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nebuladreamerrr · 4 months

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Holaaa can I request another Mbappe imagine where you’re married to Kylian but somehow his family never noticed that you don’t drink. While you’re at his parent’s house and his mom offers you wine you told her no thanks. And she got a mini heart attack thinking you were announcing that you’re pregnant😂

I hope you like it, sweetheart ❤️❤️❤️

Problematic beverage| Kylian Mbappé x Fem Reader

Summary: To commemorate you and Kylian's last night in France you decide to have a farewell dinner, but one drink will set off alarm bells among all the guests.

Warnings: English is not my first language, and I am not a doctor so some medical information might be wrong.

As I indulged in a tranquil shower and meticulously selected my attire for the upcoming occasion, a sense of gratitude washed over me knowing that the celebration would be held at my mother-in-law's residence. While venturing out to explore new culinary delights with Kylian was a beloved pastime, today, the allure of a cozy night at home held greater appeal.

Since the morning, I had been grappling with slight abdominal discomfort, but it was the violent expulsion of my breakfast that sent alarm bells ringing. A sigh escaped my lips, a reflexive response to the familiar discomfort that had plagued me since childhood. From a young age, I had endured sporadic bouts of stomach pain, often coinciding with stressful events like ballet competitions or pivotal exams.

My mother, recognizing the pattern of discomfort over time and the occasional severity of the pain, decided to seek medical advice. It was then confirmed by the doctor that I was suffering from chronic pancreatitis. Fortunately, this diagnosis did not thwart my aspirations nor impede my plans. Nevertheless, there were limitations imposed by my condition, one of them being the prohibition of alcohol consumption.

I vividly recall the bewildered expression on my face when the doctor delivered the news that alcohol was off-limits due to its potential exacerbation of my condition. Despite having never partaken in revelry or imbibed alcohol, I comprehended its central role in youthful socialization. I anticipated feeling excluded and feared it would hinder my ability to forge friendships. However, fortune smiled upon me as I found companions who reveled in diverse activities, such as leisurely picnics punctuated by impromptu art sessions and beach outings adorned with sunset photography. While occasional forays into nightlife did occur, they were infrequent. Moreover, my aversion to alcohol transcended mere medical necessity; it stemmed from a profound apprehension regarding its transformative effects on individuals, a sentiment that prompted a steadfast commitment to abstention.

I crossed paths with Kylian at a charity gala where young French athletes, each with an inspiring tale to share, were invited to engage with children and organize activities, with the proceeds earmarked for various charitable causes. His speech resonated deeply with me, capturing both his pride and underlying sense of unease at being in the spotlight. His exact words, etched in my memory, were: "It's in these moments that I often feel out of place because, despite many of you seeking wisdom from me, it's I who must truly learn from all of you and your resilience in the face of adversity." Fortunately, I also captured his attention. When my presentation concluded, he couldn't resist approaching me, ostensibly to delve deeper into my world as we leisurely meandered through the buffet arrayed by the gala's organizers.

His heart nearly skipped a beat when I declined his offer of wine, yet my reassuring smile assuaged his concern as I disclosed my health condition, explaining the potential ramifications of alcohol consumption. Eager to learn more about me, Kylian exhibited a genuine interest in every facet of my life: from my ballet classes and training regimen to the nuances of my medication routine and anything remotely connected to me. Thus, a swift friendship blossomed between us, evolving into a profound romantic bond over the course of just a few months—a connection I wouldn't trade for anything in this world.

Four years ago, when we embarked on our relationship, we were both young and full of energy. Kylian, in particular, made the most of his free time by hanging out with friends, often leading to lively gatherings. Despite this, Kylian maintained a sense of discipline and restraint when it came to alcohol consumption. Instances of indulgence were typically reserved for national festivities or significant triumphs for his team or the national squad. However, everything changed when he met me. Suddenly, I became his top priority.

Kylian's transformation was profound. He meticulously documented all of my medications in a calendar, ensuring that I adhered to my prescribed regimen. If he couldn't be present when I needed to take my medication, he set an alarm to remind me. Additionally, he curtailed his social outings significantly, and on many occasions, he refused to attend events if I couldn't accompany him. When we did venture out together, our excursions were brief, as Kylian was adamant about not subjecting me to any discomfort.

On our wedding day, Kylian solemnly declared that his every decision would revolve around me, promising never to take any action that didn't prioritize my well-being above all else.

Thankfully, my illness never prevented me from attending any of Kylian's games. He cherished my presence, considering me his "lucky charm." It was through these matches that I had the pleasure of meeting my in-laws, whom Kylian introduced me to after one such game. As the Ligue 1 season progressed, so did my relationship with his parents, and I couldn't help but feel blessed by the bond we shared. Kylian's parents took immense pride in their son's career, and when I mentioned my occasional ballet performances, they eagerly pledged their attendance at my next show. This promise was fulfilled a few months ago when I took to the stage, greeted by the sight of my partner and his parents in the audience.

The decision to depart from France proved to be a challenging ordeal for both of us. It was a place that held significance for each of us individually; for Kylian, it was where he found trust and unwavering support, particularly during his darkest moments. Likewise, for me, it served as the backdrop for my personal and artistic growth, particularly in my beloved pursuit of ballet. However, I was acutely aware that leaving France would entail a narrowing of job prospects, given that few other nations accorded dance, especially ballet, the same level of priority.

Thus, when Kylian broached the idea of a modest gathering to mark the conclusion of a significant chapter in our lives, I couldn't help but feel a surge of anticipation. Initially slated to unfold at a private restaurant in the heart of Paris, a venue Kylian frequented with his friends and where he once celebrated his maiden PSG paycheck, the plans swiftly shifted. Sensing my discomfort on the eve of the event, Kylian promptly altered course, opting instead to host the gathering at his mother's residence—a more proximate locale to our abode. Here, I could seek respite in the guest room if my discomfort intensified, shielded from any prying eyes or unwelcome scrutiny.

With a sense of urgency, I hastened to complete my preparations, summoning Kylian to assist with the delicate task of fastening the gray satin dress adorning my frame. His admiring whistle upon beholding me in the garment, accompanied by the endearing epithet "my beautiful woman," served to ignite a flutter of warmth within me, intensified by the tender kiss planted upon my collarbone.

As we stepped into my mother-in-law's abode, she greeted me with an exuberant embrace, sharing how she had procured my favorite appetizers and guiding me toward the others, while Kylian grumbled behind me, visibly "irritated" by his mother's preference for embracing me first. In response, I couldn't resist playfully sticking out my tongue.

Upon crossing the threshold onto the terrace, Kylian's friends extended warm welcomes. Kylian, ensuring my comfort and safety, opted to leave me engaged in a delightful conversation with Melissa and his mother.

"How are you, y/n? I was genuinely concerned when Kylian mentioned you weren't feeling well," Fayza remarked, her tone laden with worry.

"I've been better, but thankfully, at the moment, my discomfort is limited to stomach issues, so things are more or less manageable for now," I responded, seeking to allay their concerns.

"Well, y/n, do tell us. Have you managed to secure a place with any academy or instructor for your inaugural performance in Spain?" Melissa inquired eagerly.

"I've reached out to several, but I've had to turn down many options because they weren't the right fit for me. They seemed more interested in my relationship with Kylian than my craft. However, in recent days, I've connected with one that genuinely seemed invested in me, so let's hope this one pans out."

"Sweetheart, can I get you a glass of wine while you continue telling us about the move?" Fayza asked, retrieving a bottle from an ice bucket.

"No, it's okay. I can't have wine because of my condition," I replied with a smile, which quickly faded when I noticed everyone falling silent and Fayza dropping the bottle to the floor.

"When were you planning on telling us?" Ethan teased his brother.

"Telling us what, exactly?" Kylian asked, attempting to lock eyes with me for an explanation, but my cluelessness only heightened his concern.

"That y/n is pregnant," Fayza blurted out, barely able to overcome her shock.

"What?!" Kylian and I exclaimed, unable to shake off our bewilderment at his family's confusion.

"Yes, it all makes sense now: y/n's frequent vomiting, her occasional dizziness, her abdominal discomfort, and her abstaining from alcohol," Melissa exclaimed excitedly, envisioning her children having a cousin to play with.

"What? No, no, there's been a misunderstanding. I can't drink because of my illness, and Kylian and I... no, we're not planning for a baby right now," I explained nervously, seeking Kylian's confirmation of my statement.

"Exactly, as she said, for now, we won't know for three weeks," Kylian chimed in, attempting to lighten the mood with a joke, but his attempt fell flat when met with my glare of disapproval.

Gradually, the atmosphere returned to normal as Fayza apologized to both of us for her reaction. It wasn't that she didn't want grandchildren; she simply thought we had chosen to keep it a secret and would find out through the media when her son was abroad.

And so, we savored our final evening together, cherishing the memories to bring comfort in times of homesickness. However, Kylian couldn't help but hope that the next time we entered that house, it would be to announce a pregnancy.

#kylian mbappe #kylian mbappe x reader #kylian x reader #mbappe imagine #mbappe psg #mbappe x reader

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verona2314 · 6 months

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Judgment of the Damned (translation) PART IX

Link Part VIII

Summary:

In the realm of Limbo, where souls deemed too good for Hell but not virtuous enough for Heaven reside, Victoria finds herself thrust into an unprecedented mission. When a notorious sinner, Sir Pentious, achieves redemption and ascends to Heaven, it sends shockwaves through all realms. Tasked with unraveling this mystery, Victoria, a minor judge of souls, is sent to the infamous Hazbin Hotel in Hell. For the first time, an emissary from Limbo steps foot into the fiery depths, tasked with observing and judging the denizens of Hell for their potential for redemption. As Victoria navigates this unfamiliar territory, she captures the unrequired attention of the enigmatic Radio Demon, Alastor. Amidst the chaos of demonic antics and the pursuit of understanding redemption, Victoria must confront her own beliefs and judgments. As she delves deeper into the secrets of the Hazbin Hotel, Victoria uncovers hidden truths about sinners, redemption, and the ultimate fate of souls caught between damnation and salvation. With each soul she encounters, Victoria's journey becomes not only a quest for answers but a personal voyage of self-discovery in the heart of darkness.

Chapter 9: common sense

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

Seilmon

Being a supreme judge wasn't easy. Much less being the president of the 5. Nor was it possible for him to know how many years he had been in that position, as his first days seemed very distant. After all, they had been created for this position. Maintaining balance and peace meant being indifferent to any sympathy. It meant making sacrifices and making tough decisions. Unfortunately, they were not exempt from making mistakes as many believed. He more than anyone knew that.

Despite this heavy burden on his shoulders, he had always maintained a youthful attitude and a very marked sense of humor that some described as childish. He also greatly enjoyed observing the events that unfolded in the different domains and predicting the various outcomes. It was much better than any soap opera!

That's why right now, in the sanctuary of his office and through a large crystal sphere, he attentively watched the journey of the esteemed minor judge, Victoria. So many things had happened in just two days! Unfortunately, his enjoyment was hindered by the arrival of one of his colleagues.

"Good day, Seilmon," Myram greeted him as he entered his office with his characteristic tough and serious voice.

"Myram!" he responded enthusiastically. "You've come at a great time. Look at this."

The supreme judge approached the transparent sphere and his serious expression was replaced by a look of complete surprise.

"Is that Victoria?" Myram said incredulously and a little annoyed. "Why on earth is she fighting with a sinner in the street?" His colleague watched the scene closely and grimaced when the junior judge took a blow to the face.

"And this is just the replay," Seilmon recounted as he changed the image in the sphere with subtle movements of his hands. "She's already displayed her powers in front of several witnesses. It's only a matter of time before her identity is revealed," Seilmon added with enthusiasm.

"WHAT?" his colleague responded furiously. "It hasn't even been a week."

"I know, and they've already tried to hurt her. I must admit, that was creative but very dramatic for my taste."

"How?!" Myram spoke again, trying to maintain composure.

"Oh well, they dropped a chandelier on her. Come on, Myram. Don't be dramatic. That wouldn't have killed her. It could have just left her injured. Besides, in the worst-case scenario, she would reappear here in Limbo again. Yes, sending her back to hell would be troublesome, involving a lot of paperwork and energy, but it's manageable."

"Seilmon," the woman spoke with contained frustration, furrowing her brow and placing a hand on her temple, "why would someone want to drop a chandelier on her? Who would want to harm her?"

"Oh, well. That little attempt wasn't specifically for her. That was a message for me, for all of us," he replied this time with a bit more seriousness, still keeping an eye on the sphere.

"This implies that someone already knows about the investigation into redemption, that we have one of our minor judges there. And they don't like it. It must be heaven."

"Don't jump to conclusions, Myram," he pointed out with a laugh. "There are several interests at play here. Believe me, making redemption a mass thing doesn't just affect heaven. The pieces are on the board. We just have to wait for this to unfold."

"What? Are you just going to sit there and do nothing? I knew this was a bad idea, Seilmon. I never agreed to send Victoria there, let alone with redemption, and you know that. However, I allowed you this whim under the condition that nothing happened to that girl," his colleague said seriously.

"Nothing is going to happen to her!" he assured her. "In fact, even an overlord is watching her very closely. Just watch as he carries her back to the hotel. Isn't it amazing? Fascinating."

"You call that carrying someone? But he's carrying her under one arm as if... as if she were a rolled-up rug... Are you sure that's Victoria? I can't see her face because she's covered by... a coat?" the supreme judge questioned incredulously.

"Yes, it 's her. Eh… Well, it's true that it's not the most delicate way to carry someone but... come on, he could have just left her there," he pointed out, shrugging.

"Is this a joke?" Myram responded, noticeably angry. "Seilmon. Have you already forgotten what happened with Aody and Dagmar? I don't want history to repeat itself. I refuse. I don't care if you and Débora want to live in the clouds with your fanciful vision of redemption. I won't allow something like that to happen again, no matter the cost."

"Myram..." Seilmon sighed with a hint of weariness. "I hear a lot of anger and resentment in your voice."

"And are you surprised? THEY'RE DEAD, Seilmon, DEAD! Don't you care?" Myram exclaimed without restraint.

"Myram, of course I care. I mourn for them as much as you do. But don't you also lament the death of the infernal involved?" he said with pain in his voice, trying to calm her down.

"Don't fuck with me!" the supreme judge exclaimed, walking angrily towards him and pointing a finger. "That bastard got what he deserved. He brought it upon himself. No. That wretch is not worthy of my compassion. He's the guilty one. You're the pathetic ones who prefer to forgive and forget rather than demand justice for Aody and Dagmar. Hell never answered for their deaths, their murders!"

"The Limbo didn't answer for what happened either. Besides, hell suffered many losses too. Myram, I've always admired your passion and thirst for justice, but you must learn that things aren't always so simple."

"That the Limbo didn't answer? From that day on, we became nothing, decorative figures. We lost everything."

"Myram," he sighed again, "Look, I promise you nothing will happen to Victoria. Do you hold her in esteem because you share that passionate temperament?"

"No," the supreme judge replied, turning her back. "She's much cooler-headed than me. But she's the only one who has the balls to tell me when I'm wrong. Besides, she's one of the special ones."

"I see," he responded, looking back at the crystal sphere. "I suppose she is indeed a peculiar soul," he whispered with a slight laugh.

"What did you mean when you said heaven isn't the only one affected by redemption?" his colleague questioned, pausing at the door.

"It's true that heaven doesn't have the best opinion of sinners and most don't even want to think about having them treading on their clean floors, even redeemed," he pointed out without taking his eyes off the sphere. "But also imagine what would happen to hell if suddenly their number of inhabitants significantly decreased. On the other hand, what incentive would sinners have to celebrate contracts if they could eventually ascend to heaven? Who would they sell drugs to? What would happen to the demand for weapons? And don't think that the Limbo is exempt from all this. Like you, there are several judges who don't believe in redemption. This could eventually lead to a segregation of beliefs which could lead us to serious conflicts. If we're not careful... I think you understand my point."

"So you suspect hell," the supreme judge concluded.

"Oh no, Myram," he replied, laughing. "I suspect everyone."

Vaggie

"Alright. I hope you're all ready to start the search. Angel, you're taking zone A with Husk," Vaggie said, pointing at a map covered in markings hanging on a wall in the hotel's entrance hall. "Charlie and I will go to zone B. Niffty, you'll stay here in case we have any news about the judge. Remember, if any of you find any sign of her whereabouts, you must immediately notify the other group through the walkie-talkies I'll give you," she continued, speaking with a firm and authoritative voice. "The most important thing in all of this is to remain unnoticed. We don't want to attract attention, and especially..." Her speech was abruptly interrupted by the sound of the main door slamming open. Vaggie immediately noticed the radio demon standing there, carrying the unconscious judge under one arm.

"Victoria!" Charlie exclaimed upon seeing the scene. "Alastor, what happened? We saw all the commotion caused by her honor on the news."

"Yeah, we're all wondering the same thing," Angel added, crossing two of his multiple arms. "I mean, what the hell, Alastor? Weren't you supposed to take care of her honor?"

"Is she unconscious?" Husk pointed out. "Ugh, I don't want to get more involved in this shit. This is bad."

"Oh come on, guys. The important thing is that they are here now," Charlie intervened. "We need to tend to the judge, and then Alastor will explain what happened. He must have an excellent reason for all of this. Is that a cardinal in her honor's eye?"

Vaggie narrowed her eyes, judging Alastor with suspicion. She suspected that all of this was part of some twisted plan on the radio demon. She couldn't see how revealing Victoria's identity could benefit him, but there was definitely a hidden motive. At that moment, Vaggie noticed a slight movement behind the tall demon. She took Charlie by the wrist and placed her protectively behind her. "Who's with you, Alastor?" she scrutinized with distrust. The radio demon looked at her with a certain degree of confusion, tilting his head.

"With me? Oh! I had forgotten about this insignificant individual," Alastor exclaimed, stepping aside to reveal a frail sinner. "Perhaps he can give you more details of what happened while I take Victoria to her room. As you can see, her honor is exhausted," he said, entering the hotel without paying much attention to the others, taking the judge with him.

Vaggie observed the boy. He didn't look older than 15, but his soul could have been in hell for centuries. He was thin, and his eyes nervously scanned the surroundings. His face seemed swollen, and there was dried blood under his nose. She didn't like him. Not because of his appearance, but simply because he had arrived with Alastor. The most important thing was not to let this stranger in under any circumstances without first having more information.

"And who's that?" Angel whispered. "He definitely took a beating."

"Hi!" Charlie greeted enthusiastically, walking towards the boy. "My name is Charlie. Welcome to the Hazbin Hotel. Why don't you come in, get comfortable, and tell us everything! Um, what's your name?"

Vaggie sighed resignedly. It was complicated to maintain the security of the establishment with her girlfriend's friendly personality. But she couldn't complain; after all, that's exactly why she loved her. Without lowering her guard, the former exterminator watched the boy enter the hotel. She was ready for anything.

"Thank you," the sinner finally responded. "My name is Adrian."

"What's your relationship with Alastor?" Vaggie asked immediately. She needed to gather information about this boy before the others could take over the conversation.

"N-None. I just helped him bring the lady here," the so-called Adrian replied, showing the palms of his hands. "I had the feeling that guy knew her and cared about her, and I wanted her to be okay, so I offered to help. But then he started getting threatening and creepy with me, and I began to doubt his intentions. But he mentioned the Hazbin Hotel, and the lady had also mentioned that name, and she defended me against Fred, so I wanted to do something, and... and... then he carried her with no delicacy, and I got upset, and he growled at me, and... and then he put on that horrible face again, and... and I..."

"What? Hold on a second, I'm not understanding anything," Vaggie said, relaxing a bit. This boy didn't seem dangerous; he even seemed pitiful. She crossed her arms and changed her expression to a friendlier one. "Take a breath and start from the beginning."

"Hey, give the kid some space," Husk growled. "It's obvious he's a bit scared. And I don't blame him."

"Don't worry, Adrian. You're safe with us," Charlie smiled. "You can relax now. We'll all make sure you're in a calm and relaxed environment."

"CHARLIE!" someone shouted. Vaggie turned her gaze towards the door just in time to see the king of hell entering with a concerned look on his face. Lucifer wasted no time and immediately went to his daughter, taking her by the shoulders. "Are you hurt? No? What a relief! Have you received any visits from Limbo? Or any angels? Under no circumstances should you open the door to any strangers!"

"Dad," the princess nervously laughed. "I'm fine. What brings about this visit?"

"Well, you see," Lucifer began, clearing his throat. "I was busy with absolutely important and very important matters when I received a rather unsettling call from a good friend of mine. I mean... what the hell! The judge's presence was supposed to be kept secret! It hasn't even been a week, and the whole hell is speculating about the little show she put on."

"I... well, maybe it's not so bad," Charlie said, trying to calm her father.

"What? Charlie, you have no idea what you're talking about. How could you know? I don't want to deal with Limbo's people. You have no idea how severe they can be. I wanted the judge to stay with you at the hotel because you seem to have similar ideas; I thought she could support your project, but it was a bad idea. A terrible idea! I made a mistake."

"Dad," Charlie whispered, visibly hurt, looking down at the ground.

Vaggie held her girlfriend's hand. She had a feeling the conversation would take this turn. She didn't want to get involved in Charlie's personal matters with her father, but she couldn't just stand by and watch her princess's confidence be undermined by Lucifer's careless words. "Sir, uh... I don't want to intrude, but I don't think you're being fair to Charlie. She's doing her best. Yes, there was a small slip-up, but that doesn't mean you should lose all trust in her. Charlie is perfectly capable of handling this. She's not a naive child; she's a strong woman who isn't afraid to defy the odds and always manages to find an advantage in every situation."

"What?" the king of hell responded, a bit confused. "Of course I know all that. My daughter is the most wonderful creature in existence. And I trust her. My mistake was involving her in a delicate situation by getting her involved with Limbo."

"It sounded like you didn't have faith in her and her abilities. Like this situation was her fault," the former exterminator continued impulsively as she crossed her arms. It wasn't the most sensible thing to reproach your girlfriend's father, but at that moment, her priority was to support Charlie.

"Vaggie," the king of hell said, "I really appreciate what you're doing for my daughter. But I don't think you can fully grasp the risks involved in all of this. Charlie... none of this is your fault, and I know how amazing you are. I'm aware of your abilities. However, I don't want anything to happen to you. Just the thought of you ending up in a trial before them terrifies me." Lucifer gently caressed his daughter's cheek, letting out a sigh. "Moreover, there will be many who won't be happy with the judge's presence, which makes all of you a target as long as her honor remains in the hotel. That's why I think it's best for her to stay with me or return to Limbo."

"What? No!" the princess replied. "Dad, I haven't even had time to talk to her, to understand her ideals, to plan anything. Besides, as you mentioned, this is a great opportunity. We can't give up now that we know redemption is possible. I know the situation doesn't look good, but I'm sure we can find some advantage. Perhaps if sinners know that there's someone from Limbo interested in redemption, without revealing yet that it's a reality, they might be more willing to take it seriously. Maybe we'll be a target for some, but we can also attract others with hope."

"Redemption?" Adrian interrupted. "Is the lady a judge from Limbo? Is redemption possible?"

"Oh, um," Charlie glanced nervously at the boy. "I meant to say that for the judge from Limbo, redemption does seem real and possible. That's why she's here! This hotel has the same goal. To help sinners ascend to heaven."

Adrian's face filled with excitement. It seemed he believed Charlie's words. "Well," the boy said, "if a judge from Limbo believes it's possible... and the princess of hell too, why not? I've only been here for a year, but it's been long enough to try anything to get out."

"And who's this?" Lucifer questioned, pointing to Adrian. "Have you finally decided to replace Deer Ears? This bellhop looks much nicer."

"No, Dad," Charlie replied. "This boy is Adrian. I think he helped bring the judge back. Alastor is still at the hotel. He must be tending to Victoria's wounds right now."

"What? Where?" Charlie's father inquired. "You can't leave the judge in that vulnerable state with a sinner. I'll go right away. What does that guy know about treating wounds?"

"They're probably in their room, Room 110 if I remember correctly," Vaggie responded, squeezing her girlfriend's hand to prevent her from getting into an argument with the king of hell while trying to defend the radio demon. Besides, she didn't feel at ease with the idea of Alastor being alone with the judge either. Vaggie had become much more suspicious and cautious of the radio host since Charlie had struck the deal with him. It was a matter that troubled her, yet she hadn't found the right moment to discuss it with her girlfriend, knowing that conversation wouldn't be pleasant. As she suspected, Alastor was an opportunistic and patient person who waited for Charlie's most vulnerable moment and fully took advantage of it.

Vaggie released the breath she had been holding as Lucifer left to fulfill his mission of checking on the judge's condition. The place filled with a deafening silence.

"Well, what now?" Angel asked.

"Can I say something?" Adrian said with a bit of shyness. "Could I give it a try?"

"What thing?" Angel replied. "I could get you something good, but I warn you, it won't come cheap."

"What? No, I don't mean that," the boy grumbled.

"I was just joking, kid," Angel laughed. "I don't mess with minors. Besides, I'm trying to be better and all that shit."

"I want to try that," Adrian exclaimed. "I want to try to be better, I want to give redemption a shot. The judge... she defended me against my boss, Fred. She got into a fight with him, for me. She saw something good in me and I want... I want to thank her for that."

"Ah, that explains why you look like shit. You got beaten pretty hard, didn't you?" Husk said with a half-smile. "Maybe I should teach you how to use those fists, kid."

"This is..." Charlie began, on the verge of tears. "It's just wonderful! Adrian, those words you said were so sweet. Of course, you can stay at the hotel in search of redemption. I think you're already on the right path."

Adrian smiled eagerly. "Then, I'll go get my things. I won't be long! Thank you so much," the boy said before rushing out the door.

"Vaggie, this is incredible. We have a new guest. We have to celebrate!" Charlie exclaimed, seizing the opportunity to also celebrate Sir Pentious's redemption.

"Wait, WHAT?" Angel shouted. "Sir Pentious is in heaven? That son of a bitch did it. And here I was feeling like shit for his death."

"Don't fuck with me," Husk said, dropping a beer bottle to the floor.

"Vaggie, didn't you tell them?" her girlfriend questioned.

"Well, I explained the whole situation, omitting some details," she responded nervously. Why was she worried? That information was supposed to be secret. "The judge was very clear about the consequences of revealing that."

"But they're our friends!" the blonde emphasized.

"I CAN'T BELIEVE IT," Angel continued, processing all of this. "Redemption is possible. Don't fuck with me, damn it. Then... why am I still here? I've done everything you told me, Charlie."

This was one of Vaggie's fears. The last thing she wanted was for her girlfriend to be bombarded with questions that nobody could answer. While Angel had shown progress, Vaggie wasn't sure if it was enough to achieve the same as Sir Pentious. "Angel, calm down, please," the ex-exterminator said softly. "I understand the confusion, but nobody really knows why it happened."

"Do I have to sacrifice myself to be free? Is that what it takes?" the porn star continued.

"That's not a guarantee of redemption. Don't even think about trying to do something like that, Angel. That's why the judge is here, to try to understand all of this," Vaggie explained, trying to calm things down.

"It really sucks that you didn't tell us that part," Husk interrupted. "I get that maybe that information was sensitive, but... Does Alastor know about it?"

"I... Yes. He was present at the meeting where all of this was discussed," Vaggie admitted sadly.

"Well, shit. Do you trust that bastard more than us?" Husk pointed out. "That explains why he's been so close to Victoria. Can't you see it? Imagine the business opportunity of offering redemption through a Limbo judge."

"Enough!" Vaggie finally exclaimed. "Look, I'm sorry, okay? I barely had time to process all of this, and I wasn't sure if I should tell you or not, considering that I had to respect Victoria's wishes. Alastor being in that meeting wasn't my decision either. I don't trust him either, but we gain nothing by making enemies. If Charlie trusts that radio host, then I'll support her. If Charlie believes that you guys are capable of keeping the secret, then I'll support her too. But I also didn't have the chance to discuss this with her."

"That's... true," her girlfriend added, lowering her gaze. "The important thing, guys, is that redemption is possible and there's evidence of it, but... revealing this fact is dangerous. You know me, you know this is my dream. But I also recognize that I have to be careful not to make a big mistake. Angel, I have no idea why you haven't ascended yet, but I'm sure you can do it. I have faith in you."

"Hmmmm, aaagh, fine," grumbled Angel. "I'm still upset but... thanks, Charlie. And Vaggie, I don't like that you left out something so important but whatever. I can understand you."

"This shit is just getting more complicated," Husk sighed. "At least it seems like nobody has found out yet that the judge is here. But we need to be prepared for when that moment comes. We don't know if we can trust that kid, Adrian. So, I recommend keeping that detail of redemption hidden. That information is valuable."

"Thank you, guys," Vaggie said, feeling relieved. It seemed like they could finally have some peace.

"Simply outrageous!" grumbled Lucifer, exiting the elevator. "That guy is... I hate him! Charlie, he can't stay in the hotel any longer."

"What happened?" his girlfriend asked, concerned.

"That bastard just won't... ugh, never mind. If it weren't for him 'helping' you with the hotel, I would've taught him a lesson by now. Charlie, never make a deal with that guy. I forbid it. If you do, I... I'll get very angry and do angry things, angrily."

"Oh, sure, Dad. You have nothing to worry about," Charlie replied, trying to stay calm and disguise her nervousness. "So, was the judge okay?"

"Huh? What?" Lucifer replied. "Oh, yes. Of course. She's still unconscious."

"We better go check on her, Charlie," Vaggie whispered to her girlfriend resignedly. It was clearly worrying that the judge was still asleep. But His Majesty seemed more concerned about his feud with Alastor than the well-being of his honor at the moment. Charlie nodded in agreement, perhaps she just had to accept that they wouldn't have moments of peace anymore.

Alastor

After laying the judge on her bed, he decided to use a handkerchief to clean the bloodstains on her face from the wound on her lip. This wasn't out of any loving gesture, far from it. Alastor felt it was convenient to improve the judge's appearance a bit to avoid greater reproaches for his carelessness. He hoped to somewhat lessen the seriousness of the situation. It was bad enough that Victoria had finger marks on her slender neck. For a moment, he wondered if the blood of limbo's celestials tasted the same as that of heaven's or if it was perhaps better. He pushed the thought from his mind. It was past noon, and he hadn't eaten anything; it was expected that he would feel hungry. At that moment, he regretted losing his purchase from the butcher's. He glanced at the unconscious woman. Why hadn't she woken up? Had she really suffered such a severe blow? It didn't seem to be the case. Perhaps the use of her power required a lot of energy.

No. He wasn't worried. He simply found it inconvenient that the judge hadn't woken up now that he owed her a favor after saving her from a complex situation. Losing consciousness in the middle of hell was a really bad idea. Besides, despite all the trouble the judge had caused him, he was willing to acknowledge that he somewhat enjoyed their conversations and that her presence made things less boring. Indeed, he didn't care about her as an individual, but rather as a source of entertainment. That must be the reason for his indignation at the aggression directed towards her. Right? On the other hand, he also respected her. She was an individual with a very sharp mind and, as he could appreciate, a very strong will. He wanted to know more about her. Why was she willing to go so far for a mere sinner? Did all limbo judges know self-defense? How could she be such a rational person but contradictorily passionate at the same time? Where did she get the courage to face a subject twice her size? And to think that he, at one point, tried to intimidate her with his towering height.

At that moment, he remembered how fierce the judge's eyes looked as she faced that vulgar individual. Now, that determined woman lay on a bed, pale and with barely perceptible breathing. She looked vulnerable and fragile, but he knew that wasn't the case. Alastor promised himself at that moment that he would never accept a bare-knuckle fight against her, as he would have a very hard time. He had to admit that Victoria, unlike him, was someone who faced things directly, without tricks, without hidden intentions. She knew perfectly when it was convenient to keep silent, but she wasn't afraid to express her opinions and openly fight for her convictions. It was something he admired about her.

Now, thanks to Adrian's words, Alastor was able to have a complete understanding of what had happened and learn something new about the judge, the knowledge she had about street dynamics and juvenile delinquents. He was surprised by how Victoria had handled the robbery situation. As she had pointed out at one point, she was tough yet compassionate. He would define her as fair. Why didn't he just admit it? Yes. He found the judge agreeable. It's not like it was the first time he had a good opinion of someone. He also thought highly of Rosie, although his friend didn't irritate him, didn't test his patience, didn't cause him trouble.

Very well, Bambi. Why are you still in the judge's room?" Lucifer interrupted. When had he entered?

"Who? Bambi?" He responded, dismissing it. But that question made him wonder the same... why was he still there? He had already fulfilled his duty of letting the judge rest.

"Are you waiting for her to wake up so you can play the savior and ask for a favor?" the King of Hell said mockingly. "Ha! No, no, no. That would be troublesome, and believe me, you don't want trouble with Limbo."

Alastor wasn't in the mood to listen to Lucifer's irritating comments, so he tried to remain calm as the King vented. "Should I feel honored because Your Majesty cares about me?" he responded.

"For you? No. But I'd prefer to avoid any trouble with them. Well, move aside," his majesty continued, walking towards the judge. At that moment, Alastor automatically took a step, blocking the King of Hell's path.

"Excuse me, but what do you plan to do with the judge?" he said, containing his irritation, leaning on his cane with both hands.

"Well, it's obvious, isn't it? I'm taking her from here to protect Charlie."

Alastor narrowed his eyes at this response. "Oh, of course. But tell me, how do you plan to do that? Wouldn't it be very difficult considering how short you are? I fear you might cause an accident if you try to carry her." Alastor wasn't simply going to let them take away his source of entertainment. No. His judge had to stay there. She was too strong a card to lose.

"What? How dare you? Look, Mister nobody, for the moment, I've tolerated your presence only because my daughter has a fondness for you. But it's not wise to test my patience. Especially when it comes to keeping my Charlie safe."

"Oh, but Your Majesty," he responded casually, leaning in a bit, "moving the judge now is not a good idea. Her condition seems delicate. A transfer could worsen it! That could upset Limbo, wouldn't it?"

"Well, of course her condition is delicate, duh. She used her judge's mandate. That consumes a lot of energy. Everyone knows that. Seems like you're not as clever," declared the King of Hell, crossing his arms.

Alastor contained his annoyance only because he saw an opportunity to extract more information from this conversation. Of course, Lucifer would have a lot of knowledge about these beings from Limbo. "Is that really common knowledge?" he asked innocently.

"Well, of course. And if it isn't, it's still logical. Ugh, damn it. She looks very pale," Lucifer responded, observing Victoria.

"That's why I insist, Your Majesty. It's better to leave her here for now. Besides, Charlie could really benefit from this person's presence."

"I already know that. But as her father, I know what's best for my daughter. Although maybe it's true that it's not a good idea right now," the king grumbled. "She must have used a very strong command to end up in this state. I've never heard of a Limbo celestial being so... messed up."

"Splendid! Then it's settled. The judge will stay here at least while she recovers. What a wise decision. Clearly, what you lack in height you make up for in brains," Alastor responded with enthusiasm, eager for Lucifer to leave as soon as possible.

"So, clearly that's why you shouldn't have much brains, huh? I doubt you have much space for your neurons with those antlers. You'd make an excellent tree. Have you considered it? Also, damn it, could you at least get rid of the blood stains from whoever you've massacred?" the fallen angel finished, pointing to Alastor's clothes. He still had bloodstains from when Victoria had coughed on him.

"This? You've misunderstood. I imagine being so close to the ground prevents you from having varied perspectives on things and reality. This blood, in fact, is from the esteemed judge," he defended himself.

"Ha! Don't even think about fooling me," the king replied, walking towards the door of the room. "Those blood stains are red. Everyone knows that Limbo celestials bleed silver. Even the minor judges."

"Are you sure about that, shorty? Sure you didn't miss something?" Alastor pretended not to believe him.

"That's enough! I promise you, Bambi, that next time I won't be so patient. Make it clear that I haven't torn you apart because I'm capable of reminding myself that you're just an inferior, weak being who doesn't deserve my time. But I won't hesitate to do it, even if it means abusing my power, if you continue to cross the line like that or if you dare to do something to Charlie. And just to be clear, I'll say it again: Limbo celestials' blood is silver, so that blood can't be from the judge," the king of hell finished, leaving the room in fury.

Alastor was left alone in the room with Victoria. This new information had left him perplexed. He knew with absolute certainty that the blood on his clothes was Victoria's. Even the handkerchief he used to clean the judge's lip had been dyed red. If her Honor was a minor judge from Limbo, why wasn't her blood silver? Alastor observed the woman, whose face was slowly regaining color.

"What are you supposed to be, Victoria? Why were you chosen for this task?" he wondered aloud as he walked towards her. "Oh, dear. When you open those eyes of yours, you won't escape my questions."

Alastor already knew which direction his steps should take from this point. It shouldn't be so difficult to gain her trust now that he had saved her by bringing her back to the hotel. It was the right time to start forging a friendship with her. He needed to get her to lower her walls and confide in him her worries. To see him as her great ally. Ah, but of course. It wouldn't be long before he started facing competition. Surely the most influential beings in hell were already doing their best to find out Victoria's whereabouts and offer their support. Many would want to monopolize her attention and distance her from him. It wasn't fair. He had seen her first, he had started this challenge of gaining her trust before everyone else. He had already declared her as his source of entertainment, as his trump card.

He couldn't help but emit a deep and slight laugh as he imagined the perplexed faces of these contenders when they encountered the judge's relentless will. She wasn't an easy person to manipulate. Not at all, and that's why this mission was so exciting, generating a certain desire for control in him. However, there always came a point where he questioned why, out of everyone, she intrigued him so much and why his instinct told him to keep her at arm's length. Why did he dedicate so much of his time to someone he barely knew? "It's just entertainment," he told himself firmly.

Alastor heard the door of the room open. Automatically, he moved away from the judge and diverted his gaze to the window.

"Alastor?" Charlie said, a little surprised. "Are you still here?"

"What? Seriously?" Vaggie added, entering the room with a box of bandages and other medical supplies. The former exterminator narrowed her eyes when she saw him.

"Well, of course," he shrugged. "Isn't it logical not to leave an unconscious person alone? I was waiting for you to arrive!" he exclaimed with enthusiasm. "However, I must say you took too long. I almost died of boredom. Well, I've wasted enough time today. See you."

Alastor didn't wait for any response and quickly left the room. Did the Morningstars have a hobby of interrogating him? What was so strange about staying with the judge while waiting for someone to attend to her injuries? "Damn it," he thought to himself as he walked down the hallway towards his radio station. For some strange reason, he felt nervous.

"What the hell is happening to me?"

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

TAGLIST!!

@slytherin4ever

#fanfic #alastor #alastor x oc #oc #hazbin alastor #hazbin hotel #hazbin hotel fanfiction #hazbin hotel fanfic #alastor the radio demon #hazbin hotel 2024 #radio demon #vivziepop #charlie morningstar #hazbin angel dust #hazbin lucifer #hazbin hotel fandom

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the-sky-is-my-home · 1 year

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idk if anyone is here for hq analysis text posts in 2023 nor do I know if something like this has been made before but. it wouldn't leave my head so here. my attempt at a cohesive analysis of the kageyama/hinata/atsumu/osamu dynamic (note: this isn't meant in a shippy way at all. any relationship as complex and narratively juicy as this is great shipping material I know but for this post I wanna keep things canon)

for the sake of something like brevity (lol), I won't delve into the kageyama/hinata partnership here. I assume you watched/read the series and I don't need to explain how they're both partners and rivals. it's the core relationship of the story, after all. also, the twins are twins, and aran spelled out their dynamic and relationship pretty nicely in their flashback, so...

let's start with kageyama and atsumu, the first ones who cross paths outside of their partnerships. as we know, they don't exactly get along great at youth camp. they don't fight, but atsumu makes himself seem like an ass immediately by calling kageyama's playstyle that of a goody-two-shoes. to the reader, this feels like an incredible insult because the way kageyama plays has been developed through some hard-earned character development spanning the entire series so far. we're meant to conclude he's wrong and will be proven so in a future game.

except this is not at all what the interaction is about, or what it will lead to. we don't actually understand the conflicting perspectives here until after the timeskip. what this is is a misunderstanding between two very similar people whose experiences differ in one key aspect. both of them are setters who are incredibly talented and extremely dedicated to volleyball. both are blunt, and not afraid to point out other people's shortcomings. both of them have essentially been friendless and outcast on their middle school teams because of this.

there is just one key difference: kageyama has been desperately looking for someone better ever since his grandpa promised he'd find them, while atsumu has spent his entire volleyball career with "someone better" right at his side. at this point, kageyama only knows failure and rejection in that regard. his sister quit volleyball. his grandpa died. oikawa and iwaizumi had their own thing going on and were never really in his reach. kindaichi couldn't keep up, and kunimi absolutely wasn't willing to.

he's got hinata now, but the harsh truth is that while he's kageyama's partner, he's not "someone better" at this point. this is because he kinda sucks at volleyball even if he's rapidly learning. and this one, simple difference changed everything. when kageyama is too arrogant and demanding, his team rejects him, and he's alone and unable to play. when atsumu does the same, he still has osamu who will sit with him and make an effort to pull him into the group. and he's always got proof that he's not asking too much, because of course osamu can hit all of atsumu's sets. when kageyama is too harsh on his hitters, nobody can really handle it and people get scared, so he tones himself down. when atsumu does the same, osamu yells at him and fights with him, until atsumu gets his point, and the rest of the team sees it as a fun twin squabble, endearing rather than scary.

but the thing is, neither of them know anything about the other, and atsumu speaks with the absolute confidence of someone who only knows volleyball like this. he's got "someone better" privilege and he just doesn't know that's a thing one can have. (he actually has this over others, too, including hinata before he had a team. having to run alone is a common thing among the volleyball obsessed.) but with his perspective, unexplained and badly phrased as it may be, kageyama manages to grow yet again, with hinata crowning him king of the court again as he realizes he can demand things from his hitters and they'll answer him (and to this day, atsumu is totally clueless he kickstarted it, and also that osamu taught him the same).

but as the years pass, even as they remain rivals, they do start understanding each other on a level no one else can (see atsumu explaining kageyama's thought process of "the points I score are mine, the points my hitters score are also mine" to hinata)

but while I do think these parallels are fairly well understood, people are sleeping on the osamu/hinata parallels. probably because they seem so much more different at first glance, with osamu looking calm and disinterested while hinata is, well, hinata. all bouncy and loud and sunshine-y. but they're as much the same as kageyama and atsumu. both were excited kids who like volleyball and, even seeing and understanding how cool setters are, just didn't vibe with it because spiking is just cooler.

except hinata was alone in his desire for so long it went nowhere for years, while osamu could always play as he wanted, with the best and most dedicated setter right there at his side. the way osamu plays is what hinata could've/would've been if he could've played for years and years. (I love this cover page it says like yeah look they're the same just with vastly differing levels of experience)

we know this, because hinata's playstyle actually turns out a lot like osamu's after the timeskip. but even with those differences, regardless of pre- or post-timeskip, again osamu seems to just instinctually get hinata in ways nobody else seems to. from his "he plays like he's eating good grub" to being absolutely unimpressed by hinata simply expecting the ball to be there - because isn't that just the natural state of things? doesn't everyone have a setter who will bring the ball without fail? why wouldn't you expect it? it's not unreasonable or too demanding, it's just how it is - that everyone else clocks as special.

when hinata gets intense, people tend to get scared, but osamu plain isn't, because he's the same in too many ways, and the familiar isn't scary.

and years later, when even atsumu is surprised by the timing of hinata jumping for the freak quick, osamu isn't. this is exactly where he'd jump for it. just like hinata knew osamu would jump for it at the last point of their game in high school (and like kageyama knew atsumu would answer the spiker, both times, because he would, too).

but their arcs end in complete opposites, unlike their setters, because their starting points were more different, too. to go with the food metaphor introduced by osamu, he's someone who always got to eat his fill, while hinata was starving for years and only gets hungrier the more crumbs he gets to eat.

when hinata does get his fill, finally, he can never give it up. but what's a feast to him is just a normal meal for osamu, and he needs other spices to be happy. and I can't really make this fit in the food metaphor but. hinata shines the brightest on the court, but osamu gets eclipsed by atsumu because he's just not hungry enough for it. so it's only fitting hinata pours his all into it while osamu quits and finds his place somewhere else. hinata finds fulfillment in challenge, in teammates and rivalry (with kageyama), while osamu finds his in support (of atsumu) as opposed to competition, and pursuit of something that's entirely his own.

and then there's the relationship between atsumu and hinata. the first match they have is defined by atsumu first writing hinata off as a scrub (to be fair, the first impression he leaves is jumping for a toss and plain forgetting to hit it. it's hard to come back from that), but throughout the game, atsumu comes to understand hinata, and by the end of it, declares he'll toss to him one day.

even at this point, it's pointed out he's good news for hinata in the sense that he won't need kageyama forever. there's someone else who could be his setter and make him shine just as brightly.

what the coaches can't know is that atsumu will be in sore need of a partner just a few years down the line, and that by that time, hinata will be perfect for the position. yes, atsumu can give him the freak quicks. yes, he's the kind of setter hinata can expect the ball from. but post-timeskip, hinata can toss the ball to atsumu just like osamu used to. he can do all the fun, reckless, perfectly coordinated plays that atsumu used to do with his twin.

they're the perfect partners for each other, united even in their desire to beat kageyama, who's both of their main rival at this point, the one who hinata wanted to beat since his first game, and the one who's in the way of atsumu getting the serve trophy and the sole spot of setter on the olympic team.

I know this is a very anti-climactic last dynamic but. unfortunately, kageyama and osamu never really interacted. but for the record, I think it's a shame, we were robbed, and they'd absolutely get along great.

idk if there's a conclusion to be had here tbh, but the post-timeskip arrangement really is ideal for them all, exactly what they wanted. hinata gets to shine and continually improve himself, he gets to stand on the court as a force to be reckoned with. kageyama has finally, finally found the "someone better" he was promised, and through him, continually gets to play the challenging game he was sorely missing in his early years. atsumu gets to play exactly the kind of volleyball he likes, too, with the kind of partner at his side that made volleyball so fun for him from the start. all three of them get to play again and again and again, always learning and growing, winning and losing, and never getting tired of any of it. osamu, while he's not playing, gets to do his own thing that he loves just as much, and he's certainly not losing his dumbass happiness contest with his brother.

so. yeah. I may have thought about all this a little too much. leave me alone. (no don't please talk to me about this actually)

#kageyama tobio #miya atsumu #hinata shouyou #miya osamu #haikyuu #miya twins #long post #meta #I still have more thoughts and pics too but I couldn't fit those in anywhere and this is long enough

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zeciex · 11 months

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A Vow of Blood - 41

Warnings: This fic includes noncon, dubcon, manipulation, violence and inc3st. Tags will be added as the fic goes on. This is a dark!fic. 18+ only. Read at your own discretion. Please read the warnings before continuing.

Summary: “You will be trapped by the obligations of love and duty, unable to escape the web of expectations others have woven around you,“ the witch said….

Chapter 41: The Illusion of Choice

AO3 - Masterlist

Warnings: rape mentions, manipulation, talks about handling trauma

“You’ve been married for four months now, no?” Lady Elys Swyft remarked, her sewing needle moving with the precision of someone trying to extract the truth. “And you’re still not with child…”

Daenera tightened her lips, briefly pausing her embroidery to lock eyes with Lady Swyft. It was neither unusual nor surprising that the ladies of court would delve into her marriage and the conspicuous absence of any news regarding pregnancy. It was almost expected she’d be with child by then. “Unfortunately not, though it is not for the lack of trying, I can assure you lady Swyft.”

A ripple of laughter and blushing swept through the younger ladies present, who couldn’t help but be tickled by the implied innuendo.

In the cozy chamber, each lady was engrossed in her own embroidery or tapestry work. Daenera, however, was grappling with the task of embroidering a black stag onto one of her husband’s doublets. She hadn’t put much effort into it, and that might explain why the stag looked as if it had tumbled down a cliff, breaking all of its legs in the process.

“I hear your husband is often away from your marriage bed,” Lady Jane Redwyne commented, sharing a conspiratorial glance with Lady Elys Swyft. It seemed that the gossiping hens had been let loose within the Keep.

Tris Caswell, seated beside Daenera, squirmed in her chair, uncomfortable with the implication these older ladies were insinuating. “Lord Boris is frequently off on hunting trips, isn’t he?”

Daenera appreciated her friend’s effort to ease the tension. “Indeed, he is.”

Lady Elys Swyft pursed her lips, a slight grimace tugging at her features in an expression of skepticism. “It does seem odd, doesn’t it? One would expect a husband to desire more time with his wife rather than gallivanting in the muck of the forest. I should think he’d focus on obtaining an heir.”

“It does raise questions,” Lady Jane Redwyn agreed as she threaded her needle.

Daenera held back a chuckle, her eyes twinkling with amusement as she unveiled her embroidery project, the clumsily stitched stag with its limbs that appeared to have suffered numerous fractures on full display. “The only thin amiss here, Lady Swyft, is my embroidery. I assure you, my marriage is quite well. My husband merely has a passion for hunting, and when he returns home… Well, that passion continues. He is quite virile .”

Kaylys Merryweather giggled with a faint blush upon her cheeks. “He is exceptionally handsome!”

To which Lady Sylvie Rosby could only add; “And has such an imposing figure.”

“I witnessed him training with Horden Penrose just the other day,” Lady Ellena Beesbury chimed in, her youthful enthusiasm in her rosy cheeks and bright eyes. “For a man of his stature, he moves with remarkable grace.”

Gracefull, was not a word she would use to describe her husband. Yes, he was undoubtedly well-trained, but his actions lacked the fluid elegance that characterized Aemond’s every step, or the swift, controlled brutality of Daemon. In comparison, Boris’s movements felt wide and forceful, like he was fighting through water rather than the fluidity of a dance.

While the ladies surrounding her continued to chatter effusively about her husband, Daenera’s delicate fingers idly plucked at a loose thread in her embroidery. Irritation gnawed at her as the stubborn thread threatened to undy her painstaking work, nearly tearing open the neck of the stag.

Over the past four months , her life had become an unrelenting cycle of conversations orbiting around her husband, her marriage, and the relentless expectation of producing an heir.

Daenera often found herself at the epicenter of thinly veiled scrutiny. The ladies of court seemed determined to nose around in her marriage, to expose it to the world. And truth to be told, the men at court were just as nosy as they made insinuations about her marriage that weren’t even thinly veiled; they were as transparent as the summer air.

Her predicament was hardly helped by Boris’s wandering attention. Although she bore no resentment for his wandering attentions themselves, she harbored a desire that he would, at the very least, exercise discretion when indulging in the allure of the establishments that lined the Street of Silk.

Daenera pulled the string and the head of the stag came off.

The chamber doors swung open, admitting Joyce into the room. Her sharp eyes scanned for her mistress amidst the room’s occupants. “Princess.”

“What is it?”

“An incident has occurred that needs your attention,” Joyce said without divulging much. By Joyce’s expression alone, she knew it was both important and urgent. The gossiping vultures perked up as well, ready to descend on a new piece of gossip.

“I apologize ladies,” Daenera said, standing from her seat, placing the embroidery on the table. “It seems that I am needed elsewhere.”

Daenera followed Joyce. “What has happened?”

“There seems to have been an incident involving Aegon,” Joyce answered, voice low, ensuring that no one else overheard. “Jelissa found her and brought her to your chambers.”

They exchanged a furtive glance, the unspoken tension palpable in the air and coiled like a snake within her gut. While Joyce hadn't been elaborate on what had happened, Daenera couldn’t help but feel that this ‘incident’ was similar to those that involved Jelissa or even herself.

As Daenera crossed the threshold into her chambers, a sense of trepidation clung to her like a shroud. Her eyes swept the room, landing on a young girl perched nervously on the settee. The girl’s hands were locked in an anxious grip, her cheeks marred by the stain of tears, and her disheveled hair spoke of turmoil as if it had been roughly tugged upon.

Startled by Daenera’s presence, the girl quickly rose and offered a shaky curtsy, voice shaking as she stammered; “P-princess.”

“Jelissa,” Daenera addressed her maid, “please find her apron and shoes and fetch Fenrick as well.”

Her gaze remained fixed on the trembling girl, who clutched herself frightenly, as if seeking refuge from an invisible storm. Daenera couldn’t ignore the torn collar of the girl’s dress, and her initial apprehension deepened into a palpable weight in her stomach.

Jelissa nodded and promptly exited the room, leaving Daenera and Joyce alone with the distressed girl.

Daenera approached the apprehensive girl, her demeanor calm and inviting. “Please, take a seat.”

The gentle suggestion appeared to bewilder the girl as her brows furrowed tightly. She glanced back hesitantly at the settee she had previously sat upon. With small movements, as if she feared she’d fall apart, she sat down.

Daenera settled onto the opposite end of the settee, providing the girl with ample space. “What is your name?”

“Cerys, if it pleases you,” the girl replied, her voice barely above a whisper.

“Cerys, can you tell me what happened to you?” Daenera inquired softly, her eyes filled with genuine concern. She thought about reaching out to the girl and gently hold her hand, but she didn’t want to frighten her further or invade her personal space.

“I–I–” Cerys stammered, her eyes welling up with fresh tears as she shook her head, a tremble wrecking through her entire body. “I should go. I must tend my duties.”

Daenera’s voice remained gentle but resolute. “I would rather you stay. You’re not in a state to go wandering the halls.”

Moreover, Daenera didn’t wish the girl to be intercepted by any of the Queen’s servants. Cerys continued to resist, her internal struggle evident. Her grip on the torn collar of her dress remained tight, as if it were the only thing holding her together.

“Cerys,” Daenera said, her tone reminiscent of a mother coaxing a child to heed her words. She carefully moved closer to the girl. “May I hold your hand?”

Cerys appeared perplexed by the question, her frown deepening as she struggled to grasp the situation. Daenera extended her hand and delicately removed Cerys’ grip from the fabric.

“I understand that you are afraid, but I need you to tell me what happened. In detail.” A warning came from the older maid, cautioning Daenera, but she remained focused on Cerys. She knew it was cruel to ask the girl to relay what happened, but she needed to hear it directly and clearly, leaving no room for speculation or conjecture.

“I-I can’t– please don’t make me,” Cerys stammered, shaking her head, tears making her eyes appear much larger than their usual size. “I can’t.”

“You can. I need to know the details of what happened so that I can help you.”

“Help me?” Her voice was small, barely above a whisper.

“Yes, I want to help you,” Daenera said, giving her hand a gentle squeeze as if it could bring her comfort.

Cerys averted her gaze from the princess, her trembling body shaking even more as she cried. Daenera patiently allowed her the time she needed to collect herself. Her eyes flickered back and forth as thoughts seemed to whir inside her head. When Joyce draped a woolen blanket around Cerys’ shoulders, the girl flinched, clearly taken aback by the unexpected act of kindness.

Daenera and Joyce shared a glance. “Joyce, would you please prepare some tea for Cerys?”

Joyce nodded and retrieved an iron pot from beside the fireplace, suspending it over the fire with a hook. She carefully poured water into the pot, and the rhythmic process seemed to briefly distract Certs from her distress.

“Cerys.” The girl turned her eyes back to the princess. “What happened?”

Cerys swallowed, her eyes latching onto her bare feet as she spoke. “I didn’t hear him. I was just tending the fire and he… grabbed me. He tore my dress and held me down and he… I told him to stop–I really did. I tried to make him stop .”

Her red rimmed eyes found Daenera and she latched onto the princesses hand, her fingers digging into flesh and bone, gripping her tightly. “I told him to stop, you have to believe me, princess, I told him to stop. I did not want this.”

“I know,” Daenera consoled the girl, her gentle touch coaxing aside errant strands of hair that had strayed onto her tear-streaked face. Faint blotches of red marred her pallid skin, encircling her eyes and nose, as well as creeping down her neck. Daenera’s throat tightened, making her next inquiry strained. “Did he finish inside of you?”

Cerys went paler still and averted her gaze in shame.

Daenera’s eyes squeezed shut at the heart-wrenching revelation. The cruelty of it all lingered like a acrid taste at the back of her tongue. No one deserved such a horrendous ordeal, let alone a girl as young as Cerys, who was no older than Jelissa at five-and-ten. It made her blood boil, and she loathed what she knew she had to do next. Summoning her inner strength, she opened her eyes.

“I need you to name the man responsible,” she implored gently but firmly.

Cerys flinched and looked back at the princess, her eyes wide with terror and her face drained of color. She shook her head vigorously. “I can’t. I can’t. Please , I can’t reveal his name. They’ll send me away. I need this work.”

“I understand your fear,” Daenera began, her voice filled with empathy, “but you must understand that I cannot help you if you don’t tell me everything that happened and who did this to you.”

“You want to know how he forced himself inside of me? –How I can still feel him inside of me. Or how I screamed, but no one came because he put a hand over my mouth?” Cerys’s voice quivered as she recounted her torment. Anger briefly flared in her eyes, only to be douched by the weight of her trauma. Her voice fell to a whisper, barely audible. “I don’t know what to do.”

Joyce placed a cup of warm tea in front of the trembling girl before presenting Daenera with a heavy coin purse and a bottle of moon tea. Cerys clutched the warm tea with gratitude, seemingly finding solace in its comforting heat.

“This will prevent the seed from taking root,” she explained gently, setting the ornate bottle of moon tea on the table, its iron trim depicting a doe and its fawn. “I will not judge you if you choose to take it, and I will not judge you if you do not.”

The room felt laden with the gravity of their conversation, a profound sense of injustice handing in the air. Cerys faced an agonizing decision, one that she shouldn’t have had to make, but one that had to be confronted.

“You have three choices,” Daenera gently informed the girl. “First, you can leave my chambers and pretend none of this ever happened. Second, you can take the money, depart the castle, and never return.”

She allowed the weight of those options to sink in before revealing the third. “Or, you accept employment with me. I’ll arrange for you to have a position in the castle kitchen, where you will live and work. It might be that I never have need of your services, but it’s also possible that I may call upon you. If I do, I’ll expect you to follow my orders without hesitation or question.”

“What…” Cerys swallowed hard. “What would you ask of me if I serve you?”

Daenera leaned in closer, her voice hushed but steady. “You’ll be charged with preparing the food for the entire castle. Kitchen staff often go unnoticed, and you’ll have easy access to everyone. If I need you to add a little extra something to the food, I’ll expect you to do it.”

Cerys’ eyes widened. “You want me to poison their food?”

Daenera didn’t mince her words. “If it comes to that, yes. I’ll need your discretion and unwavering obedience and loyalty.

Cerys’ voice trembled as she voiced her concerns. “But what if I get caught?”

“Don’t get caught.” The response was firm.

The gravity of Daenera’s request seemed to bear down on the girl’s shoulders. It was a perilous task she was asking of her, one fraught with danger. Daenera understood the risks all too well.

“I understand if you’re not willing to take this on,” Daenera said carefully. “The risk is substantial, and the rewards might seem meager. But I might offer you the chance for some semblance of retribution.”

The intensity in the princess’s words seized Cerys’s scattered attention, causing her eyes to snap back to Daenera. Daenera couldn’t help but notice the determination in her dark eyes and how she clutched the cup of tea tightly, unwavering despite the discomfort it surely caused her, the warmth biting the skin of her palm.

“What he did to you… it’s beyond comprehension, and it’s an abhorrent act. The blame lies solely with him, and you never deserved the horrors he inflicted upon you,” Daenera’s words flowed with empathy. There was a finality within her voice, firm and honest. Tears welled up in Cerys’s eyes again. “If you choose to serve me, I want you to nurture the anger you feel. I want you to remember what he did to you– what he stole from you .”

Cerys averted her gaze, blinking away tears, and took a trembling breath. Her eyes shifted between the moon tea, the coin purse, and her reddened palms, singed by the scalding tea. Daenera allowed her to sit in contemplative silence.

Eventually, Cerys placed the cup of tea on the table. With a deep breath, she reached for the moon tea and for a brief moment, she hesitated, uncertainty flickering across her features. Then, she seemed to make her decision, swallowing the contents of the bottle, ensuring that whatever seed might have been planted within her would never have a chance to grow.

“I will serve you,” Cerys said with a quivering voice, her resolve showing through her vulnerability. “For what you’ve given me, I will serve you until my last breath.”

Daenera extended her hand towards Cerys, gently taking hold of hers again. “Give me his name.”

Cerys’ spine straightened, and something inside of her seemed to harden. “Aegon.”

Upon hearing the name, Daenera felt a surge of emotions. She knew it was Aegon all along, but having confirmation gave her both relief and dread.

“I need you to listen to me and grasp this deeply,” Daenera urged, her eyes fixed on Cerys. “You will only act as I instruct you. Do not take matters into your own hands. I may not be able to grant you the revenge you desire, but I promise you, he will suffer for his actions. ”

Cerys nodded. “I understand.”

Daenera harbored doubts about whether Cerys truly understood the gravity of her request, but she had to place her trust in the young girl. What she was asking for was no small undertaking. Cerys would need to establish herself within the kitchens, build alliances, behave as if her past had never been marred, and patiently wait for her opportunity. Daenera realized that Cerys might yearn for vengeance against Aegon, but the girl had to exercise restraint. Executing Aegon would draw attention to them all, resulting in all their heads lined up on pikes on the castle walls.

However, Daenera had every intention of making him pay for his actions.

With a heavy heart, she understood that she could only watch over Cerys and hope that the girl comprehended the precarious situation she was entering.

“Joyce will instruct you in our code and facilitate your transition to the kitchens. Once there, I expect you to maintain the facade that nothing ever transpired. You are to disavow any knowledge of me, Jelissa and Joyce. You are not one of ours. Keep your head low and perform your duties diligently.”

Cerys nodded, wiping under her nose with the back of her hand.

Joyce returned from tending to Cerys, her face etched with concern. She felt uneasy about stoking the young girl’s anger, fearing it might lead to unforeseen trouble. The older maid was even more apprehensive about how swiftly the princess saw an opportunity in this ordeal. She understood the necessity but found herself disliking it intensely.

Cerys had endured a traumatic experience, and while a flicker of anger had briefly appeared in her eyes, she had primarily worn a distant expression. The full gravity of what had occurred had not yet fully settled in, but Joyce knew that the anger would surface eventually, with the potential of spreading like wildfire, and following that the complete comprehension of what she had agreed to.

It was a substantial risk, one that Joyce did not agree with.

“Encouraging that girl’s anger is dangerous,” Joyce cautioned as she watched Daenera at her alchemy table, crushing dried seeds into powder. “If we fan the flames improperly, the fire will rage out of control.”

Daenera continued her work, her expression focused but pensive. “If she wan’t brought to be, she would have been cast away with a mere coin purse, to a life she doesn’t deserve.”

“And do you believe she deserves this life?” Joyce asked with a furrowed brow, the accusation clear in her tone.

Daenera paused, setting aside the seeds and looking up at her maid. “I gave her a choice, which is more than what they would have done.”

“Was it a genuine choice when one option led her back to the very place where this horror occurred, while the other meant fending herself on the streets or serving you?” Joyce challenged. It was a semblance of choice, a fragile illusion, where the alternatives were starkly limited. Cerys could either suppress the nightmarish memories, feigning normalcy as if the ordeal hadn’t taken something from her she would never get back, or she could commit to Daenera’s service. It was no choice at all.

Daenera’s irritation at being questioned was evident in her rising voice. “I gave her back her agency.”

“You also instructed her to remember the trauma to motivate her to serve you,” Joyce argued, her tone carrying a tinge of disappointment she couldn’t hide. Perhaps there were more of Daemon in the princess than she thought. “You told her to nurture her anger and bide her time. You promised her revenge.”

Anger was indeed a potent motivator, but it was equally challenging to control. It had a tendency to consume, leaving little room for anything else. Daenera’s belief that she could manage another person’s anger and desire for justice seemed absurdly naive.

“I said I would try,” Daenera clarified. “I never promised to get her revenge, I promised I would make Aegon suffer .”

“All she took away from your conversation was the hope of revenge,” Joyce’s frustration seeped into her words, her concern for the girl palpable. “But can you truly make Aegon suffer enough to compensate for what he did? A few weeks of discomfort, making him soil himself again, will never truly heal her. Understand, it is only human nature for her to crave his death as justice. What we do to him, will never be enough to erase the scars he’s left. You know this. –You must understand that she may long for his death, and her thirst for justice can’t be quenched.”

Daenera looked at Joyce with a weary expression on her face, and she scratched at her brow. “So, what would you have me do?”

Joyce found herself grappling with an absence of a clear answer.

She had dutifully served Princess Daenera for as long as the girl had been alive, watched as she had grown into the woman she was now. Daenera was an intricate mosaic of virtues and vices, a complex blend that both inspired pride in Joyce, and occasionally vexed her to no end.

There were times when Joyce wondered if the princess bore a striking resemblance to her uncle Daemon or even embodied the spirit of Visenya Targaryen reborn. However, she understood that Daenera was fundamentally molded by her upbringing. It was shaped by her father’s death, carved by Ser Harwin’s devotion to her mother, and the influence of Daemon during her formative years.

Daenera exhibited a unique duality–strong willed yet compassionate, at times displaying stubbornness and cunning reminiscent of the Targaryen lineage, yet also possessing a kindness that at times bordered on naive. This intricate blend often left Joyce’s mind spinning, but her trust in the princess never waivered.

She trusted the princess and her plans, even if she did not agree with them.

Daenera was the guiding head, Fenrick the protective shield, and Joyce the capable hand.

“I don’t have an answer for you,” Joyce confessed, her brows knitted in concern.

Daenera took a deep breath, her eyes scanning the array of vials and bottles that lined the shelves, occupying the spaces where books had once been. The shelves were a testament to her vast collection of oils, potions, and essences, ranging from innocuous to potentially deadly.

She turned her gaze back to Joyce, her voice tinged with both urgency and solemnity. “Keep a watchful eye on her, Joyce. Ensure she comprehends that she mustn’t take matters into her own hands. I need to be able to trust her if it comes to that.”

Joyce nodded. “I’ll look after her.”

Daenera offered a greatful, tough, weary smile. “Thank you, Joyce.”

#aemond targaryen #house of the dragon #hotd aemond #aemond fanfiction #aemond x reader #aemond x oc #aemond fic #hotd #hotd fanfic #A Vow of Blood

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goddessxoflight · 18 days

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The calloused skin on my hands is cracking. "If our love ended, would that be a bad thing?"

Medusa's words carried a peculiar venom, not filled with malice but tinged with indifference. As she spoke her question aloud, she seemed to seek not just Palutena's opinion but delving into the depths of her own heart. Could she honestly answer that question? Over the past year, something had been stirring in her heart. What was once a mere speck of bitterness in the corner of her heart had slowly but surely expanded its influence. With each passing month, its grip had grown to the point where Medusa found herself experiencing thoughts and emotions that not only defied her role as Palutena's guardian but also went against the very essence of her existence. The weight of this internal conflict was becoming unbearable, threatening to consume her.

Medusa stood with her back to Palutena, embracing herself as she leaned heavily against one of the marble statues in their cherished garden. This serene place was filled with memories from their youth and had always been their sanctuary—a refuge where the sisters sought solace in each other's company. The once unshakable bond they shared now showed signs of strain, fraying at the edges like delicate fabric worn by time and circumstance.

The Goddess of Darkness was gripped by a treacherous sensation that filled her with fear and exhilaration. This paradoxical feeling was profoundly intoxicating, but it also unsettled her deeply. Medusa grappled with the uncertainty of whether she should summon the courage to release herself and immerse herself in the ambiguous depths of the unfamiliar.

"What are you talking about, Medusa?" Palutena approaches, reaching out for her dear sister. She cannot fathom the thought of ever losing the love she had for Medusa. Putting distance between the two of them was heart wrenching and something she didn't want to consider. Wherever she went, her sister would surely follow; that's how it's always been. Medusa was always there to give a helping hand, offer her assistance, and ensure that Palutena kept to her duties.

Of course, that didn't mean Palutena always listens, but it was the sentiment that counts.

"You're scaring me. Please," her hands perch themselves on her sister's shoulders, urging her to turn around and look at her. "Talk to me." Palutena looks at Medusa with imploring eyes, searching the fields of lavender in her sister's hues, looking for a sign or an answer to her woes.

"Please don't shut me out." She tries not to beg, but she could feel that her sister has been drifting from lately. She doesn't talk to her, reach out to her. Palutena doesn't know why nor the cause for it, but she is willing to help.

She thought everything was going well after Skyworld's construction and the birth of the angels. Things have fallen into a state of prosperity. They found their place amongst the clouds and Palutena couldn't have been happier.

So why did it feel like Medusa was pulling away?

#┊┊┊✧ ⁺ ⁺ ° answered;#eyes-set-to-kill #┊┊┊✧ ⁺ ⁺ 　° I know why!! Because youre making her do all the work Palutena!! >:0

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burntbiscuitswithcheese · 1 year

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My Kimetsu Academy Au Headcanons - Shinazugawa Kyogo

----

Previous Headcanons Link: Part 1

{} = Small character details/notes

() = My deeper thoughts or smth

Shinazugawa Kyogo - Like his canon self he did hurt his family at one point. He was a part of the police force but back when the kids were younger he went through a series of events that caused him to go off the rails for a bit.

He failed to save someone from dying and his older brother passed away around the same time. He was receiving countless pressure from co-workers and the media. They were destroying his character and painting him as the fault for what happened to the civilian.

All of these events caused him to delve into drinking and gambling.

This lasted for a few months and caused him to miss the birth of his youngest son. {Something he deeply regrets currently.} He didn’t realize the harm he was causing his family until the day he threw a bottle at Genya and Sanemi. The two received their facial scars from that incident.

It was at that moment that he realized the damage he was causing to himself and his family. In order to prevent himself from causing his family more harm he decided to start living with a friend until he could sort himself out. {A long process of rehab and therapy later…and I mean much later.}

He eventually moved back in with his family. It took some time for his kids and his wife to trust him again but they got there. His oldest children Sanemi and Genya took longer to forgive him? than the younger ones. They were most weary of him but they did forgive him at some point in the future. But not without threatening to get rid of him if he were to slip up again. {Forgive but never forget.}

Kyogo eventually got promoted to police chief despite the horrendous media backlash he received in his youth. He currently has a great relationship with his kids and wife.

{Alcohol is banned from their home.}

(Just so we’re clear, I don't like Canon Kyogo, that bitch can kiss my ass and die. In my AU Kyogo is meant to be a flawed character that made bad life choices. Just because he had reasons for his mistreatment of his children and abuse of alcohol it doesn’t mean it was okay. Kyogo didn’t get forgiven in an instant nor did he have to be forgiven.)

In my AU Kyogo didn't beat his wife or kids. He drank at home and went out to gamble sometimes so he mostly neglected his children. (Which is still not okay.) He had never laid a hand on them or injured them until the night he threw the bottle at Genya and Sanemi.

To make up for his past transgressions, Kyogo {In the present.} dotes on his children. He doesn’t make it a show to publicly display his affections; he just does it in his own way. {Ex.) He puts in the effort to make characters for his kid’s bentos, gives them extra money, pats them on the head, and cuddles with them.} I legit have no idea if this counts as doting behavior, I'm basing this off my own experiences with a closed-off parent. T-T

Yes. He very much still does this to his first and second born. Sanemi doesn’t let him cuddle him, just head pats if anything but Genya lets his dad dote on him a bit more whenever he visits home. {Especially since he moved in with Sanemi. The white-haired bastard has been cold to Genya recently and the baby doesn’t know why.}

#demon slayers #kimetsu no yaiba #kny genya #demon slayer shinazugawa #shinazugawa genya #shinazugawa brothers #sanemi shinaguzawa #kyogo shinazugawa #shizu shinazugawa #heacanons #kimetsu academy

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mask131 · 1 year

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Fragments of fright (1)

To begin with this series, I'll go easy. More precisely I will look into my childhood book and compile everything I can find about archetypal Halloween/European monsters. Why? Well because before delving into the more complex or informed ideas of what vampires, werewolves, witches are, we need to remember how these monsters were simplified and synthetize by popular culture, and how we as kid, receive them through monster encyclopedia for kids or youth books about supernatural beings.

So here is the compilation of what several of my "books about monsters" contained:

The werewolf

The werewolf looks like a perfectly ordinary human being by daylight. At most, you can recognize a werewolf by little physical signs: a werewolf in human form will have very hairy hands, feet and back ; they will have a hoarse voice, reddish nails, ears placed nearer to the back of their head than regular people, or their eyebrows will join themselves above their nose. They are often solitary beings, living at the edge of society.

During nights of full moon, the person will start howling. Their teeth will grow, a muzzle will appear, claws will burst out of their fingers, their body will be covered in fur... And soon they will become a powerful, agile, ferocious and cunning animal. A werewolf.

Werewolves can look like a great wolf, or a cross between a human and a wolf (wolf's head and tail, human hands and feet but hairy and clawed). They can walk on all fours like a beast, or on two legs like a human. Some claim that werewolves only keep one thing of their humanity during full moon nights: their voice. A werewolf only has one desire: to attack, to bite, to rip apart. They hunt all night long in packs throughout the forests, slaughtering and devouring all those they come across. Werewolves attack and devour as much animals as humans, and while they often attack adults, they are not above ripping children to pieces.

When morning comes, and the sun rises up, the werewolf will turn back into a human being. The person will find themselves naked in the wilderness, with no memory of the crimes they committed during the night, weakened by their night's adventure, and with no appetite whatsoever.

There are many ways to become a werewolf. Some peope were cursed by a witch ; others were "infected" by being bitten by another werewolf ; a third group became a werewolf by making a deal with the devil. You can become a werewolf by eating the flesh of a wolf ; by wearing a piece of clothing made of wolf skin ; or by drinking water out of the puddles formed by the wolf's paw-prints.

Silver is the only way to truly fight a werewolf, as this metal burns their flesh. Shooting at a werewolf with silver bullets will either break the curse and return them to their human state, or (if shooting straight at the heart) kill them. Any blade made of silver will also harm or kill a werewolf. A silver cage will very easily trap a werewolf. It is said that one way to break the werewolf's curse is to make sure they do not eat human flesh for nine years in a row.

The vampire

Vampires used to be regular human beings, but after their death they accessed a form of "half-life". Neither dead nor alive, they now spend their days in their coffins or their graves, and get out at night to feed on the blood of living beings, to restore their strength, rejuvenate their body, and gain supernatural powers.

You can recognize a vampire by a lot of physical traits. Vampires, due to lacking blood in their body and only being active at night, are very pale, with a very white skin. They have sharp teeth, especially their canine, which they plunge into their victim's neck to drink their blood. Vampire are said to usually wear black clothes - and the popular image of a vampire, inspired by Dracula, is the one of an aristocratic figure in evening-wear, leaving his half-ruined castle dressed in a tailored outfit and black-and-red cape. Other physical traits of vampires can include long and sharp nails, hair inside the hands, a very bad breath (due to their diet of blood), or the presence of only one nostril.

Vampires have the ability to hypnotize their victim, so that in the following morning they do not recall the vampire's attack. Day after day the victim wastes away as the vampire feeds on them: their skin grows paler and whiter, and they hide from the sun. When they finally die, emptied of all their blood, they will turn into vampires themselves.

Vampires have many supernatural ways to escape those that try to attack or hunt them. For example they can turn into animals, usually transforming into a bat or a wolf. They can also turn themselves into mist, which allows them to enter their victim's house by the tiniest openings. Some vampires can move abnormaly fast, almost teleporting themselves from one place to another ; while others are so strong they easily lift the tombstone blocking their grave, or carry it under their arm while walking outside the cemetery. Vampires are, finally, said to be able to communicate with animals.

There are many ways to fight a vampire. Vampires only leave their lair at night, because they either hate the sunlight, or the sun can actually destroy them. Vampires do not like mirrors because they allow humans to identify them: vampires lack reflections. (Some joke that this is why vampires have bad hair or are badly dressed). Vampires can be fought by holy items or symbols belonging to the Christian religion: holy water burns them, and a crucifix will repel them. The icons of saints also work. Vampires refuse to enter or stay in a room with garlic in it - they hate its smell. In a similar way, vampires cannot stand certain flowers: regular roses, briar roses and hawthorn flowers are their banes. But to kill a vampire, there are only three ways.

Fire. Burning a vampire is sure to kill it: preferably burn the vampire while he is in his coffin, sleeping during the day.

Beheading: A decapitated vampire is a dead vampire (but beware, the head can still bite a few seconds after it was detached from the body)

A wooden stake: A wooden stake through a vampire's heart is sure to kill it.

The ghost

A ghost is the spirit of a dead person that, after their death, did not left earth. They stayed among living human beings. A ghost usually haunts either the place where they lived, or the place where they died. If they were a criminal, they might have been cursed to haunt the place of their crime - the ghosts of criminals are often seen wearing chains. The ghosts of kings, queens, princes and princesses often haunt their castles.

Ghosts usually appear with the same shape they had when they were alive, but extremely pale, or sometimes translucid/transparent. The typical image of the "bedsheet" ghost is also technically true, as it is a deformation of a type of ghost that appears wrapped in the burial shroud they were buried into. Ghosts can also bear the marks of their death upon them: the ghost of a hanged man will have his neck crooked with a noose around it, whereas the ghost of a beheaded person will carry their head under their arm.

Some ghosts are benevolent, consider themselves part of the family of their descendants, and can "guard" the places they used to live in. But other ghosts are malevolent - or rather, they do not like being disturbed , and cannot stand to share their house or "domain" with living beings. These ghosts typically do a lot of things to make the house they haunt as creepy and unhabitable as possible. Typical signs of a haunting include: strange apparitions that pass through walls ; cold air flowing below a bedroom's door ; staircases and walls creaking ; floors squeaking ; doors slamming in the middle of the night ; strange howls and wails with no clear origins ; objects moving by themselves ; disturbances in lights and with telephones...

While some believe there is nothing you can do to fight a ghost except leave the place they haunt ; others believe you can make a ghost disappear by asking it "In Heaven's name/in God's name, what do you want?".

Outside of "fixed" ghosts in haunted houses and old castles, there are also "travelling" ghosts: many are the tales about ghost-ships filled with spectral sailors or pirates, floating across the sea ; or ghost-carriages and ghost-coaches, pulled by spectral horses, roaming through the streets.

The bogeyman (or rather the croque-mitaine)

Unfortunately, on all my children-aimed books, only one speaks of the "croque-mitaine", the French version of the "bogeyman". And it is a version that softens the figure a LOT but it will be a start until we get into more adult texts.

The croque-mitaine is a type of giant (or a very large man) whose job is to teach a lesson to naughty children. Frightening looking, dressed all in black, he can be called or summoned by parents who are exhausted by a capricious, disobedient, unruly, bratty child. The croque-mitaine will arrive and put the child in a big bag : no need to hide, the bogeyman knows every hiding place, and always can find the child he is supposed to take away. Once the child in his the croque-mitaine's bag, he takes them to his dark and creepy house - somehow always near the town or city the child lives in. Taking the child out of the bag, the croque-mitaine will lock them inside his basement, filled with rats, shadows, hairy spiders, and other nasty thing. Once the children is scared enough that he begs for forgiveness and promises to be good, the croque-mitaine gives the kid back to their parents. Until next time...

The witch

Witches are present everywhere in fairytales and folktales. They are wicked women, typically appearing as old and ugly women. A witch's traditional appearance is the one of a hag with a hunched back, a hook nose and crooked chin, long pointy nails, wild hair, warts, a tattered dress, and a pointy hat. However one should beware: witches can change their appearance. They can appear young and beautiful, or turn themselves into animals (such as black cats).

Witches always have with them a broom - this is their magical broomstick, that allows them to fly through the air. While in popular culture it is the broomstck itself that is magic and allows its owner to fly, in folkloric tales, a witch actually needs a special ointment to fly. Before climbing onto the broom, the witch will need to cover her entire body this product, a mixture of soot, toad's saliva, bat's blood and various plants.

Witches have various and many magical powers, that they use for evil intents. They will cause storm, hail and rains to destroy the crops. They cast curses into people - turning beauty into ugliness, or human beings into animals. Living in small cabins hidden in the depths of the woods, they brew evil potions or violent poisons in a large cauldron, before selling them to unscrupulous people. Witches keep their recipes and magical incantations within grimoires, books filled with mysterious inscriptions that stay obscure to those that do not practice witchcraft. Witches usually have as companions "negative" animals, such as black cats, crows, toads, owls or rats.

It is said that there are however good witches - usually less ugly than their wicked counterpart, and who use their powers to do good. Whereas the wicked witch curse people, the good witch protects houses against evil spells ; where the wicked witch turns people into animals, the good witch heals them with strangely-flavored brews ; where the wicked witch sells poisons, the good witch sells love potions ; where the wicked witch helps robbers , thieves and pirates find treasures to steal, the good witch helps parents find their children lost in the woods. Good witches are said to either be kin with fairies, or to be wicked witches that, overtaken with regrets and remorse, decided to do good.

However, despite the existence of good witches, the wicked ones are far more famous: the two most famous of them belong to the fairytales of the brothers Grimm. They are the hag of "Hänsel and Gretel", who lures children with a gingerbread house before cooking and eating them ; and the witch-queen of "Snow-White", who tries to murder her stepdaughter with a poisoned apple because she is jealous of her beauty.

In the Middle-Ages, it was believed that witches gathered several times a year, during a great nocturnal ceremony presided by the devil hmself: it was the witches' sabbath. These unholy feasts were held in remote and discreet locations, such as cemeteries, and there witches danced and feasted and exchanged recipes, congratulating each other on their curses and creating new spells together.

In the 16th and 17th centuries, there were great witch-hunts organized throughout Europe, where numerous women were accused of being witches and persecuted as such. Some of them were actually recognized as witches by people, but as good witches, as they usually were folk-healers: but they were accused of having obtained their supernatural powers by the Devil, and thus of being the Devil's servants. As the hunts grew, people started to accuse and persecute women for almost any kind of reason possible: everything could make you a "witch" in people's eyes. If you had a strange behavior, you were a witch. If you collected unusual plants, you were a witch. If you were too ugly, you were a witch. If you were too pretty, you were a witch. Many of the accused ended up burned at the stake. A particularly horrible type of trial, to prove if a woman was a witch, required the woman to have her hands and feet tied together, before she was thrown in a river. Given people believed witches were lighter than water, if the woman floated, she was a witch for sure. If she drowned... she was innocent, but it was too late for her.

#fragments of fright #witches #witch #werewolves #werewolf #european folklore #vampires #vampire #ghosts #ghost #european horror

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ladysternchen · 1 year

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All of Arda Is Autistic- Maeglin

Maeglin looked up from the newly-forged sword he had just showed to his uncle, praising it’s many assets, only to stare straight into Idril’s eyes. Immediately, he felt his face growing hot and lowered his gaze, hating himself for his insecurities.

“I think I never heard you talk so much, and with so much passion.”

It was a statement, nothing more, but Maeglin was sure he discerned a note of accusation in his cousin’s tone.

“It is a good sword, Maeglin, the likes of which you will not find often even here among the most skilled smiths of Gondolin.”

Maeglin nodded, encouraged once more by his uncle’s earnest praise.

“It is the alloy that makes it special, lord! The mountains are rich with may different metals, but no-one seems to have delved for them in earnest yet!”

“No.” Turgon agreed. “Indeed we have had no knowledge of the strengthening of swords by using different metals. Our interest in those were mainly so to make jewellery and other fair works of art.”

Maeglin bowed courteously, while he could practically hear his father’s voice in his mind, scoffing. What use were fair trinkets, when there were blades to be wrought cunningly, so that they would become near sentient?

Turgon returned the small bow and left, but Idril, to Maeglin’s great surprise, did not.

“Why are you so, cousin?” she asked, and Maeglin tensed at once.

“How?”

Idril eyed him thoughtfully for a while, then said: “I’ve never heard you talk of your parents’ deaths, nor have I seen you shed a tear for them since. For long, I thought you incapable of any such thing as emotions, but yet here you stand and explain the alloy of metals with such reverence in your voice that it borders on love.”

Maeglin considered what she had said for a moment, then answered: “It is not so that I do not grieve them. My mother, mainly, but also my father. But what good is there in speaking about those grievous things, when they cannot be undone?”

Idril nodded after a while, apparently lost in thought.

“How was it, growing up in the dark? I cannot imagine it being anything but horrible.”

“Yet it was not.”

She looked at him wonderingly, and Maeglin could not help but feel heartened by her interest in him, so he told her of his childhood and youth, something he could never have imagined doing.

“… you see, whatever the common conception, my father was not some kind of monster. He was caught in his own mind, and often so, and never felt at home among the Eldar, but in his strange way, he loved us, my mother and me. He cared for us. All this, the lore of how metals work, I learned from him, and he learned it from the Lords of Nogrod, among whom he was held in great respect. He was a fabulous smith!”

Idril wrinkled her nose.

“Well, but love does not excuse imprisoning others.”

“’t was only in the last years that Amil grew weary of Nan Elmoth. My father could never stand the light of the sun, he said it hurt him. But we wandered the forest by starlight, and we were content.”

A smile played about her lips.

“Aredhel never stayed long anywhere, I guess.”

Maeglin shook his head.

“No.”

“But you know, had he truly loved her, he would have let her go!”

He stared at her, aghast. How could letting go mean love? Idril stared curiously at him and he held her gaze, even if it made him very uncomfortable. After a while, she turned away with a sigh, leaving Maeglin behind, and he sensed that he had somehow said something wrong, but how and what was a mystery to him.

#all of arda is autistic 2023 #april is autism-awareness-month #writers on the spectrum #character on the spectrum #maeglin #idril celebrindal #special interests #communication disorder #it's hard to talk about feelings #but that doesn't mean one doesn't feel them #eöl's light sensitivity #maybe I wouldn't call maeglin full-out autistic #but eöl is and maeglin definitely has traits #also eöl's not feeling comfortable among his own people is sort of a tell-tale-trait #sevant syndrome

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hellotherekenobi · 2 years

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LOVE ME AND MEND

03. THE DENOUEMENT

Chapter Summary: with the big day approaching, much is weighing on Obi-Wan’s mind, much like you. The question is, who will speak first?

Word Count: 6.1k

Index: Previous Chapter. Masterlist.

The night is young when supper is had and Qui-Gon, Anakin, and Sir Naberrie are walking down the hallway on the lookout for Sir Kenobi.

He had been fairly quiet during supper and so had you been, which only made the trio of comrades jubilant with the knowledge that the discussion of both of your “confessions” have sunk in deep.

Only a few words were spoken and one had been when Kenobi offered bread to your ladyship, which you had welcomed but when you reached for them, you had knocked your elbow into the wine bottle on the table and spilt red onto the cloth covering.

All three men had tried their hardest to stifle their laughter, very much entertained by you and Kenobi’s behaviour.

But he had run off afterwards and they are intent on seeking him out. They had checked the courtyard and reception hall and when they found both empty, they decided to go to the guest rooms which Sir Naberrie had graciously arranged for them.

Good thinking on their part, too, as when they reach the doorway into Kenobi’s quarters, they peer around the corner to see him standing in front of the mirror hung on the wall and combing his hair.

He’s being especially delicate with his grooming, making sure that each strand of hair is settled to his satisfaction. He quickly puts the brush down and looks between two vests he had thrown over his shoulder, holding it up to himself and debating between which looks best.

When he wears one and twirls in a gaudy fashion in the mirror, the three men peering in at the scene burst out into laughter.

Obi-Wan turns to them, startled by the noise, but soon grumbles at the faces of his comrades.

“Gallants,” he sighs, adjusting his clothes, “I am not like this usually.”

“No,” Ruwee smiles, “I think you are sadder.”

As the men laugh, Obi-Wan puts his hands on his hips. He hadn’t wanted anyone to see him care about his appearance so much, seeing as it’s worn for the attention of someone in particular. But that is not a fact they need to know.

“I am simply perusing my options,” he huffs.

Throwing the remaining vest onto the bed, he wonders if that will be enough to deter their ridicule. They are acting very much like younglings and it irritates him to think that they are walking around with such a big secret.

This afternoon, Obi-Wan overheard the three of them say that you are in love with him. Though he at first was shocked, he soon became swoonful.

Fortunately for him, they do not know that he knows, nor do they know just how head over heels he’s feeling toward you.

He begins to walk out of the room but as he nears them at the doorway, he is stopped by Anakin who taps his shoulder, yet lightly. It’s almost as if he wants his attention but not directly.

“I hope you are in love,” he says with a youthful curve to his mouth.

It sends Obi-Wan into an inward spiral, wanting to both scream out and remain silent. But he knows that if he does either of those things, it will only spur his padawan on more.

No, he needs an excuse. Something plain and believable.

“I have a toothache,” Obi-Wan says.

“Sigh for a toothache?” Jinn shakes his head. “No, I too say he is in love.”

Obi-Wan will sigh for an itch on his skin, let alone a toothache. They know him to be vocal about all sorts of things and discomfort is a topic he has delved into before. Either they are having their fun, drunk on Naboo wine, or they are poking him with the intention for him to burst.

“He must be in love with a woman since look at his appearance,” Ruwee says, pointing at him, “he has combed his hair.”

“Yes,” Anakin nods, “and his beard is trimmed,”

“And he smells of Rominaria,” Jinn concedes.

“Hmm, is that for your benefit, Sir Kenobi, or for hers?”

What a ludicrous thought. If Obi-Wan is to woo a lady, he can do it without the help of a potent fragrance, especially one so flowery. Though it’s true that he is in fact wearing an essence, he’s certainly not going to own up to it.

They tease him and yet they will not succeed in squeezing the truth from his lips. He is keeping them sealed shut. The only words that he will speak will be to discourage their scrutinizing.

Before Obi-Wan can reply, however, Qui-Gon is talking over him.

“Yes, I conclude that he is in love.”

“Truthfully, and I know who loves him,” Anakin grins.

Obi-Wan turns to look at him, his chin pointed upward.

“I too,” Jinn nods.

Yet, they do know not enough of the heartfelt news as he is likewise a partaker.

“Sir Naberrie, please walk with me,” he says, clearing his throat. “I have studied eight or nine wise words to speak to you, which these Nerf herders must not hear.”

Though Qui-Gon and Anakin snicker, Ruwee grants Obi-Wan an audience. Just as well this happens straight away since Obi-Wan feels in his own sort of tormenting limbo by undergoing their ribbing.

They step away onto the terrace, walking casually and yet Kenobi is fidgeting with his hands. He is at least thankful that the night is cool, so he may avoid melting to his feet.

“What is your dilemma, Sir Kenobi?” Ruwee asks.

What a fitting description of the truth of it. He is having some difficulty with this.

Obi-Wan had an entire plan drawn up in his mind. He had rehearsed his speech with perfect precision and adapted a few arrangements should his original declaration not sway Sir Naberrie’s mind.

Thankfully, his group of merry men had not come to his quarters earlier; if they did, they would have heard him practice the speech in the mirror.

Though, as they walk, he feels himself worry that all of his preparation has been for nought and that he may not have the courage to say what he wants as well as he thinks.

The whole galaxy labels him a grand negotiator but, Maker above, he cannot speak on the topic of his heart without feeling dizzy in the head. He’s seen space more than he’s seen the ground he walks on, yet now, with so much anxiety creeping up his spine, he sees stars.

“Well, sir, I have something on my mind,” Obi-Wan starts, clearly enough.

“Your mind?” Ruwee encourages, looking at him with a curious gaze.

“And my heart, more so,”

“Do tell, Sir Kenobi, or else I will pass with high hopes.”

He might pass away in a moment as the nerves are climbing up his throat like bile. He will not make such a scene, though. Instead, he takes a deep breath and reminds himself that if this doesn’t work, there are plenty of fish in the sea.

Yet, you are the only one he has his sights set upon and, if he truly does fail in reeling in his line, he will send himself lifeless into hyperspace.

“I refer to your niece, Sir Naberrie,” Kenobi says. “As you know, we have not been the most familiar of associates, which I would like to amend,”

Ruwee furrows his eyebrows. “You mean to say that you no longer hold interest in your conflicts?”

“Yes. Or rather, not entirely, but instead I possess a new interest,”

“I hardly see what this has to do with me,” Ruwee shrugs. “If you are keen to move on, then so be it.”

Obi-Wan croaks, watching this conversation steer off its path.

“No, sir, that is not it.”

“Then out with it, good Jedi!”

“Sir Naberrie,” Obi-Wan takes a breath, trying not to sound impatient, though he is more restless at his lack of translation, “I am asking for your blessing so that I may wed your niece.”

The pause that he is expecting does not come. He’s waiting for a moment of thought, silent enough for him to hear a pin drop, but instead, the gentleman beside him seems the least bit astonished. Given the circumstances, he seems rather calm.

“You want to marry my niece?” Ruwee asks, a bemused look on his face. “But I presumed you loathed her?”

“No, in fact, I do love her.”

Obi-Wan has had so many bouts with you that surely, to any onlooker, it would appear as if he does detest your company. Perhaps at one point he believed he felt that way but come this afternoon, he’s more sure that his genuine, deep impulsion is rooted in an amiable disposition.

In fact, his yearning is so intertwined with his spirit—his force signature, even—that if he cannot have you, he may die.

“Please, sir,” he solicits, “may I have your permission for her hand?”

He has never begged for anything in his life. He never begged to become a Jedi, begged to become a General, or begged to be a part of the Council. If anything, the only time he has ever pleaded for something has been for Anakin to stop talking.

That padawan of his is so impulsive. What irritates Obi-Wan the most about it is how he can see himself in his comrade’s actions. Had he not been trained so acutely by his master, Qui-Gon Jinn, then he believes he might have ended up the same way.

But now, standing under the moonlit sky, and feeling more vulnerable than he’s ever done, Obi-Wan begs Sir Naberrie for the only thing he has ever truly wanted for himself.

If he never heard about your affections, he wouldn’t fight so hard. But knowing that you love him when he loves you is enough of a driving force for him to stand by his wish.

Stopping in his steps, Ruwee graciously eases Obi-Wan’s thoughts.

“Why, Sir Kenobi, my heart is with your liking. I have watched you grow into a fine, young man. And my niece has grown with you. It is unequivocal.”

There is no further statement and this time, Obi-Wan does hear a pin drop. They stand face to face with each other in a moment of silence, allowing the structure of his response to become clear.

“So,” Obi-Wan speaks, his heart racing, “I have your permission?”

Ruwee smiles, placing a firm hand on Kenobi’s shoulder. He squeezes it strongly, gingerly rocking him back and forth.

Then he answers, “Of course.”

It’s as if a firework has blown inside of his chest as Obi-Wan lights up from the inside out, his face breaking out into a wide smile and crinkled eyes.

The worrying is done, he thinks. He has now the blessing of Sir Naberrie to conjoin with you in the state of honorable marriage. It is really so! His hopes are no longer a dream.

To think that he swore to die a bachelor. But how could he, really, when you already exist in his life?

“Thank you, sir!” He cheers, shaking Ruwee’s hand vigorously.

Ruwee laughs as Obi-Wan skips away, bolting into the château. He runs with such a sprite to his step that it is only proven further to Ruwee that this game of Dejarik which Sir Jinn set up to play is indeed worthy.

He at one point believed that his niece could never fall in love with a man and that Kenobi would have to be the very last man in the galaxy for that to ever happen. But with an eager Jedi running off blissfully into the night, Ruwee knows that the heart is true.

And, truly, Kenobi is immeasurably in love with you.

─────── ⋯ ───────

There is not a lot that can scare you. In fact, you like to consider yourself quite tough given the circumstances. And yet, your heart almost leaps out of your throat when while you are walking to your bedchamber, Kenobi finds you and asks if he can speak with you in private.

Surely, in the empty hallway only filled with the two of you, it is enough privacy for whatever is on his mind, but he asks you with such ambition that you allow him to walk you outside into the gardens.

Usually, you are unshakable in the presence of practically anyone, but as you and Kenobi walk the starlit path, you feel unmistakably nervous.

After learning that he loves you, all of your actions around him have been so floundering. You might as well be a fish out of the water with how ridiculous your behavior is around him.

First, you had knocked over a bottle of wine during supper. Next, you tripped over your own sandals when you stepped foot onto the grass outside.

Now, twirling a flower stem you had plucked from a nearby bush, you are failing in hiding how anxious you are. Not that you are fearful of being alone with Kenobi, but because now you are looking at him with rosy eyes and it makes every inch of you skittish.

There is a moment when the two of you lock eyes but it’s not lived for long; both of you look away from each other with an awkward chuckle which puts the origin of embarrassment to shame.

The silence is nauseating and you cannot live in it any longer, so you open your mouth to say something, anything at all, but Kenobi has the same thought as you and speaks over your words.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “Please continue.”

“Oh, no,” you shake your head. “You talk.”

His smile is shaky when you say it and yet it does nothing since the two of you submerge into silence once more.

Mother of Kwath, could this be any more awful?

Who would have known how useless you are in flirting? Perhaps your prior resolve for never marrying was a way of saving anyone foolish enough to hold an interest in you.

That being said, Kenobi has always been a fool, so you suppose it adds up.

“What is it that you wanted to speak about?” You ask, trying to understand his intentions for coming out here in the first place.

“There is something I wish to say to you,” he speaks, relatively hushed.

“Yes, sir?”

“I hope you will not find this too brash but I am enamored,”

With a hopeful spark to your breath, you nod. “Enamored, sir?”

“Yes,” he keeps your gaze, “I am burning up.”

Genuinely, you feel the same. This yearning you have is boiling, blazing underneath your skin. The ferocity of it might leave you flushed.

There have been other suitors before in your life, other men who have attempted to woo you. All of whom you turned down, even Master Jinn. Yet, only one man has ever pursued you a second time and it is the same fidgeting man in front of you now.

The first time he had sought your heart, he was much the same timid wreck. He had stumbled over his words but grew confident when you had agreed to his advances.

Remembering how Kenobi has seemed to love you since the beginning and how awful you have treated him, though in fun, makes you feel distressed with yourself.

Do you really deserve a heart like his?

Regretfully, you think not. So, you turn away from him, feeling overwhelmed with both wanting a confession from him and wanting him to merely jest with you. Your cousin was right, he deserves someone who can care for him better than you can.

You feel rather ridiculous when the concern you have turns into tangible form; warm tears pricking your eyes and threatening to fall.

With your back turned against him, you seek out a distraction so as not to embarrass yourself with such a wet emotion and play with the Queen’s Heart bush in front of you.

“I am sure you have more pressing matters to attend to,” Obi-Wan speaks, “but I promise I will not take long.”

Shaking your head, you don’t even dare to speak with the possibility that your voice will crack if you do. That will only make matters worse.

As adamantly as you have sworn against a betrothed, you swear more rigidly against never letting Obi-Wan see you cry.

“Are you all right?” He asks, and you feel him creep up behind you.

Turning to the side so that he cannot see your face, you nod your head with a curt hum and hope that will satiate his question and that he will not poke any further. Even now, tears have begun to stream down your cheeks.

“My lady,” he coos, bringing a hand to your shoulder and encouraging you to look at him.

It is beyond your control whether or not you stop crying, seeing as the irksome tears dropped anchor without your permission. After all, maybe the sight of you in this state will be the deterrent you need in forcing him away from you.

So, you sigh deeply and turn toward him, and his face casts a cloud of concern.

“Have you wept all this time?” He asks.

“Yes,” you reply, noting the fragility of your voice, “and I will weep longer still.”

“I do not desire that,” he shakes his head and his hand on your shoulder squeezes firmly.

“You have no reason to,”

The Obi-Wan you know would laugh at your tears and perhaps encourage more of them with an offhand remark. That is, in fact, what you were expecting instead of his caring, tender words.

If you had not heard about his feelings, you would think he is being insincere.

“Can I not call for someone?” He asks. “Perhaps one of your cousin’s handmaidens, in order to aid you?”

“No,” you shake your head, “I don’t want anyone to see me like this.”

“Yet, I see you,”

“Against my will,”

You push off of him, walking further down the grassy path. He is intent on following you, however, right over to the water fountain in the centre, lit up with encased candles.

“What do you need, my lady?” He asks.

Brushing the tears away from your cheeks, you sigh. “Comfort, sir, but I have no such friend.”

“Then may a man do it?”

“There is no man.”

He would have to be a real gem in order to sway your mood. When you fall into a feeling such as this, it takes a lot of effort on your part to get out of it, and if someone were to help pull you out of the hole, they would need to be strong.

Kenobi is your muse, but never your reality.

Then, with a purposeful expression, he takes a step toward you, and within the brief moment when he stills and takes a breath, your heart skips a beat.

He smiles so sincerely. “I do love nothing in the world so well as you,”

His words are soft and gentle as if dipped in gloss. They shimmer iridescently before your eyes, stilling your tears only for a moment since the gravity of his confession makes them all spill out, racing down your cheeks agilely.

“Is not that strange?” He whispers, yet his smile remains.

Almost as much as when you heard it the first time on the terrace spoken by your cousin, yet when Kenobi speaks it, it’s as if you haven’t known it until now.

You nod. “As strange as it were possible for me to say I love nothing so well as you,”

Speaking is done without thinking, just now. As soon as Kenobi smiles wider, stepping toward you once more, you begin to second-guess all of your intuitions.

“But I do not,” you say, shaking your head.

He takes another step toward you, ever delighted. “By my saber, my dove, you love me.”

You take one step back, trying to keep distance between the two of you, though he is persistent in taking one step forward for each of your steps backwards.

“Do not believe me,”

“I do believe it,” he insists, “and I shall make every man believe me if they think I do not love you.”

With another step, you stumble into the bush behind you, yet remain on your footing. It’s enough of a collision for a few petals from the Queen’s Hearts to flitter to the ground, and the sound of the bush swishes for a moment before it steadies.

The tip of Kenobi’s boots are pressed up against your sandals and he is so close that each breath he takes fans across your skin.

“I love you.” He whispers.

By that, you crumble.

“Maker, forgive me,” you whine.

“Why?” He chuckles. “What offence, my dove?”

“I was crying and now you’ve made me happy,” you titter, feeling both miffed and consoled by his cure. “I was about to admit I love you.”

“Then speak with all your heart,”

“I love you with so much of my heart—”

Kenobi tears the distance in two as he leans forward, his hands resting on either side of your face, and kisses you deeply.

Every inch of you comes alive at that, wrapping your arms around him as you invite your lips to more of him, humming in contentment at the feeling of his unabashed affections.

It feels as if it should be a dream but as sure as you feel him pressed against you, the more sure you are that this is real and that Obi-Wan, by the depth of his heart, loves you.

You had never thought you’d see the day when your lips would be upon his, but the galaxy is a vast and surprising thing.

When he pulls back, looking into your eyes with sincerity, his growing smile breaks into a burst of joyful laughter which you join in on, perched upon cloud nine.

“My dove,” he sings, brushing your wet cheeks with the pads of his thumbs.

“My heart,” you reply, watching him soften at the name.

He kisses you once more, smiling against your lips. His elation has you chuckling, not having seen him so happy since the day Anakin had fallen off of a Shaak.

With a gleeful look, Kenobi grasps your hand, patting it gently, and leads you over to the water fountain to sit on the edge of it.

“Tell me,” he speaks, looking like an eager youngling, “for which of my bad parts did you first fall in love with me?”

You laugh, nodding your head in agreement with his definition of qualities. Truly, he has many bad parts and not even with the veil of love across your face can they hide from you.

“For them all together,” you say and he scoffs, his grip tightening on your hand with a playful response. “But, I must know, for which of my good parts did you first suffer love for me?”

“Suffer love!” He nods his head, smiling brightly. “A good epithet, indeed, for I love you against my will.”

“Though inevitable that you should feel this way,”

“Oh, truly?”

“Yes, for you had fallen many years ago and continue to fall further.”

Kenobi chuckles. “You and I are too wise to woo peaceably.”

That much is true and yet it is admired. A man like him with the ability to respond to your tongue is a rare man indeed. For you, lucky in love, you have the privilege of capturing his devotion, which you return in full.

With a deep breath, you bring a hand to your head. The pressure of tears, laughter and endearment has made your head feel awfully strained.

“How do you feel?” Kenobi inquires, resting his hand against your forehead to feel the warmth of your skin.

“Very ill, I think.” You tell him.

He hums, taking hold of both of your hands.

“Rest well—” he starts, kissing your knuckles on one hand.

“Love me—” he continues, now leaning forward to kiss your forehead.

Then, hovering by your lips, he says gently, “and mend.”

He leans in for a kiss, but before he can close the gap, there is a rush of footsteps entering the gardens, and he groans as he moves away, reluctantly slipping his hands out of yours.

In runs Sabé with her dress bunched up so as not to trip and fall.

“I have been looking for you all over,” she heaves, gazing at you. “I need your help with some preparations for tomorrow.”

With a nod, you stand up from the fountain. “As you wish.”

“Good—” she reaches over to grab your hand, tugging you with her. “I bid you goodnight, sir Kenobi!”

“And you!” He calls out, smiling as he watches you leave and glows when you look back at him before disappearing into the château.

He is in love and he is loved.

Obi-Wan has never felt merrier.

─────── ⋯ ───────

On the morning of the wedding, there is still much to be done and all of Padmé’s handmaidens are running around like Endorian chickens with their heads cut off.

The majority of the work has already been completed—having been attended to the day prior—but the matrimonial jitters seem to invade everyone.

Ruwee is counting the heads of each person that enters the venue, which is the courtyard around the rear of the château, under the big Cambylictus tree. Various flowers and candles have been strung all over to make the place absolutely sparkling.

Anakin, Obi-Wan, and Qui-Gon are waiting by the balustrade where across from it the Naboo waters span over miles. Each of them is clothed in ceremonial attire, and you admit that Kenobi is looking rather handsome in this light.

Sabé has finally come to rest by your side, chuckling with exhaustion as she remarks on how the other handmaidens are fretting over making everything look perfect.

With a bride like Padmé, the wedding will already be perfect.

You can see on Anakin’s face that he’s trying to suppress just how excited he is, noticing the tightness of his cheeks, especially when Kenobi mutters something to him and nudges his side.

It is the perfect day for a wedding, you think. Of course, every springtime is especially sunny but today, with a cool breeze, the weather is the best it’s ever been.

Then the remainder of the handmaidens come piling into the courtyard, two of them grabbing Ruwee by the arms and shoving him around the corner. They’re all giggling like eager younglings, each finding their respective place in the crowd.

There are a lot of people here today; many Senators, Jedi, folks people, friends, family, and Gungans. Anyone who has been in company with your cousin is here to witness the ceremony.

When at last the handmaidens are all settled, the Gungan choir begin to sing the wedding tune. Everyone waits in anticipation for the bride to appear and when she does, all eyes are on her.

Around the corner, Padmé walks arm in arm with Ruwee, the both of them smiling widely as the crowd begins to clap and throw Millaflower petals as they walk the aisle.

Her dress is beautiful; white lace and beading tracing the embroidery of her bodice, and an elegant pearl veil draped from her head down her back.

She looks stunning and you smile wide at the sight.

Reaching where you and Sabé stand, Ruwee takes Padmé’s hand in his and kisses her cheek. You then do the same when she walks past you, winking at her in mirth.

She stands beside Anakin, smiling up at him with crystal eyes and he, likewise, looks at her with a gaze so tender that everyone in attendance might melt at their spot.

The Naboo minister begins his address, speaking with a friendly formality. His words are inspiring, fitting the atmosphere excellently.

As he talks, you flicker your gaze over to the two Jedi on the opposite side and offer a soft smile to Kenobi who is already looking at you. He grins in your direction, not daring to break away from you first.

When the minister concludes his speech, he gestures to Anakin and Padmé to join hands, which they do.

“I am your husband,” Anakin says, gazing at his bride.

She smiles, her cheeks rosy. “As you love, I am your wife.”

The two of them break out into wide smiles and Anakin wraps his arms around Padmé and hugs her, and the entire assembly applaud.

The remainder of the petals are thrown above the happy couple and the Gungans sing in celebration.

Holding each other’s hand, Anakin and Padmé begin to run into the crowd, and you and Sabé follow behind. Yet, the eagerness to attend the wedding feast is delayed as someone calls out over the cheering voices.

“Wait,” Kenobi says, looking a tad unprepared when he gains everyone’s attention. “Where is Sir Naberrie’s niece?”

You are behind many people in the crowd, having pushed gently through it to meet your cousin, but with one forceful push to your back by Sabé, you go tumbling to the front and meet Kenobi’s steadfast eyes.

“I am here,” you clear your throat, feeling the need to straighten out your clothes and walk over to him. “What is your will?”

He doesn’t seem to have the tongue he used to call out in the first place, looking around the intent faces, toward you, and then back to them.

“Do not you love me?” He asks, his chest slightly puffed.

What a laser brain! He has the audacity to make such a remark in front of everyone, your family included. Yes, you are in love with him but, as sure as the force is living, you are not about to admit that to the entire population.

“No,” you scoff, shaking your head. “No more than reason.”

The crowd laughs and Kenobi goes red in the cheeks, his stance going from prideful to defensive within an instant.

“Then your uncle, my master, and Anakin have been deceived,” he huffs. “They swore you did!”

Please, aside from the gardens last night, you have not uttered a single romantic word about Kenobi, let alone any good words. He is out of his mind.

About time you put him in his place.

“Do not you love me?” You inquire, hand on your hip.

If he wants to play a game of ownership, then he should be ready to admit his own feelings.

“No!” He shouts, causing you to gape wide at his outburst. “No more than reason.”

“Then my cousin and Sabé are much deceived,” you bellow, “for they swear you did!”

“They swore you were near dead for me!”

“They swore you were almost sick for me!”

Either everyone has bubbles in their brains, or there has been a severe incident of miscommunication. You have not heard Qui-Gon or Ruwee mention any affection. In fact, you would have never known had you not overheard your cousin and Sabé yesterday afternoon.

This is ridiculous and more than that rather rude of Kenobi to make such an accusation—although legitimate—mere seconds after your cousin is wed.

“I know it to be true,” he says, pointing a finger at you.

Slapping his finger away, you scoff. “It is no such matter,”

He hesitates only for a moment, reverting to his previous hesitation of looking between you and the crowd, except this time he settles on your face and his expression appears almost sad.

“Then… you do not love me?” He asks.

“No, truly. Only in a friendly quarrel.”

“Come, niece!” Ruwee shouts from where he stands. “I am sure you love Kenobi.”

“I swear that he loves her,” Anakin says, running over to the two of you and pulling out a note from Kenobi’s pocket. “For here is one of many letters she wrote to him during the war, which he kept!”

The crowd burst out into joyous noise, though you gasp. Reaching out, you snatch the letter from Anakin’s hand and look over it.

Had Kenobi really kept the letters that you wrote to him? Surely, Anakin must be mistaken since the only things you ever said to Kenobi through your letters were all in the same jesting tone of your ongoing merry war.

Perhaps, though, he had found the one letter you had sent to him when he had written to you in nervous pen, explaining that he was fearful that the war might never end. You had sent him encouraging words and, if you squint closely, some affectionate words, too.

But that is their word against yours as his doting reply is hidden where no one will find it. In your hand, however, is indeed one of the letters you sent him.

“And here is another,” Padme chuckles, standing beside you and holding up a letter, “written in his hand, which she kept beneath her pillow.”

Son of a bantha, how in the galaxy did she find it! You had been so careful with folding them into even smaller squares so that they could not be found, yet your cousin must have seen them.

You’re not quick enough to grab it before Kenobi does, practically leaping over his brother to do so. He flashes you a cocky grin, peering down at the paper to see if what your cousin said is true. When he raises his brows, you believe he’s made it certain.

It goes quiet for a moment after Anakin and Padmé rejoin the crowd, with you and Kenobi re-reading the letters as if you’ve never seen them before now.

Examining each word, you know what you wrote to him is truthful. Maybe you did not know it then but your heart surely did and you can’t deny that, in your own way, you’ve always looked at him with a tender eye.

Likewise, Kenobi turns to you, waiting a moment, then lets out a bashful breath.

“Here are our hands against our hearts,” he says.

Nodding, you agree with him. Sometimes it acts faster than your mind does.

“Well, then,” he exhales, folding the letter back up and slipping it into his pocket. “Come, I will marry you.”

The way he says it is as if he’s been inconvenienced and that taking your hand is the last resort. Surely, you love him, but surely more you spite him.

“Very well,” you say, placing the letter between the fold of your clothes. “But only for your benefit for I was told you were in a consumption.”

Kenobi widens his eyes, taken aback by your response, but within another second, his gaze softens and he chuckles from the depth of his chest.

“I will stop your mouth,”

Reaching out to cradle your face, he pulls you to him and kisses you. The moment your lips meet, the crowd cheers and, though your eyes are shut, you feel the Millaflower petals falling upon your head.

You are certain that married life with him will be interesting but more than that, you know it will be worth it.

“How does it feel, Obi-Wan,” Jinn smiles, nodding over at the pair of you, “the married man?”

Holding your hand, he bears a toothy grin. “I tell you, master, that no other purpose in the galaxy is as great. After all, man is a giddy thing and this is my conclusion—”

Once more, Kenobi kisses you, this time sweetly. His lips barely remain on yours for long, yet the feel of them lingers after he pulls away. He keeps his hand holding your own and walks with you over to Anakin and Padmé.

“Come!” He encourages. “Let’s have a dance!”

He gestures a hand over at the Gungans who hoot in agreement, roaring into a happy, melodic tune. As the crowd claps and forms a circle, Qui-Gon steps beside Anakin and nudges for his attention.

“Do you know of Maul?” He asks.

Anakin shakes his head. “No, master,”

“It is in the past now but know that he tried to impede your relationship with Padmé. I have since sent him away.”

“Thank you, master.”

He should have known that it was a trick when Maul was so set on his master betraying him. After that night, he hadn’t seen him. Now he knows why and, to add on top of all the prayers for today, he is grateful for his master’s support.

Clapping a hand onto Qui-Gon’s shoulder, Kenobi steps into view bearing a toothy grin.

“Why so sad, Master?” He asks. “Get yourself a wife.”

Jinn laughs at that, patting a hand against Kenobi’s back, and comically shoves him toward the dancing circle, joining in on the festivities.

A/N: thank you all for reading, supporting, and commenting on this mini-series! I appreciate hearing from you & knowing that you like my stories. Hope you enjoyed this one!

Strike up the music and strike up in love. After all, it is the most meaningful thing in the galaxy.

Taglist: @penfullofwordsaheadfullofstories @alwayssleepingforreal @kyber-crystal @immoral-rose @bloodybunnyuwu @nagitokomaeda-onthe-nintendo-ds @the-mandalorian-clone-lover @princessxkenobi @mythandmagik @i-cant-hear-you16 @pradahux @inukako @whyiminlove @cosmicsierra @dxnxdjarxn @voidmalfoy @darthkenobii @iamtracyz @chogisss @nectav @disastereyebags @hellolitty @stareyeddie @liviiii98 @dameronology @overly-obsessed-with-you @onewholikesthings @shadowhuntyi @greeneyedblondie44 @doublesunsets @night-ace @mkr31011 @petalcranberry @house-of-kolchek @djarins-riduur @fresians101 @frodo-jojo @romi-yularena @moonlight-fox @newmoonn @sylphene @easilyconvinced @auryborealis @friskynotebook @lostdeidamia @songoficecreamandfireworks @ohbeewankenobi @peters-parker @heyhawtdawgs @moonlight-prose @gardening-tools @badhollandfluff @mylifeisjustasongreference @gurldeuces @agirlunderarock @mischief-and-maryment @catsnkooks @pond-bitch @wannabehamlet @1deadpool26

Dove divider credit: firefly-graphics

#obi-wan kenobi x reader #obi-wan x reader #obi-wan kenobi imagine #obi-wan imagine #obi-wan kenobi fanfiction #star wars fanfiction #:love me and mend

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pictvresqve · 1 year

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┊ ┊ ┊. ➶ ˚ —— look who’s joining the infinite tour! only edward "eddie" song , who is a photographer . i’ve heard whispers that the 25 year old is pretty outgoing but lowkey perfectionistic. also, doesn’t he remind you of christopher bang ?

hello everyone ! my name is kaddie , 29 , resident of the pst zone , and user of whatever pronouns you like ( she / they usually , but please refer to me however you like ! ). this is not my first rodeo on tumblr, in krp, nor in tumblr krp — but it has been a while, so please don't mind me while i readjust and figure out how to function as a mun in this space !! i am excited to introduce you to my newest creation : mr. eddie song , one of infinite entertainment's lovely photographers ! i anticipate this intro being a work in progress as i delve further into the muse and feel him out , and any updates will be posted for the good people's reference !!

a quick note : i do lightly format my ic posts , which can and often does include bolding , italicizing , colors , special characters , and double / triple spacing. i do not use small text because i find it hard to read , but i do not mind if you use it !! i understand this may not always be accessible to some , so please let me know if these stylizing choices affect you in any way and i will adjust for you !! your comfort and ability to engage in a space that addresses your needs is more important than " aesthetic ".

𓆩⟡𓆪 edward "eddie" song was born in sydney , australia to blue collar korean immigrant parents on the cold winter's day of august 27 , 1997 . he is a virgo sun , gemini moon , and cancer ascendent . though he doesn't put much stock in astrology , he has been told by many people ( re: exes ) that he is a " true virgo man ", which he's still trying to figure out the meaning of.

𓆩⟡𓆪 ever since his youth , eddie was a creative , artistic soul. he has been drawing since he could hold a crayon , and as a child enjoyed creating comics and storybooks to share with his parents and friends. as he got older, his preferred creative outlet shifted a bit to include photography — which he picked up after joining his middle school’s yearbook team. composing the perfect shot quickly became an obsession , and to this day he’s tirelessly committed to capturing the world’s beauty in a single frame .

𓆩⟡𓆪 eddie's parents are decent people who worked hard to give their son what he needed. as a child , he never had to worry about being fed , clothed , or watered — though he did not have many of the cool things his childhood friends and schoolmates did. both adults worked full-time jobs ; his father was a grocery store manager , and his mother waited tables at a nearby korean restaurant. this meant that eddie was enrolled in preschool at a very young age , and throughout the rest of his schooling was placed in after school programs until he was old enough to look after himself.

𓆩⟡𓆪 eddie loves his parents very much , but their insistence on practicality when it came to his future did often lead to a butting of heads. while he craved the sweet release of artistic expression , the exploration of humanity and nature beyond what words and science could describe , his mother and father rather preferred he stick to the more common career paths , like finance , medicine , or engineering. their ambitions for their son were shaped by their own experiences of poverty and struggle — something that , to this day , eddie very much understands but finds difficulty in accepting. all he wants is his parent's support for his passions . he still hasn't quite gotten it yet.

𓆩⟡𓆪 eddie was well-liked in school , and though he was not popular per se , he had plenty of friends and a well-rounded social life. in his adult life , he still keeps in touch with several mates from high school. on top of working with both the yearbook and newspaper associations in high school , he was also on the varsity track team.

𓆩⟡𓆪 against his parents' wishes , eddie did not attend university , and instead made the life-changing decision to move to seoul , south korea once he had graduated from high school. he wanted to pursue his passion for photography away from the scrutiny of his parents. they did not part on the best terms , but have since reconciled after his parents both visited him in korea a few years after he relocated there. today , they are on speaking terms , but due to his busy life , eddie only touches base with them on occasion.

𓆩⟡𓆪 upon moving to korea , eddie worked a series of odd jobs to support himself while he freelanced as a photographer on the side. this mostly included your typical first job selections : waiting tables , working retail & hospitality , and working for a rideshare company.

𓆩⟡𓆪 networking within the local artist community in seoul was paramount to eddie's breakthrough as a professional photographer. after meeting several like-minded artists — a group called the craftsmen — he launched his first gallery display. the theme ? in the eyes of a dreamer — a series of portraits showcasing the smaller , lesser known beauties of the city from the perspective of a man who'd come there for a safe haven to pursue his passions. it was a hit.

𓆩⟡𓆪 after the success of several art installations and portrait commissions , eddie began doing contract work for several entertainment publications in which he attended events , concerts , and premieres as a press correspondent. while he loved his work with the independent group , the money was inconsistent and not support his basic needs. though his choice was met with disapproval , he still keeps in touch with some of the more understanding members , and frequently advertises the craftsmen's events. a casual consumer of the korean entertainment industry , this line of work quickly opened his eyes to the beauty , struggle , and chaos prevalent within in — particularly where kpop idols were concerned. where else could he find a more perfect place to capture humanity at its best and at its worst ?

𓆩⟡𓆪 he only takes honest work — meaning , gossip sites / publications and unofficial paparazzi activities have been and are adamantly and vehemently turned down. he follows a strong code of ethics and only believes in snapping photos with express and enthusiastic consent.

𓆩⟡𓆪 eddie covered the unveiling of infinite entertainment's new building inauguration on january 11th , 2021 . this was the same date he was scouted by staff and invited to submit a portfolio of his work and an application , which he did.

𓆩⟡𓆪 finally , in january 2022 , after the announcement of their world tour , eddie received a formal offer to join infinite entertainment contingent on his agreement to partake in the entirety of the tour. such a lengthy wait for a response initially had the young artist hesitant , but an opportunity to travel the world and get paid for it was too good to pass up. he signed a contract soon after the offer was made , and began work not 24 hours later. he was a key figure in producing much of the promotional material for the tour.

𓆩⟡𓆪 eddie is a creative soul at heart. he is driven by artistic goals — namely , capturing the world's beauty in a single frame — and views his work as an extension of himself. because of his passion for what he does , he can often be viewed as obsessive and perfectionistic , often working long hours to edit his work down to the most minute detail. however , he typically does a good job holding this back while working with live subjects , and is rather gentle and reassuring with those he works with , even when his directing style needs to become more structured and instructive.

𓆩⟡𓆪 eddie is an ambivert , though on the mbti he tests as an extrovert . he loves being around others and meeting new people , but has been known to withdraw entirely during times of stress or hardship. he is a people-pleaser , often putting the needs of others before his own and going to extra lengths to ensure everyone he cares about is properly cared for.

𓆩⟡𓆪 a self-medicator , he often takes to smoking or alcohol to get through difficult days , particularly when his art is failing him and he has nothing else to turn to. he always maintains professionalism , however , and always shows up to work sober , clean , and with a smile on his face.

𓆩⟡𓆪 other hobbies include : drawing , painting , casual gaming ( nintendo is his go-to ) , cooking & baking , and creative writing. his favorite movie genre is fantasy and / or action adventure. he listens to all types of music ; he has familiarized himself with nearly the entire discography of every artist on tour , in an effort to properly capture them in a manner true to their artistry.

last updated : sat 6 may 2023

#𓆩♡𓆪 kaddie speaks ! — ooc.#infinite:intro

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