#iii. VISAGE \ muse name

[prophetum]

tag dump.

[dragonbanexxi]

The Dragon Queen

*Not Canon Compliant!!!*

Jaehaera Targaryen x Aegon III Targaryen

Chapter 4: Jaehaera

“You should rest your grace” the gruff voice of Ser Robert Oakheart interrupting her reading.

He was right of course, the hour of owl was upon them. Not that her body cared. The want of sleep had fleeted her body earlier in the night. So instead of laying down and staring at the canopy; the girl opted to read.

“I’m afraid sleep has evaded me once more Ser Robert. Besides this novel is to good to put down.”

The Knight smiled gently at her. Ser Robert looked very handsome when smiled. When he did, Jaehaera caught flashes of the man he was in his prime. No doubt this man had turned many noble ladies heads at court.

A lot of times the girl felt guilty of the life Ser Robert was now living. Before he whisked her away from Westeros, Ser Robert was a respected Kings Guard; serving with purpose. Now in Essos he was no one. Just a protector of a strange little girl who had no where to drop dead.

The Knight didn’t seem to notice Jaehaera’s internal conflict. Thank the Seven. A selfish part of her wanted the man to be by her side forever.

“What story enraptured you tonight your grace?”

The book she was reading was a collection of legends that were all basically the same story. The legend of Azor Ahai. In this instance she was reading the iteration of the Prince who was promised from YiTi.

“I’m reading the tale of an Amethyst Empress who was betrayed and slayed by her brother; for her crown.”

Funny while reading the story she never once thought about Rhaenyra and her father. Rhaenyra and the Amethyst Empress had something common she mused.

“He was later known as the Bloodstone Emperor. The Emperor married a Tiger-woman and did vile acts of worship for a black stone. His actions displeased his Gods so greatly that they created an army of mystical beings set on cleansing the realm.”

Her finger trailing the spine of the book.

“A warrior of the name Yin Tar ended the eternal darkness by sacrificing the greatest love he’d ever known.”

Ser Robert rubbed his chin in thought. “Sounds like the story of the Prince who was Promised to me.” Jaehaera nodded in agreement.

“This book is a collection of different versions of the Azor Ahai legend.” Setting the book aside, stretching her arms up in the air Jaehaera said “Stories parents tell their children to frighten them into obedience.”

The both laugh heartily. “Your grace.” The knight sounding serious asked “You can’t seriously believe these stories are just stories now?”

Jaehaera’s visage hid her emotions. Honestly since hatching her dragons the princess didn’t know what to think.

“Why do you ask Robert?” She leans back into her chair.

The man in front of her seeming to properly plan his words. “Your grace the story of the prince who was promised, the hero was reborn amidst salt and smoke.”

His eyes never leaving hers. “A great many saw you walk into the pyre to save your eggs and a great many witnessed you walk out the pyre with three baby dragons.”

And it was true. That night the Khal Amargo and his wife the Khaleesi Barha were planning on having a warlock sacrifice Jeena on the mother of mountains. Jeena being the daughter of the Khal’s sworn enemy. The warlock had promised that by sacrificing Jeena; Khal Amargo would be undefeated and known as the Stallion Who Mounts The World.

The Green Princess could not stand back and let her friend be murdered for nothing. Jaehaera acted quickly with the help of Ser Robert and she drugged the wines of the three perpetrators. Tying them to the posts of her tent. Jaehaera began the flames and stood next to Jeena. Her friend threw her tan arms around her saviors neck sobbing thank yous of relief. The leaders of the hoard and the skinny warlock’s screams will forever be ingrained in Jaehaera’s head. The feeling of regret however never weighed heavy in heart. How many more people would the Khal have sacrificed for his own glory?

Once the flames engulfed the entirety of her tent; it was then that Jaehaera remembered her dragon eggs.

“YOUR GRACE!!!! “ was all she heard as she rushed through the roaring auburn flames to retrieve her eggs. The flames licked her skin and to her surprise, it didn’t burn.

Her dragons came into the world screeching their tiny lungs out and quickly embracing their mother.

Jaehaera hadn’t meant to hatch her eggs, having been under the impression that they had calcified. Though looking back, it seems that the Green Princess had in fact made an accidental blood sacrifice to the Mother of Mountains.

“I’d be a liar if I said haven’t imagined myself being the one to bring the dawn.” She sighs raggedly “Yet I can’t help but think that bad things happen when we begin to believe we are part of something greater than ourselves.”

Ser Robert said nothing as he stood up to serve himself and Jaehaera a cup wine. It was from the Great Moraq, a soft white wine that Jaehaera grew to love. Though she knew the older man preferred red wine himself.

“I think that if the Seven blessed you with three dragons; your meant to go forth and do great deeds your grace.”

He handed her the cup of wine.

“Even if you don’t acknowledge it, the Dothraki who decided to stay have already begun to refer to you as Khaleesi.”

That made her belly flip. She wasn’t a Khaleesi. She was never married to Khal. She’s done nothing to deserve the title.

“If I’m a Khaleesi, I must have the smallest hoard in history.” She jokes trying to calm her nerves.

Only 100 people of the hoard stayed with her. Mostly being women and children. Only 23 Dothraki men stayed. Stating that her walking through the flaming pyre unburnt made her the Great Stallion.

“At the moment I don’t care for prophecy. If these people ever tire of me they are free to leave. Until then all I want is to find a secure place to call home.”

They sat there sipping their wine at a good pace.

“We need to go to Astapor to get supplies Khaleesi.” Jaehaera glaring at his smirk. Knowing he’d start calling her Khaleesi just to tease her.

“It’s the nearest city.”

“We don’t have money to buy anything.” She grumbled.

“I guess we must raid the Dothraki way no?” Ser Robert said.

Thinking it was joke Jaehaera laughed until she saw her companion’s straight face.

“You can’t be serious…”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I want to clear up that, yes Jaehaera’s time in Essos is LOOSELY based on Daenaerys. A lot will be similar but not the same. Jaehaera’s motive is to never return to Westeros while Dany’s was to take back the Seven Kingdoms. Though Jaehaera will have to return eventually. Hope that clears up something’s! ❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️

[snappedwands]

the   sun   crests   over   rolling   hills   and   begins   to   burn   off   the   fog   and   for   a   moment   you   see   yourself   in   the   sun,   ridding   the   wizarding   world   of   the   haze   that   is   muggle   influence.   the   sun   is   not   hateful   when   it   dismisses   the   fog,   it   is   simply   doing   what   is   natural   and   right.   these   are   the   simple   rules   of   the   universe   and   who   are   you,   bright   smile   of   a   boy   with   an   affinity   for   yellow   and   the   burning   intensity   that   the   meets   the   world   every   day   at   dawn,   to   change   the   nature   of   the   sun   ?   you   are   only   correcting   the   state   of   the   world.   do   it   marvelously,   as   the   sun   does   all   things.

         𝑰 .       they   say   there   are   seven   sins   and   seven   virtues   and   that   everyone   is   one   or   another   but   you   are   more   than   your   pride,   envy,   lust,   and   greed.   you   are   more   than   your   diligence   and   patience.   i’d   call   you   temperate   but   you   are   a   glutton   for   all   the   finest   things,   do   not   let   your   pride   take   all   the   credit.   you   are   more   than   these   things   and   still   you   reduce   yourself   to   three   simple   words:   better.   than.   tom.   prove   the   world   you’re   right   so   you’re   the   only   one   who   doesn’t   have   to   say   it.

about  ·  ivy is beautiful, yes, but invasive — it will choke the life out of anything，given the chance.

aesthetic  ·  adorned in shades of yellow，he looks like summer and tastes like winter.

muse  ·  he spends his days in the shop and nights planning the next revolution.

visage  ·  beautiful boy with a charming smile，he looks like the devil in his tailored suit.

         𝑰𝑰 .       sweet   words   fall   from   full   lips   and   he   is   too   good   at   what   he   does.   scottish   brogue   dipped   in   honey,   it’s   the   kind   of   warmth   you   add   to   your   tea   for   a   little   more   sweetness.   he   has   sugar   coated   words,   too,   that   he’ll   whisper   in   your   ear.   there’s   never   been   a   prettier   devil   than   the   one   with   pretty   words.

answered  ·  he has so many words at his disposal，he still chooses them carefully.

thread  ·  careful now, keep your wits about you — enemies and allies look strangely alike.

         𝑰𝑰𝑰 .       hitch   yourself   to   these   wagons,   form   your   own   kind   of   caravan.   enemy   beside   friend   beside   lover   beside   family   and   they   all   form   the   patchwork   of   your   own   life.   they   are   beautiful   additions   and   prevent   life   from   being   the   lonely   slough   it   could   be.

knights  of  walpurgis  ·  when you write the history books，do not forget the people who stood beside you.

father  ·  i hope i’ve done enough to make you proud，to seal our name in glory.

mother  ·  i have never been more proud than to be your son.

abraxas  ·  i am not bitter when i look at you, i have yet to lose and i will continue that streak.

arabella  ·  do not duck your head when you smile，it is too lovely to be hidden.

prosperina  ·  i will crown you the queen of a new dynasty if you would just take my hand.

wanted  ·  that which will destroy me are my most desperate desires.

         𝑰𝑽 .       write   your   history   books   for   yourself,   your   children.   if   you   die   the   hero   then   let   them   know   your   story   as   you   intended   and   if   you   die   the   villain   ?   well   no   one   ever   said   you   had   to   die.

prologue  ·  look at you with the light of summer on your face，before you knew the cost of being alive.

chapter  one  ·  the world is changing ; be the one to choose its future，lay the groundwork of your legacy.

[stvrlcts-blog1]

a very late tag dump !!

╰  i.   visage  

╰  ii.   interactions

╰  iii.   texts            

╰  iv.   musings

╰  v.   relationships ╰  name

╰  vi.   snapchat

╰  vii.   twitter

╰  viii.   instagram

╰  ix.   music

╰  x.   aesthetic

╰  xi.   edits

╰  xii.   ask memes

╰  xiii.   mentions

╰  ooc

[tartareus]

have a sneaky tag dump !

[birdswarble]

new muse tag drop !

[lamentsdeath]

the   sun   crests   over   rolling   hills   and   begins   to   burn   off   the   fog   and   for   a   moment   you   see   yourself   in   the   sun,   ridding   the   wizarding   world   of   the   haze   that   is   muggle   influence.   the   sun   is   not   hateful   when   it   dismisses   the   fog,   it   is   simply   doing   what   is   natural   and   right.   these   are   the   simple   rules   of   the   universe   and   who   are   you,   bright   smile   of   a   boy   with   an   affinity   for   yellow   and   the   burning   intensity   that   the   meets   the   world   every   day   at   dawn,   to   change   the   nature   of   the   sun   ?   you   are   only   correcting   the   state   of   the   world.   do   it   marvelously,   as   the   sun   does   all   things.

         𝑰 .       they   say   there   are   seven   sins   and   seven   virtues   and   that   everyone   is   one   or   another   but   you   are   more   than   your   pride,   envy,   lust,   and   greed.   you   are   more   than   your   diligence   and   patience.   i’d   call   you   temperate   but   you   are   a   glutton   for   all   the   finest   things,   do   not   let   your   pride   take   all   the   credit.   you   are   more   than   these   things   and   still   you   reduce   yourself   to   three   simple   words:   better.   than.   tom.   prove   the   world   you’re   right   so   you’re   the   only   one   who   doesn’t   have   to   say   it.

about  ·  ivy is beautiful, yes, but invasive — it will choke the life out of anything，given the chance.

aesthetic  ·  adorned in shades of yellow，he looks like summer and tastes like winter.

muse  ·  he spends his days in the shop and nights planning the next revolution.

visage  ·  beautiful boy with a charming smile，he looks like the devil in his tailored suit.

         𝑰𝑰 .       sweet   words   fall   from   full   lips   and   he   is   too   good   at   what   he   does.   scottish   brogue   dipped   in   honey,   it’s   the   kind   of   warmth   you   add   to   your   tea   for   a   little   more   sweetness.   he   has   sugar   coated   words,   too,   that   he’ll   whisper   in   your   ear.   there’s   never   been   a   prettier   devil   than   the   one   with   pretty   words.

answered  ·  he has so many words at his disposal，he still chooses them carefully.

thread  ·  careful now, keep your wits about you — enemies and allies look strangely alike.

         𝑰𝑰𝑰 .       hitch   yourself   to   these   wagons,   form   your   own   kind   of   caravan.   enemy   beside   friend   beside   lover   beside   family   and   they   all   form   the   patchwork   of   your   own   life.   they   are   beautiful   additions   and   prevent   life   from   being   the   lonely   slough   it   could   be.

knights  of  walpurgis  ·  when you write the history books，do not forget the people who stood beside you.

father  ·  i hope i’ve done enough to make you proud，to seal our name in glory.

mother  ·  i will make the world over in our family's image，i will make you proud.

abraxas  ·  i am not bitter when i look at you, i have yet to lose and i will continue that streak.

arabella  ·  do not duck your head when you smile，it is too lovely to be hidden.

prosperina  ·  i will crown you the queen of a new dynasty if you would just take my hand.

wanted  ·  that which will destroy me are my most desperate desires.

         𝑰𝑽 .       write   your   history   books   for   yourself,   your   children.   if   you   die   the   hero   then   let   them   know   your   story   as   you   intended   and   if   you   die   the   villain   ?   well   no   one   ever   said   you   had   to   die.

prologue  ·  look at you with the light of summer on your face，before you knew the cost of being alive.

chapter  one  ·  the world is changing，either pick up and move on or get lost in the crowd.

[hansonkim]

𝐖𝐄𝐋𝐂𝐎𝐌𝐄 𝐓𝐎 𝐀𝐏𝐓 #𝟏𝟏𝟎𝟓  .  .  .  𝐇𝐀𝐍𝐒𝐎𝐍 𝐊𝐈𝐌  🔑 📂

.  .  .  shot straight off the edge / guess the world’s flat after all

STATS  .  .  .  MUSINGS  .  .  .  VISAGE  .  .  .  HEADCANONS  .  .  .  SELF-PARAS  .  .  .  extended map.

🌦  «  teo yoo.  cis man.  he/him.  forty-two.  »  was  that  HANSON KIM  walking  through  the  doors  of  amorelux  ?  i  heard  they  just  moved  in  to  apartment  1105  from  COPENHAGEN  and  work  as  a/an  freelance cfo.  they  seem  meticulous  &  dutiful  but  don’t  get  on  their  bad  side  !  they  can  be  unmoving  &  critical  which  makes  sense  since  they’re  a  VIRGO.  you  know  they’re  home  when  you  see  a  flash  of  a fake birth certificate, a shelf dedicated to his pta awards, & a biometrically locked gun safe. — @amoreluxintro

+ meticulous, dutiful, persevering, hardworking, practical. - unmoving, critical, relentless, obstinate, bookbound.

— ↷  morgan.  23.  pst.  she/her .  .  .  cis bi korean woman.

trigger warnings: bullying, child abuse & neglect (implied), death, forced cultural assimilation, murder, pregnancy, violence, weapons (guns), xenophobia & racism (implied)

TLDR; hanson never knew his birth parents. instead, he grew up to be groomed as a killer. now, he’s a sleeper agent co-parenting with another agent he’s sharing a marriage certificate with, presenting a picture-perfect life without making current use of his espionage skillset.

CHAPTER I  .  .  .

as an infant, kim il-cheong was left on a doorstep underneath the metal awning looming over the entrance of a catholic orphanage in copenhagen, denmark. all that was left with him was a small, plush elephant and a piece of paper with his name written on it.

il-cheong was defined as an isolato early on, not finding much amusement in the other children’s cruel version of play. especially since he was an easy, foreign target. instead, he worked hard at his lessons, keeping his mind and hands busy with his lessons and frequent tree-climbing.

CHAPTER II  .  .  .

at seven years old, he was plucked out of the establishment by a rough, ragtag militia entity who wanted a malleable foot soldier.

after doing so, they imposed a new name on him — hanson gundersen. he never forgot his korean name. but he never said it again either, especially since his caregivers forbade it, wanting him to culturally assimilate as much as possible.

to further insulate his understanding of the world, they also lived on the mountainside and didn’t allow him to venture into the more urbanized parts of town.

under their tutelage, he was never instructed to kill. but he learned to dissemble and assemble weaponry, learned their parts and functions, and naturally absorbed the tricks of their trade through the books on their shelves and the power of his own observation.

he also often sat in vehicles as they performed night hits and raids when someone couldn’t be home to watch him. sometimes, he would be instructed to help clean up.

CHAPTER III  .  .  .

a german mercenary network was paid to retaliate for one of the militia’s attacks, leading to hanson’s third home in shambles and his first and final usage of the abode’s designated panic room. he also killed in self-defense, somehow shooting an intruder straight in the chin despite his shaky hands.

the assailants considered eliminating him, but his aim was clearly intentional, he was obviously malnourished, and he didn’t seem straightforwardly aggrieved.

they decided training him was a smarter alternative. after all, he clearly grew up only knowing duty — might as well channel that tendency while making him feel lucky to get three full-sized meals a day.

he was home-schooled at the director’s home, continuing his longstanding pattern of asociality. but at least he had a formal education. occasionally, they’d also instruct him to wander into town on his own. sometimes to perform errands, but mostly to learn how to perform a social persona. though he did have some friendly acquaintances and even friends within the network, his interactions with the outside world nearly always had utilitarian pretext.

CHAPTER IV  .  .  .

he was put out into the field as early as age 15, when he’d often be sent on overseas missions mostly set in the states. as a talented kid, hanson was inconspicuous but deadly, papers forged to put him in close proximity to high-ranking targets.

the most non-network based stability he obtained was his attendance at uc berkeley for another one of his long missions. there, he officially received a degree in accounting and statistics.

his dedication was instrumental to the growth of the network, especially since it was still quite small when he was first recruited.

CHAPTER V  .  .  .

after graduation, he was told to utilize and continue his trajectory as hanson kim.

specifically, he would have to embark on his most dedicated mission ever — marriage. with this endeavor, he’d be a sleeper agent donning on an impeccable white picket persona, hiding in plain sight until activated as an agent.

the network tasked him with finding someone to faux-date and eventually marry, handing him hundreds of files of women that other mercenary networks, including governmental organizations such as the cia, have been monitoring for recruitment.

decisive as ever, he definitively chose lyra lau, a first-year law student with high test scores, incredible aptitude, and a penchant for relentlessness. after befriending one of her friends and worming his way into a blind date, he offers her a job at dinner.

CHAPTER VI  .  .  .

surprisingly, it doesn’t take long for her to warm up to the prospect of marriage. perhaps it’s due to her intensely ambitious nature or a previous string of bad partners. or both.

he doesn’t question it. instead, they play their parts, performing their honeymoon phase as two lovebirds and even staging a big relationship crucible involving their concurrent post-grad educational tracks — her with law school, him with his accounting master’s program. they meet each other’s in-laws (phony ones, in his case) and eventually host a gorgeous yet intimate wedding ceremony.

soon after, lyra was offered a lucrative job in a manhattan-based firm, which functioned as a perfect excuse for a relatively fresh start in a new city.

upon their entrance into the big apple, they were activated for their first mission (at least as a married couple).

CHAPTER VII  .  .  .

a white picket family’s also usually incomplete without a tyke in tow. so after a few years of marriage, hanson and lyra used in vitro fertilization (ivf) to conceive a child. 

their mission was going smoothly for years, with their kid ingrid demonstrating inheritance of her parents’ intellectual prowess and lyra getting close to a senior partner position.

however, due to uncharacteristically bad intel, they were nearly compromised. before the absolute worst could happen, they were extracted from the mission in question. luckily, lyra was poached by a former colleague, who wanted to transfer her talents to a seattle-based firm within this time frame — and with the promise of senior partner.

so, their espionage higher-ups approved their move. mostly for the purpose of hiding, but also to keep an eye on the daughter of a high-ranking out-of-state official.

[sparrowsfall]

FIVE THINGS. fill in the categories with 5 things that your muse can be identified by.    repost, do not reblog.

i. emotions / feelings.

01. all-consuming hunger, so painful and powerful it feels like the stomach is being split, widening into a chasm. 02. missing someone, even though they’re sitting right next to you. 03. “ what if? ” 04. icarus syndrome. 05. unshakeable, unwavering faith - religious or otherwise.

ii. greetings.

01. a wave and a friendly call of your name,  joy in his voice just from seeing you ( TRULY seeing you ) once again. 02. a handshake that communicates familiarity, good will, both warm hands firmly clasped around the one of his company, an offering of kinship from one Child of God to another.  03. breaking the ice with a harmless joke, still so terrible you can’t help but roll your eyes. 04. well-practiced explanations for his presence, a lie he almost believes himself. 05. eyes wide and worrying and WILD, visible in the shadows, reflecting the glow of your flashlight - he wasn’t expecting you.

iii. colors.

01. the GOLD of the sun’s dawn, of celebration, of one’s rejoice for the gift of another day. 02. the WHITE of purity of soul, stained and made off-color from time and truly living alike. 03. the GREEN of resolute hope, of faith, of the renewal and resurrection of the Earth that comes with spring, of the promise of life now and ever-lasting. 04. the VIOLET of sacrifice and penance, the color that blurs the mind when mourning a life lost and a life that could have been. 05. the dark CRIMSON RED of venous blood, of its shedding, of love and life bleeding from the mortal skin.

iv. scents.

01. smoky remnants of incense clinging to fabric. 02. the metallic aroma of blood, and the way it settles like copper on the tongue. 03. faint whiffs of an earthy musk cologne. 04. the vanilla-like scent of lignin breaking down between the pages of an old, dusty book. 05. full-bodied red wine. 

v. clothing.

01. holy vestments more embellishing than most jewelry. 02. black leather boots, dusted by the gravel of unpaved small-town streets. 03. a pearl-and-gold neck chain that bears a copper pendant, engraved with the visage of The Madonna Mary - a family heirloom. 04. a long trench coat draped over a man so tall that the hem barely reaches his ankles. 05. a white roman collar that chokes the bounce of the adam’s apple.

vi. objects.

01. ornate antique cruets and gold-encrusted chalices. 02. statuettes of saints proudly perched in the cupboards and bookcases and corners of one’s home. 03. a rosary with black pearls and a bloodstained silver crucifix. 04. a leather-bound bible as well-loved as any novel, cover faded by time, pages annotated and dog-eared.  05. a quilt made by someone he loves, someone he cannot have - a gift that makes for warm company on the long and lonely nights.

vii. vices / bad habits.

01. cigarette breaks to calm the nerves. 02. sneaking sacramental wine into a pocket flask. 03. lying, making excuses for the inexcusable. 04. grazing on ingredients while cooking, until there’s hardly enough left to make dinner. 05. not necessarily a lack of self control, but a disregard for it when one finds it suitable.

viii. body language.

01. inability to sit up straight - always leaning back or slouching forward. 02. hands so tenderly slipped over the knuckles of another’s, traveling down until the fingers lace together. 03. biting the bottom lip in frustration. 04. talking with one’s hands. 05. kneeling in submission to suffering that is mistaken for serenity, with hands folded and head bowed.

ix. aesthetics.

01. moonlight through a stained glass window. 02. a lonely old church lit only by altar candles, haunted by the creaking floorboards and the countless prayers it could never answer. 03. a frightened black dog, all snapping maw and bared teeth. 04. the way blood looks black as ink in the shadows. 05. the wolf in sheep’s clothing.

x. songs.

01. MURKY - saint mesa  02. LIAR - the arcadian wild 03. LOST RIVER - murder by death 04. OLD TIME RELIGION - parker millsap 05. IT WILL COME BACK - hozier

[oftelltalehearts]

[ colin ford, cismale, he/him ] whatever you think you know about OLIVER WILSON, the 25/190 year old, DEMISEXUAL, LOCAL, it is likely time for you to start reconsidering. the rumored LIGHT FAYE is often described as DUTIFUL + KNOWLEDGEABLE, but don’t let them fool you; they can also be STUBBORN + ABRASIVE, which often has them regarded as THE HISTORIAN. they are a CASHIER at GEEKS&FREAKS, but it’s also said they are a NOBLE within the LIGHT FAYE COURT. whatever you hear, you can’t deny there’s more to them that meets the eye, and it’s time we start uncovering the truth. 

» 𝖙𝖍𝖗𝖊𝖆𝖉 𝖙𝖗𝖆𝖈𝖐𝖊𝖗 . ( updated 10/21 ) starters owed ; 00 . threads owed ; 00

» 𝖖𝖚𝖎𝖈𝖐 𝖑𝖎𝖓𝖐𝖘 . visage . musings . soundtrack . answered . memes . tasks . all threads . events ( 1 , ) . headcanons . all things oliver .

» 𝖘𝖙𝖔𝖗𝖞 𝖘𝖔 𝖋𝖆𝖗 .

second born and to a higher than average noble family that had ties to the queen , isn't necessarily something to sneeze at . even from a young age oliver understood what was expected of him and what his role was meant to be in life . he was meant to be the day to his older brother's night .

oliver was all too eager to play a part that had been written for him before birth just to avoid being disregarded or tossed to the side . he threw himself head first into studying everything he could and proving his worth to both his parents and the court . proving he wasn't going to be like his brother but his own person , he held his breath at the idea of possibly having an arranged marriage like marshall but his fears have almost been put to bed for that idea .

while marshall is marshall and oliver is oliver , he adores his brother (he's his brother after all!) though he'd never outwardly show or say it . he belives his brother is so much more than what the rest of the court writes him off to be and when brought up in conversation he refuses to speak down on him .

while his parents were relieved when marshall had given up his rights to being the heir oliver didn't feel the same sentiment . he was holding out that his brother would be whacked by some cosmic force to take up the mantle so he was less than thrilled to be named heir after his father .

following the same footsteps as the rest of his family in claiming to be his own descendant , finding relief in the ability to use his own name again . oliver is known to be a job collector and he figured he'd try yet another new task and see where it grows to .

» 𝖖𝖚𝖎𝖈𝖐 𝖋𝖆𝖈𝖙𝖘 .

i . knows an unhealthy amount about human history (having lived through short part of it) and faye history alike and is like a walking history textbook . his last time around he was in school to be a teacher but - for once - gave up on it because of claims the teachers were incompetent and getting things wrong .

ii . vegetarian , he once made himself sick on strawberries and cheese . he can easily be won over with dark chocolate and maybe a stroke to his ego .

iii . oliver seems to be something strictly for his parents to say , he prefers to be called oli .

iv . either acts like an old man or a bratty teenager . he let's his pride get in the way and sometimes finds it difficult to ask for help .

v . he's growing to slowly resent his parents for shaping how he is , he feels like he doesn't have a voice of his own just a perfectly response formed by them and their set of ideologies . is also slightly envious of his own brother because of how he just enjoys life .

vi . doesn't believe in marrying for power , and hasn't been in any stage of courtship for a hundred years .

[ofprevioustimes]

Henriette D'Angleterre, the shining star of Versailles.

From Canal+ Versailles/Alexandre Dumas

I. BASIC STATS

i. OTHER NAMES: Minette (nickname); Henrietta of England (English name) ii. MAIN PERIOD: 17th Century iii. PLACE OF BIRTH: Exeter, England. iv. OCCUPATION(s): Princess, duchess v. RELIGION: Born protestant, converted into catholicism vi. TERMS OF ADDRESS: “Your Royal Highness”, “Madame” vii. MUSE LEVEL: Very high.

II. PERSONALITY

Social, artistically engaged, girlish and whimsical, Henriette of England contradicts her very name, being a Frenchwoman to her core. Cultured and graceful, her charming manners and her easy smile allowed her to stand out in the court of King Louis XIV, breaking many hearts along the way with her flirtatious nature and eyes that are ever so languishing and gentle. On the other hand, she is also haughty and arrogant, as much as the next aristocrat. She can also be childish, especially if her wishes are contradicted, with a heart that is able to hold a grudge for as long as she lives.

Henriette values beauty, joyfulness, social status and reputation.

III. MUSE-SPECIFIC POTENTIAL TRIGGERS

Stillbirth and child death. Pregnancy related themes. Eating disorders. Compulsory maternity.

IV. SKILLS & ABILITIES

Social intelligence. Drawing. Music. Dancing. Horse riding. Negotiation.

V. INTERPRETATIONS OR CANON DIVERGENT POINTS

ONE. I don’t acknowledge the rape scene between Philippe and Henriette in the first episode. As much fighting and animosity as there was between the two, I’d rather keep it in the realm of words instead of driving it into physical violence. It doesn’t make sense to me that, only a few episodes after the rape scene, Henriette is tenderly telling Philippe that she hopes he’ll come back for war. To me it’s either one thing or the other and since I could either erase the rape or the tenderness, the choice was clear. TWO. Unlike the show, I interpret that the affair between Henriette and Louis was far more secretive, not nearly as ‘out in the open’ as the screenwriters did. She will not admit that she has an affair with Louis to anyone, even Philippe.

VI. MUSE-SPECIFIC GUIDELINES

TBD.

VII. INTERACTIONS & BUILDING RELATIONSHIPS

Henriette is very social. She loves parties, music, the theater, the circus and arts in general. You will easily catch her interest if you have some sort of court gossip. She likes people who can make her laugh. Her mood is fickle, though, so it’s just as easy to get antipathy from her as well, depending on several varieties.

Possible dynamics include, but are not limited to: allies, muses planning something together, court rivalry, vengeance, etc.

VIII. SHIPPING

Henriette is naturally flirtatious, which sort of facilitates shipping. She likes romance, but in a somewhat adventurous way, because she will shamelessly flirt with several people at the same time, in the same place, fall in love with them all and still get jealous if their attention strays from her. Her approach to love is not serious, committed or heavy. It’s all rather light-hearted and fun-loving, living in the moment and not thinking about tomorrow kind of thing.

Possible dynamics include but are not limited to: arranged marriages, extramarital affair, friends to lovers, enemies to lovers, rivalry turning romantic, puppy love, etc.

IX. TAGS

General tag. Answered asks. Threads. Visage. Musings. Tunes.

[cruelzy]

I’m actually nervous about sending in a request cause I love your writing so much and honestly don’t feel worthy to make a request of you. However, I would like to request a Legolas Drabble/fic/whatever you call it based on the prompt that’s like “five times he almost kissed her and the one time he did” I really love your writing and I wasn’t aware requests were open until just now.

notes: i did three and one love cuz ain’t no one got time for that

i. 

Legolas hesitantly concludes that his best decisions are made without much thought.

Not to say he is rash. On the contrary—though his every inhale could do with less contemplation beforehand—he considers himself rather circumspect. (As modestly as one could ever self evaluate anyway.) 

There tends to, nevertheless, be a lack of time to muse in the thick of battle. He can count on one hand any gargantuan choices he’d had to make outside of a particularly tense situation. 

Point: world changing verdicts were normally decided on direct instinct, rather than any gradual, logical philosophy. 

Reality: he has had all the time in Middle Earth and more to think about why he should not be with you.

Cannot, he corrects himself. Nay should not. Cannot. 

Greed. Coil. Collapse.

Will not.

Your own indecision is louder in the silence. 

It’s never truly silent for him, not really, but onset of moonless night has coaxed the land into a reluctant still. His awareness fractures, branches out among the slow shifting plains beneath his feet to the anxious fidget of your dry fingers, the deep seated craving of the forest, the heat of the sleeping company bolstering against his back, bare and familiar and grounding. He keeps watch, the storm in his ears approaching steadfast in the east—torrents to be upon them by noon the latest of morrow, so he plans; he listens to the far flung sea, ever present in her rhythmic whispers, he tracks the mechanical open shut of your mouth in hushed breath as you slowly but surely build your confidence—"Legolas?“

Thunder unfolds itself from the sky. 

Your head snaps to the heavens. Blinking against the night, clumsy in that distinct way of man in dark, “you had something you wished to tell me?”

“No.” Legolas says. “Nothing.”

ii. 

Time marches on.

They rise. They move. They fight. They sleep. They rise. 

The good and the bad scatters into the wind, lingers in their eyes and their jokes and their bones at the fire. They keep moving. Solidarity is a drive half-cool, offering much needed relief against the merciless sun every moment between. 

“Say, do your hands serve the same purpose as your feet?” A voice rises into morning dew. “If you drop on all fours, you may be able to advance faster than that!“ 

“Ha!” You scowl in response, posturing an air of exaggerated disdain and failing terribly. Your lips quiver up at the corners. “I could run to the sun and back and you would still be doing up your boots!“ 

The brown eyed dwarf you speak to turns swiftly on his heels, holding Legolas in his sights. He grins wide, the physical embodiment of mischief. "What say you, elf? Who is swifter?”

“Foul play! I have seen the food you offer him after hunt!”

“Give the truth as you see fit, great war-bow warrior, keen-eye of Mirkwood—”

“Bribery!”

The rest of the circle keeps quiet in amused exasperation, wholly familiar with  your antics. 

“Perchance he should race with us to properly judge. If he loses, the punishment shall be a pleasure of mine to ruffle at least two, no, three hairs loose from his perfect mane!” There’s a teasing incredulity in his purr. “Unimaginable!" 

Legolas smiles. "I do not think you could reach.”

You throw your head back and laugh heartily as the BlackLock squawks in outrage. Legolas watches your face glow. The joyful sound unfurls him from the inside out like wood flowers in springtime. 

Longing surges fast. Sudden.

It would be so easy. 

The thought loiters for only a second, but it is a second far too many. His reaction is all but physical: restraint forcefully barreling into him like a tidal wave. Ire immediately follows. Always, always this with you. Eats him alive. Haunts. Marvel at the vast expanse of his own incompetence, tossed about like a raft in the surf, lost to emotion’s every beck and call as though he were a boy. And if there is anything Legolas is not, it is a boy. 

Outwardly, his ears twitch once. 

The sea laughs and laughs.

iii.

(SII’ !)

Peace shattered by a cacophony of yells. 

He should have known—the forest had been teething in unrest all morning, but he was, of course, unusually distracted. 

And where there is one warg, there are bound to be more. Packs never stray far. Honestly, he would have been more concerned if there was a solo beast; lone, exiled wolves always tend to be more unpredictable, and consequently more dangerous. 

His own pack has tightened, too well polished to break formation. Legolas assesses the situation in a brisk glance before raising a fist level to his sternum, parallel to the ground. The company obediently scatters. Divide. Lure. Incapacitate. 

Earlier hypothesis confirmed, he thinks, absentminded. He did not hesitate for that course of action, now did he?

Legolas frowns. A harrowing blur of teeth and claws draws him back to reality, three answering growls sounding from behind. He presses his lips together. He is in no mood for this. 

In the end it is less a skirmish and more an execution. 

Today, the concept of mercy may as well be as far from him as the Halls of Mandos. He yanks his arrows back from the bodies, apathetically maneuvering around the excessive bloodshed. None of his companions have disappeared from the corners of his visión; in fact, most are beginning to take rest as the struggle winds down. Hard resistance to his movements makes him pause.

The last shaft is unrecognizable amongst the shredded cartilage and sinew. 

Legolas blinks owlishly. 

“Report." 

"All accounted for,” there’s your voice, effortlessly branded to his skull, “don’t worry about the blood.”

He tips his head. Legolas has both been around long enough, and been around you long enough, to recognize nuance when he hears it. The timbre of your tone is too innocent. “Is that s–”

You enter line of visión, and whatever amusement there was fizzles entirely out of existence. 

You’re a bath of carnage from head to toe.

He straightens, bewildered. 

“Don’t worry about the blood,” you repeat. Upon your smile is victory, but he can hardly register such a thing, already crossing the distance in three long strides.

Sturdy. Sturdy in front him. Strong as a bough; chest high, shoulders back, hands slick with sweat and grime. Still vulnerable. The stench of moldy earth fills his nose. “Report." 

You wipe your blade on the grass, eyeing the hand on your arm strangely. Quiet, then whoosh, air punching through your nose in an obvious joking redirection—"Puppy just got too close for comfort. I live.”

Once he has visibly confirmed what you say to be true, the relief is dizzyingly tangible. It feels as though his mind is shooting out sparks. 

Will not. 

Desire alone he could handle, but this is something else, something more tender. And what of it? A living disease.

“Plague,” he hisses.

Now that the threat of your demise has cut short, he cannot ignore the heightened adrenaline running rampant in his veins, yet to temper from the sudden battle. 

Fingers clamp tighter into flesh, as though you would vanish into thin air the moment he took hands off you.

For all your confidence, your palms are shaking. This, however, does nothing to the vicious triumph etched into your visage. 

Something slowly jostles awake within him. 

There’s a sense of pride, yes, but what raises heavy head under his bones is far more ancient, more volatile. He touches your cheek, watches the up down heave of your chest quicken. Liquid crimson marks exposed skin, slides wet between his knuckles. Your brow is slick with sweat. The trees grow louder and louder in their whispering, crisp leaves crunching underfoot where he inches closer. Every detail on your face has sharpened to a point, and Legolas knows his eyes have blown wide and luminescent.

When he says your name, he can barely recognize his own voice. 

“There is a stream up ahead!”

Reminder of an audience makes him all but growl. The fingers on your cheek drop, lightly brushing up and under the curve of your jaw on their way out. He does not imagine the violent shudder that runs through you.

Legolas endures. 

“Alive, indeed,” he quips, gaze smoldering. “Be more careful.”

———

You are going to murder an elf.

You’re going to rip out his entrails and wear them as a badge of honour. You’re going to wrap up the remains and send them to Thranduil himself. You’re going to tug him down to your level and you’re going to, you’re going to kiss the ever living daylights out of hi—

No!

You grind your teeth together, stalking down the hallway threateningly. Passersby steer nervously out of your way. 

When you finally find him, he is alone in the kitchens. “Ah!” Your exclamation is purposefully loud, as you vehemently wish he would jump and smash his perfect head into the pans from surprise. Of course, no such thing happens. He probably heard you coming. This only incenses you further. “There you are you intrepid, lousy, good for nothing—”

“I did not know,” Legolas drawls, “that it was a crime to prepare oneself a drink.”

“Hilarious. You’re hilarious. No really, if you ever tire of being a prince, a jester is right next in line.”

Hot and cold and hot and cold for months on end with the pointy-eared bastard. He’s put the icing on top by avoiding you, when he well knows that with the journey commenced, you are leaving Mirkwood soon.

“There are rumors you have been searching for someone. Were you successful?”

There have been absolutely no such thing—

“Oh? I haven’t heard.” The last dregs of patience spill out of you like a runny egg. “Whose mouths spout such gossip? Ghosts? Are there spirits in these halls?" 

"Perhaps.”

“Alright.” You are very very done with this conversation. “Here it is. I am going to talk, and you are going to listen.”

His eyebrows raise, bemused. Legolas spreads his upturned palms placidly as if to say go ahead, then turns back around, the frame of his body blocking whatever his hands are occupied with from eyesight.

You squint.

“What are you doing?”

“Making tea,” he says. He catches your gaze, and without any semblance of warning, you are struck, once again, by his beauty. 

You swallow. 

One would think the novelty would eventually fade and disappear, but not so. It is a fact of his existence: just as the colour of his hair, or the sound of his voice. Noticing is simply seeing. Unavoidable. Legolas is impossibly beautiful, and you are trapped reliving it again and again. 

He calmly slips a spoon into his mouth.

“Care to taste?”

Before your own cowardice can psyche you out of it, you dart forward, tugging the utensil from his lips to thoughtfully place between yours.

A beat.

Legolas tilts his head like some lazy jungle cat, eyes impassive. 

As if on cue, explosions of colour practically bang behind your teeth: pungent woodsmoke and spice and evergreen, acrid, fine sugared juniper flooding thick down your throat. If the very heart of the earth had a taste, it was this.

You choke.

“That,” says Legolas, “was alcohol.”

“Pardon?" 

You gag around the weapon in your mouth, pulling it out faster than the speed of light in genuine panic. If Legolas was capable of downing an entire bar of alcohol without feeling a thing, what would one drop of elvhen alcohol do to you?!

The face you were making must have been hysterical, because Legolas laughs breezily, sweeping up the mug in one smooth motion and taking a long, deliberate sip. 

"I was joking,” he finally says. “It is tea." 

"Truly?” You clarify. “No repercussion?”

“Well, you may feel unnaturally clear-headed.”

Forget sending remains to Thranduil. You are going to hang them above your front door. 

A sarcastic response nearly flies off of your tongue but dies of clipped wings half way out. You frown. With a start, you realize he’s steered you away from your original topic with frighteningly choreographed ease. 

Unease makes you fall quiet, apprehensive.

“You’re dangerous,” you say. 

“Yes.” He smiles, deliciously slow. “Does that scare you?”

You think even a whisper would drain whatever breath you have left, so you don’t answer. All the air has fled your lungs.

“A score and two moons ago,” Legolas continues evenly, as if you had not become a living statue, “you and I stood outside my father’s throne room. Do you remember? You peered out at the turning of the leaves, those great trunks in their shadow, and wondered how glad I was at heart. You said you would be old and grey by the time my father decided we were worth his presence.” His eyes crinkle at the corners again, sadly. “I know why you are here, valarhîw. It cannot happen." 

You imagine how you must appear to him. The march of time on your features, mortality burning out quick and bright in every tuck and crease of skin, leaking out of each pore, impermeable in your predestined fate. Brevity of such a high-tensioned existence: chase of second to second, the constant companion that is anticipation, desperation, anticipation, you imagine, is inconceivable to a being thousands of years old. Your entire life is simply one of his weeks. 

And yet, something traitorous whispers in your ear. He is still here. 

"You know what I think?” You croak.

Legolas does not respond.

“I think you are trying to scare me off. I think you are more terrified of the alternative.”

“Trust me, child,” he sounds seemingly the same, but his gaze is molten. “Heartbreak is no simple matter.”

The inevitable tragedy of your story. You logically hear what he is saying, but your heart has stopped listening ages ago. The concealed pain on his face squeezes a hand round your ribs and pulls. 

Desire alone you could handle, but this is something else. Something more tender. 

And what of it?

“We will cross that bridge when we get there.”

“Please,” he breathes, struggling against the typhoon that is your humanity, the whirlwind of here and now buried in your species’ gravity, your rage against the dying of the light—tiny little blips in a grand world ruthlessly determined on stamping their footprint on eternity. It completely contrasts his very identity. His mask cracks, soft and unguarded. “You do not know what you ask for. Please." 

"Or maybe,” you sneer. “You are not able to give.”

The words hang in the air. Staggering.

Legolas slams you into the counter. You see a flash of teeth, quick as lightning, before his mouth is on yours. 

The first thing you think is that you were way in over your head. 

Then you’re not thinking anything really because all else instantly ceases to matter.

His kiss is white-hot and overwhelming, drawing a hopeless whimper up your throat like water from a well. You throw your arms up and around his neck until utterly no space exists between your bodies. Or, trying, failing, hands dropping to frantically press and wander about his chest because why is he so tall, your mind going void again as he crowds closer, thighs pressing to thighs and large hands searing above your waist, behind your head. The mug shatters at your feet. Punishing bites are soothed by slow, firm strokes of his tongue, leaving you to gasp and shake against the hard planes of him. He is relentless, steady and insistent against your urgent quickness. Legolas kisses you and kisses you until you think that maybe that talk of mortality was for nothing, no, you are going to die of pleasure right here and right now, at the mercy of your tormentor.

“If—” you tear away just enough to cup his face in your sweaty palms, fighting for air, “if we do this, it is all the way. You do not, you do not take the parts of me you want, you—wait—you accept all of me—”

“Ed’ i’ ear ar’ elenea, Melamin!” He laughs, clear and bright. “For once, shh!”

Your reply is lost to the wind. 

Or his mouth.

(It was definitely his mouth.)

[covents]

TAG  DROP  007 .   —   r . m  renfield  !

῾◞      ‹    i.    ›     r . m  renfield .    the  fly  patient    —   visage  . ῾◞      ‹    ii.    ›     r . m  renfield .    the  fly  patient    —   musings  . ῾◞      ‹    ii.    ›     r . m  renfield .    the  fly  patient    —   ch .  study  . ῾◞      ‹    ii.    ›     r . m  renfield .    the  fly  patient    —   aesthetic  . ῾◞      ‹    iii.    ›     r . m  renfield .    the  fly  patient    —   starter  . ῾◞      ‹    iii.    ›     r . m  renfield .    the  fly  patient    —   thread  . ῾◞      ‹    iii.    ›     r . m  renfield .    ft .  character  name   —   interaction  . ῾◞      ‹    iii.    ›     r . m  renfield .    the  fly  patient    —   answered  . ῾◞      ‹    iv.    ›     r . m  renfield .    the  fly  patient    —   task  . ῾◞      ‹    iv.    ›     r . m  renfield .    the  fly  patient    —   development  .

[flawedxcode]

Lady Dragon’s tags !

｡･ﾟﾟ◝◞  i. MORRIGAN / PRIMARY DRAGON ― THREAD.

｡･ﾟﾟ◝◞  ii. MORRIGAN / PRIMARY DRAGON ―  STARTER.

｡･ﾟﾟ◝◞  iii. MORRIGAN / PRIMARY DRAGON ―  TASK.

｡･ﾟﾟ◝◞  iv. MORRIGAN / PRIMARY DRAGON ―  ANSWERED.

｡･ﾟﾟ◝◞  v. MORRIGAN / PRIMARY DRAGON ―  HEADCANONS.

｡･ﾟﾟ◝◞  vi. MORRIGAN / PRIMARY DRAGON ―  INTRO.

｡･ﾟﾟ◝◞  vii. MORRIGAN / PRIMARY DRAGON ―  VISAGE.

｡･ﾟﾟ◝◞  viii. MORRIGAN / PRIMARY DRAGON ―  MUSING.

｡･ﾟﾟ◝◞  ix. MORRIGAN / PRIMARY DRAGON ―  SONGS.

｡･ﾟﾟ◝◞  ft. TITLE ― NAME x NAME.

[itbeajen]

Muse | Iwaizumi Hajime

i. repeat The first time he noticed you was the way you had entered the cafe every day around noon. You never once ordered a drink, but your friend that accompanied you certainly did. Instead, you would politely ask to use the piano in the corner of the quiet cafe, and with each agreement came a bright smile on your face. He had expected you to be like every other customer who had asked to play the piano. Either horrible and just clueless about what they were doing, or to be goofing around and treating it as a synthesizer. But when your hands flew over the monochromatic keys as though they were dancing to a tune that only you knew of, he was captivated and starstruck. You had put that song on repeat in his head.

ii. talents [L/N] [F/N]. That was your name. When you had finally introduced it to his loud co-worker, he hadn't expected to remember it so easily. But the way your name so fluidly rolled off his tongue was just like your music. Both of them had somehow gotten stuck in his head and he sighed as he tried to get rid of it. But he couldn't. Just like how he couldn't get over the sight of you strumming a guitar and singing along a soft tune. Ever now and then stopping to scribble something onto the notebook that sat, opened and pages spread across the bar top you were leaning precariously against. The high wooden chair supported most of your weight, but with the way you sat in order to sit the guitar comfortably in your lap makes him wonder if you could potentially fall off or if your back hurt from leaning against the wood. But he can't help but hum along to the unnamed song that you spun out of the air. There was something about it that made him feel oddly at home each time he heard it. iii. peace He didn't realize how much he loved your music until he was trying to study. Nothing was working for him. The silence was too quiet, and the background noise from the clacking of keyboard tiles against keyboard tiles was grating. It wasn't until he found your music profile online that he finally found himself at peace for those two weeks of absence without your music. But when he had gone away on leave for a week, he wasn't expecting to come back to his job with you looking so surprised at his return. He barely clocked in, and was in the process of neatly tying the uniform's apron around his waist when he hears you call his name. Surprise and wonder laced the tone of your voice, and when his chocolate orbs met your bright gaze, a smile blossoms on your face, and you greeted, "Welcome back, Hajime-kun." His lips form a small 'o' as he glances at you, and then a small smile graces his visage and he responded, "Yeah, I'm back." It was a short interaction, shorter than the usual small talk he had with you in between the quiet hours of working at his part time job at the cafe. But for whatever reason, it felt much more intimate than any other time. iv. yearning A month. You were gone for a month. He didn't realize he would miss the random tunes from your piano, or the consistent strumming and lull of your guitar. But he should have expected it. He sighs in realization that he's become attached to you, but in what way, he's not too sure. Your music soothed his soul and warmed his heart. It brought him a peace of mind that he never knew he could reach before he heard them. But his best friend, and childhood friend, insists that it's not just the music that Iwaizumi misses. But he's not too sure if he wants to enter that realm of thoughts. After all, if he misunderstands any of it, he could potentially ruin a friendship that took him many many years to cultivate. A sigh escapes his lips as he finishes making a cup of latte for himself. He glances at his childhood friend, but a smirk comes to his lips as he thinks about how correct his friend is. But he keeps it to himself, for he knows he will never hear the end of it if he admitted that Oikawa was right that Iwaizumi did miss a certain musician. v. muse The next time he sees you, he's surprised that he's in an audience filled with people, and you're on stage performing to said audience. But it appears that among all the college students that applied to perform at the show, you were one of the few who made the cut. The swell of pride and joy when he sees you capturing the stage and calling it your own steals his breath away and he can't help but smile widely at how vibrant and alive you looked on stage. But it wasn't until after the mini outdoor concert that he runs into you as you're escaping from the campus newspaper team. Surprise is evident on both parties, but upon seeing the way you flinched as your name was called, Iwaizumi merely takes a hold of your wrist and pulls you away from the stage, the lights, and the crowd of newly acquired fans. As the two of you reach and emptier section of campus, you sit down beside him on one of the benches and laughed, "What an adventure." "So that's what you've been up to this entire time?" "Yeah," you nodded and then mumbled, "Sorry, I should've said something." His eyes widen, but he gives you a small smile before gently poking your forehead, "Don't apologize, you were working on your music, weren't you?" It was your turn to be surprised that he figured it out, and you nodded. A bright smile is evident on your features and you laughed, "I really wanted to do well." He doesn't answer, but the way his gaze is focused solely on you as though nothing else in the world mattered makes you continue, "I wanted to impress you." As though you couldn't surprise him more, you do, and the blush that accompanies both parties after such a bold confession makes him clear his throat awkwardly and you stuttered, "S-Sorry! I-It's... it's just you.. Hajime-kun..." Your voice trails off and you give him a small, yet embarrassed smile, "You were my muse for my music. And I just... wanted to make you proud." He can barely hold his gaze with you, but instead he finds himself hiding his face with his hands. His hands cup his nose and his mouth, as though blocking the way his smile was so wide and goofy along with the visible flush on your face from you. Still, you can see it on the tips of his ears, but you say nothing as you return the hidden smile with one of your own. Because you know, and he knows, that even if nothing else is said, all of it has been conveyed through the smaller actions, and the sound of your music.

[oftelltalehearts]

[ colin morgan, cismale, he/him ] whatever you think you know about NEVILLE THORN, the 32/400 year old, PANSEXUAL, NEW COMER, it is likely time for you to start reconsidering. the rumored VAMPIRE is often described as RESOURCEFUL + LOYAL, but don’t let them fool you; they can also be GUARDED + PRIDEFUL, which often has them regarded as THE LOVER. they are a GROUND KEEPER at ST. MICHAEL'S VIGIL, but it’s also said they are a MEMBER within the INVADING VAMPIRE NEST. whatever you hear, you can’t deny there’s more to them that meets the eye, and it’s time we start uncovering the truth.

» 𝖙𝖍𝖗𝖊𝖆𝖉 𝖙𝖗𝖆𝖈𝖐𝖊𝖗 . ( updated 10/21 ) starters owed ; 00 . threads owed ; 00

» 𝖖𝖚𝖎𝖈𝖐 𝖑𝖎𝖓𝖐𝖘 . visage . musings . soundtrack . answered . memes . tasks . all threads . events ( 1 , ) . headcanons . all things neville .

» 𝖘𝖙𝖔𝖗𝖞 𝖘𝖔 𝖋𝖆𝖗 .

born in 1622 neville was the fourth child of six and the only male . life at the start was something that's grown fuzzy to the vampire over time (and trying to forget) but he still feels warmth associated with a mother , laughter , and singing in a full house . being followers of an old religion the reformation wasn't something that was welcomed by any of his immediate family and they chose to live as far away from others as possible but still gave themselves the option to venture into the closest town to earn a wage and get things that couldn't be grown or scavenged .

he saw a lot that was caused by the hand of man . his father was killed in 1648 and the family remaining in the house was forced from the home in 1652 . he lost two the eldest sisters in the next year months apart . a blow came in the form of his mother and baby sister dying while he could do nothing .

he sought a deal with a devil at that point to protect what he had left that he held dear and a deal and immortality is what he got in 1654 . he was given rules from the one who turned him and he followed them to a t and never got close to his remaining siblings , but kept them safe none the less . neville remained in ireland until the last sister drew her final breath at an old age before deciding to leave in 1686 .

he bounced around europe before finding the one that had turned him years before and took his place in his creators nest before finding himself making the skip and leap to america in 1802 . neville's been in america ever since , no trace of a accent and a lost language refusing to come on his tongue he was content with changing towns every few years . this one is really no different from any other .

» 𝖖𝖚𝖎𝖈𝖐 𝖋𝖆𝖈𝖙𝖘 .

i . neville thorn isn't his real name only one he'd grown far too fond of to let go of so he recycles it every few new places .

ii . he always opts for rings when it comes with dealing with witches in the loop hole of walking during the day . for the first hundred years he didn't even toy with the idea of getting a hold of such things but missed sunrises too much .

iii . I WILL ADD MORE AS I GO ALONG . i can't think straight right now .