#my perseverance is worn down

[saturnznct]

he holds the baby for the first time | enhypen x reader

➸ note; hehe my first fic back!! very much in my engene era again so expect more enha fics! hope I'm not too rusty

➸ word count: 2159 words

➸ sangyoon, sam, ella, eunhye, yeeun & serin; newborn

➸ warning(s): bloody imagery(?), breastfeeding, premature birth, c-section, mentions of breathing tube

enhypen masterlist

⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯ ⋆✦⋆ ⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯

heeseung

So much could happen in the span of a year.

Heeseung couldn’t believe that in just one year, you had gotten married, found out you were pregnant on the same day, been through a whole pregnancy, and now your son was finally here.

‘He is the cutest baby there has ever been,’ Heeseung declares once he’s all cleaned up and laying on your chest.

‘You say that now, wait until we get home and he keeps us up all night long.’

‘Doesn’t make him any less gorgeous,’ Heeseung grins, ‘just like his mummy/mommy.’

‘I don’t know if that’s the best word to describe mummy/mommy right now.’

‘No, I think it’s the perfect word. You have never been more beautiful to me than you are right now.’

‘You’re cute,’ you roll your eyes, ‘I hope he looks like you.’

Heeseung turns his head to kiss the side of yours, and in that moment you yawn.

‘Oh, I think mummy/mommy needs a nap Yoonie.’

‘Hmm, I agree… Will you be okay on your own?’

‘Don’t worry about us,’ Heeseung gives you a reassuring smile, ‘you need to focus on getting rest. We’ll be just fine.’

Heeseung ever so gently lifts Sangyoon from your chest, cradling him in his arms.

‘Wake me, if he needs me,’ you mumble sleepily, turning onto your side and closing your eyes.

Heeseung settles on the couch beside the window, laying across it.

He briefly scrolls through his phone, reading notifications and answering a couple of text messages but finds he cannot tear his eyes away from Sangyoon for too long.

After a few minutes, you’re clearly asleep, face relaxed and body rising up and down rhythmically. 

Heeseung whispers to his baby boy. 

‘You’re perfect, aren’t you? I didn’t expect for you to happen so soon but.. I’m so grateful you came along when you did.’ 

Heeseung knows that you can’t really tell a baby’s features for a while, but he swears Sangyoon has his nose. His chest fills with pride.

‘I love you so so much Sangyoon-ie.’

jay

Jay had not stopped crying since the moment his son was born.

The moment the tears would begin to subside, he caught a glimpse of his baby boy laying in your arms and his eyes would become glossy again. If you’d told Jay nine months ago that this is where he would be now, he wouldn’t have believed it. But starting his family with you felt so right, like the most natural thing in the world.

‘He looks exactly like you,’ you mumble tiredly, gently rubbing Sam’s head with your thumb.

‘You think so?’

‘Oh yeah. Daddy’s twin.’

Jay’s heart leaps at the title. He studies Sam’s face for a few moments.

‘You know what, I think you’re right,’ he says, ‘Your genes stood no chance against mine.’

‘M’not complaining.’

‘Good genes all around.’

By now, Sam was a couple of hours old, and you had been doing skin-to-skin with him for some time. Coupled with the exhaustion of the birth, your eyes are growing heavy.

‘God, you must be exhausted,’ Jay notices your worn out demeanour.

‘It’s been a long day,’ you chuckle.

‘C-can I take him from you?’

‘You don’t have to ask, you’re his daddy.’

You sit up a bit, allowing Jay to take Sam from you more easily.

‘Hi baby boy,’ Sam fusses a little bit, ‘it’s okay, I’m your daddy.’

Sam’s fussing quickly turns into weak wails, and Jay’s expression drops.

‘No, no, don’t cry, please- Y/N, I think he wants to be with you-‘

‘Jay. You’re fine, just keep going. He’ll calm down.’

He looks totally out of his depth, but perseveres, continuing to shush and comfort the baby.

‘You’re okay, you’re safe, it’s just me, your mummy/mommy is still here, see?’

Sam eventually settles, cries reduced to gurgles.

Sensing his small victory, Jay is beaming, more than you’ve ever seen before. Again he can’t help but think about how natural but so foreign it feels to have his own baby in his arms.

Jay awkwardly rocks Sam, ‘I can’t believe you’re really ours, my son…’

jake

Through his career, Jake has been able to travel the world and experience so many unique things, but nothing will ever come close to watching you give birth to Ella.

You had planned for a home birth, feeling as though your home would be a comforting setting and make the process easier. You’d pictured maybe giving birth on your bed or maybe even the couch or a beanbag (not considering the mess) so it was a bit of a surprise that you wound up in your large bathtub. But, you had insisted, at the time.

Jake had sat in with you, and with the help of the midwife, had delivered Ella himself. He’d held her for just a moment, holding her under her arms as he transferred her to you, but even just that one touch had him longing for another. Jake knew how important it was for Ella to get to know yours first, so he pushed his feelings aside.

The both of you were so mesmerised by her big shiny brown eyes and little sounds that you hardly noticed the fallout from the birth pooling below you. 

‘We should really give you a hose down, Y/N,’ your midwife gestures to your separate shower, ‘are your pyjamas still laid out in the bedroom? You can get into bed afterwards.’

She leaves to grab your change of clothes while you and Jake make the awkward first handover.

Jake wanders into her nursery while you step into the shower with the midwife’s help. Ella’s hands peek out from the blanket, grasping at the air. 

‘Oh wow, hi baby,’ he whispers, holding out his finger and fitting it under Ella’s curled little hand.

Ella gurgles and spit pools between her lips, which Jake gently wiped away with the blanket. 

’You’re so tiny, almost feel like you’re gonna break.’

Jake slowly rubs her hand with his thumb.

‘Let’s put some clothes on you.’

Jake lays her down on the changing table, choosing a floral print onesie and putting it on her, just like how he learned in your antenatal classes.

He gently lifts Ella up again, taking her into your bedroom to wait for you. 

He tentatively lifts her tiny head to his lips, pressing a kiss to her forehead.‘You’re my beautiful girl, aren’t you? Gonna do my absolute best by you. I promise I’ll look after you, always.’

sunghoon

This was absolutely the greatest day of Sunghoon’s life.

His beautiful baby girl had come into the world safely, and she was everything he’d hoped for and more.

He couldn’t look at her for more than a few moments without tearing up or going on a tangent about how much he loves her and you.

He secretly (but not so secretly) had hoped for at least one daughter, and when you found out Eunhye was in fact a girl, he was ecstatic.

The moment she was born and he saw her for the first time, it was as though his heart had doubled in size, as if it had to grow bigger to make room for just how much love he had for his daughter.

Eunhye was barely two hours old when she fed for the first time. The midwife helped you with the actual feeding, getting Eunhye to latch on properly, while Sunghoon supported you more with encouraging words and helping you drink water while your hands were occupied.

Otherwise, Sunghoon felt a little unhelpful, standing at a distance and just watching. 

It was blatantly so difficult for you. The feeding hurt, your entire body ached and you felt pain all over, and he was essentially powerless.

‘She’s eating well,’ the midwife commented, ‘she’s got a good appetite.’

‘Wonder where she gets that..’

‘It’ll get easier, Y/N. You’ll both get used to it and it will hurt less and less.’

Eventually, Eunhye tries to pull away, signalling she’s done. The midwife turns to Sunghoon.

‘Dad? You want to burp the little one?’

‘Hoon?’

Sunghoon is taken aback, suddenly uneasy.

‘Is it okay?’ He asks you.

‘Hoon, you should take her. Let her get to know her daddy.’

‘Okay, Sunghoon, if you just lift her from under her arms- that’s it- rest her on your shoulder, one hand here, the other on her back.’

Eunhye feels tiny in his arms. The midwife instructs him on how to properly burp her.

‘This won’t hurt her, will it?’ 

’No,’ the midwife chuckles, ‘you’d know if it was.’

Sunghoon’s head is craned around to look at her face, unable to look away.

’You’re doing really well, Sunghoon,’ the midwife praises, and a few minutes later, Eunhye burps, then whines.

‘You’re okay, you’re okay,’ Sunghoon pouts, ‘you’re just amazing, aren’t you?’

sunoo

‘She’s an angel,’ Sunoo is just radiating pure happiness and pride. He practically has hearts in his eyes looking at your newborn daughter, who was cooing in your arms.

’She’s perfect,’ you agree.

Your baby girl’s eyes are only half open, but she’s clearly studying the two of you. 

‘Hi, baby,’ Sunoo says softly, ‘we love you so much.’

‘We really do,’ you smile.

Sunoo leans across to kiss her head, and when he pulls away he rests his hand on her head.

’Her head is so small, fits in my hand.’

‘Didn’t feel very small when it was coming out of me,’ you remark pointedly, and he winces a little.

‘Of course, I didn’t think of that. You did incredibly.’

You could see how eager Sunoo was to be close to her, he couldn’t take his eyes off of her. 

‘Do you want to hold her?’ 

Sunoo’s eyes gloss over.

‘Is that even a question?’

‘So no then?’ 

’Shut up, give her here.’

She doesn’t fuss in the slightest when being passed to Sunoo. 

‘Oh hello my pretty angel,’ Sunoo handles her expertly, like he was made to be a dad.

He lifts her up to kiss her forehead, and lingers there for a moment. 

’She smells so good,’ Sunoo chuckles, ‘like a proper baby.’

‘She is a proper baby,’ you point out.

‘You know what I mean. I almost don’t believe she’s real. Don’t believe we really made her. She’s so pretty, it’s almost like I’m holding a doll.’

Sunoo rocks her while shifting his weight between his feet, eyes never leaving her face, warm smile never leaving his.

‘Yeeun,’ Sunoo says suddenly.

‘Huh?’

‘She looks like a Yeeun.’

You mull it over for a few moments.

‘I like it,’ you nod, ‘Yeeun it is.’

Sunoo somehow brightens even more, so proud that he’d named his daughter.

‘You’re my beautiful girl, Yeeun-ah,’ he repeatedly kisses her head, ‘I promise I’ll love and protect you always.’

jungwon

You were thirty-four weeks when your waters broke, and Serin was rushed into the world. 

She was tiny, barely five pounds. 

Jungwon held your hand throughout the whole surgery, and was reluctant to leave your side when Serin was taken away and you were being stitched up.

Serin was quickly referred to special care, and you were taken along with her. 

‘How does she look?’ you ask Jungwon, while your baby girl is getting hooked up to the equipment.

‘She’s beautiful,’ Jungwon holds your hand again, squeezing it gently, ‘so beautiful. She’ll be okay.’

For hours, you feel hopeless. You feel so empty, and you ache to hold and be with your daughter. 

Jungwon convinces you to get some sleep, which after the long day you’ve had, it finds you easier than you thought.

You wake up to Jungwon shaking you gently.

‘Baby, look who it is.’

He helps you sit up while Serin is wheeled into the room in a crib. 

She has patches on her body, to monitor her heart rate and breathing, and a breathing tube in her nose. 

‘She’s very healthy Mama,’ the midwife says, ‘just needs some help with those lungs.’

‘Can- can we hold her?’ you ask weakly.

‘You can,’ the midwife smiles.

You sob when she’s finally placed on your chest and you get to do skin to skin. 

‘Look at her,’ you cry, and when you look at Jungwon, he’s wiping away tears.

He opens his mouth to speak, but chokes out a sob of his own.

An hour flies by and the midwife returns, both to check on you and the baby. You feed Serin for the first time.

‘Daddy, would you like a hold?’ The midwife asks, and Jungwon’s heart skips a beat.

‘Can I?’ he asks you, and you nod.

The midwife helps, keeping the wires out of the way. 

The moment Serin is placed in his arms, Jungwon’s entire world changes.

‘Hey Serin,’ Jungwon says softly, ‘hi sweetheart. You’re our strong girl, aren’t you?’

Tears roll down your cheeks, hormones and stress of the day catching up to you.

‘Our fighter girl,’ he muses, ‘you are so so loved.’

[cowgurrrl]

Roll The Bones

Pairing: Joel Miller x reader

Author’s note: I wrote this in the midst of a flare up so please enjoy and be gentle with your disabled friends <3

Summary: A bad pain day with Joel [1.5k]

Warnings: descriptions of injuries and subsequent chronic pain, medical settings and discussion, I think that’s it??

When Joel finds you, you're in a pitiful state. Your arm is folded over your face, covering your eyes even though the blinds are closed and the room is dark. Your right leg is peeking out from under the bundle of blankets and quilt, elevated with a lukewarm towel surrounding the swelling kneecap. The room smells like the salve someone in the town makes that's supposed to alleviate your pain. So far, it's just given you a headache. Your entire body throbs with pain and frustration. It shouldn't be like this, you think ruefully. I shouldn't feel like this. 

Joel lightly pads over to your bedside— his footsteps quiet now that he's discarded his boots by the front door— and perches next to you. His hand finds a home on your afflicted knee and carefully maneuvers his thumb over the tendons to help with the pain. You shift the arm covering your face to reach for him, and he smiles. 

"There she is," he murmurs as you take him in. His hair is long and a little unruly in the back, but you think it makes him look soft and domestic. He's shed his work jacket and heavier clothes downstairs and is clad in his soft, well-worn-in flannel. He smells like pine and leather. You want to wrap yourself in his warmth but settle for having him nearby. "Ellie told me you were havin' a rough day." He says. It doesn't surprise you that she did, even though you promised her you were fine and didn't need him. It's become rare that she doesn't update him daily on your health.

About a year ago, you were on patrol with Tommy when a Runner came out of nowhere and charged at your horse. She startled and bucked you off before you could regain control of the reins. The Runner was dead before you could hit the ground, and your horse would be recovered within the day, but the damage was done. You broke your leg in two places and dislocated your knee, in addition to a low-level concussion and cuts on your face and arms. When you came back into Jackson on Tommy's horse, half-conscious, bloody, and delirious with pain, Joel was horrified, Ellie even more so.

You were in the hospital for a month as they used what they could to put you in something akin to a cast and reset the bones. Joel and Ellie took turns being guards at your bed, monitoring what they gave you, when, and how much, and how your healing process was going. They were there with you every day, learning the tips and tricks to support you and keeping you sane as you stared at the white walls. 

Six months, the doctor said. Six months is all it would take to be back to normal as long as you did everything you were supposed to. Things have gotten better slower than you would like, but they have gotten better. You have really good days where you don't feel anything other than slight twinges when you move your leg in a weird way. Those days, it's hard to remember that you broke it in the first place. But other days, like today, you can feel every muscle in your leg tightening as stiff pain rockets up and down your body. You thought you could persevere enough to go to the store with Ellie, but your body obviously had other plans.

"My leg gave out on me when I was coming down the stairs. Pretty sure I made the whole house shake when I fell." You explain, and his eyebrows knit together in phantom pain as his thumb works your muscle. 

"You hurt anythin'?" He asks. "Other than your pride?" You blow air out of your nose in a half-laugh and shake your head. 

"Just some bruises," you say. He finds a tender spot in your knee that makes you hiss and ball up your fists, but he doesn't let up until the muscle releases. It's what he's supposed to do: break up the scar tissue, relax the muscles, and hope for the best. It still hurts like a bitch, and it'll hurt more in the morning. He mumbles apologies under his breath and kisses you to try and distract you, but your brain's been running wild for hours. "I went so long without any pain." You finally say, breaking the reverie and collapsing the unwanted space your pain often creates. 

"You've been takin' on a lot these past few weeks. It doesn't surprise me somethin' would flare up." It's an honest assessment. He warned you this would happen, but you ignored him. You thought you knew your body better. You wanted to know your body better. The returning thought and the gentle hand on your knee turn your tongue into sandpaper, and tears prick in the corners of your eyes. Despite the low light in the room, Joel catches it and makes a sympathetic noise. 

"Hey, talk to me." He says softly, shifting his hand from your knee to your face to catch a few stray tears. You shake your head and try and fail to form the words. Joel is patient. He always is, but he shouldn't have to be. 

"I'm so tired of being like this." You whisper, hating the feel of the words on your tongue and hating the sound of them even more. Joel gives you a confused look and pushes your hair out of your face. 

"Bein' like what?"

"Sick," you choke out. Now that the dam is broken, there's no stopping the bitter rush of words from leaving you. "We took her across the country and got rid of anyone who even looked at her wrong. Now, I can't even get on a horse without hurting. And I do all the stupid fucking things the doctor tells me to do. I do the exercises and take the medicine and everything, and nothing is making it better, and I'm so tired." 

"Why didn't you tell me that?" 

"Because I didn't want you to think I'm broken." It's a thought you've harbored since you were laid up in the hospital, unable to even walk to the bathroom without help, but this is the first time you've expressed it. You secretly hoped if you just didn't say anything about it, maybe Joel wouldn't notice. It's a stupid idea, given that your entire lives have changed since the accident. You just didn't want to get thrown away like all the other broken things in this world. Joel takes a deep breath and gazes at you. 

"Honey, you aren't broken. Not even close to it," he says. You want to counter him, but the weight of your emotion is too heavy on your chest. "I wanna know if somethin' is hurtin' you cause when you hurt, I hurt, okay? You're not a burden or somethin' to fix. You just… need a little extra care right now, and that's okay. I wanna take care of you."

"What if it's like this forever?" You ask, and he shakes his head. 

"It won't be."

"But, what if it is?" More tears fill your eyes as you await his answer. He didn't fall in love with this version of you. You don't know if you could blame him if he never does. But with enough ease and love to take your breath away, Joel kisses your forehead, right where your temple smacked against the cold ground. He kisses your forehead and the white scars littering your cheeks before finally shifting to kiss the knee propped up on pillows and hope. He doesn't flinch at the swelling or the angry spasms. He treats them with care and attention. He treats them as another part of you. 

"Takin' care of you has never and will never be on the list of worst things imaginable. Your health is not a sacrifice or a burden on me. If it's like this forever, we'll adapt, but I know you. I know how hard you're workin' to get better. I know we'll find a way to live with this," he says. "But I need you to talk to me when things aren't workin'. I can't help you if you don't tell me what's helpin' and what's not, okay?" You swallow around the lump in your throat and nod. 

"Okay." 

"Okay," he echoes. "I'm gonna get you an appointment with Dr. Lutton and see if we can't get you on a new treatment plan first thing tomorrow mornin'. Is there anythin' I can do for you until then?" He asks, fully prepared to go to the edge of the earth if you asked him to. 

"Can you lay with me?" You ask, and he smiles. 

"Of course, baby." He mumbles. He kisses your knee one more time before shuffling to wrap you in his arms. The warmth from his body helps relieve some of your tension and pain, and he kneads calming circles over your shoulders and back. Your focus shifts from the pain in your leg to the song he's humming, the vibrations in his chest a welcome distraction. The pain doesn't go away entirely— you doubt it ever will— but you rest your weary body against his and sleep, finding wholeness in his acceptance of your loss. 

TAGLIST: @abbyhaslongshorts @kiwiharrykiwi @sumsworldz @myloveistoolittle @anavatazes @marantha @cosmoscoffeee @shyminnie07 @beezusvreeland @eddiemunsonsbedroom @harriedandharassed @doodlebob-mp3 @ignorethisplz2004 @buckyispunk @d1lf-loverrr @vee-bees-blog @moel-jiller @anoverwhelmingdin @casssiopeia @maried01 @acupofhollie

[kikyoupdates]

Love Bite ⭑˚🩸⭑ 𝑓𝑖𝑟𝑠𝑡 𝑏𝑖𝑡𝑒

yandere!vampires x f!reader

yandere, reverse harem, original characters, vampire!ocs x fem!reader

Desperate for money to pay off your debts, you sign up for a program that allows you to sell your blood to vampires. At first, everything is fine, and you’re finally able to make ends meet. But they soon begin craving more than just your blood.

story masterlist | next

Certain people are dealt a shittier hand in life than others, and unfortunately, you are one of those people.

Life has never been easy for you. As far back as you can remember, it's been one shitstorm after the other. Your parents are as good as dead to you, because all they ever did was make reckless choices and run away, leaving you to clean up their mess. That's how, at the young age of twenty, you've already got more debt than the average person could ever fathom.

Still, you make do. You hustle as best you can to get through one day and move on to the next. It's exhausting, and sometimes it feels like you're ready to give up, but against all odds, you persevere.

"That'll be 50 credits," the cashier says.

You let out a sigh and give her your card. Everything is so goddamn expensive these days. Even a simple grocery trip feels like a big slap in the face.

"Oh. Sorry," she blinks. "It's been declined. Do you have any other form of payment on hand?"

Shit. This one too?

You mumble an apology and dig through your wallet again. Thankfully, you happen to have enough cash to cover the cost. Just barely.

"Thank you for shopping with us," the cashier recites monotonously. She packs your groceries in a bag and hands it to you, then gestures for the next customer to step forward.

You leave the store the same as always, feeling worn-down and discouraged. You'll have to apply for a new card, but who knows when they'll send it to you. Goddammit. You're already scraping the bottom of the barrel as is. You hardly have enough emergency savings to last until then.

It's a shitty day, and unfortunately for you, it's about to get even worse.

"[Name]," a distinct, familiar voice mutters. You flinch at the sound, nearly dropping your grocery bag in the process. There's a man standing outside your apartment complex. A man that always makes your stomach crease in discomfort.

You instinctively step back. "I don't want any trouble, Johnny. Please, can I just get through?"

He ignores you and walks over, and while you stand there, stiff from fright, he peeks into your grocery bag and hums, visibly amused.

"Not exactly a lavish dinner," he chuckles. "But I guess you've got no choice but to be frugal, huh?"

"I just want to go home," you plead. "Please. Don't do this."

Alas, Johnny has never been one to give a shit about your circumstances, and today is no exception.

"I haven't been getting the money you promised me," he glares. "You've been late on your payments, and I'm really starting to lose my patience here."

You try to protest, but he wraps his hand around your throat and forcibly pins you against a wall. He isn't applying too much pressure, not yet, but the threat is there all the same.

"You owe me money, [Name]." His pupils constrict, a telltale sign that he's furious. "I'm done with your shitty excuses. If you can't make good on your promises, then you pay the price. This is the way the world works."

He holds you there, just so he can watch you whimper and cower in fear, then he eventually releases his hold on you and steps away.

"I'm giving you one more week," he says. "If you don't come up with the amount we agreed on in one week, I might seriously have to kill you. And don't even think of running away like your parents did. I'm sure as hell not gonna make the same mistake twice."

Johnny walks off with a steady, relaxed gait and his hands buried in his pockets. It's that easy for him. He can threaten an innocent woman and not think anything of it, the sick bastard.

You sniffle and resist the urge to cry. Fuck your parents. All they ever did was ruin your life. You have no idea where they're hiding right now, but for their own sake, they had better not show their faces around you ever again.

Still. There's no point in lamenting what can't be changed. Your parents are gone. It's up to you to remedy this situation and pay that disgusting loan shark back.

The question is, how?

How in the world will you pull that off? You barely make enough to eat two meals a day and cover your rent, let alone the steep cost of your debts.

It just seems like a lost cause. You've been working yourself to the bone, but you still can't even make a dent in what your parents owe. It's all too much to bear. It makes you want to forfeit your life entirely. At least then, you might finally be able to rest in peace.

Weighed down by the hopelessness of your situation, you trudge into your crappy studio apartment, chuck the groceries in the fridge, and plop down on the couch, defeated.

I guess it's time to look for another job. Something I can squeeze into my schedule. I can probably survive without sleeping a few days in a row, right?

You chuckle brokenly and scroll through your phone, looking for anything you might have a shot at. Finding a good job in this city is yet another hopeless dream for someone like you, who didn't go to college and doesn't have any other notable qualifications. All of your current jobs may as well be paying you dirt, which is why you can never meet Johnny's ridiculous demands.

You're just about to give up and go make yourself a rather pathetic dinner, when suddenly, something catches your eye.

[𝗡𝗘𝗪 𝗣𝗥𝗢𝗚𝗥𝗔𝗠 𝗟𝗔𝗨𝗡𝗖𝗛]: 𝗕𝗹𝗼𝗼𝗱 𝗱𝗼𝗻𝗼𝗿𝘀 𝘄𝗮𝗻𝘁𝗲𝗱. 𝗦𝘂𝗰𝗰𝗲𝘀𝘀𝗳𝘂𝗹 𝗮𝗽𝗽𝗹𝗶𝗰𝗮𝗻𝘁𝘀 𝘄𝗶𝗹𝗹 𝗰𝗼𝗼𝗽𝗲𝗿𝗮𝘁𝗲 𝘄𝗶𝘁𝗵 𝘃𝗮𝗺𝗽𝗶𝗿𝗲 𝗰𝗶𝘁𝗶𝘇𝗲𝗻𝘀 𝗼𝗻 𝗮𝗻 𝗮𝘀-𝗻𝗲𝗲𝗱𝗲𝗱 𝗯𝗮𝘀𝗶𝘀.

Vampires. Not long ago, a law was passed, granting vampires access to the city. More and more of them seem to be moving here, the central hub of the country. Of course, most people felt uncomfortable with this change, but it seems to be a necessary step in fighting back against years of discrimination. Humans naturally fear vampires, and the government is doing everything it can to integrate them into society.

Since drinking blood by force is considered a crime, this program is most likely a way for vampires to obtain their blood safely and without any consequence, just so long as people are willing to sign up for it.

You take a moment to assess your situation. You have almost no money to your name, and there's a greedy loan shark that's just itching to torture you if you fail to pay him back in time. If you don't get some money, and fast, you're probably headed for the afterlife.

That being said, you've never encountered a vampire before. You've heard all sorts of horror stories about them. That they're physically stronger than humans, have more acute senses, and could easily bludgeon you to death if they wanted to.

But even if that's actually true, how is it any different than what Johnny will do to you if you don't pay him back?

You press your lips together. Perhaps there's no harm in trying at least once and seeing how it'll go. It's not like you're guaranteed to get accepted for the program anyways. And besides, this is being implemented by the government, so surely, they won't allow any humans to come to harm in the process.

Above all else, you are incredibly desperate, with very little to lose.

So, you decide to take a gamble.

𝗔𝗣𝗣𝗟𝗬 [𝗫]?

...

Your luck might finally be changing for the better, or maybe they're just desperate for applicants, but either way, you got the job.

It was a bit tedious. The screening process was rather lengthy, and they made you do quite a few medical tests to ensure you didn't have any infectious diseases or anything like that. You suppose having a clean bill of health is the one thing required for this position, considering you'll be giving your blood to someone else. Thankfully, even though your life is shit, you've always been rather sturdy, which is the only reason you've lasted this long.

You're currently walking through a glossy white corridor. The building you're in is polished and sleek, some kind of medical company that's been researching vampires for quite a long time. They call themselves Plasma Inc., which is a bit tacky, but you're certainly in no position to judge.

The doctor escorting you holds a clipboard against his chest, and glances over at you every so often.

"We're almost there," he says. After a brief pause, he adds, "There's no need to be nervous."

Honestly, you're a little nervous, but only because you've never done this before. Giving your blood to a vampire... it all sounds so farfetched. You really didn't think this was something you'd ever be doing.

But beggars can't afford to be choosers.

"For the client's privacy and peace of mind, there aren't any cameras inside the room. We will not be able to see or hear anything that happens in there. You signed the confidentiality clause, so please keep in mind that you will be liable for any private information that you happen to disclose."

You knew as much going into this. There's no point in psyching yourself out. Everything's going to be fine. This is all perfectly safe.

...it should be, at least.

"Whenever you're ready," the doctor says. He's stopped in front of a door, and you instinctively gulp as you imagine what—or rather, who—is on the other side.

Okay, then. No reason to back out now. You chose this. It's a desperate measure, and sure, you'll lose a bit of blood in the process, but if it helps you pay off your debt and get back on your feet, then it's easily worth it.

"I'm ready," you say.

The doctor nods briefly, offers you an encouraging smile, then opens the door.

It closes behind you right away, and your eyes instinctively search the room until they land on a motionless, seated figure.

It's a man. Well, a vampire, but still a man. Deep down, you'd been hoping that it might be a woman. A man seems somewhat more intimidating, although you suppose all vampires are stronger than humans, so it wouldn't have made a difference either way.

He's beautiful, though. Vampires are scarce in numbers, and they don't usually go out during the day, so it's unlikely that you would have ever passed by one. But you've only ever heard people speak of them in frightening terms. Never in a million years did you imagine they'd be so utterly gorgeous. Or perhaps this particular vampire is simply an exception.

You don't quite realize how much time you've spent fawning over his appearance until he suddenly stands up.

Instinctively, you flinch, and it's clear that it doesn't go unnoticed.

He narrows his eyes. "If you're not comfortable doing this, you're welcome to leave. I was told that the humans who signed up for this program were all completely willing. I have no intention of taking your blood without your full cooperation."

"Oh. S-Sorry," you stammer. "I'm not uncomfortable. I guess I'm just a little bit starstruck. It's my first time meeting a vampire."

"There's no need to gawk at me. I'm not some animal trapped inside a cage."

He has a rather harsh tongue, but again, you're in no position to judge. Perhaps your reaction offended him, unintentional as it may have been.

"Sorry," you say again, then you offer him a weak smile. "Um... I'm [Name]. I'm not really sure what the etiquette for this sort of thing is, but it's nice to meet you."

It takes him a while to respond. He studies you quietly with those mesmerizing eyes of his, and the silence is awkward, to say the least.

"I'm Xavier," he finally replies. He frowns a bit. "But I didn't come here to chat. If you're ready, I'll like to move on with this as soon as possible."

Right. He's here for the same reason you are. It's not an opportunity for the two of you to exchange pleasantries.

You're here to sell your blood, and he's here to drink it.

"Okay," you swallow. Now that it's come down to it, you can feel your heart beating faster by the second. But this is fine. This is nothing. Compared to all the shit you've already been through, this may as well be a walk in the park.

You walk over to him, taking slow, careful steps, then you sit down in one of the chairs. He does the same, staring at you without blinking the whole time. You watch as he shuffles a bit closer, and he uses his fingers to pull down the collar of your shirt slightly. You shiver at the sensation of his skin brushing against yours. God, his hands are cold.

Xavier stares right into your eyes. "This is your last chance to back out. If you tell me to stop now, I will, but otherwise, I'll take it that you've agreed to move on."

"I'm fine," you reassure. Despite the fact that your stomach is a bundle of nerves right now, you're determined to press on. You need this. There's simply no other option.

You'll do whatever it takes to live on, even if it means selling the very essence that grants you life in the first place.

"Okay," Xavier says, and he wraps an arm around your waist, pulling you closer. His jaw unhinges, and the last thing you see before you squeeze your eyes shut is the pearly-white color of his bright, glistening fangs.

He bites into your neck.  

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[shrillow]

Winter Flowers - Ch 3

sylus x reader; dragon!sylus x human sacrifice!reader

Ch 1, Ch 2, Ch 3, Ch 4

NSFW: gore, smut, cunnilingus

You spend the winter in the dragon’s lair. 

At first, neither of you seem to know what you’re doing. Where to start.

Shall he begin with the dead languages of a people whose last descendants no longer walk the earth? Will he show you the fashions of the world? Should he recount the doctrines of the hundred religions he knew? Perhaps he still possesses those old star maps which sailors once used to brave the seas?

In the end, Sylus begins with a story. Many stories. Whatever your hand brushes—an instrument, a piece of furniture, a weapon—he unravels its history with the steady, patient rhythm of his voice.

“It was an heirloom passed down through a royal bloodline that ruled two thousand years ago . . .”

“The fae believed that sword was forged by a sun god when he was banished to the mortal world . . .”

“This was a popular instrument used for herding sheep. You place your fingers over these holes and blow here . . .”

From sunrise to sunset, the dragon recalls the stories of things with eidetic precision. To your delight and amazement, Sylus has a seemingly limitless memory. And despite the spontaneous nature of your lessons, the dragon is a surprisingly good teacher.

“Only because you’ve proven yourself to be a prodigious student.” The affection laced through his words softens his smug grin.

You blush and bury your nose back into the astronomy text you’re translating.

Nights in the cave are your favorite, for you and dragon select a book from his expansive collection and read together.

Sylus’ tail loosely curls around you while you decipher a collection of mariners fables. Something about a sea serpent who’s hunting a group of sailors after they stole a legendary treasure from it—a brooch? The interpretation is frustratingly vague.

It’s slow work, and the ink has either faded or smeared, but you persevere through the ages it’s endured to be read by you.

The dragon corrects you occasionally, but otherwise is content to rest his head in your lap.

Through the night, your voice fills the cavern, drowning out the winter noise. So engrossed in the book, you don’t notice when Sylus grows quiet.

You glance down to see if he fell asleep, only for you to catch him staring at you. His gaze is honey in the light. Skin like the golden shade of the wheat fields. Even his silver hair seems to catch fire and all his sharp edges are burned down to something tender.

You have not touched each other since the rut, and you dare not now. Why would you? You are not his mate.

Oh, but it’s moments like these, where time turns to liquid and the earth quiets until it’s just your and the dragon’s hushed murmurs, when you want to melt into him and never leave.

How long can you pretend? At least one more night.

“Why’d you stop?” he murmurs, “Are you bored?”

You shake your head. “I just lost my place.”

Sylus lifts himself up, and you mourn his closeness until he gently grasps your hands beneath the book. “Would you like me to take over?”

You ignore the way his thumb circles your knuckles. “Only if you teach me the rest tomorrow.”

His next words leave a dull ache in your chest.

“I’ll teach you everything I know.”

So as the world darkens to its last season, and the snow quietly gathers outside your alpine sanctuary, you and the dragon weave a tapestry of the universe, of everything that once or continues to sleep below the ageless stars.

Sometimes, your mind wanders back to the village. To your siblings and father. To Tara. Not because of some longing for those sleepy huts and worn fields. Only because that is the nature of memory, and as all these treasures that pass through your searching hands inevitably remind you of them.

“Tara would love this.”

You flip through a manuscript on herbology, searching for a more effective salve for Sylus’ injuries. You recognize only a handful of the plants mentioned, Tara would know at least half.

Sylus’ tail flicks out. “Who?”

“My friend,” you elaborate, “She’s a healer. She knows every plant in the valley, when they grow, which ones work together and which don't.”

You grind the dried herbs Tara had stuffed into your bag before you left. She’d almost given you her entire stash, even though those same plants would not be seen again until spring. You're grateful for her generosity as you peel back the dressing and gently clean the dragon’s wounds.

His injuries are surprisingly slow to heal. It may be weeks yet until his full strength returns. You suspect it is due to whatever magic the bounty hunters used to subdue him. The very thought makes your blood boil every time.

“Why were those men after you?” you ask Sylus. You force your hand to steady as you apply the new salve.

He tries to look over his shoulder at you, only to pull at the stitching. “Ngh. I thought you would’ve guessed by now, sweetie.” He holds up a bloody bandage. “Healing blood, remember?”

The answer does not sit well with you.

“And the collar?”

“Useless runes and mage tricks,” he sneers, “I’ve broken every one they’ve put on me.”

Images of the dragon collared flash through your mind. You’re extra gentle when you clean around his neck. “How often do they come?”

“A couple times a century.” He shrugs. “It’s to be expected. Dragons are a valuable commodity.”

Your hands pause over his skin. “What do you mean?”

“Our blood heals. Our scales make excellent armor. Witches use our tears to brew love potions.” You stare at him horrified. Sylus just smiles. “I was once told our livers are boiled to a paste to reverse one’s aging.”

“You’re just messing with me now.”

“I haven’t even gotten to my best parts.” His eyes take on a sudden, unmistakable heat. 

Only Sylus would joke about something like that. Regardless, your face starts to burn.

Sparks fly from his mouth when he laughs. “It’s nothing to worry about, sweetie. They would have to kill me first, and I’m very difficult to kill.”

Perhaps it’s the trick of the light, a dance of shadows, but the red veins on his chest catch your attention as he heaves with laughter. You swear that they have shifted closer to that hollow above his heart.

Difficult, you worry, but he never said impossible.

-

You and Sylus discover your affinity for music.

He presents you with a zither, a fiddle, hand drums, and panpipes. He gifts you sheet music and ancient canvases depicting grand banquets so you can study the hand placements of the musicians who were painted into the scene.

Most of the time, however, you learn by trial and error, copying from the simple melodies you learned in childhood. You hum those tunes to yourself, plucking at your pipa until you strike the right notes.

“You have a good ear,” the dragon compliments, “have you played before?”

“No, but I sing,” you tell him, “mostly to calm the herd. My father played the lute, but it broke and he never bothered to fix it.”

Your focus drifts to the pipa in your hands. A couple strings are missing, but with some tuning, the remaining ones ring out clear and strong.

“Do you miss him?”

You stare at Sylus. He works on a strange contraption, various tools and something he calls a magnifying glass sprawled before him.

You follow your father across the hills as he plays a tune to guide the flock back to the village for shearing and butchering. You listen to his easy strumming as you fall asleep by the hearth. You hear its strings snap under your brother’s young fingers.

“Not in the way I should,” you say.

Sylus looks up. “There’s no wrong way to miss a person.”

“Is there someone you miss?”

The question catches both of you off guard. 

“Sorry,” you amend, looking away, “I shouldn’t pry.”

Sylus doesn’t say anything at first. He fidgets with the object, turning it over and over while silence permeates between you.

“The music stopped,” he observes, “could you play it again?”

A few days later, you find the device he was working on in your room. It’s a mechanical bird, with articulating metal wings and a beak that can open and close with a twist of a gear. Its eyes are the same shade as yours.

-

Tell me what you desire.

His eyes are fountains of truth, pouring with the ageless, nameless, and forgotten. Waiting for some soul to drink from its waters.

Take what you want.

Is it that easy? You open your hands and feel them grow heavy with the weight of this world.

Do you want more?

You bring your hands to your mouth and sate yourself until you are bursting.

Poetry, music, medicine, dragons.

How strange to think that you were scared to plunge beneath the surface. What might you find? What might you unleash? Only to find that it is a bottomless well; the more you consume, the deeper it becomes.

Not all of it is good—of course it’s not.

War, disease, tyrants, curses.

You recognize the beauty, the cruelty. And as any true glutton, you drink more in the hopes of understanding it.

Selfish girl.  Your mother's ring leaves a scar on your cheek as she strikes you. Wanton daughter.

When Sylus offers you starlight from his hand, you hesitate.

“I thought dragons were possessive creatures.”

“I was unaware that generosity would damage my reputation," he quips, “Won’t you at least try this on for me, Dear Shepherd?”

Shimmering diamonds of various sizes are fastened to a silver chain. Fractals of light splash onto the walls. Only the river that passes through the valley has sparkled so magnificently.

“We don’t wear jewelry in the village.”

Jenna’s pendant dangles near your face as she reads to you. You watch your reflection in its scarlet body. Your village boasts no riches and disdains all vanity. But Jenna—

It is her greatest treasure. It is her only treasure. Yet, sometimes you catch her grasping the pendant like a knife to her chest.

Sylus considers you for a moment, a small cluster of lights glint in his eyes. “Then it’s a good thing we’re not in the village.”

Sylus turns you around. His breath caresses the back of your neck as he secures the necklace. “There,” he breathes, “beautiful.”

Your mouth is painfully dry. “It’s heavy.” 

“Beauty should not be taken lightly.” His hand twitches—you think he’s going to touch you—but Sylus bends down instead, hovering over your shoulder like an owl.

“It’s yours if you want it.”

“I shouldn’t.”

“Why not?” His gaze drinks you in. “This was once a betrothal gift. A man promised his beloved that he would fashion a necklace from the heart of a star.”

“Very romantic,” you hum, “but was the price worth it?”

“I’m sure the star didn’t mind,” Sylus reassures, “they don’t have feelings, after all.”

One beauty for another. The whole earth is merely an appetite to satisfy. What are you within ouroboros’ hunger? The eater or the eaten?

With the dragon looking at you the way he does, you feel like you are both.

-

Your chamber slowly fills with trinkets.

New bedding, chests full of garments, bronze mirrors, all sorts of musical instruments, and towers of books.

"Even the greediest dragon would be impressed by your hoard," Sylus comments, but he never asks for anything back. Nor does he demand for something in return.

You understand sacrifice. You are descended from those who brokered a deal with an ancient power and irrevocably bound your fate to him thereafter. He is owed your soul, your body. And yet . . .

You stand beside Sylus before a grand tapestry.

“What is this?” you ask him.

“The world,” he replies, “at least some of it.”

Your mouth falls open. Continents and oceans are rendered from thousands of dyed threads. Even the borders are lined with gold patterning. Artistic portrayals of various plants and creatures fill the bare spaces. Foreign words hover across specific parts of the map.

“Where are we?”

“Not here,” he says.

You trace your hand down the old weaves, frowning at his words. “Did my people come from these lands?” As you examine map, your attention catches on a set of words floating above a strange looking animal. “What does this say?”

A strange expression crosses his face. “‘Here be dragons.’”

You realize the creature beneath the words is supposed to be a dragon, but it’s no dragon you’ve ever seen. Triple-headed, slavering, and grotesque. No expense was spared in portraying the dragon as a beast.

“You’ve been alone a long time, haven’t you?”

He doesn’t deign you with a response.

He claws at his skin. He fights against a fever that will ravage his body until all he knows is the mark that claims you as his. You have never known a creature more hateful towards its own nature. He told you several times that you could leave; you think he wishes you did, but not for the reasons you think. 

“Sylus,” you choose your next words carefully, “Why did you make the deal with my ancestors if you were just going to let us go?”

A stillness ensnares the both of you in a kind of limbo, tethering you to a precipice you’re not sure you would survive.

“Do you think I would force you?” His voice is the current in the air before a lightning strike.

You aren’t under any delusion that he isn’t capable of violence, however, you’re not prepared for his anger—

No. Not anger.

His body is coiled tight, brow furrowed and eyes so dark and red like gaping wounds. When your hand searches for his, he retreats as if you are a pair of dancers forbidden from touching.

“Of course not,” you tell him, meaning it.

You think he might answer you, but then he hesitates, and you know you’ve lost him. “Then you need to stop.”

His words feel like a brand.

“If you don’t,” he continues, “you’re not going to like the answers.” 

-

Sylus doesn’t talk about what happened. Neither do you.

The dragon speaks in offered books and mechanical gifts, through muted smiles and old literature.

His quiet touches lessen. His lingering gaze fades.

You hold your silence like a noose around your neck.

You miss the Sylus who clutched you in the dark, helpless with need. Who kissed your scars and named you huntress. Who could not pretend that he was a thing without feeling. 

Only in the secret hours after midnight do you let yourself imagine tiptoeing into his chamber and slipping into his nest, allowing his body heat to close around you like a summer day.

From outside, just before sleep catches you in that lovely dream, you hear the baying whine of something suffering, some creature dying.

-

The weather eases; you explore the mountains with Sylus.

He shows you glades that hide the best views of the valley. He takes you to waterfalls from which you drink the freshest water you’ve tasted. You meander through the woods at sunset when the light turns the snow pink and orange. You can see the lake and a herd of caribou making their way across the open plains. You’re too far away to be of any concern to them. Meanwhile, the dragon ambles by your side, scoffing at your jokes and flicking snow at you.

You ask him no more questions about the past. It turns to smoke when Sylus’ eyes settle on you. He plucks a winter camellia and threads it into your hair. 

“I’ve read about this before,” you say as you gather twigs and start weaving a crown.

His eyes flash. “Oh?” 

“A knight gives a flower to a princess.” You creep toward him until your coats brush and your breaths mingle in the cold air. “She tells him to take her back to the palace . . .”

His tail brushes your leg. “And?”

You toss the crown onto his horns. “Then she asks him to make her mooncakes!”

Sylus’ laugh echoes wonderfully through the mountains. You wish you could bottle the sound.

He brings you out in the evening when the skies are clearest, and he points out all the constellations.

“To the west is the Tortoise, it shares a star with the Old Fisherman. And over there—a bit higher—is the Tiger and the Crane . . .”

You stay up well into the night listening to the dragon spin tales from memory. With his head tilted to the heavens—face open and white hair glowing with the light of the full moon—it reminds you strangely of Tara.

You shiver as a sudden gust barrels up the mountain.

“Cold?” Sylus brings his coat tighter around you. With a snap of his fingers, a flame flickers to life in his palm.

“Thank you.” You sigh at the warmth. “That’s a pretty neat trick.”

Sylus hums in agreement, though his mood turns melancholic. “I learned it from a witch.”

“That’s something you needed to learn?” You raise an eyebrow.

“Dragons are creatures of magic. All magic is a matter of patience,” he explains, “and will.” A hesitant smile begins to form. “I believe you have much of both.”

Your heart flutters. “Do you really think . . . ?”

Sylus stares at you incredulously. “You could call down the stars if that is your desire.”

There’s that look in his eyes—an unwavering intensity you’ve only seen glimpses of since the rut—before it’s gone again.

“Besides, it’s a useful skill to know when you leave,” he goes on, “people will be disinclined to mess with a girl who can wield fire.”

-

You don’t notice it at first. How can you, when you spend every day with the dragon?

You are removing the last of Sylus’ bandages when you realize how dull his scales have become.

After that, you notice everything else.

There are bruises under his eyes when he reads to you at night. His hair has lost its luster. The red veins on his chest glow brightly as if inflamed.

Valley-born that you are, you’re unfamiliar with the signs of starvation.

His indifference vexes you. It terrifies you.

You’re paranoid that Sylus will disintegrate from your very touch. You are one sleepless night away from wringing all his dreadful secrets from his throat.

Fear. What a violent animal.

The dragon guards his silence and pretends that nothing is wrong.

-

You watch him with his automatons, tinkering away at their intricate joints and handmade gears. You follow the curve of his back as he hunches over his worktable, lost in his craft. It’s so human. 

You can’t help but stare at his profile. His lips are slightly parted; you want to rediscover the shape of them, find common ground between soft skin and stilted breaths. The light behind him casts a golden halo around his head. It reminds you of sunsets in the valley, how the mountains’ silhouettes are carved from the brilliant hues of a dying sun.

How beautiful. How unreachable.

Although you’re grateful for everything he shares with you—the more you learn about the world, the more questions you have about the dragon himself.

How did you learn this? Where did you acquire it?

Why did you come here? Why do you remain?

The answers to your questions cannot be found in a book.

You pore over mythology texts, bestiaries, religious anthologies, and epic poems. All are more or less the same.

An evil dragon terrorizes a kingdom; a monster kidnaps the princess; a winged serpent tricks the hero into killing his beloved. 

You open a hunting manual on a whim, but immediately regret picking it up.

‘A dragon’s underside is the softest part of their body. As such, make your first incision under the jaw. Continue slitting around its mouth, then down the stomach. Now, you can begin peeling back its skin—’

The words sink into your flesh like rot. You slam the book shut.

You think you know why Sylus has been alone all this time. Why he will always be alone.

-

The dragon is not yours.

Stitch stitch stitch.

Yet, he comes to you when his wounds have torn open. You strip off his ruined cloak and don’t question it.

He has given you—books, tools, jewelry, and music. He has given you himself in the only way he can.

It’s enough it’s enough it’s enough.

You thread a needle through his skin. It feels like sacrilege.

His long fingers grasp your shaking hand, warm and unafraid. It feels like worship.

��You could never hurt me.”

A dragon’s roar is swallowed by the violent storm. Nothing warm-blooded can survive the cold.

The spot beneath your ear tingles.

“Sometimes I want you to hurt.” 

His gaze does not waver. “I won’t stop you.”

Tell me of your shame, you want to say to him, as I have told you mine.

“Are you dying?”

“If only fate were that kind to me.” His mouth twists into a mockery of a smile that quickly evaporates when he sees your stricken expression. You wait for him to say more; he doesn’t.

Oh, he might give you the world, but he cannot give you this.

You gather his tattered old cloak, torn and bloody, and neatly fold it in your lap. It is good fabric. You want to believe that you can fix it.

“I will leave come spring,” you tell him.

Sylus’ expression is indecipherable. He strokes the back of your hand, committing every vein and knuckle to memory. “Then we mustn’t waste our time together.”

-

One night, when the sky is tinged a deep purple, you glance down into the valley and notice the blazing lights of your village.

You motion to Sylus. “Look.”

Several dozen lanterns drift into the night sky while music trickles up the mountain. Although you cannot see the villagers, you know they’re gathering in the town center for the dances.

“I can’t believe it’s already the new year,” you breathe. If you close your eyes, you can almost smell the sweet tarts you and Tara made together.

“Is that what you’ve been celebrating,” Sylus muses, “I wondered what all that noise and revelry were for.”

You turn to him, realizing that the dragon has been watching your village celebrate for the last thousand years without knowing the reason. Has perhaps sat alone on this very ledge to watch the lanterns pass over his head and the festivities down below.

“Stay here.”

You scurry back to the cave to retrieve your pipa.

His tired eyes settle on you when you return. Even now, you want him. Whatever is left of him. Whatever will remain after tonight, even if it falls away like water through your fingers come morning. You will remember him like this: snow in his hair, phantom smile, and bleeding gaze heavy with all the things he cannot say.

You press your fingers to the strings, and begin to sing.

-

He comes to you at night.

You gasp when you blink awake and see his silhouette above you.

He wordlessly slides in behind you, under the furs. It is muscle memory when his arms snake around you and his face finds the crook of your neck. He carries the scent of pine and woodsmoke and . . . something sharper. His skin is hot to the touch as you press your hand against his chest and prompt him to look at you.

A faint tendril of red mist spills from the corner of his eyes.

“Do you want me to leave?”

His voice sounds like cracked glass.

Without a word, you guide him back down until his skin is against yours. You would savor this moment if sleep did not find you all too soon, even as the air smells faintly of blood.

-

There comes a day when Sylus slips off into the mountains and does not return. 

You suspect the worst.

The winds are fierce, but your will is iron. You trace his path down the mountain and through the trees, listening for the beat of dragon wings.

You call his name but all you receive is the mountain’s echoing response. The snow and wind beat against you, punishing your determination.

You trudge through the forest past sunset, until the moonlight casts the woods in a lonely grey. Still, you find no sign of the dragon.

Did he really leave? Did hunters get to him?

One fear after another hurtles through your mind, urging you farther and deeper into the forest. You brought your spear, having learned from experience that predators have no issue encroaching on the dragon’s territory.

What else did your village get wrong? What would happen to your people if Sylus could no longer protect them?

What would you do if you cannot find him?

A violent heat pulses from your nonexistent mating bite. Your legs and face are numb, and you can barely see in front of you.

You snap your fingers, whispering a word of power just as Sylus taught you. Sparks fly off your trembling fingers. You try again and again until the smallest of flames swells to life amidst shadow and snow.

You can only maintain it for a few more moments before your foot catches on something and you crash to the ground.

The flame gutters out. The winds wail through the barren trees. You lift your head, wipe snow off your face. You look back to see what made you fall and you scream.

The unseeing eye of a caribou stares back at you. Its blood oozes from the gashes along its body and pools beneath your hands. Still warm.

You stagger to your feet, and nearly trip again over another carcass.

An entire herd of reindeer lie in mangled puddles, slaughtered in the dozens. Steam rises from their bodies. Torn limbs and viscera stain the once spotless snow.

Just like the sheep.

You grip your spear until your knuckles turn white, the grain of the wood biting uncomfortably into your skin.

The trees close over you like the bars of a cage, their shadows smothering out light and sound. You cannot see where you came from.

Between the trees, you see the dragon. But everything about him is unrecognizable to you.

Sylus crouches over a carcass, tearing and consuming its flesh with razor-like teeth. Black spikes jut out from his skin. He’s elbow-deep in gore and red smoke spills from blood-bright eyes when he spots you.

You run.

-

His screams shake the mountain.

You hide in the dark with your spear, keeping watch outside the dragon’s lair.

You wait for days. You wait long after his cries have died out.

You should leave.

The thought pecks at your mind.

The dragon will not return.

You stare out across the mountains as another storm rolls in. Snow gathers in a frenzy, the world so bright your eyes sting.

The dragon is mad.

You read one of Sylus’ books to distract yourself.

The dragon is a liar.

He emerges from the whiteout like a spectre. He is as you remember him, a quiet ancient power exudes from his decaying body. But when he stumbles upon seeing you, you see his mortification.

“I thought you would have left already.”

Your grip tightens around your spear. “You killed my flock.”

He does not deny it.

“Is that why you’ve remained,” he asks, “to extract my apology?”

Your nostrils flare. “I would have the truth.”

“It will ruin you.”

You regard the dragon. Does he think you are a child in need of protection? You are not so feeble-minded, you never have been. He allowed you to believe that he was sick, that he was dying—and even after seeing the worst of him, he resists. So you will force his hand.

You unsheathe the dagger he gifted you, and slice it across your arm.

The dragon springs toward you and freezes. Red mist pours from reptilian eyes, his claws extend and his skin splits to reveal mangled spikes. Sylus’ knees dig into the earth as he collapses and emits a vicious growl. The red veins writhe across his chest.

You quickly wipe the blood away and press a thick bandage to the cut. “You didn’t just need a mate,” you whisper, “you also needed blood.”

Sylus bows his head. “Abhorrent, am I not?” His distorted voice slices through the air, guttural and raw. The red mist dissipates, his scales slide back under his skin. “How do you feel knowing you’ve bedded a monster?”

Monster. What a cruel word.

“I would not forsake you for this,” you say.

His eyes flutter before they harden in disbelief. “One second,” he threatens, “is all it would take to raze the entire valley.”

Tara and your family flash through your mind. You take a steadying breath. “But you haven’t yet.”

“I found a way to delay it.” With a mate. With blood—your blood.

There’s something else he isn’t telling you.

“Why did your rut come early?” 

He’s quiet for so long, you think he might turn and fly away for good. Until he admits, “I didn’t take her blood before she left.”

“Why not?” you press, “What happened last time?”

The look on his face will haunt you for years to come.

“They sent me a child.”

-

The dragon steals glances at you, waiting for you to speak—to leave—anything. He moves as if to touch you before thinking better of it.

He anticipates your censure, but you cannot find the words to reassure him.

“Only those who’ve had their first blood can be chosen.”

“I know.”

Your blood continues to soak the bandage, though you barely feel the injury’s sting.

“What did you do?” you ask.

“I took her across the lake, and told her to never return to the valley,” he answers.

Your village never spoke of the last girl who was chosen, and you, like a sheep, never asked. Never wondered about their lives until your fate mirrored theirs. How could your village send a child up the mountain to be his mate believing what they do about the dragon’s brutality? 

You don’t realize you’re crying until Sylus wipes your tears away. “I never harmed any of you. I swear it.”

He looks as distraught as you feel.

“I believe you,” you rasp, and he sags with relief. “But Sylus. Couldn't you have returned her? Demand we choose someone else?”

His expression shudders with pain. “The last time I did that, they put her to the torch, convinced that she disappointed me.”

You feel sick.

Memories of the harvest season. Children’s games. The mead hall’s lively music and Josephine’s patient guidance as she walks you through a new embroidery technique—

“I am sorry.” 

—All tarnishes as Sylus kneels before you. He seems to be the only solid thing keeping you anchored to this moment. Diminished as he is. Self-named monster that he claims to be. “You deserved to know before I ever placed my mark on you.”

Remorse darkens his face when he glances at your bleeding arm. You see his hunger. Sylus takes a sharp breath before he retracts a claw and prepares to cut his own palm. His hands shake.

And you—you cannot resent him for withholding the truth. Not when it takes everything he has to resist the bloodlust.

Would a monster cut himself for someone else? Would he yield when told to stop? Would he teach you how to chart the stars? How to speak an ancient language? Would he read to you long into the night, or ask you to play that song one more time?

You stop him before he can draw blood. A bewildered, helpless expression crosses his gaunt face.

“I am already cut,” you say, raising your arm to his mouth, “Why let it go to waste?”

-

His strength returns. The red veins retreat.

You lie in his nest, sleepy and surrounded in his warmth.

“Is there any way to fix it?” you ask the dragon, “This—this bloodlust?”

He sighs and shakes his head. You press yourself against him in a way you haven’t since the rut. 

Who cursed you?

The question sits heavy on your tongue as you follow the haloed edges of his lean body. Hard and soft in equal measure. Violent and innocent.

You press your hand over the hollow of his chest. “Did any of them stay with you, Sylus? The way I had?”

He swallows.

“You’re the only one.”

-

You stare down into the valley. For a village of inconsequential size, it casts long shadows across the white expanse.

They sent me a child.

The dragon may have lied about the sheep, but your village elders—well—what more did they lie about?

You cannot let it happen again. But if you return to the village, would your family and neighbors heed your words, or would they put you to the torch as well? What would stop them from sending another little girl up the mountain?

By the time Sylus' rut returns and his bloodlust needs to be sated, you’ll be nothing but rot beneath the earth.

Your neck burns from the very thought when you hold up the finished cloak to Sylus.

“I’ve made some repairs. Do you like it?”

Sylus cautiously takes the cloak, examines the patched holes and new fur lining with round eyes. His fingers run along your even stitching, stopping at your embroidery. An elaborate pattern of wildflowers and knotwork Elder Josephine taught you long ago.

“I hope you don’t mind,” you say, “I also replaced the old fur with the wolf’s pelt. It should be much warmer now.”

As if the dragon has to worry about the cold. You mentally shake yourself as Sylus slips the cloak over his shoulders, surrounding himself in a field of flowers.

“Your skill knows no equal,” he praises, halting your train of thought. He bites his lip, looking uncharacteristically rueful. “I will probably ruin it again.”

“Then I will mend it again.”

And again and again and again.

A light blush tinges the edges of Sylus’ ears. You watch him smooth down the collar of his cloak, and the memory of the hidden words you embroidered there flash in your mind.

You glance away. “Think of it as something to remember me by.”

In a hundred years, the next woman may find a trace of you here, and know there is nothing to be afraid of.

-

You find yourself staring across the lake more often. Dreaming. Planning.

You have studied the maps, languages, and histories. But there is only so much you can learn from a book.

You spot Sylus some distance away, crouched low. His hair blends in with the snow. He extends a hand towards a fox peeking out from the underbrush. It snarls at the dragon before scampering away.

Something in your chest twists. It's a familiar sensation, so why does it hurt so much more now?

What you're leaving behind feels larger than what's ahead of you.

When Sylus notices you across the clearing, his regal horns shimmering in the winter sun, you think you will long for him forever.

He crosses the distance between you, and says simply, “Thank you."

“You're welcome,” you reply, because you know what he means.

Sylus leans down until your foreheads nearly touch. “May I?” he asks. When you nod, you feel his mouth brush your temple as he inhales deeply. “Your scent haunts my dreams.”

Your breath quickens.

“What do I smell like?”

His gaze settles on you, revealing the jewel of his eyes in all their warm devotion.

“Like flowers.”

-

You do not want winter to end. But end it will.

The frozen lake gradually thaws. Although the snow never truly stops in the mountains, the slow melts creep up through the forests.

You wander through the mountains for one of the last times. The sun casts its glare across the pale landscape, but the persistent cold is not easily vanquished.

You come across a meadow overflowing with wintering blooms. Their colors stand out against the blinding white. You run your hands over their delicate yet hardy petals.

Yellow daffodils and primrose. Snowdrops and winterberries. Jasmine and blue violas.

You follow the meadow until you’re on the outer edge of the mountain proper. Out here in the open, its strangely quiet.

Vibrant red flowers pepper the mountainside, standing out against the pristine white. They sway in the breeze, their sweet fragrance calling to you.

You've never seen their like before. As you bend down to pluck one of them and bring it to your nose, you hear the beat of wings.

The flower is ripped from your hand. You don’t have time to cry out as Sylus wraps a hand over your nose and mouth.

“Don’t breathe!”

But it’s too late. You feel your mouth go dry and your heart beats madly against your ribs. You latch onto Sylus as your legs start to give

“Fuck,” he growls, covering his own face. Your grip slips as your skin breaks out into a sweat and your palms turn clammy. Sylus holds you fast, and drags you away the meadow. You watch his lips move, but you might as well be underwater from the way you can’t make out a single sound.

“Sylus, what—” Inks spots of color flood your blurring vision. Your heart is racing so fast you think it might explode. You swear you hear your mother calling for you.

You reach for the dragon but you no longer have control of your limbs.

When you look at yourself, your skin is melting off your bones.

Your mind fractures. You fall through the seams of reality, to a place where not even the dragon can follow.

-

Heat. Ash. Blood.

You wince at the intense light. Your eyes are slow to focus, all you see are warping colors and loose shapes crossing your vision.

You cannot feel your body. You wonder if you have one.

“ . . . hear me?”

What? You try to speak, but you’ve forgotten how.

“Do you remember your name?” A face sharpens before you. Hauntingly familiar and achingly beautiful. 

What is a name? Why do you need to know?

Your silence shatters that pretty face. His voice breaks as he babbles apologies and pleas at you. 

You want to help him, you do. But your tongue feels swollen and some of his words don’t make sense to you . . . you want to wipe away his tears but you cannot find your hands.

“Do you know who I am?”

Of course you do.

“Sylus."

His eyes flutter, and he releases a soul-deep, relief-filled sigh. He presses his forehead to yours; you realize he’s shaking.

“I thought I lost you.”

When you brush your knuckles against his cheek, they come away damp. “What happened?” 

“Those flowers,” he explains, “can fell even the greatest animals. Inhale their scent and you’ll sleep forever.”

You swallow, your throat feels as dry as kindling.

“How . . .” You survey your surroundings. You’re back in the cave. Tara’s herbs, your mortar, and a bowl of dark liquid lie beside you.

Your mouth tastes like iron and salt. “Thank you.”

Sylus reaches for your face before pulling his hand back at the last second. “Consider it part of my debt to you.”

You take in his tense posture—how he shelters you with his body even though the danger is internal. His tail is tightly coiled and his claws are out. There’s a deep furrow between his eyebrows. You have not seen him so fierce since the rut.

Oh, this won’t do.

“Is that all we are to each other,” you ask him, “debts and deals?”

His throat bobs. When he doesn’t answer, you sit up and run your fingers down his face, across his sensitive chest He makes small, airy gasps that light a fire in your core.

“If I still bore your mark,” you murmur, “maybe you would be more honest with me.”

His breath hitches.

You wait for him.

You do not have to wait long; Sylus cups the back of your head and then he’s kissing you.

-

In some ways, it’s much like the rut, but in many others, it’s completely different.

Sylus kneels between your legs at the edge of his work table. His tools and unfinished projects lie discarded on the ground. He drags the flat of his tongue against your sex and drinks the juices that spill from your twitching entrance. You roll your hips against his face and welcome the searing heat of his tongue inside you.

He whines as you stroke his twisting horns, from base to tip, sharp enough you could prick yourself. He swirls his wet lips around your clit before sucking deeply on the tender nub. His fingers slip between your folders with ease, and crooks them until they press against that spot inside you.

“Sylus!” You arch off the table, grabbing the edge as wave after wave of pleasure cascades through your body. He continues to work your clit as you clench around his fingers.

The dragon gazes up at you, face and ears flushed, panting wildly.

You pull him to his feet and crash your lips against his. His mouth opens immediately. You taste yourself and moan as his hands slide up your body and begin undoing the rest of the laces of your dress.

His mouths down your neck, lingering where his mark used to be, before continuing lower to pepper your bare shoulder with kisses. He pulls down your sleeves until your breasts are exposed and he can take one into his salivating mouth.

You fumble with the buckles of his trousers, only for him to brush your hands away.

“Let me taste you again,” he implores. He gives you several small kisses on your lips and you sigh in response to the onslaught of affection. “Let me do this for you.”

“Don’t you want . . . ?” You gasp when he teases your entrance with his fingers. Your legs wrap around his waist and pull him as close as you can to yourself. You feel his hard length and your thighs shake with need.

“What I want—” Sylus strokes your breasts with his other hand “—is for you—” you hear his knees strike the ground once again “—to cum on my face.”

His breath teases your clit, already swollen up with renewed interest. 

“Can you do that for me, sweetie?”

You nod weakly, before Sylus buries his face between your legs and proceeds to steal your ability to think.

-

He kisses you before you fall asleep. He kisses you during your daily walks through the mountains. He kisses you while he spills deep inside you, exchanging names with a shared breath, until you smell like fire and he of wildflowers.

He kisses you as if he's starving. Perhaps he is. Perhaps he always was.

“I thought—” He shivers against your lips as you trace his naked spine “—that you merely tolerated my rut. You only stayed for what I could teach you.”

You brush away the lock of hair from his forehead. "Couldn't you tell?" you say in disbelief, "I stayed for you."

His eyes widen.

You look away, suddenly shy. If you still had his mating bite, you think it'd burn a hole right through you. "But I have no right to covet you."

You are not his mate.

Sylus threads your fingers together, your interlocked hands are molten gold in the firelight. He kisses your knuckles as he stares at you with a reverent expression. And you realize, suddenly, he's only ever looked at you that way.

“You always had that right.”

You are not his mate, but you are everything else.

When you make love to him, it is less impatient than the wildfire from before. The two of you are more like embers, not yet ready to die.

-

The night sky above the city is alight with every color. You watch them explode and pop and burst across the lake. 

“What’s happening over there?” you ask Sylus.

He sits beside you on the cliff, one leg propped up while he lets the other swing beside yours.

“Tarus City has its own celebrations,” he explains, “this time of year marks the opening of the gates to the underworld, when demons began entering the mortal realm.”

“Is there any truth in that?”

“Perhaps.” The corner of his mouth quirks up. “Why don’t we find out for ourselves?”

Your eyes light up. “Is this fearsome dragon asking me to attend a festival with him?"

"That depends entirely on your answer."

The joy in Sylus' eyes is more intoxicating than the rarest of wines. When you reach for him, he meets you halfway.

"I'd like nothing more."

Ch 4

Can also be read on ao3!

[angelwishess]

Kyra’s Broomquet!

Bouquet… whtver!!!! For the broomquet thing!!!

(Yeah I had to filter the colors to make it look not awkward HWHAHAHA)

^^ This looks like a reaction meme LMFAOOOO

I think I added way too many flowers but its ok guys trustme… 💗 (also i think i used the non fully bloomed begonias by accident oops)

I dont think this is a realistic bouquet at all but its okay because !!!!! Symbolism !!!! Yayayayya!!!!!!!!!!

ALOT of rambling utc!!

First— I’d like to mention that some of these flowers are actually poisonous so erm idk how that would work out LMFAOO😭😭 Take it as symbolism of how many are attracted to Kyra due to her beauty, but stay away once realizing her true nature … or something like that!!!!!

Camellia (Japonica)

Camellias have always been Kyra’s flower! Its the one I associate her with the most, and to me is just iconic for her! I have an entire post in my drafts talking about Kyra’s other symbolisms, but I might as well just copy paste the Camellia section here lol

Camellias in general symbolize a spirit of depth, self-reflection and inner strength, love, loyalty and humility.

Camellia japonica, a shrub or small tree species that is native to southern Japan and China. Known as tsubaki in Japan,this species is iconic for its beautiful white, pink, or red flowers that appear from late winter to early spring as well as its thick, glossy, and evergreen leaves.

The camellia has come to symbolize grace, beauty, sophistication, and perseverance - all traits that make it so beloved today.

The camellia has long been a symbol of beauty, grace and perseverance in Japanese culture. Its deep crimson petals evoke the vividness of a fiery sun while its delicate bloom serves to represent the infinite nature of life itself. It has become the embodiment of courage, resilience and strength owing to its fantastic ability to survive and thrive in even the harshest conditions.

It is believed that those who wear or carry a camellia can show their boldness in facing adversity with integrity and grace; thus, this timeless flower carries with it monumental symbolism.

The camellia is intricately intertwined with the cultural and spiritual life of Japan. In various art forms, they signify appreciation and admiration. The flower represents a spirit of depth, self-reflection and inner strength - qualities that are highly esteemed in Japanese culture. They also symbolize love, loyalty and humility - perfect to express gratitude towards family and friends.

Kyra herself is honestly my most perseverant character! Shes stubborn and driven, and won't back down regardless of how hopeless a situation seems.

No matter how much she falls down, she'll keep getting right back up again, more determined than before to keep living.

With the Camellia's notable ties with Beauty, loyalty, grace, self-reflection and inner strength; it makes the Camellia a beautiful way to represent Kyra. It reflects her current character and character development

In China, camellia has been cultivated for thousands of years and is a symbol of love and devotion. It is often used in Chinese art, literature, and poetry to represent beauty, purity, and faithfulness. For people in China, the camellia is more than just a flower; it's a sign of a long past. The camellia has a place in Chinese art, literature, and tradition because it is thought to bring good luck and beauty.

The Chinese believe that the camellia will last forever, so it is often used as a symbol in ceremonies and parties. People see the flower's ability to survive under challenging conditions as a metaphor for life's problems and the strength needed to deal with them.

In Japan, the camellia is also a symbol of love and is associated with the samurai tradition. The flower is often worn as a hair ornament by Japanese women and is used in traditional tea ceremonies.

The samurai looked up to the camellia as a sign of bravery and morality. The flower's ability to stay beautiful even when things go wrong was like the samurai's dedication to duty and honor.

During the Victorian era in Europe, the camellia flower became a popular symbol of wealth and luxury.

White camellia flowers are less common but are highly prized for their purity and innocence. In some cultures, white camellia flowers are associated with death and are often used in funeral arrangements.

With NRC's whole theme with death— this extra little fact is just a little nod to that theme hehe. It also represents Kyra's own "innocence" and naivety when it comes to regular society. After all, Kyra's first time ever leaving her palace was because she was sent to NRC fe. Through that "death", she gained freedom and a new beginning.

Pink camellias show love, appreciation, happiness, and thanks. These flowers are a lovely way to show someone you admire them or are thankful for them because the soft color of pink makes people feel loved and appreciated.

Pink camellias are often seen as signs of love and respect in the language of flowers. In some countries, friends trade them with each other or give them thanks. Aside from their beauty, pink camellias are known for their gracefulness and ability to show love without being too intense.

Kyra is very thankful and values the friends and people closes to her. She loves so much and so deeply, and holds everyone that accepts her despite her being a handful, very dearly! She isnt shy to show her affection at all, and makes sure her friends know that they're all loved, even if she doesn't say it outright.

Pink Camellias can also symbolize longing! I view it as a symbol of how Kyra had always longed for more, yearning for a life that feels like hers. She longs for freedom, and has spent her entire life with this feeling of yearning.

Camellias can also, ironically enough, symbolize perfection. Something Kyra had forced herself to be for the sake of her family, in hopes that if she was, she could be loved, too.

Amaryllis

Amaryllis symbolizes pride, strength and determination as they stand tall above all other winter blooms. Amaryllis is also a Greek name which means 'to sparkle', ‘sparkle’, ‘shine’.

Funnily enough, Kyra’s name also has Greek origins! And while they do differ in meaning when it comes to their shared origin language, Kyra’s name also means ‘sparkle’ and ‘shine’ in Japanese!

The flower itself symbolizes the idea that beauty can bloom from pain, and it often serves as a metaphor for inner strength and resilience.

The amaryllis is frequently associated with strength and determination, largely because it can bloom in the colder months when many other plants are dormant. Its tall, strong stems and large flowers make it a symbol of overcoming obstacles and standing tall in the face of adversity. In this context, it is often given to individuals who are facing challenges to symbolize perseverance and inner strength.

In the Victorian era, the language of flowers (known as floriography), was a popular means of communication, where different flowers conveyed specific messages. In floriography, the amaryllis stands for pride, beauty, and strength, aligning with its mythological and cultural symbolism.

When given as a gift, an amaryllis flower might convey the message that the recipient is admired for their inner beauty and strength. It celebrates an individual's unique qualities, making it appropriate for someone who exudes confidence, grace, and resilience.

Gardenia (Peonies)

I love you secretly, unspoken words

Because of their clean white petals, gardenias symbolize purity, refinement, innocence, harmony, and gentleness.

One of their lesser-known meanings is that of a secret or unknown love. Gardenias are a thoughtful way to express that you care about someone, even if it hasn't yet been expressed verbally.

Hibiscus

represents transient beauty and the importance of living in the moment. The hibiscus flower blooms for a short time, often just one day, reminding us of the impermanence of life and the need to cherish every moment.

In Victorian times, giving a hibiscus meant that the giver was acknowledging the receiver’s delicate beauty.

the hibiscus is linked to grace, femininity, and delicacy. It is often associated with romantic appeal, particularly in cultures where the flower is worn as a symbol of attraction or love. The Hibiscus encourages mindfulness and appreciation for the present, with the end goal of reminding people of the transitory beauty of nature and time.

Mountain Laurel

Perserverance and achievement

The mountain laurel is also associated with ambition. The Greeks would present a wreath of laurel to poets, athletes, and war heroes as a mark of great achievement.

the mountain laurel was chosen as the state flower of Pennsylvania due to its unique beauty and profusion. This plant, which is native to Pennsylvania, thrives in the state's mountains and forests, showcasing the incredible natural resources of the region. Its adaptability to a variety of environments symbolizes the tenacity and resolve of the neighborhood.

I also mainly chose it due to its unique appearance, and Kyra loved unique looking stuff hehe

Dahlias (Pink Silk)

The dahlia is Mexico's national flower, and it represents pride, inner strength, elegance, kindness, uniqueness, embracing positive change, beauty, and creativity.

Spiritually, the name represents inner strength, positive change, and commitment. The name elegantly symbolized beauty, freedom, and love.

dahlia flowers symbolize beauty, commitment, and kindness. They're also tied to steadfastness due to their ability to bloom after many other flowers have died.

Delphinums

The meaning of delphiniums is generally accepted as 'big hearted'. White and pink represent new life and the power of youth.

Delphinium meanings include openness to new experiences and overall positivity. Delphiniums symbolize cheerfulness and goodwill, as well as a protective plant. Delphiniums are used to communicate encouragement and joy, as well as remembering loved ones who have passed.

Skeleton Flower

The flower's change from opaque to clear symbolizes shedding past identities and revealing one's true self.

The Skeleton Flower, known for its delicate beauty, has inspired numerous stories and myths across various cultures. Often viewed as a symbol of resilience, it represents the beauty that can emerge from adversity. In art and literature, the Skeleton Flower frequently appears as a motif of purity and transformation.

The skeleton flower holds a notable place in Asian history and culture. Celebrated for not only their beauty but especially for their unique transformation, they often symbolize the balance between life and death.

the Skeleton Flower also serves as a powerful symbol of resilience and personal growth.

The flower’s captivating appearance and remarkable adaptation serve as a reminder that beauty and resilience can coexist, even in the most unexpected of circumstances.

Begonias

Hope of life. It's the reminder that no matter how bad something is, no matter how sad it is, life is always right there, renewing itself along with you. It's a reminder that there's always an opportunity to start over. Individuality and standing out from the crowd

Despite a historical association with warning, begonias symbolize gratitude, respect, understanding, and forgiveness.

Traditionally, this flower is as a symbol of warning. It is a way to tell someone that they needed to watch their backs. The begonia wasn’t necessarily a threat, but instead a gesture that things aren’t always as they seem.

A begonia can mean understanding, and even forgiveness.

Habenaria Radiata (White Egres Orchid)

represents purity, grace of the soul, and good intentions.

looks like a dove teehee

“My thoughts will follow you into your dreams.”

In Japan, the 'White Egret' Orchid (Habenaria radiata) is admired not only for its beauty but also for its symbolism of grace, purity, and the return of summer.

the egret symbolism too focuses on being at peace with oneself and the world, being in a state of balance and calmness throughout.

Lily Of The Valley

Funfact! Since Kyra’s birth month is May, the Lily Of The Valley is her birth flower!!

Lilies of the valley symbolize rebirth, purity, youth, and happiness.

The lily of the valley means return of happiness in the Victorian language of flowers.

Chinese Peony

Peony petals are edible. Yeah. I just thought it’d be funny to include an edible plant in Kyra’s bouquet. Is that not hilarious

In China and Japan, peonies mean 'king of flowers', and are used in important holidays like Chinese New Year. They are also known to symbolise wealth, because for a really long time only Chinese emperors used peonies. But really I just thought they were pretty HEHEHEHE

This is the ONLY flower I chose because it was pretty PLS ….. Kyra would hate me for this I fear HELP (in my defense it looks like her ..)

Lilium Casa Blanca

The Lilium Casa Blanca symbolizes celebration. It also symbolizes eternal beauty and elegance.

Beyond purity, white lilies also represent hope, remembrance, and the promise of a fresh start.

Pink and White lillies symbolize compassion and admiration.

Nelumbo Nucifera

The lotus flower symbolizes rising from a dark place into beauty and rebirth, as this is precisely how a lotus flower grows.

It symbolizes the realization of inner potential.

In the classical written and oral literature of many Asian cultures the lotus is present in figurative form, representing elegance, beauty, perfection, purity and grace, being often used in poems and songs as an allegory for ideal feminine attributes.

All symbolism associated with the lotus seems to be positive and in the vein of being a good person and finding meaning in life.

[oppropro]

Chapter 2 of my fanfic

I am so happy to receive the positive feedback on my story inspired by @jttw-monkeybusiness. I had a hard time writing this chapter as it is from the perspective of different pilgrims. I want their thoughts to be believable and true to their nature, while also being true to @celestialkiri 's vision of these characters in her AU. I got a bit overly ambitious with this chapter and had to cut it short; the rest of the story will continue in a 3rd chapter. This has a better narrative flow.

So without further ado; I present chapter 2 of Monkey Business based on the creations of @jttw-monkeybusiness all credit goes to her.

********

CHAPTER 2- Here's your sign

            Sun Wukong, King of Mount Huaguo, Great Sage equal to heaven, was losing his patience. His master, the monk Tripitaka once again avoided near death thanks to the valiant efforts of his disciple, Sun Wukong. The very same disciple he chose to ignore when he warned the monk of the dangers of the demon hoard that had laid a trap to kill and eat the monk. A trap so obvious even Pigsy should have seen coming. That is, if Pigsy could ever think with his brain and not his stomach.

            And what thanks does Wukong get for saving his master and his pig-headed brother? Another lecture on how violence does not solve every problem. Well, violence certainly solved that problem. Besides, if his master had simply listened to him in the first place, they could have easily avoided the demon’s trap and Wukong wouldn’t have to resort to violence.

            “Hardships we face on our pilgrimage are simply a test of faith, and it is through our faith that we will ultimately persevere.” Monk Tripitaka spoke in a slow and deliberate manner.

            “Well then start showing more faith in me!” Wukong replied.

            “This journey is not just about you.”

            “And yet it is I, once again, coming to everyone’s rescue.”

            “I appreciate that you were able to rescue us, but that does not change the fact that you do not get to dictate the path we must follow, or default to wanton violence as a solution to every obstacle.”

            “Those demons were going to eat you and the pig alive! They weren’t even coy about it! If everyone just listened to me, it wouldn’t have even been an obstacle.”

            “We cannot avoid every danger, or burden, or obstacle we face on our journey.” Tripitaka’s tone conveyed a clear message: this conversation was over. “Even if such a challenge were to fall from the heavens and land directly on us. We will face whatever lies before us head on and accept the fate that has been ordained by Buddha.”

            “Well then, Master, you can find somebody else to save your ass because I am tired of being the only one around here who-” Wukong’s sentence was cut short as, apropos of the monk’s declaration, the heavens had opened up and a strange blonde woman fell upon the angry monkey’s back.

********

            Sandy, Pigsy, and Bai Long stood at the side of a clearing and watched their brother and their master argue back and forth. They had seen this exact same scenario played out before; it was safe for them to assume that it wasn’t going to be the last. The novelty of these fights had worn off and now they simply wished they would get to the point where Wukong would learn his lesson about self-control, humility, and acceptance so they could move on with their journey. For all the talk about other people slowing him down, Wukong sure liked to waste time arguing moot points.

            However, a girl falling from the heavens and landing on their elder brother’s back was new. They and the monk stood agog staring at the unforeseen spectacle before them: the woman had hair the colour of summer sun, and her clothes were foreign. The sack that she carried on her back had fallen off, that too was made of some strange and heavenly material not found on earth.

            Her face had landed in the dirt, her legs tangled amongst the limbs of Sun Wukong, and she moaned as she cradled her temples in her arms, nursing whatever wound she incurred from her less than graceful decent from heaven.

            Tripitaka was the first to break free from his spell. Still unable to process what had just happened, he rushed to the side of the stranger in an attempt to help her sit up an regain her composure. Pigsy followed his master’s lead and the two of them were able to prop the woman up and assess her for any injuries: some bumps and scratches, all superficial. That didn’t rule out the risk of any serious, or even deadly, head wounds.

            “Little sister, are you hurt?” the monk asked. “Do you understand me? Can you open your eyes?”

            The woman replied with a whimper, as she slowly blinked her eyes several times trying to purge her tears. Pigsy watched her blue eyes dilate and constrict in an attempt to regain focus. They had never seen a foreigner before. He knew that humans in other countries looked different, and that they were bound to meet foreigners on their journey to India, but the difference in eye colour was striking. This wasn’t something to dwell on, however; the woman needed help.

            “Good, good, little sister, you’re going to be alright. Let us help you. Just keep breathing nice and slowly.” Pigsy spoke to the woman in a low, slow voice and began to exaggerate his breath in so that the stranger might mimic him.

            “HOW ABOUT THE TWO OF YOU QUIT FAWNING OVER THAT STUPID SKY WOMAN AND HELP YOUR BROTHER OUT!”

            Wukong’s voice hit the stranger like a slap to the face. She gasped as her eyes widened and she finally focused on her surroundings. Pigsy was familiar with the expression on the stranger’s face: shock, confusion, fear; a primal fight or flight reaction that all humans experience when face to face with a demon.

            The stranger’s breath became quick and shallow, Pigsy could sense her heart rate bounding. There may still have been hope that Tripitaka may calm her down, but as she looked down at his elder brother, the demon monkey trapped between her legs, flashing his fangs as he scowled at the woman, he knew what was about to happen.

            He let go of the stranger as she screamed and began kicking wildly at Wukong until they were finally untangled. As the terrified woman struggled on all fours to get up and make a mad dash into the forest, Wukong jumped up with an unwarranted sense of accomplishment. Congratulations you stupid monkey; you successfully scared a woman.

            Tripitaka went to mount Bai Long. “Sandy. Pigsy. Please, help me look for our new companion. Monkey, you stay here and watch over our camp.”

            Whatever pride Wukong felt fled his body as soon as his master spoke. “What? Why are you chasing after her? She means nothing to us.”

            “Where you not paying attention to what our master had said?” Pigsy spat.

            “Yes. Even if such a challenge were to fall from the heavens and land directly on us. Well, I just passed buddha’s test. I overcame that challenge and didn’t even resort to violence. I guess I have learned my lesson now and we can all continue on our way. Oh thank you great and wise buddha! You have made me a better monkey.”

            “You have learned nothing,” Tripitaka snapped. “Now we have to go find this woman lest a fate worse than crashing into you befalls her.”

            The monkey growled. His blood was beginning to boil.

            “Then I will bring this challenge back to you, master.”             Wukong took off in the same direction as the woman before the monk could object. beginning to boil. He raced through the canopy following the stranger’s trail. The path she left was easy enough to follow. Even if it wasn’t glaringly obvious, Wukong could smell her: her scent; her blood; her fear. He could hear her: her ragged breath; her racing heart; her pitiful cries for help. The great monkey king would catch up to this pathetic whelp in no time and return her to his master so he can figure out what he wants to do with her. But before he brought her to his master, Wukong had some questions of his own to ask the woman. At the very least, this stupid woman owed Sun Wukong an apology.

[cardinalcanis]

CODEX: The Viridian Phantoms

Summary: I did a thing. Been wanting to write about the custom space marine chapter that has been eating my brain the last few days. The Viridian Phantoms, my loyalist Mortarion successor chapter. They have been SO much fun to write and will totally do more things with them in the future. They are my first ever custom chapter so I would LOVE LOVE LOVE your reviews and opinions about them.

TW: People WAY too comfortable with death.

Word count: 3314

"Can I make my own fanart/OCs/head cannons/fics about/with the Viridian Phantoms?" First of all I will die <3, second of all, of course! As long as you credit me as the og creator of them I have no issue with it!

Tag squad (let me know if you wish to be tagged on stuff): @druidwolf21 @wolf-feathers12 @artemisareia @cosmic-cryptid-from-beyond @adhd-fandom-hyperfocus

@gallifreyianrosearkytiorsusan @kit-williams @egrets-not-regrets @jaghatai-khock @horuslupercal @moodymisty

@sinistermojo @beckyninja @justallll @ms--lobotomy @pluvio-tea @lemon-russ

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General information: 

“We are Death, so Humanity may live.”

-Chapter name: Viridian Phantoms. 

-Other nicknames and given monikers (at least the nice ones): Angels of Krieg, The Bone Collectors, Krieger Kites, Jumping Tanks, Climbing Banshees. 

-Loyalty: Loyalist. 

-Homeworld: Krieg. 

-Symbol: A ghostly skull wreathed in chains.

-Colors: Light viridian green accented with black and silver.

Origin: 

“Father, see your children, battle-worn and pale,

Holy Chains and hooks prepared, 

Father, see your children, dead but not failed, 

By their blood may the corruption be cleansed.” 

After the events of Baal and the Plague Wars Belisarius Cawl saw the necessity of having more resistant troops. Capable of weathering extreme conditions, facing bio-monstrosities and gargantuan enemies, and being Immune to plagues and other chaos or mortal-made maladies. 

The Viridian Phantoms were born from Cawl’s experiments, using a modified strand of Mortarion’s gene-seed to create warriors who could endure almost everything. They stand as an act of defiance to Roboute Guilliman’s will in the face of what he considers advancements in the name of the Imperium’s survival, magnificent discoveries that honor the Omnissiah.  Making them only female was the loophole he found to make their existence possible, even though kept in secret for many years.  Recruited and trained on Krieg for their innate resilience and loyalty, these Marines are honed to become the embodiment of human perseverance. 

They possess their gene father’s legendary resistance combined with an aspect of Mortarion not exploited by the previous Death Guard; his untapped psyker potential. The Viridian Phantoms are unyielding assaulters, designed to weather any blow; be it a plague, environment non compatible with life, or physical force. Their combat style is defined by their heavy armor, equipped with hooks and chains, allowing them to latch onto massive foes, scale them, and pull them down into submission so they can be butchered. Despite their heavily reinforced armor, their biomantic prowess allows them bursts of agility, enabling them to jump over large enemies and strike from unexpected angles. Even other Astartes speak about a sense of uneasiness seeing what in all senses is a terminator-like unit swinging in the air and climbing light as a feather. This makes them formidable in melee, where they wield chainswords and scythes with deadly precision. Learning from the Thousand Sons’ mistakes, they do not over rely on their psyker powers, biomancy is meant as another tool in their arsenal. Their uncanny resistance aided by biomantic regenerative capabilities make them the perfect unmovable wall for humanity. 

Made behind the primarch’s back: 

“Father, we are ready, take us if you must.”

Cawl’s unprecedented authority within the Mechanicus and his status as the architect of the Primaris project provided him with enough leeway to conduct this experiment. His known… quirks and disregard for strict Imperial protocol helped him fly under the radar. His projects are already known for secrecy, but even with the trust on his skill and status he couldn’t afford for Guilliman discovering the Phantoms before they were ready. 

The choice of  Krieg didn't only rest on its hardy loyal woman but also for its isolation, secrecy of what truly goes in their underground hives and lack of general scrutiny from the Imperium. Krieg’s conditions allow for secretive experimentation; the people of  Krieg, known for their discipline and loyalty never questioned nor revealed Cawl’s activities, they were ordered not to anyways. It is said that long lines are made to this day for parents to proudly offer their daughters for testing, even though they didn’t know what it was about, the Emperor was looking for female children so they served accordingly. 

Cawl carefully controlled who knew about the Phantoms’ existence and purpose, involving only trusted Mechanicus personnel and Kriegsmen who were at a need to know bases of their assignment and sworn to secrecy. Any record-keeping or tracking was obfuscated through a complex mix of bureaucracy and Mechanicus’ religious beliefs, already only revealing the biggest secrets to the worthy in the  Omnissiah’ eyes. 

The Phantoms were obviously kept isolated from other Astartes chapters and Imperial forces to avoid detection. In their deployments, the Phantoms engaged enemies with minimal support, focusing on missions that required little to no backup. Training and conditioning was completed in Mechanicus-controlled facilities under Cawl’s lock and key, keeping them away from inquisitive eyes. He implemented protocols restricting their interaction with other Imperial personnel, ensuring their knowledge and exposure remained minimal.

The Phantoms’ early deployments were limited  remote or particularly hazardous battlefields far from populated areas or Imperial forces, where only the toughest units were expected to survive. These are regions affected by warp taint, plague, or xenos threats, where the survival of any unit would be notable but not easily verified. 

Cawl specifically chose high-mortality missions where the Phantoms could demonstrate their resilience. By deploying the Phantoms to zones where no ordinary Astartes force could feasibly operate, Cawl ensured they’d operate in isolated conditions, where successful missions were difficult to track or verify independently.

Later on he made use of trusted Rogue Traders and Mechanicus explorator missions to test the Viridian Phantoms in the fringes of the Imperium. 

Reports and data on the Phantoms were  filed under vague terms or ambiguous classifications, described in ways that did not reveal their true origin or makeup. Listed as specialized Krieg regiments or other “experimental” Mechanicus units when deployed. These reports kept them concealed, making it appear as if they were simply part of a contingent of the Death Korps or other Mechanicus-approved forces rather than a unique chapter of Astartes.

Physical appearance, chapter culture and personality: 

“Through pain and flame, we fall

And if you can stay, sister, then we'll show you the way

To return from the ashes we call.”

Moration’s gene seed gives the Viridian Phantoms a formidable yet eerie appearance that sets them apart from other chapters. Considered some if not the tallest Primaris Marines, they are built like a block of muscle, needing great upper body strength to hold their full armored weight while hanging mid air. Their skin turns a pale white or slightly grayish hue with visible veins. Their hair typically ranges in shades of white, silver, or light gray. They tend to keep their hair very long and extensively braided. Their eyes are described as a ‘pale gaze’ and ‘lifeless’ or with an almost glassy appearance, people claim that the Phantoms' gaze is ‘detached’ looking through them rather than at them. The intensity of their gaze is increased by how little they tend to blink unnerving those unaccustomed to their manner. All of these add up into giving them their phantom-like appearance they are named after.

They barely speak, when they do, it is done with precision and brevity. There is no room for flowery language or embellishment; they say what needs to be said and nothing more. Their speaking cadence tends to be emotionless and unenthusiastic, not due to lack of emotion but their little interaction with non Phantoms. As very sensible biomancers, they are constantly in touch with the inner processes inside those around them, including emotional responses. Spoken and gestured communication is just a poor mockery of the higher level subtle, unspoken connections they share. This makes them seem distant or even cold to those who rely more on direct communication, this lack of visible emotion could create misunderstandings or discomfort.

The Phantoms struggle hard to connect with outsiders, as they find typical methods of bonding cumbersome or shallow compared to the natural closeness they share among themselves. When interacting with other chapters, they struggle to adapt to more conventional forms of camaraderie, finding it challenging to communicate complex intentions in ways others understand and at the same time making them highly aware of the moods or intents of others. Knowing of the fear, frustration, anger and paranoia they cause first hand; but without the skills to properly address other's concerns. 

This sensitivity fosters deep bonds between the Phantoms, allowing them to anticipate and understand each other in ways that most Astartes can’t. It creates a near-unbreakable trust, as they’re constantly aware of each other's emotional state, intentions, and even physical condition, reinforcing the idea of sisterhood beyond the individual. The electrical discharge in one sister’s muscles ordering to lift a bolter is sensed by the others, copying the same movements, making them capable of reacting to their environment like a well coordinated flock of birds. This gives them an almost meditative focus in battle. Their awareness of their sisters’ movements allows them to coordinate without spoken commands, making them seem eerily calm and united.

Krieg’s women to the core, their loyalty to the Emperor and their battalion is absolute. They see themselves as living tools of the Imperium, willing to sacrifice anything, including their lives, without hesitation. This unwavering dedication makes them reliable but can come across as suicidal, looking for death in death’s sake. Each Phantom believes their existence is expendable if it means the mission succeeds or the forces of humanity are protected. 

The Viridian Phantoms also hold a profound respect for their fallen allies, whether they are their own sisters, other Astartes, or even mortal guardsmen and civilians. They view these fallen as martyrs of the Emperor’s cause. As a tribute, unless the remains are corrupted by Chaos, Phantoms often collect small pieces of armor, bones, cloth, strands of hair, or even rubble from the battlefield and fashion them into beads and charms. These adornments are extensively braided into their hair or hung across their weapons and armor, serving as personal memorials and tokens of respect. Teeth, in particular, are a favored keepsake known among the Phantoms as "flesh pearls," close second to hair which they braid with their own.  

With so much of their time spent among the Mechanicus it is of no surprise that one of the most significant aspects of their culture is the ceremonial tending to their gear and weapons. Each battle-sister sees her armor and weapons as an extension of herself, considering them "bound" to her flesh and spirit. Outside of battle, Phantoms often spend hours in silent preparation, maintaining and blessing their chains, hooks, and weapons in a ritual that reinforces their connection. It has been reported that this strong belief on their gear as part of their flesh has ended into several occurrences where their biomantic powers also restore cracked ceramite or instances where guns keep shooting when it is obvious that the magazine must have been emptied. 

This meticulous care for their gear makes the Phantoms selective about who is allowed to handle it. They permit only trusted Mechanicus priests or highly skilled serfs with whom they have overseen working many times to assist in maintaining their equipment. These chosen few would be expected to respect the Phantoms' many rituals and understand the reverence the Phantoms have for their weapons and armor. These selected few granted the honor of working with the Phantoms' gear have to undergo bonding rites, long meditations and purification rituals to align with each specific Phantom that has chosen them to tend to this sacred part of themselves to the highest of standards. 

The Phantoms’ secret rites, meditations and mantras help them both handle their oversensitivity to all life around them and reinforce their religious adoration for death and sacrifice.  The Phantoms hold pre-battle rituals where they recite personal death vows. These vows are spoken in low, emotionless tones, acknowledging their acceptance of death and pledging to die honorably if it serves the Imperium. Followed by their well known Death Hymns which they sing in ritual and even during battle, Viridian Phantom Death Hymns are the only instance of them raising their voices and carrying emotionally charged statements. They most are directed to a figure they ‘Father’, if it refers to either The Emperor, Mortarion or both is unknown. These chants carry an ominous, almost haunting quality, blending grim acceptance, defiance, and reverence for their purpose. The chants are rhythmic, echoing through the battlefield and unnerving allies and enemies alike with their strange, almost theatrical longing for death. They possess sections where the volume crescendos to shouts or quiets to an eerie whisper, transitioning between powerful declarations and subdued, haunting verses.

Currently, the Viridian Phantoms have no official Chapter Master due to their uncertain experimental state. Leadership has fallen by the battle sisters consensus upon Revenant (Captain) Lena Arendt, a figure respected for her exceptional combat skill and biomantic abilities. She is often referred to as the ‘Ceramite Fae’, due to even amongst other Phantoms her seamless grace mid air while fully armored creates the illusion of effortless flight. A fatal flaw her and many phantoms inherit from Mortarion is how much of a hard time they have at asking for help from non Phantoms, maybe not much out of their gene seed but their desire to prove their chapter is worthy to exist.

Gear and unconventional battle tactics: 

“We are the scythe that reaps the corruption, 

We are the chain that bounds the monstrosity to a kneel, 

We are the knife that carves the names of the fallen onto our enemies, 

We are the Emperor’s unbroken might, 

We are his bleeding sacrifice so we could still have a light, 

We are to fall so the many may rise, 

We are the Viridian Phantoms, 

And we are Death, so Humanity may live.”

As mentioned, The Phantoms hold close reverence to their gear and decorate them extensively with allies’ remains, one of the most memorable are their oracles (librarians) and gravekeepers’ (chaplains) complex teeth veils. Their armor is modeled on the reinforced Mark X, heavily modified for maximum durability. The plating is reinforced to withstand corrosive environments, disease, and warp-tainted toxins, often appearing thicker and more robust than standard armor. It is painted in a ghostly viridian green with black accents on the trim and silver detailing. Their helmets’ visors emit a ghostly pale green glow, most of them are inscribed with small runes or faint biomantic symbols.

Each Phantom carries many sets of chains and hooks designed for their signature combat style. These chains are attached to their gauntlets or armor and can be used to latch onto large enemies, structures, or terrain. The chains have runic symbols carved along each link alongside attached beads and charms, and when combined with their biomantic abilities, they become unbreakable extensions of the Phantom’s will, allowing them to anchor enemies or secure themselves in chaotic battles. The hooks are often engraved with the names of fallen sisters or even fallen guardsmen or civilians whose names they find on dog tags and forgotten personal effects among the rubble. 

The Viridian Phantoms favor chain swords and most importantly scythes for close combat, weapons that symbolize their affinity for melee and their willingness to face foes up close. All of them also have the ability to extend into chain and grappling hooks. Their scythes are heavy, with blade edges honed to a sheen, used for sweeping attacks against larger foes. Made to grab, mutilate and disembowel in single clean swipes. Alongside their melee weapons they can also favor large shields that chained together create shield walls to push back at the latest of waves.

They are no strangers to range weaponry, which even if they aren’t their favored, each is shown equal love and customization as the melee does. Sometimes even consecrating every individual bullet in day or even week long rituals meant for deep meditation and calming their psyker abilities. 

Even though they may be great assets for them, The Phantoms shun the use of chemical and viral weapons of any kind in their fight to distance themselves from their genesire’s legacy and fall into nurgle’s claws. 

Appart to what they are known for, falling gargantuan monstrosities; the Viridian Phantoms' unparalleled resilience, little regard for their own lives and biomantic abilities would lend themselves to shockingly bold, almost reckless battle tactics and strategies. These tactics seem suicidal to other Space Marines and not Codex Compliant at all:

-Shield killbox: The Phantoms would march forward under heavy enemy fire interlocking shields with one another. Using their scythes they would pull and mutilate anything that comes closer, then throw the helpless bodies behind them where other sisters await to finish them up. Functioning as an efficient assembly line of carnage. 

-Fire on my position: In coordination with allied forces, the Phantoms move into a position where friendly heavy artillery or orbital bombardment is directed. Knowing their unique resilience, they would withstand the controlled onslaught that devastates their foes, emerging from the smoke and flames, most of the time.

-Living bait: Phantoms would feign retreat or send vulnerable looking single units, drawing enemy forces into pre-arranged kill zones laden with explosives. Then, they would walk on the trap while still in the blast radius, relying on their enhanced durability to survive. Phantoms might also herd unknowing enemies into the blast radius of allied tanks. Or charge headlong into fortified enemy positions or into the path of tanks, absorbing fire and drawing attention while the rest of the battalion encircles the distracted enemy.

-Suicide landings: Phantoms generally do not fight alone unless they have a strategic purpose. Like sending one charging (or jumping off flying vehicle) into enemy positions or even the heart of their formations with explosives strapped to their armor, activating them upon impact. This act would be often followed by the surreal sight of the Phantom emerging from the carnage, bloodied but alive. 

-Walking beacons: They do have a unique skill to escort survivors through dangerous zones normal humans would not survive. Making the helpless human stay close to them inside their auras so fire, disease or acid would not hurt them or would not feel the pain and heal quickly. They tend to cover the survivors' eyes and even ears so they feel no fear or run away in the presence of danger, as running away gets them out of the Phantom's aura, which means they will succumb to the factors the are being protected against. And the people's trust and faith that the Phantoms can protect them actually makes it easier to work their biomancy on them. 

Cawl’s secret brought to the light: 

“Hear hear, Father, we're all going to die

Father, we're all going to die

Do not sing me any farewells, for me you must not cry,

hear hear, Father, we're all going to die.”

The Viridian Phantoms' first encounter with Guilliman was intense and deeply scrutinized. After proving themselves time and time again completing dangerous missions in secret under Cawl’s direction, the Phantoms were finally brought to Guilliman’s attention as a fully-formed, specialized force created to withstand the most hostile environments and fight the Imperium’s most monstrous foes. Masking themselves as just another battalion of the Unnumbered Sons, with the help of voice modulators in their voxes making them sound masculine (aside from restricting their vox channels when singing). 

They were deployed alongside his forces in a brutal battle. Observing them, Guilliman noted their resilience and uncanny coordination as they maneuvered in unison, taking down enormous threats with sacrificial tactics. The Phantoms suffered grave wounds but continued to fight, showing an almost eerie selflessness that unsettled many nearby Ultramarines.

After the battle, Guilliman confronted the Phantoms directly, demanding to know their origins. Their leader, Revenant Lena Arendt, revealed their loyalty and their gene-sire without hesitation, asserting their purpose and loyalty to the Emperor, not to Mortarion’s legacy. Guilliman, appalled by Cawl’s audacity, proclaimed that their very existence was an affront to the Imperium and must be erased.

The Phantoms responded by raising their bolters to their own heads, ready to end their lives at Guilliman's command. Stunned, Guilliman halted them. They remain a battalion awaiting Guilliman’s final judgment, will they be eliminated? Given a suicide mission hoping they never return? Will they ever back their birthright as the 14th? The future looks bleak and uncertain for the Viridian Phantoms. But the primarch must hasten as talk is spreading.

[goo34ter]

Take The Bridge Back to Me

short series that takes place during season one of Arcane when Viktor begins to become consumed with discovering the mystery of the Hex Core. where you, the reader ,worry for his health but also the path he is paving, trying time and time again to extend an olive branch of desire asking him to slow down and step back.

An argument ensues when emotions come to a head, but we center around the aftermath and self discovery that follows the storm. Slowly but surely you gravitate towards one another once more, like a binary star system and unescapable orbiting, walking the delicate bridge back to one another.

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

Damaged Buttresses

The night of your unwarranted fight with Viktor did not aid in your ever present and recent struggle with sleep. Only adding to the plethora of reasons you should be awake, mind swarming with guilty phrases, accusing you of being horrible and venomous. Then your mind wormed a thought so devastating after your fight, that you believed you were the worst person to walk Runeterra." Will I ever see his figure full of life again? Will the next time I see him be in a hospital bed? Will he die with my venomous words and sour accusations in his mind?” The coming few days after didn't fair smoothly either, brain addled with guilt and worry, but heart too stubborn and broken to be the first to reach out, but nor did Viktor. You had suspected as much, that a man with such pride and perseverance as himself, Viktor would elongate your time apart. Stewing on his emotions, blinding himself with work as a repercussion. But was it such a repercussion when it was his obsession? His sustenance for life, his reason for living? 

Perhaps, such a love for science and machines has delved into that of an obsession, all consuming and devouring, festering in the brain, tempting and itching till relief comes in the form of answers and discoveries. But what lengths does he go to quell the bubbling urges? Will he leave a bloody trail sodden with not only his own but the people’s around him? Will there be anything left once he decides it's enough, that he is satiated and full. Will he ever be satisfied? With so many unanswered questions you can't help but think there's more harm than good with the road he's chosen to walk. But sacrifices must be made for the efforts of success and progress, simply, they should not be the livelihood and health of the man you love. 

By the time you've racked up such a list of unanswered questions you have reached the third day with no contact with Viktor, both parties riddled with avoidance and a wounded pride, raw with vulnerability, emotions laid bare on the table for each other to examine, to scrutinize. Yet your each passing thought is of the Man, always circling back,;to the hurt in his eyes when you insulted his pride, the angry slam of his cane, his shock when you screamed your concerns. 

He's never seen you so angry, you realize, always practicing the action of letting emotions wash over you to remain steady with honesty passionately, rather than angrily. His reactions to your words may not have simply been because they upset him, but because this uncategorized eruption of an emotion was thrown in his face, leaving him unprepared while already riddled with exhaustion and fatigue. Despite his many ethereal traits and capabilities, he is human too, and possesses the fragility of the human heart, so easily wounded.

As you think about this man, so deeply affected by his soul, the third night without him, you stand in the small kitchen of your one shared apartment. Gaze occasionally shifting to the worn down couch in the living area, expecting a familiar figure to be stretched out along its cushions, lazily poised while reading a book or jotting down thoughts. Yet, each glance is only met with the emptiness of the couch cushions bare of any figure or weight, merely an outline of what should be. shifting your body weight to your left, hip jutting out to support your shift of balance as you stand, It's evening, you realize, the day seemed to slip through your grasp so effortlessly the remembrance of work seems more like a feverish dream rather than reality.

Similarly, Viktor had been struggling along the three days since your painful dispute. The first night when he had left, he had wanted to open the bedroom door, kneel at your feet and hug your knees, pleading for forgiveness, a crumb of salvation to his tormented and overworked mind. Viktor is no fool, but has many flaws, much like the rest of mankind he too possesses the ability of incapability. He can become consumed, in thought, in work, in wonder, in discovery, and in creation, that it widdles him down to nothing; leaving you to pick up the pieces and build him up from the skeleton he has left behind. A habit he deems, though, it is more a trait. It's not like the clicking of your heels before leaving home, or twirling of hair as you think, more embedded within his soul, hard to shake as it is part of him. Yet, he is capable of reflection, though you have so colorfully informed him he does no such thing; Reflecting on his actions towards you and himself he can observe where his errors lay. 

The Hexcore has consumed him, his thoughts, his time, and his attention, leaving nothing for you in return. He’s close to a discovery he knows, but it's as if the moment he solves one puzzle the Hexcore presents him with another, so tempting like a juicy steak after months of starvation, he cannot resist himself. Temptation made obsession he realizes, instead of simply being tempted to discover the possibilities of the Hex Core, what he might be able to achieve, what it might lead them to do, he has allowed himself to obsess over its every capability. But you had been wrong too, very little of his health did you know about, he made sure of that. He is the one in his body, aware of its deterioration, does not need the person he loves most pointing out something so plainly obvious. Oh but he kept you in the dark about his health. He simply wanted to bask in ignorance a little while longer, pretend his health wasn't an issue, coming home to you after a long night at work like a dog deserving of treat.Though if you pushed a little more, inquired a few more times, Viktor would have taken you with him to his next visit. Allowed the Doctors to lay out every unfixable ailment, finally allowing you to bear witness to the ugly truth.

Through thought, Viktor leans to his right, seated at his desk in the laboratory, Hex core in his peripheral. He assumes the position of the thinker, resting his elbow on the table instead of knee, the damn joint never seems to stop aching these days, much like the rest of him. He glares, not at anything in particular, but glares none the less. Frustration needing somewhere to escape, somewhere to be expressed. The only action he can think of that uses the least amount of energy is the knotting of brows and an intense stare. Then when an ache forms between his brows, he shifts his focus to the papers in his line of sight, eyes straining to read equations and diagrams. When had it become so hard to see? Ah, its evening, room no longer lit by the harsh sun, instead what little light produced by distant terrestrial bodies bleeds in languidly. Like they're not in a hurry to provide him with the ability to see, unlike the sun that seems ever eager to provide him with sight.

What must be done to right his wrongs? Leave the hexcore behind sure, but he's so close to discovering how it can rejuvenate life, it could be utilized for so much more, to heal disease, injury, himself. He can't stop now. But then there's you, sweet decadent you, deserving of the world, laid on a golden platter for your every whim and plea. He can't split himself in two, though at this moment he wishes he could. Sending his better half to your door and embracing your figure with a reverence to make even the gods jealous. No, what would he say to you? He needs more time to think, to reflect, to formulate the correct phrase of words that would soothe a balm over your broken heart. One more day over obsessing on the Hex core couldn't hurt.

 But as Viktor works, he finds himself more focused on you, your scream of what could almost be described as agony during the argument, the fisting of your lovely hair he's sure hurt and stung like venom. What would he say? Very few times has he found it hard to find phrases, oftentimes having to shorten their length or hold his tongue. But now, he finds himself lost in how to begin, in where to start, maybe actions are better? But then what would he do, how would he do it? Too many questions left unanswered, think, think! As if to mock him the Hexcore spins and pulses in a flurry of movements, as if responding to his inner turmoil. At this insulting reaction from the Hex Core, Viktor thinks back to the conversation he had with Jayce later this afternoon, and their disagreement with Hiemerdinger. The yordle had demanded they destroy the Hex Core, deeming it nothing more than a destructive bad omen for Piltover. Infuriating, how could someone as old as him see past the potential of such a device, what humanity could accomplish? But it was his selfish desires to continue living that made him more sour towards the professor. And it was with Jayce's urgings that led him to pull himself up from his desk, “do what you have to” the words rattled in his mind like an echoing voice in a cave with nowhere to go. He knew just the person to inquire about this struggle, now, understood the drive for blind pursuit. 

Love, and desperation. Truly an ugly mix.

[shadowhunter2003]

CUPCAKE.

For Day 7 of @sjmromanceweek

Inspired by this headcanon made by @starsreminisce. Thank you for allowing me bring your thoughts to life as much as could.

Summary: Elain is in for an awakening when she spots Lucien enjoying a cupcake at the Velaris farmers’ market.

A/N: My first official fic!! I’m absolutely terrified, but I’m also so excited to have found the courage to share my writing on a public platform, for the first time. Even though it’s this short little oneshot.

Read on AO3 here

Warning : Horny thoughts below.

Elain was exhausted as she wandered through the Velaris farmers’ market, searching frantically between various babe shops, looking for the iced moonberries that Madja had recommended to help soothe Nyx’s gums during his intense teething phase.

Her nephew was growing so fast, and while she was overjoyed by it, that growth came with its challenges. Challenges like Nyx staying up all night, crying and keeping everyone at the River House awake until dawn.

She had searched everywhere but couldn’t find it. And now the only other option was to accept defeat. She sighed. They would just have to make do and persevere through poor baby Nyx crying until they could find the iced fruit.

Elain turned the corner to the street that would lead her to the exit of the market. However, her steps faltered when she heard a groan, so faint it was almost imperceptible. Every other fae in the market continued like they hadn’t heard anything.

There was no such luck for her, because there was something so compelling and familiar about that groan that had her stopping in her tracks. 

It was the same groan that had echoed through her visions, her dreams, her subconscious— tingling right at her ear like a ghost she could never quite shake. It had her clenching her thighs together as it melted straight into her insides like warm honey, her hair standing on end as goosebumps broke out everywhere.

Only one person could ever bring out that reaction in her so quickly.

Ignore it. Just keep going. Keep going.

She forced herself to turn towards the entrance and keep on walking, but for some reason her mind would not comply with her body. 

Rid of her shopping distractions, she noticed she could hear his heart. She followed the sound of it. There was no harm in taking just a little peek.

Her instincts like a compass carried her to the left turn of the opening, and just as she was about to continue walking down she felt drawn to a quaint little open concept bakery that was decorated with fairy lights, hanging floral jasmines, and little posters of baked goods with a storefront sign that read “La vie en rose bakery.”

Her eyes scanned inside to find various patrons ranging from lesser faerie to children enjoying different varieties of pastries, some even purchasing snacks from a pastry display glass at the far end of the shop.

Then she spotted him. He was impeccably dressed in a crisp white shirt, unbuttoned just enough to reveal gold chains resting against his skin. A sapphire coat she didn’t recognize hung neatly over the back of his chair.

In fear of being caught, she quickly hid behind the shop beside the bakery pretending to shop, while also keeping herself at a distance where she could still see and hear him clearly.

He was sitting with his legs spread open in one of the plush chairs that was placed closer to the counter, like a VIP area of some sorts, talking to a pretty dark skinned female with curled, blonde braids, and a worn out red apron that read “Rose.” 

He looked like he was in his element, like he was a usual customer. 

She watched him pick up a cupcake with pink frosting and rainbow sprinkles, holding it in his large hands as he took a bite, and shook his head, eyes closed in pleasure as he chewed.

“Rosie, you outdid yourself once again,” he said, groaning in between bites. “Best one yet.”

Elain’s breath quickened, as her eyes traced his mouth watching his tongue dip out and lick off the remaining pink frosting from his lips.   

“You know I only bake the best for you, Lulu.” Rose chuckled, cerulean eyes sparkling as she winked suggestively at him and walked away with a pep in her step.

Red. Elain saw nothing but red. 

Lulu? Was that the best nickname Rose could come up with? Lulu?

Her cupcakes didn’t even look that nice. Elain would bet so much money that Rose’s cupcakes were not half as tasty as hers. 

She subconsciously moved forward, closer towards the shop. And why is he so relaxed with her anyway?

Stupid nickname. Stupid cupcake. 

His heart belonged to her and her alone. She could hear the damn thing beating in her ear everytime he was near. No one else but her got to give him stupid nicknames and stupid cupcakes. 

But you can’t give him your cupcakes, can you ? 

Elain shook that thought off and continued walking closer, drawn to him like a moth to a flame, entranced as she watched him dip his finger into the frosting before bringing it into his mouth and sucking it clean off. 

He let out a moan of delight, whispering to himself, “So fucking good.” 

A shiver raced down her spine. Instantly, she was transported to the vision she had a few nights back where she was on all fours on silk red sheets. Her face buried into the pillows to conceal her loud moans, as he licked her from behind— the way he had just been licking off that icing. His husky moans and words causing a delicious vibrating sensation to go through her sex, and straight into her body.

“So fucking good,” he praised, spanking her as he groaned.“How dare you taste this fucking good.” 

Elain didn’t realize she had let out a breathy gasp. Until she heard her name coming out from his mouth.

“Elain?”

She froze, coming back to reality, her eyes widening as she realized that somehow she had entered the shop and walked straight to him. Probably looking like a mad person as she just stood there in a crowded bakery, staring at his lips. 

The floor might as well open up and swallow her whole.

“Are you well?” he questioned, his eyes widening in concern as it traced her body, lingering everywhere as if looking for signs of danger.

Suddenly he stilled, nostrils flaring.

His gaze flicked up immediately locking with hers,  russet eyes sizzling with flames that matched his beautiful, unbound fiery red hair.

Elain’s heart dropped. Of course he would scent your arousal with his stupid fae senses. It’s fine. you can just jump into the Sidra after this.

Arrested by his gaze. She could only watch, as he stood up, and closed the distance between them.

He inhaled deeply, narrowed eyes darkening.

“Are you well, lady?” he asked again, but this time his husky tone dripped of sultry challenge.  

Everything in her went on high alert. Heart racing, mind chanting, soul calling — Mate. Taste. Touch. Smell.

It was too much. Too overwhelming. Too distracting.

Elain opened her mouth to answer, closed it, opened it again. And then she took off. 

One second she was standing there frozen in time like one of Ferye’s paintings and the next she was running the hell out of that farmers market.

Her skin tingled with the essence that was Lucien as she ran. And it did not stop even after she reached the safety of her room.

The next morning Elain watched as her family tasted the surprise special dessert she had made for them — dozens of vanilla and chocolate chip cupcakes with pink frosting and rainbow sprinkles. 

She beamed with joy as they showered her with praises, craving the validation they were dishing out. Take that, Rose’s cupcakes. 

Maybe, when she was brave enough to face Lucien, and the bond, he would finally taste her cupcakes and know how much tastier they were.

End notes: I would just like to show love to some people since technically it is Valentine’s Day;

Firstly, Kudos to all the fanfic writers in this fandom—you guys are true heroes. You never fully understand the work and heart that goes into writing, even if you’re doing it for fun, until you try it yourself, and then you know.

Thank you to the talented @temperedink and @zenkindoflove for beta reading this. I could not have found the courage to post this if not for you.

Special shoutout to @the-lonelybarricade for allowing me use the name of one of my favorite elucien fanfic written by her in this oneshot.  “La vie en rose” You will always be famous to me!  Also I kind of took a little inspo from the muffin scene in chapter 3 😉 to write this.

If you took out time from your day to read this, thank you as well.

And If I ever asked you for writing advice, and you’re reading this, thank you so much. This one is dedicated to you.

Happy Valentine’s Day Everyone ❤️ I hope y’all receive love today!

[misspjsuperior]

Tonantzin Guadalupe 🌵🌹

The original \/u| \//\ goddess I created in 2013 is Maria Rosa. Her design was inspired in major part between the miracle of La Virgen de Guadalupe and the concept of Mary Queen of Heaven.

I was recently commissioned to create a new (\/) Goddess inspired similarly between Guadalupe and Tonantzin by my chingona hermana Janet Bella Rosa who also knew Mi padrino Antonio 🙏 I felt his spirit guiding me to connect our visions! 💞

Tonantzin is an enduring Nahuatl title for the maternal aspect of any Aztec goddess, much like “Our Lady”, rather than the name of a particular goddess. I chose a blue background to parallel Her starry mantle of heaven and also represent Lake Texcoco since the eagle, snake, and cactus from its story of the founding of ancient Mexico there are present. 💙🌵 

Tonantzin in various forms is frequently depicted with eagle feet so I thought it appropriate to have the legendary golden eagle clutch the silvery moon below Her in place of Guadalupe’s cherub 🦅 🌙 Tonantzin is often known, by many names, to wear a skirt of snakes- the celestial Aztec earth mother Coatlicue’s particular name translates to “She of Snake Skirts”. So I couldn’t help but see the snake emerge from the opening in Her folds here. Frequently in Aztec art snakes emerging from or replacing body parts represents blood so I feel a menstrual element from how the snake manifested in this vision 🐍 🩸

Many believe that the apparition of La Virgen de Guadalupe on Tepeyac Hill unto St. Juan Diego, an Indigenous peasant originally named Cuauhtlatoatzin meaning “Talking Eagle”, was a vision of a new form of Tonantzin. Her local temple had formerly been on that very site, destroyed by conquistadors. When Cuauhtlatoatzin received these holy visions, the Goddess spoke to him not in Spanish but in his native Nahuatl language even though She identified Herself as The Virgin Mother of God. Even the Church documents testify that The Holy Mother assured him in his moment of doubt, in his Indigenous tongue, “Am I not here who am your Mother?” Indeed Tonantzin Coatlicue herself is said to have had her own divine conception via a feather 🪶 

The miraculous vision of Guadalupe that appeared upon Juan Diego/Talking Eagle’s tilma is often seen as a self portrait by Her and there are many analyses of the visual element’s encoding of Aztec symbolism. I took these theories and insights into consideration while creating this vision.

Even within the suppression of Spanish colonization ancient indigenous Mexican Curanderismo healing practices were able to persevere and often in the name of La Virgen de Guadalupe, under the protection of Her image.

Choose-your-goddess prints now include Tonantzin Guadalupe!

🌟🌟🌟🌟🌟

“At home, on the evening of December 12th we may light a candle and place offerings of flowers, copal and chocolate in front of her statue or painting. In the public square, those who follow the Mexica spiritual tradition will join brothers and sisters for an all-night vigil of prayer, Danza, offerings, and songs to her, who is Tonantzin Tlalli Coatlicue, who was always honored at the hill of Tepeyac. As we salute the Four Winds and dance in the ceremonial circle, we honor those who have gone before us, the courageous people who kept traditions alive through the centuries despite the threat to their life if discovered. The feathers in the copilli, the ceremonial headdress worn by the dancers, will draw down the energy of the cosmos into Mother Earth, our beautiful Tonantzin Tlalli Coatlicue to help her heal from the many ways she is dishonored.

Nearby, children will play and laugh, faces smeared with the traces of candy and the cinnamon of churros, the delicious deep fried pastry covered with sugar and cinnamon while the sound of mariachi music adds to the feeling of a fusion of cultures and beliefs. If you wander the crowded street you will see a handful of Catholic pilgrims on their knees on the hard pavement slowly make their way to the entrance of the church in gratitude for answered prayers.

And, in spite of quiet official church disapproval, the local parish priest will invite Indigenous ceremonial dancers to participate during the special December 11-12 mass for Our Lady of Guadalupe. Inside the church, for a few moments, Mayan copal will blend with European frankincense, quetzal feathers will dance on the air, and elders with bundles of aromatic rosemary plants will cleanse the People’s spirit. The two cultures, reconciled at this moment, acknowledge their bond of love for the Woman Who is Cloaked with the Sun; a bridge of Light between peoples.”

- Maestra Grace via Curanderismo.org

[blackr23]

250131

Changbin & Han by Dazed Korea Febrero 2025 p.2

💬: Music is also an important value that cannot be left aside when talking about Balenciaga. As a producer, how do you see the harmony between music and visuals?

🐷🐇: The music at Balenciaga shows always leaves a strong impression. When I compose a song, I imagine the album cover, the setting, the outfits and all those elements together. But the most important thing is always to ask ourselves: "How innovative is it?", "How well can we do it?", "Does it suit us as a group?". From our first year, to our second, third, fourth, and now into our eighth year, we've always prioritized "How new is this in a way that feels like Stray Kids?"

🐿: You can't talk about music without talking about visualization. The same thing happens with music videos. We always imagine the final visual product while we work. I think that was especially reflected in the music videos for the solo songs on the album 合 (HOP). Both hyungs and dongsaengs share many ideas. I think the artistic sense of my hyungs and dongsaengs really stood out in that process.

💬: Han-ssi, I heard that you used to collect shoes before. He also likes animations/anime

🐿: Wah, how do you know?! There was a time when I was completely into shoes. There were many expensive models that I wanted to have, and I also collected them in different colors. There were a series of shoes that were worn a lot by artists and Sunbaenims that I admire. Many of them customized them to express their own style, and that gave me a lot of inspiration. I think that was the reason I liked the shoes so much. When someone is interested in fashion, they usually go through a phase where they become obsessed with shoes. By the way, what shoes are you wearing now, gija-nim (journalist)? Oh, they're dress shoes. Anyway, lately, unlike before, I think I prefer shoes with a more stable style.

💬: It wasn't the question I intended to ask from the beginning (laughs), but you definitely seem to have a strong otaku spirit. Anyway, I think that the feeling of really liking something can become the source of creativity. What does it mean to you to “put love into something/affection into something”?

🐿: Ah! I think it's like digging, when you dig in the ground, there will be areas where it is very easy to dig and others where it is not so easy. Even in those difficult areas, if you sweat and keep digging, digging, digging, you will eventually be able to reach the treasure beneath. I think affection is a similar feeling. It is to keep trying, keep the heart of wanting, and not lose that initial feeling as you continue to go deeper.

💬: And you, Changbin-ssi?

🐷🐇: I actually went through an "exercise motivation crisis." Until now, I only did weight training, but recently I started trying other types of exercise and that's how I managed to overcome it. I believe that to do anything, you first have to be healthy, so lately I'm focusing a lot on taking care of my health.

💬: Oh, cheers

🐷🐇: Please stay healthy

💬: Haha. Thank you very much, I was wondering if you are not tired of being called 줏대좌 (man of principles) now?

🐷🐇: I would be very grateful if you said it like that. It's been a long time and many people are waiting for a new meme. Those things don't really happen when you plan them, and even though I said those words, I'm not exactly a principled person. But I'm really grateful that people remember me that way.

💬: The strength to maintain something with determination and perseverance is valuable. Stray Kids is celebrating its 7th anniversary, and there are surely a lot of things they want to protect. What do you think?

🐷🐇: First of all, we managed to protect the team. I think that's the most important thing. Whenever we overcome difficult times, happy times come, and then the difficult times come again. It keeps repeating itself that way, and I hope that we can face these ups and downs calmly and with greater peace of mind. I hope all members can become such artists.

💬: Han-ssi also agrees?

🐿: Oh, I totally agree! Hyung already said everything, so I can only nod. First of all, health...

🐷🐇: Heritage must be protected (laughs) 💬: Heritage? (laughs)

🐷🐇: When I talk about heritage, I mean the knowledge in our minds and musical inspiration.

🐿: Yes, those things must be protected well and also promoted even more. We must also take care of Stay. To the people who love us, to whom we love, to our staff, who supports us day and night... We have the desire to be able to protect even the smallest happiness of all of them.

💬: Finally, among the Balenciaga looks you wore today, is there any item that looks more like you?

🐷🐇: That long coat was about my height.

🐿: Does he look like you?!

🐷🐇: He looks like me.

🐿: So, I'll choose the space suit. As it has a rounded and spongy shape, just like me

BINSUNG STACKS UP DAZED

#CHANGBINxDAZEDKOREA #CHANGBIN

#HANxDAZEDKOREA #HAN

[herrenxenoberg]

Fandorm Showcase #23 - The Black Cauldron

Our final fandorm for the season 2 batch.

Introducing the menacing and eerie dorm inspired by The Black Cauldron...

Marwolord!

It combines the words Marwol (Welsh for deadly) and lord.

This dorm focuses on pure ambition and desire for power, a force not to be reckoned with. This is also a dorm every student tend to avoid in Night Raven College, but it's not what it seems at the surface. In actuality, students in this dorm are professional musicians of the rock/metal music genre, so they tend to be loud and aggressive. Their type of music genre in my own TWST lore is called Necro-Metal, a kind of metal music genre that is rumored to be able to raise the undead if played harmoniously and with the combination of resurrection magic, which is classified as a forbidden type of magic to practice in modern times.

Yes, they're a rock band-

"A dorm founded on the Dread Sovereign's spirit of resolution. Students in this dorm are encouraged to harness their inner power and perseverance through aggressive music."

Requirements and Traits:

Prefers rock/metal genre of music

Have extensive knowledge in ancient texts or runic inscriptions

Strong desire for power and control

Dorm Uniform Design:

This is my most complicated design for a dorm uniform yet, I tried to combine a rockstar aesthetic with the overall theme of The Horned King. I found a reference for a skull-like hole pattern on a shirt and decided to use that idea but also make the shirt semi-transparent. (Yes, the housewarden would basically be bare torso-wise if not for the additional fur jacket.) Well, at least that is avoided with the ribcage-like mesh harness worn underneath all that.

Bow down to the king of Necro-Metal himself...

Character Roster:

Caxir Arwest, a third-year housewarden of Marwolord and a fae of immense capabilities, is a commanding presence in Twisted Wonderland, a Necro-Metal virtuoso whose raw talent and dark charisma have earned him both adoration and fear. Caxir’s music is as intense as his personality. Known for his electrifying guitar solos and haunting compositions, he has a near-magical ability to captivate his audience, leaving them entranced by his performances in the Nero-Metal band, "The Cauldron-Borns". Offstage, however, he is a man of few words, speaking with a deliberate, commanding tone that makes every word feel significant.

Caxir Arwest (Twisted off The Horned King)

While his fame brings him adoration, Caxir is not one to bask in it. His goals go far beyond simple recognition—he seeks to inspire and control, channeling the raw energy of his music to awaken something primal in his audience. He thrives on power, not just over his instrument but over those who dare to underestimate him. Yet beneath his stoic exterior lies a profound loneliness and a burning desire to find someone who understands the depths of his passion and ambition.

Notable Members:

Geraint Skreech (Sophomore) - A wyvern fae who likes keeping others on their toes, often speaking in cryptic words and peppering his conversations with dark humor. He's the synthesizer of the band "The Cauldron-Borns". (Twisted off the Gwythaints)

Cree Hoblin (Vice Houewarden, Sophomore) - A scrappy and excitable fae who adores the excitement of being apart of the band "The Cauldron-Borns" as the bass player, as well as the morale booster for the band. (Twisted off Creeper)

Osburn Moreva (Junior) - A man with the most enchanting singing voice that anyone who hears it are compelled to listen to his whole performance, as if they're hypnotized by his songs. (Twisted off the witches of Morva)

Mors Quietus (Freshman) - An aloft and blank-minded boy who is a reanimated corpse with no recollection of his past, but he has skills in playing excellent backup guitar rhythms for the band. (Twisted off The Cauldron Borns)

Bronn Boiler (Freshman) - A golem crafted from the alloys that formed the infamous enchanted cauldron of the dread sovereign, who now relies on Necro-Metal resonance to fuel its essence, and is the drummer for the band. It rarely speaks a word but only Caxir understands its needs. (Twisted off The Black Cauldron)

Synopsis:

It's Night Raven College's annual cultural fair, and the SDC (Song and Dance Competition) has returned to find their new winner for this year. This time, joining the contest for the top spot is the band from the dreaded Marwolord dorm, "The Cauldron-Borns", led by Caxir Arwest, the housewarden and lead guitarist/vocalist. Their performance has been famously known to draw huge audiences from around the world, which also happens in the SDC contest. But something dark and sinister is happening within the band, as Caxir has plans to harvest the resonance of the audience to his performances for his ultimate goal.

Annnnnd that is all for Season 2 fandorms! Stay tuned for more to come!

[mweothe11e]

Hello Elle how have you been dear, everything okay!? Hopefully yes and if not just know that sometimes we gotta rest back and observe a little allowing us to be just a human. Thankyou so much for opening this for us again, sending you strength and energy because I know how draining is to do this and especially these type l readings will require extra so better start hydrated and rest well.

"What mythical/fictional creature do you think or feel nearly embodies your dark side?"

-Well a really very intresting question but i really don't have a thing for fictional/mythology characters since I don't have watch a lot but if i were to say maybe I'd say Lilith!? Why because I've been drawn to her a lot some times you know and the things she loves and all if that makes sense. But somehow I feel I'm also someone who has boundaries and hyper independent not the type to serve someone or be submissive like to be free and myself regardless of how traditional & hopeless romantic I am. If that makes sense. Also she embodies dark feminine energy and is often misunderstood as something she's not & feel the same way.

My information; I'm Jasmine. Capricorn sun, Virgo moon and Taurus rising. (Tropical) She/her aka a women if that's needed too lol.

Thankyou so much dear have an absolutely amazing week ahead! Sending you good energy and love. 🫶🏻🤍✨🧿

*reblogging things too dw*

Hi Jasmine,

Thank you so much for participating in my Inner Demons ask game.

I wanna start by saying thank you so much for being so understanding and patient with me, especially when it comes to your reading request.

OMG, you chose Lilith! You must be quite the badass! If you resonated with Lilith, you must have gone through so much!

So the cards I pulled are: 10 of Swords, 6 of Cups, 2 of Cups

By, any chance, did you ever feel like you were forced to grow up to fast? Like you were robbed of your childhood? Were you punished for not being the perfect child? Were you punished for crying? Could also be parentified, looking after younger kids? Was the financial constraints of your family pressured you to not want to ask for anything? Were you used to hand-me-downs?

I'm here to tell you that, having felt frustrated, worn out almost livid, and short-tempered with others wasn't your choosing. You were barely left with any energy by the end of the day to even have the time to sit, reflect, and honor your feelings. You did what you could to survive, it wasn't perfect, so I'm not sure if it's any consolation to say this, the adult you are today was the person you would have run to and needed back when you were growing up.

Now, I'm in no shape or form have any intention of invalidating your experiences and pain. All I'm saying is, you're not that scared and hypervigilant, defenseless little kid anymore. You've grown through that chaos and you survived. Don't feel guilty about surviving, also don't dismiss and undermine the impact of all the things you've overcome in order to be the adult that you are today. With that, in my eyes, it seems you have the Inner Demon I call, "Diamond Soldier".

Now, it's not to say you deserve to go through hell and back; but the fact that you did, is something you should take pride in. Just remember, YOU did that. YOU survived! YOU have outlived all the days you thought would end you.

The resilience to persevere every trial and obstacle thrown at you since you were a kid, all those sleepless nights, fighting your inner demons and intrusive thoughts; all those external pressures have transformed you into the Diamond that you are today.

Now what you desire is a sense of comfort and relief; could be something familiar that had been your only form of solace during your turbulent upbringing. Maybe a feeling of being safe to exist. Safe to be yourself. To feel safe to be who you want to be. Safe to dream and pursue the life you had always dreamed.

And how you go about it while incorporating your brilliant perseverance is by adaptability and resourcefulness; of what you currently have and capable of, then strategize in a way that is both realistic and sustainable for your current lifestyle.

Let's say you grew in a chaotic household where screaming and shouting cuss words was deemed as a casual conversation. So you would want to live independently where you feel safe to exist, by making sure every single thing or aspect in your new apartment would collectively bring you a sense of calm, safety and security.

If loud noises trigger you, make sure your cabinets and doors are soft closes. If bright fluorescent lights trigger your fight or flight response, choose warmer and softer sources of lights. If it's food, then make sure your entire pantry is always fully stocked with your comfort food. This part has to be specifically curated to your particular needs.

So never forget that after this reading, you don't owe anyone any explanation on how much would you go out of your way, in order to feel safe to exist. Anyone who gets mad at you for establishing your healthy boundaries are the very traitors who benefits from your unexpected naivety.

This concludes the end of your reading. Do let me know how this resonates with you. Feel free to show some support via my Buy Me A Coffee here (This reading is for entertainment purposes only.)

[promise-keeper-papyrus]

A long time ago, the monster kingdom trapped under Mount Ebott fell into despair. The king and queen had lost two children in one night. The king decided it was time to end the suffering. But his way of doing it was cruel beyond words. Every human who falls down here must die. With enough souls, the king would become godlike and the barrier could be shattered. Then the king would destroy humanity and avenge his kingdom. The kingdom was eager for humanity's destruction...

But the kingdom seems to have forgotten that one of the king's children was human as well, just like we once were...

But it didn't matter to them that we were all scared children.

It didn't matter that we only wanted to go home.

It didn't matter whether we did nothing wrong or attacked in self-defense.

Because to them, we were the enemy.

The enemy of their hopes and dreams.

We were human and our existence was a crime to the monsters.

The monsters hated us in life, celebrated our deaths and treated our murderers like heroes.

Yet they say our species are the evil ones.

We can't destroy the kingdom.

But we have a connection to the beasts that ended our lives.

And we will make them all suffer for it...

I was quite patient

But I was also quite sick

The Queen can't save me

I was very brave

I was not killed by the guards

Some bones sealed my fate

.

The Joker tricked me

Pretending to be harmless

I thought he was safe

.

I had found Snowdin

But I didn't want more fights

Tired of fighting

.

It happened so fast

I didn't enter Snowdin

Too weak to fight back

.

Joker will not rest

Cowards don't deserve to rest

He will live in guilt

I had strong morals

My true blue integrity

Something that she lacked

'

I had worn a mask

When I first met the Hero

I thought she could change

.

I asked for her help

She guided me to the hotlands

I told her the truth

.

I thought we were friends

She stabbed me right in my heart

But I took her eye

.

She's not a Hero

She was only pretending

Villain in disguise

It's all that I had

My clever perseverance

It kept me alive

'

The Brain was a fool

Only thinks about herself

Despite her claiming to care

.

In life, we don't meet

Her traps are what ended me

Then she stole my soul

.

She had used my soul

For her dark experiments

On her own people

.

A selfish faker

That's all she ever will be

A cowardly fraud

I had once been kind

Too scared to befriend my foes

Especially not him

'

When I met the Bot

He threw endless bombs at me

Didn't stand a chance

.

He killed me for fame

Treated my death like a joke

An arrogant fool

.

But I will show him

What a true ghost would act like

He'll feel true terror

.

He's in denial

He pretends that I'm not there

But I will break him

I wanted justice

I trained behind the Ruins

The King was stronger

.

I woke up on flowers

The King looked at me and cried

He apologized

.

Don't know how to feel

He killed me, but lost so much

Should hate him, but can't

.

I'm still angry though

Pity is not forgiveness

I will not forgive

.

Already broken

The kingdom doesn't see it

The scars on his heart

[athenapancakes]

I'd like y'all to imagine something with me.

Take a problem with the world nowadays (there sure are plenty to choose from), and imagine it as a broken-down car.

Frustrating, isn't it? That's the third damn time this week that the pile of junk has refused to even start. So now what do you do?

A glance around the garage reveals two options. The first thing you notice is a big, rusty old sledgehammer leaned against the corner. The second is a dented, sticker-covered toolbox.

Option One:

The rusty hammer feels satisfying to hold. The handle is worn smooth, gliding through your palms as you heft the substantial weight above your head and bring it down on the windshield with a loud crunch of shattering safety glass. You wrench the hammer free and swing it again, and again, and again. Feels nice, doesn't it? The piece-of-shit car will never let you or anyone else down again.

You continue, yelling, screaming, and swearing as you channel all your anger through fifteen pounds of weathered wood and steel. You swing until your muscles burn and your frustration is spent, then you set the sledgehammer aside.

What are you left with? A mess. Shards of glass and twisted, unrecognizable pieces of sheet metal litter the garage floor. The frustration is gone, but the car is ruined. Objectively, you're worse off than you were. Before there was at least a chance the car would start, however slim, but now it's a lump of useless scrap metal.

Option Two:

You heft the hammer for a moment, fantasizing about smashing the crappy old jalopy to pieces, But instead you take a breath, force down your anger, and open the toolbox. You retrieve a set of wrenches, a few screwdrivers, and a motley assortment of other instruments from inside, and turn back to the car.

Maybe the issue is surprisingly simple, and all it needs is a new battery or spark plugs. But more than likely it isn't. Perhaps several critical components are damaged beyond repair, and you need to tear down and rebuild the entire engine. The task ahead is difficult, and that rusty old hammer looks more and more tempting as the hours crawl by.

But you persevere through the pain and the tedium. And though it may take days, or weeks, or months, or years of hard work, and sometimes your progress only reveals new problems, eventually the car runs better than it ever did before.

In Conclusion:

So, after all that, which option seems better? In my couple of years on Tumblr, I've noticed that a concerning number of folks seem to approach every issue with a hammer. And I get it. As a queer, neurodivergent American, I know very well how you feel, because I've found myself hefting that metaphorical sledgehammer more times than I can count.

But what some people don't seem to realize is that burning it all down means nothing if you don't have a plan to build it back stronger. So next time you check the news and feel angry at the world, ask yourself this:

Am I approaching this problem with a wrench or with a hammer? Am I actually looking for a solution, or am I just searching for somewhere to channel my anger?

Righteous fury has it's place, and it's more than okay to be pissed off at the state of things, but mindless rage helps no one. Breathe. Have a snack. Take a nice long walk.

Then close your laptop, put down your phone, and open that toolbox, because we've got a hell of a lot of work to do.

[jerarca]

(  lizeth selene.  agender.  they/she.  )  did  you  hear  ?  OCTAVIA MONTOYA  is  stuck  in  stonehaven  for  the  for  the  foreseeable  future  …  they've  lived  here  for  ALL THEIR LIFE  and  are  known  around  town  as  THE  LEADER,  though  back  in  high  school  they  were  better  known  for  being  voted  MOST LIKELY TO CHANGE THE WORLD.  if  i'm  not  mistaken,  they’re  a  TWENTY-ONE  year  old  senior  studying  POLITICAL SCIENCE  (  i  really  hope  that  translates  well  into  their  role  as  a  MAYOR  in  the  ‘new  world'  ).  according  to  my  records  they  were  originally  on  the  trip  because they wanted to connect with others in a more vulnerable way  —  which  checks  out,  given  they’re  CHARISMATIC,  OBSERVANT  and  CONTROLLING.  if  you’re  ever  trying  to  find  them,  your  best  bet  is  to  start  at  town hall  and  listen  for  someone  humming  eres  by  café tacvba.  oh,  and  don’t  forget  to  try  calling  out  “captain”  or  picturing  worn leather boots caked with dirt, a small notebook with hastily scrawled plans, the glow of a flashlight cutting through foreboding forest  for  extra  help.  let's  hope  the  chaos  doesn't  get  to  them  … 

BASICS !

full name : octavia montoya nickname(s) : captain, cap, tavi, vivi ( she hates this one ) age : twenty one date of birth: december 2nd, 2002 place of birth : stonehaven, indiana gender : agender pronouns : they/them, she/her sexual orientation : lesbian ( ladies they're 5'11" , dms radio is open to communication ) spoken languages : spanish ( first language, ), english ( fluent ) education : fourth-year political science major at stonehaven college occupation : part-time grocer at mercantile ( previously ) , mayor ( currently )

PERSONALITY !

sagittarius sun. scorpio moon. taurus rising. entp. chaotic good. positive traits : adventurous, passionate, courageous neutral traits : blunt, independent, intense negative traits : restless, possessive, overindulgent tropes : only known by their nickname(s), action girl, gun twirling

THEN → NOW !

octavia was born on a frosty december morning in 2002, the youngest of three children, into a proud mexican-american ranching family in the serene south side of stonehaven, indiana. her father, santiago montoya, was a second-generation rancher who had inherited their modest family ranch. her mother, alma, was the glue of the household, balancing work at a local boutique with raising her children.

octavia’s childhood was steeped in the quiet rhythms of ranch life: waking up to the sound of cattle lowing, the smell of hay, and her father’s firm but encouraging voice as he taught her to ride a horse before she was tall enough to reach the stirrups.

even as a child, she was a force of nature—always the first to climb the tallest tree, the first to defend her siblings in schoolyard fights, and the one who, when playing pirates, insisted she be the captain. that’s where the nickname came from, initially a jest among her brothers that eventually became a mark of respect that stuck with her through the years.

the montoyas valued hard work and perseverance, but life wasn’t without its struggles. as the years went on, economic downturns and climate challenges forced santiago to shut down parts of the ranch. the family scraped by, selling off cattle and land bit by bit, but octavia was determined not to let the ranch—and everything it represented—slip through their fingers. she’d stay up late into the night, listening to her parents argue in hushed tones over bills, and it was during these moments that she swore she would become the person who could fix things, who could shoulder the weight of responsibility, no matter how heavy.

at maplewood elementary, she was the kid who organized lunchtime games and made sure no one was left out. in high school, their reputation as a natural leader flourished. they were elected student body president not once, but twice! that’s almost unheard of in their little town.

they excelled academically, particularly in history and government classes, though their grades occasionally dipped when their restless energy distracted them from homework. octavia was never just about grades; she wanted to do things. she organized charity events for the struggling families in south side, ran for office in statewide student government, and started a petition to save the local library from budget cuts. her efforts earned her the superlative “most likely to change the world,” a title she wore with pride, even though it made her feel the weight of expectations.

but octavia’s charisma wasn’t without its drawbacks. her bluntness alienated some people, and her intensity could feel overwhelming.

she had a penchant for risky behavior, like jumping off stonehaven’s tallest tree on a dare—an incident that left her with a scar on her arm and a lesson in limits she half-learned.

by the time they turned 18, octavia had set their sights on political science at stonehaven college. staying close to home was a practical decision—their family needed them, and they wasn’t about to up and leave for a degree. college life gave her an outlet for her ideals and a clearer picture of the systemic issues she wanted to address. she joined activism groups, interned with local politicians, and started dreaming of reforms that could help small towns like stonehaven thrive again.

they also began to explore their identity more openly in college. coming out was a liberating step, even if it wasn’t always easy in a town as small as stonehaven.

throughout college, octavia juggled academics, activism, and helping out on the family ranch, which had fallen into disrepair. their father’s pride meant he rarely asked for help outright, but octavia knew they were barely making ends meet. they began saving every penny from their part-time job at the mercantile and rationed their vices like smoking, aware they couldn’t afford to waste money on anything frivolous.

her tattoo collection became a way to reclaim her scars and tell her story: each design represented a lesson, a loss, or a victory. her brothers teased her about the ink covering her arms, but they also admired the way she wore her experiences so openly.

the trip was supposed to be a break—a rare chance for octavia to connect with others in a vulnerable, personal way. she felt like she’d spent so much of her life fixing things that she hadn’t taken the time to truly bond with anyone. she joined the group excursion thinking it would help her reconnect with herself and learn from others, even if she approached the idea of “team bonding” with a healthy dose of skepticism.

when the group returned to stonehaven and found it shrouded in eerie silence, octavia’s instincts kicked in immediately. she took control of the group, calming their panic while secretly mapping out every worst-case scenario in her mind. her first stop was town hall, where she set up base, gathering supplies and encouraging survivors to organize themselves into roles.

but beneath their composed exterior lies a gnawing fear: the possibility of failure. every decision feels like a gamble, and every crack in the group’s unity feels like a personal failing. despite this, they press on, fueled by the belief that leadership isn’t about being fearless—it’s about being brave enough to act, even when you’re afraid.

WANTED CONNECTIONS !

literally anything please. consider this a wip.