#outward and visible signs

[disease]

"UNTITLED (HOT SUN)" OUTWARD AND VISIBLE SIGNS ROBERT LONGO // 2006 [charcoal on mounted paper | 72 x 84"]

[pilgrimjim]

What Is Your Most Precious Possession?

Two artists wandering the Venice Biennale asked people about their "most precious possession." Here's my answer. What's yours?

Leonardo da Vinci, Adoration of the Magi (1481). What is your most precious possession? This was the question posed by two British artists in their random encounters with strangers at the Venice Biennale. For three days in April, Neil Musson and Jono Retallick wandered about the art festival venues literally clothed in the question, printed in various languages on their white smocks. Whenever a…

[deception-united]

Random Character Profiles

Prodigal slacker. An exceptional intellect, capable of solving complex problems with ease, but absolutely no drive or motivation to apply their abilities towards any practical endeavors. Others are often frustrated by the wasted talent, but they couldn't care less. If their ideas are so great, someone else can come up with them. They're just here to laze around and have fun.

Loveable annoyance. A mind that dances on the border of sanity, and a perpetual source of simultaneous amusement and irritation. They delight in making puns and bad jokes at the expense of others' patience. Undeniably loveable nonetheless.

Reluctant recluse. They present a facade of rugged independence, portraying themselves as one who thrives on solitude and despises the company of others. They project an air of indifference towards others, often dismissing any attempts at connection or sympathy with a sharp retort or a cold shoulder. But beneath this tough exterior lies a soft spot reserved for the select few who have managed to breach their defenses—though they're reluctant to show it, going to great lengths to conceal the affection they view as weakness. Their stubborn refusal to accept help or acknowledge their own struggles stems from a fiercely guarded sense of pride, manifested in their vehement denial of any signs of weakness or vulnerability, even when they're visibly on the brink of death.

Sister figure. Sharp-witted and quick-tongued; will shame, embarrass, and ruthlessly tease. Their sarcasm is as much a display of fondness as it is merciless. Fiercely affectionate, extremely caring, unwaveringly loyal. Will put themself in danger for those they love, and will not hesitate to hurt anyone who offends or hurts those they care for; but mess up, and their sternness could make a warrior sob.

Impressively patient. Reserved, caring, mature, typically polite and tolerant to an extreme extent. May lash out occasionally. Possessive of a quiet strength, tending to observe situations with a thoughtful demeanor. Their reserved nature can be mistaken for aloofness despite their deep well of empathy and care for those around them. They navigate social interactions with a polite grace; however, beneath this composed exterior lies a potential for volatility on the rare occasions when they are pushed to their limit. Often the peacekeeper in friend groups.

People hater. Seems perpetually done with everything and everyone. Specialises in dry remarks and diminishing enthusiasm. General mood killer. However, their outward projection of disdain and superiority is really a mask of their own feelings of inadequacy.

Feel free to add on any other character descriptions you like! Happy writing ❤

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[nothingbutsweetwords]

ɴᴏʙᴏᴅʏ'ꜱ ꜱᴏɴ, ɴᴏʙᴏᴅʏ'ꜱ ᴅᴀᴜɢʜᴛᴇʀ

ᴀᴇᴍᴏɴᴅ x ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ!ɴɪᴇᴄᴇ

"…ɪ ʜᴀᴠᴇ ᴀ ʟᴏᴛ ᴏꜰ ʀᴇɢʀᴇᴛꜱ ᴀʙᴏᴜᴛ ᴛʜᴀᴛ."

Word count: 4,900.

Fandom: House of the Dragon.

Pairing: Aemond x Reader!Velaryon!Niece.

DISTANCE — 10. Him.

When she left King's Landing, it was as if a black shadow had settled over the entire city, a dark suffocating mist smothering any ray of light despite the sun's bright rays. The Red Keep became cold and hollow. It transformed into a labyrinth of echoes from shared memories, now faded in time, like a persistent lament that could be heard in every corner. 

As the days passed, he sought refuge in a rigorous and emotionless routine. Breakfasts became occasions for his mother's presence, and lunches were spent with his sister, though the conversation lacked the vimness it once had. 

It was a comfort, albeit a fragmented one. Alicent was always attentive, quick to notice every visible need. However, her affection manifested in an attempt to keep him safe, shielding him from any perceived dangers, but not from the stormy sea of his own emotions. She was aware of his pain, but they never spoke openly about what truly troubled him, fearing that stirring those deep waters might overflow them. Instead, she offered practical advice and an outward calm that barely touched the surface of his emotional distress. 

Helaena, with her serene and enigmatic nature, was a peculiar source of comfort. Her visions and whispers, often cryptic, seemed to touch the chords of his deepest thoughts, as if she could see beyond the obvious. In her presence, he found fleeting moments of peace.

The loss of her usual brightness after her marriage to Aegon only accentuated the air of affliction in the castle, revealing a wound in her soul that resonated with his own. It was clear that neither of them had wanted that union, but it was she who had suffered a brutal clash between her ideals and a starkly different reality she faced.

Despite this, she often repeated to him that phrase he had heard for the first time so many years ago, accompanied by a small, wistful smile: "Our wait will be rewarded." 

He found it increasingly difficult to hold onto trust in those words. They had become a thin fragile thread, turning his faith into a dull ache and keeping him anchored to a life that felt increasingly distant and unrecognizable.

Her absence left him with an overwhelming void, a sense of loss so profound that it seemed to consume every corner of his being—worse even than the loss of his eye, as if a part of his soul had departed with her, his best friend, his love. 

He wrote to her many times, pouring into the pages a torrent of emotions he couldn't express aloud. Each one contained a silent plea for a response, a sign that she still thought of him. But her replies never came, and with each day of silence, his misery grew like a storm that besieged him without respite.

He immersed himself in a series of mental scenarios, imagining every possible reason for the lack of response. Had she heard about his indiscretions the night before she left? Or was she angry because he hadn't allowed her to visit when she needed him the most? 

He tried to convince himself that she needed space, that time and distance would heal their wounds, but as the weeks turned into moons, the lack of words became an increasingly heavy burden, leading him to question and finally accept that, perhaps, he deserved the silence.

Sometimes, when fate offered a reprieve and luck favored him, he would see her in his dreams, even if they were tumultuous. In them, she would drift away whenever he tried to reach her, her expression distraught at his sullied touch. The pain of her absence mingled with the fleeting joy of seeing her face again, creating a cut that seemed impossible to heal.

There were moments when he nearly mounted Vhagar, to escape the place where his memories kept him imprisoned, and fly to her. But fear and insecurity held him back. His heart, wounded and fragile, couldn't bear the possibility of meeting a version of her who no longer wished to see him. The thought of facing that rejection was too devastating.

His connection with Vhagar was another of the few true comforts he had left. Flying with her offered a breath from his earthly troubles, a sense of freedom and power that he found nowhere else. However, even this source of relief was restricted. His mother feared the dragon, not just for her size and might, but for what she represented: an unbridled power and independence that she could not control. With maternal concern deeply rooted in her, she limited his opportunities to fly, fearing that something might go wrong.

He and his siblings were now only permitted to fly during royal journeys, which had drastically decreased over the years, along with the king's health. 

These limitations felt like heavy chains pressing down on him more and more. His desire to fly, to feel the wind on his face and Vhagar's roar beneath him, was an essential part of his being—a way to feel free and leave his worries behind if only for a brief moment. Every time it was denied to him, the frustration and resentment grew, adding to the tangled web of conflictions that tormented him.

He threw himself into his studies with an almost obsessive intensity, as if each text and lesson could offer a distraction. This rigorous pursuit of knowledge was more than just a means to an end; it was a way to drown out the loneliness that gnawed at his insides.  Instead of confronting his pain, he buried it under a façade of determination, finding in discipline another means of desertion.

Physical training became another outlet. Every sword strike, every grueling exercise, was a cathartic release, a way to channel his frustration and sadness into something tangible. He often pushed beyond the limits of prudence, driving his body to exhaustion. 

The relentless ache became an inescapable companion, following him even in his busiest moments. Despite his efforts to keep his mind focused on other tasks, the image of her smile and the echo of her laughter lingered like ghosts that refused to be exorcized. 

He found himself wondering, with a knot tightening in his chest, if she had forgotten him, if she had found a new life on the island and no longer thought of him. This uncertainty consumed him inside, like a flame that never went out.

The nights were especially cruel, filled with restless tossing and turning as his mind replayed memories and imagined scenarios. The fear of having lost her forever and the guilt for not having done more intertwined, creating an internal struggle that left him exhausted and unable to find sleep. 

As the months stretched into years, he adapted to an existence where her absence was a constant. Yet, he never stopped missing her, nor did he stop yearning for the joy her presence had once brought into his life. It was a quiet, persistent longing that he learned to live with.

His kind sister continued to bring him fresh roses every week, a simple yet constant gesture that tried to fill some of the emptiness. Sometimes, in his frustration and pain, he rejected them, leaving them to wither untouched. Other times, in a fit of desperation, he would throw them away, as if by doing so he could uproot the feelings that consumed him. But there were moments when, with an almost reverent stillness, he would lean over them, breathing in their fragrance and letting the soft petals brush against his skin, searching for a trace of the connection they once shared.

On one particularly lonely night, he dusted off the gift she had given him, a tangible symbol of their bond. He wore it with pride, like a talisman against the encroaching sadness. Next to the cherished case, on his nightstand, he kept a piece of the sapphire. Each time he looked at it, he imagined her, and clinged to the memory of her with all the strength he could muster. It was a small comfort, a glimmer of the love and friendship that had once been his.

He was sitting at the table, engrossed in conversation with his mother. It was a quiet breakfast, one of those rare moments of peace they could enjoy together lately, as she had been increasingly occupied with court matters. 

She was giving him news about Daeron and the impending arrival of some nobles for the festivities in his father's honor. Everything seemed routine, just a simple update on the day's affairs. 

But then, almost as if it were of no consequence, she mentioned: "A raven has arrived from Dragonstone." Her tone was casual, almost offhand, as if she were talking about the weather or some other minor detail. However, the words fell like lead. "Rhaenyra and her family shall be joining us."

For a moment, time seemed to stand still. He stopped eating, his fork halted midway to his mouth, and he sat motionless. His mind went blank, struggling to process what he had just heard. She, the girl who had filled his thoughts and dreams for all those years, would be returning.

Alicent, keenly aware of her son's reaction, watched his face carefully. Despite her attempts to maintain an air of indifference, her eyes showed a flicker of concern. She knew the significance of the announcement for him, and though she tried to downplay it, she couldn't ignore the palpable tension that hung in the air.

He finally set the fork down, his mind swirling. He tried to maintain his composure, but the lump in his throat and the quickening of his beatings were hard to hide. "When, precisely?" he asked, his voice taut with barely suppressed anxiety.

"A few days before it begins, I suppose" she replied, not taking her eyes off him. "Nothing to be concerned about." But they both knew that was far from the truth. The news was anything but trivial. Her arrival was not just another court event; it was an emotional earthquake threatening to shatter the fragile calm he had painstakingly built over the years.

As the days crept closer to the celebrations, the nights grew longer and more sleepless. He found himself going over every possible encounter, every word he wanted to say to her. Anxiety gripped him, a gnawing fear that she had changed, that the woman he had loved and lost might no longer exist in the form he remembered. The thought that perhaps nothing remained of what they once shared was a weight he couldn't bear, leaving him on edge.

The days passed wrapped in a fog of anticipation. The news loomed over him inevitably and followed him wherever he went. The arrival of servants from Dragonstone only intensified this sense of imminence. 

Among these newcomers was Lyra, the lady-in-waiting who, years ago, had wished him a happy birthday with genuine warmth. Now, however, her gaze was tinged with disapproval, her brows furrowed, and her expression hardened. He felt each of these gestures like a small sign of what was to come, amplifying his own discomfort.

He had set aside the books, as they no longer worked; the words blurred in his mind, and he was unable to concentrate. Instead, he spent those hours wielding the sword, until the skin of his palms became rough and calloused. 

One day, waiting for his sister for lunch, he anxiously eyed the usual vase of roses, which already appeared wilted. Helaena arrived with a smile he hadn't seen in a long time, it was bright, contrasting with the gravity of his own thoughts; however, she did not bring new roses as she usually did. 

She noticed his unease and, in a casual tone, remarked, "you shan’t need them for some time, I believe." 

During lunch, she spoke with overflowing energy, filling the silence of the room. He, though less communicative, felt relieved by her presence and liveliness. 

As they finished, he accompanied her to the door. She bid him farewell with contagious cheerfulness and went to her room, leaving him deep in thought. He lingered in the hallway, contemplating the change in her demeanor, wondering what she had meant.

Just then a roar from Vhagar echoed through the air, strong and clear. It was soon followed by another. The sound, different from usual, carried a tone of joy, almost of celebration. It caught his attention, pulling him from his reverie. 

Nervous and conflicted, he closed the door and sank into a chair, burying his face in his hands. He didn't feel ready for what was coming; the feeling of losing control overwhelmed him, it was a sensation he despised more than any other.

After some period of introspection and as the commotion on the floor of the chambers died down, he decided to head to the yard. There, more crowded than usual, he found the usual scene: guards and nobles training fervently. Criston Cole waiting for him, stood ready, morningstar in hand.

"Are you ready, my prince?" Criston asked, his voice laced with challenge and a slight smile playing on his lips.

He nodded, taking a wooden shield and a sword from the armory table. They both faced each other, taking their positions. With every muscle tense and alert, he began to move his body, eager to release the pent-up nerves consuming him.

Criston was the first to attack, his movements swift and precise. He, instead, chose to maintain a defensive stance, blocking and dodging. He heard each clash, the impact of metal against wood and the crunch of the ground beneath their feet. 

As the fight progressed, Cole increased his aggression, launching more powerful attacks. At one point, he managed to hit his shield, splintering and breaking the wood. He threw the remnants aside, adjusting his grip on the sword. Even without a defense, he kept his composure, with more calculated movements. 

They moved in circles, gauging each other's reactions. It was then that he spotted his nephews among the spectators. The sight of him, whom he had not seen since the attack that cost him an eye, ignited a flare of anger within him. He bitterly remembered the injustice of that day, how Lucerys had emerged unscathed while he bore the scar, a permanent reminder.

Criston, sensing the shift in his energy, redoubled his efforts, but he, driven by a surge of emotion, held his ground. With precision, he found an opening in Cole's defense. With a quick and decisive maneuver, he ended the fight with the sword pressed against his opponent’s neck, securing a clear victory. The yard erupted in applause and murmurs.

Criston, breathing heavily, looked at him with a mix of respect and pride. "Well done, my prince. You’ll be winning tourneys in no time" he said, with a playful smile.

He had little interest in such spectacles. He viewed tournaments as mere displays, insufficient to measure a warrior's true worth. 

Aemond, with heavy breathing, replied firmly with an icy tone: "I don’t give a shit about tourneys." Then, with his gaze fixed on his nephews, he addressed them "Nephews, have you come to train?" The question carried a sharp edge, a latent provocation that resonated with the unresolved hostility between them.

The young men remained silent, their expressions serious. Without waiting for a response, he turned back to the armory table and took another shield, determined to continue.

As he walked behind his mother, his gaze was fixed ahead with his siblings flanking him on either side, all heading towards the hall where breakfast would be served. 

The night before, she had been absent from supper, and while he felt a temporary relief that the encounter had been postponed, it was mixed with the sadness of not having seen her.

As he entered the room, his heart skipped a beat. His gaze instinctively sought her among the others, and when he found her, it felt as though time had stopped. He tried to walk with apparent calm, though inside, a battle was raging. 

She was watching him too, and in that brief moment their eyes met, he felt a jolt course through his body. None of the fantasies he had harbored about this moment could have prepared him for the reality. She was completely different, yet unmistakably the same, her essence unchanged. 

She was more radiant than he had ever imagined. There was an air of dignity, confidence and grace in her bearing that left him breathless. There was a dignity in her presence, a poise that was almost otherworldly, captivating him beyond mere words. Her gaze, filled with a subtle strength, seemed to pierce through his defenses, making him feel as though he were standing on the precipice of an emotional abyss. 

He quickly averted his eye, fearing that his emotions might overflow if he maintained contact any longer. He took his seat, and the ensuing silence was almost palpable, heavy with tension and unspoken feelings.

As breakfast progressed, he tried to maintain his composure, but his mind was in turmoil. Every gesture she made, every word she spoke, was a new wave crashing over him. Seeing her after so long was both a blessing and a torment. His hands clenched together on top of the table as he noticed her eyes following him, her gaze inscrutable.

She was even more enchanting than what he thought was possible. The maturity of her features only served to enhance her natural allure, making her beauty more profound. Her face, framed by the dark cascade of her curls, seemed to shine with an inner light. 

Every detail, from the way her eyes sparkled with hidden depths to the delicate curve of her lips, revealed the woman she had become. Her attire, the deep black fabric draping elegantly over her, accentuated her striking features.

Each glance at her was a painful, bittersweet reminder of the time past and lost. 

His mother’s words echoed in his mind: “Nothing to be concerned about.” Everything in him was concerned, everything in him was engaged.

The mere mention of Dragonstone seemed to light up her face; the joy in her expression and the smile he adored were unmistakable. At that moment, he knew her stay would be temporary. She had found a new home, a new life away from him, and the realization was like a dagger.

Upon learning that she had become a dragonrider, he felt a profound joy for her. He recalled the long nights they had spent talking about dragons, imagining what it would be like to fly. He wished he had been there to see her take flight for the first time.

When the king remarked, “The mount of the Good Queen Alysanne. It suits you well” and Helaena, by his side, nodded slightly, a dark fear settled in his chest. It was a gesture laden with foreboding that he was reluctant to explore.

A few hours later, he found himself having lunch with Helaena in her room. The soft afternoon light filtered through the windows, bathing the space in a warm golden glow. Despite the cozy atmosphere, he was lost in thought, his mind still dwelling on the events of that morrow and the memories they had stirred.

Helaena, ever perceptive, noticed his distraction. “Brother” she said softly, her voice filling the room with calmness. When he looked up, she was watching him with a tender expression. “Are you well?”

He hesitated, the words he had kept buried for so long finally emerging. “Will we be together?” he asked quietly, his uncertainty and longing for answers evident. He trusted that fate had its own path, but he needed to know if there was any possibility of a future for them.

She tilted her head slightly, her expression thoughtful as she chose her words carefully. “Some things will depend on you; others are already woven into the fabric of destiny. But I have found that after a long winter, summer is appreciated more” she replied with a wisdom that seemed to come from a deep place. His brows furrowed with a hint of concern. “But you must always keep the door open.”

He nodded, caught between optimism and resignation. He bid farewell to Helaena, each step he took feeling heavier under the weight of her words. As he opened the door, he found himself face to face with the person who had been occupying his thoughts. For a moment, he was caught off guard, stunned by the unexpected encounter.

“Niece” he greeted with a courteous gesture, inclining his head

“Uncle” she replied with a smile that didn’t reach her eyes, a barrier he recognized immediately. “I was looking for Helaena.”

“Of course” he said, stepping aside to let her pass and holding the door open for her. With another polite gesture, she moved past him, her presence filling the space of the room. Helaena gave him a small knowing smile as the princess entered.

He let out a long weary sigh as he closed the door, feeling a growing sense of unease. 

That night, after a long bath, he once again found himself unable to sleep. Sitting at the edge of his window, he gazed out at the clear sky while idly spinning a sapphire between his fingers. The distant roar of Vhagar echoed, and the restless tides mirrored his own agitation.

With a long sigh and a sudden resolve, he adjusted his patch back in place, rose and walked toward the fire crackling in his room. Lighting a candle, he moved quietly towards the back door, leaving the sapphire behind. 

It had been years since he last opened it; since that night, he had avoided the path, as if keeping it shut could keep that memory at bay. Now, driven by an unknown force, he opened it swiftly and stepped into the hallway.

A light from the other end caught his attention. It was her, holding a candle, walking toward him with a serious and determined face. Upon seeing him, her eyebrows rose slightly in surprise. They both stopped in their tracks, staring at each other. Words crowded in his throat, unable to be spoken.

“I wished to speak with you” she said softly, breaking the silence gently. He nodded, still silent, fearful that his voice would betray him. “Shall we go to your chambers?” she suggested, her tone firm but laden with silent expectation.

He nodded again, feeling foolish for having been paralyzed. He gestured towards the way, even though she knew it by memory. Stepping aside to let her pass, his heart pounded with a frantic, uncontrolled rhythm. She pushed open the door that had remained ajar and entered with the same familiarity of years past.

He closed the door behind them and approached cautiously. She moved to the window, where the moonlight bathed her in a silvery glow. He noticed then how she was dressed, wearing a robe over her nightgown and her curls disheveled, contrasting with the elegance of the breakfast, yet to him, she looked utterly divine.

She faced him. A pang of sorrow struck him at her expression. “Why?” she asked, showing a vulnerability that made him feel even more guilty.

“Why what?” he replied, dreading what was to come.

“Why did you never come to see me?” The question felt like a dagger, striking with precision. He looked at her, feeling a knot in his stomach.

He opened his mouth to respond, but the words escaped him. Finally, he found his voice, though weak. “I did not know if you wished for my presence” he murmured, his words sounding hollow even to himself.

She looked at him as if unable to believe what she was hearing. “Is this some jest? I asked you so many times” she said, her tone incredulous. He furrowed his brow. “Did my letters mean so little to you that you did not even take the time to read them?” she added, her bitterness palpable.

He felt as though the world was swaying beneath him. “What letters?” he asked, trying to process everything, his voice softer, trying not to alarm her further.

“The letters!” she said, her words laced with indignation and sadness. “The ones I sent you” she continued. “I thought we had something special. Did I imagine it?” Her tone trembled with emotion. “I waited for so long, I wrote to you so many times, like a fool.” Her voice broke, and she covered her face with her hands. “I hoped… I hoped for a response, a visit, something to let me know you hadn’t forgotten me.”

He took a step forward quickly, his heart pounding against his chest, feeling an urgency he could not ignore. “You wrote me?” he asked, incredulous.

She lowered her hands, her eyes burning with impotent fury. “Do not mock me” she said, turning away, looking out the window again.

He followed her, overwhelmed by a newly discovered helplessness and a fluttering hope of reconciliation. “I wrote to you as well, hundreds of times” he tried to meet her gaze, seeking some glimmer of understanding. “I swear this to you, by all the gods” he pleaded.

“I never received a single letter from you” she replied, finally looking at him with her beautiful eyes shining under the moonlight, her anger softening momentarily with disbelief.

"Nor did I. Not one. Had I received any, I would have come to you at once. You must believe me," he said, “I thought you did not want to hear from me” he whispered desperately, his deepest fears laid bare.

“Why would I not?” she asked, still with a hint of distrust in her eyes from the revelation. Everything seemed so absurd and cruel, yet he felt as though a weight had been lifted from his shoulders. 

She shook her head, her steps carrying her nervously back and forth in the room, her mind working frantically to understand. “It does not make any sense” her voice was a barely audible murmur, more to herself than to him. “Why?” She continued to mutter, her voice filled with a mixture of frustration and anguish, while he merely watched her.

Suddenly, she turned to face him, her eyes searching for an answer he did not have. “Are you not upset about this?” she asked, her voice rising slightly, annoyed.

He continued to watch her, feeling a strange sense of peace amid the chaos. "I cannot find it within myself to be angry at this moment," he replied, "not when you are here before me once more." His voice was filled with a sincerity that surprised even him.

There were so many emotions at play, so many unresolved things, but at that moment, all that mattered was that they were face to face once more.

“I never stopped thinking about you, wondering why I never heard from you, missing you.” He wanted to reach out, touch her, somehow close the distance that had formed between them, but he couldn’t. “I never wanted to lose you.”

“Is that true?” she asked, almost whispering. “Did you truly never stop thinking about me?” She looked at him, her eyes filled with unshed tears. For a moment, time seemed to stand still, and in that shared silence, he understood the magnitude of what they had lost and what they might still recover.

He took another step towards her, his expression sincere. “Never” he said firmly, hoping she could see the truth in his eyes. “Not for a single second.”

She looked at him, her expression softening, and bit her lip, struggling to hold back the flood of emotions.. But the pain and confusion were still present, like a shadow that refused to dissipate. “This is… too much” she murmured, shaking her head slightly.

He nodded, understanding the enormity of what they had just uncovered. “I understand” he said softly. “Take all the time you need.” 

She turned, intending to leave the room, and he followed, prepared to escort her to her door. But just before they could move too far, she suddenly stopped and turned back to him. In an impulsive move, she threw herself at him with force, wrapping her arms around his waist in a desperate embrace. She pressed her face against his chest, her hands clasped tightly on his back, holding him with an intensity that suggested she feared losing him forever if she let go.

He, taken aback by the gesture and despite feeling he didn’t deserve her pure affection, couldn’t help but reciprocate the embrace. He wrapped his arms around her with a tenderness he rarely showed, letting himself be carried away by the moment. He rested his face on the crown of her head, breathing deeply, the sweetest and freshest scent of roses filling his senses, enveloping him in an intoxicating warmth.

It was a silent comfort. He realized how much he had longed for this contact, this closeness, more than he had even admitted to himself.

"I'm sorry" she murmured against his chest. "I'm sorry for everything." Tears began to fall, dampening his shirt. He could feel the rapid beat of her heart against his body.

She lifted her head, her eyes shimmering with something more. He found himself getting lost in that gaze. “What do we do now?”

With a gentle smile, he caressed her cheek with his thumb, wiping away a tear that had escaped. "I won’t let us be separated again" he promised, his voice firm yet tender. “If you will allow me, I wish to mend what has been broken.”

She nodded, and for a brief moment, the world seemed to shrink to the small space between them, where only the two of them existed.

@helaenaluvr @purplegardenwhispers @callsignwidow @squidscottjeans @scarletbedlam @fics-i-love-and-recommend @oh-you-mean-me @fossface @truly-abysmal

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Before the Dawn Has Come, I'd Block the Sun

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as blood and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: You discover more than you could have ever expected when researching your thesis.

Characters: Geralt of Rivia

Note: This is my fave so far.

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me❤️

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!)

I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖

The dry heat sops the moisture from your body, drawing it to the surface as sweat beads and shines on your skin. It’s so hot, the air ripples visibly, the old stone streets appearing more crooked than their ancient foundations. Your sandals hit the ground in a ragged rhythm as your bag weighs you down, your thumb leaving a smear across the screen of your phone. 

You slow as you read the hanging wooden sign and compare to the text on your phone. This is the one. If you weren’t looking for it, you might miss the marquee; hand-painted by your judgment. 

You black your phone and slide it into the loose pocket of your linen pants. Shorts might have been a better choice but you are on an academic mission, not vacation. You uncap your insulated bottle but in the heat of Grecian sun, it does little to keep the water cold. You don’t mind the lukewarm gulp as you tip it into your mouth. 

You slip the bottle into the side pocket of your knapsack and approach the tapered door. It looks as if it might have been placed in the medieval years. The white paint is split by the splintering wood and a curious red outline is streaked around the door frame. That might be something to look into; perhaps another superstition. 

You knock and wait. You wipe another sheen of sweat from your brow and fan yourself with your fingers. You stare at the door anxiously. You check your smart watch. You’re not late. 

Below the time, your heart beat pulses. Even at an easy pace, the heat has you in excess. You blow out a breath and look at the door once more. 

You raise your hand but before you can knock again, you hear a creak from above. You back up as the doors of the second-storey window push outward and hit the siding. The opening is shadowed by a wooden canopy built into the frame and a head of silver head peers out. 

“You may let yourself in. I will be down in a moment.” 

You’re surprised that the man speaks English. Most of the locals don’t know a word of it and your Duolingo crash course has carried you this far, though not without some miscommunication. You set your head straight and reach for the old hoop handle of the door. You push inward, cautiously, letting yourself in with a sense of reverence. 

Within, the entryway is narrow and a set of stairs winds down into it. There’s a mat beneath your soles, woven of wicker, and table to your write. A set of Grecian urns stand on it, symbols painted around their bellies and necks, some polished, others chipped; all in varying states of decay and resplendence. 

You stay by the door and fold your hand, your eyes exploring where your feet won’t. The stairs groan beneath a weight as you peer into the next room, shelves of spines looking back at you. You snap back as a large body descends to the bottom step before you. 

You’re surprised to find a face that does not match the head of silver hair. The man is not young but he isn’t old either. His square jaw is chiseled like one of the country’s famous statues and his form is even more verile and burly than any god of Olympus. But his eyes, they are a shade of amber so pale they almost look golden.  

You’re stunned by his appearance. You shake of that coy thought in your mind. Surely, you’re too deep in your research. After all, what you read about isn’t real, they are wives’ tales. 

“Geralt?” You greet as you extend a hand. 

“You are correct,” he shakes your hand firmly. 

It is just as warm in the house as without. The air curls around you with heat and weaves into your hair, speckling on your scalp. Despite this, he appears unhampered. He wears a linen shirt with an undone collar, exposing the top of his hairy chest, and the short sleeves show his rounded biceps. It is untucked from his grey pants that despite their wide cut, fail to billow around his tree trunk legs. 

“Thank you very much for having me,” you say as he lets you go. “Sorry, did you like English or Greek? I know around here...” 

“English is fine,” he assures. His accent would suggest it’s his first language but you’ve learned from the locals to be mindful. “As it were, I’ve set aside some translations for you.” 

“Oh, thank you,” you look down at your sandals. 

“Leave them on,” he affirms and waves you towards the door you’d only just been peeking through. “No time to waste.” 

“No, not at all,” you agree. “I was hoping to take a few pictures to bring back as well. For reference. I have a translation app that I use--” 

“Mm, none of my records are digitized, for authenticity.” 

“I wouldn’t share them,” you assure. He grumbles. You sense reticence. “Of course, I can just take notes.” 

“We shall see,” he utters as he takes you through to the next room. 

The walls are lined in crowded shelves. Books fill every inch, with some stacked along the edges of the long desk cleared at the centre. You can tell he’s made a recent effort of making room. For you, likely. A strike of guilt flickers. 

“You may work here,” he goes to the desk. “Here is what I’ve put aside,” he taps a thick folder with two fingers, “and these books will do fine for your inquiry. If you have questions or require more of my collections, you might let me know. No pictures.” 

“Um, sure, thank you,” you approach the desk and slip free from your knapsack. 

You glance over at him as he looms, watching you with his eerie yellowish eyes. His pupils pinpoint as his gaze flicks down to your neck as you wipe away the trickle of sweat that tickles you. He quickly reverts his attention to the books. 

“Interesting subject,” he intones. “You mentioned you’ve come from Romania?” 

“I’ve made a trek, for sure,” you open your bag and pull out your laptop and notebook. 

“Mm, I hope your battery is charged. I haven’t any outlets.” 

You look around and only then realise that the sconces on the walls are lit with real flame and that oil lamps illuminate the rest of the space. Hm. It seems a hazard with all this paper, then again, even the hotel you’re staying at is more a rented room in an outdated house. The curly-haired keeper and his wife told you not to plug in more than one thing at time. 

“Oh, right,” you leave it shut and open your notebook instead. 

“Well, I suppose you don’t need me lurking. If you require assistance, call for me. I won’t be far,” he says. 

In his accent, he sounds as if he’s reciting some Victorian script, and his cadence is like the strum of a cello. It sends a chill through despite the stolid air seeping in from beneath the drawn curtains. You nod and step in front of the chair, bracing the armrests but not sitting. 

“Thank you,” you say. 

He stares a moment longer then turns away. His movement is both smooth and stiff. It’s as if you can see a smear of colour with each motion. You shrug it off as another effect of the Grecian heat. 

He goes and you lower yourself onto the seat. The thin embroidered cushion stretched over wood offers little support. You’ve sat on worse in your pursuit of your thesis. You ward off the unease and focus on the wall before you to scale; the books arranged like a fortress to conquer. This will surely take more than a day to get through. 

📜

A day, turns into a week, turns into two.

Despite his standoffish demeanour, Geralt allows you to return to the slanted building on the corner. Each day you pass through the red door frame and sit at the desk. And just as often he adds more to the pile as if you keep you chained there. Yet, you can only blame yourself. You built this prison of academia. 

He doesn’t say much more than that first day. He doesn’t ask questions. He lets you through the door and you part ways. You only see him when he comes to tell you the time. He sends you off before the sun sets on the long Grecian days. You suppose for your own good. It isn’t any good to be walking alone in the dark. 

That day is different. As the moon cycle from a sliver to nothing at all, the night casts upon the Greek roof like ebony silk and the candlelight seems dimmer as you work in its haze. Diligent and distracted from the sifting of seconds through the sieve. Your eyes bore into the parchment as your fingers hover at the corners. 

Vrykolakas devour the flesh, with a taste for liver, though blood does nourish their unearthly being. With fangs like wolves and hunger to match, they are born of sacrilege. They are excommunicated of heaven and hells and all the wiles of humanity. They sleep in unconsecrated earth and feast on sheep when they cannot feast upon that of what they once were. 

In solace, the Vrykolakas find strength. As their hunger deepens, their power heightens, and with the fading of the moon, they float as wraiths upon their hunt to sup upon the flesh of the innocent. 

A shadow, darker than dusk, darker than ink, passes over you. You lift your head, groggy with the stain of scrawled writing in your eyes. You raise your head and blink at the pale figure that emerges into the flickering light. 

“It is after dark,” Geralt declares evenly. 

You flinch and sit up. You glance at the curtains. They look heavier before the deep silt of night. You turn back to him and give a sheepish expression. 

“Sorry, I must’ve lost track of the time.” You go to mark the page with the ribbon and he crosses his arms. 

“Much too late to be venturing out alone.” He girds. 

You pause, your hand in the crease of the pages. “My hotel isn’t very far.” 

“It would be... irresponsible to let you go. A village as small as this would suffer greatly if its only tourist were to perish,” he drones. 

You watch him, put off by his flat tone. His yellow eyes are red around the edges, as if he has not slept. You worry that it might be of your own accord. 

“I have a light,” you assure him. 

“You should stay,” he insists. “You haven’t eaten.” 

You hesitate. You often eat your packed lunch outside between hunching over the desk. He does not permit food around the books. No good archivist would. 

As generous as your other Greek hosts have been, he’s never offered you a meal. You didn’t expect it. After all, you’re there to look at old books. It isn’t a restaurant. 

“I’m fine,” you stand. “Really, I hate to impose any longer.” 

“It isn’t... an imposition,” his voice almost crackles. “I’ve made dinner.” 

“Dinner?” You echo. “Oh, well, if you’ve gone to the trouble.” 

“No trouble,” he assures.  

His teeth glint between his lips, shining and long. You only get a glimpes before he hides them again. You’ve been reading this lore for far too long. 

“Please, finish your reading and I will let you know when it is served,” he drawls. 

“Oh, uh, right,” you sit again. “Thanks. That's... kind.” 

He hums and says nothing else. He retreats just as he appeared, receding like a shadow into the hallway. You peer into the dark block of the doorway for a moment before you put your attention back to the ink. 

…derived of the ‘dlaka’, meaning strand of the wolf’s hair, the Vykolakas were once many. As the mortals upon which they feast, the crowned kings to lead them into their battle of malicion. One such, proclaimed the White Wolf, or White One, in whispered tongues as The Butcher, was the corrupt lord of Haute-Bellegarde. 

 The white liege met defeat by the hordes of the villagers in grief of their slain children, consumed by those which he claimed as his own offspring, better deemed heathens slathering at his cloak tails. In the sunlight he melted into the earth and upon his grave boils a pit of rotted soil. Though it is claimed by some that the Wolf remains, lurking and sniffing for blood, there is little evidence to feed such suspicion. 

“Dinner...” Geralt’s voice pierces like iron.  

Dizziness sweeps your vision as you draw back. That was quick. You think. Again, it seems in this dimly lit room that time is still yet never ending. 

“Come, I’ve set the table,” he slithers. 

You rise as if summoned by his invitation rather than your own will. You swallow dryly and cross the room. He waits and beckons down the hall with his arm. You notice his attire. A black silk jerkin without sleeves, trimmed with silver twine and buttons. His trousers are just as dark and his boots meet his knees. He is odd and out-of-time. 

You pass him and it’s like walking through a cloud of fog, dampy and chilly. You continue as he directs you with a point of his thick finger and a low tone, “to the left.” 

You follow another pulsing light. You’ve never been further than the reading room. Behind the spiraled stairs is nestled a dining room with a square table. The dark wood is framed with slender curlicues of red paint and at the center, the illustration of human heart beneath the foot of a candelabra set with nine long tapers. 

The flames only light the breadth of the table, leaving the walls to hang like ebon curtains. You hug yourself as the air kisses goosebumps to your skin. He escorts you to the table and pulls out the tall-backed chair. Your scalp tingles as the roots of your hair prickle. 

The urge to flee thumps in your chest and yet, you cannot make your feet turn back. You sit as if weighed down by invisible chains. Your heart races with inexplicable panic. The compulsion within overrides any thread of dread or doubt. 

You look down at the plate before you. He rounds the table and takes the seat across from yours. You look up as he rests his large hand around the base of a bronze goblet, the cup cradled by metal in the shape of talons. How strange. This room does not belong in the coastal Greek abode. 

“Please, eat.” 

There is no plate before him. Only the cup. The dish before you is neatly filled with rice pilaf and a strip of indeterminate meat glistening in sauce. It isn’t very appetizing, the smell both repulses and satisfies. 

“What about you?” You ask as you peer between the arms of the candelabra. 

“My hunger has not stirred as yet,” he says. “Please. It is only hospitable.” 

His words are unnatural, strung together with a purpose you can’t unravel. You pick up the fork and knife. You taste the rice first. It’s bland. You take a few more bites and he clears his throat. You know better than to insult him by leaving your plate full. 

You put the blade to the slab of meat. It sinks in easily, so easily it sickens you. As you slice into it, it seems to bleed as more sauce drips from within. It is dense but not tough. You pick up a morsel with the tines of the fork. 

You stare down the meat and push it through your lips as your stomach churns and your mouth fills with saliva. You taste it, the oily sauce coating your tongue as you nearly gag. What is it? 

You pull the fork free and it shines with your spit in the candelight. Your look at Geralt. His pupils are so large that his whole eyes seem to gleam black. You chew but can’t swallow. You reach to the goblet closest to you, that one plain and carved of what could be ivory. 

You drink but not deeply as the iron-laced contents add to your nausea. You wretch and choke on your mouthful. The meat seems to wiggle in your mouth and slides down your throat. Your body constricts as you force it to accept what’s been offered. 

“Is it tasty?” He asks. 

You can’t answer him. Your stomach is agonizingly full. Your heart is hammering against your ribs, and your hands are shaking. You squint at him as your head thrums. You can hear the air around you, as still as it is. You can hear it hissing around the lit tapers, you can hear the slivers of wood pressed together in the table, and you can hear that there is no breath coming from him. 

His chest does not rise or fall. He is perfectly still. Rapt by the maelstrom you find yourself sinking into. 

You look down as your smart watch flashes. The small heart flashes as it turns from orange to red. The number rises higher and higher. You whimper. 

Your breath sears down your throat and into your nostrils. He is calm as he witnesses your deconstruction. You are terrified.  

“Sheep’s liver,” he says. 

You contort in the chair, gripping the armrests as tendrils of pain weave through your muscles and coil around your heart. It’s throbbing inside of you. You look down and swear you can see it through your chest. Swelling bigger and bigger. 

Your eyes flick up at the recollection of the passage. 

‘...so the beast is borne of a man who eats the decrepit morsel of the sheep; that who dines upon the flesh corrupted by the teeth of the wolf...’ 

“No...” you waft, your voice like smoke, acrid and hot. 

He smiles, baring teeth like fangs, long and pointed like a wolf’s. Your neck bends to the side until you think it might snap and your legs twist out inhumanly. You twist and tie yourself, trying to fight the beast that consumes you from within. 

“It won’t hurt much longer and soon enough, nothing will hurt, precious,” he snarls as he sips from his goblet, pulling it back to reveal a trickle of crimson down his chin. 

“Wh-why...” you whine as you stare down at your forearms, tense as you cling to the chair. You can see your veins bulging through your skin. 

“You did not read that one. I did not translate it,” he says. “’With his curse, a prophecy, that his fate should be unleashed upon the day when he should mate. When the Butcher of Haute-Bellegade claims his bride, so shall he claim the day, and put upon the world and endless night. Dusk will consume as he does, and at his side, she will devour in turn.’” 

You moan and gurgle, your head hangs as you bawl and gag on your own tongue. Your bones grind together and your heart begins to miss its tempo. 

“’Upon a moonless night, their vow will be sealed, and all the fates of the world too.’” He recites it as if it is poetry. 

Your ears ring like a siren and your eyes blot with dark stains. Your blood boils over and your muscles knot and tangle. You fold in half and heave and expel a great deluge of guts into your lap. You turn inside out as the world mirrors your transformation. A flash of white then a bottomless black. 

All is still and silent. All is gone and born again. From nothing, there is a sliver. Red, dripping, leaking, pouring gushing. All is red. All is drenched and sodden. All is flooded in the taste of iron. 

A flicker between slitted eyelids. The scent of smoke yet you cannot inhale. You are weak but strong. Broken but unbreakable. 

Your lashes snap wide and you stare up at the peaked ceiling. It is dark yet you can see through it. The smoke wafts to you but does not creep into your nostrils. You turn your head and he is there. Waiting, watching. 

You lay upon the wooden table, naked to him and the night.  You look down your arm to the only vestige of your former self. The watch on your wrist. You tilt your hand so it lights up and the little heart is grey, next to it a dash. There is no heartbeat. You are dead. Undead. Reborn into death. 

“’And in consummation, they will birth the doom,’” he declares as he comes closer. 

He is naked too. Strong and resilient as his pale hair and eyes shine in the darkness. He climbs over you, holding himself above you as you remain unmoving. He lowers himself slowly until his nose touches yours. 

“’And upon their first kiss, the world wept,’” he grits out, lips brushing yours then all at once, covering them. He kisses you hungrily, desperately, eternally.  

As his mission is done, so is yours. You’ve uncovered the secrets of the undead. You know for sure that it is more than folklore; t he is more than just a myth. And you will have all the time in the world to regret that you ever dare to ask if he was real. 

The White Wolf. Gwynbleidd. White One. Butcher of Blaviken. Ravix of Fourhorn. The cursed Duke du Haute-Bellegarde. The bringer of the end.  

[avayarising]

When Mina refers to the sealed diary as ‘an outward and visible sign’, she is referencing St Augustine: ‘an outward and visible sign of an inward and invisible grace’.

This is the definition of a sacrament. Mina’s trust in Jonathan, and his in her, is holy, and a means of grace for them, one to the other.

[ltash]

Tease

When you first arrived at the SAS, you didn’t exactly fit in. Sure, you were good at your job, more than good, actually. You were sharp, skilled, and capable of holding your own in any training scenario. But there was one thing that set you apart from everyone else: you were funny. Mischievous, witty, and always up to something.

Most of the recruits on base were a bit too serious for your taste, but it didn’t take long for you to find your crowd. Gaz and Soap, always down for a good laugh, quickly became your partners in crime. They loved watching you stir the pot, especially when it came to Ghost. Lieutenant Simon “Ghost” Riley had quickly become your favorite target.

Ghost was the complete opposite of you, stoic, silent, and intimidating. He didn’t joke, he didn’t laugh, and most of all, he didn’t like being the center of attention. Which, of course, made him the perfect person to mess with.

It started innocently enough, with small pranks here and there. You’d hide his gloves, switch his ammo with blanks, or throw in the occasional sarcastic comment. At first, Ghost ignored you, figuring you’d tire yourself out eventually. But you didn’t. You kept going, pushing his buttons little by little.

It was a lazy afternoon on base, and you were bored. Ghost sat at a table in the common area, going over some paperwork. You noticed he had a bag of chips by his side, casually snacking between signing documents. That’s when the idea struck you.

You’d ordered a special chip online, a chip so spicy, it came with a warning label. This wasn’t your average hot chip. This was the hot chip, the kind designed to make grown men cry. You slipped it out of your pocket and swapped it with one of the regular chips in Ghost’s bag while his back was turned.

Soap, who had been lounging nearby, noticed your devious grin and immediately perked up. “What are you up to now?”

You gave him a wink. “Just wait. You’re going to want to see this.”

Soap didn’t need any more convincing. He and Gaz both settled in nearby, watching the scene unfold like a couple of kids waiting for fireworks.

Ghost returned to his seat, oblivious to what you’d done. He resumed his paperwork, absentmindedly reaching for the chips. You held your breath, watching with barely contained excitement as his hand dug into the bag.

And then it happened.

Ghost picked up the chip, the one that was designed to feel like molten lava in your mouth, and casually tossed it into his mouth. For a second, everything seemed normal. He chewed, swallowed, and kept writing.

But then, you saw it.

The slow burn started to creep up his neck, his face barely visible under the mask. His hand froze mid-signature, and you could almost see the moment when the heat hit him. His eyes widened slightly, the only outward sign that something was wrong. But you knew. Oh, you knew.

Soap and Gaz were already covering their mouths, trying not to burst into laughter as Ghost’s hand slowly reached for his water bottle. He took a swig, but it didn’t help. You could see the redness creeping up his neck, his posture stiffening as he tried to maintain his composure.

“Something wrong, Lieutenant?” you called out, barely able to suppress your grin.

Ghost’s eyes snapped to you, and for a second, you thought you might have pushed it too far. His gaze was murderous, dark and furious beneath that mask. But he didn’t say a word. He just stood up abruptly, the chair scraping against the floor as he stormed off toward the kitchen.

As soon as he was out of sight, Soap and Gaz exploded with laughter. Soap slapped the table, practically wheezing. “That was brilliant! I’ve never seen him move that fast!”

“I told you it’d be good,” you said, wiping a tear from your eye. “He’s never going to let this one go.”

“You do realize he’s going to get you back for this, right?” Gaz said, still chuckling.

You waved a hand dismissively. “Oh, I’m not scared of Ghost. What’s he going to do? Glare at me harder?”

Soap shook his head, grinning. “You’ve got guts, I’ll give you that.”

But even as you laughed, a small part of you wondered if you’d really gone too far. Ghost didn’t seem like the type to let things slide. And you were right.

But you weren't done with him yet.

Ghost had been quiet since the hot chip prank, too quiet. He hadn’t said anything to you about it, hadn’t even acknowledged it happened. That should’ve been your first warning. But instead of being cautious, you doubled down.

You were walking across the base one day when you spotted a cockroach scurrying along the ground. An idea sparked instantly.

Without hesitation, you scooped up the wriggling bug and made a beeline for Ghost, who was at the training field. Soap and Gaz were hanging out nearby, and when they saw the look on your face, they knew something was about to go down.

“Oi, Trouble,” Soap called out, smirking. “What’ve you got there?”

You held up the cockroach proudly. “My new friend. I’m gonna introduce him to Ghost.”

Gaz shook his head, laughing. “You’re mad."

You scooped up the wriggling insect and made your way over to the field where Ghost was practising.

He didn’t notice you at first, he was too focused on reloading his weapon and prepping for his next drill. But that made it even better.

The element of surprise was on your side.

“Ghost!” you called, running toward him with the cockroach clutched in your hand.He glanced up, and for a split second, you swore his eyes narrowed behind that mask. It was like he could sense that you were up to no good.

“What?” he grunted, lowering his weapon.

You didn’t answer. you just kept running toward him, waving the cockroach in your hand like a trophy.

When you were close enough, you shoved your hand forward.

“Look what I found!”

Ghost took one look at the cockroach and stepped back, his broad form tensing.

“You better put that thing down.”

You blinked, surprised by his reaction. Was Ghost… afraid of bugs? No way.A wicked grin spread across your face.

“Aw, is the big, bad Ghost scared of a little cockroach?”

“Last warning,” he said, his voice dark and low, though you detected a hint of urgency. But instead of backing off, you doubled down.

“C’mon, it’s harmless!” you said, stepping closer and waving the bug in his direction.

Ghost took another step back, visibly uncomfortable now, and you couldn’t help the laughter that bubbled up inside you.

You’d never seen him like this. This was a man who could take down an enemy with his bare hands, yet here he was, backing away from a tiny insect.That’s when he turned and started walking away.

“Oh, no you don’t!” you laughed, breaking into a full sprint after him.What followed was a spectacle that had the entire base watching.

You chased Ghost all the way across the training field, waving the cockroach like a madwoman while he picked up the pace.

You could hear snickers and laughter from nearby soldiers as they watched the ridiculous chase unfold.

Ghost was practically power-walking now, trying to maintain his composure, but you kept pushing.

“Don’t be scared, it’s just a bug!”

“I swear to God,” Ghost growled, picking up speed, “if you don’t stop..”

But you didn’t stop. In fact, you doubled down, practically sprinting after him as you waved the cockroach over your head.

“Come on, Ghost, it’s not gonna hurt you!”

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, Ghost managed to slip away into the locker room, leaving you behind, still laughing and clutching your sides.

But as you stood there, catching your breath, you didn’t notice the way Ghost’s eyes darkened behind the mask. You didn’t notice how Soap, who had watched the whole thing, gave him a nudge and a wicked grin.

For the next few days, you continued your usual antics. You were on top of the world, convinced that you had finally broken Ghost’s stone-cold exterior.

You expected retaliation at some point, but it never came. Ghost was quiet—too quiet. And if you had been paying attention, you might’ve realized that he wasn’t just ignoring you.

He was planning.

It was Soap who sealed your fate.“You really think Ghost’s gonna let that cockroach thing slide?”

Soap had asked one afternoon, leaning against a crate in the common area.

You grinned, shaking your head. “I think he’s too scared to come after me.”

Soap raised an eyebrow, clearly amused. “That’s what you think, huh?”

You didn’t know it at the time, but Soap had already joined forces with Ghost. They were just waiting for the right moment.

It wasn’t until a week later that you realized just how wrong you were.

The day it happened was like any other. You had finished a long day of training and were looking forward to kicking back in your room for a while.

Your backpack was sitting neatly on your bed, right where you’d left it.But the moment you unzipped the bag, something moved.

You froze.

Slowly, cautiously, you opened the bag a little wider, and that’s when you saw it.

Bugs. So many bugs. Spiders, cockroaches, beetles, all squirming and crawling over each other inside your bag.

Your heart leapt into your throat, and before you knew what was happening, a scream ripped from your lungs.

“Holy sh—” You stumbled backward, dropping the bag as you frantically tried to shake off the sensation that the bugs were crawling all over you.

Outside your room, you heard footsteps and then, laughter. Deep, booming laughter.

Ghost’s laughter. You whipped around just in time to see Ghost and Soap standing in your doorway, both of them grinning behind their masks.

Soap was practically doubled over with laughter, wiping tears from his eyes, while Ghost simply stood there, arms crossed, looking entirely too pleased with himself.

“You should’ve seen your face,” Soap gasped between fits of laughter.

You glared at them both, still shaken by the sight of the bugs.

“You put bugs in my bag?!”

Ghost gave a slow, satisfied nod.“Consider it payback.”

“For what?!” you exclaimed, though you knew exactly what.

“For the cockroach,” Ghost said simply. “And the chip. And every other stupid thing you’ve done.”

You groaned, running a hand through your hair as you tried to collect yourself. “That was disgusting.”

Ghost’s eyes gleamed with amusement as he took a step closer, leaning down just enough to be at eye level with you. “Next time, Trouble, think twice before messing with me.”

You stared up at him, your heart still pounding from the adrenaline, but you couldn’t help the smirk that tugged at your lips.

“This isn’t over, Lieutenant.”

“Oh, I’m counting on it,” he said, his voice low and threatening in a way that sent a chill down your spine.

Soap gave you a final wink before the two of them turned and walked away, leaving you alone with your bug-infested backpack and the knowledge that, for once, Ghost had won this round.

But you weren’t about to let that stand for long.

Not by a long shot.

[koegama]

Hanasei

Avg. height: 1.70-2.20m | Avg. weight: 80-150 kg | Hyper-carnivores | Semi-aquatic lifestyle | Lifespan: ~120 years

Hanasei are a semi-aquatic species that originate from lakes, but expanded their settlements into rivers and other large bodies of water. They're a medium-sized biped with a hard keratin helmet where horns sprout from and a tail with large fins. Their skin is slightly damp, and can range from smooth to bumpy, that affects their transpiration and how often they must hydrate. They have both two nostrils located at their helmet and from 2 to 4 gills on both sides of their neck, of which are used for speech in land and breathing underwater, while the nostril's only function is on land respiration. Their necks are strong and well develop, and can expand or contract.

Both hands and feet have webbed fingers to facilitate swimming, but the webbing on the hands can retract for better dexterity when handling utensils. Their amphibious lifestyle left them being only decent at both types of locomotion, but their versatility makes up for it as they can comfortably transition to both environments. They're hyper-carnivores and will eat anything made of animal matter, including bones.

They are the only sexless sophont in Koegama, using Aether as a reproduction tool instead of a biological system.

More physiology dump undercut! Warning, long

Head

The common head structure of a Hanasei is somewhat flat, with a stout snout and large jaws. Proportions and shape vary per individual, and slight deviations from standard models are common. Sometimes, small barbels, whisker-like structures, will grow from their jaw and upper lip area. They give a small boon to the olfactory systems, but otherwise have no major benefits.

Horns

While the protrusions on Hanasei's heads are not anatomically horns but a different keratin appendage, horns are the most common colloquial term. Their main purpose were for fighting and a display of health and fitness to potential partners. Nowadays, most Hanasei have no real use for their horns other than decorative, but individuals may favor different horn styles compared to others.

They don't shed, growing through their infancy and plateauing around 23 to 27 years old. If a horn is broken mid-development, it will continue to grow, resulting in mismatched horns and branched protrusions depending on the type of damage. Once the horns stop growing, the blood and nerve system will shrink and be absorbed, leaving the area with no sensation and regrowth impossible. Cracks and missing pieces being a common sign of age.

Variance

Horns are very vulnerable to Aether tampering, leading to a numerous amount of styles and types to exist. Larger, more elaborate horns can make swimming more difficult, but overall the range is stable and harmless.

The presence of horns and the pair number is not affected, with 2 horns always present.

Eyes & Ears

Hanasei have good night vision, but poor eyesight in general. They can recognize the shapes around them and a few colors, but their daylight and night vision are almost the same otherwise. Their eyes can have different shapes and colors, but the effect is purely visual as their eye sensors work the same regardless of their appearance.

Hanasei don't have visible ears, but a tympanic membrane around their cheek area, which is able to pick up vibrations both in and out of water. They have great hearing, and are more aware of vibrations such as tremors and footsteps. They can voluntarily close their inner ear and stop themselves from picking up sounds, a common method for falling asleep.

Mouth

Hanasei lack teeth, using their upper jaw protrusions to hold and rip food instead. They have a powerful bite, being able to hold down things with immense pressure. Their tongues function like a catapult, with the tip facing the inside of the mouth on a resting position and launched outwards when needed, their saliva being sticky and helping trap prey inside their mouths. With cooking and more efficient methods of getting food, this isn't a common practice anymore, unless one spotted a quick snack. Unlike the other sophonts, Hanasei are still able to eat raw meat and may supplement their normal diet with bugs, fish and other easy to snag creatures in between activities.

They have very powerful and sensitive taste buds, coupled with a taste disc that lets them distinct between minute differences in food. Their mouth, just like most of their organs, tend to take the most prominent color of their Aether.

Respiratory system & Speech

Hanasei has two different systems for breathing. Outside of water, their nostrils are open and air moves through their cavity into their respiratory organs, and their gills are used for channeling sound. Air can be directed to their larynx, which is specialized for manipulating air into sound similar to vocal cords, which is only connected to the gills and not nostrils. This separate system means Hanasei can talk while breathing, and their vocalizations are very impressive, being able to mimic almost any sound they hear with practice. They can alter these sounds with the opening and closing of the larynx openings and changing how open or closed their gills are. To keep their gills from drying, the parts used for respiration often retract or close, but Hanasei in drier climates must moisturize their gills at intervals to prevent internal damage.

Underwater, their nostrils close and their gills stay open. Most of their larynx close, and filter capillaries expand to better capture oxygen diffused in the water. This makes vocalization underwater impossible, and sign language is the most common replacement. Hanasei can have 2, 3 or 4 gills on each side of their neck, and the shape of the gill can be varied, creating "accents" for each Hanasei in their relaxed voice.

They have a good olfactory system, being one of their most reliable senses. They're able to smell the humidity in the air and incoming rains and droughts. Because this uses their nostrils, they're unable to smell anything underwater.

Body

Hanasei size and builds are diverse, with individuals building muscle mass, fat and other outside factors influencing how they look. Their proportions stay consistent, with necks around the same size of their torso, short arms and elongated legs bigger than the torso itself, but deviations aren't uncommon.

Limbs

Hanasei arms start with their shoulders placed at the lower area of their torso, and stop with hands on their hips. Despite the shorter length, they have impressive arm strength and weaker Hanasei are known to rival other species' average. This makes them great at carrying things, and grabbing and holding down prey and foes. Their hands are dexterous when the webbing is retracted, but they lose a lot of maneuverability when extended.

Their legs are long and muscular, granting them an upright walk. They're not very fast, averaging 7 km/h running speed, but they have great endurance and the ability to jump high vertical distances and can pounce forward if crouched. Their muscle system can lock into a crouching stance, a comfortable stance comparable to sitting. Their feet are digitigrade but their fingers are big and wide, with a large base, keeping their body in balance and stable at the cost of mobility and grace.

Tail

Hanasei tails are long, with a vertical caudal fin that often extends beyond the base and helps them swim. This fin can regenerate when damaged, and broken or rotten tissue can lead into an entire chunk or the fin removed to speed recovery and promote an even replacement.

Fins are classified into two types, regular and segmented. Regular fins are connected into one piece, while segmented fins are broken down into various fins of different sizes and shapes, similar to fish fins. No matter the type, their shapes are kept hydrodynamic and tailored for swimming. Sometimes, the size of the base tail will also be shorter or longer than average.

Hanasei swim in two ways: a horizontal wave movement and by kicking their legs. The former is done with the help of their tail fins and is the slower of the two, but costs less energy. Hanasei will often alter the surrounding current with Aether to make this movement faster, with an average of 11 km/h. Leg kicks are less common as long term swimming and rather used for short bursts of speed and distance, and the longer one uses it the more they'll tire and may be unable to swim without resting. The peak swimming speed of Hanasei is around 20 km/h, taking leg kicks into account. As they were ambush and endurance predators, the lack of speed was not an issue for them. Depending on their fin shape, individuals may have different ways of swimming.

Aether

Their natural Aether is Nam Aether. They make use of it to help their swimming and underwater hunting, and to keep themselves damp. They tend to cast Aether from their mouths, as their Aether glands are present on their throat.

In their breeding months, their Aether start producing cells for reproduction and lose their usual abilities. This months-long limitation leads Hanasei to not be involved with using their Aether proactively or learn new skills, preferring to rely on technology to harness and utilize Aether instead.

Reproduction

Egg

To create an egg, two or more Hanasei spit out and mix their Aether together in a body of water. The resulting foam will stick together and in 3 days will develop into an egg, and one healthy Hanasei can produce enough reproductive Aether to make 200 eggs. This can only happen in the breeding period of Hanasei, usually on the 2nd and 8th month of the year. Modern Hanasei societies will instead send their reproductive Aether to the labs of the area, which will store it to create eggs with more efficient mixing machines and incubators.

The Aether inside the egg will segregate itself into larva stem cells and the nutritious yolk. After 12~14 days, the egg will be completely dry and the larva will eclode. The volatility of Aether means many larva never form or form incorrectly, and these eggs are discarded and repurposed or eaten. Only 1 in 50 eggs actually eclode, and this high rate of failure leads Hanasei to not view eggs as their young or a new generation, but more of a vessel that can fail or succeed. They have no qualms with re-purposing eggs in food, experiments or any other procedure.

Larva

Larva, often called notes, are very different from their adult counterparts. They're not considered sapient when they first hatch, but their growth is rapid and by 3 months in, they'll have the intelligence of a one year old toddler and have legs and arm stubs growing, alongside the keratin helmet and an underdeveloped nostril. This growth is fueled by a great appetite, and Hanasei larvae are omnivores and will eat almost anything they can fit in their mouths.

At the 9th month, they'll have most of their limbs developed to their young proportions, but their respiratory system will need an additional 3 months to allow for respiration outside water. Larvae at this stage will take short dips into land to push their muscles and lungs, until they no longer need to return to water to breathe.

Young

Once a larva can leave the water, they're called a young. "Young" encompasses the children and teenager years, lumped together as they no longer share any major physical differences from each other or to adults. The rest of their growth will be in size and intellect, slowing down from the quick pace of their larval years into a more normal 20 or so years to reach maturity. The main exception are horns, which only start growing around their 5th year and can take over a decade to finish growing. Smaller horns may plateau faster.

[teal-fiend]

The Feast

Content: multiple prey, similar size, fatal vore, unwilling prey

Summary: A villainous predator hosts an exclusive gathering wherein they eat prey in front of their subjects.

--

Stark candlelight flickered through the dining hall, casting shadows on many sullen faces. A deep, rhythmic gurgling came from the head of the table. There, slouched yet commanding, sat the predator. Their belly—rounded, swollen, naked flesh exposed—dominated the room with its fitful movements, half-digested prey stirring inside. Under the dim lighting, the predator’s eyes, dark and hungry, swept across the room with a feral intensity that quieted every soul present.

A low, wet groan came from their stomach—the slow grind of digestion. The sound caused the predator to smile. It spread slowly across their face, sharp and unfriendly, teeth bared and glinting in the low light. 

"More," they said, voice steady but laced with menace. The underlings at the table flinched. They’d seen enough to know the consequences of hesitation.

"Yes—right away," one of them stammered, almost knocking over a glass of wine as they scrambled to follow orders. 

It was a scene the predator relished. Seated before their subjects, holding court. Their gaze lingered on a server who dared to meet their eye for a second too long. A dangerous glint flashed in their eyes, one that promised an easy addition to the meal sloshing within their gut.

The server averted their gaze, visibly paling, but the damage had been done. The predator beckoned them over; their unlucky victim had no choice but to obey. There would be no escape from this unlucky fate. After a few loud gulps, the server disappeared. A fresh round of wriggling ensued as the most recent prey struggled to find purchase in their new environment.

The predator, with an almost theatrical sigh, patted their belly. Squelch. The sound of meat churning was audible enough to make everyone stiffen in their seats.

"You know..." the predator's voice dropped to a near purr, "I do enjoy live meat... There's something so satisfying about feeling them struggle inside my stomach." They savored the moment, looking around at the increasingly tense faces of their underlings, eyes gleaming with sadistic amusement.

They belched—loud, unrestrained—a noise that was heard by the gathering like a eulogy. Some of the weaker-willed diners winced, but they all stayed frozen in place. The predator leaned forward, resting one heavy arm on the table. Their distended stomach pressed against the wood, and the gurgling grew louder, followed by a smug, content smile. 

As the evening wore on, the servants brought the predator more prey, each one adding to the overstuffed, groaning gut. With each new body swallowed whole, the predator's belly grew more immense, distorting their form and protruding outwards with obscene fullness. The taut, rounded shape jiggled as they moved, heavy and burdened with people in varying states of digestion. Nevertheless, their eyes remained fixed on the room, watching for any sign of uncertainty or defiance.

"More," they growled, a voice now rough with hunger. "I can take more."

By the end of the night, their belly was colossal, heaving, and hard to the touch. It groaned and churned relentlessly, overworked but undeterred, skin stretched so tight it shone in the dim light. Their breathing had become labored, shallow from the sheer pressure within, but their smile remained.

"I suppose that’s enough for tonight," the predator mused, rubbing their bloated stomach with slow, indulgent circles. The fullness was intoxicating. Like a natural, primal drug that was only available to predators. The pain, the strain—it was all delicious. They shifted with effort, the chair creaking beneath their massive quivering weight. 

They surveyed the mass in their lap, eyes half-lidded and far too greedy to want comfort. 

With that, they leaned back, letting their bloated, upset belly take up the space it craved. The room was silent, save for the unrelenting churn of their stomach, the organ pushed to its absolute limit, embarking wearily on the massive task it had to complete. 

They felt drunk on prey. And suddenly the predator wished to be alone to digest.

Dinner was finally over. Amidst the guests, a subdued wash of relief filtered through. As they each filed out of the room, they tried not to seem so eager to leave as to not trigger their host’s appetite.

–

The predator sprawled across the lounge chair, a low groan escaping their mouth as they wriggled under their prey, trying to get comfortable, trying to accommodate the sheer size of their belly. It was impossible to ignore—rock-hard, swollen to its absolute limit, and packed impossibly tight. The firm, undigested prey inside stretched them thin. Their skin was tight and paled, veins faintly visible beneath the surface, and the bellybutton became a shallow dip on the vast, stretched surface. 

Their shirt had long since ridden up, with no hope of covering the bulging, overstuffed mass that rested on top of their thighs. It rose and fell with each shallow breath, but the weight and the pressure of it made even breathing a difficult task.

They let out a low, guttural burp, the sound filling the quiet room like an announcement; the predator had enjoyed a full meal.

Though it did nothing to ease the tightness in their gut. Their stomach was stone-hard and immovable, groaning and gurgling with strained intensity as it worked through the mass of people inside. The weight of it pressed heavily on their hips, making it impossible to sit fully upright. So they lounged, legs spread, utterly spent. Yet still savoring the afterglow of the feast.

Their hand lazily drifted to the apex of their belly, fingertips tracing the taut surface with slow, gratified circles. The skin felt stretched almost beyond its limit, firm with the unmistakable fullness of a meal far too large for comfort. But there was a grim satisfaction in that discomfort, a pride in the sheer size of the swollen gut they had to contend with now.

The predator gave a lazy, prideful smile. Their eyes near-closed, they pressed down on their stomach, the meal beneath shifting imperceptibly, as there was no room left for even an inch of give. The pressure deep inside sent another wave of discomfort, but they relished it. Each painful cramp or spasm reminded them of the sheer amount they'd consumed—the writhing bodies now packed inside, stacked on top of each other, being relentlessly ground down.

Another burp, this one wetter, more forceful, escaped their lips, and they leaned back with a satisfied, if not pained, groan. Their belly trembled slightly with the effort, the firm dome shuddering as the over-stressed gut fought to keep up with the amount of prey that had been stuffed inside it.

"Ah..." they breathed out, eyes half-lidded in blissful exhaustion. Their hand still rested on their bloated belly, feeling every squirm and every movement within. It was a sensation they savored, even as their body protested the sheer volume inside. It had been too much, even for them, but there was a certain pleasure in pushing limits—testing just how far they could stretch that demanding, stomach.

"Not... bad," they muttered to themselves, their voice low and thick with satisfaction. A rumble echoed through the room, coming from deep within their overworked stomach, followed by another, sharper gurgle as it tried to make sense of the immense load. 

They sighed, fingers trailing along the firm curve one last time, before letting their hand fall limp by their side. "Ah, I ate too much," they whispered with a strained laugh, half-awake.

The predator would never admit that to anyone, though. With their stomach crammed to the brim, stuffed impossibly full, their eyes slowly closed.

[serv0z]

some doodles i did a while back in celebration for the inky mystery animated pilot ^^ + a redraw of the pose for a drawing I did FOUR years ago atp!! Wild to see my old username on the wiki HELP I planned to draw more but my cat REFUSED to get off my drawing tablet so alas Comparison under the cut!

I like to think I did the pose better now, the leg is more turned outward, the bag is actually visible, the goggles are bigger and the expression is overall much better, not to mention the head shape in general? It feels more natural to me, and a sign of my progress I think :)) The old one was back when I was still drawing on my phone with a finger!!! Improvement all around!

[immediatebreakfast]

Here is the book. Take it and keep it, read it if you will, but never let me know; unless, indeed, some solemn duty should come upon me to go back to the bitter hours, asleep or awake, sane or mad, recorded here.

Jonathan giving the journal, and his whole trust to Mina.

Then I kissed it and showed it to my husband, and told him that I would keep it so, and then it would be an outward and visible sign for us all our lives that we trusted each other; that I would never open it unless it were for his own dear sake or for the sake of some stern duty. 

Mina giving her promise of trust, and silence as a response.

In a novel that has been explaining how important communication is no matter what, both Mina and Jonathan decide to be entirely honest with eachother both before, and after marriage. In a weakened state, and with the looming question of what truly happened in that horrible place, they decide to open up, and give the other an opportunity to reassure their trust for eachother.

Jonathan knows that from today Mina will get curious about the journal. It is something that he deems inevitable because of Mina's curiosity, so instead of shutting himself, and her as a way to protect his mind from such forgotten yet horrible real or not dreams, Jonathan simply tells Mina that she can read it. It will be painful, distressing, and I dare to say shameful to hand over what he deems to be his ramblings in a feverish state, but for Jonathan this is something he has to do for Mina first. He doesn't want to keep any secrets from her, no matter how painful they are, so he gives away the journal with the promise of telling him nothing. It's all Jonathan asks, read it if you wish for that, but please tell me nothing.

Mina's heartwarming response to Jonathan's trust is one of reassurance. She tells him that she will keep the journal, and that It will be a reminder in the future that this moment was defining for their marriage, but that it will only stay at that, a moment. Mina sets both hers, and Jonathan's eyes towards a warmer tomorrow where the shadows of Transylvania are only a bad memory in their lives, and the journal stays sealed with those horribke nightmares locked away. Even if Mina is truly curious about the contents, she puts all of that aside to focus on what truly matters. Maybe one day Mina will gaze at the journal, and wonder, but today Mina has promised and given back the trust that Jonathan gave her.

And the most important thing is how the narrative doesn't call any of their actions as wrong, or as a mistake. There is no subtext that implies that Jonathan is making a mistake for giving the journal to Mina, there is not a single shred of any doubt that forebonds any kind of error from Mina's choice of sealing the diary.

The open, and honest communication between Mina and Jonathan is a good choice supported by the narrative that both do out of love, and respect for eachother's boundaries in this unorthodox marriage.

[ineffable-endearments]

Crowley and His Plants in Season 2

I've got this complicated post about Aziraphale and the bookshop brewing, but I want to give Crowley and his plants their own post.

It's really important that Crowley hung onto his plants for juicy characterization and symbolic and thematic reasons. It's a major character development portrayed with relative subtlety, an excellent example of Showing, Not Telling, and I think it's a thrilling sign for Crowley's character development.

Before having a chance to think about it, I thought keeping the plants in his car was a funny and odd - but sweet - detail to include. In fact, it was so sweet that it was one of those "felt like fanfic" things!

In Season 1, and in the novel, the plants were very much there for trauma reenactment, for Crowley to vent his hurt and fear and anger and betrayal onto. In a sense, they seemed to be Crowley's way of roleplaying with himself, if we assume they were only sentient because Crowley thought of them that way. Through the dynamic of yelling at his plants, which he assumed could understand him, Crowley could emotionally act out both the terrified, powerless plant (subconsciously) and the big scary entity threatening it with destruction (consciously).

If we take everything at face value, we can also guess that Crowley disposed of plants that he no longer liked because of their imperfections, which would seem to imply he didn't have much of an attachment to them. Where they went doesn't matter that much to this particular line of theorizing. He could have given them to his elderly neighbor, he could have plunked them in a community garden, he could have left them on a doorstep, he could have shredded them in the garbage disposal. In any case, they were gone from his kingdom.

And after Season 1, I wondered if he would care to keep the plants if he wasn't using them to act out trauma anymore.

But in Season 2, the plants are in fact the ONLY thing from the flat that Crowley has hung onto as he moved into his car. Sure, it's possible that he has other possessions squirreled away somewhere and he just carries the plants around because they need sunlight, but most of the other possessions go unmentioned, so we have to guess that the plants are specifically important. They're also important enough to follow him into the bookshop and back to the car instead of just staying in the car for the trip to Edinburgh.

We also don't see a single instance of Crowley berating the plants in Season 2, but they do still express his emotions somewhat (shaking when he's afraid). He still has whatever subconscious connection to them he was experiencing before. Notably, there's at least one scene where a brown spot is visible on a plant, so whatever Crowley's doing, he's not getting rid of the plants like he used to.

This seems like an obvious example of Crowley's attachment to Earth condensed into a handy symbol. Crowley has started to admit to himself that he cares about these helpless living things, that he just likes them for their own sake. They're not a sign of a job well done for Hell. They're not a memory of Aziraphale. They're not a tool to make life easier or numb the pain. They're just Life On Earth and Crowley likes to have them.

Crowley has gone from using his plants as a tool for trauma reenactment to holding onto his plants because he has a genuine attachment to them. And, for a character whose arc I believe is going to involve forming more outward connections to others, that's a big deal.

Crowley's still got a ways to go. He's carrying these plants around, but the Bentley can't be an ideal environment for them. The whole process of driving them around, not to mention bringing them in and out of the bookshop, has to be kind of awkward for Crowley, too. It's very reminiscent of a character whose attachment to Earth is ambivalent, but who is moving in the right direction.

I wonder what'll happen next. His progress could be relatively linear, wherein he just goes off and forms more connections to humans on Earth after Aziraphale goes back to Heaven.

My suspicion, though, is that he will return to Hell with the specific goal in mind of thwarting the Second Coming and possibly trying to bring the entire system crashing down. In this way, Crowley experiences a massive setback in his position (he wants to be on Earth, not in Hell!) but is actually demonstrating a redoubled dedication to Earth and humans, so what he's doing is not backsliding. Compare it to Season 1, when Crowley is charged with delivering the Antichrist and complains, as late as the Antichrist's 11th birthday, that he didn't want to be involved, that Hell shouldn't have chosen him - when Hell choosing Crowley was the only reason he was ever in a position to try to thwart Armageddon.

But that's a lot of speculation. The point is, the plants are a meaningful connection to Earth and Crowley is taking care of them.

[vickyvicarious]

The theme of communication is so strong in this entry in particular. And I know I've commented on it before - both the communication failures so far, and Jonathan and Mina meeting in the middle (sharing the one with a funny comic attached) of their desires for secrecy/knowledge.

But one more little thing (though it overlaps the above a lot) I want to emphasize this time around which fits this theme so well is the way they kind of anticipate what the other one wants and try to match it. Like... Mina sees that Jonathan doesn't want to talk about the past, and so she resolves not to ask him. She doesn't ask and make him have to refuse her.

He is only a wreck of himself, and he does not remember anything that has happened to him for a long time past. At least, he wants me to believe so, and I shall never ask. He has had some terrible shock, and I fear it might tax his poor brain if he were to try to recall it.

Similarly, later on when she sees his journal, Mina wants to look inside. Jonathan notices, and anticipates her request before it is spoken. After a pause to compose himself, he opens up and speaks about his experience with madness, his fears, and his desire not to know. But he offers her the chance to assuage her curiosity so long as she doesn't involve him. He doesn't let her ask and get refused; instead he reads her intention and offers the potential knowledge she seeks (while still making his own preferences clear).

I saw that amongst them was his note-book, and was going to ask him to let me look at it—for I knew then that I might find some clue to his trouble—but I suppose he must have seen my wish in my eyes, for he sent me over to the window, saying he wanted to be quite alone for a moment. Then he called me back,[...] 'Are you willing, Wilhelmina, to share my ignorance? Here is the book. Take it and keep it, read it if you will, but never let me know;

Mina returns the gesture immediately by placing the book under his pillow when he is exhausted, but then doubles down by sealing the book and making it into her wedding present. And while the other moments were more unspoken anticipation, in this case she deliberately echoes his words when making her promise:

Take it and keep it, read it if you will, but never let me know; unless, indeed, some solemn duty should come upon me to go back to the bitter hours, asleep or awake, sane or mad, recorded here.' [...] Then I kissed it and showed it to my husband, and told him that I would keep it so, and then it would be an outward and visible sign for us all our lives that we trusted each other; that I would never open it unless it were for his own dear sake or for the sake of some stern duty.

And of course, the trust she speaks of matches the trust he demonstrated by offering it to her in the first place.

Jonathan offers up his past (both metaphorically, with the diary, and by literally saying he'd do go through it again); Mina replies with her future ("...I had nothing to give him except myself, my life, and my trust, and that with these went my love and duty for all the days of my life."). Every step of the way, the things they say and do are just so well matched.

The things they say show how much they value communication ("'you know, dear, my ideas of the trust between husband and wife: there should be no secret, no concealment." - even down to her already knowing how he feels on this matter, as well as the words themselves). But so do the ways they don't speak. And the choice not to learn more is, while choosing ignorance, one of the best examples of communication thus far.

It's lovely.

[theother456-stories]

Buffett Challange

Tim stared into the camera, his grin wide and confident. His shirt was already snug against his muscular chest, but that wouldn’t last much longer. He’d done plenty of challenges before, but today was going to be something else. This was the one that would take him to a whole new level.

“Alright guys,” he said, flexing one arm for the camera, “today I’m doing the Buffet Challenge. I’m going to hit up all the buffets in my city and eat until they kick me out. Let’s see how far we can push this.”

He tossed a wink at the camera before turning it off, feeling the excitement building in his chest. Tim had always been proud of his body—his massive muscles, his ability to push limits in the gym. But this challenge wasn’t just about strength or speed. It was about something much deeper, something more primal: size. And Tim was ready to blow past any limits he had ever set for himself.

At the first buffet, Tim wasted no time. He paid at the front, grabbed a tray, and immediately loaded it up with fried chicken, pasta, desserts—anything he could get his hands on. His strategy was simple: eat as much as possible, as fast as possible. Plate after plate disappeared in front of him, his stomach already pushing out against the fabric of his shirt. He loved the feeling—the stretch, the heaviness, the way his body expanded with each bite. The staff started to notice, eyeing him with concern as he kept eating, but Tim didn’t care. He was just getting started.

“First buffet down,” Tim said to the camera after he was finally asked to leave, slapping his bloated stomach with pride. “Still got a few more to go, and I’m already looking pretty good.” He grinned and flexed again, the outline of his distended belly visible even beneath his shirt.

By the time he arrived at the second buffet, Tim’s body had started to show the signs of his overeating. His belly, swollen from the first round, pushed outward, making his shirt ride up slightly as he walked. His thighs had thickened, his steps slightly slower as he made his way to the buffet stations. But none of that mattered—he was on a mission. He filled his plate with ribs, pizza, sushi, anything he could find, his stomach continuing to stretch with each bite. The food tasted incredible, but what Tim loved even more was the sensation of his body growing larger, heavier, and rounder.

“They waited way longer to kick me out this time,” Tim said outside the second buffet, his breath heavy from the sheer amount of food he had packed in. He patted his belly, which was now hanging over his waistband. “Guess they know I’m a growing boy.” He chuckled, feeling a rush of excitement from how heavy he was becoming, already imagining how massive he would be by the end of the day.

As Tim moved from buffet to buffet, his body transformed in ways he had never imagined. By the fourth buffet, he had to loosen his belt to make room for his expanding gut. His once-hard pecs were softening, turning into thick slabs of fat, and his arms, which had always been muscular and defined, were starting to lose their definition. His belly was enormous now, pushing further out in front of him with each plate, stretching the fabric of his shirt to its limits.

“Fourth buffet down,” Tim groaned, his voice deeper and huskier from the weight of the food in his belly. He flexed one arm weakly for the camera, though most of his body was too bloated to move comfortably. “I think… I’m really starting to feel it now.”

The challenge was taking its toll, but Tim loved every second of it. Every bite made him bigger, heavier, more powerful. He could feel his body stretching, expanding with each buffet. His thighs rubbed together as he walked, his stomach jiggled with every step, and his chest, once firm, now bounced with the extra weight. But instead of slowing down, Tim felt a surge of pride. He had always loved being huge, and now, he was taking it to the extreme.

By the time he reached the eighth buffet, Tim was nearly immobile. His belly was so massive that it filled his entire lap, hanging low and pressing into the table in front of him. His arms were thick and heavy with fat, making it difficult to lift his fork, but that didn’t stop him. Every bite sent a wave of pleasure through him, the feeling of his body growing larger and heavier with each plate. His shirt had torn at the seams, exposing his massive, bloated stomach, but Tim didn’t care. He was beyond appearances now—he was a living monument to excess, and he loved it.

“Guys,” Tim groaned, his voice slurred from the sheer effort of talking. “I don’t know if I can keep going… but I’ve gotta try.” He grabbed another plate, shoveling the food into his mouth with slow, deliberate movements. His belly groaned under the strain, stretching further and further, but Tim pushed on, determined to see just how big he could get.

Finally, after hours of eating, Tim arrived at the tenth buffet. His body had grown so enormous that he struggled to maneuver through the entrance, his belly grazing the doorframe as he squeezed through. As he settled into a corner booth that could barely accommodate him, a young waiter named Matt approached, his expression polite but curious as he looked at Tim’s enormous size. “Welcome, sir. Can I get you started with anything?” Matt asked, eyeing Tim’s mountain of a belly.

Tim, too bloated to speak much, simply nodded and gestured toward the buffet. Matt blinked, a look of recognition dawning on his face. “Wait… are you Tim? Like, the Tim from all those crazy challenges?”

Tim managed a grin and a small nod. “Yeah, that’s me. But… bigger.”

Matt’s eyes lit up with excitement. “Man, I’ve watched all your videos! You’re incredible. I didn’t recognize you at first—wow, you’ve really pushed it this time.” He paused, looking at Tim’s bloated form, a glint of admiration in his eyes. “I’ve got to say, seeing you go all out like this is amazing. If there’s anything I can do to help, just say the word.”

Tim’s eyes widened a bit. “Actually… I could use some help,” he admitted, rubbing his massive belly, which was now resting heavily on the table in front of him. “I’m determined to make it through this last buffet, but… it’s getting hard.”

Matt grinned, his enthusiasm palpable. “I got you, man. Let’s make this one count.” He reached down, eagerly rubbing Tim’s massive belly, his hands lingering on the taut, warm skin. “I’ve never seen anyone this big up close—it’s amazing.” He gave it a firm squeeze and then a long, slow rub. “Feels like there’s still plenty of room in here.”

Matt rushed off and returned with a cart loaded with plates, stacking it high with everything the buffet had to offer—fried chicken, ribs, pasta, pies, and desserts.

“Here you go, Tim,” Matt said, placing a plate in front of him. “I’ll keep bringing food as long as you keep eating. And don’t worry—I’m not kicking you out. Not when I’ve got a legend like you here.” He kept his hand on Tim’s belly, giving it affectionate squeezes and rubbing it in circles, his fingers tracing the stretch marks. “It’s incredible how big you’re getting.”

Encouraged by Matt’s support, Tim dug in, taking slow, deliberate bites. Matt cheered him on, clapping whenever Tim polished off another plate and bringing out even more food. The feeling of stuffing himself while being encouraged and adored was exhilarating, and Tim could feel his body swelling with every bite, his belly pressing harder into the table.

“C’mon, Tim, you’ve got this!” Matt said, practically bouncing on his feet as he watched Tim power through each plate. “You’re gonna crush this challenge.” He leaned in close, his hand still rubbing Tim’s belly, feeling it grow larger under his touch. “Man, it’s amazing seeing you this big. I’ve been a fan for a long time, and this—this is next level.”

As the hours went by, Tim’s pace slowed, but Matt’s energy and enthusiasm kept him going. He swapped out empty plates for full ones, his admiration for Tim’s dedication growing. When Tim struggled to lift his fork, Matt even helped him, lifting bites to Tim’s mouth while rubbing his belly with the other hand. His touch became more affectionate, and he whispered, “I love feeling how full and heavy you are.”

Finally, after what felt like an eternity of eating, Tim leaned back, his belly an enormous, swollen mass that took up the entire booth. He was over 1,500 pounds now, a living monument to his love for size. Matt stood beside him, grinning from ear to ear.

“You did it, man,” he said, patting Tim’s gigantic belly and giving it one last, slow squeeze. He leaned in close, rubbing the sides and tracing the stretch marks with his fingers. “This is incredible—every inch of this belly is just… perfect.” Matt pressed both hands into Tim’s belly, rubbing it with an intensity that showed just how much he was enjoying this. “If you ever want to go even bigger, I’d love to help you out.”

Tim managed a weak grin, his breath heavy but filled with satisfaction. “Thanks for the help… wouldn’t have made it without you.” He rubbed his massive belly, feeling the weight and fullness as it pressed

[loveemagicpeace]

Do you mind explaining what which houses means ? I find this topic really interesting

🌸1st house it is your rising sign- how u act, how u look, your presence, how others see you, your energy outwards. Sports and where you put your energy. How others notice you and how you are noticed. What are you known for & what impression you leave on others. For ex.: capricorn rising you will always leave an impression of respect and strength. Jupiter in 1st house - people will see you as a confident and outgoing person. Neptune- you will always leave a magical impression and mystery on people but overall fairy vibes. Sun - Pride will always be with you and people will see you as a person who shines (many times the sun covers a person's sadness).

🧁2nd house- your values, money, food, music, how u take care of things, your self esteem. Things that are close to your heart and that you always carry with you. What do you hold onto the most and what is very important to you.

🧃3rd house- communication, thinking, speaking in public or in general, writing, books, relatives, siblings, neighbors, classmates, school. What attitude do you have towards learning, early schooling. Your best friend. Which opinion do you hold the most and how is your communication perceived by others. What is your way of expressing yourself. How seriously you take communication.

☕️4th house- family, mom- your relationship with her, your safe place, home,house, your private life. What is your relationship with your family like and what kind of family do you want for yourself. Where is your home and where you feel with all your heart that this is your place. Your fav things, people..cuz this is cancer house they always have their favorite stuff. Where do you go when you feel sad & what is place that always makes you feel better.

🎡5th house- joy, happiness, romance, dating life, hobbies ,childhood, your inner child, teenage period(what you were like as a teenager and how you remember it). This house also represents how serious you are in dating. What is important to you in dating and how we perceive them. Where are your dates usually. For ex.: taurus in 5th house- old school def, gemini in 5th house- always something else, but many times it can be a library, a school maybe haha, cancer 5th house - at home, scorpio in 5th house- mysterious place. This house shows where you find the greatest joy of all.

🫧6th house- work, where do you see yourself working and what is your way of working, routine, colleagues, lifestyle (how u function during the day), health, hygiene, animals. What part of your life are you most critical of. Also 6th house is your physical body-how you see your body and how it looks. 6th house gemini- usually you are skinny or tiny, 6th house taurus- you have a more muscular body, 6th house capricorn- you have bone bruises or they are more visible.

🩵7th house- relationships, friends, marriage, other people, beauty, aesthetics. How you act in a relationship, your partner. What kind of panther do you need to feel fulfilled. What kind of wedding do you want & how much does marriage mean to you. Venus here it can mean that marriage is something you value very much, uranus here maybe you see it as limiting your freedom, or maybe you don't feel it so much, moon here u want marriage by the ocean.

🌊8th house- intimacy, investing, other people's finances, inheritance, deeper relationships, how u share things with others and what u share, secrets, the truth, rebirth, transformation, deep and intense emotions, part of yourself that u hide from others. How you emotionally share yourself with a person is also the house of trust and how much you trust others. And in what way do you want trust from another person. For ex.: leo here it can mean that you want to share all the fun with this one person and that it is important for you to share sex together.

🦋9th house- travel, learning from others or they learning from you, teaching others, long interesting stories, experiences, research, optimism, happiness, meaning, faith, second marriage, universities, education, strangers, friends you don't see much,the path of life. Where do you find inspiration for life and which part of life is important to you.

⚡️10th house- career, public identity, your social network and how others see you, how strangers see you, audience, lessons, your early life, father, grandfather, older people, karma. This house also represents how others get karma for being mean to you. What kind of people do you attract.

🫧11th house-friends(with whom you share many of the same things), interests, dreams, difference (how you are different from others), social networks & how do you view social networks, inventions, inventions, science, groups (how you work in groups), in what way do you feel more alienated from others, loneliness.

🧝🏽‍♀️12th house-imagination, fantasy, ocean, magic, spirituality, your dream world, your subconscious, sacrifice, unknown, who are you when no one is around, manifesting, hospital, prison, dancing, singing, art, addiction (any - it doesn't have to be related to alcohol or drugs.) for example leo in this house it can mean addiction to gambling, libra - to relationship, beauty, dressing, Taurus - money, food, series, music. And also your escape where you run away.

Here u have it 🎸

[stars-and-sugarcubes]

Gender in Astrology

Gender in astrology is a function, and that is something that took me time to understand. Like gender as a social tool, we can assign gendered pronouns to refer to objects. Unlike that, gender is astrology is meant to describe something’s actions and inherent nature. Not that you can’t refer to planets with gendered or non-gendered pronouns. It truly doesn’t matter, that is up to you.

Masculinity is characterized by activity. It is extroverted, expressive, vocal, visible, direct, bright, hot, fast-moving, dynamic, conscious, expansive, and outward. It is more concerned with what is outside of itself, on taking action, the chase, and planting seeds.

Femininity is characterized by inertia. It is introverted, subdued, quiet, invisible, indirect, dark, cold, slow-paced, stagnant, unconscious, contracting, and internal. It is more concerned with what is inside itself, resting, attracting, and gestation.

Every planet, with the exception of the Luminaries, rule over a masculine and feminine sign, making their dynamism apparent. In the case of the Luminaries, in spite of only ruling one sign each, the Sun and Moon are capable of being the opposite gender, those are simply not natural states for them. And like the Luminaries, each and every planet also has a preferred expression, which is their Joy by gender, aligned with the planet’s apparent affinity or inherent nature.

The Sun rules a Masculine sign, joying in its domicile of Leo and other masculine signs. The Moon rules a Feminine sign, joying in its domicile of Cancer and other feminine signs. As they only rule one sign each, they are considered the representations of masculine and feminine energies.

Venus is said to joy in feminine signs, making Taurus its sign of joy.

Jupiter is said to joy in masculine signs, Sagittarius being its sign of joy.

Mars is said to joy in feminine signs, Scorpio being its sign of joy.

Saturn is said to joy in masculine signs, Aquarius being its sign of joy.

Mercury is a unique case, its joy depending on whether it rises before or after the Sun. Rising before, which moves further back through the zodiac than the Sun, it is masculine. Rising after the Sun, which moves further through the zodiac than the Sun, it is feminine.

Based on these traditional, Hellenistic associations, I notice a few things. The gender a planet joys in is often not the exaltation of another, excluding the Moon and Venus. The Sun joys in Leo, which has no exaltation sign. Sagittarius, Aquarius, and Scorpio also exalts no other planets, but are the joy of their domiciles.

A planet’s joy also does not align with most planet’s element or temperament either, but does so with their exaltation. Venus is a sanguine, airy planet, but joys in feminine signs, Saturn is a melancholic, earthy planet that joys in masculine signs, and Mars is a fiery, choleric planet that joys in feminine signs. The exception is Jupiter, which is sanguine and airy, and still joys in masculine signs.

Venus is an interesting case, but I find it more interesting that both malefics joy and exalt in signs opposing their inherent nature. Saturn is cold and slow, but is considered a masculine planet, also finding joy in the masculine. Mars is hot and swift, joying in the feminine which does not align with its masculine gender. Their extreme natures are often tempered when it comes to dignity, strength, as well as what their teams are in the Sect schemes, Saturn cooling down the Diurnal Sect with Jupiter and the Sun, Mars heating up the Nocturnal Sect with Venus and the Moon.

With this information in mind, how does that color your view of your natal placements?

Disclaimer: Please do not copy, redistribute, alter, or claim this text as your own…