he Does and he Delivers. Only under that restriction does he show That side of himself, because he Finally forces himself into action. Sans is also Pretty Darn Smart, and to show that, I thought the fact that people sometimes use sticky notes to Study was also a good representation for all those sides of him... the Laziness, the Laid-Back Attitude, his Potential, and his Smarts. Not to mention lots of Pranks can be pulled with sticky notes, I'm sure you've seen at least a few. Oh, and also sticky notes are a nod to the silly joke regarding his stray Sock in the skeleton brother's house. It's only fair. (I thought giving him the little sticky visor was cute... like the one he wore in the dog casino !)

Papyrus was a little tough to figure out but I decided that the alcohol marker fit him well !! It's Bold, it's Vibrant, it's a Committed craft supply (on account of the fact you Can't Erase Ink)... It's like Papyrus being Unabashedly Proud, Brave, and Always Giving His 110%! Even in the face of danger (like when the Player decides to do a No Mercy run), he Knows the risk, oh, he is So Fucking Aware, but has such a Strong belief and is so Willing to Take That Chance, he stands his ground and doesn't Shy Away From It. Bold Marker Ink... You can't take it back once it's set down. You do have to be careful with Markers also, like, you must keep a level of Control when dealing with Ink as a medium and its Multitude of Colors. And Papyrus has Insane control over his Magic Attacks. He's the only one you Can't Die to-- even Toriel slips up sometimes, but Papyrus? It's impossible. And he's really Strong and Creative too! Like out of All the monsters in the underground, I don't think there is Any Bullet Pattern that can rival Papyrus's "Absolutely Normal Attack". Markers are also a craft supply used by people of All Ages-- markers are usually provided to children to color with, like Papyrus's love for things that are Usually associated with children (Peek-A-Boo With Fluffy Bunny... his Racecar bed...) but don't be fooled !! Markers are also a common medium for experienced artists as well (I think people usually move from Water Based to Alcohol Based markers...) Papyrus is definitely mature and serious when he needs to be, and he is Also very smart, I mean, his favorite book is "Advanced Puzzle Constructions for Critical Minds"! I based him Specifically on the Alcohol Marker as a reminder that Yes, He Does Like Things That Younger People Likes, but he is Still Very Much an Adult. Usually, when you buy these alcohol markers, they come with Two Different Tips, like Chisel and Fine or Something... I think this is kinda like how Papyrus is Quite Good At Lying, or having that Smug and Sassy side to him... it's not as Prominent to a lot of people around him, but to Frisk, he does let that side of him Peek Out a little. (Fun Fact: His hands/gloves creates the Finer lines while his feet/boots creates those Chisel Tip lines !!) Also I like imagining that he uses his ink as his Special Blue Attack, coloring over Frisk's soul ! He's also mentioned that his Battle Body can become a tuxedo in a pinch with some black paint, so I think he'd use his magic/ink for that also. And coloring the "Bridge".

The way their Mediums also work with others is pretty accurate to them too, I Would Think. Sans usually lets other people do the work (like how most of the work done on sticky notes is made by the Writer or whatever is applied On It) while Papyrus is more direct and active. I like to think that Papyrus writes on the little sticky note that Sans leaves around to Remind him to do stuff, like picking up his sock or recalibrating puzzles. (Their supplies also imitate their Stature too... Little Chunky Guy and Tall Slender Guy...)

[edwin-paynes-bowtie]

A Sea Change: My Thoughts After 2 Readthroughs

I'm not really active in the TSC fandom anymore (for reasons completely unrelated to the books, which are my life and still constitute a great deal of my brain space.)

However, Matthew is a character who's uniquely important to me.

I felt a sense of Understanding when I first saw his portrait as early as 2014, and when Nothing But Shadows came out in 2015, I had an epiphany: this kid is my mirror image. Through the years, Matthew and I have lived together. His mental health mirrored mine for the longest time; we ended unhealthy patterns and started to travel at the same time; as of A Sea Change, we've both found love in its best form. We're both blonde bisexuals with unhinged, impulsive tendencies. We have a similar sense of humor and say all the same things. (This actually happened in ChoT; the first time I was reading it, I said 'shouldn't accept that invitation' when Tatiana asked the Institute residents to come out meet their fate. A couple pages later, Matthew said the same thing.) We share a love of literature and plays, of jokes and wordplay.

I love him desperately. I have for over a decade.

So, I have to talk about A Sea Change.

I trusted Cassie to deliver a great story for Matthew. In my opinion, she handled his arc flawlessly from beginning to end. She clearly loves him as much as I do, and it's lovely that he's one of her clear favourites. There is genuinely literally nothing I would change in Matthew's storylines within any of his short stories or TLH. I am happy that my high expectations for A Sea Change were met and that she handled his arc perfectly. My only complaint is that I wanted MORE WHERE THIS CAME FROM!

Anyway:

I don't care what others are calling them, I'm calling Matthew/Sylvain 'Fairlac.' I just am.

I will definitely be writing fics for Matthew/Sylvain in the future, so keep an eye out for them. I don't know when this will happen because I have like a million Dead Boy Detectives fics I'm working on and/or want to write imminently, but they will happen. The first Fairlac fic will probably be a short extension of a scene from ASC so I can get a feel for Sylvain's character (costume room), and the second will probably be an extension of the story where they meet James and Cordelia. At that point I should have a better feel of Sylvain and be able to create and write other new stories about him and Matthew. <3

I loved how grief was handled in this story in a unique way. I liked how it was handled in TLH, too, but it's an interesting progression. We get to see how Matthew's grief looks while actively in battle and fighting for his life right after Kit dies. We get to see how it looks now in A Sea Change. And the new dream at the end was so hopeful.

NOW, THOUGHTS!

THERE ARE SPOILERS UNDER THE CUT. BE MINDFUL OF THE SPOILERS, WHICH ARE UNDER THE CUT.

I love Sylvain and Matthew's relationship. I expected it to be rushed solely because of the novella's length, but it had a depth that surprised me. They bonded over the theatrical performance and demonstrated shared interests over the costuming. Sylvain laughs at Matthew's jokes from the get-go. They're both vulnerable with each other about grief (for both Lucas and Christopher), and they were able to provide one another with peace. Of course, they had a lot of passion and physical chemistry, but I was very happy that that wasn't all they had.

Sylvain is really funny. "Bitten by a donkey in Mykanos" cracked me up. I think that's when I really started loving him.

(Also, I need to see this man meet Alastair Carstairs. It will be hilarious. They will be a comedy duo.)

Matthew thinking that butchering Shakespeare should violate the Accords.... so on-brand. New Classic Matthew line.

I also think it was really on-brand for Matthew to use some Fancy Cosmetic Powder to cover his Voyance rune while Sylvain used a bandage like a normal person

Sylvain being a Verlac is fun to me. Like, I want to see people play a little bit with this since Ash Morgenstern is descended from Sebastian Morgenstern. They're related to Matthew. And Sebastian sourced his name from... Sebastian Verlac. I don't know why I think that's funny.

If you don't think Matthew cared about Christopher dying even after this story.... I don't know what to tell you, sorry. You're stupid

I SO badly want to see (or, more likely, write) a scene where Oscar and Flambeau play. For science.

It was extremely funny that Matthew referred to him as "celibate" before ripping Sylvain's clothes off not 20 pages later. Again, on-brand. I love that Cassie let the Matthew of it all shine through.

Slight intermission from my unhinged Matthew thoughts because it's time for UNHINGED HERONDAISY THOUGHTS. We got some crumbs in this story, guys. Lowkey we ATE with James becoming fluent in Persian within one year for Cordelia??? He loves her so much it's insane. Was talking to @angeldaisies about this today and I have been ready to bite people like a feral animal once I realized how much work he must have put into it.

(I bet Thomas is fluent now too. Matthew and Sylvain are now the only members of the core TMT+Partners friend group not to know Persian. Will they all abuse this privilege? Vote now)

I also loved the allusions to Matthew's friendships with both James and Cordelia. Cordelia telling Matthew about jewelry names made me inordinately happy, and I loved the way Matthew thought about how how felt immortal when he was with James. GOD I need to see Sylvain meet Herondaisy. They're so important.

I love the story about Sylvain and Lucas, it completely pulled on the heartstrings in all the right ways. He was really layered??? For a 70something word story. Like, damn, Cassie ate here.

Obligatory Jem Carstairs mention was indeed present, but I found this one more funny than anything. Of course we're talking about Jem! This is Cassandra Clare! But it was relevant to the storyline and didn't pop out of nowhere, so it didn't bother me.

WE GOT SOME REALLY AMAZING WILL HERONDALE CRUMBS. Him touching his parabatai rune? The quotes he said to Matthew about grief? I LOVE YOU WILL

I like how the story wove the vampires not to be the bad guys. I also like how Matthew and Sylvain vowed not to cause harm to come to the vampires after hearing Melody's story. It really drives the point home that Sylvain shares a lot of Matthew's values even if he's less flashy about it.

Also, speaking of Melody! TWP CAMEO???? PLEASE?

I love when Sylvain calls Matthew beautiful, because that's what Matthew held onto Cordelia saying to him in TLH as a sort of talisman. Like, yes, get called beautiful!!!! But not by your parabatai's obvious soulmate!!!!

And, my last thought I want to put on this list: "I like my life." This made me cry last night when I read it for the first time, and I was very moved by it the second time around, too. I love him so much. He has come so far.

[amybloomz]

ᯓ★ i never missed you (maybe just a little bit.)

where ochako uraraka is trying to digest all of her trauma from the previous school year while also trying to understand why her ex boyfriend won’t even look at her.

or

where katsuki bakugo claims everything is fine and that what happened during the previous school year was just apart of being a hero while also trying to digest his true feelings over what had happened.

ochako’s point of view.

author’s note: i love kacchako so much and they r literally my otp so have chapter one of this!?

masterlist.

everyone deals with grief differently, and everyone has someone to grieve. for example, mina had delved into her world of dance to distract her from the realities of midnight’s sacrifice. sato had baked so much that he might as well open a bakery— it worked out well because every refugee shelter in japan needed more necessities and every person in class one— 2A was willing to help deliver them.

hero’s dynamight and uravity were delivering boxes of baked goods from sato and clothes made by the support course and yaomomo. everyone had to leave in partners just incase, but the war had long since ended. ochako always tried to start conversations with bakugo, but he’d always brush her off. she’d requested to change partners multiple times, but she was always denied. she wished she could crawl into bakugo’s mind, somehow understand what he was thinking. she gave it up as a bad job after a while.

they flew in silence, all that could be heard was bakugo’s explosions that were keeping him up. she wasn’t sure what to say; it’s not like he’d reply to her anyway. instead of being sad or upset about this fact, she feels frustration build up inside of her. she’d tried so hard to try a build them back up, it was like a switch inside of him had flipped.

she stares ahead, determined to get this job over with.

it had been a particularly long night of patrol, her coming back at around 2am to katsuki sat on the couch on his phone. at the sound of the dorm building door open, his head shoots up.

“you’re two hours late.”

“i got caught up trying to find a little boy’s mother,”

“i thought someone had taken you. i know you can handle yourself but you know how dangerous it is with all of the villains out there and shit,”

thunder crackles in the background and ochako’s face softens as she approaches him. although katsuki’s face seemed emotionless, she couldn’t help but notice the slight tremor of his body and the way his eyes were sick with worry. it reminded her that he cared, despite the front that he put on. dropping her head piece, she pulls him into a tight embrace. he clings onto her desperately— like he’s afraid she’ll disappear from his grasp.

it was only them inside of the universe, and she’d gladly keep it that way until she died. even then, the stars they’d create would never be too far apart. they’d shine for each other, with each other. future astrologers would look up at their twinkling lights and marvel at their beauty. she was so certain.

lightening strikes and thunder booms— suddenly ochako is falling from the sky like an angel falls from grace.

it startled her, causing her to tap her fingers together to release her from her gravity-defying quirk— she hadn’t assessed the situation at all and now she was falling. and bakugo was diving. his warm body collides with her shaking one and he wraps a tight arm around her waist. she holds onto him as he uses his explosions to manoeuvre them to safety. her heart almost beats out of her chest and she can’t tell whether it’s from panic, anxiety, or a secret third thing.

they land in an alley, the supplies thankfully in one piece, floating gracefully beside them. despite them landing, katsuki doesn’t budge. he keeps his tight hold on her waist and she lets him— ochako lets him. they stay like that for a few moments, eternity, listening to each other’s heart beats, copying each other’s breathing pattern. twinkling at the same rate. completely synced.

bakugo’s the first to pull away, of course.

thunder grumbles in the background as rain slices their skin. they’re completely soaked, yet they still stand there in the alley, unspeaking with so much to say. he lifts up some bags and she mirrors him.

“the shelter isn’t that far of a walk from here,”

ochako blinks, and suddenly she’s back in the dorms.

she’s decided that katsuki’s embrace is her favourite place to be. it’s like summer’s afternoon sun, golden and joyful. it creates a ball of warmth deep inside her chest, enveloping her heart and causing it to do flips. and they always seemed to last for infinity.

they were in her dorm, her head resting on his chest as they co-exist together. she listens to his beating heart and feels his chest rise and fall. the pros were preparing for the war to begin very soon, and this would be one of the last times they’d be able to stay like this until the fighting began. both were determined to persevere through this war and win, even if it killed them.

ochako decides she wouldn’t mind dying in katsuki’s arms if it meant feeling his warmth.

“if you get scared you can hold my hand,” katsuki says teasingly, though ochako knows better than to assume he’s joking.

“i think you’ll be needing to grab mine more,” she giggles and he rolls his eyes in amusement.

“absolutely not, i’ll be too busy exploding the shitheads to hold your hand anyways,” he grumbles, causing her to laugh harder.

“so i can’t hold your hand if i get scared?” she asks, trying to catch him out. his eyes widen.

“no that’s not what i meant pink cheeks!! don’t go twisting my words!!” he pouts in a playful anger and she clutches her sides as she watches katsuki’s face heat up in a flustered false fury.

another strike of lightening crackles and ochako flinches.

bakugo opens the door of the shelter, walking straight in and not bothering to keep the door open for her. she pushes it open herself and places the bags down at the entrance, hurrying over to ryukyu as she’s the pro who protects the shelter. the two make quiet conversation as bakugo begrudgingly begins to unpack all of the items that they had carried here.

a cold shiver runs up ochako’s spine and she comes to the sudden realisation that she’s soaked due to the rain and currently dripping onto the floor of the entrance. ryukyu simply laughs at her embarrassment and offers the two to stay the night at the shelter as it may be too dangerous to go out in the harsh conditions. ochako looks back at bakugo and agrees when she sees his slight nod of acknowledgement.

bakugo hated the rain.

ochako limps across the rubble: her suit, hair, and body drenched with the relentless rain. she doesn’t know what to do. himiko toga had just sacrificed her own life to save her’s. she was so young— the same age as ochako. uravity was supposed to save people, but she couldn’t even save one teenage girl.

exhaustion overwhelms her as she manages to reach the main fight and she collapses to the ground, trying to look up at the scene around her. trying to find her kat. she carefully pushes herself up, trying to get further in. she sees deku in the sky, fighting for his life, for safety, against any villain who may threaten his path. then she sees him. her stupid, angry, explosive, wonderful boyfriend. she sees the light of his star go out.

katsuki hated the rain.

they are taken to their room for the night. it’s small, and there’s only one bed, but they were no strangers to sharing one. bakugo goes straight to the bathroom, opting to get changed into the spare clothes they were given in there. she peels off her own wet clothes, placing them on the radiator and getting changed promptly before laying down on the bed. the bathroom door clicks open and bakugo walks out, placing his clothes beside her own.

“i can sleep on the floor if you need me to pink cheeks,” he mumbles, his face void of any hints to what he was truly thinking.

she smiles softly and shakes her head in amusement. “i don’t bite, ka— bakugo,” she catches herself just in time.

bakugo walks towards the bed, laying down on the edge, facing away from ochako. she turns her body to look at him, only to be met with his back. she nervously wraps an arm around his middle, and seeing him relax causes her to move closer to him, resting her head on his shoulder.

and for a moment, despite everything, it was like the war had never happened.

everyone in class 1A was admitted to the hospital once the war was over, some only stayed for a few hours— others had to stay for up to a week. it was the longest week of ochako’s life.

since she wasn’t supposed to leave her room, and only family were allowed to visit, she has no way of knowing if her kat was okay— no way of knowing if the star that inspired her was still burning brightly. she was terrified, a constant state of panic and anxiety.

when she was released, and settled back into the dorms, she immediately went to katsuki’s room. she knocked gently (just incase, she’d never want to wake him) and waited for him to open the door.

“what?” katsuki opens the door. his face is unreadable and he can barely look at her in her eyes. he sounded so— rude. harsh. cold. not like her katsuki anymore.

“i wanted to check on you, i haven’t seen you since.. and i needed to know you were okay!” ochako says sweetly, her voice not as full as life as it used to be.

“i’m fine,” he says bluntly, shutting the door in her face.

ochako stands staring at the door, surprise written all over her face. she doesn’t know what to do. she walks down the hall in a stunned silence, horrified at the interaction. she chalked it up to the war still being fresh in his mind, and she knew that people had different ways to cope— like mina’s dancing and sato’s baking— but she never for a second thought that her katsuki would shut her out. she decided to give him the space he needed, of course.

but eventually, slowly but surely, everything was becoming normal again. she was back to hanging out with deku, iida, todoroki, tsu and yaomomo and bakugo was back with ‘his idiots’ as he would call them. but bakugo’s attitude towards her never changed. it was radio silence from his side. he wouldn’t even look in her direction— it was like she had a disease.

then they read the patrol assignments, and hope swelled in her heart. maybe, just maybe, they’d be able to burn as bright as they used to. his neutral face didn’t change, but yaomomo swears she saw the corners of his mouth twitch up ever so slightly when he read their names.

on their first patrol, it was raining.

the light pattering on rain against the window was heard as the two laid together. simply existing. ochako decides that she would willingly die this way like she did just last year. his warmth consumes her, burning into her skin.

“why won’t you look at me?” she asks gently, anxiously— as if he would break if she was any louder. she feels him tense underneath her.

“because all i see is the girl covered in blood staring at me in horror in my final moments”

ochako wishes to stop breathing.

[dailyadventureprompts]

Tableskills: Creating Dread

I've often had a lot of problems telling scary stories at my table, whether it be in d&d or other horror focused games. I personally don't get scared easily, especially around "traditionally horrifying" things so it's hard for me to recreate that experience in others. Likewise, you can't just port horror movie iconography into tabletop and expect it to evoke genuine fear: I've already spoken of being bored out of my mind during the zombie apocalypse, and my few trips into ravenloft have all been filled with similar levels of limp and derivative grimdark.

It took me a long time (and a lot of video essays about films I'd never watched) to realize that in terms of an experience fear is a lot like a joke, in that it requires multiple steps of setup and payoff. Dread is that setup, it's the rising tension in a scene that makes the revelation worth it, the slow and literal rising of a rollercoaster before the drop. It's way easier to inspire dread in your party than it is to scare them apropos of nothing, which has the added flexibility of letting you choose just the right time to deliver the frights.

TLDR: You start with one of the basic human fears (guide to that below) to emotionally prime your players and introduce it to your party in a initially non-threataning manor. Then you introduce a more severe version of it in a way that has stakes but is not overwhelmingly scary just yet. You wait until they're neck deep in this second scenario before throwing in some kind of twist that forces them to confront their discomfort head on.

More advice (and spoilers for The Magnus Archives) below the cut.

Before we go any farther it's vitally important that you learn your party's limits and triggers before a game begins. A lot of ttrpg content can be downright horrifying without even trying to be, so it's critical you know how everyone in your party is going to react to something before you go into it. Whether or not you're running an actual horror game or just wanting to add some tension to an otherwise heroic romp, you and your group need to be on the same page about this, and discuss safety systems from session 0 onwards.

The Fundamental Fears: It may seem a bit basic but one of the greatest tools to help me understand different aspects of horror was the taxonomy invented by Jonathan Sims of The Magnus Archives podcast. He breaks down fear into different thematic and emotional through lines, each given a snappy name and iconography that's so memorable that I often joke it's the queer-horror version of pokemon types or hogwarts houses. If we start with a basic understanding of WHY people find things scary we learn just what dials we need turn in order to build dread in our players.

Implementation: Each of these examples is like a colour we can paint a scene or encounter with, flavouring it just so to tickle a particular, primal part of our party's brains. You don't have to do much, just something along the lines of "the upcoming cave tunnel is getting a little too close for comfort" or "the all-too thin walkway creaks under your weight ", or "what you don't see is the movement at the edge of the room". Once the seed is planted your party's' minds will do most of the work: humans are social, pattern seeking creatures, and the hint of danger to one member of the group will lay the groundwork of fear in all the rest.

The trick here is not to over commit, which is the mistake most ttrpgs make with horror: actually showing the monster, putting the party into a dangerous situation, that’s the finisher, the  punchline of the joke. It’s also a release valve on all the pressure you’ve been hard at work building.

There’s nothing all that scary about fighting a level-appropriate number of skeletons, but forcing your party to creep through a series of dark, cobweb infested catacombs with the THREAT of being attacked by undead? That’s going to have them climbing the walls.

Let narration and bad dice rolls be your main tools here, driving home the discomfort, the risk, the looming threat.

Surprise: Now that you’ve got your party marinating in dread, what you want to do to really scare them is to throw a curve ball. Go back to that list and find another fear which either compliments or contrasts the original one you set up, and have it lurking juuuust out of reach ready to pop up at a moment of perfect tension like a jack in the box. The party is climbing down a slick interior of an underdark cavern, bottom nowhere in sight? They expect to to fall, but what they couldn't possibly expect is for a giant arm to reach out of the darkness and pull one of them down. Have the party figured out that there's a shapeshifter that's infiltrated the rebel meeting and is killing their allies? They suspect suspicion and lies but what they don't expect is for the rebel base to suddenly be on FIRE forcing them to run.

My expert advice is to lightly tease this second threat LONG before you introduce the initial scare. Your players will think you're a genius for doing what amounts to a little extra work, and curse themselves for not paying more attention.

Restraint: Less is more when it comes to scares, as if you do this trick too often your players are going to be inured to it. Try to do it maybe once an adventure, or dungeon level. Scares hit so much harder when the party isn't expecting them. If you're specifically playing in a "horror" game, it's a good idea to introduce a few false scares, or make multiple encounters part of the same bait and switch scare tactic: If we're going into the filthy gross sewer with mould and rot and rats and the like, you'll get more punch if the final challenge isn't corruption based, but is instead some new threat that we could have never prepared for.

Art

[magic-shop-stories]

Hey, I was wondering if you could write headcanons about BTS as mythical creatures? Like Sphinx, Phoenix or whatever

Already,thank you if you do this. I like your blog and hope you'll get more attention because I really like it 💜💜

💌 Reply:

AHHHHHHHH, I have no idea how much time I spent writing this but it's TOO MUCH (not in the nad way tho) - I LOVED IT SO SO MUCH... and the IDEA 😭 you're a GENIUS 💜 - I hope this is what you thought of

Thank you so much and have fun reading 💜

BTS as Mythical Creatures

Namjoon/ RM

The Sphinx of Wisdom

Guardian of Knowledge

Riddles in Rain

Lion’s Heart

Fractured Stone

Physical Manifestation:

towering Sphinx with marble skin veined with gold

body a map of cracks—most prominent on his paws (testament to his "God of Destruction" legacy)

each fissure glows faintly, as if molten ideas simmer beneath

eyes shift like constellations, reflecting his ever-curious mind

Instead of claws, his paws cradle a weathered journal filled with scribbled philosophies and pressed flowers from the Han River

Behavioral Nuances:

Riddles in Rain: During Seoul’s storms, he wanders the city, leaving glyph-like graffiti in alleyways (e.g. "Is silence the echo of a thought?”)

riddles later surface in his lyrics or, ARMYs track them like treasure hunts

Lion’s Heart: his roar isn’t loud—it’s the weight of his silence during debates

when BTS faces scrutiny, his low growl reverberates in the air, literally shaking paparazzi cameras

his mane is perpetually ruffled, a reminder of his humility

Fractured Stone: cracks aren’t weaknesses. When he creates, light spills from them, illuminating studio sessions.

post-Indigo, the gold veins now bloom into lotus patterns —symbolizing growth through destruction

Mythical Abilities:

Guardian of Knowledge: his presence awakens forgotten libraries. Books flutter open around him, pages fanning into paper cranes that deliver wisdom to the members/ ARMY

once, a crane led Jungkook to a hidden chord progression for Spring Day

Stormweaver: Overthinking conjures thunderstorms, but he channels them into art

raindrops in Forever Rain = Recorded during one of these tempests

members know to bring umbrellas to the studio when he’s deep in a concept

Voice of the Ancients: when he speaks at the UN, his words briefly materialize as hieroglyphs in the air

delegates report feeling a primal urge to protect the Earth afterwards

Personality Parallels:

Philosopher-King: his lair isn’t a desert but a studio-library hybrid

shelves hold Hemingway, a bonsai tree, and dented figures (post-destruction incident).

he gifts members books with cryptic annotations—Taehyung once found Thus Spoke Zarathustra marked,“HYBE vending machine snacks > existentialism.”

Gentle Guardian: his wings aren’t for flying—they shield the group. During crisis, he enveloped them in a feather barrier, muttering "Not Today"

Clumsy Sage: trips over his own tail. Once knocked over a mic stand, causing a crack in his left forepaw.

Jin teased, “Even myths can’t escape gravity.”

Why Sphinx?

Namjoon’s essence is paradox incarnate —strength in vulnerability, wisdom in curiosity.

Sphinx’s duality (beast + human) mirrors his journey from Rap Monster ferocity to RM’s introspection.

guards BTS’s legacy not with rigidity, but by encouraging evolution.

“The answer isn’t in the riddle—it’s in the search,” he’d say, as Jungkook nods solemnly, not quite getting it but trusting him anyway

Easter Eggs:

his marble changes hue: indigo during introspective phases, gold when producing.

the journal in his paws? Open to a page titled “7” with doodles of six mythical creatures + a tiny ARMY bomb.

on calm nights, he hums Moonchild to the Han River, and the water ripples back in harmonies

Jin

The Celestial Qilin

Pearl-Scaled Hooves

Laughter Like Wind Chimes

Harbinger of Feasts

Serene Trickster

Physical Manifestation:

radiant Qilin with mother-of-pearl scalesthat shift hues under moonlight

embodying his "Worldwide Handsome" aura.

his mane flows like liquid silk, threaded with stardust, and his antlers twist into delicate spirals adorned with blossoming magnolias (a nod to Epiphany)

hooves leave trails of iridescent mist, avoiding even crushed petals.

despite his regality, his eyes glint with mischief—“Yes, I’m this majestic. No, I won’t let you take it seriously.”

Behavioral Nuances:

Harbinger of Feasts: appears before birthdays/comebacks with floating baskets of truffles, hanwoo beef, and ghost peppers (for Jin’s Party Packs)

once materialized a golden ladle to stir army stew during a 3 AM dorm crisis.

Serene Trickster: uses his Qilin grandeur to prank—freezes mid-stride like a statue, then shouts “I’M HUNGRY!” to startle members

leaves dad joke scrolls in staff rooms (“Why did the Qilin cross the road? To prove he wasn’t chicken!”).

Guardian of Joy: his laughter emits sonic ripples that dissolve tension.

during the 2020 MAMA stress, his giggles turned the greenroom into a confetti-filled karaoke zone

Mythical Abilities:

Healing Tears: Crystallize into moonstone candies that cure ailments or revive wilted plants.

secretly slipped one into RM’s coffee during BE recording.

Banquet of Harmony: conjures feasts that taste like nostalgia. Each dish amplifies a trait: kimchi pancakes = spark creativity, sweet rice wine = fuels courage

Eclipse Aura: when protective, his antlers emit a golden shield

conversely, his pout summons rainclouds—only dispersed by member hugs

Personality Parallels:

Eldest Alchemist: his hoard isn’t gold but gourmet ingredients and gaming consoles

keeps a Super Mario coin block as a paperweight.

gifted Jimin a self-stirring whisk for birthdays

Gentle Provocateur: challenges griffin!Jungkook to sky races (“Loser cooks samgyeopsal!”).

lets Suga’s dragon nap on his back, but paints “AGUST D” on its claws as a prank.

Self-Aware Sovereign: mock-fluffs his mane: “Maintaining this is harder than choreo.”

when ARMYs praise his beauty, his scales blush rose-gold—yet he’ll still photobomb with a wide smile

Why Qilin?

embodies the Qilin’s paradox: sacred yet relatable

presence heralds joy and stability, much like the creature’s association with peaceful eras.

he subverts divinity with humor—a Qilin who’d rather host mukbangs than court rituals. H

his magic isn’t in grandeur, but in moments: a shared meal, a well-timed joke, a silent hug.

“I’m not a saint,” he’d say, while healing your scraped knee with a lollipop

Easter Eggs:

His mist forms tiny Jin-Profile-Sunglasses when he’s smug

the magnolias on his antlers bloom during Moon performances, scattering petals that smell like sea salt and cedar

Find a pearl scale? It plays Super Tuna when tapped

Yoongi (SUGA/Agust D)

The Obsidian Dragon

Stormchaser

Two-Hearted

Molten Gold Veins

Silent Forge

Physical Manifestation:

dual-form dragon carved from volcanic obsidian

scales matte and glass-like, fracturing to reveal molten gold beneath—symbolizing the fire in his lyrics.

Yoongi/SUGA: sleek, serpentine form with moonlit scales, coiled in a studio-library hybrid

wings folded like parchment (inked with First Love sheet music)

claws tap beats on stone, sparking amber embers that become melody fragments

Agust D: jagged, winged leviathan with lava-cracked spines and eyes like smelting furnaces

his roar fractures mirrors (a nod to The Last introspection)

wears a chain collar engraved with “Daechwita” in runes

Behavioral Nuances:

Silent Forge: as Yoongi/SUGA, he’s a shadow-smith

his detached claws scuttle to help producers, rearranging tracks like puzzle pieces

leaves haiku feedback on demos (“Verse too heavy / Let the silence breathe / Try again")

Stormchaser: in Agust D form, he rides lightning during performances

Daechwita’s thunder? His doing

post-concert, he collects charred debris to weld into new beats (see: Honsool’s gritty samples)

Two-Hearted: shifts forms mid-sentence

in Suchwita recordings, his tail flicks between obsidian calm and gold-flared wit

once growled at a broken mic stand, then sighed, “Aish, just get me coffee.”

Mythical Abilities:

Hoard of Passion: collects soul-sounds —laughter from dorm nights, rain from Seoul’s streets, the creak of his old basketball shoes

these fuel his albums; D-2’s rawness is 70% Jimin’s “Yah, Yoongi-ssi!” echoes

Pain Alchemy: converts chronic pain into gold-veined scales

the shoulder that once ached now gleams brighter, immortalized in Amygdala’s lyrics

Dreamfire: his breath can incinerate nightmares or ignite inspiration

members request “dragon naps” in his studio for creative breakthroughs (Jungkook’s My Time riff was forged this way)

Personality Parallels:

Reluctant Sovereign: his lair is a spartan cave with a single luxuries: a Bose speaker, a framed photo of BTS, and a NBA 2K setup

gifted RM a scale inscribed with “Worldwide Puns” after Bicycle dropped

Benevolent Cynic: mocks his own mythos ("Dragons don’t pay taxes”)

but once shielded Jin from a falling stage light, scales chipping to deflect it

Eternal Student: hoards music theory tomes annotated with snark (“Bach? Overrated. But the counterpoint…”)

his wings unfurl as whiteboards during producing marathons

Why Dragon?

Yoongi’s essence is controlled combustion

the dragon’s duality—destructive force vs. wise guardian—mirrors his journey from "I want to rap to live” to "I live to create.”

Agust D’s fire isn’t rage; it’s the relentless spark of someone who turns scars into art

“Burn? No,” he’d rasp. “I mend with fire.”

Easter Eggs:

his obsidian scales bear tiny ARMY bomb engravings when hit by concert light

the chain on Agust D’s collar? It’s a working USB drive with unreleased tracks

on quiet nights, he duets with a piano-shaped cloud (for Dear My Friend), rain drizzling in B minor

J-HOPE

The Phoenix of Solar Flares

Sunspot Wings

Dance of Resurrection

Eternal Spark

Luminous Alchemist

Physical Manifestation:

radiant Phoenix with iridescent plumage that cycles through hues of sunrise coral, neon citrine, and Hope World’s electric turquoise

each feather pulses like a heartbeat, etched with dance notation glyphs (from Chicken Noodle Soup etc)

when dormant, his ashes coalesce into a golden hourglass—time itself pauses until he’s ready to rise

his eyes glow like supernovae, but his talons are calloused from endless rehearsals, grounding his celestial fire

Behavioral Nuances:

Dance of Resurrection: after burnout, he doesn’t just rise—he backflips into rebirth, scattering embers that become new choreo steps.

post-Lollapalooza, his ashes swirled into a tornado of confetti, drenching ARMYs in warmth

Mood-Maker Meteor: his mere presence causes auroras in rehearsal rooms

during Boy with Love practices, the mirrors cracked from the heat of his focus—then repaired themselves in his reflection

Solar Strategist: secretly directs BTS’s formations by drawing constellations with his talons

once scribbled a shooting star to guide Jimin’s Filter solo, whispering, “You’ve got this, Chim.”

Mythical Abilities:

Hope Ignition: songs are literal sunbeams.

Chicken Noodle Soup thawed a frostbitten concert venue in Chile; Daydream’s bridge sprouts sunflowers in its wake

ARMYs swear their merch glows during his verses

Eclipse Endurance: can absorb negativity into his core, compressing it into blackhole pearls he later shatters in choreo (see: Arson’s explosive finale)

hiatus rumors fueled Jack in the Box’s rawness

Chrono-Choreography: his wings manipulate time—slows it to perfect a move, speeds it to hype crowds

MIC Drop intro? He stretched 10 seconds into 10 minutes of practice for all

Personality Parallels:

Sunlit Perfectionist: Hoards dance shoes and mixtapes in his nest

gifted Jungkook a feather that plays Blue Side when stroked

his talons tap *“J-Hooooope!” rhythms on tables unconsciously

Vulnerable Supernova: privately, his flames dim to candlelight

post-MAMA 2016, he huddled in a cocoon of ashes for days—embers reignited only when members sang Born Singer

Bridge of Light: connects members’ energies

during ON’s kinetic manifesto, his wingspan linked them like a circuit, amplifying their power

Why Phoenix?

J-Hope isn’t just light—he’s light in motion

Phoenix’s cyclical rebirth mirrors his evolution from “sunshine of BTS” to “Jack in the Box” enigma

his fire isn’t mere positivity; it’s a defiant spark against doubt, burnout, and creative limits

“I burn to illuminate, not to destroy,” he’d say, as his wings fan the flames of a new era

Easter Eggs:

feathers shed holographic confetti that plays Trivia: Just Dance when caught midair

the hourglass ashes contain tiny MV Easter eggs (a BS&T flower, a Dynamite disco ball)

during Outro: Ego, his shadow morphs into a boxing kangaroo—a wink to his Champion mantra

JIMIN

The Swan of Velvet Tides

Crescent-Moon Neck

Tidal Elegance

Siren’s Compassion

Duality’s Dance

Physical Manifestation:

a luminescent swan with opal feathers that shimmer like moonlight on ocean waves

his neck arches into a crescent curve, dotted with faint constellations (Promise tattoo hidden in stardust)

mist rises from his wings, carrying the scent of sea salt and vanilla—ARMYs swear it cures headaches

his shadow, however, is a black swan with razor-edged feathers and eyes like shattered glass, embodying the anguish of Lie

Behavioral Nuances:

Tidal Perfectionist: practices choreography until tidal pools form beneath his feet.

during Black Swan rehearsals, the water surged into a whirlpool, reflecting his frustration.

only Jin’s Qilin mist and a “Yah, Jimin-ah, eat!” calmed the waves

Siren’s Embrace: his hugs emit low-frequency hums that slow heartbeats

after Suga’s shoulder surgery, Jimin cocooned him in his wings, humming Spring Day until the dragon’s molten veins cooled

Velvet Vengeance: when protective, his black swan shadow takes over

at a 2019 fan sign, a rude comment triggered a phantom wing-slap that knocked over a water bottle—subtle, but the room chilled 10 degrees

Mythical Abilities:

Voice of Clarity: high notes shatter negativity

Filter’s ad-libs literally purified Seoul’s smog once; Serendipity’s falsetto sprouts coral reefs in stagnant water

fans in rainy climates joke his concerts guarantee sunshine

Mirror Tide: his tears create liquid mirrors showing one’s truest self

Jungkook once glimpsed his future solo stage in a droplet, muttering, “Hyung, that’s… too much power.”

Duality’s Dance: transforms mid-performance

at MAMA 2019, his black swan erupted during Lie, wings slicing the air into a storm of rose petals and ash

post-song, he reverted, coyly fixing his hair like “Who, me?”

Personality Parallels:

Graceful Workhorse: hoards dance belts and handwritten letters (to fans, members, even his future self)

his nest is a chaos of protein bars, lavender oil, and Face album drafts

Emotional Cartographer: maps members’ moods through touch

noticed V’s kitsune tails drooping pre-Singularity and lured him into a “secret mission” (ice cream + hot chocolate)

Self-Critical Muse: his opal feathers dull when he’s insecure

post-ON kinetic manifesto, he molted for weeks, leaving iridescent piles RM wove into a “You’re enough” tapestry

Why Swan?

Jimin embodies the swan’s beauty born of relentless labor

his elegance isn’t innate—it’s honed through blood, sweat, and tidal tears

the black swan isn’t a shadow; it’s his ally, channeling pain into art

“People see grace,” he’d say, “but the water knows how hard I kicked to stay afloat.”

Easter Eggs:

his mist writes “Nevermind” in Hangul when he’s determined

molted feathers become snow globes—shake them to hear Christmas Love giggles

the constellations on his neck align with his Birthday lyrics

Pisces glows brightest during fan meetings

V (Taehyung)

The Nine-Tailed Kitsune

Mood-Switching Tails

Jazz-Bar Phantom

Van Gogh Eyes

Storyweaver

Physical Manifestation:

A nine-tailed kitsune with fur like midnight velvet, each tail tipped in stardust

his eyes swirl with Starry Night hues, galaxies spinning in their depths—windows to his artistic soul

rhe tails shift autonomously: one curls into a heart when flustered, three spark with film-reel static during photoshoots, and all nine blaze indigo during Singularity, forming a hypnotic fan

his ears twitch to jazz rhythms, and a tiny Gramophone pendant glows at his throat, playing unreleased melodies

Behavioral Nuances:

Jazz-Bar Phantom: materializes in smoke-filled speakeasies at 3 AM, saxophone in hand

once duetted with a ghostly pianist for Snow Flower, leaving patrons weeping into their absinthe

returns to the dorm with cigarette-scented sheet music no one recognizes

Whimsical Archivist: collects dimensional pocket trinkets: a BTS concert ticket from 2013, a cracked film lens, a pressed Winter Bear flower

each whispers memories he weaves into lyrics

Eldritch Comfort: his laugh emits warmth waves—ARMYs in LYSY cinemas swore their anxiety dissolved when he giggled at a meme

during the BE pandemic, his chuckle literally defrosted Yoongi’s frostbitten studio windows

Mythical Abilities:

Soul-Resonance Illusions: concerts trigger personalized visions for fans—a struggling student sees her graduation; a grieving father glimpses his daughter dancing

these fade but leave footprints guiding them forward

Time-Lost Whispers: speaks in vintage film quotes that eerily fit modern struggles

told a fan, “We’ll always have Paris”—she later won a scholarship to France

his “You’re my penicillium” line in Life Goes On? A 1940s ad-lib

Artistic Possession: channels muses

wrote Scenery after a Van Gogh ghost borrowed his hands

once painted Jin’s portrait in Starry Night style mid-interview, muttering, “Hyung’s eyebrows are constellations.”

Personality Parallels:

Quiet Conduit: Hoards antique cameras and unsent letters in a pocket dimension

gifted Jimin a 1920s brooch that plays Christmas Love when touched

his tails braid members’ hair as they sleep, leaving luck charms

Protective Trickster: uses illusions to deflect hate

once made a troll’s screen display “I 💜 V” for a week

shielded Jungkook from sasaengs by cloaking him in a hallucination of fog

Nostalgia Alchemist: his tears crystallize into film negatives of cherished memories

gave RM one of their 2015 dorm, scrawled with “We did okay, hyung.”

Why Kitsune?

V is the bridge between ephemeral and eternal

a trickster who guards hearts, an old soul who revels in whimsy

the kitsune’s duality (mischief/mentor) mirrors his balance of "Celine model allure and “Taetae” innocence

he doesn’t just exist between worlds; he curates them, turning life into art and strangers into soulmates

“Magic?” he’d smirk, tail wagging. *“No. Just… noticing.”

Easter Eggs:

his tails hum Sweet Night when petted (members tested this; Jin now braids them for stress relief)

the Gramophone pendant’s unreleased track? A jazz cover of Spring Day with Yoongi on piano

find a stardust-tipped hair? Hold it to the moon—it projects a micro-movie of his Singularity rehearsals

JUNGKOOK

The Golden Griffin

Eaglet Curiosity

Lion’s Tenacity

Skybound Ambition

Celestial Sentinel

Physical Manifestation:

a gilded griffin with eagle wings spanning stadiums, each feather molten gold at the tips (a nod to Golden)

his lion’s mane shimmers with starlight, threaded with tiny ARMY bombs that pulse to his heartbeat

claws are sheathed in platinum—except during performances, when they unsheathe like MIC Drop’s bassline

his eyes, sharp as 8K lenses, miss nothing—Jimin’s loose mic pack, a fan’s tear in row Z, a meme-worthy bug on V’s shoulder

Behavioral Nuances:

Skybound Work Ethic: practices flight maneuvers until dawn, etching light trails that form BTS logos

during Butter rehearsals, his wingbeats synced with the bass, creating a vortex that levitated the dance crew “Oops,” he grinned, mid-air

Eaglet Playfulness: collects everything - awards, boxing gloves, Jimin’s AirPods, soda tabs—in a nest atop HYBE lined with BE album scraps

challenges RM to riddle contests, but answers with meme references

once hid Jin’s phone in his plumage, chirping, “Finders keepers, hyung!”

Lion’s Loyalty: carried Jin piggyback up a mountain during Bon Voyage, wings furled to “keep it fair."

when Suga’s dragon form overheated mid-concert, Jungkook’s shadow cooled the stage with a sonic roar

Mythical Abilities:

Griffin’s Gaze: sees the unseen—detects a dancer’s injury before it flares, spots ARMYs’ handmade signs in milliseconds

during Dynamite encores, his vision locks onto fans’ smiles, fueling his stamina

Aegis Wings: can harden feathers into a shield (saved Jimin from a falling prop during IDOL) or soften them into a quilt for tired members

post-PTD, he draped them over Hobi, murmuring, “You burned too bright, hyung.”

Molten Momentum: his sweat crystallizes into golden confetti—ARMYs fight to catch these “JK gems,” which play Euphoria snippets when warmed

Personality Parallels:

Perfectionist Prodigy: hoards GoPro footage and charcoal sketches of the members

his nest’s “hidden layer” holds a My Time demo titled “Eaglet No More.”

Duality Incarnate: shifts from shy eaglet (tucking wings under blankets during lives) to lion-hearted showstopper

Eternal Student: studies phoenix!Hobi’s footwork, dragon!Yoongi’s producing flames. Gifted RM a golden feather pen after Wild Flower dropped.

Why Griffin?

Jungkook embodies the griffin’s relentless evolution—eagle’s hunger for heights meets lion’s command of earth

he guards not just treasures but moments: the silence before a high note, the crackle of a comeback countdown, the unspoken bond of seven

“Golden?” he’d shrug, flexing a wing. “Nah. Just… trying to keep up with my heroes.”

Easter Eggs:

his molted feathers become kintsugi pottery kits —repair something broken, and they hum Begin

the ARMY bombs in his mane flash purple during fan chants, syncing with the crowd

find a golden claw mark? It’s a ticket to his Dreamers collab cloud-rehearsal—VIP seats for daydreamers

THE MYTHOLOGY OF 7 — WHEN LEGENDS COLLIDE

- A symphony of chaos, camaraderie, and cosmic harmony -

DAILY DRAMA AMONG DEITIES

Phoenix vs. Sphinx:J-Hope’s flames flicker with mischief, lighting RM’s scrolls on fire mid-philosophy rant “Hyung, your ‘What is art?’ thesis is literally ash now. Dance with me instead!” Namjoon retaliates by summoning a raincloud over Hobi’s nest, yelling, “Myths don’t pay drying bills!” (Spoiler: They end up composing Dis-ease in the storm.)

Qilin’s Snack Warfare: Jin materializes a floating ramyun buffet under Yoongi’s snout. “Dragon-nim, trade you 10 dumplings for a nap.” Suga’s tail flicks “No,” but his snores rattle the studio within minutes. Jin hangs a “Worldwide Napper” sign on his horns and posts it on Weverse

Kitsune’s Shenanigans: V’s tails swipe Jungkook’s left sneaker mid-flight, cackling, “Griffins shouldn’t skip leg day!” Jungkook retaliates by dive-bombing Tae’s jazz bar with Butter remixes until he returns it—plus a vintage Gucci sock as interest

Swan vs. Shadows: Jimin’s black swan shadow heckles during rehearsals “Your pirouette was 0.3° off”, so he traps it in a tidal bubble. Hobi’s phoenix fire evaporates the water, and the shadow pouts until Jimin bribes it with Like Crazy choreo

Griffin’s Nest Raids: Jungkook hoards everything—including Suga’s AirPods and Jimin’s moisturizer. Members stage interventions: “Jeon Jungkook, why is my skincare in your Golden claw?!” He blinks, wings shuffling. “…For safekeeping?"

STAGE NIGHTS: THE CONSTELLATION OF US

When the lights dim, their chaos crystallizes:

Sphinx’s storms swirl into a celestial map, guiding the others’ formations.

Phoenix fire melts into spotlights, while Qilin mist refracts it into rainbows.

Dragonfire forges the beat, Kitsune tails weave illusions, and Swan tides carry their vocals to the rafters.

Griffin’s wings eclipse the moon, casting the crowd in gold—“You’re our treasure now.”

Their clashes become crescendos:

Yoongi’s lava veins power the bassline, but Jin’s Qilin tears cool his core so he doesn’t overheat.

Tae’s illusions threaten to engulf the stage during Singularity, but Jungkook’s gaze anchors reality with a wink

Jimin’s black swan surges during Lie, but Hobi’s phoenix mirrors its ferocity, transforming anguish into art

ARGUMENTS? NO. LOVE LANGUAGES.

Suga’s grumpy dragon naps are code for “I trust you to guard me.”

Jin’s snack bribes mean “Let me take care of you.”

RM’s riddles are “I believe you’ll find the answer.”

Hobi’s fire is “I’ll fight for your joy.”

Jimin’s tide whisper “I feel you, even when you drown.”

Tae’s mischief says “Let’s never grow old.”

Jungkook’s hoarding is “I want to remember every version of us."

ETERNAL EVOLUTION

They’re not static myths—they’re legends rewriting themselves:

The Sphinx trades desert sands for cityscapes, scribbling poetry in subway stations

The Phoenix’s ashes now sprout neon fungi (Hope World meets More)

The Qilin’s magnolias bloom in tropical shades because “Super Tuna” deserves its own ecosystem

The Kitsune’s film reels now stream TikTok collabs with a Van Gogh filter

Yet when the encore ends, they’re just seven creatures piled in a dor: Dragon draped over Griffin, Swan braiding Qilin’s mane, Kitsune and Phoenix debating the best edits, Sphinx smiling as his storms finally still

“We’re not symbols,” RM insists, as Jin feeds Jungkook a sparkly dumpling. “We’re just… us.”

A lie, of course.

They’re the myth that taught the world to burn, bend, and believe—together.

PS. Art Note - Their constellation forms a 7-pointed star, each tip a hybrid of their creatures. The center? A tiny ARMY bomb. Always.

[greenthena]

Ineffable Lapels: Our Side

I've seen some stellar breakdowns and analyses of the costuming for Good Omens, and I'm personally blown away by the consideration afforded to each element of the visual production of this show. I even appreciate the anachronistic elements that Claire Anderson chose to use in the 537 A.D. Kingdom of Wessex flashback, because aesthetic was more important than historical accuracy (Oscar Wilde would support me here, I am certain.) And to be perfectly honest, 6th century European armor was not going to cut it. So much quilting.

This discussion is just a little traffic circle spin that I wanted to address with no larger point than to say how much I adore Anderson's work on this show. That's a lie. This post has actually gotten out of hand, so grab yourself six shots of espresso in a big cup and get in. We're going for a ride.

It's the smallest detail, but have you noticed the Ineffable Idiots' lapels? Crowley's lapels always point up (not the case with any other demons). Aziraphale's lapels always point down* (again, not the case with other angels). *I'll address the one divergence at the end of this post. It's kind of the whole point. It'll be worth it. Just drink your espresso and listen.

Lapels are a fantastically subtle way to express characterization when costuming an angel and a demon. Perhaps Aziraphale's lapels are an echo of his wings? Maybe Crowley's lapels symbolize devil horns? Maybe their costumes are just reaching out trying to give each other a hug. I dunno.

I'm going to start with promo shots from both seasons that show Crowley and Aziraphale's present day wardrobes. The first promo shot pictures the costumes for all of present day S1. It's perfect for demonstrating the most pronounced expression of the lapels. Consider this a baseline or something like that.

The close up of the promo for S2 (featuring nakey Gabriel and the migrating nightingales...I'm not crying, you're crying) shows pretty similar costumes to the first season. Yes, the hairstyles have subtly changed (Crowley's not so subtly, perhaps), but the lapel positioning for both characters remains consistent.

Going back in time. (Let's call this the Baby Antichrist Era, shall we?) Crowley's collar is quite a bit narrower than in the present day, but the lapels still point up. Obviously, Aziraphale is still wearing the same coat. Obviously.

I will never recover from this John Lennon bastardry. But still, check out those lapels. And the brocade is so 60's and so over the top.

And here's Michael delivering his favorite line from S1, whilst breaking Crowley's (and literally everyone else's) heart. Do take a gander at those downward-facing lapels, though, and 'scuse me while I go have a quick cry.

I'm going out of order with this next image, back to the start of the Holy Water incident. (Don't worry, we will get to 1941. It requires more attention and will have to wait its turn.) Not a whole lot I want to pull from this image other than Aziraphale's fuzzy top hat and Crowley's snake-handled cane, which I believe he's using as he recovers from his recent trip to Hell. These costume pieces have nothing to do with lapels, I just think they're neat. But the lapel pattern holds: up for the demon, down for the angel.

A few decades earlier, we see Crowley in Edinburgh just hours before being sucked into an infernal whirlpool. The lapels here are more parallel than distinctly upward-pointing, but the extravagant shoulders on this overcoat demand a balancing lapel line.

Likewise, on Aziraphale's overcoat we don't see a defined downward-pointing lapel, so much as a wide horizontal collar, but the layers of wing-like capelets create an impression of flowing down. With these two stunning overcoats from the Edinburgh flashback set, I think the unusual period elements take the place of the lapels in demonstrating the upward tilt in Crowley's ensembles, and the downward pull in Aziraphale's.

Okay, now we can discuss 1941. Because this is where the cookie crumbles. Originally, these costumes vexed me. As usual, Crowley wears his upward-pointing lapels. But Azirapalala, goddamnit, also has upward-pointing lapels to match Crowley. But am I gonna' let a little thing like this destroy my thesis? Don't shit with me when I am analyzing costumes, because this is also the night when Aziraphale realizes he's in love with Crowley (this is Sheen cannon and cannot be disputed).

Their lapels match because of Aziraphale's revelation--he finally understands what it means to be on "Our Side," because he's finally admitted to himself that he is head-over-bloody-heels in love with the wily demon. The matching lapels in 1941 is some St. John of Patmos-level stuff, I think, their matching collars revealing their synchronicity. Even if it's only for the one night, they're one the same page, heading in the same direction. I know many of us in the fandom are pretty preoccupied with the idea of a third 1941 flashback in S3 because this night seems to be the hinge in their relationship. It's the night when everything changes. It's not just Crowley swooping in to rescue his angel, as he's done in the past. They're mutually dependent on one another to make it through the night alive, well, at least to avoid discorporation (it's romantic, okay?) Crowley diverts the Luftwaffe plane; Aziraphale protects them from the blast of the bomb; Crowley saves the books; Aziraphale saves Crowley's ass from an irate Mrs. Henderson; Crowley saves Aziraphale's magic show (by literally not discorporating him on stage); and Aziraphale saves both their asses with some surprisingly successful prestidigitation when he swaps out the incriminating photo Furfur had managed to snap of the Ineffable Morons.

Crowley and Aziraphale's matching lapels in 1941 isn't a fluke or a costuming blunder. I think it's a very subtle head nod to what we all know actually happened that night: Aziraphale took a tenuous step forward in their relationship. A step 6000 years in the making. A step that, if noticed by their respective superiors, could mean the actual and eternal end to them. He couldn't shout it from the rooftops--he couldn't even speak of it directly in private (I mean he tried, but "That's what friends are for" was as painful for the viewer as it was for Crowley and Aziraphale.) He couldn't disclose through words or direct actions what he needed the demon to know, so he used what avenue he had available to him. Through the subdued symbolism of his bloody lapels, Aziraphale communicated to his demon, "I am on Our Side."

For reading to the end of this post, you get a very special reward! Here is The Amazing Mr. Fell. I love him. I'm not going to address right now the fantastic costume because this beauty deserves a post of its own--the cape with the stars! THE CAPE WITH THE STARS! HE'S SWATHED HIMSELF IN CROWLEY'S CREATION...I'm fine.

[fire-emblem-drabbles]

Pairing: Lif x reader

Prompt: The summoner gets a new outfit, based on Hel.

Description: You were a little apprehensive to try on the clothing made in the style of Hel... You didn't realize it would make Lif even more anxious than you.

Rating: sfw

Word Count: 1299

Notes: Whoo its a fanfiction!!! Not only that its a series!!! Anyways is anyone surprised to find I'm writing Lif to get out a little block in writing. I'm certainly not. This is not looked over at all, and yes I did do a whole ass sketch to decide how I wanted Hel summoner to look. You'll probably see a picture for that soon :eyes:

“Wow this is really different…” You couldn’t help the way your voice softened as you traced delicate fingers over the clothing prepared for you. It sat innocently in your room, delivered by the tailor earlier and waiting for you to come and find it. You had asked them to make you some clothing similar tho the heroes from Hel (as well as those resplendent heroes from there; you did always tend to stare when another hero came though with the macabre designs).

Staring down the clothing now, you can’t help but feel a little intimidated by it. With its shining black armor, intricate designs and carefully chosen accessories you felt for a moment that perhaps something this nice (for lack of a better word) was too good for you. But, you had to remember this clothing was quite literally made for you. Each stitch considered carefully, every color chosen with care…

So its with a deep breath that you begin to dress in the outfit before you. Carefully slipping on your under clothing, you can’t help but admire the delicate headpiece and interesting armor. It was interesting to see what on your old outfit inspired the creation of this one, and the liberties taken by the tailor to create something that could absolutely be seen from the soldiers of Hel.

Once on and seeing yourself in the mirror you couldn’t help but feel a little heat over your cheeks. On the wall this outfit didn’t seem so revealing, but this skirt, with its cut edges seemed to ride up higher than yours, with the cut that usually filled you with confidence running much higher than before-- your saving grace being the bright blue thigh highs that showed just a bit of real skin. The shirt, meant to resemble the skin of the dead brought back, had careful patterns cut from it to show off your actual skin. At least, the armor resting on your chest and hips made you feel a little protected, not something the flimsy cape you wore could do.

Looking at your cloak, sitting lonesome on the bed, you almost felt like it would be better to replace your previous outfit instead. But glancing at your mirror once again, you steeled yourself; you couldn’t let your own awkwardness put this outfit down. So, with confidence renewed, you move to head out your door, trying to decide what heroes you should surprise with your outfit first.

You thought of the Robin’s, how they would probably be delighted to see how you matched them now. Or maybe Alfonse and Sharena, the latter who would be so excited to see you branching out a little with your clothing. There was any number of heroes who would be pleased to see you like this, you were sure. You really just had to pick a direction and walk!

...That was, of course, after you finished your patrol. It was that time. In all your giddiness to try on your new outfit, you had nearly forgotten!

“Ohh I know I asked someone to accompany me today…” You muttered, heading out towards the perimeter of the castle to begin. You couldn’t quite remember who it was, though. Unbothered, and expecting to enjoy their presence anyways, you hum as you reach the spot you usually start your patrol. You didn’t see anyone around, though, so perhaps you were just misremembering the day…

“Summoner…?” You turned to the sound of a gasp, already quiet footsteps stopping at sight of you.

“Oh, Lif!” You smile at him, but his red eyes remain wide with shock. “Is everything alright? I hope I didn’t keep y--!” Your cut off as Lif suddenly sweeps you into an embrace. “Lif?” You curl your head up to look at him, hands pressed against hard armor. But he’s hidden his face against your neck. You can feel your heartbeat picking up next to him. “What’s wrong?” Your voice comes out quieter now, as you take the chance to hug him back.

“This outfit you’re wearing… I…” He stops speaking but it doesn’t stop your eyes from widening. “But you’re still breathing… still alive…” You feel his heavy breath land on your neck, cold as his embrace.

“It was supposed to be for fun…” You admit softly. “I… didn’t intend to scare you.” How stupid could you be? Of course an outfit like this would cause him to act like that!

“For a moment I…” He stops again, pulling you close once more to double check your heart was still beating.

“I’m so sorry…” You pull back, just enough that you can see the sadness in his eyes, just as much as you feel it in the way he refuses to let you go. “I promise, I’m not dead. I’m still here…” Your unsure what else to say, silent as Lif closes his eyes and takes a deep breath.

“Don’t apologize. I… was just taken back to the past is all.” You can’t help but frown at his words. “So many times I’ve agonized about not being able to save you, and to see you like this…” He shakes his head.

“I-I can go change! I’d still really like you to join me for my patrol.” You remember how much pleading it had taken to get him to agree in the first place.

“You don’t have to do that. I… just need a moment.” Still, he does not let you go. As if letting you go would change reality, and you too would be under Hel’s domain…

“Then I won’t go anywhere, then.” You were still beating yourself up over being dumb enough to wear this around Lif. You hadn’t even considered how he might feel seeing you like this… “I just got jealous of all the other Heroes getting new outfits, so I wanted to join in on the fun. I really enjoyed the way other heroes outfits came out when based on Hel but…” You sigh and shake your head, unable to finish the thought. “Think of it this way, Lif. I match you now!” You say instead, trying to boost his mood from how somber he had become.

“Match me?” He echoes the words. It wasn’t an entirely displeasing thought, but… Even now, taking another look at your outfit, Lif has to stop the pit of anxiety that fills him. You looked so happy though, smiling up at him in that encouraging way.

“Tell you what. We can go slow on my patrol today, and I won’t drop your hand the entire time.” You decide, pulling back from him but taking his right hand in your left. “I know were both wearing a lot of armor, but you can feel how warm I am, right?”

“...I can.” He nods, because even thought your now gauntlet clad hand, Lif can feel the heat of your hand. It’s very comforting, though he dare not admit.

“Then you can know I’m still alive.” You grin wide at him. “And if anything scary comes along during our patrol, I know I can trust you to keep me alive and safe too.” You added. “So… come on! We’re already running a little behind as it is.” You urge him forward by walking yourself, causing Lif to follow lest he lose the warmth of your hand.

The two of you continued forward like that, silent but happy in one anthers company. Lif wasn’t sure he enjoyed your new outfit yet. However, if it meant he got to hold your hand like this, soak in your warm touch as he had before… perhaps it wasn’t all bad. And like you said; the two of you did match now. You were dressed like him, and not Alfonse so… maybe, there was a chance for him after all.

[trinketmonsterr]

Paris Fashion Week 23' Debrief

From left to right, top row followed by bottom, I have selected my four favorite looks after reviewing those who showed for Paris Fashion Week 23'.

Look one: Issey Miyake Spring 2024 RTW (Look 20) by Satoshi Kondo

This is something I would wear everyday if I could. An iconic Japanese silhouette, with a long top or dress reaching a mid thigh, either paired with a wide leg trouser or straight tailored long skirt. I also adore asymmetrical sleeves and ruching around the hips, providing the body contour and definition.

Collection Notes: Aside from this look, the whole collection was so special and meaningful after the passing of Miyake just last summer. It was an homage to Miyake's iconic Spring 1998, beginning as a quite literal, almost replication of some of the gowns. 98' was unforgettable; it was as if the models were trying to escape the sheer veiled gowns they were clothed in, posing with their limbs and faces completely covered and restricted. Kondo could not have delivered a more beautiful and timely tribute.

Look two: Marni Spring 2024 RTW (Look 14) by Francesco Risso

I will always fall head over heels for a mini dress that has a fit and cut like this. In some ways, this look reminds me of early Prada, simple girly (yet chic) silhouettes and plaid motifs, but what's new is the mini v-neck, giving a sporty edge. If you look closely at the shoes, you'll see a white leather ballet flat with embossed ribbon-style bows, which obviously I want on my feet right now. This entire look. Right now. As for the rest of the collection? A total skip.

Look three: Loewe Spring 2024 RTW (Look 21) by Jonathan Anderson

The more I look at this, the more I drool over an asymmetrical tutu-skirt paired with a cherry-red plaid collared shirt. Not to mention a cashmere (I'm guessing) moss green sweater tying a fresh and exciting color palette together. The mules, I can skip. Same with the bag, I'm all good. Not to say both are not showing Loewe though, or speaking to Jonathan Anderson's very specific design language. I liked every variation of this look.

Collection notes: Super high-waisted trousers were also a sight to see, paired with the same buttoned-to-the-top collared shirts. The collection wasn't loose or relaxed in anyway, however, it also wasn't uptight, despite blazers with pockets in restraining positions and large-knit sweaters missing armholes. There were even gold belts made out of nails, going through leather shorts, and yet somehow, Anderson creates equilibrium between the slouchy and over-refined.

Look four: Prada Spring 2024 RTW (Look 37) by Miuccia Prada and Raf Simmons

Out of about five favorites, I decided on this look because I believe it best encompasses something I would choose to put on, and includes my favorite highlight from the show; fringe. It's not just fringe though. Its beaded fringe, and in other parts of the collection metallic and printed fringe, even fringe to create collars on shirts! The choice of throwing a clunky leather jacket over is just good juxtaposition, matched with black patent leather pumps. Get this look on somebody cool now.

Collection Notes: My personal highlights were specifically shoulder draping, eclectic fringe (as mentioned,) fluffy pastel layered mesh, and classic Prada embellishments such as punched-out metal holes in various sizes. There were however a few floral patterns I absolutely despised, so it turns out, perhaps, Prada can do some wrong? Or perhaps Miuccia can, because Miu Miu 2024 RTW was absolutely horrendous.

Thanks xx

[roadandruingame]

RAR Musings #26: Shifting Perspectives

As I continue to strive for a "perfect system" that covers all the bases I would like for it to cover, while still being simple enough to be player-facing, and even not explicitly require a dungeon master, I've had to do a lot of philosophizing over what game mechanics are even meant to accomplish. This has lead me from an extremely crisp system that simulated results great, but wasn't fun to play or easy to communicate how to operate, to where I am now, with an explicit focus on easily communicated outcomes and variables, where I cleanly lay out the path for players to follow, and don't get all twisted if players choose to interpret the game differently than I necessarily would, but still operate it within suitable parameters.

But more than anything has been the difficulty in accepting input from people who fundamentally misunderstand what I'm trying to do here. Worse still, people who DO understand what I'm trying to do, but expressly, and sometimes venomously, try to tear me and the project down for it, having sometimes frightening outbursts about it.

Take dice, for instance. World of Darkness introduced me to using pools of d10 for gradiant outcome resolution, a breath of fresh air away from Dungeons and Dragons' use of a single d20 for literally everything, with no meaningful situational variables to speak of. I built Road and Ruin to use d10 pools, but for add-up, something I've since discarded for slowness and lack of fun. Still, I work d10s into the system where possible, feeling better about the "roundness" of 10% increments than d20's 5%, including d100s adding more granularity with a "nat100" on a 1%, something truly worthy of the miraculous outcomes gushed over by dnd greentexts and youtube shorts alike. And again, in the use of "3d10" has a certain roundness to it that "roll a d8, d10, and d12" lacks. But if, for whatever reason, you have a raging hatred of d10s and seek to bury them whenever the rules suggest to use them, even digitally, there's not really much more I can do for that person.

Or take the concept of digital dice itself. I'd handwaved away any real concerns about mechanical complexity early on in development, reasoning that ttrpgs would benefit from leaning on the digital pocketry that each and every player brings to the table, but now understand that many players desire, or even require, tactile response from paper, pencil, and dice to feel grounded at the table and improve their enjoyment and focus. That, and the release of Magic: The Gathering cards that would become increasingly suited to an online TCG platform and not to paper, would leave me frustrated with digital, and questioning whether they streamlined the product, or created an incentive program for the developers to add increasingly obtuse mechanics.

Player-facing plot patterns to follow to conclusion, Schrodinger's Secret Door, Exert/Exhaustion, Stable Attributes that don't grow in perpetuity till you're out there punching god, and Monstrous magnitudes that threaten extreme harm to anyone who ever felt good about going up to fight a dragon, have all been angrily shouted down by any number of people. Perhaps none so more than the suggestion of Behavioral Guidance, and making roleplay have mechanics. But a lot of that has had to do with a shift in perspective given player agency.

A good friend clarified to me in an unexpected way, paraphrasing for eloquence, "The amount of misfortune and consequence delivered to a player's character needs to be proportional to the number of mistakes that player made to get to that point. Otherwise, you rob them of agency." It was enough to get me to sidestep the usual cringe I experience at those blistering words, 'player agency'. The 'muh agency!!' crowd had been the most frustrating of debates, incapable of articulating why Perfect Control of their character was required to enjoy a game where you're regularly obstructed by movement speed, health points, or even sight, but it went a long way in explaining exactly where the line was drawn, and what it took to move it.

It's for the same reason that you can't really include a behavioral system putting a character on auto-pilot to 'follow their truth'. Which feels like a shame; people will insist that roleplaying their character need not have any mechanics, but time and again has proven to me that they can't be trusted with it, devolving into psychopaths as soon as you stop jangling the keys of bloody combat in their face for even a moment, Lawful Good alignment or no. But, true to form, players don't like having Muh Agency removed from them when they didn't do anything do deserve it. Including... you know. Having made the character have those traits in the first place.

When redesigning my dice system, I also had to shift perspective on what Normal is. I'd tried to make a Base 0 game, where "Normal" was somewhere up around the mark of 15, so that it could scale as high above that as I needed, but have since changed to a "Base Human" system, using +1 and -1 off baseline, and much more like DND, much to my chagrin. But this philosophy of "baseline", when applied to roleplaying, doesn't completely work. "Health" is a great example of baseline philosophy: you have HP, and then when you make mistakes, you take damage, proportional to the severity of the mistakes that you're making. When you run out, you fall unconscious, and lose agency, but only as a result of those choices.

Roleplaying, though, lacks a baseline that feels good. If I implement a 'sanity' mechanic, where choices that deviate from the character's "moral compass" impose an escalating weakness of conviction and confidence, a penalty on any check to influence others or resist being influence in a way that might shift your moral north, players are just as likely to protest the eventual brainwashing of their character after all their mucking about as they are if you were to subject them to an instant-death trap.

In Musings #24, I discuss the makings of ttrpgs, and I name Relationships as a pillar. Put another way: CONTINUITY, the tendency for the world, and consequences, to persist beyond the arena that they were born in. Dungeons and Dragons feels like it's at one time smelled the passing of the memory of someone who felt Continuity once, 80 years ago as a small child, what with all the healing spells and lack of reputation system and ability to recover literally your entire character sheet given you conk out for an 8hr snooze, but I really feel like Continuity might be the single biggest hurdle that players I've encountered have trouble mounting. This doesn't go for everyone, of course, my experiences are not universal, but Continuity in ttrpgs really feels to me to be the one thing that, if agreed on, could make or break a campaign or game table.

Continuity states that if your character has a belief, or a goal, or a compulsion, that those are simply things that character does. They're the ways that character acts. The player, despite all the promises in the world, can't simply be given the power to say "UH, NUH UH" and simply self-destruct in a moment of rapid-onset psychosis. The more upsetting and antithetical to nature, the more damage that character receives to their psyche. This can be represented as an immediate penalty that lasts for a scene, but accumulates, imparting a penalty based on the current number of stacks -1. Character beliefs, defined by an amount of Conviction value, are lessened by the penalty, and if another character ever works to convince the character of their perspective, and exceeds this lessened value, the character becomes shaken. With repeated working, this may permanently erode the character's Conviction, and even turn them to the side of whoever's convincing them.

Or, this is all a stupid idea! As the mechanic suggests, if players are actually playing to their character's traits, none of this should ever be necessary. The rules would simply not come into play. But, does this simply mean that a character not controlled by the players can NEVER convince their characters of anything the players do not wholeheartedly endorse? Do we not have speed limits and laws, for WHEN someone goes too fast, not IF? I'd love if players played to their character, but what if someone doesn't? Do they simply get kicked from the table for poor sportsmanship? Or does anyone even care?

The same people who scream and moan about 'muh immersion' and 'muh agency' tend to be the same people who tend to act like ttrpgs are a whimsical trip to Disneyworld, a perfect playground for them to run around knocking over trash cans and punching the mascots. Videos and guidebooks abound for recommendations on how to have a "safe table space", with X cards and Session Zeros and the like, but little seems to be done to protect the purity of the game experience itself, instead rigging safety rails and bandaid packs in case any of the players get a booboo while doing sick kickflips off the king's castle. It's not a perfect system, but so long as it exists, players are free to ignore it, or implement it. I, personally, would be really interested in the challenge presented by a campaign that fundamentally shifts the beliefs of my character, in a way that I didn't expect, and while I know not everyone will be, they're free to ignore the mechanic.

I got a bit more jaded with this post, by the end. Ultimately, I'm never going to create a product that will appeal to everyone, or create a rule or mechanic that everyone will use. I began Road and Ruin for me, but part of my shifting perspectives on these things came from realizing the hesitation I was having in wanting to play my own, solo-possible game. I do have more fun playing with friends, even idiots, but it really struck me that I seemed to be unwilling to put the work in to play what I was attempting to make as my own ideal game. I get frustrated aiming to get feedback from players who are patently disinterested in any gameline that isn't kickflipping off the Disney castle using DND's d20, but I hesitate to surround myself with yes-men who tell me my ideas are good. If nothing else, these detractors can act as my rubber duck, for me to bounce ideas off of, and for me to find kernals of my own personal preferences amidst the broken back-and-forths.

Next time, I want to try to brainstorm some more social mechanics. Figure out where that shifting line in the sand is, how much consequence is too much, how is conviction rated, and the like.

[anonzentimes]

Okay, I saw the notes for the last reply to the ask. And I might have given the wrong idea about the crossover fic. Nagito in the Doma arc is actually quite like how hopefilledramblings described. He joins Dartz' organization (alongside Gundham, Hiyoko, and Natsumi) out of a desire to make his suffering mean something by going out creating a shining hope.

In the case of the fic, it's him playing the role of antagonist to try and push Chiaki (and later Hajime) to their limit. And make them one of the chosen duelists who gets bestowed with the arc's special dragon cards. Even if that means literally sacrificing his soul in the process, via the Seal of Orichalcos. He's content with that, as long as he gets to have had a part in creating a shining hope.

No, my issue with the fic isn't how it depicts Nagito desperately wanting his life to mean something, and participating in some dark shit to accomplish it. My main gripe is that it fails to deliver on the promise of showing him evolve beyond that.

He goes into the Battle City tournament with no belief that he has a chance of winning, or even a desire to. Merely hoping that he'll be a stepping stone to help strengthen a worthier duelist, preferably Yugi, Kaiba, or Chiaki. He joins Dartz' organization because he actually wants the heroes to triumph over Dartz, taking his motive from the previous arc to its logical extreme.

Then come the Grand Prix arc, and it seems like things are going to be different this time round. Nagito is competing this time round, not because he wants to become a part of someone else's dream. But because he's come to accept that he can dare to dream for himself. Which okay, great.

...And then it just doesn't really go anywhere with that. The story ironically takes the mindset Nagito has that it shows is unhealthy, and basically plays it dead straight. He does pretty much end up being Hajime's stepping stone to greatness in the Battle City and Doma arcs. And his role in the Grand Prix arc more or less amounts to being the same thing for Makoto.

Speaking of being Hajime's stepping stone, that's actually something else I've noticed is a pattern in a lot of Hinanami works (the fic being one of them). Nagito's antagonism of Hajime being a Reserve Cours student is played up in those fics, and they culminate with Nagito being proven wrong about Hajime specifically not being special. Which just like...completely misses the entire point of Hajime's arc in the original story.

It wasn't about him gaining self-confidence and proving that he is someone special. It was about him coming to terms with the fact that he's not special, and that's okay. Plus it just undermines the whole thing about the Reserve Course being thrown under the bus if Hajime is revealed to have always had the makings of an Ultimate.

bad... fanfic... cringes...

In all seriousness I still think I wouldn't ever that haha, he's a difficult guy to write so I can understand when stuff like that happens. Heck, even though I, I think, understand Nagito really well I struggle to actually write any fanfics. Although I don't know how one actively creates a more harmful arc for a character? Like how does one end up creating an arc that says the opposite of what he needs/undermines the existing story 😭😭😭