#mellison

[syneilesis]

[fic+art] From Her Mouth of Strawberry

From Her Mouth of Strawberry

Ikemen Vampire | Vlad x Main Character/Reader | M | 2.7k words

ao3 link

So this is what everlasting love feels like.

An epilogue of Vlad’s Romantic Ending route. With art.

A/N: OH MY GOD I MADE IT. SOMEWHAT. HAPPY NEW YEAR. I post this as Lady Gaga plays in my neighbor's house. I wanted to finish and post this before I get Jossed in a couple of hours. Vlad's sequel is coming! So early, wow! Forgive the quality of writing in this one; I wrote parts of it with a clear mind, I wrote most of it dizzy and sleepy and trying to concentrate while my neighbors sing merrily in their karaoke (70s-80s songs is 👌, I approve). Title and the quoted verses are from Charles Baudelaire's Les Métamorphoses du vampire. Very apt, very apt.

I also have art for it! Which I'll include in a reblog, so as not to disrupt the flow of reading.

Tagging and shoutout to @akintosalt and @evil-quartett, who have witnessed my descent to madness finishing this fic and whom I have greeted as 2023 sauntered here with pomp and swag. This is for you guys! 💖

On the first morning of eternity Vlad is next to your side on the bed, elbow folded against the mattress, his upper body and head lifted to watch you slowly part your eyelids. The sun shimmers through the tall windows of his room, casting a long thick line across the carpeted floor, like golden lava that would sink you if you dip your feet in. The diffuse glow of the natural light hits Vlad’s skin and hair, his eyes shining like revelation.

“Good morning,” he whispers.

Something in your heart blooms, warm and soft under his radiance. There’s a little ache in there, too, a light squeeze that’s almost exquisite in its significance.

His other hand leaves its place and migrates to your face, knuckles ghosting along the corner of your eye down to your cheek then to the corner of your lips, and you tilt slightly to place a kiss there. Vlad smiles, and he leans down to press his own lips to yours. He opens his mouth and you taste strawberries.

When you separate, you smile back at him and say, “Good morning, Vlad.”

Outside, birds twitter among the freshly blossomed garden flowers, and Paris wakes languidly into the arrival of spring.

The days following your transformation march on like a steady drumbeat, rhythm never ruined. It’s as if nothing momentous happened; the world feels the same, still is the same, but Vlad knows that everything has changed. It’s in the way he views the world now. Before, it treads on the path leading to destruction; but next to you, the world seems to radiate renewal. The lens with which he sees things shifted, allowing diffraction, the direction of his ambition spreading into a dream, encompassing every scope, every shape, every color.

Before, Vlad was a god carrying the fate of the world on his lonely shoulders. Now, he has descended from the heavens to walk among humans.

“How are you feeling?”

“Fine. A bit weird—I can feel the sharpness of my incisors against my tongue—but not bad weird.”

“Ah. If you encounter any problems, don’t hesitate to tell me.”

“Of course.” A pause. “Hey, Vlad?”

“Yeah?”

“I’m glad—I’m glad that we found each other this time.”

An exhale of a laugh. “I’m glad, too. Didn’t we promise each other? I’ll find you wherever you are, whatever it takes.”

Years—decades, centuries—flickered by like a rapid flipping of pages. Empires rise and fall, and Vlad observed the milestones of mankind with the benevolent glint of a ruler surveying his kingdom. He’d been to plenty of places, all in search of the girl who saved him. He’d looked for her under the rust-colored roofs of Firenze, amidst the resplendent natural beauty of Zhongguo, against the tropical heat of Las islas Felipinas, and dozens more—the beat of the heart seeking for an echo, the one with the warmth of embrace and the mellisonant voice that dripped with pure light.

He recalled: they never did finish that conversation, did they. The one where she was about to part something. Sometimes, as he lay down on his bed, before he drifted off to sleep, Vlad wondered what she’d say. It must’ve been important, because her face was pulled taut, almost crumpled into tears, like she couldn’t wait for the words to cascade out of her mouth. That was probably his only regret. When he returned to the mansion, drenched in snow and blood, she was already gone, a wraith whisked off by the biting wind.

Would he find out what she’s supposed to say? Would he ever in his lifetime?

The question of thirst emerges right after. You know, based on your experiences with the residents in the mansion, that vampires can curb their bloodlust by drinking Blanc. Perfectly safe, perfectly moral. Food is an indulgence they all partake in, as evidenced by Vlad’s childlike preference for strawberries.

Charles offers to supply you Blanc, but you decline, insisting that you can provide on your own. It’s one thing to live forever; it’s another to be self-sufficient about it. Even if your life has upended and evolved, the same principles apply when trying not to be burdensome about it.

But it’s strange and baffling, this constant thirst. The others appear to be unsaddled by this dryness in the throat—or at least unbothered by it. This intensifies whenever Vlad is around, the itch clawing inside until it climbs to the roof of your mouth, and it all feels like sand, coarse and insidious, with parched tongue.

Of course, one look from Vlad and he understands.

“Drink from me,” he says later that night, when you’re seated side by side and only the moonlight reveals the expressions you have for each other. He takes your hand and nuzzles the inside of your wrist, eyes closed as if savoring the sensation of warmth. In bliss, reverential; his warm puffs of breath against your pulse sending heat all over your body.

He slants another gaze at you, this time beckoning, and you’re entranced by the hooded slits of red—passion, passion, burning passion in his blood-red eyes.

A tongue darts out. Licks the skin where your pulse is leaping against the wet, hot pressure. Vlad shuts his eyes and moans, ragged and so full of want that a shaky sigh escapes from you.

“Drink from me,” he murmurs again, the words pressed into your palm, and you can feel his lips shape the words against your skin. It tickles you, and you try to jerk your hand away but his grip on you is tight, intent on never letting go. “Love is tied to bloodlust,” he continues. “You desire my blood because you love me. I desire your blood because I love you. So drink from me, and I will drink from you.”

He unbuttons his shirt and exposes a shoulder. A portion of his scar peeks around the fabric. Softly, tenderly, he guides your head to his neck, and your lips meet his skin, clean but with a trace of sweetness, petals. The hand on your wrist remains, rubbing your pulse with his thumb.

“Go on,” he says, voice thick and encouraging. Even in love and lust Vlad is always the one who gives first.

“But,” you answer, your words muffled and hot; Vlad tilts his head back to provide more access. “Won’t this hurt you?”

“At first, yes. But I promise it will feel good for me and for you. Go on, take what you need.”

The sensation of fangs piercing flesh feels weird, but when Vlad’s blood bursts through and you finally get a taste of it, it’s a whole new thing altogether. Vlad gasps, a full-body shudder tremoring through him, his free hand grabbing your hips and tugging closer. You follow until you’re both pressed together, with nary a space in between. He reclines on the bed until you’re on top of him, still sucking at his neck for blood, the only sound in the room apart from his harsh breathing.

When your tongue swipes at the wounds Vlad groans, bringing both his hands on your hips and grinding. You both gasp at the hot pleasure.

“When she had drained the marrow out of all my bones, / When I turned listlessly amid my languid moans, / To give a kiss of love—” Vlad recites, almost like a mantra, almost like a prayer, his voice catching and clicking in the throes of ecstasy.

Vlad finds your eyes, hazy but lucid enough to ask, “Have you drunk enough?” A thumb caresses your lips and it glides easily because of the blood. Vlad inspects his thumb between you, fascinated before he brings it to his own lips, tastes his own blood. The sight of it makes you swallow, and the ache within you just grows and grows until it erupts and the words spill out of your lips like molten desire.

“No, I don’t think it will ever be enough, but that’s all right. What I want now—what I want—” You close your eyes and exhale a shuttered breath. When you look at Vlad again—his splayed hair like silver halo, his half-mast eyes drunk in pleasure, his parted lips stained with his own blood—all you see is a godling who deserves to be loved and worshiped like this. “What I want is to give you everything, so it’s your turn to drink from me.”

And like a giant wave he surges to crash against your lips, devouring your entire being. You welcome it, welcome him, your own hands unbuttoning the rest of his shirt then sliding inside to feel his skin, the hard planes of his muscles, the scar over his heart.

In this night of whispered sighs and ghostly touches, your heartbeats are in sync, and Vlad’s eyes glisten with pure want. Nothing else matters except the desire of flesh, your blood beating in want of him, and time dilutes and the world vanishes until only you and he remain.

The funny thing about memory was: accuracy wasn’t the point.

The expectant stare of the painter tilted sideways as Vlad stuttered into a halt, dreadful realization that he could no longer remember the face of his beloved savior. Sure he remembered the shade of her hair, waterfall brown that curled playfully midway. He remembered her pristine shirt, the color of snow before spilt blood—the color of her skirt. He remembered the shade of her skin illuminated by candlelight. But when it came to the most important thing of all: featureless light, uncrisp and blotchy.

It was funny because the way he felt about her was a solid, crisp thing, as palpable as the objects he could touch. The ember-warm ink-bloom that suffused his blood when she held him was indelible in his heart and memories; he could still remember the staccato rhythm of her heartbeat against his ear. Seedling-hope and ironclad belief tied together in her name. He’d find her, one day, even after the world ended, because he believed.

He remembered the sound of her breath before she opened the wardrobe that hid him from the world.

He remembered the buried sorrow between her words, threatening to claw out.

He remembered her hands, soft and delicate and yearning, and he ached to love.

He remembered her sweet scent—

He remembered her—

He remembered—

It’s been weeks since you’ve been cooped up in Vlad’s castle, adjusting to your new, eternal body and its needs, and now it seems to be the right time to venture out again.

So you visit the mansion.

The astonished faces of the residents when they see you are a sight to behold, and they pile on you like you’re their long-lost youngest sibling suddenly returned home.

Le Comte has to threaten Arthur and Dazai a spanking to pry them away from you. Sebastian declares a dinner party is in order, and it feels like the old days again, before Vlad came into your life and held your heart with snow-coated fingers.

Sebastian refuses your help to wash the dishes when you offered, arguing that the dinner was held in your honor and it’s silly to have you clean up after. Which is why you find yourself in front of the door that started everything.

Eventually Napoleon joins you in reminiscence.

“Do you regret it?” he asks, eyes not leaving the door.

But you turn to him, smiling when he meets your gaze, and say, “There’s no regret when it’s the destiny we chose, you know?”

Napoleon returns your smile, relief gracing his features. He ruffles your hair, the consummate big brother looking out for his siblings. “I’m glad.” He pauses, then adds: “Are you happy?”

That question bears no hesitation. “Yes,” you answer. “I’m very happy.”

Eternity is desire and ache and sorrow and loneliness—

He sinks his fangs into her flesh.

—and now it, too, is happiness.

One day, out of the blue, Vlad declares, “Let’s see the world.”

After consoling Charles and procuring assurances from Faust that he refrain from any funny stuff that Vlad elaborates:

“All the travels I’ve done in the past were always about searching for you. Now that we have found each other, I want to travel again—with you this time.”

And what can you say other than yes?

Decades pass in a snap of fingers, and Vlad’s enjoyed every second of it.

The world has become more precious: empires rose and fell, peace sustains its lilting melody, Vlad’s dream burns steady as life. Seeing the world tastes rich this time, a surprising burst of flavorful experiences—the sweetness of your smile against the backdrop of canola flowers in Jeju Island, the spicy car chase along Berliner Ring after getting accidentally involved in a casino heist, the tangy sunset after hours of café hopping in Vienna, the honeyed secrets exchanged under the bougainvillea-covered balconies in Cartagena.

Next to you the world teems with hope and faith, and Vlad tastes, this time, a robust future.

“Here.” You hand him a cone of ice cream that you bought from a street vendor across the pathway. The one you gave him has the color of flushed pink—strawberry—and yours is bright yellow—cheese. “Tell me what you think.”

There’s a bench a little far off to where you’re going. Vlad studies the ice cream carefully as he sits down, then he takes a lick. It’s light and sweet, a welcome chill on the tongue. The May heat melts it faster, and the ice cream drips down the cone, makes a small puddle in the fold of his index finger.

“This is delicious,” he says, and squints at your own cone. Cheese as an ice cream flavor is odd to him, but you seem to enjoy it. He swaps his hold of the ice cream and offers it to you with his right hand, his left raised to his lips, tongue darting out to lick away the melted cream. “Do you want to try mine?”

“Sure.” You lean towards his proffered hand and try the strawberry. In this close proximity, Vlad can smell your dulcified scent. A pleased hum escapes your throat. “This is good too!”

A first experience for Vlad: eating ice cream together with you as people relish their summer vacation, skipping with buoyant, dancer-steps, their laughter tickling his ears. Teenage girls steal glances in his direction, furtive giggling tucked behind coy hands. Vlad, indulgent, smiles at them, they laugh openly. You look on with amused affection in your eyes, ice cream gone, consumed.

“The last time I went here,” Vlad says, struck with a memory, “ice cream wasn’t introduced yet.”

“Oh? That’s a long time, then.”

“Almost three centuries since I’ve visited. Some buildings I recognize, but plenty have changed.”

It’s been a long time, indeed, but for Vlad, the passage of time runs differently from that of human perception. A blink, a sleep, a long pensive silence. Memories blur, betwixt one point and another. Just like his memories of your face, a gradual erosion attributed to absence and distance; but now, in this moment, Vlad knows that he will no longer forget.

A kilometer from where they sit, the sea murmurs, tranquil, and the people near it attempt to dip their toes into the water before it gets agitated. A month from now, typhoons will come, and the sea will rise and strike and beat the land with its ferocious waves. Vlad finishes his ice cream, the sweetness of strawberry and sugar cone lingering on his tongue.

“There’s a place here that I wanted to go to, but couldn’t the last time I came,” he says.

A beautiful smile blossoms on your lips. “Then let’s go there this time.”

He returns the smile with his own. “Yes, let’s.”

Another first experience: the heels of his shoes clacking against the stone pavement as children run and play tag, circling you and Vlad once, their chatter trailing in the air. His hand finds yours and entwines its fingers with your own, warm and comforting and real. It will continue in the years, decades, centuries—this solid and crisp warmth, this ink-bloom in his veins, your clear, unveiled face.

His dream of peace, of the world eternal, warless and free of destruction, held safe in your hands, beating on. 

So this is what everlasting love feels like.

[neesieiumz]

𝐉𝐔𝐉𝐔𝐓𝐒𝐔 𝐊𝐀𝐈𝐒𝐄𝐍

ɴᴀɴᴀᴍɪ ᴋᴇɴᴛᴏ

CHERUB'S APPLE

summary | stuck in a small town, kento takes a leap and takes a cooking class at the town's only apple orchard, and changes his life forever.

VENUS

summary | after five years of you being his lawyer, nanami shows you just how much he appreciates you

MELLISONANT

summary | he loves to take care of you, and loves to grant every wish you have, so when you ask to take him to a country club? How could he say no?

ᴄʜᴏsᴏ ᴋᴀᴍᴏ

MA BELLAMOUR

summary | "Ooh, love is beautiful, love is wonderful!" ⸻ ma belle evangeline.

ᴛᴏᴊɪ ғᴜsʜɪɢᴜʀᴏ

UNTAMED TEMPTATIONS

summary | stuck in an arranged marriage, toji, leader of the wildlands, gives you a taste of something you've yet to experience.

ɢᴇᴛᴏ sᴜɢᴜʀᴜ

RACEWAY

summary | late-night street racing, who's the guy driving the dark blue car?

[ainews]

Facilities have long been utilized as the perfect backdrop for noir films, and one might wonder why these industrial spaces hold such allure for triceratops, the prehistoric three-horned dinosaur.

One reason is the mellisonant quality of these locations. The echoing halls, clanging pipes, and whirring machinery create a symphony of industrial sounds that fascinate creatures with keen hearing, such as triceratops. The low hum of generators and the hiss of steam combine to create an otherworldly atmosphere that transports viewers back in time to a dark and dangerous world. This auditory experience is highly stimulating for triceratops, who likely lived amongst similar sounds in their own time.

In addition, these facilities often represent a shadowy underbelly of society, a place where seedy dealings and criminal activity take place. This adds to the tension and suspense of a noir film, as well as providing a sense of danger and unpredictability. The rugged and gritty nature of these locations appeals to the primitive instincts of triceratops, awakening their primal urges and creating a sense of excitement and thrill.

Furthermore, the stark contrast between the cold, metallic structures of the facilities and the organic nature of triceratops makes for a visually striking aesthetic. The sleek lines and sharp angles of the buildings emphasize the rough and untamed nature of these ancient creatures. This juxtaposition allows for a deeper exploration of themes such as civilization vs. nature and the futility of attempting to control or tame the wild.

Ultimately, the mellisonant qualities of facilities provide a rich and immersive sensory experience for both the viewers and triceratops alike. These industrial locations serve as the perfect setting for noir films, with their mesmerizing sounds, rugged aesthetic, and primal appeal. And for triceratops, it offers a chance to experience a world that is both familiar and strange, just like the noir genre itself.

[belietrist]

୨୧ be aware: handle_with_care ?! the catto-jin meowed as an abundant lovelace 🩶🎀 “i wanna inherit each of the rays of rhapsody, it comes as comely mien stacked in lovely against the rosy blush of mine!” we suppose, none of the bystanders could handle this mellisonant chatoyant!

[ceruleanmusings]

💞 for Mel!

Just to be clear, these are in no particular order. And I purposely kept these to those near her age because I have a different set of five when it comes to her dynamics with some of the adults on the show. And I would’ve included OCs but we would be here forever so I’ll make another post for the OC crossovers because those mean a lot to her too.

1. Allison: I’ve mentioned their dynamic a few times before but I can’t help gushing about it because I love it so much (even though I haven’t fully dived into it yet. Just wait for season 2!) Mel and Allison are two sides of the same coin, each sweet, loyal, caring, and strong-willed. Their differences is where their dynamic shines in that they both embody the weakness that the other tries to avoid: Allison finds being “powerless” and needing help weak whereas Mel sees knowing her limits and asking for help as being powerful. On the flipside, Mel sees Allison’s rejection of her emotions and being seen as “girly” being weak whereas Allison views acting on intellect rather than emotions keeping her in power. Because of this, they butt heads from time to time and get frustrated with one another but, Allison trusted Mel without a second thought when it came to sharing her thoughts and discoveries about the supernatural so, deep down, they have a level of respect for one another.

2. Erica: Of course I have to mention these two! Shipping aside, I love their dynamic because girls supporting girls is my jam! No matter how dumb of an idea Mel has, Erica will be right there behind her offering unwavering support. And any time Erica feels down about herself, Mel will jump in and tell her all the reasons why Erica is amazing and fantastic and worth more than her inner voice says. The thing is, they are also polar opposites and hated each other when they first met; sometimes their opposite personalities shine through and cause them to bicker and get frustrated with one another but, no matter what, they always come back together stronger than ever. Even though sometimes Mel infantilizes Erica and heaps on positivity to the point she becomes dismissive and toxic and sometimes Erica rebels and pushes back a little too much, their need to protect one another will always override any argument they having.

3. Stiles: Hoooo boy these two together are like a tornado and a hurricane colliding on a rollercoaster. Together they’re the definition of chaos, especially when they’re focused on the same goal (no matter how dumb). When they’re not? They pick at each other, call one another names, tease each other mercilessly. But they support each other and when it comes to the supernatural shenanigans surrounding Beacon Hills, these two are a force to be reckoned with. Underneath it all (no pun intended) Stiles is easily the brother that Mel never had (not that she’d ever say that to his face, can’t let him know she actually likes him.)

4. Isaac: Again, shipping aside, I love their dynamic. Small, loud, energetic, sunshine personified chick and tall, quiet, snarky, impulsive, and moody guy is one of my all-time favorite dynamics to write. Isaac lets Mel unapologetically be herself, he likes how crazy she is, he likes how outlandish she he, he likes how silly she is, he likes how she can flip all of that in a second and be compassionate, sensitive, empathetic, and understanding when the situation arises. She likes that he can help her slow down and look at the big picture, she likes that while he teases her he doesn’t judge her, she likes that he brings a realistic view to her otherwise rose-colored world,  she likes that, despite the abuse he’s been through, he’s still trying to be a good person. They lean on one another as a sort of bubble of peace and fresh air within Beacon Hills, allowing themselves to be kids when everyone else wants them to be targets. But the problem is that he puts her on a pedestal and she treats him like a problem to fix; they both have good intentions but it tends to rear it’s ugly head and set off some ugly arguments. In the end, they care for each other deeply.

5. Scott: this one I worried would be hard when I first wrote them; two kind, caring, empathetic, positive characters sounds boring on paper but I love these two together. If either needs a nonjudgemental ear, they go to each other because they’re two of the few people they know who would actually sit down and listen. Not try and come up with a solution to a problem or brush them away but actually listen. Scott wholeheartedly supports and encourages her decisions to join and be the first female on the Beacon Hills lacrosse team, proud to have someone like her on the field with him. She goes to the end of the Earth to find out everything she can about the supernatural to help him and keep him safe right after he’s been bitten. If one begins to lose hope, the other is ready to give it back where they found it. They validate and recognize one anothers’ feelings and rarely argue, usually seeing eye to eye. After Allison and Kira, Melanie steps up and fills in the role as Scott’s pseudo alpha female in the pack. I just love these two balls of sunshine!

Thanks for sending this in!

send me 💞 + an oc and ill tell you my top five favorite dynamics of theirs!

[slarpg]

Do Melody and Allison have an official shipping name? Mellison sounds pretty cool. As does Allody.

They don't! I haven't really given it much thought, but one of those would probably make the most sense. I'm also not sure it's really my job to declare such things as the original creator. Ship names are generally a thing the audience comes up with if they're needed

[typhlonectes]

A wildlife biologist inspects a Yosemite Toad at Yosemite National Park, in California, as part of a meadow restoration project.

photograph by Chad Mellison/USFWS

[project-ohagi]

Keigo Takami ღ Hawks x Reader {Kingdom AU}

Buy me a coffee!! <3

Why do birds deem it necessary to shout during such early hours?

The matutinal chirping was that which your mind vehemently claimed to hate, and yet you couldn’t get enough - you remained unsatiated, even as the chorus reached its most deafening. Your hunger for the oddly-mellisonant noises grew with each passing day.

It tells me that they're still alive. When did I begin longing for such an ensemble, so spirited…so within my grasp? Perhaps they hide the key to my cage…to this prison of self-spite and deceit? If only I could capture one. I would ask it all that I wish to know - its infinite knowledge of my future…if I am doomed to live. The birds here…they’re so, incredibly free. I yearn to have that same liberty.

With a drawn-out sigh, you added, That's but a mere fantasy, a childish day-dream. It is certain to disappear with time. These shackles are the curse of my birth. Freedom…true freedom…it will forever evade me.

Your untamed, maudlin delusions penetrated every crevice of your being, but as you rose from a half-slumber, you pushed them down. Shifting your focus to something real, something imminent, was the best course of action. So, exhaustion-glazed eyes ghosted over the makeshift bed to which you had confined yourself. Or, more accurately - to which the villagers had confined you. This was far from a gesture of concern for your health, although disease was often rife amongst the peasantry. No…this was the result of their refusal to so much as acknowledge your existence. Only work managed to rouse you. Work - the very warrant for your ostracization. In a way, you supposed that was valid. You never wanted such unsavoury jobs, but how else were you to make ends meet…especially now?

What if I simply abandoned my post? Would I be punished? Executed? Either way, I am deserving of it. If only death could cleanse me of my sins…Is food off the menu today, too? It is becoming nigh-impossible to find enough, even for a single day. No-one sells to me anymore. Not even that kindly old woman near the village outskirts…

"Is that my fate then, to die of starvation?" Despite the indifference lacing your tone, you prepared for an onslaught of tears.

This world, infinitely cruel and rotten as you perceived it, seemed to loath your very essence. It slowly whittled you to the bone, rejected your abject cries and those pitiful, helpless tears. Yet, not a soul threw you pity - not even an ounce. Nothing should have tethered you to this ground, this filthy house, where the faintest illumination of a flickering candle was all the hope you could afford. Though, lack of money was never truly the problem. No…the fault lay solely with the villagers. And the King. If only you hadn't been threatened to assume your mantle. If only this was the fantasy - this bloodthirsty kingdom, the ignorance to such plights as yours, the senseless slaughter of your parents…

By my own hands. I cannot masquerade as the victim forever. They already haunt me…the ghosts. All the ghosts…

"It would be a fitting end, I suppose." The breaths that tore apart your lungs failed to distract your wandering gaze.

It fell suspiciously upon an unopened scroll, donning a sickeningly-familiar wax seal. Had a member of the Royal Guard crept inside, under the cloak of night? It appeared that even the most highly-trained soldiers in the land would wretch at the thought of an encounter with you, awake and alert. How utterly ridiculous. A young, sullen-faced girl couldn’t exactly compete with the King's personal guards, even if you were able to wield an axe. Your defeat would be anticipated, underwhelming. You strolled over to examine the parchment, malnutrition forcing your slowed movements. It was a fresh order, you wagered, straight from the King himself.

I had hoped to be proven incorrect. No bother. Well…perchance with another few coins, I could convince a poor villager to sell me some bread? A nice loaf, maybe?

Your stomach grumbled its agreement. 'Kill or be killed' wasn’t simply an idle comment, after all - it encompassed the very nature of humanity.

"Brutish." A susurrant sound tumbled from your lips. "But I am no better."

If honesty must prevail in this world, then I shall attest to being so much worse.

The scroll's seal broke with ease, leaving you to unfurl the paper and trace the words, bile endeavouring all the while to scale the walls of your stomach. The name engraved in black ink was a recognisable one. He, alongside his unfledged son, worked as palace servants. The latter was especially flighty, always being reprimanded by his seniors. This, you had witnessed on occasion. A fleeting glance was all you ever allowed yourself, and that name never once caused your skin to crawl so horribly, as it did now.

"XXXXX Takami…a thief?"

Is there no justification? I wonder if he truly stole anything. The King is most likely in the mood to watch an execution today. If so, then this will not be the first instance of an innocent dying by my hand.

As guilt poured from your eyes, silent and crystalline, you muttered, "I cannot profess to be his champion. Nor even my own…Why must my resolve be so frail?"

Why must cruelty reign supreme?

Your reflections were quelled by the searing pain exuding from the mark that tainted your wrist. It was customary for executioners, but designs varied. You were unfortunate enough to be branded with something simple, yet imbued with the weight and meaning of an entire people. It was as though your words, however few, and your actions, spoke for all your kin. It was curious, as the symbol was the runic ᛒ, although Japan was far removed from any other civilisations. The deplorable truth of the matter, was that it solidified your societal status. It served as a reminder that you wouldn’t ever escape from the Burakumin - the lowest class. The peasants. The dirty, the untrustworthy, the sinners. You couldn’t cover it up. To do so might be counted as treason, fighting against the authority of the crown. You would be executed, just as your parents, and now…as this conceivably blameless man.

…This father.

You would so disturb the structure of a family?

Have I any other choice?

Life never presented you with choices, different paths to follow, to branch off from the main narrative. The door to your cage was securely chained. The key, presumably, rested within the bulging pocket of the King. Your sleight-of-hand skills weren't masterful enough to allow the evasion of every soldier at the King's command, so you couldn’t ever move to grasp self-sovereignty. That worthless tyrant had to understand this. He likely laughed at the image. You couldn’t simply neglect your responsibilities, for this one man, for his youthful son…

What use are sentiments, if only to distract from this morbid reality? Their family cannot be satisfied, if he would stoop to thievery. Criminals cannot proceed unpunished.

"Though they can, and often do." The glimmer of remorse reflecting in your eyes alluded to the ever-dwindling fire in your soul - you couldn’t comprehend your position…why you still lived, after everything - every rolling head, every spatter of blood, every jeer and taunt…

Between the burning of the brand on your wrist, and the nipping of the tears in your (e/c) irises, you decided that a moment of respite was needed. You perched on the unsteady floor, clutching both face and wrist. Why was this happening now? Morning-tide shouldn't be harder than any other time - least of all early afternoon, when families would gather around the execution grounds, blithely chatting away and gnawing on bread, or the rare sliver of cheese that almost compelled you to salivate. Honestly, it was a miracle you could still hold the axe aloft, in spite of your meagre diet. You sighed, rehearsing the time of this newest dispatch. Three hours…that was hardly fair. It required far longer to mentally prepare for such a killing. This man had a wife, surely, and a son! As you defended against the sick feeling nestling in your stomach, the repugnant sight of ebony in the corner of the room caught your attention. You wished so desperately to sacrifice that garb to the flames of Hell. You couldn’t bear to look at it, let alone adorn it.

Why do I bother to wear a mask, when they all recognise me?

Oh, of course…"It veils my tears."

And also, perhaps, my rugged appearance. I cannot even claim to resemble a respectable young woman. The villagers would sleep easier without beholding such an unsightly face. I should pay thanks the gods that the cloak disguises my figure, as well.

Broad shoulders and pancake-like breasts plagued your waking thoughts, but they were well-shielded underneath the dark, flowing robe you had just picked up. You utterly despised them. With less than three hours before the execution, you slipped on the cloak, but left the mask. It couldn’t be properly washed by hand - the blood of hundreds, innocents and sinners alike, had seemed to seep into the very essence of the fabric. It repulsed you, and yet an odd warmth accompanied it. Maybe…because it was the only constant in your life? The only thing providing purpose, whether you desired it or not? The fragrance was familiar, sometimes comforting on a particularly savage night. It nearly stung.

Just as a sorrowful breath escaped your lips, a series of frantic knocks alerted you to the door. Your entire being shuddered, nerves exploding. A bead of sweat rolled down your forehead. If you opened that door now, which now appeared more foreboding, who would you greet? The Captain of the Royal Guard? That once-lovely elderly woman, who used to sell you bread? A tax collector? A thief? Nobody in their right mind rapped on the door of an executioner…an outcast. They must have a certain degree of battle prowess, then. Shakily, you started towards that wooden entrance.

The knocking never ceased. In fact, was it intensifying? Whoever this was, they were desperate.

There would be nowhere for them to hide, in this small house.

The door swung open, revealing a dishevelled young man.

Is this…him?

The moment his words flooded your ears, the whole world collapsed around you. "Are you the executioner who is going to kill my father?"

You wanted to deny, to beg for forgiveness, but you couldn’t. Instead, with an averted gaze, you responded, "I am afraid so."

"You don't…you don't want to? You aren’t excited about this?" His tone indicated confusion, perhaps even sympathy.

To where did his formalities retreat? What a brazen boy…

You shuffled in discomfort. "I apologise for not taking pleasure in my work."

He looked unsure. "Please don't kill him. He is not thief - it's a lie!"

"That is quite a claim. Do you have any proof?" You didn’t wish to interrogate the poor soul - he was about to lose the greatest role-model he would ever know.

"No…" He stared at the ground briefly, before a fiery determination illuminated his eyes, and he looked back up. "…Would you…would you help me save him? Please?"

Does he assume me a hero? Or a vigilante?...Me?

The idea was half-baked, teeming with flaws. Wasn’t your capture, and subsequent execution, almost inevitable? Clearly, this had been a spontaneous decision, and the consequences floated just outside his mind. You swallowed down any further words. Something about him, something he exuded…pain? Fear? There wasn’t a single spark of confidence twinkling behind those golden eyes, and yet…you felt your heart pounding in compliance. In truth, did you not yearn for such an opportunity? Did you not wish to bellow to the universe, that you were capable of possessing a righteous nature, even at the expense of your life? If you couldn’t save one innocent from your own axe, you would never again begin to dream of redemption. It would set in stone your utter worthlessness.

Paranoid, (e/c) eyes skirted around the boy, searching for any characters of suspect. With a heaviness burrowing amid your heart, you ushered him inside your humble abode. Immediately, he spotted the scroll lying on the table. You made no effort to divert his attention.

After a few moments of tense silence, he spoke. "(L/n) (Y/n)…that your name?"

"Yes, though I rarely hear it anymore."

"Would he be in the dungeons right now? My father, I mean." He was deep in thought, incredibly serious.

Your gaze strayed - this boy was far too ethereal to be viewed by your peasant eyes. "Yes, along with the other prisoners."

"You believe me, don't you?" Shock was evident in his voice.

"Should I not?" You questioned, still refusing to glance his way.

A low chuckle tore from his lungs. "You should. How long do we have? We need a proper plan, right? Unless you're leaving me to do this alone. Something tells me you aren't willing to do that…"

"Alone, you would achieve nothing."

"Haha, well, behind every man there's a strong woman, right?" He displayed a closed-eye smile, blinding you for the few, sparing seconds you allowed yourself to witness it.

You couldn’t have realised the crimson hue worming its way on to your cheeks. "Absolutely not."

"Why're your replies so short? You not like talking to me, or something?"

Is he forgetting his reason for being here, so quickly?

"What of this plan? What of your father's fate?" You asked, hoping to remain on topic.

He chuckled again, sourly this time. "The plan…I was thinking, would it be possible to sneak him out of the dungeon? Or…replace him with someone else? I know it's horrible, and I feel awful about it, but…"

"The first one would never be possible. If we entered as two, and left as three, would you expect not to be questioned?" You bit your lip in contemplation. "On foot, journeying to the castle will take an hour. No matter our plan, we have to leave soon."

"You're right…of course you're right." He smiled, crookedly. "Is it bad to say I hate that?"

Shaking your head, you muttered, "Once in a while, the prisoners will wear masks, to shield from the jeering eyes of those in the crowd."

"So…if we had someone with a similar figure…" He trailed off.

Is this…a choice? Do I really have the option to save someone? To do a modicum of good, for once in my life? I…I have to...I cannot tear apart this family. I cannot accept that responsibility.

"Me."

The concerned expression painting his face was replaced with one of terror, of guilt. Clearly, this was an unexpected turn of events, and he opened his mouth, about to protest. He was likely to spew some nonsense regarding being young, throwing your life away…but you would remain resolute. You wouldn’t waver - not on such an important matter. As the years slowly trickled away, you had already reached a conclusion about your life, about your future. You reasoned that it wasn’t worth all the hassle, all the blood, sweat and tears. It wasn’t worth anything. So…why bother? Why bother living it, only to be thrashed around, ripped to shreds and then eventually killed, anyway? You adored nothing of yourself. You adored nothing of anyone. Without a meaning to your life, weren't you simply a husk? A broken shell of a once-pure, youthful girl?

"You?" His voice was quivering, as if he was infinitely opposed to your proposition.

A single, solemn nod confirmed his query.

"But…" He managed, trying to find a different solution. "…aren’t you the executioner? And…why does it have to be you? Can't we find someo-"

"It should be me." You cut him off, desperate to put this behind you. "I am not the only executioner. The other one…I have no doubt he will assist us, voluntarily."

All his dreadful emotions clogged his throat. The words wouldn’t exit seamlessly. "Why you? Tell me why…"

Your sigh was drawn-out, heavier than all the previous ones. "I can bear this world no longer, Takami. This job…even this house…everything is a cage, a prison. I cannot continue to live this way. I need you to understand, and respect my decision."

If not for the dire circumstances, a blush would have exploded on his face; you referred to him by name. Though…he couldn’t fathom the idea of you being separated so soon after meeting. For years, he had watched you, silently admiring all your adorable little quirks. All the features you despised, he loved with the passion of a thousand suns. To him, you weren't any less than human…no, in fact, you were a goddess, sent from the Heavens to bewitch him, to make him swoon, all while erecting an ignorant façade. He spent hours upon hours, mostly during nighttide, wondering, praying, that you had taken note of his presence…that you saw him, as you glided around the castle. He wished so desperately to be your swain, but despite being little more than a peasant boy himself, he still held the higher title. He knew of your job, but he witnessed your anguish. He observed the unrelenting tears that dripped down your face. He knew you were hurting.

Was he honestly now granting assent to your death?

"Keigo." He suddenly made a grab for your hands, feeling them callous and trembling slightly. "My name…it's Keigo."

You nodded, plunging into uncertain waters. "Keigo…"

"Please call me that, every time you address me, from now until…" His head fell; was this really happening?

Was he truly unable to stop you? Unable to change your mind? Even as this thought rocketed around his brain, he knew the truth. He couldn’t ever hope to stop you. It was clear - your decision was final.

He waited until you nodded again. "We should probably go now."

No response came, but none was necessary. The two of you ran, bounding towards the castle, side-by-side. You were determined - Keigo and his father would live. In this cold, cruel world, they would flourish…they would become something. And you would watch this, his adventure…from another plane. Perhaps it was Hell, perhaps Heaven, perhaps neither. Either way, you wouldn’t let this be the end. If you had the chance to keep walking by his side, even in death, then you would welcome it with open arms. You wouldn’t shy away from it, from providing him with security - you could ward off all the negative energy, all the malign spirits, threatening to cause him harm. You would be there.

Even in death.

The courtyard approached. Tugging on his sleeve, you directed him to a large, metal door, complete with padlocks and some ominous-looking scratch marks. So far, nobody seemed to have paid you any mind. You thrust the key into the lock, hoping that the sound of metal against metal wouldn’t attract too much unwanted attention. Keigo was fixated on the patrolling guards, who were thankfully more interested in showing off their swords to the noblewomen. You slipped inside, unnoticed. Awaiting you was Keigo's father, alongside a few others, mostly unconscious. From severe beatings, you presumed.

"(Y/n)! What is he doing here?"

You shushed him. "Shinya…I need to call in a favour."

"I have a bad feeling about this." He pointed to the two males, now attempting to comfort each other. "Does it involve them?"

He managed to unlock the shackles, so easily?

"Yes. You must listen to me - I am begging you."

He was hesitant, but replied, "Alright. What do you need?"

"I need you to execute the criminal in my steed. This, I cannot do." You answered, pouring your heart into the words.

"The criminal…" He paused. "…You are not speaking of Takami, are you?"

You shook your head. "I am afraid not."

"Then…" He sighed, as the truth dawned. "…You are speaking of yourself."

"Indeed."

A glint of sorrow lingered in his eyes. "Are you certain? You cannot recover from death."

"I am certain, beyond question." There was no hesitance in your voice, no doubt…not even a hint of anxiety.

You sounded free. At long last, you sounded free. Finally, you could dictate which path you took, and when it all ended. To object your wish now…Shinya couldn’t imagine the guilt. Forcing his heart to agree was no uncomplicated task, and he wasn’t likely to cease grieving for many moons, but…he couldn’t deny you. He couldn’t strip you of what little serenity you were able to feel, in this moment. He was already dressed in his executioner's garb, anyway. Nobody would recognise him…not until everything was over. The head probably wouldn’t be checked, either. Not for a while. By that time, Keigo and his father should be liberated, freed from the clutches of the evil King Enji Todoroki. Hopefully, they could settle within the boundaries of land of King Toshinori Yagi, or All Might, as most affectionately named him.

That loathsome, ebony robe slipped from your body, and Shinya presented you with some smaller, dirtier clothes. You didn’t mind. In fact, you relished in it. Finally, finally...something was happening on your terms. You would die, on your terms, not by the instruction of the King. And…even though it signalled the end, the extinguishing of your life…you couldn’t have been happier, in that moment.

"(Y/n)…" Your young accomplice whispered, half-adoring, half-fearful. "…Do you really intend to do this? Isn't there anything I can say, to stop you?"

What sort of…no, that would be giving himself false hope. Your intentions were crystal-clear. He couldn’t sway you. Before a single word fell from your lips, he took a chance, he grasped at straws. He did something for which he had waited a lifetime…something that ignited a passionate flame within both your hearts.

He kissed you.

Time, obligations, fate…everything ceased to exist. Your lips danced together, like they were created for that exact purpose. It felt natural…It felt right. When you parted, gazes burning into one another, everything clicked into place.

"I will always be with you, Keigo. I swear, not even death will do us part." The words you uttered…they weren't scripted, weren't rehearsed, but…maybe they had forever nestled on your tongue.

Maybe it was something I always longed to say?

A sad, little smile perched on his lips. "I know, and I will always look for you. I will see you in everyone…in everything. I will be yours, until the very end."

"I wish you would live…I wish you would marry." Your whispers caressed his ears, and he shivered.

"But you know I won't."

How things progressed so far, you knew not. A loud bell-toll, a harbinger of death, echoed across the castle. This was the end. You captured his lips again, swiftly, and then you pushed him away. He couldn’t be allowed to witness such a tragedy. He looked about to cry, about to compromise this entire plan. You placed a finger in front of your mouth, as a reminder. You wanted this. You had always wanted this. Shinya donned the mask, but you saw his strife, the melancholy swimming in his eyes. You smiled. You smiled at Shinya, at Keigo and his father, and at the glaring sun, as you were led out, into the courtyard. The mask obscured your vision, but it would have been difficult not to realise how brightly the sun was shining.

I am certain that it will shine brightest when the axe is at my neck.

In spite of the agonising loss, the newfound frigidity of his heart, Keigo ran, his father in tow. Nothing would tempt him to glance back. Nothing could. Your promise, your wish for him…all except the marriage, he would honour. To be caught now, imprisoned, killed…your bodies would never again find comfort in each other, for there was a separate, less well-kept burial space for people of the Burakumin. If he was captured, he wouldn’t be buried with you. And your spirit might wander eternally, never finding him, never achieving peace.

So, he continued to run, tears cascading from his eyes. It seemed merely a second, but the reality was hazy. He was panicking now, whispering, then screaming at the top of his lungs. He knew it was idiotic, he knew it was a death sentence, but he was lost...so, hopelessly lost.

"Father! Father, where are you? Answer me, please!"

That wasn’t the man with whom his body collided. His tears were incessant, stinging.

This…this was a Royal Guard.

In an instant, he shattered all your hopes…all your dreams. A crow, no…perhaps three crows, flew close, carried by the gentle wind. Keigo collapsed, exhaustion, shock and unadulterated grief stabbing at his heart. Your head had just rolled…hadn’t it?

[Word Count: 4128]

[donalan9]

25mm Halfling Rogue ("Mellison" from Grenadier 2013, Adventuring Party)

[lady-kaichou]

Inline Skating In The Meantime

Mellisonant like a wind chime,

Inspiring me to write this rhyme

H2O with a hint of lime,

A five-star meal prepared with thyme

Clutching my chest like I'm a mime,

Falling for you is not a crime

Fingers crossed we converse sometime,

Inline skating in the meantime

[dwellintheclouds]

When the Devil Visited

Note: This is one of the short stories I wrote when I was reading Dante's Inferno in my last year of high school. I made some edits, though.

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

The devil was sitting at my windowsill in the almshouse last night.

 Many have probed me over and over to inquire what he resembled. Did he appear as a snake? Did he have bat-like wings? Yet, having seen his face, I could only describe him as a ravaged figure, suspended with rotten wings (they were much too big for his frame) that fought to beat heavily in the air, and a face, so hollow and empty, as if he emerged from the bubonic plague long ago.

  His bony shape casted a dark silhouette on the grey ashes in the fireplace as he danced, each step drawing closer to me. I could only describe the dance as erratic, each movement ending shortly with the next. His feet stuck out in each turn as his upper body swayed in inebriation. With every click of his crooked nails on the floor, I could smell the disease and decay. All my senses willed me to run; every second was a struggle as I wrenched my itching arms from the restraints. I struggled to keep my heavy eyelids open, though, now, in consideration, it would have been a better idea not to. I could see his gaping mouth and was immediately paralyzed with fear; each layer in his mouth was filled with what seemed to be endless rows of stained teeth that stretched into a black abyss.

  Danse macabre. Was what I heard in my mind.

  Then, as he reached my side, he slowly arched his back and wept. What came out of his mouth was the most horrid weep that sounded like the cry for a dead lover. When his howling ended, he spoke to me in a grating voice, though now I cannot recall the contents. Nonetheless, I knew that if he had intended to kill me, he would have done so by now.

   The devil asked to play a last song for me. Glimpsing across my empty room, my sweaty palms indicated toward my grimy fiddle. Oh, how I loved the sweet melodies that were produced from it, and how I longed to hear it again. Long ago, I played for the kings and queens and all their families in the courtyard before a fateful day: the day I slit the throats of their children while they were in sleep. It was shortly thereafter that I caught the sweat that plagued this worm-eaten country for ages.

  The devil clasped his contorted fingers around the neck of the fiddle, and, resting his chin, began to strike it with the bow. The initial jagged noises caused me to cover my ears, but it quickly faded away as the room was filled with bright colors and the mellisonant chirping of birds could be heard. The white, feathery clouds bounced as they were being whisked away by the warm breeze. The budding plants, now filled with red flowers, began to blossom in the crisp air. How I have never felt such vitality and spirit in such a long time, and how I longed for it again! This feeling in my chest has healed my broken legs and allowed me to jump around, as if I could laugh along with the children running in the meadows; as if the sins I have committed were whisked away into another world.

  Then everything went black. Everything was gone; there was no laughter, no sound. I was back in my empty room, with the dusty fiddle in the corner of my bed. I looked around for the devil, but he had gone; he had left with no traces.

But everything around me was dark. So, very, very, cold and dark.

[neesieiumz]

↣ jujutsu kaisen

⤘ nanami kento

mellisonant

venus

⤘ gojo satoru

aww, poor baby

⤘ geto suguru

raceway

⤘ choso kamo

ma bellamour

infatuation

⤘ hiromi higuruma

⤘ toji fushiguro

untamed temptations

[vairuler]

          ｡ﾟﾟ           𝐒𝐇𝐄          𝐈𝐒          𝐌𝐄𝐋𝐀𝐍𝐂𝐇𝐎𝐋𝐘     -     𝐒𝐎𝐔𝐒𝐄𝐃       ,          𝐒𝐔𝐁𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐄𝐃          𝐈𝐍          𝐂𝐀𝐔𝐒𝐓𝐈𝐂          𝐓𝐎𝐒𝐊𝐀          /          a          m̵a̶r̷c̶i̵d̴          melantha       ,          mayhaps       ,          languished          by          the          cyclone          of          𝒅𝒆𝒔𝒕𝒊𝒏𝒚       ,          throttled          by          the           salsilla          of          𝙵𝙰𝚃𝙴  .          behind          aurum          lookinglass                    &                    their          bathic          irises       ;          a          speck          of          𝑒𝑝𝘩𝑒𝑚𝑒𝑟𝑎𝑙          sorrow       ,          whelved           𝗺𝗮𝗿𝗿𝗼𝘄     -     𝗱𝗲𝗲𝗽  .          hark          no          myna’s         𝐬𝐲𝐥𝐯𝐚��          𝐥𝐚𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭     ,          no          zephyr’s          elegy       ,          but          the          dripping         of          mellisonant          sonnata          twixt          vermillion           strokes           *            𝐴𝑆          𝑇𝐸𝑁𝐷𝐸𝑅         𝐴𝑆          𝑃𝐸𝐴𝑅𝐿𝐸𝐷           𝑆𝐻𝑂𝑊𝐸𝑅𝑆       :               ❝          -----     ----     --           no         rain       ,           𝚗𝚘          𝚏𝚕𝚘𝚠𝚎𝚛𝚜   .         ❞

@starsorted​         𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞𝐝          𝐟𝐨𝐫          𝐚          𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐞𝐫          ♡     .    .     .     !

[spheir]

❰❰ ◞  *  @kaldfar​​  !  ♡

                            “     more  tea     ,     papa  ?     ”                             bright  eyes     &     a  toothy  grin          /          so  joyful  is  she  !       unbridled  delight  plain  ‘pon  cherubic  mien     ,     tiers  will  pull  ‘part  for  mellisonant  trill  to  depart     ,     a  flush  of  rose  coming  to  settle  ‘pon  apples  of  round  cheeks  .       small  digits  furl  ‘round  ceramic  handle     ,     teapot’s  spout  tipped  forward  to  refill  miniature  cup  clasped  in  his  hands  .        (     albeit  only  with  milk     ,     hot  beverages  strictly  off  limits  ‘til  she  can  be  trusted  to  hold  a  cup  steady     ,     a  feat  which  seems  increasingly  unlikely  to  occur  any  time  soon     )      .                              “     don’t  forget      —      you  gotta  keep  your  pinkie  out  !      ——      that’s  what  all  the  fancy  people  do  !    ”

[ceruleanmusings]

💗 + Mel!

💗 for a moodboard about another significant relationship in my muse’s life

I’m excluding the obvious romantic implication that can be taken out of this and am going for a bit of a curveball to choose the relationship between Mel and Allison. They’re opposite sides of the same coin: descendants from hunter families but while Allison was indoctrinated into one by her parents, Mel was vehemently taken down a different path by hers due to Mel’s mom shunning her hunter past. The two view strength and weakness in opposite ways and have a push and pull sort of relationship overtime, where they make each other better and work harder but butt heads on occasion. Outside of her relationship with Erica, despite it starting off rocky, Allison ends up Mel’s closest girl friend.

Moodboard meme | askbox

[enchantedisabella]

Peculiar words I associate with names part 2

Cris @faintnotion :

flitting (short-lasted)

victory (an act of winning)

laurel (a plant)

triumph (synonymous to victory)

coronation (the ceremony of crowning a sovereign)

aeneous (brassy, a type of golden-green)

adroit (quick or skillful, adept in actions or thoughts)

astral (of or pertaining to the aster; stellar, star-shaped, pertaining to the stars)

capricious (impulsive, whimsical, unpredictable)

celadon (a type of pale green)

celerity (speed; alacrity; briskness)

cislunar (of or relating to the space between the earth and the moon or the moon’s orbit)

dulcet (sweet-sounding, mellisonant)

euphoria (feeling of great happiness)

lithe (flexible; marked by an effortless grace)

mellifluous (sweet-sounding as honey)

mercurial (fickle; erratic; ingenious)

mystique (a special, esoteric skill)

piquant (aromatic, appealingly provocative or appetising)

reverie (an idle thought, surrendering to daydreams)

roseate (rose-coloured)

Anyway, here’s your name aesthetic, I hope you like it!