#the vivid colors the expressiveness of the face the movement of the hair--

[vanteguccir]

── ୨୧ !　𝗣𝗘𝗧𝗛𝗔𝗟𝗦 𝗢𝗙 𝗗𝗘𝗔𝗧𝗛 | 𝗣𝗔𝗥𝗧 𝟮

　　　　　　　　𝒎𝒂𝒕𝒕 𝒔𝒕𝒖𝒓𝒏𝒊𝒐𝒍𝒐 x reader

SUMMARY: The Hanahaki Disease is a rare illness where the patient throws up and coughs flower petals when they suffer from one-sided love. In order to fully recover from the disease, it's necessary that the one they're in love with fall in love with them too. Or to fall in love with somebody else.

WARNING: Stomachaches, lung aches, nauseas, mentions of one-sided love. ANGST, with a happy ending.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: That is my work, I DON'T authorize any plagiarism! | English isn't my first language, so I'm sorry if there's any grammar error.

Part 1

　　　༻✦༺ 　༻✧༺　༻✦༺

Y/N woke up the next day with a ray of sunlight filtering through the small slit in the black-out curtain that was left open, bathing the room in a soft, comforting light. For a moment, she felt disoriented, but soon, the familiarity of her surroundings enveloped her mind, reminding herself of where she was and the events of the previous night. A shiver ran through her body due to the vivid memories of the attack.

The girl sighed, closing her eyes and lazily stretching out on the mattress, feeling genuinely rested for the first time in what seemed like months, a sense of peace and security enveloping her body.

Deciding to face the day in a different way, Y/N got out of bed carefully. She swept her eyes around the room, noticing that Matt was no longer there, the muffled sound of cutlery echoing from the kitchen alerting her to his presence there.

The girl walked slowly towards the kitchen, where the tempting aroma of freshly brewed coffee greeted her, her eyes finding Matt, who had his back turned to her, fiddling with some items on the counter between the sink and the stove, probably preparing breakfast.

"Good morning." Her voice came out in a shy whisper, her arms crossing around her torso and a small smile forming on her lips.

"Oh my God, you scared me." Matt brought his hand to his chest, just above his heart, as his body quickly turned to face her.

"Sorry." A nasal laugh escaped Y/N's, her palms momentarily rubbing the sides of her thighs, wiping her sweaty palms on her pajamas pants.

"Come, sit down." The brunette pointed to one of the chairs around the central table with his chin, turning back to his initial task.

Y/N slowly walked towards the table, her eyes traveling through the kitchen and living room quickly, thanking mentally that Chris and his girlfriend weren't there, probably in his own room. A feeling of nausea rose from the pit of her stomach at the possibility, making her shake her head quickly, shaking off the haunting thoughts.

Matt brought the girl a steaming mug of coffee, accompanied by a small plate with two slices of toast and butter, placing them gently in front of her seat.

"Here's your breakfast." He smiled childish, a gleam of amusement in his eyes as his hands made jazzy gestures towards the itens.

"Thank you, kind sir." Y/N let out a low laugh, taking a small bite of her toast. "Wow, what are you, Auguste Gusteau?"

Matt smiled at her joke, a red blush coloring his cheeks.

"Oh, I try." He shrugged, pretending to throw his fake long hair back, eliciting a new laugh from the girl.

As they enjoyed breakfast in comfortable silence, Y/N couldn't help but remember the heartfelt confession Matt had made the night before when he thought she was asleep. Her mind flashed back to the soft words he had murmured, expressing his true feelings.

Her eyes stared at the bottom of her plate as her mouth chewed on the small pieces of toast, weighing the possibilities.

"Matt." She called in a whisper, watching the boy, who looked up from his bowl, chewing the milk and cereal mixture slowly, a small "hm?" escaping from his throat. "Would you like to go out today? With me?"

Matt's eyes widened slightly in surprise, his jaw stopping its movements instantly, swallowing abruptly the entire contents.

"Sure!" His voice sounded high-pitched. "I mean, sure." He nodded using a more casual tone, smiling sheepishly. "What do you want to do?"

"Can we go to that amusement park we passed in front last week?" The girl proposed, looking at him with expectation written in her eyes.

"Of course! Let's go then." Matt nodded quickly, rising from his chair and taking the empty plate in front of her along with his bowl of cereal, putting them in the sink.

"Wait! Now?" She widened her eyes in surprise, placing her coffee mug on the wooden surface again, her mouth opening slightly.

"Uh, yeah... I mean, only if you want." The brunette added, turning on the sink tap and starting to wash the dirty dishes, avoiding looking at the girl behind him, feeling the skin of his face burn with embarrassment.

"Okay."

　　　　　༻﹡﹡﹡﹡﹡﹡﹡༺

Y/N knocked twice lightly on Nick's bedroom door with her closed fist before slowly opening it. Her eyes traveled around the room, finding Nick sitting at his computer desk, probably still editing the podcast or writing a new script for the next video.

"Hey Nick." She smiled, closing the door behind her back.

"Look who decided to show up." Nick replied in an amused tone, looking up from his computer screen to take a look at her. "Did you get any rest?"

"Yeah, I had a little attack earlier in the night, but Matt helped me." She walked slowly to the boy's closet, opening it and running her hands through the ones she left there.

"Do you want to stay here with me today? I still need to finish this." The boy asked, turning his eyes back to the screen in front of him as his hands lightly adjusted the headphone around his neck.

"Well, Matt and I are going out today." She confessed, trying to sound casual, keeping her eyes fixed on the clothes.

Nick froze momentarily, his hands hovering above the keyboard as his mind seemed to work fast. It wasn't at all unusual for Matt and Y/N to hang out - even though Nick was almost always with them - but at that moment, he could feel a hint of something different behind her sentence.

"Is that so?" He asked suggestively, with a mischievous glint in his eyes. "Where are you guys going?"

She blushed slightly, feeling shyness at the situation, an air of confusion and excitement surrounding her mind.

"To the amusement park." The girl shrugged, selecting the pieces she would wear and finally turning to Nick.

"Hey, that's great! Have fun." The brunette smiled genuinely at her, the meaning behind his words echoing through the walls of the room.

"I will, Nick... I will."

　　　　　༻﹡﹡﹡﹡﹡﹡﹡༺

The sun shone in the blue sky as Y/N and Matt walked from the parking lot towards the amusement park, their hands almost touching from their proximity. Y/N's heart beating wildly in her chest, a mixture of nervousness and hope filling her heart.

The sound of laughter and lively music echoed in the air, creating an atmosphere of excitement and joy around them, along with the delicious smell of food and the sight of colorful lights flashing everywhere.

Y/N felt enveloped by the magical atmosphere automatically, trying to push away the intrusive thoughts about Chris that persisted in haunting her mind.

Matt noticed her momentary hesitation, even if it was almost disguised, his right hand landing gently on her shoulder.

"Are you okay?" He asked, worried about her distant look. "If you want, we can leave-"

"No! No, it's okay." She smiled small, shaking her head, trying to dispel his worries. "I'm fine. Just a little nervous, that's all..."

Matt smiled, his expression softening with understanding.

"Don't worry, nothing will happen... I'm here with you." His voice sounded calm and comforting.

Their eyes met momentarily, pupils fixed on each other, and the world seemed to pause its rotation. All the fear and nausea that Y/N felt seemed to dissipate. A small smile grew on her face when she saw Matt move his eyebrows slightly, with an amused glow that tried to convey some kind of reassurance to the girl.

Y/N looked away seconds later, finally able to observe every detail around them carefully.

"Wow." She opened her lips slightly, her eyes moving quickly without knowing exactly where to look at. It had been so long since she had done something like that.

Matt smiled, watching her delighted expression for a few more seconds before finally taking his eyes off her, feeling his heart speed up.

"Where do you want to start?"

The two decided to start with a roller coaster, and while they waited in line, Matt kept a light and relaxed conversation, helping Y/N to relax little by little, her anxiety slowly decreasing as they shared laughs and hidden glances.

When it was finally their turn, they boarded the cart, a mixture of fear and excitement coursing through Matt's veins as Y/N felt more than ready, the adrenaline would serve her well at that moment.

Screams were shared as Matt raised his arms like a child, and Y/N let out loud laughter, their hair mixing against the wind.

The rides were complete, and soon, they disembarked. Y/N felt euphoric, a rush of adrenaline coursing through her body as she bounced with each step, quick words escaping her lips, explaining every sensation she felt.

Matt observed her with a wide smile, his eyes shining with his excitement and his heart warming immensely. He felt his hands tingling, silently begging him to pull her into a kiss.

As the day progressed, they continued exploring the park, enjoying all the attractions it had to offer while eating sweets and, on Matt's side, gaining teddy bears on the little games, giving them all to the girl.

Despite the doubts and fears that still hovered in her mind, Y/N was able to relax and forget about her illness for a few hours.

　　　　　༻﹡﹡﹡﹡﹡﹡﹡༺

In the days following their "date" at the amusement park, Y/N and Matt continued to get closer in a different way more and more. Matt showed his affection in many ways, through small gestures and acts of service that did not go unnoticed by the girl.

In one morning that she had slept at the triplets' house again, after a significantly difficult night of meltdowns, Y/N woke up on Nick's bedroom with a mug of hot cappuccino on the bedside table next to her side, prepared by Matt before she even woke up, along with a small pink post-it containing a heart and a small "good morning" written by a glittery pen.

During other days, they shared laughs and lively conversations, Matt always there to listen and support the girl through Hanahaki's ups and downs.

Y/N lost count of how many times he accompanied her back to her own home, and there he would help her with simple tasks, such as folding clothes or making dinner for her, demonstrating his care and attention in every small gesture.

At night, before bed, when she decided to spend the night with Matt, the boy would tuck her into his arms, offering comfort and security while she drifted off to sleep. His touches were soft and comforting, conveying a sense of peace that made her feel loved and protected, something she never thought she would feel.

Over time, Y/N began to notice these subtle signs of affection, recognizing Matt's love and dedication in a new and profound way that slowly cut the thorns from the roses in her lungs, showering them with a secret passion.

At first, the girl resisted, fearing that the love she knew was growing in her own heart for the boy would only fuel her illness, but as Matt enveloped her in his warmth, she began to blossom in a different way.

Her heart, once a devastated field of withered petals, now opened like a flower blooming in the sun. Hanahaki's flowers began to slowly wither, replaced by a new type of flowering: that of required love.

Every moment shared between the two was a blessing, a relief from the pain that had consumed Y/N for so many weeks. Matt's soft touches and gentle words healed the wounds that Chris had caused, even if unconsciously.

It was just another peaceful night that the two spent together at the triplets' house. Matt and Y/N enjoyed their favorite food delivered by a delivery service while watching a movie that had recently been released on Netflix.

The proximity of their bodies on the soft couch made the girl's heart beat fast in her chest, the tension increasing with each passing second as her mind created millions of scenarios of how she could even open up to him.

Matt gave her a worried look, noticing her stillness.

"Are you okay?" He asked after swallowing the bite he was chewing of the fast food, his voice soft and full of concern.

Y/N turned her head to him quickly, frowning before nodding, feeling nervous.

"Yes, I'm fine... Actually, there's something I need to tell you." She admitted slowly, her voice shaking with anticipation.

Matt stopped his movements, resting the burger in his hands on the box it came in, focusing all his attention on the girl, his blue eyes brimming with curiosity.

"I actually need to tell you something, too." The boy muttered with a playful smile on his face.

"You can... you can go first." She asked, raising her right hand and pointing towards his chest momentarily, clearing her throat awkwardly.

Matt took a deep breath, pressing his lips into a thin line as he gathered the courage to finally express his feelings while looking into her open eyes.

"You know, we've known each other for so long, right? And from the first moment, my heart hasn't stopped beating faster than normal whenever I'm with you." Matt said cautiously, watching her reactions carefully. "And then I found out that you were hurt badly because of my brother... I swear my heart broke into a thousand pieces, and I realized how much you really meant to me. I remember the exact moment it happened. You were so pretty-" He interrupted his sentence, widening his eyes. "Not that you don't look pretty now, you definitely do, you always look pretty, stunning even-"

"Matt, you're rambling." Y/N interrupted him in a whisper, feeling her face burn with shyness.

"I'm sorry! What I'm trying to say is..." He hesitated, taking a deep breath and reaching out his right hand, taking Y/N's one, tracing her knuckles gently with his thumb.

Y/N's breathing seemed to catch, her heart beating so hard she felt like she could hear it in her ears, goosebumps traveling up her arms as her eyes focused on their intertwined hands.

“I love you, Y/N.”

Y/N's chest bloomed in a good way. She felt as if all the roots and branches within her lungs retracted until they became dust, finally feeling as if she could breathe again.

"Matt, I... I love you too."

"You do?" The boy's voice came out at a higher volume than previously used, his posture straightening up and his fingers squeezing Y/N's hand in an involuntary act of nervousness.

"I do. You know, I've been thinking a lot about us lately, and..." She began with a deep breath, her eyes meeting his, her heart warming almost automatically upon seeing his dilated pupils holding so much love. "I thought I would never be happy again... that I would be doomed to suffocate on the petals of my own disaster forever."

She paused, catching her bottom lip between her teeth.

"But then you started helping me along with Nick, and every gesture of care, every word of affirmation and every comforting touch made me feel loved in a way I never even imagined I would feel one day." She continued, her eyes shining with the intensity of words. "This is so cliché, but you showed me that I could be loved by someone."

"How did you...?"

"I heard you talking about how you felt about me in that night that I slept in your room and had that crisis in the bathroom." The girl said, watching Matt's eyes widen momentarily as a reddish hue took over his milky skin, an embarrassed smile spreading across his cheeks.

"I didn't know you were awake." He let out a breathy laugh, scratching the back of his neck with his free hand.

"I know you didn't." Y/N smiled teasingly. "Why don't you give me that kiss now, huh?"

Matt rolled his eyes at her advance, bringing his upper body closer to hers slowly, resting his weight on the back of the couch with his free hand.

Their gaze met momentarily while their breaths intertwined in a synchronized rhythm. The soft touch of hands still together sending a pulsing electricity through their bodies, while their hearts beat in unison.

A shy smile plays on Matt's lips, a mix of nervousness and anticipation hanging in the air. Then, without wasting time, the boy moves forward, touching her lips in a soft and passionate kiss.

A wave of heat and ecstasy washes over them, every cell in their bodies vibrating with the intensity of the moment. They lose themselves in each other's sweet taste. Their once joined hands now travel through their bodies freely, exploring waists, hips, and shoulders.

The world around seems to disappear, leaving only the feeling of their closeness to each other, as if they were the only two beings in the universe.

The sound of the house's front door opening and closing seconds later seems to wake them up, their tongues separating from the addictive dance as their bodies snuggle against the couch upholstery again.

Y/N's cheeks burned with love and shyness while she felt like her heart wanted to jump out of her chests and probably intertwine itself with his. Matt took a deep breath, a completely goofy smile resting on his face as his blue eyes carried a dazed look.

They felt like teenagers again.

The figure of Chris climbing the last few steps of the stairs with his girlfriend behind him appeared in their vision. Matt swallowed hard, ready to help the girl next to him if a crisis came. Despite her earlier confession, he couldn't help but feel insecure that there was still some remnant of love for his brother within her heart.

But the crisis never came.

Y/N briefly greeted the couple, smiling truthful at the sight of them crossing the room towards the stairs that led to Chris bedroom, before looking at Matt again. Her left hand reached for his one, intertwining their fingers before lightly squeezing them three times.

I love you.

taglist:

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(If you want to be added to the taglist, go to this post)

[god-has-entered-my-body]

need mpind matty begging for attention from both george and girlie and just neither of them giving him any, getting him all dressed up like a pretty girl just to ignore him and leave him needy 🦈

thinking thoughts thoughts sooooooo many thoughts its a bit shit but heres a little snapshot of what that would look like x

There's a specific way the three of you sit whenever George comes over. If you're smoking/just talking, it's you and G on the sofa while Matty sits cross-legged on the coffee table.

This time, however, you're all getting ready to watch a film, Matty still in the other room while George rolls a spliff, lighting it for you. The smoke curls in the air as you take a drag, his hand on your thigh making your heart thrum against your ribs, his fingers long and rough against your bare skin.

You can hear Matty in the bathroom down the hall, humming to himself as various objects clatter around in the marble sink, the noise getting to be a bit annoying. Why is he putting on makeup to stay home? George rolls his eyes and points in his direction when you make eye contact, prompting you to nod in agreement.

The sink stops running abruptly as the door clicks open, Matty's footsteps audible against the hard floor as he walks through the house, stopping in front of the full length mirror for a few seconds to admire himself. The moment he comes into view, circling around the sofa to stand in front of you and George, you can feel air leave your lungs along with George's hand tensing on your thigh.

Matty smirks as you take him in in full. The light from the TV flickers behind him, painting his body in vivid colors as your eyes rake up and down his frame. Dark grey jeans hang low on his hips, so low, in fact, that his hip tattoo is completely visible, leaving barely anything to the imagination. His chest if clad in a too-small pink shirt, the sleeves long and tight on his arms.

"Starting without me?" Matty speaks, dragging his words out in that way he know drives you and George crazy, narrowing his eyes and George's heavy breathing. There's a small bit of space between you, and Matty makes himself comfortable, squeezing onto the sofa. You watch him out of the corner of your eye, his expression a bit depleted as neither of you react, focussing most of your attention to the movie playing in front of you.

Matty sighs dramatically, stretching his arms and arching his back, his shirt riding up his stomach. George makes brief eye contact with you, the slight shake of his head telling you all you need to know. Matty continues his little spiel, draping himself over the two of you, his head in your lap, his legs across George's, shifting and moving every few seconds under the guise of "getting more comfortable."

You can feel your core stir at the soft noises he makes whenever his arms stretch above his head, his curls tickling the inside of your thighs as you watch him watch the movie, avoiding his gaze whenever he turns to look at you.

George does the same, and you catch him sneaking glances whenever he gets the chance, his face dusted with a blush so prominent it'd be a miracle Matty didn't see it. The final straw is small, a simple movement that has George grabbing Matty's leg in a heartbeat, you own hands gripping his jaw as he yelps. Matty's leg moves one last time, purposefully grinding down onto George's crotch, making him groan at he friction.

"What the fuck do you think you're doing?" George asks, his voice deeps and hoarse, eyes piercing Matty's as the curly haired boy stays silent for a few heartbeats. "Nothing in particular."

Matty is lying through his teeth so obviously it's genuinely laughable, a teasing smile dancing on his lips as George stares at him, eyes darting from feature to feature. "Are you sure about that, baby? I didn't think you'd be one to lie to us."

You coo at him, your hands weaving through his brushed through hair as he looks up from your lap, eyes silently pleading, contradicting his own words. "Please, fuck-" he whines, throwing his head back as George's grip on his thigh tightens, keeping him in place.

"What do you want, Matthew? Got to use your words properly." The use of his full name never fails to turn him on, his cock twitching in his pretty blue panties as George's words reverberate through his whole body.

You brush your fingers along his jaw, gazing at him sweetly like you aren't envisioning him in dozens of compromising positions, all pretty and begging. “Touch me, fuck me– anything just please. I’ve even got myself all done up for you.” his voice cracks at the end of his sentence, a smirk pulling at the corners of George’s mouth. 

“I need you so bad– Please darling, tell her how good i’ve been.” his hands grab George’s arm, still begging like his life depended on it. For him, it probably did. 

“No.” Matty whines in response, his eyes widening as your answer processes in his head. He definitely wasn't expecting that. You can see the frustration as he cranes his neck to look at you, eyes glazed over and wet. “But-” Matty gets cut off by George’s hand hovering over his cock, the bulge in his jeans growing harder the more the two of you deny him, averting your attention from him. 

Riled up and needy, Matty starts grinding up against George’s hand, panting and whimpering as pleasure licks up his spine, making him arch his back. It doesn't take long for the blonde to pull his hand away, leaving Matty gasping for air as your lips press a kiss to his temple, feeling how hot his face is. 

“Please G, fuckk– please tell him, darling.” you shake your head again, leaving his fate in George’s hands as he finally speaks, his rough voice going straight between your legs. Seeing Matty this worked up isn't helping your situation as you squeeze your thighs together, Matty so focused on his own pleasure and release that he doesn't even notice.

“Stay still, behave and watch the movie.” George speaks, his tone oddly commanding so much so even you feel compelled to lie still, not moving a single inch. “G, please–”

“Shut up Matthew, this won't end well for you.” your breath hitches at the vague threat, and Matty ceases all movement. 

Now, you’d love to say that George seemed as nonchalant as he tried to come across, but you knew Matty wasn't going to stop the moment he saw the bulge in his trousers, his cock straining against the fabric so hard it looked genuinely painful as he adjusted himself, silently praying Matty wouldn't say anything. 

[sunderingstars]

☆━━━━━ ⋆⁺｡˚⋆˙‧₊☾ ◯ ☽₊‧˙⋆˚｡⁺⋆ ━━━━━━☆

✩ ‧₊˚ ⌞ EIDOLON ART AS FACETS OF CHARACTER ⌝

analysis masterlist

— fandom: honkai star rail

— type: analysis, general

— word count: 1.7k

— overview: (as of 2.3) an analysis of eidolons, their art, and what they convey in terms of character. goes pretty deep into march 7th as an example, so it can partially function as a march eidolon analysis as well. meant to be a companion piece to my eidolon name analysis & sampo eidolon analysis (as well as any other characters i do down the line!)

☆━━━━━ ⋆⁺｡˚⋆˙‧₊☾ ◯ ☽₊‧˙⋆˚｡⁺⋆ ━━━━━━☆

Honkai: Star Rail's eidolon art can be broken down into six sections:

— E1: A frame of the character facing away, often focused on their hair and back with facial features obscured.

— E2: A close-up frame of the character's left eye, often focused on their eye color and front-facing hair with the rest of their face obscured.

— E3: A frame of the character interacting with an important object to them, often focused on what their hands are doing (can also include parts of the face).

— E4: A frame of the character's upper body, often focused on their shoulders, neck, and face. No part of the face is obscured.

— E5: A frame focused on the character's chest, often obscuring the upper half of their face.

— E6: A frame of the character without clothes, head tilting down, usually showing the upper chest area or other body parts if curled.

The progression of clarity shown in the character's body language and revealing of facial features creates a visual effect of "coming closer" to them.

E1 shows none of their face, yet by the time we reach E6 we see not only their face, but their bare skin. We are quite literally seeing them at their most vulnerable, closing the distance physically, emotionally, and mentally between the player and the character.

What I find most striking about each eidolon is that they are consistent across every character; every E1 is the same pose, and so on and so forth. This leads me to believe that the poses and placement of eidolons serve a deeper meaning than just staying at a level of visual distance — namely, that they are meant to also convey similar facets of each character. As such, we can think of them as a baseline going forward, a constant benchmark structure we can use to compare characters to one another.

Let's take March 7th as an example:

— Her E1 (Memory of You) starts with her the furthest from us, facing away to create that narrative distance. The movement of her hair signals that she may be walking away; this is her at her most closed off. Taking from my "eidolon names as narratives" post, if we assume eidolons follow a narrative structure, then this would be reminiscent of her backstory, perhaps even her appearance to strangers or even her view of her past self as a stranger to her present. Either way, this is the "wall," the outer shell of her character. Conclusions: outer shell, backstory, appearance to strangers.

— Her E2 (Memory of It) immediately establishes her bubbly nature. The bright pinks and blues from her eye pop and create a burst of energy in the picture, while the large, white shine indicates a bright and youthful personality. We also get a better look at her vivid pink hair, which adds to the "bubbly girl" persona. This is our next look in, coming closer and getting a first impression of her true personality. I believe this may also be meant to represent the moment she woke up from the ice, as the "it" in "memory of it" may be referring to the ice itself. Conclusions: first impression, inciting incident, appearance to newcomers.

— Her E3 (Memory of Everything) further cements her cheerful disposition, as her smile and tilting head indicate an open and friendly figure. The important object she is fiddling with is an earring. While I have not been able to find any canonical significance for this earring in her lore or character details, my assumption would be that this is an item given to her by the Astral Express crew after awakening from the ice. As such, it not only implicates her interest in fashion, but a cherishing of the crew that is helping her build a new life for herself. I would say this also signals the point in her story where she is accepted by the crew; her memories are becoming filled with a new "everything" as the world opens up before her. Conclusions: important object, new life, appearance to acquaintances.

— Her E4 (Never Forfeit Again) shows her looking over her back while flashing a peace sign. (This is absolutely my favorite eidolon of hers, it's so cute and friendly!) As we (the viewer) are getting closer to her in space and time, she is accepting us in by smiling and making a gesture often associated with fun and excitement. Through this, she is showing us that not only is she excited to know us, but excited to see the world in general. "Never forfeit again" hints that this excitement may be because she doesn't want to give up or lose another life, so she is trying her best to make this new one vibrant and enjoyable. However, this is still not the core of her being; it is more authentic than before, but there is more to go. Conclusions: balance between both sides of vulnerability, present events, appearance to friends.

— Her E5 (Never Forget Again) shows her slightly looking past us, focused on her collar and shirt. She looks more dull here, muted, as if she is comfortable enough to look away while still facing us, putting her trust in the audience to be safe. The smile is still there, though it doesn't seem as exaggerated as before; instead it seems more casual, like we are having a day-to-day interaction. However, there is also something ominous about another part of her face being obscured — even though we are closer to her, there are still secrets she is keeping, some that not even she may be aware of. I believe this indicates the mystery of her character, that there are still things to be uncovered. After all, what does the other "half" of her look like? Conclusions: casual and comfortable, future mystery, appearance to close friends.

— Finally, her E6 (Just Like This, Always) shows her at her most physically, mentally, and emotionally vulnerable, curled around herself without any clothes on. My guess is that this is her core essence, meant to symbolize the pose of her body while trapped in ice. The way she hugs herself seems to indicate coldness (and therefore, an attempt to keep herself warm), while the curling of her legs conjures a feeling of trying to keep something in, to keep her memories from escaping. This is the "March" at the center of her, the pure, vulnerable soul of her being. Beyond the bubbly exterior is someone who is scared and freezing, trying desperately to make new memories and cling to them before they fade. "Just like this, always" is also a major indicator to this being her constant state, something that sticks with her from the past to the present to the future. Conclusions: pure vulnerability, core essence, appearance to only a select few special people.

So, here are my summarized conclusions for the "baseline" of eidolon art:

— E1: Outer shell, backstory, appearance to strangers.

— E2: First impression, inciting incident, appearance to newcomers.

— E3: Important object, new life, appearance to acquaintances.

— E4: Balance between both sides of vulnerability, present events, appearance to friends.

— E5: Casual and comfortable, future mystery, appearance to close friends.

— E6: Pure vulnerability, core essence, appearance to only a select few special people.

Before I give my final thoughts, let's do a quicker and shorter application of these concepts to another example, Gepard:

— E1 (Due Diligence): Symbolizes his backstory, the distance of working his way up through the ranks, and a strong, loyal silhouette for those who don't know him.

— E2 (Lingering Cold): Can be interpreted several ways, but I view the "inciting incident" to be several events in a trenchcoat, namely every past battle he fought under the Supreme Guardian, the "lingering cold" of war. Tired yet determined eyes at first glance. Most likely the view his soldiers have on the day-to-day.

— E3 (Never Surrender): The important object is the Silvermane Medal indicating his status as Captain (shows the importance he places on loyalty and leadership). His face is not shown; he values his service to Belobog more than his own feelings. New life as a Captain leading the charge, covers the span of time between the inciting incident and present. Despite losses and setbacks, he pushes forward.

— E4 (Faith Moves Mountains): Active and commanding, tracks events in the Belobog Trailblaze Mission where he has more interaction with his soldiers and the main cast. Faith in Cocolia is difficult to break down, then replaced by faith in Bronya. The Gepard his soldiers see up close on the battlefield; comrades-in-arms.

— E5 (Cold Iron Fist): Comfortable enough to look away, yet still on-guard. Even around close friends, his instincts lead him to always be alert. Eyes narrowed, scanning surroundings. Future uncertainty for the fate of Belobog.

— E6 (Unyielding Resolve): Almost hesitant body language; slight furrow to brow betraying difficulty being vulnerable. Only slightly turned away, as if still on guard; core essence is strength and loyalty.

Overall, while these are standard commonalities I've come across while looking at eidolons, I'm sure there are slight deviations between characters. After all, facets are bound to change slightly depending on the personality of the character. However, the common eidolon poses and analysis discussed here lead me to believe the facets shown in E1-E6 art have deeper meaning and connection to each character, tracking across time and space to reveal more and more about a character’s personality until finally arriving at the "core essence" of E6.

(Feel free to try applying this to other eidolons of your favorite characters — since I drew these conclusions from general commonalities across eidolon sets, they should be able to work with any given character (with slight deviations). I think it’s a fun brain exercise to get thinking about each character’s personality and story!)

☆━━━━━ ⋆⁺｡˚⋆˙‧₊☾ ◯ ☽₊‧˙⋆˚｡⁺⋆ ━━━━━━☆

જ⁀➴ and that's the end of my analysis! if you’ve read to the end, thank you for listening to my nerdy rambling! i’ll be posting an in-depth analysis of sampo’s eidolons soon, so if anyone is interested please keep a look out for that!

☆━━━━━ ⋆⁺｡˚⋆˙‧₊☾ ◯ ☽₊‧˙⋆˚｡⁺⋆ ━━━━━━☆

© analysis by sunderingstars. do not copy, repost, translate, modify, or claim my work as your own.

[mykoreanlove]

I think he confessed 🤭

The soft hum of the gallery buzzed quietly in the background, the low murmurs of admiration blending into the echo of your footsteps on the polished marble floor. The air was thick with history, each painting on the walls telling tales of centuries past. Renaissance masterpieces adorned the walls, their vivid colors and intricate details pulling at your soul, but today, your gaze was fixed on something much more captivating.

Taemin stood in front of you, his silhouette bathed in the soft, golden glow of the museum’s lights. He hadn’t hesitated when you’d asked him to join you at the exhibit—art had always been a shared passion between you two, a silent thread that connected your hearts. As he stood there, facing the enormous painting on the wall, his back revealed a different kind of canvas—a masterpiece all his own.

His long, dark hair fell messily past his shoulders, tousled in an effortless way that only he could pull off. The strands caught the light here and there, creating fleeting shadows that danced across the crisp white shirt clinging to his broad back. His frame, sturdy and sure, filled the simple fabric, the wrinkled lines of the shirt seeming to form around him naturally, as if the clothes had been sculpted to his form. Olive-colored pants tapered down to his ankles, a perfect complement to the understated elegance he wore like second skin. His hands were loosely clasped behind him, a relaxed stance, yet there was something almost regal in the way he carried himself—he was completely absorbed, studying the art with a quiet intensity that made your heart skip.

You stood a few paces behind, captivated not by the art, but by the man who seemed to embody it. Your phone slipped easily from your pocket, your fingers moving instinctively to capture the moment. The camera shutter was silent, but your thoughts were loud with affection.

“Kind of ridiculous to be in a museum when I’m already dating art itself,” you murmured to yourself with a small, soft chuckle. A thought that felt both cheeky and true.

The sound of your voice, though barely above a whisper, stirred him. “Taem,” you called out, just a breath of his name, but it was all it took.

He turned instantly, his movements graceful, almost as though he had been waiting for you to call him. His curious expression melted into something far softer, the corners of his lips lifting into a smile that seemed to belong only to you. It wasn’t just any smile—it was that particular smile, the one he gave when the world faded away and only you remained. A warmth spread across your chest, and without thinking, you raised your phone again, capturing that moment, too—Taemin, your Taemin, bathed in golden light, his eyes full of affection, looking at you like you were the only art in the room.

He closed the distance between you with a few quiet steps, his presence filling the space between you like gravity pulling you in. When he reached you, his hands found your face gently, his strong arms cradling your cheeks as though you were something precious, fragile. His fingers were warm against your skin, and the world seemed to slow.

Without a word, he leaned in, his full lips brushing yours in a kiss that held so much more than just the moment. It was filled with a deep, almost aching tenderness, the kind of kiss that spoke of unspoken promises and the weight of all the years to come. You kissed him back, your hands instinctively finding their place on his chest, feeling the steady rhythm of his heartbeat under your fingertips. It was the kind of moment that felt both timeless and fleeting, like the world had paused just for the two of you, yet somehow it was slipping through your fingers too fast.

When he finally pulled away, just slightly, his forehead rested against yours. His breath, warm against your lips, mingled with yours in the small space between you.

“Love of my life,” he whispered, his voice barely audible but carrying the weight of a thousand emotions. It wasn’t just a declaration—it was a confession, a vow, something sacred wrapped up in four simple words.

Your lips curved into a smile, your eyes still closed, savoring the closeness. “Love of my life,” you echoed back, the words tasting sweet on your tongue.

For a moment, the world outside the two of you ceased to exist. The centuries-old paintings that had once demanded your attention were now forgotten, mere background to the living masterpiece in front of you. In this shared space, in the midst of art that had survived ages, it was the love between you and Taemin that felt eternal, a work in progress, unfinished but perfect in its imperfections.

You stayed like that for a moment longer, your fingers tracing gentle patterns against his chest, your heart beating in time with his. You didn’t need anything else—no grand gestures, no extravagant words. Just the two of you, in a quiet museum filled with history, creating your own.

✨✨✨

The art I’m talking about:

[sassenach77yle]

||COUNTDOWN || SEASON 4 EPISODE 09 || THE BIRDS & THE BEES ||

#83daysofoutlander☆

The light outside was dazzling after the taproom’s gloom. Brianna blinked, eyes tearing at the shafts of sun that stabbed through the shifting greens of a screen of maples. Then a movement caught her eye, below the flickering leaves. He stood in the shade of the maples, half turned away from her, head bent in absorption. A tall man, long-legged, lean and graceful, with his shoulders broad under a white shirt. He wore a faded kilt in pale greens and browns, casually rucked up in front as he urinated against a tree. He finished and, letting the kilt fall, turned toward the post house. He saw her then, standing there staring at him, and tensed slightly, hands half curling. Then he saw past her men’s clothes, and the look of wary suspicion changed at once to surprise as he realized that she was a woman. There was no doubt in her mind, from the first glimpse. She was at once surprised and not surprised at all; he was not quite what she had imagined—he seemed smaller, only man-sized—but his face had the lines of her own; the long, straight nose and stubborn jaw, and the slanted cat-eyes, set in a frame of solid bone. He moved toward her out of the maples’ shadow, and the sun struck his hair with a spray of copper sparks. Half consciously she raised a hand and pushed a strand of hair back from her face, seeing from the corner of her eye the matching gleam of thick red-gold. “What d’ye want here, lassie?” he asked. Sharp, but not unkind. His voice was deeper than she had imagined; the Highland burr slight but distinct. “You,” she blurted. Her heart seemed to have wedged itself in her throat; she had trouble forcing any words past it. He was close enough that she caught the faint whiff of his sweat and the fresh smell of sawn wood; there was a golden scatter of sawdust caught in the rolled sleeves of his linen shirt. His eyes narrowed with amusement as he looked her up and down, taking in her costume. One reddish eyebrow rose, and he shook his head. “Sorry, lass,” he said, with a half-smile. “I’m a marrit man.” He made to pass by, and she made a small incoherent sound, putting out a hand to stop him, but not quite daring to touch his sleeve. He stopped and looked at her more closely. “No, I meant it; I’ve a wife at home, and home’s not far,” he said, evidently wishing to be courteous. “But—” He stopped, close enough now to take in the grubbiness of her clothes, the hole in the sleeve of her coat and the tattered ends of her stock.

“Och,” he said in a different tone, and reached for the small leather purse he wore tied at his waist. “Will ye be starved, then, lass? I’ve money, if you must eat.” She could scarcely breathe. His eyes were dark blue, soft with kindness. Her eyes fixed on the open collar of his shirt, where the curly hairs showed, bleached gold against his sunburnt skin. “Are you—you’re Jamie Fraser, aren’t you?” He glanced sharply at her face. “I am,” he said. The wariness had returned to his face; his eyes narrowed against the sun. He glanced quickly behind him, toward the tavern, but nothing stirred in the open doorway. He took a step closer to her. “Who asks?” he said softly. “Have you a message for me, lass?” She felt an absurd desire to laugh welling up in her throat. Did she have a message?

“My name is Brianna,” she said.

He frowned, uncertain, and something flickered in his eyes. He knew it! He’d heard the name and it meant something to him. She swallowed hard, feeling her cheeks blaze as though they’d been seared by a candle flame.

“I’m your daughter,” she said, her voice sounding choked to her own ears.

“Brianna.” He stood stock-still, not changing expression in the slightest. He had heard her, though; he went pale, and then a deep, painful red washed up his throat and into his face, sudden as a brushfire, matching her own vivid color. She felt a deep flash of joy at the sight, a rush through her midsection that echoed that blaze of blood, recognition of their fair-skinned kinship. Did it trouble him to blush so strongly? she wondered suddenly. Had he schooled his face to immobility, as she had learned to do, to mask that telltale surge? Her own face felt stiff, but she gave him a tentative smile. He blinked, and his eyes moved at last from her face, slowly taking in her appearance, and—with what seemed to her a new and horrified awareness—her height. “My God,” he croaked. “You’re huge.” Her own blush had subsided, but now came back with a vengeance. “And whose fault is that, do you think?” she snapped. She drew herself up straight and squared her shoulders, glaring. So close, at her full height, she could look him right in the eye, and did. He jerked back, and his face did change then, mask shattering in surprise. Without it, he looked younger; underneath were shock, surprise, and a dawning expression of half-painful eagerness. “Och, no, lassie!” he exclaimed. “I didna mean it that way, at all! It’s only—” He broke off, staring at her in fascination. His hand lifted, as though despite himself, and traced the air, outlining her cheek, her jaw and neck and shoulder, afraid to touch her directly. “It’s true?” he whispered. “It is you, Brianna?” He spoke her name with a queer accent—Breeanah—and she shivered at the sound. “It’s me,” she said, a little huskily. She made another attempt at a smile. “Can’t you tell?” His mouth was wide and full-lipped, but not like hers; wider, a bolder shape, that seemed to hide a smile in the corners of it, even in repose. It was twitching now, not certain what to do. “Aye,” he said. “Aye, I can.”

He did touch her then, his fingers drawing lightly down her face, brushing back the waves of ruddy hair from temple and ear, tracing the delicate line of her jaw. She shivered again, though his touch was noticeably warm; she could feel the heat of his palm against her cheek.

“I hadna thought of you as grown,” he said, letting his hand fall reluctantly away. “I saw the pictures, but still—I had ye in my mind somehow as a wee bairn always—as my babe. I never expected …”

His voice trailed off as he stared at her, the eyes like her own, deep blue and thick-lashed, wide in fascination. “Pictures,” she said, feeling breathless with happiness. “You’ve seen pictures of me? Mama found you, didn’t she? When you said you had a wife at home—”

“Claire,” he interrupted. The wide mouth had made its decision; it split into a smile that lit his eyes like the sun in the dancing tree leaves. He grabbed her arms, tight enough to startle her. “You’ll not have seen her, then? Christ, she’ll be mad wi’ joy!” The thought of her mother was overwhelming. Her face cracked, and the tears she had been holding back for days spilled down her cheeks in a flood of relief, half choking her as she laughed and cried together.

“Here, lassie, dinna weep!” he exclaimed in alarm. He let go of her arm and snatched a large, crumpled handkerchief from his sleeve. He patted tentatively at her cheeks, looking worried. “Dinna weep, a leannan, dinna be troubled,” he murmured. “It’s all right, m’ annsachd; it’s all right.”

“I’m all right; everything’s all right. I’m just—happy,” she said. She took the handkerchief, wiped her eyes and blew her nose. “What does that mean—a leannan? And the other thing you said?”

“You’ll not have the Gaelic, then?” he asked, and shook his head. “No, of course she wouldna have been taught,” he murmured, as though to himself. “I’ll learn,” she said firmly, giving her nose a last wipe.

“A leannan?” A slight smile reappeared on his face as he looked at her. “It means ‘darling,’ ” he said softly. “M’ annsachd—my blessing.”

41 JOURNEY’S END

[gypsophiliaz]

“ douceur „

quanxi x fem florist | barista reader.

multiple part series. first part thats just pretty fluffy and romancey!! first time writing and actually publishing it so ermm leave tips ig idk. ik the pacing is weird but its bc i like to write in detail.

feminine reader x quanxi, includes romance. >:3 smut in later chapters or wtv.

disclaimer ; I've never written like romance before so forgive me lol. I write with extreme detail too so it probably gonna be the SLOWEST burn ever. also she smokes weed cuz ion fuck wit that cig shit lmfao

CHAPTER I

being a florist in tokyo isn't anything you thought you'd be finding yourself doing. though, being drawn to the sweet and naturey smell of flowers wouldn't suprise anyone who had known you before. head over heels constantly in love with all kinds of plants and flowers, from spider lilies to hydrangea, peony and flower arrangements in themselves.

. . .

you'd adjust your grip on the box cutter in your dominant hand, the vivid pink color of it mixing with the warm lighting above you, the blade swiftly and sharply cutting through the protruding thorns of the white roses, the remaining water inside would drip slightly onto the paper below the bouqet would find itself sitting inside of momentarily. a smell similar of freshly cut grass would fill your senses, and the cozy and comforting feel of the floristry – cafe place that you had recently assigned yourself to.

the smell of coffee, tea, and the baby's breath that sat to the right of you would fill the air, a rainy day with cars ever–so making light noises as their wheels splash and sputter inside of the puddles left by the rain. the annoying ding of the door would fill your ears once more, and like clock–work the all too familiar words would spill out of your mouth.

“ Welcome to Yrlissa's Flowery, How may I be of assistance? ”

as your eyes lazily drifted off the commissed bouqet that laid on the counter infront of you, your eyes would laid upon a tall lady, with a muscular yet slim figure. wispy bangs and a lacey eyepatch concealing her right eye. the rest of her thin hair contained by a black hairtie— who the hell visits a flower shop in a full black suit? Is she going to a fucking funeral ?

NOT professional thoughts. get it together!!!

the lady would approach the counter, with an almost monochromatic expression. not one emotion would appear on her face, and no body language out of the ordinary. her movements would seem almost perfected calculated, almost uncanny even, but as she grew closer the smell of the the roses and baby's breath would be replaced with the smell of marijuana.

the footsteps would come to a halt uncomfortably close to you, or maybe it would seem that way since shes near the height of a basketball player and you couldn't be any closer to a smurf, and also leaning over flowers with posture far from the best in the world– a few seconds of silence commence, the ladies eyes piercing above to read the sign. her lips parting to finally speak.

“A small espresso will do, please.”

“ would you like sugar or cream? ”

“ Surprise me. ”

the click of the box cutters blade retracting back into itself, and the clack of its placement onto the counter would follow her sentence. with your feet tapping to the cups behind you, and your body language obviously showing your nervousness, you'd swiftly grab it and draw back over to the counter near the woman.

tipping over the jug of geyser water just measuring to the line that marks a half liter. the sound of the water filling up would once again save you from extremely embarrassment from the pure awkwardness of the situation at hand.

. . . .

you'd stretch your hand over and weigh out 20 grams of coffee beans, pouring them into a small tin and placing them on the miniature scale. the lady bringing a stop to the awkward silence that filled the air.

“ I take it it's relaxing to work here hm? ”

“ It's nice on it's slow days, but then there's times like valentines day, and wedding season ykno? ”

“I'd imagine.”

as a few weeks passed, the lady swiftly became a regular. almost always coming in during your shift or being there before you clock in. a name you wrote on the coffee cup almost every shift, the type of name that rolls off your tongue sweet and slick, — quanxi. another day had arrived, opening the door to yrlissa's the bell would chime as you walked in, swiftly pittering to clock in, not missing quanxi sitting in the corner of the shop, as always.

she would stay for a few hours and make nice company on slow days, an often occurrence it would be to sit and speak with her while filling out the commissions for bouqets, and other kinds of assortments. it didn't take long to realize quanxi liked more to listen than to speak.

today was october 5th. the chill in the air sweeping into the store moments after the bell on the door would ring. it didn't take long for you to learn to brace yourself against the cold on the cue of the chime. completing the same ol' sequence you'd do everyday, steaming the milk and poking holes in the puck of espresso, yet this time for yourself to warm up on the cold day.

the thick fog outside would make seeing the people and events happening outside near impossible. pouring the milk, then espresso, a drizzle of caramel and whipped cream onntop, the perfect go—to drink. the cup would warm your hands, soothing you and bringing you into relaxation with the first sip, a small breath leaving your parted lips—

the all too familiar chime would fill your ears.

bruh.

quickly stepping behind the counter to at least shield your lower half. or.. 90% of ur body bc ur a fucking smurf. srry im writing this in my perspective im fucking 5'0. the chill would still expectedly hit your face and torso, sending a small shiver up your spine. gripping the cup of coffee just a bit tighter to warm your hands once again. fluttering your lashes and squinting to keep the ice cold air out of your eyes, you'd realize who'd walked in.

“I'm sorry, I didn't mean to make you cold.” Quanxi would say, looking back and closing the door softly behind her as not to brush more cold air inside. this time she was wearing a brown turtle-neck under her coat and long black pants. she'd take a deep breath in and pull her other hand out of her pocket.

“you're fine don't worry. at least it's not another total stranger walking in, I think I'd rot inside having to make any more small talk today.” you'd set down your coffee to start her order, placing it beside the cash register and lean on the counter with the corner digging into your palms.

“Usual?”

“Mm.”

Quanxi would approach the table near the entrance of the work space, leaving about 3-5 feet in between the two of you as you started her order. It took her a few days in the beginning but she got what she wanted down pack. a shot of espresso, mixed softly into chocolate syrup followed by warm steamed milk and whipped cream. In other words, a Caffé Mocha. with some extra chocolate.

. . . should probably start that order

you'd started serving quanxi in the pretty white mugs boss lady told you not to use, simply to reduce dishes. but you didn't mind washing one or two for quanxi. You'd hear the clink of her keys being placed onto the table before she'd speak.

“How's work been treating you lately? ” Quanxi would say to you, looking at you completely still with a hand propped up under her chin, but still as nonchalant as usual. It was hard to believe she was genuinely interested sometimes.

pouring the chocolate into the bottom of the cup focusedly, to make it look as pretty and perfect as can be, you'd take a second before answering. “Horrible, Actually. This guy yesterday, came in and got mad at me because I forgot to put caramel on top of his frappe. He ended up throwing it on the floor, and of course I had to clean it. ”

Quanxi's eyes would follow the way you carefully made the coffee. The way you'd twirl the cup to make sure it was evenly distributed, and the way you'd add extra for her, even though she didn't ask for it. Nor did she really like how sweet it made the drink, but to her it was an act of kindness.

"Mm."

���Oh! and thennnn I had a lady come in here with her boyfriend and I guess I was a bit too friendly with her and she pulled me to the side and basically threatened me. I'm not one for wanting a guy in general. That was actually around a week ago and she came back a few days ago an—”

the glass pot to steam the milk in would fall to the ground instantly shattering. nothing but the thought of your boss chewing you out rushes into your mind. not only is it expensive to replace, it was definitely coming out of your paycheck. Quanxi wasted no time raising out of her chair and assisting you with cleanup even before you, yourself could process what had happened.

“thank you. god my boss is gonna make me pay for this. . . " you'd say squatting down and beginning to pick up the big chunks of glass first and placing them in your palm. “I'll get it, you might get cut. ” Quanxi would take the glass from out of your hand and continue to pick up where you left off.

"are you sure? I can just get a broom or something." you'd turn away for a second to grab the broom from the back, yet once you come back you find the glass all gone, not a single piece remaining on the floor and a note on the counter, sitting placed under two 10,000 yen notes. (around 140$)

the shock would spread across your face almost in an instant. what the absolute hell? picking up the notes, you'd take the time to read the note she'd left behind.

“𝓯𝓸𝓻 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓬𝓸𝓯𝓯𝓮𝓮 𝓪𝓷𝓭 𝓹𝓲𝓽𝓬𝓱𝓮𝓻. 𝓾𝓷𝓼𝓾𝓻𝓮 𝓱𝓸𝔀 𝓶𝓾𝓬𝓱 𝓲𝓽 𝔀𝓸𝓾𝓵𝓭 𝓫𝓮, 𝓪𝓹𝓹𝓮𝓪𝓻𝓮𝓭 𝓺𝓾𝓲𝓽𝓮 𝓮𝔁𝓹𝓮𝓷𝓼𝓲𝓿𝓮.

𝓠𝓾𝓪𝓷𝔁𝓲 347-1782.”

✧─── ･ ｡ﾟ✧: * 🎀 .* :✧. ───✧

tired of there not being fuckin quanxi fics and smut bro. ik u stans r alive ACT LIKE IT!!!! 😡 k hope u enjoyed tho owo also im seriously fucking hoping this isn't ugly on pc bro.. idk but if ur reading fluff n shit on a pc u got balls cuz id cry if i got caught

[00127am]

SETLIST FOUR : give it up for viva la vida nine!

@ shangri-la as the lead singer of viva la vida nine, you have little interest in anything other than your band and stealing the attention of the crowd from any other competitors. until you watch rival lead singer of pantera, nakamoto yuta, preform. cocky, charismatic, cavalier nakamoto yuta. the same nakamoto yuta who you cannot stand (him and the way he makes your knees feel weak). after that, you're much more interested in stealing his attention (though you'd rather die than admit it).

THURSDAY, AMP 08:00PM

Ten nudges your shoulder, a cheshire grin plastered against his lips as he signs hello to you, tilting his head to get a better look at the scowl on your face. The delight he takes in his constant teasing is nearly palpable, visible in the soft squint of his eyes and the lopsided quirk of his dimples. His hair falls over his eyes in thin strands, blonde bangs long enough to skim the bridge of his nose. His roots are growing in, dark brown hair burning at his scalp and slipping underneath the brighter blonde that frames his face with a doting curve. Blue colored contacts blink back at you but they do little to mask the teasing lit in his eyes. 

“You really kicking me out?” His voice is still muffled, even with his cherry lips pressed up against your ear (sure to leave a vivid mark of his lipstick) and you find yourself biting back the hint of a smile. He can sense it too and you feel his lips curve into a broader smile, hot breath sticking to the curves of your ear and forcing a movement in your earrings. 

“Keep it up and maybe I will,” you try your best to sound annoyed but there's too much affection in your voice to mistake the statement as anything with veracity. 

Your response makes your bandmate hum, a low, baritone sound that mixes in too closely with the tuning of Johnny’s bass guitar for you to differentiate them. His fingers momentarily intertwine with yours, giving you a quick squeeze, before he’s raising his hands. Ten’s always had pretty hands, long fingers coated in tarnished gold rings and fingernails painted a vibrant color that always matches your own in some way or another. And when he signs with those pretty hands, he’s fluid and elegant. He signs the way he dances, each motion seamlessly flowing into one another to the extent in which you’re unsure of where one starts and the other ends. 

The way he signs Yuta’s name is clunky, unused and unpracticed. The signs are choppy, each syllable pronounced with a harsh movement of his hand. He didn’t have to sign it, you didn’t need any other indication that he was about to preform than the shift of the curtain and the whine of the mic. And unlike Ten’s signage of his name, Yuta is anything but clumsy and unappealing to the eye. 

If you heard the words that Ten was speaking against your ear and signing in front of you, you didn’t acknowledge them. So utterly captivated with the rival lead singer just a few hundred feet away that everything else has faded out with the sharp ring in your ears and the blur of your peripheral. Everything but him. 

“You sure you don’t like him?”

09:35PM

“What are you so focused on?” 

Johnny’s voice is just short of amusement, volume fluctuating with the strum of a few here and there cords from the band currently on stage--hooking up their instruments with the familiar squeal and whine of feedback. The question is directed to the lead singer who’s currently comfortably relaxed against the back bar of the venue, elbows digging into the wood paneling and head tossed ever-so-slightly back. His lips are pulling into a smug look of satisfaction, an expression otherwise unnoticeable if not for the benefit of knowing Yuta for so many years. There’s a cigarette held in between slim fingers and metal rings, unlit and crumpled as the blonde unconsciously toys with it as if he has forgotten it’s there in the first place. Not many things can make Yuta forget about a smoke. Not many people. In fact, his bandmate struggles to think of just one. 

And in classic, expected fashion: Yuta declines the privilege of a reply. But it doesn’t take long for Johnny to follow the line of his vision. Sliding over tousled hair and through crowds of groupies. Past the small security detail on the left and just before the barricade of the stage. Straight towards you. He grins, the full extent of his entertainment showing on his face as clear as day. Even though Yuta wasn’t looking, he could feel it. It’s enough to cause the smallest twitch in his eye as he readies himself for the inevitable, taunting comment. 

“Oh, I see,” he nudges the blondes shoulder, “Lead singer of Viva La Vida Nine,”

If anything were to get his acknowledgement in this conversation, it would certainly be the topic of recognizing you. Or, misidentifying you. Yuta turns partially, brows set in a downward line and lips pulled into a pout. Expression scrunched and eyes narrowed as he finally dignifies Johnny with a response. 

“What? No,” 

Johnny returns Yuta’s puzzled countenance with one of his own, raising his brow as his tongue pushes against the bottom row of his teeth. He swallows, looking to his bandmate and then to you, and then Yuta, again, and then back to you. He blinks a few times before raising a thin hand, knuckles a soft red and veins catching on the dim orange hues of the bar. Johnny gestures in your direction, finger perfectly poised at the back of your head. “So you’re not staring at her,” 

And Yuta follows like a moth to a flame, eyes slipping against the flesh of the older man’s finger, skimming his nail, before meeting the forty-five degree angle of your jaw. He looks longer than necessary, a few seconds of a lingering glance which Johnny notes with a miniscule upwards dart in the corner of his lips (one that if Yuta had noticed he would have returned with a scowl). The confusion of the situation allows for leeway in an honest admission, words slipping out without a single thought on the matter. A confession met without penance. “Yeah, I am,” 

“Right. Yn. The lead singer of Viva La Vida Nine,” 

“No,” Yuta’s fully turned now, shooting Johnny an incredulous look that matches his tone, “That’s my fan,” 

The emphasis on ‘my’ doesn’t fall on deaf ears. Nor does the conscious (or unconscious) decision to use it. You’re not ours, not Pantera’s, but Yuta’s. And based on his tone, Yuta’s alone. Knowing you (or at least the stories about you), Johnny doesn’t think that would be a sentiment that you would find particularly endearing. He meets his bandmate’s gaze with an equally perplexed one, tone in disbelief and perhaps the slightest hint of vexation that is mellowed over by the amused lit to his words. “Your fan? Don’t tell me she’s the one who you’re all lovey dovey for,”

“I’m not lovey dovey,” it’s the wrong denial provided as Yuta waves him off lazily, rolling his eyes, “It’s just interest. Can’t I be interested in one of my fans?” 

My. Again. 

“Not when your supposed fan is the lead singer of our rival band,” 

And with those words being said (for what feels like the millionth time), Johnny swears he can hear the slightest snap in Yuta’s patience, a sharp sound that’s as clear as the strings on his bass. “She’s not the lead singer of Viva La Vida Nine. I met her after our last gig, I watched her the whole set. I’m telling you she’s-” 

“Yn of Viva La Vida Nine,” 

Your voice is entangled with the audible whine of the mic on stage, pulling Yuta’s attention with a harsh tug and the whisk of his eyes back to the center of the bar. He turned so quickly, so urgently that Johnny swears he got whiplash. An idea that bubbles laughter in the back of his throat, a sound that Yuta has all but cut out. There’s no bandmate, there’s no cheering crowd, no clink of the bottles at the bar, there’s nothing. Absolutely nothing. Well, but you. 

Yuta Nakamoto considers himself to be a rather practical man. He’s never worshiped anything. Never fallen into the thinly veiled trap of complete and utter obsession. He’s not an addict, not someone who is constantly chasing the adrenaline of a high. He sticks to what’s in front of him, what he’s good at, what can make a crowd scream or earn him a few more bucks then the last song did. He has never faltered with any desire. Any compulsion. Craving. Yuta Nakamoto is a practical man through and through. 

But, oh god, it’s taking all he has not to fall to his knees and worship you.

@ previous @ home @ next

🧾 © 00127am 2024

[kpoptarotastrology009]

Omg iris pleSs please please can u do a tarot reading for sunghoon from enhypen on what his ideal type is please???

Thank uuuuuuu👀💞

Enhypen's Sunghoon IDEAL TYPE

Personality: (XIII ° Death from mystic dreamer tarot , nine of rods from the ellis deck and the king of pentacles ) Sunghoon's ideal type is someone who’s all about transformation and growth, just like the XIII ° Death card. They’re resilient and adaptable, not afraid of change, and always ready to embrace new beginnings. This person is introspective and can let go of the past to make way for a brighter future. With the Nine of Rods in the mix, they’re a true fighter—persistent, determined, and always standing strong no matter the challenges. Add in the King of Pentacles' energy, and you’ve got someone grounded, responsible, and super reliable. They have a nurturing side, providing stability and support, making them the perfect mix of strength and tenderness. Sunghoon would be drawn to someone who embodies these qualities, creating a balanced and harmonious relationship.

Appearance : (ace of cups , six of pentacles and the high priestess )

Sunghoon's ideal type in terms of appearance, drawing from the Ace of Cups, Six of Pentacles, and The High Priestess, paints a vivid and enchanting picture. Imagine someone with a serene and ethereal beauty, their features soft and inviting. Their face is likely gentle, with expressive eyes that convey deep emotion and empathy, reminiscent of the overflowing love symbolized by the Ace of Cups. They might have a youthful and fresh appearance, with a complexion that seems to glow from within.

Their body would be well-proportioned and balanced, much like the Six of Pentacles suggests harmony and fairness. This person has a graceful and elegant demeanor, with movements that are fluid and poised. They might have a slender yet healthy build, with a presence that feels nurturing and comforting.

The High Priestess adds a layer of mystery and allure. Picture someone with a calm and enigmatic aura, possibly with dark, lustrous hair that adds to their mystique.

Style/fashion sense: (temperance ,page of wands ,the high priestess again wow )

Sunghoon's ideal style, inspired by Temperance, Page of Wands, and The High Priestess, is a captivating blend of casual chic with a hint of mystery and sophistication. This aesthetic combines comfort and style effortlessly, reflecting a relaxed yet fashionable approach to dressing.

Imagine someone who loves to mix and match different pieces, creating unique and stylish outfits that are both comfortable and trendy. They might opt for loose, flowing fabrics and soft colors that convey a sense of tranquility and ease, reminiscent of the Temperance card's harmonious nature.

Drawing inspiration from the Page of Wands, they infuse their wardrobe with a youthful and creative energy. They're not afraid to experiment with bold patterns, textures, and accessories, adding a playful and unexpected twist to their looks.

The High Priestess influence brings a touch of mystery and allure to their style. They gravitate towards elegant and timeless pieces that have a hint of mystique, such as flowy dresses, intricate patterns, and subtle jewelry. Their style is more about understated elegance than making loud statements, drawing people in with its subtle charm and sophistication.

i put it here because it came twice in the reading ( mythic tarot the high priestess)

[fanficapologist]

Of Dragons and Maelstroms

Themes and Warnings: slow burn, enemies to lovers, blood, violence, explicit language, sexual violence, period-typical misogyny, sexual themes, smut, tension, marriage, jealousy, pregnancy, childbirth, miscarriage, attempted sexual assault, breastfeeding, major character death, divergent timelines

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the House of The Dragon/Fire & Blood/Game of Thrones characters nor do I claim to own them. I do not own any of the images used nor do I claim to own them.

Chapter Twenty-Three

Silver platters and ornate serving dishes hold a dazzling array of foods. Roasted game birds, their golden skins glistening, are surrounded by mounds of freshly harvested vegetables, their colors vivid and appetizing. Plates of succulent meats, carved to perfection, promise a culinary delight to all who partake. Goblets and chalices, crafted from fine metals and adorned with gemstones, hold a variety of wines, from deep reds to sparkling whites. The rich aroma of aged wine mingles with the tantalizing scents of the feast, creating an intoxicating bouquet in the air.

As the lords and ladies gather around the table, the atmosphere is one of conviviality and celebration. Laughter and animated conversation fill the hall as guests take their seats. Maera approached the table, her eyes scanning for familiar faces. Her father, Lord Jasper Wylde, sat three seats away from King Aegon, who was already in a boisterous mood, his booming voice carrying down the table. Aemond occupied the seat immediately to the left of the King, leaving a space for Maera between him and Lord Jasper.

Her gaze was soon drawn to Aegon's face, and she stifled a gasp as she noticed the bruise on his cheek, similar shades of black and purple that still adorned her arms and neck. It was clear that Aemond had indeed made Aegon regret his actions. The thought of Aemond punching Aegon for the sake of her sent a wave excitement and nervousness flushing through her body. As she took her seat, Maera looked at Aemond, her expression a mix of surprise and gratitude. He smirked at her, taking a casual sip from his goblet, and she couldn't help but smile in return, a silent acknowledgment passing between them.

“The Jewel of Rainwood! Mayflower, you look exquisite.” The King called across to her, smirking as he took in the sight of her in her shining turquoise and gold leathers, her deep brown hair pinned away from her face.

“Your Grace,” Maera muttered, granting him a respectful nod. The anger within her still burned bright from Aegons attempted assault. Noticing the King’s eyes roaming her body made her muscles tense, her demeanour now catching Aemonds attention as well. Aegon caught his brothers eye before quickly looking away, turning his attention back to his goblet.

A few seats remained empty opposite the Wylde’s, causing a delay in the feast. Maera mingled with the guests surrounding her, a lord from House Tyrell and a Lady from House Lannister, exchanging pleasantries and compliments on attire. There was a movement around Maera as she continued her conversations, the final few vacantseats being filled. Aegon greeted the new arrivals, commenting to Maera, with an air of amusement, that he believed Maera and the new arrival had already crossed paths. Maera, her fingers subtly tightening around her goblet, raised it to her lips as she turned to meet the person's gaze, nearly choking on her wine when she saw who it was.

It was Ser Reginald Penrose, the very man she had rejected years ago and the one who had spread those baseless rumors about her maidenhood. He had aged since she had last saw him four years prior. His steel-grey eyes carried the same seriousness, ahead of deep black hair, neatly cropped at a medium length, framed his face. He dressed in well-maintained, polished armor that reflects the colors and sigil of House Penrose, two white feathers crossed against a background of red. Maera’s face remained composed, but turmoil raged within her.

This was Aegon's scheme, she realized—to embarrass her publicly. Maera forced herself to offer a brief but polite greeting to Ser Reginald, who replied with a curt nod. She couldn't help but glance at her father, who seemed on the verge of fury, his fists clenched around his cutlery. Aemond, on the other hand, appeared cool but had a noticeable tension in his clenched jaw. Then, her gaze shifted to Aegon, who sported a smirk that betrayed his satisfaction. He was relishing this awkward entertainment, and Maera knew she would need to tread carefully during this feast.

As the food began to be served, Maera made a concerted effort to divert her attention away from the pain and anger that having Ser Reginald seated across from her ignited. Instead, she scanned the hall, observing the other guests and their sigils. She recognized the emblems of Houses Peak, Swyift, Blackwood, and others adorning the attire of various Lords and Ladies in attendance.Despite the initial air of celebration, the atmosphere remained thick with tension. Conversations hushed as King Aegon directed his attention squarely at Ser Reginald, setting the stage for an uncomfortable exchange.

Aegon's voice, laced with a twisted amusement, cut through the silence. "I believe, Ser Reginald, you were intended to marry Lady Maera," he proclaimed, his tone dripping with sly condescension.

Before Ser Reginald could respond, Lord Jasper Wylde interjected, his voice firm and resolute. "The match was not deemed advantageous enough for my daughter, my King, so they were never promised to each other," he declared, defending his decision.

Ser Reginald, his demeanor gruff and unapologetic, retorted, "I am glad the Gods intervened so that I could continue my search for a more suitable, purer woman to take to wife."

Maera couldn't contain her own response, her voice edged with a mixture of irritation and sarcasm. She spoke out, her voice carrying a trace of icy composure, "I'm not surprised, Ser Reginald, that you remain unmarried if this is how you handle rejection."

Ser Reginald, perhaps fortified by the wine, took a long gulp from his goblet before adding with a smirk, "Whatever feelings I had for you, Lady Maera, are long gone... as has your Maidenhead."

The room seemed to still as Lord Jasper, unable to contain his anger any longer, rose from his seat, fists crashing onto the table. King Aegon couldn't help but revel in the chaos he'd orchestrated, a snicker escaping him from behind his goblet.

Maera, keenly aware of the dangerous path this conversation was taking, urged her father to sit back down, her voice laced with frustration, "Father, please, sit down."

Reluctantly, Lord Jasper complied, the weight of the situation and the King's presence compelling him to control his rage. Maera's resolve, however, remained unbroken. She emphasized to Ser Reginald, "A feast in front of the King is hardly the place for such discussions, Ser Reginald. My father will deal with you later for your insolence."

Aegon seized the opportunity to mockingly interject, his laughter nearly choking him, "Tread carefully, Ser Reginald. As they say, 'The Seven Hells hath no fury like a woman scorned.'"

Maera's eyes blazed with anger, a retort at the tip of her tongue, but her father squeezed her hand in her lap, a silent plea for restraint. Reluctantly, she bowed to her father's unspoken request, casting her gaze downward in a defeated acceptance of the night's circumstances.

A small, barely audible hum emanated from beside Maera, and she turned to find Aemond fixedly staring at Ser Reginald, his jaw clenched, fingers rhythmically drumming against the table.

Aemond's voice sliced through the tension, his words confident and unwavering. "This feast seems to be the perfect place to discuss such matters," he declared, directing his piercing gaze at Ser Reginald. Maera's eyes remained locked on Aemond, her expression a mixture of confusion, surprise, and a growing curiosity about his intentions. What was he up to?

The One-Eyed Prince addressed Ser Reginald directly, his tone demanding answers. "Who, Ser Reginald, in your learned opinion, took Lady Maera's Maidenhead?" he inquired, his voice carrying a weight of authority. Maera's heart pounded, unsure of what Aemond was attempting.

Ser Reginald responded swiftly, his tone mocking and filled with malice. "It was Ser Olyver Trant," he retorted, his words dripping with disdain. "He clung to Lady Maera as if she were a bitch in heat.” The laughter of some of the men around him filled the air, and Maera's anger surged, threatening to erupt. But then she felt it—another firm squeeze on her hand, but not from her father, from Aemond. The touch sent a confusing jolt of emotions coursing through her. It was a gesture that, in the chaos of the moment, paradoxically comforted her. She took a deep breath, steadying herself, and decided to trust Aemond's judgment, whatever it might be.

Aemond wasn't finished. He continued his inquiry, shifting the focus. "When do you believe this incident occurred, Ser?”

Ser Reginald's response was swift and assured. "It happened between the time Lady Maera received a letter from her brother Dermot, about his arrival in Volantis and the moment my proposal was rejected by her father, Lord Jasper."

“And you are quite certain of this?” Aemond pressed the knight once more. Ser Reginald's response resolute.

"I swear by the Old Gods and the New, my Prince," he affirmed. There were quiet conversations happening amongst the spectators of Lords and Ladies at the table, who were watching the awkward situation unfold.

With a satisfied nod and still holding Maera's hand, Aemond called across the table to Lord Larys Strong, the Master of Whispers, who sat on the opposite end. "Lord Larys," Aemond inquired, "can you tell us how long Maera's brother had been in Essos before he wrote that he was in Volantis?"

Larys replied promptly, "Seven moons, my Prince. "

Aemond continued his line of questioning. "And how long had Ser Olyver Trant already been in Essos after Maera received that letter from Lord Dermot?"

Larys responded, "Four moons."

A triumphant smile graced Aemond's lips as he thanked the Master of Whispers for providing clarity on the matter. His gaze returned to Ser Reginald, his eyes gleaming with satisfaction as he demonstrated to the other party guests that the story the knight had spun wasn’t exactly adding up. With the pieces of the puzzle falling into place, the table buzzed with murmurs as Ser Reginald's body began to tense at the unwanted attention.

The web of lies that had ensnared Maera for so long were now being meticulously unraveled before her very eyes, a sense of relief washing over her. The truth, like a shining beacon, was finally being revealed, dispelling the darkness of false accusations. With her hand still firmly held by Aemond, she used her other hand to seize her goblet and took a deep sip of wine, savoring its taste, a triumphant sweetness that mirrored her newfound vindication. Maera glanced toward King Aegon, who continued to drink from his goblet, seemingly delighting in the unfolding drama.

Aemond turned his attention back to Ser Reginald, his words like a tightening noose around the man's deception. "It appears," Aemond remarked coolly, his tone dripping with disdain, "that there might be some discrepancies in your story, Ser." Maera watched as Reginald stammered, his fumbling words betraying his guilt, attempting to concoct a response, only to be swiftly cut off by Aemond's piercing question.

"Are you either a simpleton, muddled in your own tale, or so embittered by your rejection that you've woven lies to harm a decent Lady’s prospects?" Aemond inquired, his voice carrying across the table with an air of challenge. Around the table, the lords and ladies couldn't help but react to this revelation, a mix of chuckles and gasps filling the air. Maera couldn't contain her satisfaction as Aemond's words penetrated the falsehoods that had plagued her reputation.

Ser Reginald, however, was not one to take this humiliation lightly. He shot up from his seat in a belligerent stance, prompting the Kingsguard surrounding the table, including Ser Arryk, to swiftly unsheathe their swords and step forward, a silent but imposing warning to Reginald to yield. After a tense moment, he reluctantly returned to his seat.

Beside Aegon, his Hand and grandfather, Otto Hightower, voiced his disapproval. "This is ludicrous," he remarked, turning to Ser Reginald. "Do you have any evidence to substantiate your baseless claims, Ser Reginald?" After a pause, Reginald admitted defeat, stating that he did not. Otto did not mince his words, condemning Ser Reginald for sullying his own honor and House's reputation with malicious lies born from a bruised ego. Turning to Lord Jasper, Otto made it clear that the fate of Ser Reginald Penrose was in his hands as it was his daughters reputation that had been disgraced by the lies. Maera watched her father, her expression resolute, ready to see justice served.

“Do you have any other words, Ser?” The Master of Laws addressed the knight.

Ser Reginald, clearly unnerved by the weight of the moment, swallowed nervously and cast an imploring glance towards Maera. His voice trembled as he addressed her directly. "Please forgive me for my actions, my Lady, my Lord. "

Lord Jasper shifted his attention to his daughter, seeking her guidance in how to proceed. "You have been affected by these falsehoods the most, Maera. How would you like to proceed?"

Maera's emerald eyes, filled with a mixture of gratitude and contemplation, turning to Aemond for a brief moment. She gave his hand a gentle squeeze before releasing her own, propping her elbows on the table and leaning her chin on to her hands, staring Ser Reginald down. She pondered her options for the treason he had committed. Maera could ask for him to be stripped of his titles and sent to the Wall, something she was sure would be approved by her father. She could ask Ser Reginald to compensate her years of no marriage with coin, an arrangement the Master of Laws would certainly not object to. But then she thought of her mother, and what she had taught Maera about forgiveness and the Gods serving justice without the need for earthly intervention.

With a sigh, she finally spoke with a composed but firm tone. "There is a war. And with Ser Reginald being such a skilled fighter, it would be a shame to waste his talents that could be better used serving the realm." she declared, now looking around the table at the other Lords and Ladies. “My late mother, the Lady Gael of House Targaryen, instilled in me the Mother’s compassion, and to put our duty of serving the crown above all else.”

Maera looked at Aemond, who was also watching her speech, his violet searching hers, waiting for her next words.

“I forgive you, Ser.” She proclaimed, watching Ser Reginald release the breath he had been holding. "I will pray to the Father and Mother to protect your soul, and to the Maiden, to shield your sisters and any daughters you may sire, from the same fate I have endured for years."

Lord Jasper stood and raised his cup in a toast to her, commending her for handling of the situation. “My daughter had demonstrated that the Mother’s mercy flows through her. But I believe that it is the Targaryen blood, which she shares with the Crown, that has allowed her to endure this torment with grace. My late wife would be proud.”

The other nobles at the table followed suit, a jokester amongst them shouting “which one?” In relation to Jasper ‘late wife’ comment, causing the table to erupt in laughter, Maera and her father included. Sensing he had outstayed his welcome, Ser Reginald promptly left the banquet, taking his two squires with him. Good riddance, Maera thought, sipping from her goblet.

Unexpectedly, even King Aegon stood, obviously now thoroughly drunk, his bruised cheek exposed to the sunlight. He raised his cup in agreement, his voice echoing across the gathering. "My Lady Mayflower, you have proven yourself over a number of years of intermittent service, to be a loyal servant to the crown, to my wife the Queen, and to my children.” The King hiccuped, before continuing his toast. “Whichever Lord wins her hand in marriage, and does eventually claim her maidenhead, will be truly fortunate." Aegon winked at Maera as some of the guests chuckled at the King, causing her to bite the inside of her cheek to maintain her composure.

Aegon then his attention to Maera’s father. “My Lord Wylde, you are a valuable ally to the crown, as is your eldest daughter. It would be unwise for a King to freely give away such an irreplaceable asset. It would mean a great deal to me and my family for Lady Maera to stay within Kings Landing indefinitely.” His speech earned the approval of onlookers and a grin from even Aemond, as he subtly raised his cup to his brother.

But Aegon had not finished, as he had one more proclamation to share with the crowd. “To encourage her future husband to allow Lady Maera to fulfill her duties to the crown, and as thanks to you as well, Lord Wylde, for your many years of service, the suitor who wins her hand in marriage shall also earn a seat on my small council as the Master of Coin.”

Maera's jaw dropped in utter astonishment, and she saw the smile from Aemond's face promptly disappear to Aegon's unexpected announcement. T he banquet table erupted in applause and cheers for Lady Maera, leaving her overwhelmed and uncertain of what the future might hold.

Tags: @grungegrrrl @shesjustanothergeek @blue-serendipity @marvelescvpe

Thank you so much for reading! Comments, feedback, likes, and reblogs are greatly appreciated 🖤

[mathanlin]

Hero AU where hero!Wilbur has… interesting powers. But they don’t get much use, considering his cushy office job with the League.

Until a recruit knocks on his door, shaking and barely standing.

And mumbles, “I need you to knock me out.”

It’s a strange request, considering the kid’s clearly on the verge of collapsing.

And yet he keeps rambling. “Class A consciousness control, right? You could keep me asleep for a little while?”

“Kid,” Wilbur says, blinking. “Just go to the medbay if you need sleep—”

“I can’t,” the kid says, voice cracking. “Just— Please. I just need some rest.”

And… Wilbur can’t argue. The bags under the kid’s half-lidded eyes are horrifying, even without his fraying hair and sickly skin. 

And it’s not just from lack of sleep, Wilbur soon learns.

He sets up a cot as the kid shivers, dull eyes tracking Wilbur’s movements.

“Just a few hours,” the kid mumbles. “And— thank you.”

“No problem.” 

Wilbur lays a hand on his temple. The kid flinches before sinking into it, eyes fluttering shut.

For the first hour, everything’s normal.

The kid’s breathing is steady, heartbeat kept slow under Wilbur’s ability. 

But something’s wrong. Something’s *pushing* at Wilbur’s control, fighting him far harder than anyone’s consciousness should.

And then the kid starts crying out.

Wilbur leaps up from his desk, rushing to the cot. The kid’s eyes flutter, legs spasming against the tangled blankets.

“Hey, hey,” Wilbur says, falling at the kid’s side. He snags his flailing wrist, trying to put him back under—

—and he’s yanked into the kid’s nightmare.

It’s an unfortunate side effect of Wilbur’s ability, one he doesn’t feel often.

Usually he’s powerful enough to keep someone under, away from night terrors or anything even remotely upsetting. 

Not now.

It’s just a flash.

Hands, closing around the kid’s temples. A face Wilbur can’t place, sneering, “Come on, Tommy. Get over yourself, it can’t be that bad.”

Then, *terror.*

And then the kid — *Tommy* — jolts awake.

With a choked cry, he smacks Wilbur’s hands away. Through the last remnants of Wilbur’s ability, he can feel the kid’s heart *racing.*

“Hey, it’s okay,” Wilbur says, hands raised. “It’s okay, don’t be afraid—”

And Tommy flinches like Wilbur slapped him. 

“I’m fucking *not.*”

With that, he’s gone, lurching through Wilbur’s office door, chest heaving and every limb trembling.

But it’s not long before he comes back.

It becomes a ritual of theirs.

Tommy stumbles in, barely conscious. Wilbur puts him under, staying close & learning to manage the kid’s frequent nightmares. 

It’s almost peaceful. 

Until Tommy starts refusing to sleep.

He’s already tucked in blankets, head resting on the pillows Wilbur brought. 

They’d talked for a bit. Wilbur had even earned a few laughs, cracked with exhaustion but no less real.

But when he brushes a bit of hair from Tommy’s eyes, ability humming to life, Tommy *fights it.*

“Come on, kid. I thought you needed rest.”

Tommy lets out a sleepy mumble, leaning into Wilbur’s hand. He fights harder with each gentle touch, completely limp & yet warring against sleep.

And Wilbur understands, as clearly as if Tommy’d said it himself.

“I need this more than rest.”

‘This.’ The random talks & laughter they’d had, the gifts Wilbur’d given, the affection Tommy never failed to sink into.

All the times Tommy’d insisted he, “just wanted to hang out,” despite his dull, exhausted expression.

It’s… concerning.

Wilbur’s pressed before, trying to find an answer. Tommy had always shut down, insisting nothing was wrong — a lie, with Tommy’s vivid exhaustion as evidence.

But Wilbur needs answers. 

And he has a way to find them.

He pushes Tommy under, wincing at the tiny bubble of confusion that colors the kid’s mind as he’s shoved into sleep.

And he waits for the nightmare to return.

It doesn’t take long.

It’s the same as before. Hands, tight around his head, mocking words spit out. Then, terror, so much it’s agonizing.

But when Tommy flinches, trying to wake…

Wilbur doesn’t let him, murmuring, “Come on, kid. Just a little more.”

The terror doesn’t stop.

Tommy writhes on the ground. Wilbur can *feel* him fighting, trying to steady his breaths, to stop trembling as the figure looms over him.

And Wilbur recognizes them.

Not a villain. A hero.

Tommy’s mentor.

“Calm down,” they spit, as a new wave of fear wracks Tommy’s body. “It’s just a little fear, you need to manage it.”

And against all reason… Tommy does. He presses himself into the training room mat, heaving for breath and yet unsettlingly silent. 

He stays like that, even as the terror builds. Quiet, still, limbs rigid. Utterly frozen as his mentor ignores every panicked noise that sneaks out.

Only when he goes entirely limp does the fear recede.

“That was embarrassing. Do better next time.”

The nightmare dissolves.

Tommy shudders, crying out one last time before slipping back into sleep. 

But Wilbur’s wide awake.

He knows that hero. Tommy’s mentor.

Causing fear is a horrifying ability if it’s used *once.* Long-term… 

Well. All Wilbur has to do is look at Tommy to see the effects.

Insomnia — no, sleep deprivation, fear ingrained so deep he couldn’t sleep without powers like Wilbur’s. 

Suddenly, the skittishness makes sense. The way he’d always flinch under Wilbur’s hands, the pleading.

And the desperation as he’d insisted, “I’m not afraid.”

Tommy’d asked for a few hours of rest. Wilbur gives him the entire night, fighting off every nightmare that tries to bubble up.

It’s exhausting. But it’s the least he can do, after forcing Tommy to relive that pain. 

After murmuring, “Come on. Just a little more,” before forcing him back under.

He can only hope the kid forgives him when he wakes.

[zeciex]

A Vow of Blood - 57

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

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

Chapter 57: Wisps of Smoke

AO3 - Masterlist

In the lush sanctuary of the Red Keep’s gardens, Daenera strolled leisurely, her gaze drawn to the small, lively figure of Jaehaera darting ahead of her. The young girl flitted from flower to flower, her excitement palpable as she searched for the perfect bloom, her movements as graceful and fleeting as a butterfly.

The garden enveloped them in a serene embrace, bathed in warm, golden sunlight that filtered softly through the branches. The air was fragrant with the scent of countless blossoms and herbs, a heady mixture that hinted at both nature’s sweetness and its wildness. Flowers spilled over in carefully tended beds, their colors bright against the deep green foliage, while bees and butterflies drifted lazily from petal to petal, lost in their quiet work.

Jaehaera danced between the plants, her pale blue dress swishing against the leaves with each step. The fabric seemed to shimmer in the sunlight, brushing against the blossoms as she moved. She paused beside a flowering shrub, captivated by a cluster of small, white flowers that stood out against the leaves, like a scattering of fresh snow amidst a summer scene.

With a child’s delicate curiosity, Jaehaera reached out, her fingers barely grazing the petals as she selected a single stem to study, marveling at its beauty up close.

Daenera watched her fondly, allowing the moment to linger as she drew closer, her own hands busy with a gentle harvest. She plucked a few lavender blossoms, their soft purple hue and soothing scent a perfect addition to her basket. As she gathered the flowers, she found herself captivated not only by the garden’s beauty but by the wonder that sparkled in Jaehaera’s eyes–an innocence that reminded her of her own youth, running through the gardens and pestering the workers with questions. 

“What are these?” Jaehaera asked, her gaze lingering on the delicate white flowers clustered in her hands.

“They’re called baby’s breath,” Daenera explained, crouching beside the young princess, her voice soft and inviting. “How about we weave some into your flower crown?”

At this suggestion, Jaehaera’s face lit up with a brilliant smile that seemed to capture the warmth and brightness of a summer’s day. Her sky-blue eyes sparkled with excitement, and a rosy blush colored her cheeks, giving her a sweet glow.

She brushed a hand through her silver hair, smiling at the girl’s pure joy.

“Oh, yes, please!” Jaehaera exclaimed, her grin widening as she eagerly leaned closer, her small fingers already reaching for more blossoms to add to her growing collection.

Daenera carefully trimmed a few sprigs from the bush, her movements precise and gentle, ensuring the plant was left unharmed. Just as she placed the freshly pruned stems into her basket, she noticed Jaehaera rise from her crouch, her attention now captivated by a peculiar bloom that stood out among the more familiar flowers around them. The petals were an unusual shade, delicate and marked with slender black stripes, and each flower bore a single vivid yellow dot at its center, like a tiny burst of sunshine against the softer colors.

“These look funny! What are they?” Jaehaera asked, her wide eyes blinking up at Daenera, curiosity radiating from her expression.

Daenera smiled, tucking away the small knife she’d been using to trim the stems. “They’re called eye bright,” she explained. “They’re often used to soothe swelling in the mouth and nasal area. Quite a helpful little plant.”

Jaehaera reached out, her small fingers brushing the petals with a gentle reverence. She lingered there, her voice soft with wonder. “Do you think Mother would like it?” she asked, glancing up at her with hopeful eyes.

“I’m sure she would,” Daenera replied warmly, selecting one of the flowers and snipping it with care before placing it gently in her woven basket alongside the other flowers. As she looked up, she noticed that Jaehaera’s attention had already been captured by another bloom–a soft pink flower with elegantly ruffled petals that fluttered in the gentle breeze.

Anticipating her niece’s inevitable curiosity, Daenera stepped forward with a smile. “These are called carnations,” she explained, her voice filled with a quiet enthusiasm. She began gathering a small assortment, choosing both the delicate pinks and pristine whites, each one carefully inspected before joining the growing collection in her basket.

Around them, the dense foliage and towering greenery created a natural frame for the small, blooming world they occupied. Here and there, Daenera caught glimpses of Jaehaerys and Patrick as they darted in and out of view, their laughter and gleeful shouts ringing through the garden like notes in a joyful melody. The sound of their play filled the air, mingling with the rustle of leaves and the soft hum of bees flitting from flower to flower.

Drawn deeper into the lush heart of the garden, Jaehaera’s boundless curiosity continued to guide her steps. She soon paused, her attention captivated by a quaint tree standing at the garden’s edge. Its leaves were uniquely lobed and finely serrated, creating a delicate texture against the vivid greenery surrounding it. From its branches blossomed an astonishing array of pale, cloud-like flowers, so densely packed that their white petals nearly concealed the green leaves beneath.

As a gentle breeze drifted through, the white petals began to fall softly, swirling like snow around them, the air filled with a light, sweet fragrance. Daenera watched Jaehaera, enchanted by the child’s fascination, staring up at it. 

“What tree is this?” Jaehaera asked, her small hand pointing towards the crown of the tree. 

Daenera smiled at her, “This lovely one is a hawthorn tree. After these flowers are pollinated, they’ll transform into hawthorn fruits. You can see they’re starting to transform, that’s why the petals of the flowers are falling.”

Jaehaera’s face was lit with both wonder and perplexity, her brow furrowing slightly in thought as she clutched Daenera’s skirt. “Hawthorn fruit?”

Bending to Jaehaera’s eye level, Daenera’s hand rested on the girl's back, her smile one of amusement. 

“Exactly,” she spoke gently. “Hawthorn fruits are akin to tiny berries, a vivid red. They’re somewhat like small pomegranates. From these fruits, we can make jams and wines, and you can even eat the leaves of the tree.”

Jaehaera’s face morphed into a skeptical expression. “Eat the leaves? Really?”

Daenera chuckled. “Indeed, the leaves. They might surprise you with their sweetness.”

Jaehaera, still doubtful, continued incredulously, “But they’re leaves…”

Rising to her feet, Daenera gently plucked a leaf from the hawthorn tree, presenting it to Jaehaera like a treasure. The young girl chuckled and shyly turned her head, only to watch in astonishment as Daenera popped the leaf into her mouth. The leaf’s sweetness was delicate, a whisper rather than a shout. 

“You ate it!” Jaehaera gasped, her eyes wide with surprise. 

“I did,” Daenera replied, amused. “As I said, it’s edible.”

Jaehaera animatedly shook her head. “I don’t want to eat leaves!”

Daenera laughed, brushing her hand over Jaehaera’s head in a reassuring gesture, “That’s perfectly fine. It was merely an offer. I won’t make you try it if you don’t want to.”

“What if there was a bug on that leaf?” Jaehaera asked with a mix of curiosity, amusement and disgust. 

“Then I guess I would have had a little meat with the leaf,” Daenera replied with a chuckle, leaning down to plant a gentle kiss on top of Jaehaera’s head, her pale curls tickling against her skin. “It’s certainly better than accidentally nibbling on you.”

Jaehaera wiggled playfully, her laughter mingling with Daenera’s lighthearted tone. 

“Let’s go find your brother,” Daenera suggested. 

In a burst of energy, Jaehaera titled around and called out with youthful exuberance, “Jaehaerys! Auntie Dae just ate a leaf, and it might have had a bug on it!”

Her voice carried through the garden, a playful accusation filled with the innocence of childhood. 

Daenera trailed behind Jaehaera as the young girl eagerly darted through the garden, her quest to find her brother fueling her swift movements. As they ventured into the more secluded area dedicated to medicinal plants, Daenera gently beckoned Jaehaera back to her side. With a tender grasp, she took the girl’s small hand, guiding her along the pathway that meandered between the rows of carefully cultivated plants. 

This peaceful section of the garden was meticulously maintained, a testament to the importance of the herbs and plants it harbored. Each species, with its distinct appearance and aroma, was a natural treasure trove of healing properties. The air here was infused with a blend of earthy and herbal scents.

Together, Daenera and Jaehaera strolled down the path.

Jaehaera’s small hand pointed eagerly toward a tree nestled in a shadowed corner of the garden, its gnarled, twisting branches scattered with clusters of tiny, jewel-like red berries. The berries gleamed enticingly in the dappled sunlight, their vivid red hue stark against the deep green, needle-like leaves.

“Auntie Dae, look! That tree has little red berries!” she called out, her voice a blend of excitement and innocent curiosity.

Daenera’s gaze followed her niece’s pointed finger, taking in the tall, ancient tree with its thick, rippled trunk, appearing almost as though several branches had melded into one over centuries. The branches reached outward, crooked and twisted, casting a shadow over the delicate herbs growing beneath its canopy. Birds flitted between the branches, some pausing to nibble carefully at the bright berries among the dark, spiky leaves.

“That’s a yew tree,” Daenera said softly, stepping closer to Jaehaera. Her voice grew gentle but firm, sensing the need to temper the girl’s curiosity with caution. “These berries may look bright and tempting, but you must never eat them.”

Jaehaera turned to her, her eyes widening. “Why not? They look just like candy,” she murmured, her gaze drifting back to the berries.

Daenera knelt beside her, placing a gentle hand on her shoulder. “Though the red flesh around the seed isn’t poisonous, the seed itself is extremely dangerous. Swallowing even one could make someone very sick, or worse.” Her eyes held a quiet seriousness as she watched Jaehaera, hoping her words would settle into her young mind. “And it’s not just the berries–the entire tree, from the bark to the roots, even the leaves, carries poison. It’s a beautiful tree, but one we must only admire from a distance.”

Jaehaera gave a solemn nod, her gaze shifting from the berries to her aunt’s face as she absorbed the warning.

Daenera’s eyes traveled back to the twisted branches and thought briefly of how this tree, for all its danger, held a strange, layered beauty. Its wood, both deadly and powerful, was often used for crafting longbows, weapons of great strength that could change the course of battles. In its own way, the yew embodied the dual nature of power–a force that could protect as well as harm.

Jaehaera’s brow furrowed as she looked up at Daenera, confusion evident in her young face. “But why keep it here in the garden if it’s dangerous?” she asked, her voice quiet but curious.

Daenera smiled gently, her gaze scanning the garden as they strolled, keeping an eye out for the two boys. “Sometimes, the difference between poison and medicine lies only in how much is used,” she replied, her tone thoughtful. “Many plants can be both–if you understand them.”

She raised her voice, calling into the deeper foliage, “Jaehaerys! Patrick! Where are you?”

Almost instantly, Jaehaerys bounded into view, cheeks flushed with excitement, knees scuffed and dusted with soil. The energy of his play was infectious, radiating off him as he skidded to a halt in front of his aunt. Just a step behind him was Patrick, who bore even more evidence of their adventures; his hands and knees were caked with dirt, and a rogue smudge streaked across his chin. Clearly, he had been the one eagerly digging in the earth, likely at Jaehaerys’ urging.

Daenera’s gaze turned sharp with concern as she took in their disheveled state. She knelt down to meet their eyes, her expression serious but calm. “You two haven’t touched or eaten anything from this area, have you?” Her question was firm, her tone laced with a quiet authority, as she gently brushed a bit of dirt from Patrick’s cheek.

Jaehaerys shook his head with a grin. “No! We just ran through the plants. That’s all!”

Patrick nodded, a bit more sheepishly. “Didn’t touch a thing,” he muttered, though his fingers still bore evidence of some dedicated digging.

“Auntie Dae, look!” Jaehaerys called out, his voice bubbling with excitement as he approached her, hands carefully cupped together. He slowly opened his palms to reveal a small, iridescent blue beetle that scurried about, its tiny legs tickling his skin. His silver hair, catching the sun’s rays, seemed to glow like a crown atop his head, adding to his youthful, eager expression.

Jaehaera leaned in to examine the beetle, her natural curiosity drawing her close. But as she caught sight of the tiny insect crawling over her brother’s hands, her expression shifted, her nose wrinkling in faint distaste.

“Do you think Mother will know what kind of beetle this is?” Jaehaerys asked, looking up at Daenera with bright, hopeful eyes. His voice carried that unmistakable tone of anticipation, eager to hear her response.

Daenera opened her mouth to reply, but before she could, Jaehaerys leaned closer, a spark of mischief lighting his face. “Do you think she’ll be impressed?” he added, clearly hoping his small discovery would earn him some admiration.

Not one to be outdone, Jaehaera quickly straightened, clutching the small bouquet of flowers she had gathered with Daenera. Her voice rang with the playful challenge of sibling rivalry. “But she’ll like my flowers better, won’t she, Auntie Dae?”

Daenera offered a diplomatic response, her smile gentle, though a flicker of amused exasperation played at the corners of her mouth. “She’ll certainly treasure both of your gifts,” she assured them, hoping to satisfy their competitive spirits.

With a spark of purpose, Jaehaerys declared, “I’m going to show her right now!” He spun around, his excitement radiating as he sprinted across the garden, his laughter echoing among the trees and flowers.

“Wait! Wait for me!” Jaehaera’s voice called after him, her eyes bright with determination. She took a few hurried steps, then turned back and grabbed Daenera’s hand, her grip firm and insistent. Clearly, she wanted her aunt involved in the pursuit, unwilling to let her brother claim all the glory.

Daenera let herself be tugged along, laughing softly as they moved together. She felt the soft earth give way beneath her feet as they wove through beds of flowers and herbs, their vibrant colors a blur as they passed. The warm sunlight filtered through the leaves, casting playful shadows around them, and the air was filled with the fragrance of blooms and the faint hum of insects busy at work.

Stepping out from the hedges, Daenera and Jaehaera entered a secluded, grassy clearing bathed in soft sunlight. At its center stood a towering, dome-shaped cypress tree, its branches spreading like a gentle embrace over a yellow blanket spread on the ground beneath, where Helaena sat, beneath the tree’s protective canopy.

Jaehaerys was already there, kneeling beside his mother, his eyes fixed intently on the small blue beetle Helaena held in her hand. Her poise was one of calm curiosity, completely unbothered by the creature crawling along her fingers–a quiet courage that set her apart, defying the usual expectations of a noblewoman.

Seeing her mother, Jaehaera released Daenera’s hand and darted forward, her excitement spilling over as she joined her mother and brother on the blanket. The three of them formed a cozy cluster, with Jaehaerys animatedly pointing out the beetle’s tiny legs and Jaehaera presenting her carefully gathered flowers.

Nestled nearby in the shade, their youngest sibling, Maelor, slept peacefully in a wicker basket, wrapped snugly in soft linens. His chest rose and fell in a steady rhythm, undisturbed by the gentle hum of life around him.

Daenera lingered at the edge of the blanket, a warm smile on her face as she watched the children huddle close to their mother. In this quiet clearing, away from the demands of court and duty, the scene was one of pure, unguarded affection. 

From the corner of her eye, she noticed Aemond standing at the edge of the clearing, partially hidden in the dappled shadows cast by the cypress branches. His gaze was steady and inscrutable, but a spark of amusement lit his blue eye as it settled on her. She met his look with a subtle, knowing smile.

Helaena’s attention remained absorbed by the beetle skittering across her open palm. “This is a blue ground beetle,” she murmured, her voice gentle and filled with fascination. “They’re nocturnal, preferring to stay hidden during the day. They’re good for the garden because they hunt pests that can damage the plants.”

Daenera knelt down beside the blanket, setting her basket of freshly picked flowers beside her. She moved with a comfortable ease, brushing away the bits of earth clinging to her bare feet as she settled herself. Her attention on Helaena and the children, even as Jaehaerys’ curious voice broke through the quiet.

“Auntie Dae, why aren’t you wearing any shoes?” he asked, his face alight with interest at this small rebellion against convention.

Daenera smiled, reaching out to ruffle his hair. “Sometimes, it’s nice to feel the earth beneath your feet,” she replied. “Shoes can be confining. This way, I’m closer to the garden, to everything growing here.”

Jaehaerys nodded, as if trying to absorb the sense of it, glancing down at his own sturdy boots with a mixture of doubt and curiosity. Helaena smiled softly, her gaze still on the beetle, but a gentle warmth spreading over her features as she listened to her sister’s words.

She watched as Patrick joined them, his hands busy twisting and weaving tall grass and straw together. His focus was unwavering; his brow furrowed in concentration, and the tip of his tongue peeked out as he carefully crafted what could only be described as a humble, improvised flower crown.

Jaehaera, watching him briefly, leaned closer to her aunt with a hint of worry clouding her face. “Grandmother says we should always wear our shoes outside our rooms,” she murmured. “She says it’s not proper.”

Daenera let out a soft hum, entirely untroubled by what the dowager might think of her bare feet in the garden. “Well, it’s rather lucky your grandmother isn’t here to scold me, isn’t it?” she replied with a wink, causing Jaehaera to stifle a giggle, her worry melting away.

With a sudden burst of purpose, Jaehaera moved to her mother’s side, holding up the single flower she had so carefully chosen earlier. “Mother, this is for you,” she said, her voice soft with affection.

Helaena accepted the flower with a gentle smile, murmuring her thanks. “It’s beautiful, my sweet. Thank you.”

With delicate fingers, Jaehaera tucked the flower into her mother’s braid, placing it just above her ear. She stood back to admire her work, a look of pride lighting her face. “Now you’re as beautiful as the flower,” she declared softly, her words filled with sincerity and admiration.

“Your mother is always beautiful,” Daenera teased, a playful warmth in her voice. She watched as Helaena’s cheeks flushed a delicate pink, her gaze dropping shyly back to the beetle in her hand, as if suddenly uncertain where to focus.

Jaehaera, grinning, returned to Daenera and nestled herself comfortably between her legs, watching intently as she began to weave a crown from the basket of freshly gathered flowers. Jaehaera eagerly handed over blossoms, her small hands moving quickly to select the prettiest blooms. Inspired, she picked up the straw Patrick had collected earlier and tried her hand at crafting a tiny crown, imitating Daenera’s steady movements with the earnestness of a child determined to learn.

They sat together under the dappled shade, their work illuminated by soft rays of sunlight filtering through the branches. The quiet hum of the garden surrounded them–the gentle rustle of leaves in the breeze, the occasional buzz of a bee flitting from bloom to bloom. 

Together, they sat in the shadows, enjoying the summer day.

Gravel crunched beneath Aemond’s every step as he ventured down the well-trodden path that meandered through the splendid gardens. His keen gaze scanned the surroundings, searching for the familiar figures of his sister and Daenera. 

In a quiet, shaded alcove beneath the sprawling canopy of a towering tree, he spotted his sister. She sat with an air of serene concentration, her delicate fingers weaving through threads of embroidery work that captured her full attention, while she gently murmured to herself. “Weaves, weaving, wove, woven. Strings and spools. Weaves, weaving. Strings and spools. Wove, woven. What is, what was, what could be, what will be. Weaves, weaving, wove, woven.”

The dappled sunlight filtered through the foliage, casting intricate patterns of light and  shadow upon her, a familiar expression upon her face. 

Beyond the hedges and the verdant barricades of the tall plants, the joyful snicker of his nephew and the hushed murmur of Daenera created a symphony of laughter and whisperings. 

Aemond, his footsteps now on the soft grass, approached his sister, drawn to the tranquil atmosphere that enveloped her. He reached the tree’s trunk and leaned against it, embracing the stillness of the moment. The garden seemed to hold its breath as his sister continued her murmurings. 

Nearby, nestled in a basket, the youngest of their family, Maelor, lay in peaceful slumber. His round face was a portrait of innocence, cheeks red, his eyelashes resting upon them. Beside him, his mother continued her meticulous work, her nimble fingers expertly guiding the needle through the fabric as she stitched down the intricate design of a spider. 

“Storm clouds are gathering,” she whispered, her voice laced with a foreboding undertone. “Do not chase the storm. Vengeance hungers with it maw wide open, its teeth gleaming. Vengeance hungers, and from the storm, death’s jaws snap shut, the thunder of war resounding.”

She tilted her head slightly, her fingers tugging at a thread, “Vengeance has its price–blood begets blood begets blood begets–in an endless cycle. Vengeance hungers, and it seeks to be fed–yet, do not feed it, lest it consumes you.”

The thread was pulled taut, causing the fabric to pucker and twist under the stitch. “Vengeance is a beast with no master, insatiable once fed.”

As Aemond ventured through the peaceful garden, his sister’s foreboding words washed over him, like dark tendrils creeping beneath his skin and taking root. They found a place to settle within him, a chilling presence lurking deep within the void where his eye had once been, nestled behind the sapphire that now adorned his gaze. The weight of the words lingered, and he was about to question her, when movement caught his attention. 

From the garden’s edge, a burst of youthful energy catapulted into view. Jaehaerys, with his pale curls that caught the sun’s radiant light and seemed to shimmer like spun silver adorned with hints of gold, emerged with an infectious grin splashed across his reddened cheeks. His nimble feet carried him over the grassy expanse, like a playful sprite on a mission. 

“Uncle Aemond! I caught a beetle!” Jaehaerys greeted with boundless enthusiasm, playing no heed to the possibility of waking his slumbering brother. 

Aemond acknowledged him with a nod, his stance unwavering as he leaned against the tree, arms folded across his chest. His gaze, however, couldn’t help but shift upward, drawn by the magnetic force. It settled upon Daenera and Jaehaera as they emerged from the garden, their silhouettes painted by the gentle sunlight. 

A sense of longing stirred within Aemond as he watched Daenera’s dark curls cascade freely around her face, capturing the light and offering an ethereal glow. She held Jaehaera’s small hand in her own, her smile radiant as she walked beside the young princess. 

Jaehaera, unable to contain her excitement, released Daenera’s grip and bounded across the grass with the same exuberance as her twin. She joined her brother at her mother’s side, as Helaena examined the beetle. 

Aemond observed the tender moment with rapt attention, lingering at the outskirts like a ghost, a shadow cast by the radiant presence of Daenera. Her smile, so gentle and warm, reached out to him, gripping his heart with an unfaltering embrace, squeezing it tightly. He hated the stirring as much as he longed for it. 

Jaehaera nestled against Daenera’s chest, her curious gaze fixed on the intricate dance of fingers weaving a crown of delicate flowers. With each plucked blossom, she passed it to Daenera, contributing to the growing creation. Nearby, the young boy, Patrick, watched the weavings with keen interest, trying his best to mimic the process using straw and tall grass. 

Meanwhile, Jaehaerys, his curiosity momentarily diverted from the blue beetle he had found earlier, had settled beside his wooden toys. His fingers traced the intricately carved figures of a dragon, feeling its wooden scales beneath his touch.

Aemond found himself caught in a contemplative moment, silently pondering whether this was what it would be like. 

Aemond’s heart ached as he glimpsed a life that he could never truly call his own–a life filled with the unrestrained freedom of emotion, the bonds of marriage, the laughter of children, and the simple joys that flowed effortlessly from a love that knew no bounds or limits. He could vividly see it all, painted with the radiant hues of light and warmth, a life where love flowed freely, unburdened by the weight of their reality. 

Yet, he was acutely aware that what he envisioned was nothing more than a dream, a wistful fantasy that danced on the periphery of his consciousness. In that dream, perhaps they could have found the happiness that had always seemed just out of reach, a life unencumbered by their differences and the constraints of their circumstances.

But like wisps of smoke dissipating into the air, the dream slipped through his fingers, leaving behind a lingering sense of longing. This was the cruel reality they faced–their existence, a mere fraction of the dream, a fragmented fantasy. It was less than what the dream promised, yet it was tangible, it was real, and Aemond clung to it with a possessiveness born of desperation, willing to grasp onto even the smallest sliver of what could have been.

He acknowledged the potential for growth, even if it would be a twisted and gnarled sort of growth, stunted and restrained. But it was his, and he would seize it with unwavering determination, a monstrous resolve to make it his own. 

She was his. 

In the depths of their complex and imperfect reality, he found that glimmer of hope. 

Aemond embraced it, for he knew that even if it never fully blossomed, he would settle for the fraction of a dream that was now within his reach. It was his, and he would grasp it tightly–grasp her tightly, no matter how twisted or fragmented it might be.

Jaehaera’s voice broke the stillness, her request carrying the sweetness of a child’s desire for storytelling. 

“Aunty Dae,” she mused, her small fingers brushing strands of hair away from her face as she reclined against Daenera’s collarbone, calling her ‘aunty’ despite them being cousins. “Tell us a story.”

Daenera’s concentration remained focused on the flower crown, her brows slightly furrowed in thought. Her tongue darted out to wet her lips as she worked, her voice echoing with the gentle hum of contemplation, “A story?”

Jaehaera, ever the enthusiast, eagerly chimed in, “Yes, a story! A story about a princess.”

Her brother, however, had his own vision of the narrative. “No, a story about knights and dragons.”

Their playful debate echoed through the garden, as Jaehera pouted and countered, “No, a story about princesses and love!”

“Death comes from above and below, shrouded in the raging storm, its maw agape with gleaming teeth. With a resounding snap, the jaws shall close, and the sea shall devour the rest,” Helaena emitted a low, haunting hum, her voice resonating an otherworldly chant. It seemed as though she was lost in her own thoughts, her words flowing as if she was unaware she was speaking. Her gaze drifted towards her youngest, her delicate hand coming to rest upon his chest, her fingers gently tracing a path along his cheek. 

The children, accustomed to their mother’s enigmatic musings, appeared entirely unfazed by her haunting words. They had grown accustomed to her moments of distant contemplation, her mind often lost in the labyrinth of mysterious omens. Daenera observed Helaena for a brief moment but chose not to press for further details, her eyes lifting to meet Aemonds, before opting to instead alleviate the tense silence with her own soothing voice. 

“Once there was a princess,” Daenera began, her voice carrying the promise of a captivating tale. 

“Was she beautiful?” Jaehaera eagerly interjected, twisting within Daenera’s protective embrace to gaze up at her with wide, curious eyes. 

A soft smile graced Daenera’s lips as she indulged the young princess. Leaning down, she placed a tender kiss upon Jaehaera’s forehead, filling the moment with warmth.

“Yes, she was beautiful,” Daenera confirmed before the girl nestled back into her comforting hold. 

Aemond felt it like the warmth of the sun, and he tilted his head in curiosity as he watched Daenera and his niece. 

Daenera continued her story, her voice a gentle cadence in the tranquil garden. “She was the daughter of the heir to the throne, but she was not the firstborn. She spent her childhood away from the castle, raised alongside her brothers. And when time came for her to find a husband, she embarked on a journey to the castle.”

“The King organized a grand tourney, a spectacle that drew lords and knights from every corner of the realm,” Daenera narrated as she skillfully wove the flower crown. She used the supple stems of the flowers to hold the delicate creating together, the soft colors harmonizing to create a crown of gentle elegance. Her voice held the children in rapt attention as she continued her tale. 

“There was the Raven Knight,” Daenera recounted, her words flowing easily. “An old friend of the princess, he was of a similar age and possessed the qualities suitable for the royal maiden. However, he was not the sole contender for her hand.”

She paused, allowing the intrigue to build before continuing. “Among the competitors stood the Antler Knight, a formidable figure known for his immense strength and unyielding pride. Truly, there were many valiant men who desired the princess’s hand in marriage, but none more fervently than the One-Eyed Knight.”

Jaehaerys exclaimed with a bright grin, “Like uncle Aemond!”

Aemond couldn’t help but smirk at the playful jest, silently awaiting the unfolding narrative. He interjected, “I don’t think the One-Eyed Knight sought her hand in marriage by the time the tourney arrived.”

Daenera playfully chided him, “Oh, please, he would have been fortunate to have such a prospect. Now, am I the storyteller here, or are you?”

Her words were imbued with a playful banter as she scowled amusedly at him. 

Aemond raised a conceding hand in a gesture of surrender before folding his arms, eager to hear the rest of how the story played out. 

“The tourney commenced with the jousting,” Daenera continued. “Knights, resplendent upon their steeds, faced each other with lances and shields adorned with their noble sigils. In that fateful contest, the Raven Knight clashed with the fearsome Black Hound. Their lances shattered upon impact, and the Black Hound was unseated, tumbling unceremoniously from his mount.”

Jaehaerys, fully engrossed in the tale, inched closer, picking up his wooden sword and placed it in his lap, ready to spring to action should it be needed. 

“While the Raven Knight displayed valor and skill, it was the Antler Knight who truly stood out.” A faint crease marred her features, her delicate brows knitting together. Aemond could almost sense her thoughts drifting towards her husband, and the memories of his brutality. 

“With ferocious determination, he unseated opponent after opponent, dispatching two knights with splintered lances and injuring a dozen more. The Princess, watching the carnage unfold, couldn’t help but feel a deep sense of unease at the prospect of marrying such a man. After each victory, the Antler Knight would point his sword towards the Princess, a macabre display to revel in the glory of bloodshed.”

Curiosity brimming, Jaehaerys posed his question, “What of the One-Eyed Knight? Did he not participate in the tourney?”

Daenera offered a knowing smile, “The One-Eyed Knight was renowned for his exceptional skill, but he considered competing in such tourneys beneath him. He believed no true honor to be won in mock battle.”

“But I thought he wanted to win the Princess's hand?” Jaehaera questioned her brow furrowed in thought. 

Daenera nodded, her gaze thoughtful. “Indeed, he did. However, he understood that even if he emerged victorious in the competition and crowned the Princess as Queen of Love and Beauty, it would not secure her hand in marriage. There was deep-seated animosity between him and the Princess’s father, and so, he resolved himself to watch the Princess and dream of her love.”

“As the jousting continued, knights unseated their  counterparts, and the contest for the princess’s hand gradually narrowed down to just two contenders–the Raven Knight and the Antler Knight,” Daenera said, her voice carrying a dramatic undertone. “These two formidable adversaries took their positions at opposite ends of the tilt, their steeds pounding the sand beneath them. With lances poised and shields held firm, they awaited the signal to charge. As the banner wavered, they spurred their steeds towards each other, intent on a collision. But just as their lances were about to find their marks, the Antler Knight made an abrasive move. He aimed his lance at the legs of the Raven Knight’s horse, causing the steed to fall and sending the Raven Knight tumbling to the sandy ground.”

Jaehaerys, his sense of honor deeply offended, exclaimed, “That’s dishonorable!”

Daenera nodded in agreement, “Indeed it was. You see, the Antler Knight was determined to claim the princess as his prize by any means necessary. He had secretly loosened his opponents’ saddle straps and fed their horses plants that would make them ill.”

Jaehaerys’s indignation flared once more. “That’s cheating! He can’t win the princess that way!”

“But no one else knew of his deceit,” Daenera continued with a dramatic pause. “So, the Antler Knight believed he had secured his victory. However, the Raven Knight, undaunted, rose from the sands, drawing his sword in a powerful display of determination. He challenged the Antler Knight to combat, who responded with laughter and taunts, warning the young knight to stand down unless he wished to meet his demise. The Raven Knight, resolute and unyielding, refused to back down, and so, the Antler Knight drew his sword and descended upon the sands.”

Daenera’s voice held an eerie hush as she continued. “The Raven Knight was indeed a skilled swordsman, but he was younger and considerably smaller than the hulking Antler Knight. Although he fought valiantly, the Antler Knight’s brutality knew no bounds. He tormented the young knight with his sword, breaking bones and spilling blood. As the Raven Knight lay defeated on the sandy arena floor, surrender obvious, the Antler Knight remained true to his word. He drew his sword through the Raven Knight, robbing him not only of his life but also his honor.”

Aemond watched with a smile as Daenera artfully condensed the story, simplifying it for the children’s understanding. Her eyes briefly met his, and he smirked playfully, savoring the subtle amusement in the narrowing of her eyes. 

“The Antler Knight crowned the Princess as the Queen of Love and Beauty and claimed her as his prize,” Daenera narrated. The children’s expressions twisted into scowls, but they remained engrossed in the tale. “They were wed, but true to his character, the Antler Knight was no honorable husband. He mistreated his wife, the Princess, and dishonored her by engaging with other women. The Princess felt lonely and isolated in her marriage, and as the months passed, that feeling grew until one night…”

“Unable to sleep, the Princess ventured into the castle’s hallways, her steps leading her outside to the starry expanse in the moonlight. Here, she encountered the One-Eyed Knight, who was training with his sword. He had been watching her from afar all these months, filled with longing.” Their eyes met again, and Aemond could sense her challenging his amusement, but he continued to wear his smug expression.

“Under the cover of the night, the two grew closer, their heart beating in unison,” Daenera spun her tale. “They knew that their love could never be realized as long as she remained married, so they contented themselves with yearning for each other, concealing their emotions. However, one fateful night, the Antler Knight noticed his wife’s absence from their bed, and concealed in the shadows, watched as the two danced beneath the moonlight. A fury consumed him, and upon her return to their chambers, he unleashed his anger on his wife.”

Jaehaera gasped, her lips pouting in sympathy for the princess. “How could he do such a thing?! What did the One-Eyed Knight do?”

Jaehaerys, ready to defend the princess with his wooden sword, chimed in, “If he couldn’t protect the princess, I would.”

Daenera chuckled and continued, “When the One-Eyed Knight learned of this abuse, he couldn’t bear to see the Princess suffer any longer. He challenged the Antler Knight to a duel. They met in the heart of the forest, where they drew their swords. The Antler Knight, blinded by his arrogance and pride, didn’t realize that the One-Eyed Knight possessed the spirit of a dragon. The One-Eyed Knight brought the Antler Knight to his knees, pressed his sword to the knight’s throat, and with a smile on his lips, he thrust the blade through the Antler Knight’s throat, spilling his blood on the forest floor.”

Jaehaerys cheered, brandishing his wooden sword in excitement, while Jaehaera turned to Daenera, her curiosity piqued. “Did he marry her then?”

Daenera nodded and answered, “Indeed, he stole her away and married her in secret.”

“What did the Father say to that?” Jaehaera inquired. 

“The Father was angered by his daughter’s actions, but he could not oppose the marriage, for it was already consummated,” Daenera explained. “In truth, he himself had done the same with his wife.”

“So, they lived happily ever after?” Jaehaera asked.

Daenera contemplated the question before responding,” What do you think?”

“I think they did,” Jaehaera replied with a wide smile. 

“One flesh, one heart, one soul,” Helaena mused quietly, putting aside her finished embroidery, one leg of the spider twisted from the pulled thread. “One funeral pyre.”

“I want to be like the One-Eyed Knight when I grow up!” Jaehaerys declared, rising from the blanket and wielding his wooden sword. “I will vanquish dishonorable men like the Antler Knight.”

“And you, Jaehaera, can become the Queen of Love and Beauty,” Daenera remarked, placing the now completed flower crown on Jaehaera’s head. “With this flower crown, I crown you as such.”

The girl stood and twirled around, her light blue dress adorned with golden embellishment shimmering in the sunlight, her curls caught in the whirl, fluttering around her grinning face. 

“Here, Lady Princess, this is for you,” the young boy, Patrick, offered, handing Daenera a delicate crown made of grass and straw, adorned with a few blooming flowers. Daenera thanked the boy and gently placed the crown on her own head, her dark curls making the pale blossoms bloom. 

“Uncle Aemond, will you teach me how to fight?” Jaehaerys turned his big eyes towards Aemond, pointing his sword at him in challenge. 

Aemond pushed himself off the tree and picked up one of the wooden swords, feeling its light weight in his hand. Although he was accustomed to heavier weapons, this one would suffice for training. “Very well.”

Aemond knelt down to give his nephew a lesson on properly gripping the sword. Jaehaerys’ small fingers wrapped tightly around the hilt, and he furrowed his brow in deep concentration. Aemond began with deliberate movements, demonstrating how to bring the sword down and parry, while the young boy tried to mimic his actions with his own inexperienced ones. They repeated these slow and precise motions for some time, with Jaehaerys determinedly honing his skills until he felt confident enough to challenge his uncle.

With a small, indulgent smile, Aemond accepted the challenge and moved to stand in front of his much smaller nephew. He couldn’t help but chuckle inwardly at the determined and stubborn expression on Jaehaerys’ face. 

Jaehaerys initiated the duel by slowly swinging his sword, practicing the techniques he had just learned from Aemond. 

Aemond expertly parried and deflected the wooden sword with ease, encouraging his nephew. And as the practice continued, Jaehaerys’s movements became quicker but less precise, and he began to swing his sword from side to side with little concern for proper technique. 

With each swing, Jaehaerys accompanied his movements with a fierce roar and spirited shouts that filled the garden with his youthful enthusiasm. 

Aemond skillfully swatted the wooden sword away, sidestepping the charging boy who had almost tripped over his own feet but managed to regain his balance. Jaehaerys spun around on his heels, his pale curls swaying as he held the sword high above his head, and then charged again with a resounding “AAAHHH!” followed by a dull thud as the sword’s tip thudded into the ground.

“Stop dancing around, uncle!” Jaehaerys exclaimed, lifting his sword again, its tip scratching the earth as he lifted it and pointed it accusingly at Aemond. “Fight me like a knight! fight me like a man!”

Aemond couldn’t help but be amused by the boy’s determination, deftly avoiding the wooden sword while responding with moves of his how. 

“You are a boy.” Aemond remarked. 

“I am not! I’m the One-Eyed Knight!” Jaehaerys declared, closing one of his eyes for emphasis, only to instinctively open it again as he swung at Aemond. “I will best you and win the Princess’s affection.”

Aemond’s smile grew even wider at the boy’s determination, skillfully avoiding the wooden sword once more while playfully challenging Jaehaerys. “If you are the One-Eyed Knight, what am I?”

Jaehaerys shrugged, brushing his hair out of his face, cheeks a vivid red. “You can be the Raven Knight.”

A snort of amusement escaped Daenera, drawing Aemond’s attention away from his playful duel with his nephew. He glanced over at her, finding her smiling with amusement, a light chuckle escaping her lips. She cradled Maelor in her arms, gently swaying from side to side as she held the blond babe close. 

Aemond might have acknowledged the irony of being labeled as the Raven Knight and the source of her chuckle, but he was too entranced by the sight of her with her arms wrapped around the baby. 

Maelor nuzzled into her warmth, his lips gleaming with drool as he gnawed on his tiny hands, yet devoid of any teeth. Daenera’s affectionately smile down at the boy, her gentle rocking, and the soft murmurs she whispered to him seemed to tug at Aemond’s heart. 

The mere sight of her cradling the baby pulled at something deep within him. He felt a stirring in the pit of his stomach, an undeniable yearning. He couldn’t control this desire; perhaps, it had taken root all those months ago when he offhandedly offered to father her children. 

Now that thought seemed to grow, sprouting wildly and delving deep, strong in its presence. 

He yearned to see her carry his child, to witness her belly swell with the promise of life–and all it entails, to feel the baby’s movements within her womb, and to see her cradling their own child, nursing it with her love and care. He longed to read to their child, to teach it how to wield a sword, and even how to soar through the sky on dragonback. But this dream, this fantasy, was sharp and cruel in its realism–it was just that, a dream. 

Amid his reverie, Jaehaerys swung his wooden sword, slipping past Aemond’s defenses to strike him across the shin with a loud rap. Aemond’s attention snapped back to the present as pain radiated up his leg, throbbing insistently. Nonetheless, he managed to deftly circumvent Jaehaerys’s next attack, only to dramatically sink down on one knee, pretending to have lost the use of his leg. 

Jaehaerys, caught up in the play, ran towards him and mimicked thrusting his wooden sword through Aemond’s heart with a triumphant roar. Aemond fell backwards, feigning death as he stared up into the sky, the dream as tangible as the drifting clouds, just out of reach.

Daenera gently nestled Maelor back into his cozy basket, her fingers tenderly picking up the delicate silver rattle. The rattle, adorned with intricate dragon imprints, shimmered in the light and chimed as it was shaken. Maelor’s chubby, robust fingers wrapped around it, giving it a spirited shake before he amusingly popped it into his mouth, his tiny feet playfully fluttering in the air. 

Settling herself beside Helaena, Daenera watched the children’s lively play. Helaena, setting her embroidery aside, joined her in observing. Jaehaerys and Patrick had teamed up, brandishing wooden swords in a mock battle against Aemond, while Jaehaera was engrossed with her doll. 

“Aunty Dae, do you have any sisters?” Jaehaera inquired, sweeping her silver-gold hair back to peer at Daenera. The flower crown on her head added a splay of color to her.

“I have two stepsisters, Baela and Rhaena. They’re twins, just like you and your brother,” Daenera replied, leaning her head affectionately against Helaena’s shoulder. 

Jaehaera’s lips formed a thoughtful pout. “But do you have any real sisters?”

“To me, they are my real sisters,” Daenera responded, an amused glint in her eyes. “As for those I share blood with, I have my older brother, Jacaerys, and my younger brothers, Lucerys and Joffrey. And then there’s my younger half-brothers, Aegon and Viserys.”

“My father’s name is Aegon too!” Jaehaera exclaimed almost excitedly. 

“Yes, your father is Aegon the Second, whereas my brother is Aegon the Third,” Daenera clarified. She didn’t think elaborating on their family tree would bring any more clarity to their relations, especially given how young Jaehaera was. It was best to leave that conversation for another day. 

Jaehaera’s face crinked in bewilderment. “Doesn’t that get confusing?”

“Some might think so, yes,” Daenera mused. 

Abruptly shifting topics with the unpredictability of a child, Jaehaera then inquired, “When will you have children, Auntie Dae?”

Daenera’s eyebrows arched, and a soft, musing sigh escaped her lips as she thought about the question. “Someday, perhaps. But for that, I would need a husband.”

“Why?”

“It’s a matter of propriety.”

“But why?”

“Because that’s how things are. I need a husband to have a child.”

“But you have a husband?” 

Daenera responded gently, “I did. My husband died, remember?”

“Oh, right,” Jaehaera murmured, and Daenera couldn’t help but suppress a small chuckle at the child’s reaction. Jaehaera and her brother Jaehaerys had been present at Boris Baratheon’s funeral, participating in the ceremony. Yet, being so young, their grasp on the concept of death was as tenuous and elusive as the true meaning behind being a prince and princess. The intricacies of loss and finality were still worlds away from their innocent minds. 

Helaena reached out, taking Daenera’s hand into her own, pressing her pointy against each of Daenera’s fingers as though she was counting. She spoke softly, her words almost like a poetic musing, “The seed sown in shared blood will thrive and dream. It grows, yet not every blossom reaches its full potential, cut down before it can bloom.”

The young girl continued her inquiry as she ran her fingers through the tangled hair of her doll. “Do you want children, Auntie Dae?”

Daenera’s gaze locked firmly on the girl, even as she saw him out of the corner of her eye, lifting Jaehaerys into the air, the small boy a bundle of giggles. 

“Yes,” she affirmed, feeling a flutter of emotion in her stomach. “One day, I do want a child.”

Jaehaera seemed pleased with this answer, her face brightening. “I promise to play with them and I will show them my dolls!”

“I’m sure they’ll like that very much,” Daenera hummed. 

As Daenera and Helaena observed the children’s playful antics, the serene summer day enveloped them. Jaehaera was absorbed in her dolls, while Jaehaerys, Patrick, and Aemond were still engrossed in the mock sword fight. The day was graced with sunshine, the air fragrant with floral scents, and a gentle breeze whispered through the trees, its soft rustling harmonizing with the children’s laughter. Helaena nestled against Daenera, her fingers delicately tracing over Daenera’s hand, creating invisible patterns that sent tingles across her skin. 

“People say that the line on your palms can reveal your life’s journey,” Helaena mused thoughtfully, turning Daenera’s hand to study her palm, her fingers gliding from the middle finger down to the wrist. 

Daenera gazed at her palm, reflecting on this notion. “Perhaps they can tell stories of one’s past and present through the hands’ appearance, but I doubt they can predict the future from them.”

Helaena continued, tracing a line on Daenera’s palm. “Some believe these lines can foretell the length of your life.”

Curious, Daenera inquired softly, “What do you think my hand reveals about my life?”

Helaena pondered, carefully examining Daenera’s hand. “Your hands are soft, and indicating a life of care and attention,” she noted, running her fingers over the faint silver scars that was etched into the overside of her hand from minor cuts.

“Yet there’s a defiance in them—you’re not one to shy away from getting your hands dirty.” Helaena observed the remnants of stems under Daenera’s nails from plucking flowers and the small patches of dirt clinging to her skin. 

“These hands also speak of luxury and nurture, suggesting a life of comfort and meticulous grooming.” She flipped the hand to study the palm again. “The lack of callouses signifies a life more genteel than laborious. The hands of a noble lady.” 

Helaena traced a line gently. “Your life, as I see it, will be long, marked by challenges, struggles, and heartaches. But you will persevere through all of them. You are stronger than you think you are, and you will grow into your power.”

Her finger traced the pink scar that drew through her palm. “You are loved.”

“What do the lines on your hands reveal?” Daenera asked softly, her voice filled with gentle curiosity. 

Helaena hesitated, a hint of apprehension in her voice. “I’m too afraid to look.”

Her hand balled into a tight fist. 

“Then let me look for you,” Daenera suggested warmly, carefully taking Helaena’s hand into hers and gently coaxing it open to reveal the palm. She first examined the back of Helaena’s hand. Her fingers were long and immaculate, lacking the scars of outdoor escapades. Her nails were meticulously maintained, trimmed to the perfect length. “Yours are the hands of something with a tender touch. They’re nurtured and refined, delicate and soft.”

She then flipped Helaena’s hand over to inspect the palm. “These hands are creators, dream weavers. I can discern the tiny calluses from years of needlework, the testament of that of a skilled artist.”

Daenera’s fingers flipped over the soft lines etched in Helaena’s palm. She noted one line that was shorter, almost fragmented, while others diverted in different directions. “In these hands, I see the nurturing touch of a mother. But there’s also the strength of a dragonrider, forged for soaring among the clouds. 

Daenera pressed her own palm against Helaena’s, their fingers intertwining. 

“I wish for my children to have hands that are resilient and strong,” Helaena whispered, her voice tinged with the familiar hint of melancholy. Her grip on Daenera’s hand tightened slightly.

“They will be,” Daenera reassured her confidently. There was no reason the children wouldn’t grow up to be strong and resilient. 

Helaena leaned closer, a soft smile playing on her lips. “Had you been born a boy, I would have married you too.”

Daenera chuckled warmly. “I could always cut my hair and whisk you away to Lys or Braavos, though it seems more like you’d be the one abducting me, especially since you’re the one with a dragon.”

At that, Helaena’s laughter filled the air, light and at ease.

Alicent stood at the garden’s edge, concealed by the lush, meticulously tended foliage that surrounded the area. Her gaze remained fixed on her children and grandchildren as they reveled amid the vibrant blossoms and the verdant scenery. However, her attention was primarily drawn to the subtle interaction between Daenera and Aemond. With each passing moment, her apprehension grew, etching lines of worry and dread onto her features. 

It was not long ago she had ordered Aemond to devote careful consideration to the matter of a marriage alliance, to choose one that would best serve their family’s interests. 

Her deep-rooted apprehensions weighed heavily on her mind, a gnawing dread that kept her awake for many nights. The negotiations for marriage contracts and the establishments of alliances were slow-moving, filled with diplomatic intricacies and courtesies. It was a process that required a patience she did not have. 

Aemond had dutifully sent letters to various noble houses, including the Tyrells, the Tullys, Greyjoys, and the Reynes, expressing an interest in potential marriage alliances. His compliance with her wishes had been commendable, but his apparent lack of enthusiasm cast a shadow of uncertainty over her. 

She knew that forming such alliances took time. Negotiations were meticulous, involving delicate considerations of dowries, titles, and political implications. The future depended on these arrangements, and they could not afford to rush into ill-considered unions—nevertheless, Alicent feared more that word of her son’s affair would get out, reveal itself for what it was and ruin any prospects with Houses such as Baratheon… And worse yet, that it would see him married to her.

The information that had reached her through Larys Strong was deeply disconcerting. Aemond’s visit to the Tyrells had resulted in a meeting with a prospective bride who was described as beautiful and of the appropriate age. Despite these favorable qualities, Aemond displayed no further interest in her. 

Worse still, the Tullys, whose alliance could be instrumental, had withdrawn their interest in a marriage alliance when Aemond had left their daughter in tears. 

It was a troubling sign that had planted seeds of doubt within her heart. 

Alicent fidget with her hands as she contemplated her son’s behavior. The weight of her responsibility bore down on her shoulders, and she could not afford to let this matter languish. Her family’s future depended on it, and she was determined to guide Aemond towards the right decision. 

“Why are you lurking in the gardens, Mother?” Aegon’s voice broke through the silence, his casual demeanor belying the palpable tension in the air. His unkempt hair, a stark contrast to his princely status, irked her deeply. She wished he would compose himself with more dignity, particularly when he meandered about in the castle. 

“I am not lurking,” Alicent replied tersely, her gaze still fixated on the scene before her.

“Then what are you doing?” Aegon inquired, shifting his attention towards the garden, mirroring his mother’s intense scrutiny. 

Alicent’s eyes flitted briefly from her son, her lips forming a disproving line. Her response was curt, her eyes returning to the garden. “I am observing.”

Aegon redirected his gaze as well, his discerning eye landing on his siblings and children, and when he spoke, there was that infuriating smugness in his tone. “He’s smitten by her.”

“He is not,” Alicent countered, her fingers inadvertently digging into her own flesh as unease gnawed at her. 

“He absolutely is, Mother. Just look at the way he gazes at her,” Aegon argued, a hint of fascination in his tone.

Her narrowed eyes watched as Aemond seemed to lose himself in contemplation, his gaze unwaveringly focused on Daenera. The way he looked at her, like a boy struck with awe, filled her with dread. It seemed to swell within her chest, creating an oppressive weight that pressed against her lungs and heart. 

“He understands his duty,” she stated firmly, turning her discerning gaze towards her eldest son. 

Aegon regarded his mother thoughtfully. “He appears to be delaying, though, doesn’t he? You could have arranged his marriage by now.”

“I have faith in him,” she responded with unwavering resolve as her grip on her own flesh grew tighter. “Aemond will fulfill his responsibilities. He will marry, and he will honor his marital vows. That is his nature. And in time, he may come to genuinely care for his wife.” 

“Perhaps you should have accepted Rhaenyra’s proposal and had Jacaerys marry Helaena, and I marry Daenera,” Aegon remarked, his tone carrying an unsettling nonchalance that sent shivers of apprehension down her spine. She couldn’t quite put a finger on the source of his eagerness, whether it was a genuine desire for Daenera or simply a childish yearning for what was forbidden. Regardless, it filled her with even more dread.

Alicent turned to her son, her gaze sharp and warning. “Stay away from her, Aegon. She’s a Princess, and you mustn't forget that.”

Aegon’s response was defiant, bordering on insolent. “She’s a bastard–”

With a stern look, Alicent cut her son off, her voice laced with authority. “She’s a Princess, and you will treat her as such. We cannot afford any scandal involving you and her, do you understand?”

Aegon’s demeanor shifted, his arms folding defensively over his chest as he leaned against one of the ornate pillars. His frown deepened, and he spoke with a note of bitterness. “I am not the one you should be concerned with. I am not the one in love with her.”

Alicent let out a dismissive sound, akin to a scoff, as she refuted his claim. “He is not in love with her, Aegon. His duty will guide his actions, as it always has.”

But Aegon remained resolute, his tone carrying a sense of resignation mixed with petulance. “He is in love with her, Mother. He may delude himself, and you may believe his delusion, but he is very much in love with her. For once, he should be your disappointment, not I.”

Alicent released a slow, measured breath. “I am not disappointed in you–”

“You are, Mother. You’ve always been,” Aegon interrupted, his voice carrying a hint of vulnerability that tugged at Alicent’s heart. He looked so much like the little boy he once was, wounded by a perceived lack of trust. “If only you’d afford me the same faith you have in him.”

Alicent took a tentative step towards him, her maternal instincts urging her to comfort her son. Her hand rose to brush against his cheek in a gesture of reassurance, but Aegon swatted it away. He turned and walked away, his posture that of a petulant child, leaving Alicent with a heavy knot forming in the back of her throat. 

Her gaze returned to Aemond, who was still engrossed in the playful sword fight with his nephew. She reminded herself that, ultimately, her son would prioritize his duty over his infatuation. He had always been the one she could rely on, and she would not let Daenera take that from her.

**Lavender: Happiness, love, devotion. **Baby's breath: Innocence, purity of the heart. **Eye Bright: Mental Clarity, psychic powers. (the flower Jaehaera puts in Helaena's hair.) **Pink Carnations: A mother's love, I will never forget you. **White Carnations: Sweet and lovely, innocence, pure love. **Hawthorn Tree: Hope, fertility. **Cypress Tree: Death, mourning, despair, sorrow. **Doll's Eye: Toxic/Poison.

[jettjournals]

Confessions Over Coffee | SFW

JETT x READER (VALORANT)

oneshot

It's a rare day off from missions, and Jett decides to show you around her favorite spots in Seoul. The bustling city is a maze of sounds and colors, but with Jett by your side, everything seems more vivid and exciting.

She takes you to a quaint cafe tucked away in Insa-dong, her secret hideaway from the world. The atmosphere is cozy, with the scent of freshly brewed coffee mingling with the sweet aroma of pastries. You both find a quiet corner, and as you sip on your drinks, you can't help but steal glances at her. Her presence is magnetic, her laughter a melody you never tire of.

As you chat, you notice a subtle nervousness in Jett, a side of her rarely seen. She talks animatedly about her favorite dishes and her time as a chef, but there's a hint of hesitation in her eyes, as if she's holding something back.

Her usual playful smirk appearing briefly before fading into a more serious expression. She takes a deep breath, her eyes locking onto yours.

"Actually, there's something I've been wanting to tell you," she begins, her voice softer than usual. "I know we're always busy with missions and all, but... I've developed feelings for you. I didn't want to say anything because I wasn't sure how you felt."

Your heart skips a beat, and for a moment, you can hardly believe what you're hearing. The feeling that you've been carrying for so long is mutual. You reach out, taking her hand in yours.

"Jett, I've had a crush on you for a while now," you confess, your voice filled with relief and happiness. "I just didn't know if you felt the same way.

A radiant smile spreads across her face, her eyes lighting up with joy. She squeezes your hand, and the connection between you feels stronger than ever.

"So, what do you say we make this official?" she asks, her playful tone returning. "Think you can keep up with me?"

You laugh, feeling a weight lift off your shoulders. "I wouldn't have it any other way, Jett."

As the day winds down, you find yourselves at a rooftop garden overlooking the city. The sunset paints the sky in shades of pink and orange, casting a warm glow over everything. Jett stands at the edge, the wind gently tugging at her hair. She turns to you, her smile softer now.

"Thanks for today," she says quietly. "And for being honest with me."

You nod, stepping closer to her. "Anytime, Jett. I'm just glad we finally got to say how we feel."

Her eyes sparkle with emotion as she leans in, her breath mingling with yours. The world seems to hold its breath as her lips meet yours in a gentle, tentative kiss. You can feel her heart racing, mirroring your own. Her lips are soft, warm, and the kiss deepens naturally, as if this moment was always meant to happen.

You wrap your arms around her, pulling her closer. Her hands find their way to the back of your neck, fingers tangling in your hair. The kiss becomes more passionate, yet still tender, each movement filled with the unspoken promise of something new and beautiful.

When you finally pull away, breathless and smiling, she rests her forehead against yours, her eyes closed in contentment.

"I've been wanting to do that for a long time," she whispers, her voice filled with a mix of relief and joy.

"Me too," you reply softly, brushing a stray lock of hair from her face. "And it was worth the wait."

She laughs softly, the sound like music to your ears. "So, where do we go from here?"

"Anywhere you want," you say, your heart full of hope and excitement for the future. "As long as we're together."

She nods, her smile widening. "Together, then."

[return-to-twisted-wonderland]

Coello Hunt

Coello: Rabbit

Twisted From: Thumper from Bambi

House: Pomefiore

Personality Traits: Coello is outgoing, playful, and unfiltered, often speaking his mind without a second thought. Unlike Rook’s meticulous, poetic nature, Coello is spontaneous and finds beauty in small, everyday things. He loves exploring, especially anything involving nature, animals, and discovering hidden places around NRC. His straightforwardness sometimes gets him into trouble, but his good-hearted intentions are clear to those who know him well.

Unique Magic: “Heart’s Echo”

Coello's Unique Magic amplifies the feelings of those around him, making emotions more vivid. This power can create a sense of shared joy, laughter, or energy, uplifting his allies. Conversely, it also allows him to sense when someone is feeling down, subtly nudging them towards happiness or calm. The spell is particularly useful for boosting morale and energizing his friends in stressful situations.

Mood Mirror: Coello can reflect back the emotions of those around him, lightening spirits or easing tension.

Empathy Trigger: With enough focus, he can provide a small emotional boost, enhancing feelings of happiness, courage, or peace in his friends.

Weaknesses:

Emotion Overload: Being around too many people with intense emotions can overwhelm him, as he feels a "rebound" effect, making him susceptible to their moods.

Limited Effect Duration: His influence is short-lived, and he must be close to someone for the magic to work effectively.

Vulnerability to Dark Magic: Dark or intense magic can disrupt his magic, creating a “reversal” effect that may impact his own emotions instead.

Appearance and Outfit

Coello's look would reflect a more rustic, nature-inspired aesthetic, blending with Pomefiore’s elegance but in a youthful, relaxed way. His outfit would include hints of his love for nature and a few playful touches.

Physical Appearance: Coello has short, fluffy, light blonde hair with soft waves and pale green eyes that reflect his youthful energy. He’s shorter and a bit stockier than Rook, with a quick smile and an expressive face.

Uniform Modifications:

Nature Accessories: He carries a small charm made of carved wood (shaped like a rabbit’s foot) attached to his belt, and he has a woven bracelet with small leaves.

Small Bunny-Themed Brooch: To represent his “Thumper” inspiration, Coello wears a tiny bunny-shaped brooch near his collar as a playful touch.

Soft Boots: His shoes are practical yet stylish, with soft leather that’s ideal for quick movement, letting him run or jump around without slipping.

Personality: Coello has an energetic, straightforward nature that makes him easy to approach. Though he lacks Rook’s eloquence, he makes up for it with his genuine kindness and curiosity. He’s often seen exploring the grounds, admiring small things like insects, leaves, or hidden spots, and he loves sharing his discoveries with friends. Coello is bubbly, enthusiastic, and always eager to make new friends. Though he doesn’t have Rook’s poetic approach to beauty, he’s sincere in his appreciation of everything around him, often seeing beauty in simplicity.

Backstory

Coello Hunt hails from a world vastly different from the refined halls of Night Raven College. A place of whimsical landscapes, daring quests, and vibrant colors, vast mushroom forests, rolling green hills, and peculiar floating islands stretch across the horizon. Bright, pastel skies shift from dawn’s soft pinks to vivid daytime blues, while skies at night come alive with stars and constellations unseen in the TWST realm. His world is filled with life — from unique flora and fauna to lively, bustling kingdoms where adventure lies around every corner.

Growing up in such a vibrant environment, Coello was accustomed to the unpredictable and the extraordinary. His home kingdom was a harmonious mix of nature and fantasy, ruled by a gentle queen who valued unity and peace. The people of his world were as varied as the landscape itself, with neighboring regions hosting unique creatures, from mushroom-like inhabitants to foxes and rabbits. Coello's early years were spent exploring this terrain, making friends with the kingdom’s magical beings, and engaging in lighthearted skirmishes with mischievous foes who threatened his friends.

Coello himself came from adopted family who held a deep reverence for nature, particularly for the plants and creatures that thrived across his world. Like his brother Rook, he had a natural curiosity and appreciation for beauty. However, in a world where power-ups and enchanted items were everyday tools, Coello found himself drawn not to magical artifacts, but to the simple wonders of nature. He felt a connection to the forest and fields, spending hours exploring to uncover hidden secrets or finding medicinal herbs and rare flowers. He would often bring back his discoveries, sharing stories with his family of the mysterious paths he encountered or the plants with strange and fascinating properties.

Coello's affinity for adventure and empathy caught the attention of his world’s wise beings, who noticed his unusual ability to influence emotions around him. His Unique Magic, “Heart’s Echo,” was a rare gift that allowed him to amplify positive emotions, spreading joy or peace wherever he went. This power was incredibly valued, as it allowed his people to resolve conflicts and ease tensions in their everyday lives. For Coello, it became second nature to use his ability to help others, whether calming a friend after a scare from a nearby castle’s Koopa troops or lightening the spirits of those worn out by daily tasks.

When the invitation to attend Night Raven College arrived, Coello was reluctant to leave his familiar, adventure-filled world. However, he was encouraged by the queen and his family to go, as they believed he could learn more about himself and bring his knowledge back to their kingdom. The journey between worlds was disorienting at first, and Coello had to adjust to the differences in magic, atmosphere, and cultural practices. Yet, the school’s mysterious nature and new friends intrigued him, reminding him of the surprising wonders of his home.

Now at NRC, Coello's lighthearted personality and grounded view of beauty set him apart from his classmates in Pomefiore, who often held rigid standards of elegance. However, his warmth and empathy have earned him the friendship of others, especially those who yearn for a bit of simplicity in their complicated lives. Though he misses his world’s colorful fields and wild adventures, he brings a bit of his homeland’s wonder with him, inspiring his peers to appreciate the beauty around them, no matter how small or unexpected.

His world is based on: Super Mario Movie

Peopla hearing Hunt and they automatically assume he's like Rook only to learn Coello is the exact opposite.

[ennaku-sirri-da]

I wanna be just like you; made of felt and flesh and FREE( no strings on me !)

[ ID: Traditional fanart of me standing with an AU version of Puppet Habit or Pabit from Smile For Me the game. The AU is called AskPabit. Traditional materials used are pencil, black and blue pens, sketchpens, color pencils. The coloring is vivid and mostly done in many different shades on an individual scale, even for the same color.

Pabit's more anthromorphised form, from the askblog, is drawn in my interpretation as skinny and muppet-like with bigger proportions for the facial features and hands, high-heeled feet. He is made of felt and this is shown through the messy textured strokes.

Stitches run through the sides of his body and face. On his chest at the side is stitched a trans flag-colored heart with the letters " We love U!" -- the word love is just represented by a heart. His hair is brunette, curly and very long. His eyes too are a brown shade-- his eyes are big and lashed like those found on some children's dolls, the sclera are yellow. Below his eyes, fur-patches of pink blush are there. In his grin, his taken teeth are seen, one of them bleeding still at the side. Not all the teeth are there yet. He only wears pants in dark shades that seem to smoothly become heels in one piece-- stitches run along the sides of these too.

I am by Pabit's side. I am a shorter, light brown skinned person of average size with longer black hair and a round sparsely acne-marked face. I wear square pink glasses. My dress is a bright teal chudidar with multicolored flower designs in outline, and a sandy gold dupatta with pants of the same color to complete it.

Pabit grins and leans with one arm unsteadily on my head, I am clasping my hands in closed-eye delight, clearly excited. I lean to him. His face tilts slightly and he looks amused, one eye squinted while the other crinkles.

Beside me the text is written in a pink and black outlined box -" I'd love to be just, just like you"-- words in blue pen. Then in black--" I'll be made of felt and flesh and" -- then an arrow leads to a lavendar cloud saying " Free!" in bigger words.

Half the top background is covered by big outlines of flowers in sketch pen, lightly filled in with overlapping color pencil shades. It gives a soft look. Finally, from out of the very top a little bit of a book with a dragonfly wing design on it is seen in the drawing's photo. End ID]

--

My fanart for @askpabit ...!! I was trying for SO MANY DAYS and I FINALLY did it woooo..!!! I'm so tired after my flight so I'm short on words but I've been following this blog since like the beginning I think. The artist obviously has a lot of talent and he's really sweet too. Askpabit has been a happy influence on my life and here's my expression of that! I wish the artist all the best in his future endeavours. :) (smiley emote)

I really enjoyed coloring this by the way. Hehe all my faves become FLUFFY. I know Pabit's different here from your version but I hope you still like him...!! This is kind of just how I roll in my style.

And here's a small concept below...plus the uncoloured version of this drawing!..

[ ID: uncoloured concept sketch of Pabit from AskPabit. He is front facing and it's a bust. Here he's like he's made of felt, has big eyes like a doll, stitches like a felt toy and has long curly hair. Overall he looks a bit muppet-like. He has blush-patches of fur as well. End ID]

--

The very first concept art( Not this one) had him more like a potato sack LOL. But anyway I tried to make him look like he's made of felt..!!! As blog lore dictates, hehe. And I remember saying I really liked how Pabit's movements worked all cutesy and kind of, like he's really stuffed, like a toy. It was really neat to see coming through in just non-animated images So I tried to imitate that a bit.

Here's the Uncoloured version..!

[ID: Uncoloured version of the first drawing. It's all outlined in pencil. It's in warm filter. End ID]

[stelly38]

Another snippet from the fic that’s in progress.  

I hope I will be ready to start posting in the first third of the new year.  Fingers crossed.  

In the stacks, Ross sees her legs first.  Long, smooth, shapely, and crossed at the ankles, they’re bare, save for a pair of navy leather heels, and they go on for days.  He tilts his head to see around the side of the library shelf and notices that the mystery lady’s skirt has ridden up a few inches above her knees.

Demelza is tucked into one of the chairs in the library, absorbed in the book on her lap.  It’s a big, comfortable armchair, stowed away in a little corner on the second floor, at the end of an aisle in fiction.  She’s decided to do her homework for her Intro to Professional Writing class at the library this Friday evening. The place should be deserted, with most folks already beginning their weekend partying—no one studies on Friday nights.  A few students wander through, pausing to pull books from the shelves.  It’s early yet; the library will be open for another few hours.  She turns the page of her book and moves her hair back on her shoulders.

She’s sitting quietly, underlining passages in the book with a pencil.  There’s a free-standing sign displaying a poster for study carrels at the end of Ross’s aisle, and it obscures his line of sight.  He can only see as high as her lap from where he’s standing.  She shifts in her chair and he straightens up quickly and glues his eyes to the book spines on the shelf in front of him.  She hasn’t seen him.

He pulls out a book, flips it open, puts it back on the shelf.  He wonders what kind of panties she’s wearing, if they’re plain cotton, or something else.  Trying to clear his mind of the imagery that’s taunting him, he turns up the next aisle  and follows the author names on his search for the titles he’d come to pick up.

A page rustles, and immediately, the image of her legs appears, vivid and alluring, in his mind.  He inches closer to the end of the aisle, and stands so that he can see who owns the legs.  It’s his red-headed pupil, Miss Carne, and the realization of just whom he’s been ogling causes him to blush like a school boy. This is the one who has challenged him, called him ridiculous in front of his other students, the one who isn’t fazed by his bluster.  It seems he is no longer in charge of his eyes, and he glances at her again, at the flawless pale expanse of her legs, stretched out before him.

She clears her throat and he flicks his eyes up to settle on her deep green ones, staring back at him.  Her expression is unreadable, but she colors subtly when their eyes meet.  Ross nods to her, but she doesn’t break eye contact.  Instead, she shifts slightly in her chair so that she’s facing him, and uncrosses her ankles.  The new position causes her knees to part slightly.  He follows the elegant line of her legs up to the hem of her skirt, and then meets her eyes again, which are still pinned on him.

Suddenly, he looks away, embarrassed to have been caught, and flustered at his reaction.  Her movement was so subtle, he can’t decide if she was flirting with him, or if it was a coincidence.  He busies himself with the books, hastily pulls the two he’d been seeking from the shelf, and walks past her toward the stairs, on the way to checkout.  

[steel-and-fire]

No mercy for the wicked.

I stare at my reflection in the water. I barely recongize my own face. Nothing has changed from my features, but my expression, i dont recongize it. Yet, it is most certainly me, kneeled down on the edge of the river, golden hair falling in the water, red eyes staring right back at me.

Red...

My hands are covered in it, my hair, my body. My armor...? The red flows with the stream, painting its clear color.

The memories return to me. Vivid, as they happened but a couple hours ago, or less. I found the broken wagon on the edge of the road. I found the corpses of the murdered men, the slaughtered animals. I saw trails of red and signs of dragging through the forest..

... I run in that direction, fueled by emotions darker than i knew i could feel. It took me a bit to find them, for their camp was deep enough into the woods. I didn't run in. I observed. I sunk into the shadows and moved around, my large form fading into the night, among the leaves and the tall grass... Just like when we hunted beasts... And now, it was monsters of a different kind i was hunting...

The raiders had set a nice little fort, with wooden fortifications, not too tall but easily dependable. They were around a dozen, drinking, eating, celebrating, laughing with their cruel voices. A couple were staying to the edges, watching out for danger, but they seemed to feel safe enough... They had numbers, a fortified camp, and good equipment. Even if ragtag, their armors and weapons were in good condition. They were much more than ordinary bandits, but i was new to the area, and hadn't learned the rumors, didnt know their names.

I didnt care either.

My eyes kept moving, and they finally saw what i was looking for. The women, the abducted, were thrown in a pile to the side. Cut apart, lifeless, clothless and disgraced. The raiders had their fun and they disposed of them... Only one was still alive, forced to... Entertain one of them to the side, who had taken a knife out and was stabbing her, laughing sadistically, immune to her screams and tears.

I didn't run in. I didnt make a heroic entrance. I didnt laugh. This wasn't a challenge, something fun to kill the time. Usually, i would save the civilians if i could, but i wouldn't exactly mourn for their loss either. Their lives isnt my business, im not that soft. Reality is cruel.. Right?

But not this time. This time, i felt immense, unapologetic, untamed, hatred. I felt it fuel me. I felt it overflow and consume me. I hated them. Even more than wanting to save the girl, i wanted to kill them all.

I saw her eyes. She was the first to notice. Even as she was bleeding, trying to defend herself from the stabs of the man on top of her, it was my shadow behind him that made her eyes widen in true terror.

Fear and terror are different. Fear is something you understand, something conscious. Terror is primal, instinctive.

The man on top of her stopped, confused, following her eyes, realizing my presence as my shadow loomed over him, dancing with the movements of the bonefires.

His eyes also widened in terror in that moment, but before he could open his jaw, his upper body was flying through the air, my axe having swang clearly through it, and landing headfirst into the campfire of the others.

It was the girl that screamed, top of her lungs. I dont blame her. Thinking back to it, it was a reasonable reaction. I ignored her stepped over her and towards the others, who were grabbing their weapons, getting reafy to defend themselves.

Thats right, not assault me. But to defend themsleves... Yessss...the terror in their eyes, i remember it so clearly. The fear... They reeked of blood... Of murder.. Of lives taken, cruelly, mercilessly...and now they were the prey, and they could feel the raw despair of being the weak ones...

I didnt laugh. I didn't say anything cocky. Not this time. I simply walked towards them, my axe already covered in gore. They spoke between themselves, they asked me something. I didn't hear it. I didnt care. The predator doesn't care about the prey's words, right?

One panicked and threw a javelin at me. A terrible throw, his hand shaking. I didnt even dodge it, it crashed against my chestplate, uselessly.

I gritted my teeth. My hatred was building by the second. The images of the poeple they killed. Of the ones they raped and murdered, playing in my head again and again.

I jumped!! In one motion i had left the ground and leaped at them! I roared in a primal cry as one readied her spear. My axe smashed it apart, and the other swing crushed the armor and the bones beneath. If she screamed, i didnt hear it. Only the sound of her broken body, as my axe cleaved through her meat, reached my ears.

The battle begun, if one could even call it that. They surrounded me. They attacked from all directions. Two of them just run away, abandoned the rest and run as fast as they could into the night, crying and shitted. Pathetic.

I had never fought so recklessly. So uncaring about my own well being. But its not like i could feel the pain. Their blades pierced my arms with great effort, yet i didnt feel it. I cleaved, and cleaved, and cleaved, and cleaved again.

They needed to die! To die! To die! Die! Die! Die! Die for your sins! Die for your cruelty!! Just die!!!

....

The camp was littered in blood and gore, pieces of once human spread all around. i stood above the last raider, my gaze cold as eyes, despite the bright red glow... and only then i could hear his voice. Trembling, his arms a shield over his face, he was begging.

"Please....please...ill never do it again... Dont kill me... Ill turn a new leaf...sob..please."

I looked upon him, and i thought of the vile acts he commited just today. In only one day, he had forfeited his soul, to gain what? Sadistic satisfaction, gold, and a sense of power. And now that it was taken away, he was trembling and begging for his life.

".... No mercy for the wicked." My words came out cold, and spiteful. Black like venom. He screamed one last time as my weapon seperated his stomach from the rest of his body. He tried to crawl away, his intestines dragging out, and two feet away, he left the last breath.

I spat at the ground.

I turned around, and walked between the blood and the fire, thw horrifying carnage, and to the girl. She was still bleeding, the cuts and stabs deep, and barely conscious. Yet what was keeping her conscious, was me. She stared at me like a monster from fairy tales. Curled up in a corner and shaking,unable to speak a word.

I reached for my belt , and threw a vial with red liquid at her feet.

"Drink it and you'll live. Try to live a decent life despite the scars.", was what i remember saying befote i left the sight, the black fire inside my heart satiated for now...

...

Yes, i remember it all clearly. And yet my expression hasnt changed. It's been like this for a few days now....

And i dont mind if at all. I no longer care. I am a weapon. A weapon to be aimed at the vile. At the monsters that prey on others, be it beast or human...

If that is the reality we live in, then i will hunt them down, ill become the nightmare they cant escape from. I will create rivers with their blood.

I sit up, and take my weapon, walking away from the water, wearing the same face i approached it with, wearing the same, red eyes. I stare at the moon in the night sky, linger for a moment, before i continue my path..