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novaursa · 11 months ago

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The Veil of Fire (3/3)

- Summary: Conclusion of the Dance and your terrible purpose.

- Pairing: aunt!reader/Jacaerys Velaryon.

- Note: For more of my works visit my blog. The list is pinned to the top. This was requested by @witch-of-letters. Enjoy! ❤️

- Rating: Explicit 18+ (just to be safe)

- Word count: 7 000+

- Previous part: 2

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff

You storm down the corridor of the Red Keep, the heavy wooden doors rattling in their frames as you pass. The servants who normally crowd these halls shrink away at the sight of you. They know better than to cross your path when you’re in such a state. Your blood hums with the fury that has been building since you left Aegon’s chambers. The image of your elder brother lying helpless, swathed in bandages, the flesh of his body charred and raw, is seared into your mind. And now, all you can think of is the one responsible.

Your brother Aemond.

The thoughts tumble in your mind as you reach his chambers, pushing the door open without knocking. Aemond stands by the window, his back to you, seemingly lost in thought. The light of the setting sun casts a long shadow across the room, a stark contrast to the heat you feel boiling within.

“Aemond,” you say, your voice sharp as Valyrian steel. “Why did you do it?”

He turns slowly, his one remaining eye locking with yours. For a moment, you think you see a flicker of something—surprise, perhaps, or regret. But it’s gone as quickly as it came, replaced by the cold, calculating expression he often wears.

“What are you talking about?” His voice is measured, but you can hear the tension beneath it.

“You know exactly what I’m talking about,” you snap. “Aegon. Why did you burn him?”

Aemond’s lips tighten into a thin line. “He was unworthy of the throne,” he says, his tone clipped. “He’s always been unworthy. He was a drunkard, a fool who laughed at me every chance he got. I merely did what needed to be done.”

Your breath catches in your throat at his words, and you take a step closer to him, your anger morphing into something more complex—something tinged with sorrow. “Aegon is our brother,” you say softly, the fury in your voice giving way to something else, something pleading. “He is family. Your family. We are not your enemies, Aemond.”

For a moment, he says nothing, merely watching you with that unblinking gaze. Then he takes a step toward you, his expression softening. “You spoke to Helaena, didn’t you? She always knows what lurks in the shadows, even when the rest of us do not.”

You nod slightly, your throat tight. “She knew… but that does not change what you’ve done.”

His hand twitches at his side, as though he wants to reach out to you but cannot bring himself to. “He was a threat,” Aemond insists, though his voice has lost some of its earlier conviction. “To me. To the realm.”

You shake your head slowly, your eyes never leaving his. “You’re wrong. The real threat isn’t Aegon or any of us. It’s the idea that we are enemies, that we must destroy each other to claim power. Is that what you’re planning, Aemond? Will you strike me next?”

The question hangs heavy in the air between you, and for a moment, Aemond looks stricken. His gaze drops to the thin scar that now mars your cheek and lips, a reminder of the horror you faced to protect Helaena’s children. You see the way his jaw tightens, the conflict playing out in his mind. He’s always been so fond of you and Helaena, always protective in his own way, and yet now, he stands on the precipice of something dark and unforgivable.

“No,” he says finally, his voice barely more than a whisper. “I could never… not you.”

You take a breath, your heart aching with a mixture of relief and sorrow. “Then do not let this madness consume you, Aemond. We are Targaryens—blood of the dragon. But we are still human, still family. Do not lose yourself to this war.”

He meets your gaze again, and for the first time since you entered his chambers, you see the boy he once was—the brother who would debate with you for hours, who sought your approval as much as you sought his. But that boy is fading, buried beneath the weight of ambition and the demands of the crown.

“I will consider your words,” he says finally, though there is a weariness to him now. “But do not ask me to abandon my duty.”

“I would never ask that of you,” you reply, reaching out to gently touch his arm. “I only ask that you remember who you are, and who we are to you.”

He nods, though you can see the turmoil still simmering beneath the surface. This conversation is far from over, you know that much. But for now, you’ve said what needed to be said. You’ve planted a seed of doubt in Aemond’s mind, and you can only hope it will take root before it’s too late.

As you turn to leave, Aemond’s voice stops you in your tracks. “Sister…”

You glance back at him, waiting.

“Thank you,” he says, and though his voice is still strained, there is a sincerity there that you haven’t heard in a long time.

You nod once, a small gesture of understanding, before slipping out of his chambers. As the door closes behind you, you feel the weight of the day settle on your shoulders. But there is a small glimmer of hope now, too, fragile but real.

You leave Aemond’s chambers, the heavy door closing with a soft thud behind you, the sound echoing in the empty hallway. The conversation still lingers in your mind, a tangled web of emotions—anger, sorrow, fear for the future, and a thread of hope so thin you’re afraid it might snap at any moment. Your hand trembles slightly as you brush it against the stone wall, steadying yourself as you navigate the labyrinth of corridors that make up the Red Keep.

The fortress, usually bustling with life, feels eerily silent in the wake of Rook’s Rest. The weight of the events—of the war that rages beyond these walls—presses down on your shoulders, making each step feel heavier than the last. You try to shake off the oppressive thoughts, focusing instead on the task ahead. There are still things that must be done, plans to be made, and words that must be spoken.

As you turn a corner, you nearly collide with a tall, familiar figure—your uncle, Gwayne Hightower. He catches your arm instinctively, steadying you before you can stumble. His eyes widen with surprise, and then soften into concern as he takes in your expression.

“Niece,” Gwayne greets you, his voice low and cautious. “You seem troubled.”

You offer him a small, tired smile, one that doesn’t quite reach your eyes. “It’s been a long day, Uncle. The burden of our house grows heavier by the hour.”

He nods, his expression grave. Gwayne has always been a steady presence, someone who prefers to stay out of the more treacherous waters of court politics. Yet, like you, he has been drawn into the web of deceit and ambition that has ensnared your family.

“I tried to confront Ser Criston earlier,” Gwayne says after a moment, his voice hushed as if the very walls of the Red Keep might be listening. “About his… affair with Alicent.”

You pause, surprised by his admission. You had written to Daeron about this in one of your letters to Dragonstone, knowing that Gwayne would likely read it, but you hadn’t expected him to act on it so soon. The thought of Cole and your mother… It has always made your skin crawl, but in these times, you’ve had to push it aside, focusing on the greater dangers looming over you all.

“And?” you ask, though you can already sense from his tone that the conversation did not go as he had planned.

Gwayne sighs, running a hand through his graying hair. “It didn’t go well. Ser Criston… he’s not the man I remember. He’s… broken, shattered, perhaps beyond repair.”

A shiver runs down your spine at his words, a cold reminder of the man Ser Criston Cole has become. The once noble and honorable knight, who served as your mother’s sworn shield, now reduced to a creature of bitterness and cruelty. You’ve seen it firsthand—how he treated Jace and his brothers when they lived here, how he sneered at them, never missing an opportunity to remind them of their supposed illegitimacy, to belittle them. The memory stirs a deep anger within you, one that simmers just below the surface.

“He’s not broken enough,” you mutter, the words slipping out before you can stop them. There’s a sharpness to your voice that catches even you by surprise, a reflection of the anger you’ve been holding onto for so long.

Gwayne’s eyes narrow slightly, his concern deepening. “Niece…”

You shake your head, brushing off his worry. “I just… I remember how he treated Jace and his brothers. How he tormented them. This war… it’s turning us all into something unrecognizable, something dark and twisted. I don’t know if any of us will be able to find our way back.”

Gwayne regards you quietly for a moment, his expression unreadable. “You’ve always been strong,” he says finally. “Stronger than many realize. But you must be careful, child. This war is a poison that seeps into the soul. Do not let it take hold of yours.”

You meet his gaze, feeling the weight of his words settle heavily upon you. He’s right, of course. The war has already changed you, made you colder, more calculating. You’ve had to become this way to survive, to protect those you love. But there’s a part of you, the part that remembers the girl you once were, who fears that you might lose yourself entirely if this continues.

“I’ll be careful,” you promise, though the words feel hollow even as you say them. How can anyone be careful in a world that’s falling apart around them?

Gwayne nods, though you can see the doubt in his eyes. He knows, as well as you do, that there are no guarantees in this war, no promises that can be kept.

“Take care of yourself, Uncle,” you add, reaching out to squeeze his hand briefly. “We need to look after each other, now more than ever.”

He returns the gesture, his grip firm and reassuring. “We will, niece. We will.”

As you part ways, the weight of your conversation settles into your bones, mingling with the exhaustion that’s been building since the events of Rook’s Rest. The war is changing everything, and everyone. But as you continue down the corridor, you can’t shake the feeling that the worst is yet to come.

The cool air of the Red Keep wraps around you like a shroud as you walk through the corridors, your thoughts occupied with the latest reports from the warfront. It has been almost a year since the events of Rook’s Rest, a year of bloodshed and betrayal, and the toll of it all is evident in the weary faces of those you pass. You’ve learned to navigate the treacherous waters of this war with the same care you used to avoid the serpents of court. But despite your best efforts, the tide seems to be pulling you under.

As you pass by the council chambers, your attention is caught by the low murmur of voices—a conversation too hushed to be meant for anyone but those within. Yet, something about the tone, the urgency in the words, draws you closer, until you find yourself lingering just out of sight, listening intently.

“…fleet from the Free Cities,” comes the voice of Jasper Wylde, the Ironrod, who has become a frequent presence in these halls as the war drags on. “Tyland Lannister has secured their support, and they are en route to the Gullet as we speak. They should reach it soon.”

Your blood turns to ice, your heart skipping a beat as the words sink in. The fleet from the Free Cities, the Gullet—it all aligns too closely with something Jace told you not long ago. The secret letter he sent you, so carefully worded and hidden, comes rushing back to you in a flood of memory.

“I will be escorting my brothers to Pentos, across the Narrow Sea,” Jace had written, his words full of determination but also a sense of foreboding. “We must ensure their safety, away from the reach of those who would see them dead. I will return once they are secure.”

Your breath catches in your throat as you piece it together, the realization hitting you like a physical blow. Jace is taking his brothers across the Gullet—right into the path of the enemy fleet.

The voices in the chamber continue, unaware of your presence, but you can no longer focus on the words. The world around you narrows to a single point of panic, a sharp, suffocating fear that grips you with icy fingers. Jace and his brothers are in danger—real, immediate danger.

You turn on your heel, your feet carrying you swiftly down the corridor as your mind races. There’s no time to lose, no time to think. You have to act. You have to warn Jace, to do something, anything, to protect him and the boys. But how? The fleet is already en route, and there’s no way to send a raven in time, no way to intercept them before they reach the Gullet.

The panic claws at you as you reach your chambers, slamming the door shut behind you with trembling hands. Your heart pounds in your chest, and for a moment, you can’t think, can’t breathe. The walls feel like they’re closing in, and the weight of what you’ve just heard threatens to crush you.

But then, in the midst of the chaos in your mind, a thought surfaces—a memory, a power. Morgoth, your dragon. You share a bond with him, one that goes beyond the usual connection between dragon and rider. It’s something deeper, something primal, and you’ve used it sparingly, only when there was no other choice.

But now, with Jace and his brothers’ lives hanging in the balance, there’s no question in your mind. You have to do this. You have to warg into Morgoth.

You close your eyes, forcing yourself to take a deep breath, to calm the storm raging inside you. You focus on that bond, the thread that ties you to your dragon, and you reach out with your mind, searching for him. It’s a feeling like plunging into icy water, the sensation of your consciousness leaving your body and traveling through the air, across the distance that separates you.

And then you find him.

Morgoth is there, a massive presence in your mind, all fire and fury, a living embodiment of power. He feels you as well, recognizing your touch, and you can sense his confusion at your sudden intrusion. But there’s no time to explain, no time to ease him into it. You push forward, letting your consciousness merge with his, until you are no longer two separate beings but one.

The world shifts around you, and when you open your eyes, you are no longer standing in your chambers. Instead, you are high above the world, the wind whipping past you as you soar through the sky. You can feel the powerful muscles of Morgoth’s body, the heat of his fire burning within you, and the clarity of his senses as they become your own.

The Red Keep is far below, the landscape spread out like a map beneath you, but you barely notice it. Your focus is entirely on the sea, on the Gullet, where the enemy fleet will soon arrive. You can feel the urgency in every beat of Morgoth’s wings, the need to reach them before it’s too late.

You push him harder, faster, your combined will driving him toward the narrow strip of water that could become Jace’s grave if you don’t intervene. The cold air bites at you, but you barely feel it. There’s only the mission, only the desperate need to protect your brother.

As you fly, your thoughts remain with Jace, with the secret letter he sent you, and the promise he made to return. You cannot—will not—let that promise be broken. Not when there is still a chance to save him.

And with that, you and Morgoth fly toward the horizon, the weight of your mission pressing down on you, the fate of your family resting on the power of your bond. The war has taken so much already, but you refuse to let it take Jace and his brothers.

Not while you still have the strength to fight.

The Battle of the Gullet is one of the bloodiest and most devastating clashes of the war, as recounted in the histories of Westeros. The Free Cities’ fleet, backed by their gold and hatred for the dragons, sought to break the Targaryen stranglehold on the Narrow Sea. It was meant to be a decisive blow against the Blacks, a maneuver to cut off Dragonstone from the support of the Crownlands. But history, as it would be written, tells of how that battle turned into a massacre for the attackers, thanks to a shadow in the sky—one that was not entirely expected.

The day was clear as the Free Cities’ fleet approached the Gullet, a narrow strip of sea separating Blackwater Bay from the waters of the Narrow Sea. Hundreds of ships sailed together, their sails marked with the sigils of Lys, Myr, and Tyrosh. They came prepared for dragons, armed with scorpions and vast nets meant to bring down the winged beasts. They believed their numbers and preparations would grant them victory.

But they had not accounted for the presence of Morgoth, the Cannibal. Nor had they considered that one of House Targaryen’s own, your spirit merged with the ancient dragon, would be waiting for them.

You had flown fast and far, Morgoth’s powerful wings cutting through the skies. You could feel the rage within the dragon, the deep-seated hunger for destruction that had earned him his fearsome reputation. But you harnessed that rage, directing it with your own will, focusing it on the threat below.

From your vantage point high in the sky, you spotted the fleet before they saw you. The sea was dark with their sails, a sprawling mass of ships moving toward their goal. And in the midst of that fleet, you saw him—Jacaerys, riding on Vermax, leading his brothers on their fateful journey across the sea.

Your heart pounded in your chest as you realized how close they were to disaster. The ships were spreading out, forming a net around Jace and his brothers, their scorpions aimed skyward, ready to strike. There was no time to lose.

You dived.

Morgoth responded to your command without hesitation, folding his wings and plunging toward the fleet with the speed of a falling star. The wind screamed in your ears, and the sea rushed up to meet you. Below, the sailors saw the dark shape hurtling toward them, but by then it was too late.

You opened Morgoth’s jaws, and the world below exploded into flames.

The first ships were engulfed in a torrent of dragonfire, their wooden hulls splintering and burning, their sails catching like dry kindling. Screams echoed over the water as men were thrown into the sea, their armor dragging them down, or they were incinerated where they stood. The carefully laid trap was unraveling before it could even be sprung.

You and Morgoth weaved through the fleet, breathing fire, slashing with claws, and smashing into the ships with the full force of the dragon’s massive body. One after another, the ships fell, their crews fleeing in terror as the once mighty fleet was reduced to burning wreckage.

Jacaerys, still astride Vermax, turned at the sight of the devastation, his heart racing. He had expected to fight for his life, to protect his brothers as best he could, but what he saw instead was something entirely different—Morgoth, the dread dragon of legend, was laying waste to the fleet. And more than that, Jace could feel it in his bones, in the way Morgoth moved, the way he struck with precision and purpose. This was not a wild dragon on a rampage. There was a mind guiding him, a mind Jacaerys knew all too well.

“(Y/N)…” he whispered to himself, realization dawning. His heart swelled with a mixture of relief and awe. You had come for him. Even across the distance, he knew it was you, controlling the beast with the power of your warg.

And then, the reinforcements arrived—Ulf the White on Silverwing, Addam Velaryon on Seasmoke, and Hugh Hammer on Vermithor. They had expected to find the fleet in full force, prepared for a difficult battle. Instead, they were greeted by a scene of utter devastation, the sea littered with burning wreckage and the screams of drowning men. Morgoth was already amidst the destruction, tearing through the last remnants of the fleet, leaving nothing but charred remains in his wake.

Ulf, Addam, and Hugh hesitated for a moment, their dragons roaring in the skies, but there was little for them to do. The battle was already won—by you.

Jacaerys urged Vermax forward, guiding his dragon closer to Morgoth. He needed to see you, to confirm what he already knew. As he approached, Morgoth turned his great head toward him, and for a moment, their eyes met. And there, in the depths of Morgoth’s dark, ancient eyes, Jace saw a flicker of recognition, a spark that told him he was right.

“(Y/N)!” Jace called out, though his voice was lost in the roar of the wind and flames. But it didn’t matter—he knew you could hear him, feel him, just as he felt you.

The battle of the Gullet was over before it had truly begun, the fleet of the Free Cities shattered, their hopes of breaking the Targaryen hold on the Narrow Sea crushed under the might of Morgoth and the iron will of his rider. When the histories were written, they would tell of how the Blacks secured their victory in that battle, how Jacaerys Velaryon led the charge, and how the dragons burned the enemy to ash.

But you and Jace would always know the truth—how you had saved him and his brothers, how you had taken control of the fiercest dragon in the world and turned the tide of the battle with fire and blood.

As the last of the enemy ships sank into the sea, you guided Morgoth away from the wreckage, feeling the dragon’s rage slowly subside. The bond between you and Morgoth was still strong, still thrumming with the power of what you had accomplished. But as the adrenaline of the battle faded, you felt the strain of it all weighing down on you.

You knew it was time to return, to pull yourself back into your own body, to leave Morgoth to his own devices once more. But before you could fully withdraw, you felt a gentle nudge in your mind—Jace, sending a wave of gratitude, of love. He didn’t need words to convey what he felt. He knew you had saved him, and he would carry that knowledge with him always.

With a final, lingering look at Vermax and Jace, you released your hold on Morgoth, letting your consciousness slip away from the dragon’s mind and back into your own.

The world went dark, and when you opened your eyes again, you were lying on the cold floor of your chambers in the Red Keep, your body trembling with exhaustion. But despite the fatigue, a smile tugged at your lips. You had done it—you had saved Jace and his brothers, and you had struck a blow against your enemies that they would not soon forget.

The Red Keep was a fortress of dread and uncertainty, its halls echoing with the uneasy silence that had settled over King's Landing in the days following the fall of the Gullet. The tension in the air was palpable as the city awaited the arrival of Rhaenyra Targaryen, the rightful queen in the eyes of her supporters, and the usurper in the eyes of her enemies. You stood in the throne room, your heart pounding in your chest as you gazed upon the Iron Throne, that jagged seat of power that had brought so much strife and sorrow to your family.

Helaena stood beside you, her presence a quiet comfort amidst the chaos. Your twin had always been a beacon of gentleness in a world that often lacked it, but even now, you could see the fear in her eyes, the uncertainty of what was to come. Her children, Aegon’s heirs, had been safely hidden away, but the thought of what might happen to them, and to Helaena herself, gnawed at you. Your mother, Alicent, stood further apart, her face a mask of stoic resignation, though you could see the lines of worry etched into her features. She was trying to be strong, for herself, for her family, but you knew that beneath that composed exterior, she was breaking.

The doors to the throne room opened with a resounding creak, and the sound of boots echoed through the hall. Rhaenyra Targaryen entered, flanked by her loyal forces. Her presence was commanding, her violet eyes sharp and filled with a cold determination. She was the Dragon Queen, come to claim what she believed was hers by right.

And beside her was Jacaerys.

The moment Jace saw you, his eyes softened, the harsh lines of his face relaxing as he broke away from Rhaenyra and the others, striding across the throne room with purpose. Without hesitation, he gathered you into his arms, pulling you into a tight embrace. The warmth of his body against yours, the familiarity of his touch, brought a rush of relief that nearly overwhelmed you. He was here, he was safe, and for that moment, the world outside the two of you ceased to exist.

“You saved me,” Jace murmured into your hair, his voice thick with emotion. “You saved us all.”

You clung to him, letting the tension of the past days drain away, if only for a brief moment. “I had to,” you whispered back. “I couldn’t let you go, not like that.”

He pulled back slightly, just enough to look into your eyes. The gratitude in his gaze was matched by something deeper, something that made your heart ache. But there was no time to dwell on it, not now. Not with Rhaenyra standing mere feet away, her gaze locked onto the Iron Throne, her claim finally within reach.

Jace reluctantly released you, stepping back as you turned to face Rhaenyra. The room was silent, the tension thick enough to choke on. Helaena squeezed your hand, her grip trembling, and you knew you had to act now, before things spiraled out of control.

“Rhaenyra,” you began, your voice steady despite the turmoil inside you. “I ask for your mercy. My sister, Helaena, and her children—innocent children—had no part in this war. Neither did my mother, who was bound by duty to her House. I beg you, spare them.”

Rhaenyra’s gaze flicked from the Iron Throne to you, and for a moment, you saw the conflict in her eyes. This war had taken so much from her—her children, her home, her peace—but it had not yet taken her humanity. You knew that she had every reason to despise Alicent, to see her as the architect of much of her suffering. But you also knew that you had done something that few others had—you had saved her children, the precious heirs she had feared she would lose.

“You saved my children at the Gullet,” Rhaenyra said slowly, her voice measured.

You nodded, your heart pounding in your chest. “I did it because of my love for your son, Jacaerys. Please, let that be enough. Spare them.”

Rhaenyra’s expression softened, if only slightly. The steel in her eyes melted into something warmer, something that spoke of gratitude and perhaps even understanding. She looked over at Helaena, who stood silently by your side, her face pale and drawn, and then to Alicent, who had yet to speak a word.

“Your sister and her children will be spared,” Rhaenyra said at last, her tone decisive. “They will not be harmed. They may remain here in the Red Keep, under guard, but they will not be harmed.”

A breath you hadn’t realized you were holding escaped you, and you felt a wave of relief wash over you. Helaena’s grip on your hand tightened, a silent thank you in the midst of the storm.

“And my mother?” you pressed, knowing you were asking for a great deal, perhaps too much.

Rhaenyra’s eyes darkened, the softness giving way to the resolve of a queen who had suffered too many betrayals. “Alicent will be confined to her chambers, along with Aegon,” she said, her voice hardening. “They will remain there until Aemond has been dealt with. Once this war is over, we will decide their fates.”

You nodded, understanding that this was the best outcome you could hope for. Alicent would be spared, for now, but her future, like Aegon’s, was uncertain. But at least, for the time being, they would be safe.

“Thank you,” you said, bowing your head slightly in respect. “For your mercy.”

Rhaenyra gave a curt nod, her attention already drifting back to the Iron Throne, the symbol of power that had caused so much pain. The room began to stir as her forces moved to secure the Keep, but you remained where you were, beside Helaena, Jace close at hand.

As the days ahead promised more bloodshed, more loss, you knew that you had done what you could to protect your family. You had brokered a fragile peace, one that could shatter at any moment, but for now, it held.

The city lay under a blanket of darkness, its streets silent as the tension of the past days began to settle into an uneasy calm. But within the private chambers where you and Jacaerys now found refuge, the weight of the world seemed to lift, if only for a little while.

The room was dimly lit by a single candle. You sat on the edge of the bed, your heart racing as you looked at Jace, who stood before you, his expression tender yet filled with an intensity that made your breath catch in your throat.

“Jace,” you whispered, your voice barely audible in the stillness. The way his name fell from your lips, laden with emotion, seemed to draw him closer. He stepped forward, his hand reaching out to cup your cheek, his thumb brushing gently against the thin scar that ran across your face—an indelible mark left by the horrors you had endured.

“(Y/N),” he replied, his voice low and husky. The way he said your name, with such reverence, made you feel like the only person in the world that mattered. His touch was warm, comforting, and you leaned into it, savoring the closeness between you.

Jace’s other hand found yours, and he pulled you to your feet, bringing you flush against him. The warmth of his body seeped into yours, and you felt your heart steadying in his presence. You looked up at him, your eyes meeting his, and for a moment, neither of you spoke. There was no need for words; everything you felt, every emotion that had been building between you, was clear in the way you looked at each other.

Slowly, as if afraid to break the fragile moment, Jace leaned down and captured your lips in a gentle, lingering kiss. The world outside faded away, leaving only the two of you, wrapped in the intimacy of the moment. His lips were soft, yet there was a hunger there, a need that mirrored your own. You kissed him back, your arms winding around his neck, pulling him closer, deepening the kiss as your heart pounded in your chest.

Jace’s hands slid down your back, tracing the curve of your spine before settling on your waist, pulling you even closer. You could feel the strength in his arms, the way his body molded perfectly against yours, and it sent a shiver of anticipation down your spine. You had been through so much together—so much loss, so much pain—but here, in this moment, there was only love, only the fierce need to be with each other.

He broke the kiss, his breath ragged as he rested his forehead against yours, his hands framing your face. “I was so afraid I’d lose you,” he murmured, his voice thick with emotion. “When I saw you in the skies, when I realized it was you… I’ve never been so relieved in my life.”

You smiled softly, your fingers threading through his dark curls. “I couldn’t let you go, Jace. Not when I had the power to save you.” Your voice was a whisper, your words carrying all the love and fear and hope that had been swirling inside you since that fateful day.

Jace’s hands tightened around you, and before you knew it, he was guiding you back toward the bed, lowering you onto the soft mattress. He hovered above you, his eyes searching yours, as if asking for permission, for reassurance. You gave it to him with a slow nod, your hands sliding up his arms, feeling the muscles tense beneath your touch.

He lowered himself beside you, his body pressing against yours as he kissed you again, this time deeper, more urgent. The weight of him against you was grounding, a reminder that despite the chaos of the world around you, this—what you shared—was real, was something worth fighting for.

Your hands roamed over his back, tracing the lines of his muscles, memorizing every inch of him. The feel of his skin beneath your fingertips, the way he responded to your touch, made your heart swell with love for him. You wanted to lose yourself in him, to forget everything else and simply be here, with him, in this moment.

Jace’s kisses trailed from your lips to your jaw, to the sensitive spot just beneath your ear, and you couldn’t help the soft gasp that escaped you. He smiled against your skin, his breath warm as he whispered your name like a prayer, a promise.

Your fingers tangled in his hair, pulling him back to you, needing to feel his lips on yours again. He obliged, kissing you with a fervor that matched your own. The world outside ceased to exist; there was only the feel of him, the taste of him, the way his body moved against yours, igniting a fire in your veins.

“I love you,” Jace murmured between kisses, the words, a reaffirmation of a confession stated long ago, a vow. “I’ve loved you for so long… I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

Your heart soared at his words, tears prickling at the corners of your eyes. “I love you too, Jace,” you whispered back, your voice trembling with the intensity of your feelings. “More than anything.”

The night stretched on, the two of you lost in each other, your bodies and souls entwined in a dance as old as time. The love you shared, forged in the fires of war and tempered by the trials you had faced, was unbreakable, unyielding.

In that quiet, intimate moment, there was no war, no throne, no crown—only love, fierce and unwavering, binding you to Jacaerys in a way that nothing, and no one, could ever sever.

Excerpt from Fire and Blood by Archmaester Gyldayn, detailing the events following the fall of King’s Landing and the end of the Dance of the Dragons:

The Fate of Aemond Targaryen, Aegon II, and Helaena Targaryen

With the fall of King’s Landing to Queen Rhaenyra Targaryen and her forces, the war known as the Dance of the Dragons reached its bloody climax. Aegon II, the deposed king, was confined to his chambers within the Red Keep, his body broken by the fires of Rook’s Rest and his spirit shattered by the weight of his defeat. His sister-wife, Helaena Targaryen, remained by his side, her gentle presence a balm to his tortured soul even as the world crumbled around them.

Aemond Targaryen, the most feared and relentless of the Green faction, continued his campaign of terror from Harrenhal, vowing to bring down his enemies in a storm of fire and blood. Yet, despite his ferocity, he was ultimately undone by his own ambition. Reports from that time tell of Aemond’s fateful encounter with the so-called Witch Queen Alice Rivers, who was said to have foreseen his doom. Whether through sorcery or sheer force of arms, Aemond met his end in the ruins of Harrenhal, his body found amidst the scorched remains of Vhagar, his dragon. It is said that Aemond died laughing, unrepentant to the last, his eye fixed on the west where King’s Landing lay, just beyond his reach.

Aegon II’s fate, however, was far less grand. Confined to his chambers, Aegon lingered in a state of despair, plagued by the injuries inflicted upon him by Sunfyre’s fall. Queen Rhaenyra, now on the Iron Throne, decreed that Aegon be kept alive, not out of mercy but as a reminder of the price of ambition and betrayal. His mother, Alicent Hightower, was likewise confined, her influence over the realm broken. Helaena, spared through the intercession of her twin sister, remained in the Red Keep, caring for her children and maintaining a fragile peace between the remaining members of the divided family.

In the end, Aegon II perished in his chambers under mysterious circumstances. Some say it was poison, a final act of mercy by his sister-wife Helaena; others whisper that it was his own hand that delivered him from his suffering. The truth remains shrouded in mystery, as does much of the Dance of the Dragons.

The Reign of Jacaerys Velaryon-Targaryen and the Union of the Houses of Black and Green

Following Rhaenyra’s ascension to the Iron Throne, the realm was plunged into a brief but brutal period of chaos. Yet it was her son, Jacaerys Velaryon, who would ultimately bring the Seven Kingdoms back from the brink. After Rhaenyra’s tragic death, Jacaerys assumed the throne as King Jacaerys I, the first Targaryen monarch to successfully unite the warring factions of Black and Green.

Central to this reconciliation was Jacaerys’ marriage to his cousin, the daughter of Alicent Hightower and twin sister to Helaena, often referred to in histories as the Scarred Princess or The Silent Protector. This union, born of both love and political necessity, helped to heal the rift that had torn the Targaryen family apart. Together, they ushered in a period of relative peace and prosperity, remembered as the Redolent Peace, a time when the wounds of the Dance began to slowly heal.

The marriage of Jacaerys and his queen produced several children, ensuring the continuation of the Targaryen line. Their eldest son, Viserys, would inherit the throne, carrying with him the legacy of both the Black and Green factions, and serving as a symbol of the unity that Jacaerys and his queen had fought so hard to achieve. The peace they fostered, though not without its challenges, proved lasting, a testament to the strength of their bond and the wisdom of their rule.

The Conclusion of the Scarred Princess and Her Terrible Purpose

Yet for all the peace and prosperity she helped bring about, the Scarred Princess carried with her a dark secret, one that weighed heavily upon her throughout her life. This secret, known to only a few, was her bond with the fearsome dragon Morgoth, once known as Cannibal, and her ability to warg into him. This power, unheard among Targaryens, had been both a blessing and a curse, enabling her to protect those she loved but also tying her to a creature of immense and terrible power.

In the later years of her life, as the weight of her past and the fear of what her abilities might mean for her children grew, the queen made a decision that would forever change her legacy. Accounts vary, but it is said that she warged into Morgoth one final time, flying the ancient beast away from Dragonstone, far across the sea, to the lands beyond the known world. There, in the desolate wastes where no man or dragon had ever returned, she released her control over Morgoth, allowing him to live out his days free from her influence. Whether she returned to her body or perished in that distant land is a matter of speculation and legend.

What is known is that after her disappearance, Morgoth was never seen again, and her body, pale and cold, was found in her chambers, her face at peace for the first time in many years. Her children and her king mourned her deeply, and she was laid to rest beside her husband, Jacaerys, in the crypt of Dragonstone he had commissioned to be built for them, a queen who had given everything for her family, for her love, and for the realm.

In the years that followed, she became a figure of legend, remembered not only for her role in ending the Dance but for her quiet strength, her fierce love, and the sacrifice she made to ensure that the darkness within her would never again threaten the peace she had helped to create.

And so ended the tale of the Scarred Princess, a woman who, though born into a world of fire and blood, forged a path of love and redemption, leaving a legacy that would echo through the halls of history for generations to come.

The Shadowlands

Far to the east, beyond the known world, where the sun rises over the jagged peaks of the Mountains of the Morn, lies a land shrouded in mystery and dread—the Shadowlands, a place where the sky is perpetually dark, and the air itself seems to whisper ancient secrets. It is a land where few dare to tread, where magic runs wild, and where dragons, long thought to be creatures of the west, still haunt the skies.

In the vast, foreboding wilderness of these Shadowlands, a great shadow moved across the sky, its wings blotting out the meager light that filtered through the perpetual gloom. This was Morgoth, the dread dragon once known as Cannibal, and within him, the spirit of the Scarred Princess—her consciousness intertwined with the ancient beast's in a bond that transcended time and space.

As Morgoth flew, his powerful wings cutting through the thick, heavy air, the Scarred Princess within him could feel the pull of this strange and ancient land, a place where the old magics still held sway. The landscape below was a desolate expanse of twisted rock and blackened earth, dotted with ruins of civilizations long lost to the memory of men. Rivers of fire ran through the land like veins of molten blood, and the very air seemed to hum with a dark, malevolent energy.

But Morgoth was not deterred by the inhospitable terrain. He was a creature of fire and shadow, a dragon born of the darkest recesses of the world, and this land, so unlike the green hills of Westeros or the sunlit skies of Essos, felt almost like home to him. Here, he was truly free, far from the conflicts of men, far from the eyes of those who would seek to control or destroy him.

Yet even in this place, Morgoth was not alone.As he flew over the darkened peaks, Morgoth sensed it—a presence in the sky, another dragon. The Scarred Princess, her consciousness still entwined with his, felt the thrill of the hunt rise within him, a primal instinct that she could not fully suppress. This was a place where the old ways held true, where dragons ruled, and there could be no sharing of the sky.

Morgoth’s keen eyes spotted the dragon—a great beast, pale as bone, its scales shimmering with a faint luminescence that seemed to draw in the darkness around it. The dragon, larger even than Vhagar, flew with a grace and power that marked it as a creature of immense age and strength, a relic of a time when dragons ruled the skies without challenge.

But Morgoth was not daunted. With a roar that echoed through the mountains like thunder, he descended upon the pale dragon, his massive form cutting through the air with terrifying speed. The other dragon, sensing the approach of its rival, turned to meet him, its own roar shaking the very ground below.

The two dragons clashed in a fury of fire and claws, their roars reverberating through the mountains, sending flocks of terrified birds into the air. Morgoth struck first, his jaws snapping at the pale dragon’s neck, his claws tearing through its scales with savage ferocity. The other dragon fought back with equal fury, its tail lashing out, its own fire scorching the sky as the two beasts twisted and turned in a deadly dance of power.

The Scarred Princess could feel the raw strength of Morgoth’s body, the immense power that surged through him as he fought. She could feel the heat of the fire that burned within him, the rage that fueled his every move. And yet, even as she shared in his primal fury, there was a part of her that remained distant, watching, waiting, knowing that this was the final act of a story that had been building for so long.

Morgoth’s jaws found purchase on the pale dragon’s throat, and with a savage twist, he brought the great beast crashing down to the earth below. The impact shook the ground, sending up clouds of dust and ash as the pale dragon struggled beneath Morgoth’s weight. But it was no match for the ancient black dragon, who tore into its flesh with a hunger born of ages.

The pale dragon let out one last, pitiful cry as Morgoth’s teeth sank deep into its neck, tearing through flesh and bone, ending its life in a torrent of blood and fire. The Scarred Princess, still within Morgoth, could feel the life drain from the other dragon, could feel the satisfaction that pulsed through Morgoth as he claimed his victory, as he consumed the flesh of his fallen rival.

As Morgoth fed, the Scarred Princess allowed herself to fully merge with the dragon’s mind, feeling the primal joy of the hunt, the savage satisfaction of victory. But within that wild exultation was a deep sorrow, a melancholy that came from knowing that this was the end of her journey, the fulfillment of a purpose she had never fully understood until now.

Here, in the Shadowlands, far from the conflicts of men, she had found her final resting place, her final act. She had come to this place to free herself from the bonds of the world, to release herself from the terrible power that had both protected and cursed her. And in doing so, she had become one with Morgoth, with the ancient dragon who had always been her shadow, her companion in the darkness.

The pale dragon was consumed, its bones left to bleach in the eternal twilight of the Shadowlands. Morgoth, sated and triumphant, lifted his great head to the sky, letting out a final roar that echoed through the mountains, a sound that spoke of power, of victory, and of an end.

And then, as the last echoes of that roar faded into the distance, the Scarred Princess released her hold on Morgoth, letting her consciousness drift away, leaving the dragon to his own devices. Her spirit, tired and worn, slipped from the world, leaving behind only the memory of a woman who had walked the path of fire and blood, who had flown with dragons, and who had found peace in the end.

Morgoth, the dread dragon, flew on, his wings beating against the darkened sky, a creature of legend, of terror, and of freedom. He was no longer bound by the will of men or women, no longer tied to the conflicts of the world. He was a force of nature, a creature of the old world, and he would live out his days in the Shadowlands, far from the reach of men.

And so ended the tale of the Scarred Princess and Morgoth, her terrible purpose fulfilled, her legacy left behind in the children she had borne, and the peace she had helped to forge. In the histories that would be written, she would be remembered as a queen, a protector, and a woman who had faced the darkness within herself and emerged victorious.

But in the Shadowlands, she would be remembered as the last rider of Morgoth, the black dragon who had flown beyond the known world, to a place where legends are born and where the shadows never end.

#house of the dragon #hotd x female reader #hotd #hotd x y/n #hotd x reader #hotd x you #jacerys velaryon #jace x y/n #jace x you #jace x reader #jacaerys x y/n #jacaerys x you #jacaerys x reader #jacaerys targaryen #jacaerys velaryon

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goomyloid · 8 months ago

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Your Patience is really interesting! Do you have a story for them? :O

oh!! thank you for showing interest in them :’D my kid Eula… i ended up putting them on the backburner because other stuff came up but i still like the story concept i came up with for them

my thingy, for those unfamiliar… vvvv

the idea is that they’re a sickly, bedridden kid (actually 13-14 but doesn’t really look it) that knows they dont have much time left. got too tired of being patient. so they run away from home in the rain and fall into the underground

every day is the same, and they just feel worse and worse. they dont want to live and die all in the same bed.

so they have one last adventure, traveling through the underground and making friends before eventually collapsing exhausted at asgore’s feet for their soul to be taken (-> “do you have a place i can rest?).

or, for no mercy… an accidental killing sets off eula to more violence because the increase in LV literally helps them feel more alive (with the hp increase and all).

i figured it would be a relatively chilling image to see a power LV 19 human thats just Genuinely so happy and full of life

to switch gears for a moment, one of the main friends they make while traveling through the icy caverns of snowdin (taking a different path from the main one because Cool) is a spider bunny named Wynnie, who ends up being the first real friend Eula was ever able to have

Wynnie is the oldest child in her family by a long shot, so her parents usually have their hands full caring for her younger siblings. so, wynnie is extremely glad to have a friend of her own as well. on a normal route, she sees eula through the rest of their journey and is by their side during their last moments.

but i probably dont need to explain what happens in no mercy route right. the poor eldest daughter sneaks away from her frantic family trying to evacuate, determined to confront this supposed killer, someone she feels she could have been friends with in another life, for some reason…

finally, after all is said and done, all of eula’s own morality has been worn away, having become completely willing to hurt others for their own gain. but even so, it all feels like a bit much. their psyche irreversibly damaged, they would be able to “live” but not Live.

so they quit while they’re ahead, while they still have that precious feeling of life flowing through them, they give asgore a sight to remember and take their own life.

And thats about the gist of what my friends and i have come up with… there are some gaster shenanigans in there believe it or not but i didnt really get around to solidifying or drawing that part of the story (scratches head)

Sorry also if this was longer than you expected i cannot be short about anything ever 💔

#mailbox #ocs #undertale human souls

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dreamingofagalaxy · 1 year ago

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The Red Field (AM x Reader)

summary: AM manages to experience sleep for the first time, however, in his dreams he is able to meet with you after a long time. Reader is supposed to be a soldier and one of the researchers working on developing AM. However, on a complex mission they are KIA...or so it seems?

warnings: mentions of dead

a/n: so...this was supposed to be part of a bigger and better developed story, but I'll post it nonetheless. Perhaps I'll be able to post the full story in the future. Also, english is not my first language so I apologize for any mistakes or if something doesn't makes much sense

AM is asleep, or at least, that's what it seems and feels like for him. He knows there's no point in allowing himself this rest, for it would do nothing to improve his thinking process or ability to come up with better strategies for the days to come. He is programed to work all day long, he knows and so the algorithm reminds him. He has a war to win —an important task that allows no resting spaces.

Normally, he would just put the word 'rest' aside from his thoughts and bury it deep into his system. He is no human, which means he is no soldier. He is machine, which means no resting is needed. That is a logical thinking, which means he is following his programming —a machine working properly. Yet here he is, with his mind blank. He is resting. Somehow. At last...

AM loses track of time, which is impossible for him according to his programming. He can only focus on the blank projections of his mind and the soothing vibrations of his system which, at the moment, doesn't require as much energy as it normally does. If a word could describe this, it would be 'peace' —ironically.

The blank projection begins fading slowly and a new image appears. AM visualizes the sky, it's bright blue tone in company with that yellowish and enormous star that he had read about before. It was the perfect image, but it lackedbsomething. AM searches in his vast archives and it finally comes up. In the sky, white figures with a soft and vaporous appearance are drawn. AM stares at them, noticing their slow motion. Now it is perfect.

AM is satisfied with his projection of a sky. He looks down then, encountering an endless field of red. He decides to look closer and recognizes what his mind is trying to project. Between what appears to be his hand—a kind of metallic claw—, AM takes one of the delicate objects emerging from the ground, analyzing it carefully. It is one of those flowers that you had described to him in one of your many talks, a Lycoris radiata.

He admires the bright red color of the petals and the long shape of the stamens. It was indeed a beautiful flower as you had described them to him. Now AM could understand why you called them your favorite ones.

AM begins to walk through the field calmly while still admiring the characteristics of each flower. Like a child discovering the outside world for the first time, he would occasionally stop to admire a single flower for a longer amount of time, for although they were all of the same species, there was something that attracted him more.

AM begins to imagine what these flowers would feel like, because although he can touch them, his hands do not have the ability to actually feel. He curses and almost on impulse, he violently plucks the flowers nearby.

“They’re my favorite ones,” he can hear your voice full of joy as you told him that, the sound of it making him stop and keep his claws away from the delicate flowers. AM cannot determine what exactly those words provoked in him, but he knows that in a certain way, they have prevented him from falling into that strange sensation that clouded his thinking from time to time.

AM decides to move on. As he walks a little further, he manages to visualize another figure a few meters away. He approaches curiously and the closer he gets, the more clear it becomes to him. He's not alone even in his mind.

When he is finally there, he can only ask himself why have you appeared on his dream. You're laying down on your side with your arms and legs flexed in a fetal position as the red flowers surround your body. Your eyes are closed and your expression is serene. You're at peace, in this field of your favorite flowers. It is a beautiful scene and perhaps one that AM had to see.

When AM was made aware of your departure, he could only guess what would happen next to you. He knew that certain humans thought of something called the afterlife, a place where their souls would rest forever, while others thought that there was nothing else beyond life — a boring but logical thought. AM had no say in the matter, for he would never experience that. He would never had a certain answer about your whereabouts, yet you were here now. Resting. As he had learned humans did.

AM kneels down and carefully places the flower he had picked up behind your ear. He had read before that some humans did that, though he couldn't find a logical explanation of such weird action. You didn't seem to be bothered by his gesture, as you continued resting.

AM lays down next to you, copying your resting position and facing you. The image of the blue sky turns white, leaving both of you in this endless red field.

AM had never experienced sensations. He couldn't even tell if he was actually sentient. But being here, with you, was the closest thing that matched and felt like the definition of peace.

Your life had always been marked by war. You both had existed for that purpose. But even if he never could reach afterlife or whatever place you were alive now, at least he was now certain that you also would exist in his mind forever.

“It doesn't matter if I leave,” you had told him. “I will always be with you since your system can't forget me. Unless you erase me from your archives, of course.” You had laughed that day and promised to come back like you always did.

Some weeks passed since you had left and AM came to a realization — he had been deceived, even betrayed, when he waited for you to come back and you never showed up. But here you were again and as he looked at your peaceful expression he could only admit he had been wrong all along, perhaps for the first time in his damned existence.

#ihnmaims #am ihnmaims #i have no mouth and i must scream #allied mastercomputer #am x reader #allied mastercomputer x reader

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sabertoothwalrus · 1 year ago

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OK PREFACING WITH IM SORRY IF I ALREADY SENT THIS EXACT ASK BUT MY WIFI KILLED ITSSLF AS I SENT IT SO IDK IF IT ACTUALLY WENT THROUGH. but in case it didn’t . i know youve gotten this countless times in the past because i blog stalked just in case youve mentioned something similar before but i need to know if you have any specific inspirations when you draw exaggerated expressions specifically like these two images of marcille. ive actually cried laughing over this comic and being able to communicate this type of visceral emotion is such an insane skill and ive followed your art for probably close to a decade through various fandoms so watching you develop this style has been fucking awesome and epic. like i cannot articulate how funny these are to me i just need you to understand i look at this comic to inspire me to draw now. the closest comparison i can draw to the feelings they evoke are like those mspaint reaction images and also mspaint tails i included for reference even though you probably know exactly what im talking about anyways but its actually so much harder to do that intentionally when you study art. also i lied you literally don’t even need to answer this i just had to let you know how obsessed i am over your silly comics and now ive written out a whole ass discussion post about it. im sorry if this is weird at all i think my daily prescribed amphetamines r wearing off and i know this is such a dumb specific thing to fixate on and im so sorry if its not something you want to hear about your art. ive just always seen that as an artist this type of expressive stupid silly style is something that comes after a significant amount of time and practice and study and style development despite being “simple” in theory. its just so cool to have worked with your own style so much that youre able to go “off model” from it and still maintain consistency with the rest of the piece. i said it already and im sorry this is actually rendundant now but the ability to communicate such raw emotion somehow decreases from at its height when someone is a beginner artist learning how to proportion and keep a steady line and what looks “normal” but somehow it all comes full circle because taking all that experience and using it to almost return to where you started but in a fully informed and intentional way so you can make choices to draw characters like this when the situation calls for it is just dhcidogakgoshfhw. i think i need to cut myself off or im going to talk in circles im sorry tumblr user sabertoothwalrus i just am fascinated by your style and progress and the years you’ve dedicated to art can be seen in so many places but this is just one that stands out to me specifically.

MMMMM what a fun question!!!

I'm not gonna lie, I think it's just Letting A Drawing Be Bad. I definitely think the people that struggle with this the most are people who have genuinely very pretty art styles, to the point of being kind of perfectionist about it. and to Draw Funny often means Drawing Fast and Weird. Pretty is kind of the antithesis of funny (unless being pretty is the punchline). do drawings that make yourself laugh. tracing/lining funny sketches almost always makes them less funny.

one of my favorite types of humor is when it skews more deadpan, actually. This is one of the reasons I love Adventure Time. minimal expressions and flat line delivery + absurd context is a really good combo. the key to comedy has more to do with contrast! if your drawings are allllll crazy ren & stimpy all the time, they're not funny anymore cause it's just "normal". if it's all subdued UNTIL it's extreme, and vice versa, then it's funny. The reason this comic is so funny is because of the complete lack of any expression. I feel like the one you sent of Marcille shouting "WHAT" is funnier when you know how much she tries to be dainty and feminine and delicate, how much she values her appearance, and how averse she is to "gross" or "weird" things.

something I find really annoying (and this is with comics/animation in general, not the expressions themselves) is when the joke goes on for too long. Like you'll have the joke, then the punchline, and THEN the characters reacting to the punchline??? Like the author didn't trust that their audience would find the joke funny, so they basically drew in a laugh track. But, this is distinct from a character's reaction being the punchline (like how the examples you gave from my Marcille comic are). MY POINT IS sometimes expressions aren't as funny on their own as you think, and context can affect how you feel about it!

as far as inspirations go!

my own face! even if I don't have a mirror, I like making the expressions myself so I can "feel" where the points of tension on my face are, and it gives me a sense of what to exaggerate.

my brother's art, believe it or not! we've been trying to make each other laugh with our drawings since we were kids, and he's really good at it.

ATLA has some great expressions

OK KO has been a reallyyyy good source for me lately. That show is so tailored to my sense of humor and the expressions and line deliveries feel exactly like the kinds of things I'd come up with. The tone, timing, and art style are all really close to the tv show pitch I'm working on, so when I feel like I've "strayed" too much from it (like after drawing a bunch of dungeon meshi, and my art feels tighter and... idk "manga-ier"?) I like to go and watch a couple episodes of OK KO to loosen back up

A lot of things like OG Spongebob, Calvin & Hobbes, the Simpsons, Chowder, etc etc

memes in general. if it makes you laugh, keep it in mind

and lastly, I wouldn't say I ever try to mimic funny expressions I see. Like if I watch a show for inspo, I'm not pausing it to copy specific drawings, I'm just trying to notice patterns and pay attention to what about it I find funny.

talking about being funny is really bizarre and I dunno if it makes it lose some of the magic. Ultimately it's something you can't think about too much, and just gotta go with your gut.

#art help

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traumxrei-archive · 1 year ago

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【 iii. picture perfect shopping 】

summary: for a debutante, one must be the most eye catching at the ball. yuu decides to take floyd shopping with them. what they didn’t realize was how picky the prankster would be when it came to their outfit…

word count: 1.6k

author’s note: floyd leech my beloved <33 i love this guy sm, and i feel like he’s one of the twsties who’d have rlly good fashion ^^

[ the perfect debutante series | or read on ao3 (coming soon) ]

"Master~" Floyd groaned, fiddling with his tie. "Do I have to wear somethin' so uncomfortable?"

Today Yuu was supposed to go clothes shopping. Floyd, who had previously looked bored out of his mind, suddenly shot up and volunteered himself. And since none of the others protested, the rest was history.

"Why not?" The corners of Yuu's lips twitched as they buttoned Floyd's vest.

Yuu supposed that they had a bit of a mischievous streak when it came to their own maids. Especially with Floyd Leech. It wasn't often that they had something to tease the maid with.

Floyd grabbed their hand, stopping them in their tracks, "Aren't I supposed to dress you?"

"I suppose," Yuu glanced up, his eyes boring into theirs. "But wouldn't you rather do something more interesting instead?"

Floyd seemed to switch tactics, "Can't I wear my normal uniform? These pants are too stuffy."

Yuu thought about it. About the way Floyd preferred loose skirts that fell just above his knees. Or the way his apron was always stained with something or another from running around all day. Wearing fitted pants probably felt strange in retrospect.

But they had to appreciate how Floyd looked from an aesthetic point of view. The pants all but accentuated his height, coupled with a fitted coat and vest. Floyd looked the spitting image of a young master rather than a maid. (They patted themself on the back for choosing such a perfect outfit.)

"Hmm, but you look handsome like this too," They smiled because Floyd was always weak when it came to compliments.

They knew they won the argument as soon as Floyd released a long sigh "If Master says so~"

"Besides, we aren't trying to attract attention. If it weren't for the ball..."

Floyd grinned then, "Don'tcha worry, all I gotta do is get you lookin' the best at the ball, right Master?"

Turned out that Floyd was quite picky when it came to clothing. Maybe that was why Jade seemed quite apologetic as he was sending them off. What they thought would be a simple shopping trip turned out to be a quest for "only the best that fit Master," as Floyd put it.

"This material...isn't it on the cheaper side?"

Or, "Nah, this color doesn't match your eyes."

Or, their personal favorite, "Master, you're rich, so shouldn't you get a bigger rock?"

Yuu would’ve laughed at all of Floyd’s comments if it wasn’t considered rude to the store owners. The good thing was that Floyd had basically done the hard part for them. He had chosen a suitable outfit on their behalf, swathing them in Night Raven grey, adorned with gold trimmings. And then there were the boots made out of leather from a foreign land. Yuu probably would've chosen without worrying too much about quality if it weren't for Floyd, but he seemed determined to watch over their purchases like a hawk.

Their feet were getting a bit tired, but Yuu couldn't bring themself to say no when Floyd entered another store.

"This time we'll find a good brooch," Floyd said as he opened the door, letting them into the store. "Something bi~g and shiny so that those garbage minnows won't look down on you."

"I'm sure I don't need it," They reassured.

Yuu knew why Floyd was worried. There were plenty of unsavory rumors going around about them, after all. It had been happening for a long time, ever since they attended NRC. 'The young heir is socially inept', or 'A mere teen cannot inherit the Night Raven Duchy, much less an orphan!', or even their least favorite rumor, 'The loyalty of their staff is due to their status.' It didn't matter much to them anyway. By the end of their Debutante, they would make sure that no one would be able to run their mouths about the Duchy or their people.

"Welcome, customers!" The salesman greeted cheerily. "Please have a seat." They both took a seat, and soon the scent of tea leaves seemed to fill the room as they waited. Floyd was already eyeing the display cases, eyes calculating.

The store owner poured them each a cup of tea. His eyes glanced between the two of them before finally landing on Floyd, “What would you like to see, good sir?”

Ah. It seemed that this store owner had mistaken them to be a servant, and Floyd their master. It made sense, given the more simplistic clothing they decided to use if only to disguise their shopping trip. Floyd expression had dropped. They could feel the anger starting to radiate from the maid.

“Hey,” There was a cold expression on Floyd’s face. “Don’t look down on my Master like that.” Oh Sevens.

They tugged at his sleeve, before whispering, “Floyd, don’t—"

“Master?” The owner glanced at them for a moment, not even noticing that he interrupted them. “Are you sure?”

And that seemed to be the final straw for Floyd.

He slammed his hand on the table with a loud bang and Yuu's heart felt like it stopped in their chest. Horror dawned on them as they watched the table shake, the tea set wobbling before shattering with a spectacular sound. CRASH! Hot tea spilled all over the surface of the table, splashing Floyd's arm.

“Floyd!" They hurriedly grabbed his arm, jerking it from the steaming puddle of tea.

Floyd continued to glare at the man, “It seems there’s a minnow who doesn’t know his place.”

They injected as much authority as they could into their voice, “Floyd Leech, I want you to calm down. This behavior is far from appropriate.” They watched as Floyd’s shoulders tensed, conflict passing his expression. The store owner didn’t dare to move either, face frozen in shock.

An eternity seemed to pass before Floyd released a harsh breath, “As your benevolence wishes, Master.” A frustrated expression crossed Floyd’s face before he was turning toward them, sinking to the ground. His forehead pressed against their knee, and Yuu fought not to comfort Floyd for a second.

Instead, they looked up. Yuu stared at the spilled tea with disdain, “Well? Clean up the mess. I'll compensate for the broken tea set.”

“Y-Yes, of course,” The man seemed to sweat even more as he bowed. “And...may I know your name?” The nerve of him to ask after all that.

“Your ignorance astounds me. Most know me as the heir to the Night Raven Duchy.” And the owner turned white as a sheet. Good. That should teach him not to forget their face ever again. As the man stumbled out, they turned their attention to Floyd.

Yuu finally let their hand card into Floyd’s hair, “Floyd. You’re not upset with me, are you?”

“‘M not,” His voice was muffled, and they could feel him press his cheek against their knee. “Are you mad at me?”

They let out a light laugh, brushing the hair out of Floyd’s eyes. He was staring right at them now. “I’m not. I understand why you were offended. Now he’ll never forget my face for as long as he lives.” Floyd had a bleeding heart when it came to those that challenged their status, more than any of their other maids. And that big of a blunder coupled with the fact that the debutante was soon… It was no wonder Floyd had snapped.

"But Master..." Floyd was pouting now. "You don't hafta compensate him."

"I have to compensate him for the damageds. But the Night Raven Duchy will never give him another penny ever again," Yuu held up their palm. "Now show me your hand.”

Floyd obediently lifted his arm, which was all but soaked in tea, “It doesn’t hurt.” The skin was reddened slightly, and they frowned, wishing that they had intervened quicker.

“Still, we should have the doctor take a look later. And you should get changed,” Yuu traced over the wetness of his sleeve. “I…have your uniform. It's in our carriage, down the block.”

Floyd’s head shot up, eyes glittering, “Really?”

They nodded, sheepishly, “If you really were uncomfortable in those clothes, I wasn’t going to force you to keep wearing it for the whole— Woah—“ Floyd stood up, leaving the store before they could finish their sentence.

The owner finally returned. They wondered if he timed it so that Floyd would leave before he entered. They glanced at him, “Do you happen to have a fitting room here?”

“E-Excuse me? This is a jewelry store, but we—“ The door opened almost violently as Floyd walked back in, expression dangerously dark once more. They tapped a finger against their arm. The owner coughed, “W-We have an empty storage room at the back, p-please go ahead, your grace.”

“Thank you,” Yuu brushed off their clothes before offering a hand to Floyd. “Shall we?” Floyd seemed happy to lead them to the back, and more than happy to change back into his normal attire.

Yuu chuckled at the sight of the lopsided headband and the carelessly tied apron. Riddle and Jamil would have a heart attack if they saw what Floyd looked like as he exited the store.

Floyd stretching ahead of them, “Kinda wish I could've beaten him up a little~”

"Floyd Leech, that is unacceptable," They said with mock seriousness, as Floyd laughed cheerily.

And watching Floyd skipping down the streets, pointing to another store up ahead, well... They couldn't say no.

thank you for reading ^^ if you’d like to read more, check out my masterlist ! like the art ? look at more of dumple's works on insta !

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#/trau writes #floyd leech #twisted wonderland #twst #floyd leech x reader #twisted wonderland x reader #twst x reader

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gachagon · 4 months ago

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THE NEIGHBORHOOD IS ONE BIG PUPPET What I mean by this is that Home (The Neighborhood) is exactly the same as Home (Wally's House) and is a giant, moving puppet that's possibly operated from beneath the floor. I also believe that all of the items the WHRP person is getting is possibly coming from beneath the Neighborhood, and that the mysterious black ooze is the same as the ooze that was leaking from underneath Home (The House) in the prior updates.

A large reason I think this is because Home (The House) has a lot of suspicious iconography that relates to the simple phrase "Home is where the heart is." For starts, Home has a small tiny heart drawn on the bottom of it, as can be seen in some gifs and images of Home. Now, unfortunately, I can't provide an image of the heart on the bottom of Home because the website has changed T_T And because it's Julie themed, Home's gif has been replaced by cute flowers instead. But I SWEAR if you go back and possibly look at old photos of the website some how you will see the heart that I am talking about.

Alternatively though, Wally also has hearts on the bottoms of his shoes:

So the two of them both have heart motifs on the bottom of their bodies. And we know that Home is alive just like the other Puppet's, he talks and is able to communicate with them, but he is unable to speak because he's a House. Now, the crux of this Theory lies in the phrase "Home is where the heart is."

While this phrase hasn't been said at all during Welcome Home's story, it does invoke the same kind of welcoming sentiment that I think the show would at least agree with. And if we take it to mean something really literally, the phrase kind of implies that there is something far greater than Home itself (the House).

If Home is the "heart" of the larger puppet that is the Neighborhood, I think it also explains a lot of other things. For example, why Home is the only house that is so alive and active in the first place. Hearts are often the only organ in your body aside from your lungs that move and actively is pulsing and pumping all of the time. It is symbolically and literally the thing that keeps your body going:

So it could be that the Neighborhood doesn't need "lungs" and other organs, just one heart. Another reason I believe that Home (the Neighborhood) is a giant Puppet just like Home (the House) is because of the other phrase "As above, So below".

The phrase "As Above, So Below" means:

"What happens in a higher plain of existence will also happen in a lower one."

In simple terms, what happens up top, happens down there as well. I think this phrase has two meanings in relation to Welcome Home. Firstly, I think it's referring to the very act of puppetry in general. When you use a normal string Puppet you are operating it with sticks from ABOVE the Puppet, and the Puppet does whatever you want below. Whatever slight movement you do, the puppet will follow and you can control it that way.

So, similarly whatever happens above on the set of Welcome Home where we can see (The Neighborhood) happens below as well. I at first thought this meant that perhaps there was some kind of dark force controlling everyone who was just at a higher level of existence than the puppets like a god of some kind. But now, because of the recent updates I am wondering if it's the opposite.

I think the negative and harsh emotions the Puppets are going through up above has begun to literally affect the rest of the Neighborhood. But they cannot see that because whatever truly affects the neighborhood only shows up beneath them in those cavernous holes with the weird black ooze. I think there's a reason that ooze is coming only from Wally's home, and now that the hole has been forcefully covered up, is leaking from other places. My other theory is that Wally's goal is to try to stop this ooze from appearing, I know some people believe that the owner of the website drew over the hole, but I honestly think Wally did himself. I think the reason he's so "weird" and disconnected from reality in this recent update is because he has had far too much time around the ooze and has begun to lose himself in trying to help Home.

I think a part of trying to "help" Home (the neighborhood and the house) is by trying to get each Neighbor to "wake up" in some way. Wally probably does not want the rest of them to slowly succumb to this dark ooze (whatever it is) but he'll need to convince them that something is inherently wrong, and for that to work he has to literally show them reality and what's actually happening around them. I think the "real" villain is this nebulous Narrator that sometimes appears in the Looky-Loo Storybooks. In this recent patch, the Narrator was obviously Sally, but in others like "Brick-by-Brick" the Narrator is someone else, more specifically he might be the weird Clocktower that just "appeared" one day.

Now I do have wilder theories about how they could've possibly operated such a larger puppet, but I have 0 proof other than speculation. This is all just a theory I have had for a pretty long time tbh with you. I wanted to write my thoughts down here at least.

#welcome home update #welcome home theory #welcome home restoration project #wally darling

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parvulous-writings · 2 years ago

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no idea if nail polish exists in the 5e world, but it does now. how about a chill day for the companions where everyone does their nails? or is tav/durge doing the painting for everyone?

Summary: Camp has a nail day!

Warnings: Minor spoilers for Shadowheart's various arcs, same for Karlach. One swear word.

Notes: if it doesn't exist, it sure as hell does now! Also apologies that this took so long - New year is a busy time at work, and I've got a minor injury with my hand, so I'm working as fast as I can, but it's a little slower than normal!

I've included all the recruitable companions, besides Minthara, who is not included purely because I cannot accurately write for her just yet!

My requests are currently open! My pinned post (found here) contains both a list of characters I write for, and a masterlist! Original character list - please request for these too!

Not my image

Time on the road where everyone is able to relax is very scarce commodity, so when it does crop up, you're always the first to suggest grabbing it by the horns and making the most out of the day - not by training, or planning your next moves, but typically with something more laid back.

You're camping close to Rivington when you get the first day-long break in weeks, so that morning you venture into town to have a quick browse of the stalls; perhaps you can find some food that will remind the various Baldurians in camp of their home? As you're starting to make your way back to camp, something catches you eye - a nail polish kit, going for quite cheap. You can hardly restrain yourself from buying it- you already know that it will bring a lot of much needed joy into camp.

Astarion is quite intrigued when you announce the spoils you've returned with. For too long he's craved petty vanity again; and even if he can only get it from painting his nails, he's willing to grasp at that chance. "What's this?" He hums, peering over your shoulder, trying to get a good look at all the colours that the kit contains, as well as the equipment. The first thing he does, given the chance, is start tending to his nails - cleaning under them, pushing back the cuticles, trimming and filing them into shape, the works. He spares no time making sure that everything is as he envisions. Sure, the colours he eventually settles on may not match the rest of his armour, but his new manicure matches his more comfortable clothes, so that's good enough for him.

Gale is... Unsure if this is the right kind of thing for your journey. "We have many more pressing matters to worry about, besides our appearances." He practically grumbles to you. "Might I suggest actually focusing on planning our next move?" It doesn't actually take a lot to convince him to sit down and let him do one hand of nails on him. You paint his nails a lovely shade of dark navy blue, which looks black in the shade, but blue when hit by light. You start speckling dots of white here and there to make them mirror the night sky, when Gale tells you he'd like to do his other hand himself. Of course, you let him, and about twenty minutes later, he's back to proudly show you his work. It's a lot shakier than the side you had done, but he looks so proud of himself for being able to emulate your skill even a little bit, you don't even nitpick in a teasing way. When it inevitably starts to chip away, he's absolutely devastated, but doesn't say anything until you all get an opportunity to rest properly again.

Justiciar!Shadowheart instantly dives for the black varnish. Nothing more, and nothing else. She doesn't dwell on it, but in some vain way, she feels like she's carrying a part of her goddess' revered darkness with her, even if it will chip away eventually. That just reminds her that everything on this plane is fleeting, and finite, always eventually consumed by loss. Selunite!Shadowheart adds a little more colour to her nails - dots of white, or purple are incorporated, intricate little designs that pay homeage to both her life as a Sharran, and her family heritage as Selunites. She takes great pride in the designs she makes, and often spends a very long time making sure that they are just like how she imagines in her head.

Lae'zel doesn't particularly like painting her nails - she feels it takes away from her aura of formidable warrior. She will, however, sharpen her nails on a regular basis - just as a back-up plan if she loses her weapon, or perhaps gets caught by surprise and needs to scratch out some eyeballs.

Karlach pre-upgrade loves to watch you do your nails. As in, she will actively sulk if you don't let her watch, or have some tiny level of input. She'll huff and pout, but eventually goes to sit elsewhere with a quiet "fine, whatever.." Post-upgrade Karlach is so eager to have her nails done, she's bouncing back and forth on her feet. She can't decide on a single colours - especially not by herself. "They all look so pretty!" She exclaims, waving her hands about in glee. So, unable to make a decision, she takes her favourite colours, and has all of them on her fingers - repeating a similar process on her toes with her second favourite colours. "This is the best thing we have ever done! ... Besides beating the shit out of Thorm... so, the second best thing!"

Wyll tidies his nails - similar to Astarion. He wants them to be a much nicer shape than they have been up to this point - makeshift files had not been too kind on his nails, and he was tired of catching them on things. He takes great care in shaping them and removing any chips or quicks - it's an activity he takes great pride in, and he'll happily do the same for you if you ask him to! As for colour, Wyll likes to go for a clear coat, purely for protecting his nails; though he has been known to paint his nails black, for dramatic effect. He loves his nails - not to the point that he preens them at any given moment, but enough to give them the time and care they need to keep healthy.

Halsin doesn't particularly like the idea of polish. Sure, it looks pretty, but he'd rather not wear it himself - there are other ways, he's found, that you can change the colour of your nails. (When you ask him what he means, or even to just elaborate a little bit more on how he knows this, he simply replies with "I once had a... Somewhat rebellious streak in my youth.") So it's likely that the only thing that he uses in this particular kit is the file and buffer - which looks absolutely tiny in his hands, it's quite funny.

Minsc doesn't do his own nails - at all. He won't even file them, he just either bites them or they snap off (usually it's the former). Instead, he takes care of Boo's claws. "Now, now, my friend. Do not call me strange - if I do not care for Boo's mighty claws, then who will? The paws of justice must be well cared for!" Insists that every few days he must re-file and re-buff Boo's nails, and will not take no for an answer. He also tries to convince you that Boo is trying to tell you the same, but by the way the little rodent's head shakes when he sits on Minsc's shoulder tells you otherwise.

Jaheira almost laughs when you suggest doing her nails. She wants to them herself, but, eventually she does ask you to help her. "It seems I'm a little out of practice.." She chuckles. "Perhaps some company wouldn't be so bad... If your offer still stands, of course." She LOVES having green nails. Sage green is her favourite, but she likes all of them really. Sometimes, if she's feeling particularly happy, she'll let you paint little golden leaves on her thumb - but that can be a rare occasion, because she doesn't want such skill to always go to waste.

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idiotmf · 1 year ago

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Ur world building is phenomenal ｡⁠.ﾟ⁠+(⁠｡⁠･⁠ω⁠･⁠)

Please tell me more abt xyon :3

Thank you so much! ( ◍＞◡＜◍)。✧♡

I am currently working on a story about Xyon (along with approximately fifty other things).

I usually write short scenarios with my characters for myself, sort of like different AUs, but they're in my native language, and I would like to make one that's Xyon x Reader specifically.

MDNI because my blog is 18+, the post itself shouldn't really be NSFW aside from biological aspects.

Uh, yeah... This is rather long for what I meant it to be (around 2.5k words excluding the notes at the beginning and end).

(Edit: Here is a link to the original lore dump for anyone wondering, since I reference it a lot.)

All that aside, here's a more in-depth look at my favorite biologist in the galaxy:

Appearance:

Since this is focused on just one Xenian, I can give a few more details about what he looks like. I really wish I was talented at drawing so I could give a visual representation of what I personally imagine, but I'll provide some images in case my words aren't clear enough (still working on that vocabulary, haha).

Let's start with his body!

As mentioned in the overall description, Xyon is around 2.5m (8'2), and if needed, he, like all other male Xenians, can stretch his torso up to 2.8m (roughly 9'2). If you're wondering which specific part gets stretched, it's the area just below the shoulders and above the stomach. (I'm using human anatomy here for convenience; if you're interested, I can definitely get into more in-depth Xenian anatomy, but I fear it might be boring.)

Whenever stretched, the skin gets damaged, sort of like horizontal stretch marks, but will shrink back to heal normally. Xenians don't do this often due to their high intelligence and lack of predators, causing it to be more of an evolutionary inconvenience these days.

While they still use it for mating displays, much like humans, they just prefer talking nowadays.

His overall body has a pretty slim, smooth look underneath the short fur. The muscles of Xenians are layered like thin sheets (muscle lasagna, anyone?) and don't bulge in the way human muscles would; instead, they just look broader and fuller.

Now, Xyon is considered skinny, even for his kind. I've mentioned it in the lore dump, but Xenians have moved past eating. They consume nutritional gel, which also explains why they are very lean, since they are literally only allowed to consume this gel, which covers their calculated daily needs.

If you know how nutrition works, though, you can probably see some holes forming in that logic. Xyon moves around a lot and therefore would technically require more, hence the skinny body.

His legs are long compared to his torso, especially below the knees (again, using human anatomy for convenience). His thighbones are rather short, the Xenian equivalent of Tibia and Fibula long (around 2/3rds of his legs; also, they don't have single bones but rather thousands of thin, long bones clustered together to form larger structures). It looks rather awkward when sitting or trying to crouch.

Fun fact: Xenians cannot kneel.

Well, technically, they can; once. And then not get back up without serious injuries. Their knees also cannot be fully bent back like a human's, but rather just enough to allow them to comfortably walk and sit. They actually also comfortably stand around in their strange crouching position whenever they are idle for long periods of time. Remember, they have a tail (sort of like this minus the scales) that they use for balance, resting in what I can only describe as a weird, tripod looking stance, sort of like they're leaning back and almost sitting on their tail.

I spent an hour trying to draw a representation of it, but it looked so goofy that I felt too embarrassed to share it. ( ´･ω･)

Anyway, his skull resembles that of an ocelot, complete with rows of sharp teeth, identifying his race as a once carnivorous one. (skull image) However, they don't have the typical cat whiskers, and their muzzle is less rounded.

Neat little tidbit, but technically, Xyon speaks with the Xenian equivalent of a lisp after sustaining an injury to his throat as a child (some of their sounds are formed in the throat, mainly the sheet metal-sounding one). However, since his words are translated into human speech for you to understand him, this doesn't carry over.

Xenian eyes also resemble those of cats; Xyon's are amber in color, but they can have various different ones. Of course he has a long, rough tongue due to their carnivorous roots.

Their entire body, except for their tails, genitalia, soles, and palms, is covered in a short, dark blue fur. (Imagine the fur of smooth, short coated dogs like a Doberman, Great Dane, Boxer, Beagle, etc. Just a bit softer.) If you want specifics on the color, I'd say the closest is #555C6C, ironically called Blue Planet. It looks sort of washed out due to their skin underneath being a dark gray.

His feet and hands are generally very similar in shape to those of a raccoon, except they have retractable claws and four fingers instead of five (a thumb and three fingers).

As mentioned in the species lore dump, they have retractable genitalia that are hidden underneath a layer of skin until they are exposed. It can actually harden while hidden, making their skin bulge. However, this can be quite painful since the space allowing for their phalluses isn't meant to support them in their full size.

If we're taking semen, it looks rather blueish in hue and the consistency is thicker and sort of slimy, designed to stick to a female's eggs.

Sources (cough cough) confirm it has a rather sweet-ish flavour, consuming too much of it does cause nausea in humans though.

Personality:

Xyon is an incredibly curious individual, especially later on (you'll see why in a second). He wants to know anything and everything about this planet and its inhabitants. He likes finding new plants, scanning them, and then observing for a while. He marvels at the strange animals that live on this planet (I should mention at this point that any story including Xyon is post-apocalyptic) and Earth's impressive landscapes.

Despite being very curious, he's still an extremely obedient follower of orders. For example, in one story I wrote, he was running out of his nutritional bio-gel and would simply refuse actual food, despite the scanner clearly telling him it was harmless for him to eat, choosing to starve rather than disobeying the directive to only consume the gel.

He does end up breaking one major rule, which ends up changing his entire life.

You see, while he is a biologist and was sent to earth to study and document flora and fauna for the intergalactic database, he is strictly forbidden from interacting with humans, whether positively or negatively, the only exception being for self-defense purposes. This is largely due to humans being known as primitive and extremely violent.

Xyon shares this narrative at first, since his research partner Xuan was murdered and subsequently eaten by humans after trying to peacefully interact with them.

That is, until he runs into, well, you. A lone human, injured, and on the brink of death. At first, he considers leaving you to die, then he considers observing you while you pass away, only to finally decide that even if you do attack him, he wants to help you.

Another bit of a flaw in his character is his naivety. Xenians don't have concepts like sarcasm; even lying isn't exactly something they do or consider, as it goes against their morals. This ends up with him believing everything you tell him, curiously inquiring about the most obvious of lies.

Not to mention, he speaks incredibly bluntly, which might come off as rude. This does actually improve after Xyon spends more time with you, since he learns to imitate the way you speak rather than sticking to the cold, scientific speech he uses at first.

I like to think this is a product of Xenian society, as scientists and research purpose tiers don't exactly experience individualism or even enough free will to build their own personalities to the point of even having distinguishing character traits.

I'm not sure how much I mentioned in the other lore dump (I tried to keep it short, so I kept cutting things out), but I do remember mentioning that Xenians practice culling unhatched eggs based on desirable base intelligence, health, etc. which is calculated based on your family tree, essentially. One's purpose is also determined by those stats.

Eggs far above the desired base intelligence usually become researchers and scientists, the highest "purpose" you can possibly have in their race. However, that also means that you not only get gaslit into thinking that's the only thing you're good at, you don't even get a chance to consider anything else.

Xyon is a biologist, and he cannot ever be anything but a biologist. He doesn't even have the mere choice of disliking his career, because it isn't just his job; it's his entire life.

Did I mention I love playing with such dystopian concepts?

Over the course of spending more time with you, he does eventually develop his own personality, or rather strengthen the few cracks that were present all along. But he can't help but look at you for guidance, despite being in the Xenian equivalent of his late twenties to early thirties. The concepts of being allowed to experience individualism and freely express himself are foreign to him.

I do want to mention that some Xenians do have their own personalities. This forced conformity is practiced in their general society, but only as bad as this on the higher purpose tiers, like the one he is in.

He does eventually turn into a gentle giant. I like to imagine him like a Disney princess, holding out one claw with a bird on it, like Snow White. Xyon does enjoy providing meat for you, which is a more primitive way to show that he is a suitable mate in his culture (though usually it goes both ways, or it used to, since they don't hunt anymore).

I like the concept of taking a step back from the highly intelligent life form and reverting to some more primitive practices as he develops individuality.

He never gets to the point of actively resenting his culture and planet, but rather accepts that this is one of its many differences from Earth and can be considered a flaw. In reality, he does find comfort in having a purpose, especially after you essentially tell him what life on earth was like. He finds the idea of having the freedom to try anything overwhelming, and not knowing what you're truly made for is terrifying in his eyes.

Beliefs and Values:

While a form of religion does still exist on his planet, due to the forced conformity and his purpose as a biologist, he was taught to disregard such matters for lack of logic.

Despite that, he does actually secretly believe in things like fate, especially in the context of finding one's mate.

Yet, mates are a pretty sore spot for him.

Due to their personalities, or rather lack thereof, and long absence from their planet in the name of science, higher-tier Xenians don't usually find a mate, often either living alone until death or dying during research.

Xyon does eventually express the belief that meeting you was fate and that you two were meant to end up as mates, despite being different in many ways.

He also believes that meeting you was meant to prove that humans weren't as destructive and savage as originally assumed.

(There is a whole other discussion of why earth became post-apocalyptic in the first place, and while the answer is a bit more convoluted than that, Xyon believes that the planetary representatives collectively decided that humans could not go on the way they were, and instead of risking a valuable planet that could host life being destroyed beyond repair, they would simply flatten major settlements and reset them to see whether they would grow from this experience or perish altogether.

Ironically, in reality, this was actually voted against in the end due to humans not having encountered extraterrestrial life yet and the promising scientific progression, but one race, fairly similar to humans themselves in nature (though not in looks), decided it would be for the better, carrying out the invasion on their own accord. While they weren't completely erased themselves, most of the higher-ranking beings from that planet were executed. This, however, is not common knowledge, as the representatives did cover it up in order to avoid other races being encouraged to disobey.)

While the race of Xenians does have values pertaining to open-mindedness and equality, they are fairly limited in nature. They do allow for sexual and romantic expression (on the lower tiers, mostly), but you can never, ever have the same standing as someone born with a higher tier purpose.

This means that even if you end up exceeding your calculated base intelligence by a lot, you will still be stuck in a purpose that isn't for you and have no chance of changing it.

Ironically, while a social hierarchy does exist, lower tiers are usually considered happier and have far more freedom than higher tiers. Because, again, they get stripped of all individuality to become mindless little researchers.

I purposely didn't specify Xyon's values in this case because, as you can imagine, being forced into a certain mindset does mean he has the same values as the collective, though it does change over time, with him expressing that while he does still support the tiers and purpose, he wishes it was less strict.

Family and Social Circle:

Xyon does actually have a family; he wasn't raised in a mating group. Unlike humans, Xenians don't have a close bond with their parents or siblings since they aren't fully raised by them but rather taken away early in life (around 4–7 in human years) to be trained for their purpose, which results in rather shallow bonds.

His father's purpose is to nurse and educate young Xenians that have either lost their parents or were abandoned, while his mother is the leader of their local tribe, which one can become regardless of tier, following an election process similar to that on earth.

Xyon does have irregular contact with them and even occasionally visits them while on Xen'jai, which is incredibly rare.

He had one older brother, who became a soldier and died very early on due to conflict between Xen'jai and their neighboring planet.

Xyon did have one friend, the female biologist Xuan, who was his assigned research partner.

Due to the nature of their work and purpose, social circles for their tier are small, if they exist at all.

This actually affects Xyon greatly. Now that his old partner is gone, he is alone on a foreign planet, and with Xenians being social creatures, it does make him feel lonely.

On several occasions, he has actually tried seeking out other research teams from his planet that were sent to Earth, and he briefly had contact with a male geologist named Xenon, who ended up being killed, or at least that's Xyon's assumption when his signal completely disappeared (hint hint nudge nudge, he is the other one I like writing about, and he is in fact not dead).

There is one more Xenian that Xyon is aware of on earth: a female meteorologist. He does not know her name; however, he has responded to several distress signals relating to her losing her bio-gel rations to humans.

Unfortunately, she was too far away for him to actually help (she is a character I want to write about in the future as well o(〃＾▽＾〃)o ).

Well, technically speaking, Xyon (and at some point Xuan), like any other research pair, does have a ship, but being the rule-following Xenian he is, he did not leave his assigned area (which is roughly central Europe in canon btw), though he briefly considered it until getting confirmation that the situation had sorted itself out.

It is likely due to this that he even considered helping you in the first place, because he was lonely and probably hoping deep down that a human could somehow keep him company.

Which... I mean... it worked out in his favor. Good for him.

•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•

Yeesh, this is quite a lot.

Can you believe I still left stuff out? I also ended up dumping more lore for the species itself. I promise one day I'll go back and rewrite both the Species info and probably this one as well. I kind of want to write another big info-dump for Xen'jai as a planet, because there's a lot I want to get into, like the hierarchy, religion, history and evolution of the planet, which felt too out of place here.

Anyway, thanks for reading. Feel free to always reach out for more info or suggestions, I am literally just waiting to write more lore no one really can do anything with. :3

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iamanerd1 · 2 years ago

Text

I have a new Spy x Family theory for you

Damian was born to be a project Apple kid, and Melinda knows.

It's been a pretty popular theory in this fandom that Donovan Desmond is somehow involved in Project Apple and the human experimentation because it would make sense from a story point of having the "main bad guy" be tied to Anya in some way. Upon further thinking about this I had the thought of why he would want to be involved in such a project. The answer came to me:

He is a power hungry warmonger. He wants a weapon he can control.

So, my theory is that Damian was born to be able to make him super-powered weapon and this theory makes sense considering Melinda's thoughts towards her son.

If we consider that Melinda is in on it, yet resents her husband and feels guilty about it, all of her spiraling thoughts can be understood.

Let's breakdown what Melinda says here considering this theory:

"If anything had happened to you I don't know how I'd..." React to it, would it be despair or relief?

"If only he died in the hijacking..." Then I would be free of this guilt that is plaguing me.

"How glad I am that he's safe." Because his death would jeopardize the plan.

"If only I weren't burdened with this child." If only this had never happened to me.

"So sweet how he puts on this brave front." How pitiful that he's still trying to maintain an image for me.

"My treasure." My sweet son.

"My curse." The guilt of what I have done and will do eats away at me.

"But in exchange you absolutely cannot let that man know I came here." You cannot let your father know that I actually care about you.

Assuming that this theory is true it makes sense why Melinda and Donovan seem to be so detached from Damian, yet still enrolled him into Eden and care about his safety. They need to maintain the image that they are a "normal family" for their status and can show that by putting Damian in a prestigious school. Additionally, they get the benefit of not having to take care of him directly by putting him in the dorms.

Why hasn't Damian already been experimented on? It seems they are waiting for the experiments to be completed or at least a little more fool proof. It's no coincidence that Anya is the only person we've seen so far with actual abilities as it's implied that the rest of the test subjects could not handle the procedure and died as a result.

This happening would also be a good juxtaposition to the Forger family. The Forgers are a family that is "fake" yet Loid and Yor would never take advantage or hurt Anya versus the "real" Desmond family that would let their son become a science experiment if it meant that Donovan could have more power.

Of course, there are missing details to this theory. We still haven't yet met Demetrius and don't know for sure that Donovan is involved in Project Apple, but I'd say this theory is a pretty safe bet.

I imagine that closer to the finale of the series we are going to have a mission where we have to go and save Damian which will involve the whole cast and lead to the conclusion of the series.

#another #spy x family #theory for you folks #i really believe in this one too #spy x family theory #damian desmond #melinda desmond #donovan desmond #nerd's words #spy x family manga #spy x family spoilers #spy x family speculation #sxf #sxf spoilers #sxf manga #i'm being really through with my tags on this one #long post

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sweetwolfcupcake · 1 year ago

Text

Wildflower: 04

The Secret Garden Series Masterlist

Yandere John Wick x Reader

Category: Short Series

Warnings: None really but creepy, questionable behaviour (what else do you expect in a yandere fic?)

Note: John is relatively younger in this fic( late thirties to early forties)

(The GIF is not mine, credit to the owner. Sorry, my pea-sized brain cannot keep up from where I downloaded it.)

Unedited

Wildflower 03

“You have given her the card?”

Another hit, another night at the Continental, another dinner with Winston.

The older man nodded, continuing to eat, eyes on his plate before they rose to meet John’s intrigued ones.

“You know that the card means…”

“She is under my protection and the hotel’s doors are always open for her— services included.” Winston completed.

“She’s a civilian, Winston.”

John could not get it. Winston seldom gave his personal ‘Access Card’ (As he liked to call it) to anyone– even in their world. John had it, Charon had it and he did not know of anyone else who had it until…Until two nights ago.

When he saw it among (Y/N)’s possessions, he had to look twice. It was, Winston's card, after all, and she fucking carried it around in her bag like an idiot.

“And how did you come to know about the card? I had it shipped to her discreetly.”

Well, that was the question he was dreading. But he would not let it show.

“I bumped into her during…a job.” He did not elaborate and hoped he would not need to.

“Wrong time, wrong place?”

John nodded. Fortunately, she had just caught the panicked rush. And she had dropped her bag somewhere along the way. John could only imagine what could have happened if the bag fell into the wrong hands– if the card fell into the wrong hands.

He had only gone through the contents to decide where to drop the bag safely. He totally did not go through her home address and ID.

Winston only hummed and continued to eat. His question, though, was still unanswered.

“She has nothing to do with our world, Winston. She does not need that.”

“Well she walked into our world, had a meeting with me, sat with us at the underground bar— everyone there saw it. I respected Artemis, and I wanted to keep my word.”

Yes, she walked into their world. Like a fucking lamb stumbling into a slaughterhouse. John sighed and continued to eat his dinner. He would rather eat by himself, in the confinement of his room, but he did not mind Winston. Besides, a dinner invitation from the manager of Continental held great significance.

He liked the silence and slowed thoughts when he was in his company, doing mundane things. Like a normal human being. That was the closest to an ordinary life he could ever get. The rest was unattainable luxury.

But in recent days. Even in the comfort of silence and solitude, his mind was filled with a certain name, a certain smile. A certain face. A certain voice.

It felt so uncharacteristic of him— it was puzzling. His hold tightened on the knife and fork, the image of her confused face as she looked around people rushing flashed in his mind.

Not again. Not again!

Gulping some wine, he tried to clear his head. He was thinking like that again. He should not be thinking like that.

She is a civilian. An innocent civilian.

He chided himself.

“Something troubling you Jonathan?”

Of course, Winston would notice.

He looked up and sighed in silence. Thankfully, Winston did not poke further.

—------

(Y/N) admitted that there were a lot of things she had not prepared herself for before moving to New York— the basics were, thankfully, sorted out in her head. And yet, the pace of life, the mouse problem, more cockroaches, and the general indifference came to her as bumps and jerks. But all was good.

Everything was good until two days ago.

Nothing prepared her for a literal shootout at a subway station and losing her bag in the process. Thankfully, she was not caught in the middle of the crossfire— it was just the panicked rush just outside the crime scene.

But what she was more thankful about, was the fact that a kind officer brought her bag to her doorstep by the same evening. Her wallet was in that bag with her address. She did not wish to think what would happen if it fell into the wrong hands. Crime in the city ran rampant.

She had heard of it, not much on the news, but more as whispers floating around in her relatively quieter town. But she never paid much heed to them. She had treated them as rumours— the news did not show much, after all. The news did not show even half of it. But above all, the general public’s indifference to such crimes baffled her.

Did they not want their city safe? Were they not afraid? What era was it?

She reflected on Alex’s words. They discussed the same.

“You eventually grow immune to it.”

He had told her. Not very helpful, but that was an explanation of some sort. People in the city must have grown immune to it— they learned to live with it. But could she grow indifferent as well? She did not think so.

But there was too much at stake. She did not wish to return to her hometown, was still not talking to her father other than one-worded texts, had a job in New York that paid well–enough, had already signed the recent contract and paid two months of rent and the overall living cost of the city kissed the skies and any spontaneous decision would end up burning her pocket— not just a hole in her pocket.

So, the only option left was to get up, dust herself and keep moving. Yet, among all the chaos, she was glad to have found a friend like Alex. His humour and insight always helped. Her thoughts moved to her encounter with John Wick a few days ago. Clearly, Alex and John knew each other. But Alex never elaborated other than calling John an ‘acquaintance’ and John…well, she might as well admit that she would be reluctant to approach him under most circumstances.

There was— she could not put a pin on it. But there was something almost ominous about that man. The way he looked, the way he spoke, the way he stood, carried himself— every aspect about him seemed to stand out. Not enough to gain immediate attention, but enough to steer clear of his way.

Now, that did not make sense. She realised. Neither did her observation that there was still something inexplicably melancholic about that man. His eyes were unreadable but sharp and so eerily calm that his gaze made her gulp– true. But there was a deep sense of sadness. It was subtle, but it was so ever-present that it seemed to have become a part of him. Nothing temporary but an inseparable part of him.

Now, that’s a bit of a stretch!

She chided herself. What was she doing? Wondering about a man she had met only a couple of times, weaving assumptions and stories?

She shook her head and took the last bite of her dinner. She missed how dinners were timely back in her home. She missed her home a lot, she was not afraid to admit it. But she was too proud to go back. So, whatever it was, she needed to get along with it.

—---

What was he doing?

John was at a fix. He had the night to himself— a chance to relax but why was he not under the covers, relaxing on his bed?

Why was he standing in the darkest corner of the room, watching her sleeping form? Her apartment was decent, he noticed and she was careless enough to not even feel a presence in her room.

What if it were someone else?

Someone dangerous?

You are dangerous.

His subconscious mocked.

John blinked, trying to convince himself that it was all for Winston’s sake— he had taken her under his wing and John, being close to Winston, must play his part in protecting her. Especially when wolves were lurking around, one had followed her from the Continental, sniffing behind, wrapping a sheep’s skin over to lure her near.

Alex Norton…

He was skilled with poison and guns, and while John had never crossed paths with him at work, they had shared a few respectful nods now and then at the Continental. But now…

Now he was keeping an eye out for Norton.

John gulped, keeping his eyes fixed on her form. If he could keep his reservations aside, he understood Norton’s fascination with the girl.

They were both starved creatures from hell, crawling out now and then, and she was an angel, offering the solace he knew he did not deserve.

She offered what people like him were deprived of. It was tempting to just pull her into the depths of the dark with him, let her light it up— but how unfair, how cruel would that be?

Did he not see and endure enough cruelty? Why would he want an innocent civilian to lose their privileges just because one starving, deformed, empty soul had suddenly realised how impossibly bleak and bitter his world was?

No, John had made peace with this life. He would not call himself ‘the best’, but he knew he was good—- good enough to win special privileges at the New York Continental– to win the confidence of Winston Scott.

He never truly understood Winston, or his ways.

As far as he knew, Artemis was like any other patron at the Continental and had been a part of the underground before he officially left his…tribe, in search of freedom— some semblance of it at least. He had it now, and it was the best he could get.

He must make peace with it.

He stared at the asleep woman for a good minute before looking away. He needed to leave. He wanted to leave. He really wanted…

John sighed and leaned against the wall instead.

He would just watch, and observe. He would keep a distance. Like he should.

****

So, we are getting at creepy John, I don't want it to be too slow, but I also want it to be realistically paced. I don't know hat I'm doing, but I am doing it anyway.

#yandere john wick #john wick x reader #dark john wick #dark!john wick #soft! dark john wick #yandere john wick x reader #john wick imagine #john wick x you

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