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quackerofoatz · 3 months

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Primavera and the Love of Hannibal ♥

( @manilovedinosaurs tagging as they had given me this wonderful idea with their question :D )

Uffizi Gallery and seen Primavera over ten times. He could have sat before any painting while Will was chasing him but chose Primavera.

Botticelli's work Primavera is an allegorical tableau. It depicts a scene from classical mythology, where the three Graces dance together. The central figure is the goddess of love, Venus, who stands on the right, surrounded by a retinue of gods, nymphs, and attendants. In the background, the horizon is filled with a scene representing the season of spring. The painting is considered a masterpiece of early Italian Renaissance art.

Primavera would have been a personal painting and would reflect his thoughts and feelings to me. Especially as Hannibal is a man of high-class taste including Renaissance art and Greek mythology. Primavera is a painting from the Italian Renaissance expressing the feeling of love.

There are many theories and ideas on what this painting could mean or represent with its symbolism with the characters. Some are the allegory of spring, humanism during the Renaissance, showing of Neoplatonism, the kindling of love, and the metamorphosis of time.

It is generally agreed among historians that these are the main themes but there are many theories about if there is more. For Hannibal, the main themes I think he sees are the metamorphosis of change, Neoplatonism, and the kindling of love. There are way too many themes in this beautiful painting so I will focus on these themes briefly.

The metamorphosis of time is shown in this painting by combining the ideas of the past and present. It showed how religion and the subject matter of art have changed from Greek mythology to Christianity showing a clash of these. It’s in this sense that it matches the way Hannibal sees the world. He has a complex relationship with God yet sees the parallels of mythology around him. Like the Renaissance, he seems to reveal and understand more the violent and the gritty parts of Christianity. This is considered an uncommon theme for the time this painting is set in the Renaissance. There are several transformations in this painting with the figures of Venus to Mary and Chloris into Flora. In the same way, Hannibal had changed from Il Monstro to the Chesapeake Ripper, Will having his becoming as well.

( Where does the difference between the past and the future come from?

Mine?

Before you and after you.

Yours? )

This painting by looking at it from a broad perspective is about the depiction of the seasons and the changing characters. The painting illustrates a spring scene as the flowers bloom and the seasons change and shows the passing of time in the changing nature of the characters themselves. The image of Zephyrus, the west wind, represents the coming of spring and fertility, while Chloris, the goddess of flowers, holds the nymph Flora as she blossoms in the springtime. Other figures symbolize the different ages of life, symbolizing the changing faces of time. Venus is pictured illustrating the natural cycle of life, which is birth and fertility, which this goddess represents, in combination with the Virgin Mary. With the change that has emerged in Hannibal’s life, there was always a change of women in his life from his past, present, and future.

She is depicted with the themes associated with the Virgin as being visibly pregnant, dressed modestly, and hand raised like in the annunciation. The Venus/Virgin Mary is represented in every woman he’s encountered. Bedelia is his present, Mischa and Chiyoh are his past and Abigail is his future. It is also paralleled with the women WIll has met in his life, (Alana, Abigail, Margot). Yet with meeting these women, they have begun to combine and blur more into each other with time The women in his life change just like the seasons, yet Will is the only person he wants to stay with. Hannibal has seen this painting as a young man and now as a man in his late forties. He has changed with time and with the meeting of Will Graham.

(Where does the difference between the past and the future come from?

Mine?

Before you and after you.

Yours?

It's all starting to blur.

Mischa.

Abigail.

Chiyoh.)

He visited Florence with Will and without Will. WIll in that way represents the change Hannibal saw in himself and the change he wanted to cause in Will. Like Zephyrus, he wants to change Chloris and elevate her in the name of love to Flora. He wanted Will to transform into the person he should be, into the person Hannibal envisions him to be. He comes to Florence in hopes of a fresh start and in a way to forget the kindling of the love he shared with Will. As with the final, Hannibal left heartbroken wanting to have shown Will many things about himself and the world. With every turn and step, Hannibal could never truly be free or forget Will as he did with others. The figures of Zephyr, the personification of the west wind, and Chloris symbolize the romantic pursuit and connection. Zephyrus's gentle touch as he holds Chloris’ hand depicts a tender and loving moment between them as they begin their journey together are the centers of attention in the painting's narrative of romantic love. Zephyr's romantic pursuit of Chloris, portrayed by his touch, represents the initial connection and attraction between the two. This scene reflects the idea that love often blossoms unexpectedly, resembling the way the wind blows swiftly and suddenly without warning. This romantic chase is a representation of the deep emotional connection between the two, capturing the raw passion and determination in their pursuit of love.

It reflects the Renaissance emphasis on Humanism, particularly in its portrayal of the kindling of love. During this period, Humanism emphasized the importance of human potential and individual experience. The painting illustrates a moment of blossoming love, with The themes of love and fertility in the painting reflecting the Humanist focus on the individual's emotional and physical well-being and the celebration of natural beauty and desire. Hannibal in a way was always for expressing his nature and that violence was a part of it and believed to be natural. He believed there was nothing wrong with expressing oneself in this manner believing it to be biblical. Many scenes in the Renaissance have gory scenes in the Bible or mythology and love can be attributed during or before the scene. He thinks of violence and love to be parallel to each other.

(You dropped your forgiveness, Will.

You forgive how God forgives.

Would you have done it quickly?

Or would you have stopped to gloat?

Does God gloat?

Often.)

He is the foil to Hannibal, in more ways than one. They are conjoined, yet not similar. The love and understanding they share are as natural as the coming of spring. They are as conjoined as the themes of violence and love in Renaissance art, neither can exist without the other. It is a tango of both desire and passion with these themes. Violence and love share a strange connection in life and literature. While they appear to be complete opposites, they coexist in an unusual dance of power and desire. This push-pull relationship is a raw expression of human emotion on the most fundamental level. It is in the very being of the relationship between Hannibal Lecter and Will.

He is the Clrois to his Zephyrus.

Patrocules to his Achilles.

Love to his Violence.

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ayylovley · 5 months

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can i get number 7 and 9 with eli jang 🥺

7. They start developing dirty thoughts about you 9. They’re obsessed after their first time with you

Once alone in his room, Eli made sure his door was locked. He just needed a few minutes, he needs to do something to himself right he just met you at the dinner party Vasco was throwing. It wasn’t his fault he found you so, enchanting. The fact that you could’ve talked to anyone else at that party and it was him that you seemed to not be able to leave alone.

But Eli definitely didn’t mind it, quite the opposite actually. He lets out a low groan and collapses onto the bed, thoughts consumed by the intoxicating vixen that he found you were. “(Y/N)… what are you doing to me?" He murmurs into the darkness, imagining all the desires he needs to explore with you.

Within left in his thoughts, the image of you just began appearing, with every shift of himself, the noise of his mattress creaking creating this imagination of how it'd sound if he had you underneath him.

Crying out for him, and making the bed creak so much louder.

Eli feels that phantom sensation of your body against his own as his mind runs wild, the creaking of the bed amplifying the vivid fantasy "Fuck..." He rasps out, hand slipping under the waistband of his shorts at the thought of feeling every inch of your surrender to him.

In this moment alone Eli succumbs fully to the desire burning within - stroking faster, lost in daydreams of your moans and the scent of your skin. Everyone oblivious to his self pleasure when his hand holds his girthy cock so hard his arms flexes. Picturing those eyes rolling back in ecstasy as he drives himself into you over and over, it spurs him on relentlessly

"Oh yes...just like that..." Eli groans aloud, the imagination of your imagined bodies colliding echoing through the quiet night air

It isn't long before his own climax hits hard, a throaty growl escaping him as he paints his chest white with release “Mmm, I'll have you screaming for more.” He promises the empty room, basking briefly in the afterglow before cleaning up and drifting into a satisfied sleep.

—

After Eli finally had you, he thinks about you a lot. Especially when he’s laying in his bed where he pounded you dumb. That night of made hardcore love did a number on him and it's left him slowly obsessed and longing.

Over the lonely nights spent without your warmth by his side, Eli finds himself increasingly consumed by thoughts - recounting every curve, touch and moan in vivid detail as he strokes his own yearning need beneath the sheets. Your ghostly presence seems to permeate every fiber of his being - an intoxicating obsession that has taken root deep within; each day stretching into the next until only the anticipation of seeing you again keeps him tethered to sanity.

He just knows that when he does, you’ll be back on your face down against his pillow and prepped with that ass up. Begging for more of him again, and again. It’s become his addiction.

The image conjured stirs an animalistic hunger within Eli; he can picture it all too vividly - he has you completely between his sheets - and the possessive protectiveness that grips him intensifies tenfold.

"Mine..."

He growls low under his breath at this mental tableau - a silent vow swirling through the stifling air of his room as day melts into night once more amidst their shared absence.

#lookism comic #lookism x reader #lookism webtoon #lookism

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rainforestakiie · 7 days

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Priest Adam x Devil/King of Hell Lucifer part 05

The Imp

@inubaki this is the end of the Imp! for now anyway. i might write one last part, but this is the end of the story i had in mind? i hope you enjoyed it!

‘A Priest observing that one of fathers in his charge seems to be heavily distracted by something no one else can see. Father Adam had come to them young, an unwanted fourth child to a Nobel family hoping to gain the church’s favor. Life is hard for Adam whim continues to wait for his family to return for him, growing into despair until one day he suddenly improves. He claims he’s spoken to an angel. And, to his credit, does give information far beyond what any child should know. But the older Adam gets, the more distracted he becomes. More happy, but conflicted. Till one day he disappears.'

The Imp (Priest Adam x Devil/King of Hell Lucifer) = Part 01. Part 02. Part 03. Part 04. Part 05

"Luci?"

Adam's voice trembled, reverberating through the oppressive blackness of the basement like a lost whisper seeking solace. Time had stretched thin, an endless stretch since his last descent into this forsaken place. As his eyes adjusted to the murky gloom, memories surfaced with a disconcerting clarity, flashing images of a once familiar space now enshrouded in eerie desolation. His vision wavered, like shadows dancing in the periphery, distorting the memory of the basement's former allure—a place now forgotten and forsaken.

The basement was an oppressive cavern, its walls seemingly closing in as Adam's footsteps echoed with a hollow finality. He shuffled forward, his breath hitching in his throat. The air was thick, laden with an acrid stench that clung to the walls like an unspoken secret.

A decrepit bookshelf, weathered and bent, loomed at the end of the room, its once-gleaming surface now obscured by a thick layer of dust. Shelves, arranged with unsettling precision, displayed an assortment of grotesque curiosities—jars filled with preserved meat, suspended in a nauseating, gelatinous fluid that seemed to pulse with a life of its own.

The basement opened into a claustrophobic chamber; its dimensions obscured by the oppressive shadows cast by flickering candlelight. Murals, painted with eerie and writhing designs, seemed to twist and coil, their colours shifting in the erratic glow. The centre of the chamber was dominated by a solitary, dust-covered table, upon which lay ancient parchment—a relic from another era.

A mannequin stood as the table's centrepiece, draped in an ethereal, snow-white gown that cascaded like a ghostly waterfall. The fabric, once pristine, was now marred by malevolent apple-like patterns and disturbing, petal-like embellishments that seemed to shiver and shift with a sinister intent. The dress's neckline was adorned with feather-like designs, and a spectral veil, hanging like a death shroud, obscured the mannequin’s face, trailing to the floor like a mournful wail.

In stark contrast, behind the mannequin, two vases overflowed with real purple and white roses, their vibrant hues a jarring contrast to the lifeless blossoms that filled the rest of the room.

The memory was vibrant. Adam practically expected to witness it again…

A sense of foreboding washed over Adam as he rounded the sharp corner, his skin crawling with unease. His oversized sweater clung to him like a shroud as he peered around the bend. His breath caught in his throat, his heart leaping into his chest in a frantic rhythm. Before him lay a grotesque tableau—a sea of candles, their wax dripped and congealed, forming grotesque stalactites that clung to the walls like malignant growths. A solitary black candle burned with a sickly, wavering flame, placed ominously in front of the mannequin.

Adam’s knees buckled, his eyes widening in horror. The mannequin was no longer adorned in its haunting bridal dress; instead, it stood in ghastly nudity. Its head was missing, and it bore six twisted, unnervingly lifelike arms protruding grotesquely from its torso. The sight was horrifying, a nightmarish distortion of something once innocent. Blood, dark and glistening, dripped slowly from the bottom of the mannequin, pooling beneath it like a macabre offering.

"L-Luci?" Adam’s voice broke, barely more than a breathless whisper as terror gripped him.

He took an involuntary step back, his eyes fixed in horror as the mannequin’s dismembered arms began to move. Each limb rose and fell with a slow, deliberate motion, accompanied by a sickening, wet squelch that seemed to echo from the depths of Adam’s soul.

His face turned ashen, and he staggered back, seeking refuge behind the corner of the wall. His hands flew to his face, trying to shield himself from the abomination before him. Tremors racked his body, each shudder a testament to the profound fear that had taken hold of him.

Adam took a step back, a visceral chill creeping up his spine as the unsettling sound of bones snapping and cracking filled the air like the macabre symphony of a forgotten graveyard. His breath hitched, a strangled gasp escaping his lips as his senses were overwhelmed by the rising tide of dread. Desperate to escape the nightmarish scene, he turned sharply, his mind racing with only one thought—escape.

But what lay before him was not the familiar stretch of the basement or the comforting presence of the dumbwaiter he had hoped for. Instead, he faced a pair of imposing double wooden doors, their surfaces intricately adorned with stained glass. The fragmented patterns and twisted designs in the glass seemed to writhe and pulse, mocking his desperate need for escape with their ominous beauty.

His heart leaped into his throat, pounding against his ribcage with the force of a trapped animal. Adam stumbled forward in shock, his hands instinctively reaching out to grasp the cold, carved wood of the doors. Panic surged through him as he pushed against them, his fingers clawing desperately for purchase. But the doors, heavy and unforgiving, refused to budge. He felt the weight of his own terror dragging him down, his attempts to steady himself failing as the reality of his situation crashed down upon him.

In a disorienting blur, Adam tumbled through the doors, his body colliding with the cold floor beyond. The world spun around him, the once-distant sounds of cracking bones now an oppressive cacophony filling the space. He lay there, dazed and breathless, the harsh light of an unknown source casting sharp, jagged shadows across the room. Each flicker of light seemed to twist and writhe, amplifying the creeping dread that clung to the edges of his vision.

The room he found himself in was a chilling contrast to the basement's grim decor. The walls were lined with oppressive, dark wood panelling, and the air was thick with a musty, oppressive weight. Shadows danced along the walls, moving with a life of their own as if mocking his futile attempt to escape. The oppressive silence that followed was a stark reminder of his isolation, each heartbeat echoing louder in his ears as he struggled to rise, his hands trembling uncontrollably.

Adam's mind raced, struggling to make sense of his surroundings as he slowly pushed himself to his feet. The fear that had been a distant, abstract terror now surged forward with crushing intensity, pressing down on him with every breath he took. His eyes darted around the room, seeking any sign of an exit or an explanation for the nightmarish transformation of what had once been a seemingly normal basement. But the room offered no answers, only the eerie promise of further horrors yet to be revealed.

The double doors creaked open, and Adam was met with a sight that both mesmerized and horrified him. Before him lay the interior of a church unlike any he had ever known. The grandeur of the space was overwhelming, an eerie contrast to the grim basement he had just fled.

He found himself standing on the threshold of what could only be described as a grotesque parody of a wedding. His bare feet, chilled by the cold marble floor, touched a long carpet that undulated in dark crimson and jet black, stretching all the way up the aisle to an altar that seemed to beckon with malevolent intent. The carpet, an unsettling blend of blood and shadow, drew a stark line through the room, leading to the place where vows of eternal love were supposed to be exchanged.

Rows of wooden stools, dark and polished, flanked the carpet on either side. Black rose petals were scattered across the floor, their inky colour creating a stark contrast against the immaculate white of the petals. The scent of decay mixed with the fragrance of the roses, adding a sickly sweetness to the already oppressive atmosphere.

The church's interior was vast and imposing, a cathedral of nightmares that dwarfed anything Adam had ever encountered. Pillars of deep, blood-red stone lined the walkway, their surfaces veined with patterns that seemed to writhe in the dim light. Above them, towering stained-glass windows depicted a horrific transformation: an angel falling from the heavens into a world engulfed in flames. The angel's once serene visage twisted with each successive window, becoming increasingly monstrous and grotesque, its fall depicted with a cruel artistry that sent shivers down Adam’s spine.

A gasp escaped Adam's lips as he tried to retreat, but the double doors slammed shut with a deafening thud, locking him in. The sound reverberated through the vast chamber, leaving his ears ringing and his heart racing in terror. His legs, trembling uncontrollably, buckled beneath him as he stumbled forward, unable to tear his eyes away from the horrific spectacle that unfolded before him.

At the top of the aisle, Adam’s emerald eyes darted nervously from side to side. The wooden stools, once intended for a congregation of joyous witnesses, were now occupied by shadowy figures. These mannequins, draped in dark, tattered garments, were seated in every spot, their features obscured by shadows. They stared blankly ahead, their presence an unsettling reminder of the perverse ceremony that was about to take place.

The sight of the shadowy mannequins, seated in eerie silence, filled the church with an air of sinister anticipation. Their vacant eyes and silent stillness were a grotesque mockery of the usual warmth and joy associated with weddings. The oppressive silence was broken only by the faint rustling of the black rose petals, carried by a draft that seemed to whisper dark secrets.

Adam's heart pounded in his chest as he struggled to process the horror around him. The altar at the end of the aisle, where the bride and groom were meant to stand, was now adorned with sinister symbols etched into the stone. The once-sacred space had been twisted into a macabre stage, and Adam felt a cold sweat break out across his skin.

The oppressive beauty of the church, with its blend of romantic and horrific elements, seemed to close in on him. The juxtaposition of the elegant, yet malevolent, surroundings left him paralyzed with fear. His mind raced with frantic thoughts as he realized he was trapped, forced to bear witness to a nightmare that blended the sacred with the sinister, the romantic with the repulsive.

As Adam stood paralyzed at the top of the aisle, his mind reeling from the grotesque spectacle around him, a sudden and jarring shift occurred. Without warning, a bouquet of black roses appeared in his hands. The flowers, their petals an abyssal black, seemed to absorb the dim light that filled the church, creating an unsettling contrast against the stark white of the scattered petals on the floor.

Adam's fingers curled instinctively around the bouquet, his grip tightening as if seeking some tangible anchor in the midst of the chaos. His gaze, drawn upward by a magnetic force, was pulled to the ceiling where a pentagram was etched into the stone. The symbol, sinister and arcane, seemed to pulse with a malevolent energy, casting eerie shadows that flickered and danced with each tremor of the church's dim lighting.

A sudden jolt of recognition snapped Adam from his trance. He turned sharply, his heart skipping a beat as he saw a figure standing near the altar. It was a nun, her habit dark and ethereal, blending almost seamlessly with the surrounding shadows. She moved with a deliberate grace, her presence both solemn and eerie. Before Adam could fully comprehend the situation, the nun extended a hand toward him, her eyes locked with his in a piercing gaze.

"Emily!" Adam's voice broke the oppressive silence, the name escaping his lips in a desperate gasp. His eyes widened with hope and fear as he tried to follow her. He staggered forward, his feet stumbling over the carpet, his heart pounding with a frantic urgency.

But the nun’s figure seemed to dissolve into the rows of shadowy mannequins. She vanished into the sea of lifeless forms, her presence retreating into the eerie congregation of seated figures. The once-prominent figure of Emily seemed to dissolve into the darkness, leaving Adam alone with the chilling emptiness of the church.

He stood frozen before the walkway, the bouquet of black roses still clutched tightly in his trembling hands. The grandeur and malevolence of the church pressed in around him, the sight of the mannequins, their blank stares fixed in haunting silence, amplifying his sense of isolation. The pentagram above him seemed to mock his confusion, its dark symbolism an unspoken promise of deeper horrors yet to come.

The aisle stretched before him, a sinister path leading to an altar that promised nothing but darkness and dread. Adam’s gaze flickered helplessly from the dark, imposing altar to the rows of mannequins that seemed to silently watch him with their soulless eyes. The oppressive beauty of the church, combined with the vanished figure of Emily, left him in a state of paralyzed horror, each beat of his heart echoing with the dread of what was to come.

"No..." Adam whispered shakily, his voice barely more than a breath against the oppressive silence that filled the church.

He stumbled backward, his legs unsteady beneath him, until his back hit the cold surface of the double doors. Panic surged through him as the haunting melody of 'Here Comes the Bride' began to echo through the church, distorted and slow, as if played from some otherworldly source. The notes crawled under his skin, filling him with a dread that made his heart hammer wildly in his chest.

"No, no, no, no," he muttered frantically, his voice rising as he spun around to face the doors.

The bouquet of black roses slipped from his fingers, scattering across the floor like dark, wilting remnants of a dream gone horribly wrong. He didn’t care. His hands flew to the shiny doorknobs, gripping them so hard his knuckles turned white. He twisted and pulled, trying desperately to force them open, but they wouldn’t budge, not even an inch. It was as if the doors had fused with the very walls, sealing him inside this nightmare.

Then, a soft touch—a feather-light brush against his shoulder—made Adam freeze, his whole body stiffening as cold prickles erupted along his skin. His emerald eyes widened in terror; his breath caught in his throat. Every instinct screamed at him to run, but he couldn’t. Slowly, almost mechanically, he turned, biting back the cry that rose in his throat.

"No!" Adam bellowed, his voice cracking the silence like a whip.

The entire church seemed to freeze, as if someone had pressed the pause button on reality itself. The music stopped mid-note, the flickering candlelight stilled, even the suffocating weight of the air seemed to hold its breath.

"No! I won’t— I won’t do this!" Adam’s voice wavered, his hands trembling at his sides. "I don’t want to do this! I don’t want to marry you, Luci!"

Standing before him, mere feet away, was a figure both familiar and foreign—a twisted reflection of someone Adam had once known. Luci, but not Luci. His presence dominated the space, a strange mixture of elegance and terror that made Adam’s stomach churn.

Dressed not in the ghostly white suit Adam once imagined, Luci now stood in a sleek black suit, the fabric so dark it seemed to swallow the light around it. A deep blue vest peeked from beneath his jacket, a colour that shimmered like midnight waters. Luci’s platinum blonde hair, unnaturally smooth and perfect, framed a face that was eerily enchanting—too perfect to be human.

His alabaster skin glowed with an ethereal light; his cheeks touched with a rosy hue that felt more like a painter’s deliberate stroke than something real. But it was his eyes that made Adam’s blood run cold. One gold, the other ruby, both gleamed with an almost playful malevolence. They were beautiful—horrifically beautiful—and they locked onto Adam with an intensity that made him feel utterly exposed.

A massive, elaborate black top hat crowned Luci’s head, adorned with a ring of purple roses on the verge of decay, their petals wilting yet somehow holding on to a tragic beauty. Nestled among the flowers was the familiar sight of Basil, the little white snake that always accompanied Luci, now wrapping itself around the hat’s brim, its white scales slowly morphing into a golden hue. The sight was so disturbingly intimate, so familiar, that Adam felt his heart twist painfully in his chest.

Luci’s grin stretched wide, too wide, his sharp teeth glinting in the dim light, as if he could barely contain his amusement. The smile looked like it would tear his face in half. His hooves—cloven and gleaming like polished onyx—clicked rhythmically against the stone floor of the church as he shifted, his posture relaxed yet predatory. He leaned in slightly, his arms crossed behind his back, allowing the shadows around him to darken and grow, curling at his feet like hungry tendrils.

"T-Tell me the truth." Adam’s voice faltered, but he forced himself to stand straight, his knees shaking beneath him. He swallowed thickly, trying to summon courage where none existed.

"Did—did you push Steve?"

Luci's eyes flashed with something primal, a flicker of cruel delight dancing in their mismatched depths. His grin widened even more, impossibly, and a soft, rumbling chuckle escaped his throat, vibrating through the thick air of the church. When he finally spoke, his voice was like velvet, smooth and melodic, each word caressing the air with a beauty that sent a shiver down Adam’s spine. It was the first time Adam had ever heard Luci speak, and it was the most hauntingly beautiful sound he had ever experienced.

"Did I push Steve?" Luci repeated, his voice low, dripping with amusement, the words curling like smoke in the space between them. The question echoed, bouncing off the high arches of the church, making Adam shudder with every syllable.

Adam gasped, stepping back instinctively, his whole-body trembling under the weight of Luci’s voice. It was so gentle, so intoxicating, yet it carried an undercurrent of something dark, something deeply wrong. The shadows around Luci swirled, growing deeper, darker, as if the church itself was bending to his will.

Adam’s breath came in ragged gasps as Luci’s form loomed closer, his golden and ruby eyes gleaming with a satisfaction that sent a cold chill racing through Adam’s veins. He could feel the weight of the truth pressing down on him, suffocating him with its inevitability.

The truth he had been running from was standing before him, grinning with a terrifying, twisted glee.

Adam’s breath came in shallow gasps, his whole-body trembling as he forced himself to face the nightmare standing before him. His legs felt weak, like they might give out at any moment, but he couldn’t stop now. He had to confront Luci, even though every fibre of his being screamed to run. His voice, when it finally emerged, was shaky and barely above a whisper.

“D-Did you try to hurt Steve?” Adam stammered.

His eyes wide, watching as Luci's grin stretched impossibly wider, like the Cheshire Cat from a twisted fairytale. Luci’s mismatched eyes—gold and ruby—sparkled with a dangerous, gleeful light, his sharp teeth gleaming.

“Did I… push Steve?” Luci repeated in mockery, each word dripping with amusement.

He took a step closer, the sound of his hooves clicking against the stone floor like a death knell. Adam gulped, his legs nearly buckling as Luci’s cold, sharp finger traced lightly over his cheek, sending a jolt of fear down his spine. The imp’s touch was both tender and terrifying, a predator toying with its prey.

Adam’s voice broke as he swallowed hard, trying to keep his composure. “The fish… the fish always dying in the church—was that you? The shadows… haunting every corner… the nightmares, the thing in my wardrobe. Was it all you?”

Luci chuckled darkly, his finger trailing down to Adam’s chin, lifting it slightly, forcing their eyes to meet.

“Everything I’ve done,” Luci purred, his voice like silk, “I did for you, Adam.” His words oozed with twisted affection, his eyes glowing with a sick kind of devotion. “I move the world for no one… but I did it for you.”

Adam recoiled slightly, stepping back in a feeble attempt to put some distance between them, but Luci moved closer, his presence overwhelming. Adam’s back hit the cold, unyielding surface of the double doors, but they did not budge. Panic surged through him as Luci loomed ever nearer, his breath ghosting over Adam’s skin.

“D-Did you hurt Emily?” Adam asked, his voice breaking as the weight of the truth began to crush him. “Did you take her sight?”

Luci’s grin split his face wide as he leaned in even closer, his shadow engulfing Adam.

“Emily…” Luci mused, his voice rumbling like thunder, “Aas getting too close. She would have gotten in the way, Adam. I couldn’t let her take you away.”

Adam’s heart pounded violently in his chest as he tried to comprehend the horror of Luci’s words.

“You… you blinded her… you did that to her.” His voice cracked, the betrayal raw in his throat.

“She would have taken you from me,” Luci said, as though it were the most obvious thing in the world. “I gave you everything, Adam. A family… a friend… a partner, a husband. Children.”

As Luci spoke, Adam’s gaze darted to the benches, where rows of China dolls sat, clapping their hands and tossing black rose petals over him. The sound of their childish giggles filled the air, making Adam’s skin crawl.

Adam stumbled backward, his feet catching on the edge of the aisle, and he fell onto his backside, grunting as he hit the cold stone floor. His green eyes glistened with unshed tears as he stared at Luci in horror. The imp stepped closer, his hooves echoing ominously in the vast, haunted space.

“I saved you,” Luci whispered, his voice soft but laced with dangerous affection. “I saved you when you were a child, Adam. When they kidnapped you, when they were going to sacrifice you. I brought you here… to keep you safe. Untouched.”

Adam’s mind reeled. His memories of that night were vague, shrouded in darkness, but now they surged back with brutal clarity. Luci had been there. Luci had always been there. His protector… his captor.

Luci’s eyes gleamed with a sickening kind of triumph as he crouched down before Adam, his long fingers reaching out to gently brush a strand of Adam’s thick hair from his face.

“I’ve done everything for you,” he whispered, his breath cold against Adam’s skin. “I want you, Adam. I want your soul. I want you to be mine.”

Adam whimpered, biting his bottom lip as tears welled up in his eyes. The church had fallen deathly silent, as if the very building itself was holding its breath, waiting for his answer. Adam’s heart hammered in his chest as he tried to steady himself. He could feel Luci’s eyes on him, burning with an intensity that made it hard to breathe.

He swallowed hard, meeting Luci’s gaze with trembling resolve.

“Did you hurt Steve?” he repeated, his voice weak but determined. “Did you hurt Emily?”

Luci’s smile faltered for the first time, his golden and ruby eyes narrowing. He slapped his hands onto his knees and stood up with a flourish, mocking Adam’s persistence.

“Why do you care so much about them, Adam?” he sneered. “Why do you care so much about that nun and this church?”

Adam’s legs were shaking as he forced himself to stand, his voice wavering but growing stronger.

“So, you did hurt her,” he said, his voice laced with bitter realization. “You hurt Emily.”

Luci rolled his eyes in exasperation, his lips twisting into a dangerous smirk.

“I had to,” he said coldly. “She was getting too close. If she kept going, she would’ve taken you away from me. I couldn’t let that happen.”

Adam’s breath hitched, his heart breaking as he thought of Emily—kind, caring Emily, who had always been there for him.

“She was my friend,” Adam cried, his voice cracking. “She cared for me!”

Luci huffed, dismissing the pain in Adam’s voice with a wave of his hand.

“She would’ve taken you away,” he repeated, his tone sharp with jealousy. “I couldn’t let you leave the church.”

Adam’s fists clenched at his sides as anger flared in his chest, burning away some of his fear.

“Why?” he demanded, his voice rising. “Why couldn’t I leave?”

Luci’s grin returned, colder this time, his eyes gleaming with possession. “Because you’re mine, Adam. You must become mine in this church.”

Adam scoffed, a bitter laugh escaping his lips despite the fear still gnawing at him. “Why would I ever want to be with you after everything you’ve done? You’ve hurt the people I love. Why would I want to stay with you?”

Luci’s laughter echoed through the church, a sound so chilling it made Adam’s skin crawl. The imp’s smirk twisted into something even darker as he stepped closer, towering over Adam.

“Do you really love them, Adam?” he asked, his voice dripping with condescension. “Do you really love Steve?”

Adam blinked, confused, his voice soft as he answered, “Of course I do. Why wouldn’t I?”

Luci threw his head back, laughing at him, the sound harsh and mocking, cutting through the air like a blade.

Luci's eyes glinted with a sinister light, that unnerving mix of seduction and cruelty flickering within their depths as he studied Adam’s tear-streaked face.

"How could you love something that's not real?" Luci's voice was a velvet whisper.

His lips curling in a twisted grin as he began to circle Adam, slow and predatory. The soft shuffle of Luci's boots on the floor sounded like a snake slithering through the silence. Adam’s heart pounded in his chest, his breath growing shallow.

“What are you talking about?” Adam stammered, eyes darting toward Luci. But Luci was moving too fast, his figure gliding through the shadows like a spectre, impossible to pin down.

Luci’s voice slithered into Adam's ear, a deep, purring growl, “Think about it. Really think.”

He was behind him now, breath hot against Adam’s neck. “Look back at your memories, Adam. Look closely.”

Adam tried to keep track of Luci’s movements, his eyes flicking around the dimly lit room, but Luci was gone—vanished into the gloom. The only figures in sight were the mannequins, their vacant, glassy eyes watching. The China-dolls too, their cold porcelain faces cracked, grinning grotesquely in the flickering candlelight. A sense of suffocating dread coiled around Adam, squeezing his chest as nausea churned in his stomach.

Luci’s words echoed through his mind. Really think... really look...

And so, he did.

He thought of Steve. The bright flash of red hair, that freckled face that always wore a mischievous smile. The way Steve's laughter had filled Emily’s room the first time they met, how Steve’s hand had brushed his, a spark that had ignited something deep inside him. Adam’s brow furrowed as he remembered Steve sharing his bed after that first nightmare, the warmth of his body, the gentle comfort of his presence. How Steve had carefully tied the wardrobe doors shut, keeping the monsters away. He thought of the birthdays, the gifts Steve had given him, the way his heart had leapt with each of those small tokens of affection. His first kiss... it had been Steve. It had to be.

But as Adam replayed the memories, cracks began to appear.

His smile faltered, brows knitting in confusion.

Why hadn’t anyone else ever spoken to Steve?

He remembered the children outside, the nuns... Steve had been with them, but... but had they ever really acknowledged him?

Eveline, Steve’s twin. But Adam had never actually seen them talk. Never seen them in the same room, come to think of it. Steve always claimed to be speaking with Sister Sera... but only ever after storming away. The figure who consoled him... was that really Sister Sera?

Adam’s heart pounded so loudly now it felt like it might burst. Sweat gathered at his temples, and his stomach twisted violently.

He whispered, almost pleading, "No... no, no, no..."

It couldn't be right. Steve was real. He had to be. Steve was his first love, his first friend, his—

A hand touched his elbow.

Adam spun around, and there he was—Steve. Tears welled in Adam’s eyes, and before he could stop himself, he threw his arms around Steve, clutching him tightly. Steve’s embrace was warm, familiar. For a moment, the panic in Adam’s chest melted away.

"Steve..." Adam sobbed, burying his face in Steve's shoulder. "You're real. You’re here."

But then Luci’s voice drifted through the room again, soothing, mocking. "There, there. Don’t cry, Adam. Everything was... necessary."

A cold shiver ran down Adam’s spine. He squinted through the haze of his tears, pulling back just enough to meet Steve’s eyes—only they weren’t the same anymore. Steve’s gentle amber eyes had darkened, shifting into an unnatural shade of ruby and gold. Adam’s stomach dropped. The comforting warmth of Steve’s body began to warp, his hands no longer tender but clawed.

The wide grin on Steve’s face stretched further, too far, revealing rows of sharp, glistening teeth. Adam’s breath hitched as he staggered backward.

"No..." Adam choked, shaking his head as the truth unravelled in front of him.

From behind Steve, something twisted into view—a long, pointed tail, curling like a serpent in the shadows.

"You, see?" Steve's voice, no—Luci’s voice—crooned, rich with satisfaction. "There was no Steve, Adam. There was only ever me."

Adam’s heart shattered, the weight of betrayal crushing him from within. His knees buckled, and he stumbled back as Luci—no longer Steve, but the demonic figure with glowing eyes and that devilish smile—advanced toward him.

Luci’s voice dripped with a perverse sweetness, his blackened claws reaching out. "Your love was real, Adam, but it was always for me. You just didn't know it."

Adam sobbed, raw and broken, "Why? Why would you do this to me?"

Luci’s lips curled into a smile that was both chilling and seductive. "Because I needed you to love me, Adam. To teach you the depths of love... and ensure you would never leave me. I couldn't risk losing you after Emily." His tail flicked behind him, a menacing swish in the dark.

Adam's hands trembled as more tears spilled down his flushed cheeks, each one burning with the sting of betrayal. “So…everything... everything was a lie?”

Luci’s voice softened, almost tender as he cupped Adam's face, forcing their gazes to meet.

"No, my love," he whispered, his eyes gleaming. "It wasn't a lie. Every moment was real. Every touch, every kiss. It was all true..."

He leaned in, his lips brushing Adam's ear. “But it was always me.”

Adam's body had become a shadow of itself, worn down to the bone by the relentless weight of despair. He trembled as he stood, his legs barely holding him up. His muscles, once strong, now felt like wet paper, fragile and numb. His breath was shallow, coming in ragged gasps, his entire being exhausted to the core. His eyes, dim and hollow, stared up at Luci—or whatever Luci was—with a mixture of fear and resignation.

"Who... who are you?" Adam's voice cracked, barely a whisper, as if it was all he had left.

Luci’s eyes glinted, his head tilting to the side in a slow, unnerving motion. A low hum vibrated from deep within his throat, almost melodic, yet tinged with menace. As his head shifted, the sickening sound of skin stretching, snapping, and cracking filled the air, echoing through the desolate church like the crack of thunder.

Adam flinched as six massive wings erupted from Luci’s back—towering, grotesque, and yet achingly beautiful. They were a macabre blend of white and red, streaks of crimson running through the pristine feathers like blood. They stretched wide behind him, impossibly large, casting a haunting shadow that seemed to swallow the light.

Horns sprouted from Luci’s head, jagged and black, curling upward until they rose even higher than the brim of his tall top hat. And then, as if the darkness wasn’t enough, a small golden snake—Basil—slithered lazily around the tip of his horns, its delicate body twisting and coiling as a flame ignited at the centre, casting flickering orange light over Luci’s face. His eyes—once seductive and golden—now burned with an intense, blood-red glow, fully demonic.

Adam’s breath hitched in his throat, his heart racing as he watched eye-like patterns ripple across Luci’s once elegant black suit, blinking at him like something alive, something otherworldly. Each eye seemed to stare directly into Adam’s soul, watching, waiting. His gaze faltered, drifting to the monstrous shadow that stretched from Luci’s form, growing, expanding, until it aligned perfectly with the stained-glass window behind him.

The window depicted an angel—the most beautiful of them all, God's favoured one, the brightest light of Heaven. But Adam’s blood ran cold as realization hit him like a hammer. The glass showed a fallen figure, wings torn and broken, cast down from Heaven’s grace into the fiery abyss below.

Adam stared in horror as the shadow seemed to merge with the image—Luci’s form lined up perfectly with the depiction of the Fallen Archangel. The one who had been banished. The one whose name was whispered in fear and hatred, the one who ruled over the flames that scorched the damned.

Lucifer.

The name hung in Adam’s mind, but his lips trembled, unable to form the word.

Luci—or Lucifer—leaned in close, so close Adam could feel the warmth of his breath against his cold skin. One clawed hand gently cradled Adam’s cheek, the gesture deceptively tender. But behind those glowing eyes was something ancient and terrifying. Luci's smile was a wicked curve, wide and sharp, dripping with satisfaction.

"You already know who I am," Luci whispered, his voice like silk, dark and velvety, wrapping around Adam’s senses, suffocating him in its allure. “Say my name. It’s written upon your soul.”

Adam's lips quivered, his entire body trembling as he tried to speak.

"L... Lucifer..." he finally managed, the name escaping his lips in a weak, broken whisper.

At the sound of his name, Lucifer trembled with delight. A shiver of pleasure ran through him, and his wings fluttered behind him, their crimson edges glowing faintly in the dim light. His clawed hand slid down, taking hold of Adam’s frail hand, his touch both cold and electric. With a slow, deliberate motion, Lucifer lifted Adam to his feet, guiding him with unnatural ease.

“What... what happens now?” Adam’s voice was weak, his question laced with desperation and fear.

As if in response, the bouquet of black roses that Adam had dropped earlier—fallen, forgotten—suddenly lifted from the cold stone floor. The petals, once scattered, gathered again, the roses reassembling themselves into a perfect bouquet. They hovered in the air beside him, waiting, almost expectantly.

Lucifer’s eyes never left Adam’s as he directed Adam’s trembling hands to take the bouquet, his fingers lingering, brushing against Adam’s skin in a way that sent a shiver down his spine. His other hand came up to caress Adam’s cheek, his thumb stroking the tear-streaked skin as if offering comfort, but his smile betrayed something far darker.

“You will marry me,” Lucifer whispered, his voice like a lover’s promise, but twisted with something sinister. His wings curled around them both, creating a suffocating cocoon.

“You were mine from the very beginning, Adam.” His words dripped with an ancient, terrible truth. “The first man. My soulmate. You were always destined for me.”

Adam’s heart pounded in his chest, but his body felt numb. His mind screamed for him to run, but his legs were frozen, his will erode by exhaustion and fear. The weight of Lucifer’s words crushed him, his fate sealed from the very beginning of time.

The flames from Basil’s tail flickered brighter, casting long shadows over Lucifer’s face as his grin widened, sharp and terrifying. The bouquet of black roses pulsed in Adam’s hand, cold as death itself, but so beautiful it hurt to hold them.

“You belong to me, Adam,” Lucifer whispered, leaning closer until their foreheads touched.

“You always have and this time…nothing will take you away ever again.”

#hazbin hotel #fanfic #adamsapple #lucifer x adam #au #guitarduck #fanficiton #horror #imp

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fanficapologist · 4 months

Text

Of Dragons and Maelstroms: Aemond POV

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

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

Chapter Ten

“Nyke jiōragon rhēdan lo nyke istan ao.” I’d get started if I were you.

Watching her deliver blow after blow to Aegon was a sight to behold. Each punch, each kick resonated like a symphony of beautiful music to his ears. The sound of Aegon's cries mingling with the impact of Maera's strikes created a macabre melody that filled the air, and every splash of blood seemed to paint a vivid tableau of retribution.

Despite the violence unfolding before him, Aemond couldn't help but feel a sense of satisfaction wash over him. Duty and loyalty to his family, as well as his affection for his mother, had restrained him from taking such action himself. But witnessing Maera exact justice upon Aegon, the woman bound to him through prophecy, felt like the ultimate vindication.

In Aemond's mind, Aegon was unworthy to rule. While the crown may have been his by birthright, Aemond saw himself as the true heir, possessing the temperament and skill that Aegon sorely lacked. Aemond embodied everything Aegon was not: strength, intelligence, and a sense of duty to his family and his realm. Seeing Maera deliver Aegon's comeuppance only reinforced Aemond's conviction that the crown rightfully belonged to him. With his queen by his side.

Watching her reach for her dagger beneath her skirts, Aemond knew instinctively that it would be a step too far. Despite the monstrous nature of Aegon's actions, he was still his brother, and moreover, the King. He couldn't shake the image of his mother's tears for the late Prince Lucerys, and the thought of her grief if he stood idly by and watched his brother be murdered was unbearable. With a sense of urgency, Aemond approached Maera and forcefully yanked the dagger out of her hand. She was furious, her rage clouding her judgment in that moment, likely fueled by her Targaryen heritage and the intensity of the situation.

When the door began to jiggle, signaling the imminent arrival of guards, Aemond acted quickly. Without hesitation, he seized Maera and dragged her towards the concealed tunnels, determined to prevent them from being caught. Despite her resistance and continued struggles, Aemond remained resolute, his focus unwavering as he sought to extricate them from the volatile situation, sparing a fleeting glance back at Aegon's beaten form before disappearing into the shadows of the passageways.

Dragging Maera through the secret corridors, he navigated the labyrinth with ease, their walls adorned with ancient stone carvings and flickering torches casting dancing shadows upon the damp stone floors. These passages were familiar to Aemond, known like the back of his hand, having studied them since he was a child—a pursuit that Aegon had never bothered to undertake. Unlike his brother, who only knew the passageways to his chambers and the exit of the Keep, Aemond had explored every nook and cranny, mastering the intricate network of hidden pathways that wound their way beneath the Red Keep.

Reaching a more open passageway with a dim flicker of light filtering through a distant opening, Aemond stole a moment to observe Maera. She was still breathing heavily, her hands pressed against her thighs as she attempted to steady herself. The lingering effects of anger and adrenaline left her trembling, and Aemond couldn't help but find her vulnerability endearing.

Noticing that she had yet to fully settle, Aemond gently grasped Maera's chin and lifted her face to meet his gaze. He drank in every detail of her features: the depth of her forest green eyes, the gentle slope of her nose, the rounded reddened cheeks flushed with exertion, and the slight purse of her lips as she endeavored to sync her breathing with his own. In that intimate moment, as their eyes locked in silent understanding, Aemond knew they were one of the same, two sides of the same coin. Meant to be.

As Maera eventually calmed down, her initial rage giving way to a more subdued demeanor, she unleashed a barrage of critical words laced with sarcasm directed at Aemond. “Was that too much for you to stomach, my Prince?”

Despite her biting remarks, Aemond struggled to hide a smirk, finding amusement in her fiery spirit even in the midst of turmoil. "Oh, forgive me, Lady Maera, but I couldn't just stand by and allow you to kill the King," he scoffed, his one eye narrowing in disapproval.

However, when the gravity of what she had done to Aegon dawned upon her, Maera's demeanor shifted once again. Instantly, she turned her blame on Aemond, accusing him of allowing her to take her vengeance too far. Aemond couldn't help but jest in response, attempting to lighten the mood, yet when he saw the worry etched in her eyes, he reassured her with a solemn promise—he would not let anything happen to her. After all, she was his, bound to him by the gods.

Their moment of reassurance, however, was short-lived, as she began to frantically pat at her chest, causing Aemond to raise his brow. "What's wrong?"

"It’s gone," Maera replied, her voice tinged with panic. "My necklace, my mother's necklace."

Aemond's posture stiffened at the implication— if evidence of her presence was found in Aegon's room, it would mean grave consequences for Maera, potentially leading to the executioner's block.

Despite Aemond's reassurances that they would find the missing necklace, Maera seemed resigned to her fate—death at the end of a sword. With a heavy heart, she tossed the remaining piece of her mother's necklace down the dark tunnel, hurt evident in her green eyes. Then, without a word, she stormed away, leaving Aemond to chase after her, his pleas falling on deaf ears as she refused to respond, fleeing from him.

In the days that followed, Aemond searched tirelessly in Aegon's chambers, scouring every inch in a desperate attempt to find the missing piece of Maera's necklace, but his efforts proved fruitless. Meanwhile, Maera isolated herself in her rooms, refusing to spar with him at dawn and rejecting any visitors who sought her company.

However, one day as Aemond traversed the passageways, a glint of metal caught his eye. Rushing towards it, his heart soared with relief as he discovered the missing piece of Maera's necklace lying abandoned on the ground. Though broken and tarnished, Aemond knew how precious the heirloom was to her, and he could only imagine the regret she must have felt in her moment of frustration when she cast it away.

Pocketing the small golden chain, a sudden angered voice through the walls drew Aemond’s attention upward. Intrigued, he followed the sound through the winding corridors until he reached a door. Opening it, he found himself in the Small Council chambers, with his elder brother Aegon ranting and raving near the grand table.

The cuts and bruises on Aegon's face were still dark shades of blue and purple, a stark reminder of the violence inflicted upon him. It brought to mind the state his sister, Helaena, had been in after Aegon's attack, serving as a grim testament to the justification of Maera's actions. Opposite the pacing King stood Lord Commander Criston Cole and the Hand, Lord Otto, who were attempting to placate Aegon, their efforts proving futile in the face of his fury.

"I'm going to kill her. I'm going to fucking kill her!" Aegon's voice reverberated with rage, his fists clenched in fury.

Aemond closed the secret door behind him, his expression a mix of exasperation and amusement. "Gods, I thought something had actually happened from all that screaming." He cast a wry glance at Lord Otto and Ser Criston, who looked relieved at his arrival, grateful for the assistance.

"Don’t tell me one of your whores has given you an ailment again," Aemond quipped, his tone laced with sarcasm as he addressed his older brother.

Aegon's anger was palpable as he stormed towards his younger brother, jabbing a finger into Aemond's chest with each word. "Maera. Fucking. Wylde."

The one-eyed Prince felt his heart stop. Surely Aegon had not actually seen Maera do this to him? And if he had, did the King know his own brother bore witness, and even encouraged, the attack? A surge of apprehension washed over Aemond, but he maintained his composure. "What about her?" he inquired calmly, meeting Aegon's gaze evenly.

Aegon stepped back, gesturing dramatically to his battered and bruised face. "She did this to me!" The King's accusation hung heavy in the air as he turned to address Lord Otto and Ser Criston. "She made her way into my room and did this to me!" His voice cracked with indignation, seeking validation for his outrage.

As Aegon's accusation hung in the air, there was a palpable silence from the Lord Commander, while the Hand of the King emitted a silent scoff, betraying a hint of disbelief. Aemond noted their apprehension to contradict their king, but he remained resolute, prepared to deceive and undermine if necessary.

"Absurd," Aemond asserted, shaking his head incredulously. "Have you been indulging in the herbs and spices of Flea Bottom again?" His tone carried a hint of disbelief, a subtle attempt to cast doubt on Aegon's accusation.

"I know it was her," Aegon growled in response, his anger simmering beneath the surface.

Aemond simply crossed his arms, adopting a stance of skepticism. "How?" he pressed, his voice laced with curiosity.

Aegon reached into his pocket and produced a golden chain adorned with sapphires—the missing half of Maera's necklace. Ser Criston's eyes widened in recognition, and Lord Otto let out a gasp of astonishment. Aemond, however, tensed his jaw, his mind racing as he realized the gravity of the situation.

The discovery of the necklace provided damning evidence against Maera, placing her in imminent danger. Despite the mounting pressure, Aemond knew he had to remain composed, unwilling to give anything away that could further jeopardize Maera's safety. Sensing the gravity of the situation, Aemond knew he had to tread carefully. "The King of the Seven Kingdoms was beaten to a bloody pulp... by a girl?" he remarked incredulously, his tone tinged with disbelief.

Aegon's frown deepened at Aemond's comment. “You think this is funny?!” he snapped, his anger flaring.

Aemond attempted to hide a smirk, choosing instead to redirect the conversation. “Not at all, brother. I’m merely speculating what the Realm would think if this became public knowledge,” he replied smoothly, his tone measured.

Ignoring Aemond's jest, Aegon turned his attention to the Lord Commander, his command ringing through the room. “Take her head.” A sense of urgency washed over Aemond as he locked eyes with Ser Criston Cole, silently pleading for restraint.

Ser Criston himself seemed hesitant, attempting to reason with the King. “We still need the fleet she possesses, my King,” he interjected, his voice strained with caution.

Aegon laughed dismissively. “If she is dead, there will be no heir, will there? Then we can have it anyway,” he declared callously, his determination unwavering. Aemond's expression hardened at the King's words, his mind racing as he contemplated their next move in the face of Aegon's ruthless decree.

In the midst of the charged atmosphere, the Hand's voice cut through the tension like a blade. "A king who executes his own subjects will not win the love of his people," Lord Otto interjected firmly, his posture reflecting years of experience and wisdom.

Aegon's response was swift and resolute. "It will win me their fear," he declared, his voice tinged with unwavering determination.

A weary sigh escaped Lord Otto, his expression betraying a sense of concern. "You need both fear and love to rule, Aegon," he reasoned, his words carrying the weight of caution.

Aemond shook his head to himself at his grandfathers words, his mind filled with a litany of unspoken criticisms. A good king needed to possess strength, intelligence, and a deep sense of duty—qualities that Aegon glaringly lacked. Aegon’s selfishness and lack of interest in his birthright contrasted sharply with Aemond's dedication to their family and the realm.

Aegon’s debauchery and irresponsibility stood in stark opposition to Aemond's discipline and strategic mind. Aemond saw himself as a protector of the Targaryen legacy, someone who valued honor and possessed the will to lead with both justice and ruthlessness where necessary.

If the witch had been correct, Aemond mused, Maera by his side would be the catalyst for a formidable rule. Together, they could command the love and fear of the people, securing their loyalty and respect. Maera’s fierce spirit and his unwavering determination would complement each other, bringing forth a great dynasty that would restore the Targaryen name to its former glory. Aemond envisioned a future where their combined strengths would usher in an era of prosperity and power, a legacy that would be remembered for generations.

As the room fell into a heavy silence, Aemond seized the opportunity to present his case, his voice cutting through the stillness with clarity and resolve. "I believe I have a solution."

The King, the Hand, and the Lord Commander turned their attention to Aemond, their expressions a mixture of curiosity and apprehension, awaiting his proposal with bated breath.

"Give her to me," Aemond proposed boldly, meeting Aegon's gaze with an unwavering stare.

Aegon's scoff of disbelief rippled through the room, but Aemond pressed on, his conviction unshaken. "Marriage is the best way to secure alliances. And with the fleet as her dowry, we can match the Blacks at sea," he reasoned, his voice steady and persuasive. A glance at Lord Otto, the Hand, revealed a flicker of consideration in his eyes, hinting at the weight of Aemond's proposition.

However, Ser Criston, the Lord Commander, interjected with a furrowed brow, his concern evident in his tone. "Are you not already promised to a daughter of House Baratheon, my Prince?" he inquired, seeking clarity amidst the unfolding proposal. Aemond offered a reassuring nod, his confidence unwavering. "Daeron will take my place in the betrothal, so long as Lord Borros is in agreement," he explained calmly, earning a nod of approval from his mentor.

With all eyes now on Aegon, Aemond awaited his brother's response, though the soft smirk playing on Aegon's lips left him uncertain of its meaning. "Well, brother?" Aemond prompted, his gaze steady as he awaited Aegon's decision, the weight of their future alliances hanging in the balance.

His elder brother's expression was difficult to read, but the slow turning of the cogs in his mind was evident, and a devilish smirk soon crept onto his face. The sight of it made Aemond uncomfortable, a knot forming in his stomach.

Aegon's challenge cut through the air like a blade, his grin laden with mischief. "Are you that obsessed with getting your cock wet that your whore in Harrenhal is not enough for you?"

Aemond felt a surge of shock and indignation, his expression faltering at his brother's brazen accusation. The memory of Alys atop him surfaced, making him feel physically ill. Aegon's implication that Aemond derived some sort of sick pleasure from the situation was abhorrent. It was as if Aegon saw them as kindred spirits in their debauchery, a notion that Aemond found repulsive.

"How do you..." he began, his voice trailing off in disbelief.

"I am the King," Aegon declared slyly, his tone smug with authority. "No one even sneezes in this Realm without me knowing." Aegon took a step forward, his hand resting heavily on Aemond's shoulder. "And my, have I heard some tales about you and a whore in the Riverlands."

The one-eyed Prince clenched his jaw. Where Aegon indulged in reckless hedonism, Aemond sought discipline and purpose. His lying with Alys had been born of necessity and strategy, not depravity. The suggestion that he shared his brother's base instincts was an insult to everything Aemond believed about himself.

Aemond's gaze flicked sideways to the Lord Commander and the Hand, both men visibly uncomfortable in the face of the brothers' confrontation. Uncertainty gnawed at him, unsure whether their discomfort stemmed from the tension between him and Aegon or from the revelation of his tryst with Alys.

Unable to bear the weight of their scrutiny any longer, Aemond made a decisive move. "Leave us," he commanded, his voice firm and unwavering.

The Lord Commander and the Hand exchanged glances, hesitating for a moment before acquiescing to Aegon's silent nod. Bidding the Targaryens a respectful nod, they scuttled out of the room, leaving the brothers alone in the echoing chamber.

Once they were gone, Aegon chuckled silently to himself, savoring the tension between them. He turned and approached the long table in the middle of the room, reaching for the jug of wine in the center. With a casual grace, he poured the rich red liquid into two goblets, his chuckles lingering in the air like a mocking specter.

Aemond watched him, his eye narrowing as he took in his elder brother's appearance. Aegon's short, wavy silver hair framed his face, his violet eyes glinting with a mixture of amusement and malice. His fine black and green garments, tailored to perfection, spoke of his royal status, but it was the conqueror's crown atop his head that drew Aemond's focus. The ruby at its center caught the light from the window, sparkling malevolently, almost as if the crown itself were mocking him.

When the King attempted to give his brother a goblet of time, Aemond’s frustration boiled over. "I cannot believe you," he muttered, his tone laced with disappointment and rage. "I am your brother. I am helping you hold the throne. I have given my life to our House and never asked for anything in return. Yet you stand there and insult me, and will not even grant me one request."

"A request, is it, Aemond?" Aegon snickered, placing down the goblet he had previously offered, his amusement evident in his tone. "I thought this was purely based on strategy and for the good of the Realm." Aemond clenched his jaw, his resolve hardening as he met his brother's gaze, determined to assert his rightful place and secure the future of their House, even in the face of Aegon's mockery.

"Tell you what," he began, his voice teasing as he swirled the wine in his own cup . "I will grant this for you if you admit this is not for the crown, but for yourself. That this is born of personal desire." Aemond's jaw clenched, a flicker of frustration crossing his features at his brother's persistent teasing.

But Aegon remained undeterred, putting down his goblet, clasping his hands together in mock prayer and batting his eyelashes dramatically. "Come now, brother. Your King demands it," he pleaded, his tone laced with amusement. Aemond hesitated, grappling with his pride, but on the brink of destiny, he found himself willing to set it aside for the sake of his desires. "I want her," he admitted grudgingly, his admission tinged with reluctance.

Aegon's grin widened ear to ear at the stoic Prince’s admission. "Fine," he declared, causing Aemond's eye to widen in shock. The King's giggle filled the room as he continued, "I will have a raven sent to Lord Borros immediately, and if he allows Daeron to take your place, you may have her." Aemond couldn't believe his ears, his disbelief evident in his expression as he processed the unexpected turn of events.

Approaching his brother, Aegon placed both hands on Aemond's shoulders with a dramatic sigh. "My little brother, gone soft," he teased, his words eliciting a cringe from Aemond. But Aegon pressed on, his tone brimming with amusement. "I am sure you will whip her into shape once you are married," he added, his words dripping with condescension. “Poor girl. Her cunny is probably aching from not being touched. No wonder she is so hysterical and attacked me. She doesn’t know how to control herself.”

Aemond gritted his teeth at Aegon's insults, his fists clenching at his sides. The hypocrisy in Aegon's words was glaringly obvious to the one-eyed Prince. Aegon claimed Maera was out of control, yet he was the very person who had attacked his own wife so brutally that Maera had felt compelled to exact revenge on him in Helaena's name.

And just a few months ago, Aegon had attacked Maera herself. He could still picture the bruises that had marred her forearms from the brute force of the King’s attempt to dishonor her, a vile act to satisfy his own twisted needs. The memory of her suffering and the sight of her injuries had fueled Aemond's anger then, and it did so again now.

Aegon, standing there in his regal attire with the conqueror's crown atop his head, spoke of control and decorum, yet he was the one who lacked it the most. Aegon's reign was a constant display of reckless hedonism and violence, unbecoming of a true king. And yet, he still wore the crown, the symbol of Targaryen might and legacy. This incongruity enraged Aemond to his core.

Yet, in that moment, he remained silent, unwilling to risk Aegon rescinding his decree. In a hushed voice, the King issued his final orders. "Keep a muzzle on her once she is yours and we will have no problem," he instructed, delivering a hard pat on Aemond's back before exiting the room, leaving Aemond to grapple with the weight of his brother's decree and the unsettling implications of his words.

The week before Maera was summoned before the court by the King, Aemond once again struggled to sleep. His mind raced with a storm of thoughts and emotions that kept him restless through the nights. Maera continued to isolate herself, refusing to receive visitors after attacking Aegon. Aemond didn't even attempt to see her, knowing he couldn't forewarn her of the King's decree, despite his overwhelming desire to do so. He chose to stay away, feeling it was the lesser of two evils.

The Prince felt a myriad of conflicting emotions. Guilt gnawed at him for what he had done to Maera’s family to secure her by his side. He was ashamed of his liaison with Alys and the fact that his brother had discovered it. But most of all, he felt a deep-seated fear. He had not known fear since before he lost his eye, and now it clawed at him relentlessly.

This fear was not for the future, for he trusted that the Gods had a great plan for him. It was a fear born from Aegon's decree for Maera’s death. The prospect of losing her struck a chord within the stoic one-eyed Prince. It was a fear of losing Maera ever again, whether it be through her death, her departure, or her refusal to marry him. It was deeply personal and unsettling, born from a profound need for her presence in his life. It made him feel vulnerable and weak, emotions he hated but also paradoxically welcomed.

The intense and undeniable connection to the Lady of House Wylde frightened him to his core, making him question his own strength and resolve. The thought of a life without her was unbearable, and the uncertainty of her reaction to their betrothal left him feeling more exposed than any battlefield ever could. This fear, intertwined with his need for her, created a dissonance within him, making him both desperate and determined to possess her for his own, in order to protect her and ensure their destiny was fulfilled.

Then the day finally came. Aemond awaited the arrival of the Wyldes in the grand throne room, standing beside the formidable Iron Throne with his family. The throne room itself was a vast hall, with high vaulted ceilings supported by massive stone pillars. Rich tapestries depicting the history of House Targaryen adorned the walls, their vibrant colors muted by the dim light filtering through the narrow windows. The floor was a mosaic of dark stone, polished to a sheen that reflected the flickering torchlight.

A large crowd of courtiers filled the room, their murmurs creating a low, persistent hum of anticipation. Nobles and knights, all clad in their finest attire, had gathered to witness the King’s decree. The tension in the air was palpable, with eyes constantly shifting between the Iron Throne and the entrance.

Seated upon the Iron Throne was Aegon, the Conqueror's crown perched arrogantly on his head. His violet eyes sparkled with a mixture of amusement and malice, and a smirk played on his lips as he awaited the proceedings. The throne, forged from a thousand surrendered swords, loomed ominously, its twisted metal and jagged edges a stark reminder of the power it represented. Aegon lounged with a casualness, one hand resting on the armrest, his posture exuding a sense of ease.

Aemond stood tall beside his grandfather Lord Otto, his gaze fixed firmly ahead, though his mind was a maelstrom of thoughts. His mother, the dowager Queen, stood nearby, her face regal and composed as always. Ser Criston Cole, the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, was a silent, stoic presence, his hand resting on the pommel of his sword.

As the grand doors at the far end of the hall swung open, the room fell silent. All eyes turned to watch as the castle guards announced the arrival of the Master of Laws and his daughter, the Jewel of Rainwood, Lady Maera. Aemond watched as Maera walked beside her father through the throne room towards them, her presence commanding attention despite her apparent trepidation. She was dressed in her usual attire of turquoise and gold, her defiance evident in every stride she took.

Though her face was flushed with fear and her eyes wide with apprehension, when she stood before the Iron Throne, she glared defiantly at Aegon, offering him only a begrudgingly small curtsy. Even in the face of punishment, she refused to be broken. As the King toyed with Lord Jasper and his daughter, Aemond observed with a mixture of disdain and disgust. Aegon seemed to take pleasure in watching them squirm beneath him, reveling in his power to control the rise and fall of a House with a mere flick of his wrist. It was a display of cruelty that sickened Aemond, yet he remained outwardly composed, his features betraying none of the turmoil within.

It was evident that Maera and Lord Jasper had been expecting a dire outcome from these summons, their nervous energy palpable in the air. Yet as Aegon continued to speak, Lord Jasper's posture gradually relaxed, and Maera's agitation only seemed to grow.

When he was satisfied with the entertainment he provided himself with, Aegon then interlaced his fingers and rested them beneath his chin, adopting a casual yet commanding posture. "I would like to propose an offer of marriage," he announced with a glint of mischief in his eye, "between my brother, Aemond, and Lady Maera, elevating her to the esteemed title of Princess of the Realm."

The one-eyed Prince felt her heart pounding in his chest as gasps of surprise and intrigued murmurs rippled through the assembly like a gentle wave. Whispers of alliances and implications filled the air as the courtiers exchanged knowing glances and furtive gestures.

Though Lord Jasper attempted to act diplomatically and cite a previous pact Aemond had made with House Baratheon, Aemond could see the excitement gleaming in the Master of Laws' eyes when Lord Otto declared that the matter had been resolved. The prospect of securing such a valuable alliance seemed to outweigh any concerns Lord Jasper may have had about his daughter's happiness.

Aemond's one-eyed gaze landed on Maera, who appeared frozen in shock, her expression unreadable. Aemond couldn't discern how she felt about the news, which only added to his unease. He longed to know her thoughts in this moment, to understand what she truly desired amidst the political machinations of their family.

As he watched Lord Jasper drag his daughter to the floor with him as he kneeled, thanking Aegon for his generosity, Aemond stifled an eye roll. He had little interest in the opinions of the Master of Laws, but he was desperate to know what Maera was thinking in this pivotal moment. Her silence spoke volumes, leaving Aemond grappling with uncertainty and apprehension about the future that lay ahead for them both.

The King noticed the Lady’s apprehension, and used this to provoke her further. "Is there anything you wish to ask of me, dear sister?"

Aemond watched a shudder of disgust go through Maera’s body, but she hid it well from the eyes of the court. The silence stretched on as he intently studied her face, as if she was still processing what was happening, her expression a complex mix of emotions that he struggled to decipher.

Unexpectedly, Maera's gaze then met his own, her forest green eyes locking onto his with a fierce intensity that sent a shiver down his spine. In that moment, he felt ensnared by her gaze, drawn in by the depth of emotion he saw reflected there, like a mountain pool of a forest

"Is this what you want, my Prince?"

When Maera addressed him directly, instead of addressing the King first, Aemond felt a surge of anticipation mixed with apprehension. Her question hung in the air, laden with unspoken implications, and Aemond knew that his response would carry weight not only with Maera, but with the entire court as well.

He maintained a diplomatic facade, his tone carefully neutral as he replied. "I shall do as my King commands, for the sake of the Realm."

His words may have appeared cold in the eyes of the court, but Aemond was determined to appear indifferent to Maera's presence. He understood all too well that she was not only his greatest strength, but also his greatest weakness. If their enemies were to perceive the depth of his feelings for her, they would undoubtedly seek to exploit it. Aemond could not bear the thought of Maera becoming a pawn in their political games, and so he masked his true emotions behind a veil of detachment, even though he yearned for her deeply.

With the match agreed to and a wedding date set, Aemond felt a sense of anticipation building within him. Each step brought him closer to uncovering the grand plan the Gods had in store for him, and with Maera by his side, he felt as though he was finally stepping into his rightful place in the world.

As Lady Maera and Lord Jasper departed, words of congratulations were offered to the Prince for the match. Aemond met these words with his usual stoic demeanor, but inwardly, he couldn't contain the surge of happiness that flooded through him. It was a feeling akin to the triumph he had felt the day he claimed Vhagar as his own, but even greater in magnitude. Finally, after years of waiting and striving, Aemond was on the cusp of attaining everything he had ever desired.

Notes: I had writers block and then the trailer dropped and gnhgnchdkfbfj!!!!!! Impatience is the word of the week in all aspects of my life and the new trailer is just adding to it!!

Tags: @0eessirk8 @magicseahorse @blue-serendipity @abecerra611 @saltedcaramelpretzel @marvelescvpe @watercolorskyy @shesjustanothergeek @thelastemzy @kckt88

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

#maera wylde #aemond targaryen #aemond x oc #aemond fanfiction #chapters #hotd aemond #hotd fanfic #house targaryen #house wylde #hotd helaena #house of the dragon season 2 #hotd season 2 #hotd x reader #house of the dragon #aemond fanfic

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hrefna-the-raven · 5 months

Text

Heart of Steel

Fallout masterlist - main masterlist

Chapter 1

Songs for this chapter:

Summary: Elder Maxson makes his rounds through the airport, inspecting the soldiers training and to check how you're dealing with your punishment. Although he definitely did not expect to find you...singing...

Notes: this story will move a bit off canon obviously :) I promise the next chapter will be a bit more interesting and yes, songs will be an ongoing theme for this series :D

Chapter 2 - Tour of Duty

In the early hours of dawn, a solitary figure treaded the tarmac of the airport yard, savouring the warmth of the first rays of sunshine after another sleepless night. Elder Maxson, the man who carried the weight of leadership as his sole companion, was observing his men silently. Soldiers trained like clockwork, their laughter and the clanging of their tools against power armors echoing across the yard. His presence, his stern gaze was a subtle reminder of the devotion they poured into their tasks. Salutes punctuated the monotonous rhythm of work, an acknowledgment of the authority he wielded. The thought of you popped up in his mind again as he made his way to the main building, a triumphant smirk on his face. He was certain you would have learned your lesson by now, cleaning the latrines and the showers had brought every slightly rebellious recruit back on track quickly. He expected to hear the sulking grumble of resentment but most certainly not the lyrical notes that flowed through the building. As he entered the shower area, the echo of his boots was drowned by a different rhythm - music. A melody woven through the moist air and the gleaming tiles. Shadows danced to the tune, shaping an image of you at the end, holding a mop like a dance partner, your movements painting a bizarrely beautiful tableau across the tiled floor.

Let's rock , everybody, let's rock, everybody in the whole cell block, was dancin' to the Jailhouse Rock

Maxson stood still, the stern creases of his forehead softening, his steel-blue gaze capturing your oblivious performance. You were supposed to suffer, to contemplate about questioning his orders, not to enjoy, yet there you were, swaying and laughing, your spirit untouched by the chastisement. An inexplicable warmth coiled around his heart as it reminded him of his own stubborn spirit and his love for music. His damned treacherous heart echoed with an unexpected rhythm, a dance that he had long pushed away for the sake of duty, a dance of life and love that you offered through your buoyant demeanour despite the hardships you went through after waking up from your two hundred year slumber. But while his heart danced, his mind refused to acknowledge this unfamiliar, unsettling sensation. He was the Elder of the Brotherhood after all, a stern leader, not a love-struck fool for a woman, a new recruit, he barely knew. He cleared his throat, startled you spun around and almost dropped the mop at the sight of him.

"Aspirant", he called out, striding towards you as his heart hammered in chest, "Really? Jailhouse Rock? While you're executing your punishment?", his strict voice echoed through the room.

You straightened, a smug grin lighting up your face. Whatever he had planned you'd be prepared and the warm feeling of delight filled your entire being.

"Well, Elder", you hummed, "should I not keep my spirits up, even in punishment? But if it's the song itself, I can change it."

You switched the channel of the radio on your Pip-Boy and another song echoed through the room.

Life could be a dream, sweetheart, hello, hello again , sh-boom and hopin' we'll meet again, boom

Arthur stood there in silence, the lyrics of the song whirling around in his mind, etching themselves into his memory, forever linked to your figure swaying and humming along with the tune. When you noticed the lack of his response, you turned the radio off, the abrupt silence hanging between the two of you, heavy with unspoken words.

"Maybe not the right song", you mumbled, more to yourself than to him.

Breaking the silence, Maxson's dry voice pierced through the tension.

"Status?", he asked, his tone harsh and commanding. It was his way of deflecting from the vulnerable moment that had just passed between you.

"All done, Elder."

"Latrines?"

"Clean as a whistle, it'll almost be a shame as soon as the first sweaty cheeks touch it again.", you grinned.

The twitching of Maxson's eye didn't go unnoticed. It was a small crack in the facade he had carefully constructed, revealing the control he was struggling to maintain in your presence. Since the first moment you stepped up to him on the Prydwen, you were becoming a distraction that threatened to unravel the carefully crafted walls he had built to survive in this world. Despite facing this slight disadvantage, his determination to break through what he perceived as a charade remained unwavering. He never lost his spark and resolute nature but the past years had sapped the joy for the simple things in life. Bound by his duty, the boy, who's soul was forged from eternal steel, found himself sitting within his fortress of solitude that turned into an inescapable cage that denied him the very nourishment his soul needed to thrive.

"I have a vertibird on standby, fully armed and ready to depart. Use it to carry our message to Fort Strong and wipe those dirty mutants from the face of the earth", his voice was harsh but carried a yet barely perceptible tremble.

It was his second test, the continuation of his plan to...he inhaled sharply, clenched his teeth in an insidious moment of anger as the boundaries between his meticulously devised plan and his innermost desires began to blur before his very eyes.

"Yes, Elder. Will I be part of a team?", your soft voice snapped him back to reality.

"Of course. Such an important mission will not be entrusted to a single aspirant, especially not one who joined merely a day ago. You'll have a head paladin accompanying you and you will follow his instructions without questioning. The success of the mission will depend on it."

"Will I work with Paladin Danse?", you asked out loud, hoping that Maxson might indulge you with an actual answer.

"You'll be awaited on the Prydwen in 20. Report to Danse and get familiar with your power armor. Don't dally, Aspirant. Dismissed."

He managed to spin around just in time to hide his smile. His heart beat so fast it threatened to burst through his chest as excitement coursed through his veins like a wildfire that could potentially grow out of control.

You could sense a hidden smile lurking beneath his stern expression as he spun around, making a deliberate effort to hide it. You took a deep breath, attempting to calm your nerves in thought of the upcoming mission. This was the moment you had been longing for, the chance to prove yourself as a member of the Brotherhood, just as, back then, you'd proven yourself during your first mission in the army, and you'll finally get a chance at proving your competence to him, getting closer into his well guarded space.

A nervous chuckle passed your lips as the realisation of your first mission in this new world and the prospect of having your very own power armour within the Brotherhood truly settled upon you. It was both exhilarating and overwhelming given the little time you had to prepare, knowing that the path ahead was filled with danger and uncertainty. You were almost thankful that your first experience in this radiated wasteland was your encounter with the Minutemen while fighting off a deathclaw in an old rusty power armour. You were determined to find out who this mysterious knight in power armour that you were supposed to follow into battle was, wondering if it could actually be Danse supervising you on this mission. You already missed the Paladin and his gentle but stern guidance. You placed the mop away and sauntered towards the Prydwen, whistling a soft tune, readying your mind for the battle to come.

Chapter 3 - Show no mercy

Feel free to reblog if you enjoyed the story :)

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johnconway · 8 months

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I've decided to turn the tables on AI. It gives me the prompts, I paint the pictures. They are painted as quickly as I can. Sad to say, I'm still a little bit slower than most online generators. But perhaps if I get enough VC backing I can improve performance.

I used my local LLM, Zephyr 7b, which is a Mistral derivative (if you care about this stuff!). So, I asked it to give me prompts, and it gave me back these d33p artistic ideas:

"Amidst a field of wildflowers in full bloom stands a towering structure that seems to defy all laws of nature. Its angles are sharp and unforgiving, its surfaces gleaming and reflective like polished steel. Yet despite its futuristic appearance, this edifice is grounded by the very earth it stands upon; roots winding their way deep into the soil, inextricably linking man-made structure to natural landscape. This image represents the tension between progress and preservation, a call for us to find harmony where they meet, rather than let them stand as opposing forces."

-----

"As an artist envisioning a complex tableau, I seek to create a visual metaphor that speaks to the dual nature of human existence – our inner turmoil and external serenity. The scene is set at twilight, where the last rays of the sun meet the onset of night in a symphony of colors, blending the boundaries between day and night. At the center stands a colossal, ancient tree, its roots deeply entrenched in the earth, symbolizing our connection to nature and our foundational beliefs. The tree's branches stretch upwards and outwards, bifurcating into intricate patterns that mirror the complexity of human thoughts and emotions.

Half of the tree is lush and blooming, covered in verdant leaves and vibrant flowers, teeming with birds and wildlife, representing the vitality of life and the beauty of outward expressions. The other half, however, is starkly different, with gnarled branches, devoid of foliage, whispering of the silent struggles and the decay that lurks within. This dichotomy illustrates the contrasting aspects of our lives – the visible joy and the hidden sorrows.

Beneath the tree, a serene pond reflects this duality, not just as a mirror image, but with a surreal twist. The reflection shows the tree in full bloom on the barren side, and vice versa, suggesting that what we see on the surface is not always the reality.

The visual style for this image will be inspired by the Pointillism technique, where small, distinct dots of color are applied in patterns to form an image. This style will add an element of surprise and depth to the artwork, as the scene's full complexity and beauty will only be revealed upon closer inspection, symbolizing the idea that understanding and empathy require a closer look beyond the surface.

This artwork is an invitation to the viewer to contemplate the balance between our external persona and internal struggles, encouraging a deeper understanding of the human condition." -----

"In the center of a vast and barren desert landscape, there stands a lone figure cloaked in a long, flowing dress made entirely of shimmering gold fabric. This woman appears to be walking through the sandy expanse with ease, her every step leaving behind glittering footprints that twist and turn like winding rivers. Her hair is a cascade of purest silver, billowing gently in an unseen wind.

As she moves deeper into the desert, the woman begins to transform. Her skin takes on the same radiant quality as her dress, becoming infused with a brilliant golden glow that seems almost otherworldly. And atop her head, where once there was only silver hair, now rises a magnificent crown of swirling gold and silver filaments that shimmer and dance in the air like living fireworks.

This woman is a personification of hope and resilience, an embodiment of the human spirit that can weather even the most barren and desolate landscapes with grace and determination. Her dress is symbolic of her inner strength and her ability to transform adversity into something beautiful and valuable. The golden glow she emits represents the radiant light of hope that shines within us all, guiding our path through life's challenges no matter how harsh they may be. And as for the surprising visual style I mentioned earlier? Well...what if this woman isn't walking alone after all? As viewers follow her progress across the desert, we begin to notice tiny glimmers of light dancing just beneath the sand at her feet - and before long, it becomes clear that she is actually surrounded by a throng of shimmering golden fireflies that flit and flutter around her like living sparks. This unexpected twist adds an extra layer of meaning to the image, reminding us that even in our darkest moments, there is always hope and beauty to be found - if only we know where to look for it."

I also put the prompt back in to DALL-E 3, which is the final image.

#art #ai #dalle3 #tasteless #oh my god so tasteless

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sarisinema · 6 months

Text

Sascha Schneider, Hypnosis, 1904

The Lighthouse (2019) dir. Robert Eggers

Blog Post 5 - Why the scene from The Lighthouse is a tableau vivant? - 21.03.24

Inspired by a painting by Sascha Schneider, the film tells the story of two men's struggle for power over each other without any counterbalancing element, through mythological references. Sascha's paintings as he says often about the sexuality and domination ower males, with the touch of mythological elements.

Plot of the Movie

Thomas, an experienced sailor, and Ephraim, a rookie, arrive on an island. There is nothing but a hut and a lighthouse on the island where they will stay for a few months. Ephraim, who follows Thomas' orders and runs errands, begins to believe that there is something hidden in the lighthouse, which Thomas takes care of religiously. The lighthouse, which Thomas refers to as "a beauty" and which he keeps away from other men, is a phallic symbol. In this context, the movie can be read both sexually and in terms of myths. The character of Thomas, who keeps Ephraim away from the lighthouse just as he keeps his woman away from other men, constantly crushes the young man and destroys his psyche. When Ephraim's fragile ego is shattered, there is a breaking point in the movie and the young one rebels against the old one: he starts chasing the forbidden and we don't know what he ends up with - he ends up being devoured by "seagulls" like Prometheus.

Hypnosis and the Scene in the Film

When you think about it like this, you realize that this is more about the struggle of "men" against "He", that is, a man against God, rather than a power struggle between two men. The price paid by human beings trying to reach knowledge or a rebellion against authority. From this point of view, when Thomas rebels against the "old man" and starts to run away, we come across the scene I have put the image of. We see how vulnerable the kneeling "man" (Thomas) is in front of "God" (Ephraim) and how he is under the influence. Thanks to his position, Thomas dominates Ephraim. Mise-en-scene-wise, the director has created a dark, black and white atmosphere just like in the original painting. Although the director wanted to film Pattinson (the actor who plays Ephraim) with his penis visible, the director, unable to escape the pressure of the producers, chose to show the vulnerability of the young man kneeling on the ground, not in nudity as in the painting. The scene is generally dark, with the only strong light coming from above, illuminating the actors from above, almost filling the entire frame. Low key lightning is used. The shot type is long shot, the framing is symmetrical.

#the lighthouse #robert eggers #robert pattinson #willem dafoe #mise en scene

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ludmilachaibemachado · 10 months

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“By the time I got married to the composer John Barry at age 18, I was just a painted face, hiding behind a mask of make-up. I suppose I fitted into the 1960s 'English pretty' look at the time. Throughout my marriage to John, I used to sleep with an eye pencil under my pillow. If he woke up in the night, I could put it on, so he wouldn't think that I had tiny piggy eyes. There was such insecurity, it was quite crazy; I spent most of my time wanting to look like a fashion tableau. It was only when I left John and went to France, where I met Serge Gainsbourg at an audition for the film Slogan, that I finally felt secure in my looks and realised that I had my own kind of attractiveness.” - Jane (Interview for ELLE by Hannah Nathanson)🌷🌷🌷

Photo 1: Jane Birkin in 1964 by Barham/Mirrorpix/Getty Images🌷🌷

Photo 2: Jane and Serge on the set of "Slogan", in 1969🌷🌷

Via @janebirkindaily on Instagram🌷

#60s icons #girlsofthesixties #jane birkin #actress #singer

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arlathvhenan · 18 hours

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Sneak peak at the next chapter of my current fic

They arrived on the battlements just as the dawn crested the mountaintops in a wash of pink. Skyhold might have been colder than an Avvar’s tits, but it did come with certain perks. The view was one of these perks, especially on a crisp, clear day when the clouds were sparse. Virgo had seen many beautiful sunrises in her time, but none compared to the splendor of that morning. Standing on the battlements, watching daylight bleed across the sky with her beloved; it ought to have been romantic, and it might’ve been were they alone. But alas, Cullen and Leliana had arrived ahead of them, standing guard lest some unsuspecting Skyholder should stumble upon the defacement and take offense. When at last Virgo laid eyes on the offending artwork, she barely managed to stifle a snort of laughter, earning a look of admonishment from Cullen. “I really don’t see the humor in all this,” he said, looking utterly miserable as he crossed his arms and turned away, presumably to spare his own delicate modesty. Leliana chuckled at that, taking this opportunity to needle him further, “Remind me, Cullen, when was the last time you found humor in anything?” More bickering ensued. Virgo allowed it, in part because it kept Cullen distracted, but mostly because it was entertaining. Turning back to the image on the wall, she had to admit there was a certain artistry at play. Whoever had painted it was no master, but had enough of a grasp on the nude form to deliver a clearly legible and incredibly filthy tableau. The mass of entangled figures was bracketed by two painted banners, one above and one below, the sum of which read, “Behold! The Sinquisition.”

#dragon age fan fic #dragon age fanfiction #her beloved of course is Solas #the entire plot of this fic revolves around his failure to put out for this poor woman #virgo lavellan

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hesbuckcompton-baby · 3 months

Note

TAPE FOR THEA PRETTY PLEASE

POETTTTT THANK YOU!!! Thea Graves I would die for you <3 warnings: mentions of alcoholism ONE WORD PROMPTS

-> tape

"Miss Graves?" A tiny voice piped up over the edge of her desk, a little pair of tear-stained eyes peering up at her, wiping their nose on the back of their hand in the way Thea had long since learnt to stop grimacing at. "Can I have help?"

A smile creased the dimples in her cheeks as she let out a sigh, discarding the half-finished chain of paper dolls that had been in her grasp. "Of course you can honey - what's wrong?"

The little boy wandered back to his desk, the heel of his shoe briefly sticking in whatever constituted the most recent spillage to coat the classroom floor. Stepping purposefully around it, Thea followed his trail, crouching down beside his desk to peer at the painting that had caused his tears, a jagged tear slicing through the tableau of various poorly-drawn farm animals. "Oh, look at that," She gasped "Isn't that wonderful?"

He sniffled, wiping his nose once more. "It's broken."

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

The co-pilot's chair vibrated incessantly beneath her as the wind battered them from all sides, the terrible screech of metal sounding from somewhere - behind her? In front? The air moved too fast to tell, and her helmet was pressing too hard over her ears, a distinct sense of vertigo rising in her stomach, the kind she hadn't felt since her first days of training.

"How many engines?!" Kit's voice thundered, and Thea heard double as the question echoed from the pilot beside her and the radio in her ear all at once, disorienting her even further, if possible.

"Two," Nora's barking reply sounded over the radio. "Just lost another, but we're even on both sides." That at least was a relief. One working engine on each wing struck her as infinitely preferable to two on one and neither on the other.

"Eighty miles to go, give or take," Sylvie called, and as Thea tore her gaze from the blank sky ahead for just a moment, glancing across at her pilot, she could tell she and Kit were both running the same math. This was doable. It had to be.

Things were just starting to look up when Angel's voice buzzed into her ear.

"I got smoke comin' from engine four!"

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

"Well, let's not worry about it, huh?" Thea smiled, reaching into her sleeve for a crumpled tissue, her cardigans always stuffed with a fresh supply. "It's an easy fix."

The boy held it to his face, wiping instead of blowing, the ineffective way in which children always chose to deal with a runny nose. A small stack of rolls of tape resided within the drawer of her desk, and she quickly retrieved one, the sound echoing through the small classroom as she tugged away a strip, hanging it from the edge of the table as she realigned the tear in the paper. The image came into clarity as she smoothed the tape across the jagged rip, clumsily drawn lines weaving back together again.

"See?" She urged, the child nodding along as he composed himself. "Good as new. Who's this one for, then?"

"My Nana," He blubbered.

"Oh, she's gonna love it. Which animal's gonna be her favourite, d'you think?"

Pulling the tissue away from his face, his brow furrowed slightly, suddenly concentrating. "Hmm. Pig." The boy declared, chubby finger pointing at one brown scribble amongst the crowd of seemingly identical brown scribbles that occupied the page. If he hadn't indicated which one he was talking about, she never would've guessed.

"Well. That's really great, bud."

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

Another screech of metal pierced the air, making Thea flinch as the plane began to bob up and down slightly, carried on the uneven winds as the third of their four engines slowly sputtered to a halt, its propeller ceasing its movement. "Holdin' steady," She grunted, more of a wish than a report as she wrestled against the lever in her hand, which seemed intent on tugging against her, the insides of her gloves slick with sweat.

"We'll glide in on nothin' if we have to," Kit declared beside her. The statement didn't give her much comfort. It was all well and good saying these things - doing them was another matter. When she was sitting in that cockpit, Kit seemed to blur the lines that defined reality, an otherworldly confidence matched only by her unfailing ability to scrape through whatever situation they found themselves in.

If only Thea could have been the same.

She was a good co-pilot - she knew this. But when things broke, they became harder and harder to fix. It was easier to have the answers when the only people looking to you for them were five years old. But now it was quite literally life or death, and there was nothing she could do to stop their fourth and final engine from giving out, nothing she could do to bring the others back. There was nothing she could do but hold out.

When Thorpe Abbotts came into view, it was all she could do not to cry. It had scarcely been fifteen minutes since the third engine had gone, but each second had stretched into agonising hours, the lever in her hand still pulling fiercely against her, every muscle in her arm screaming to let go, shaking all the way up to the shoulder.

"Gear up," Kit barked, but Thea had been reaching for the lever already, creaks rattling the plane as the wheels retracted back into the hull, the realisation that they weren't reaching the runway hitting them both at once. The buzz of reporting over the radio fell silent as the others abandoned their posts, bracing for a hard landing as the green grass below reached upwards to meet them, skidding closer and closer with each millisecond.

Thea couldn't stop the yelp of shock that escaped her throat as the belly of the Seraphim first collided with the ground, the jolt that rocked them so fierce that it sent a pang of hurt through her body, an ache that would no doubt haunt her for days. The jagged edges of their ship churned up the field below, clumps of grass hurled this way and that, pinging against the windshield as they slowly ground to a halt, the plane's nose half-buried in the dirt by the time their movement finally ceased.

An almighty huff escaped her as Thea collapsed backwards against the headrest, finally releasing the lever as her arm began to shake and spasm from the exertion. Kit chuckled in something that almost sounded like disbelief, their gazes meeting as they tore off their helmets, hair drenched with sweat and plastered to their necks and temples. "Another happy landing," Her pilot breathed, and Thea couldn't help but laugh.

Rising to her feet, she made to leave, scrambling halfway towards the cockpit's exit before a sight made her freeze.

There was a hole in the plating right beside her, a shard of shrapnel embedded in the side of the headrest, scarcely inches from where her head had been. Any sudden movement, any swerve or trick of the wind, and she would have been dead, a fragment of flak burrowed deep into her skull.

It was the kind of luck that never struck twice.

Kit passed by her without a word, never noticing how close they'd come to an entirely different outcome. Thea could hear various whoops of victory rising from the other crewmates as they clambered out one by one, scarcely any sense of urgency amongst them now that they were on solid ground, even as black smoke continued to pour from two of the engines. Medics and mechanics and all sorts of ground crew had rolled up, and soon found themselves with little else to do but stand around and watch as the women cackled in their defiance of death, leaping into each other's arms and beaming with unbridled boldness.

Thea was the last to exit the craft, resisting the urge to wince as Angel slammed into her, enveloping her in an embrace as she squeezed at her tender shoulder. Slowly, the elation that painted the others began to seep into Thea too, returning the hug as she began to grin.

No one but her knew how close she'd come to death that day. But dammit, she'd made it.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

The others had long since departed the scene, eager to rest and recuperate (but most importantly; celebrate) after their flight. Only Thea and Kit had remained, arms folded across their chests, watching in silence as the Seraphim was carted off for repairs, tufts of grass still wedged in every available gap, as if it had been left for nature to reclaim. All things considered, the fort was in excellent shape - she'd fly again, even if they had to find a substitute for a while.

Thea sighed, wiping a hand across her brow. "I need a drink," She rarely felt the allure of the pub - of the noise, the clamour, the stink of stale beer - but tonight it was calling her.

"I'll join you," Kit muttered, the pair wandering off wordlessly. There was an ease that existed between them in the air, one that seemed to ebb the moment they touched the ground. They were a team - an excellent team, at that - but something seemed yet to click between them, something neither of them could quite put their finger on.

The barman held a pint out to her, and Thea called her thanks as he hurried off to the next customer, taking a long sip as she weaved her way back towards the table. Kit sat there quietly, nothing but a glass of water in front of her, foot propped against the chair she'd saved for Thea to prevent anyone from snatching it, a habit the patrons here seemed particularly prone to.

"You don't want a beer? I can get you one," Thea offered. "Thought you were a drinker."

"I like a drink sometimes, that doesn't make me a drinker," Kit snapped, a faint wave of panic discernible below the irritation. Clearly, she had touched a nerve she hadn't known was bare.

"You're right," She nodded calmly, taking her seat. She'd thought herself capable of resolving these sorts of things once - after so much time spent managing playground conflicts, it had seemed easy to quell the bite. Sometimes Thea wished she could go rummaging through her desk drawer again - pull out some sellotape and bind her and Kit together, fix the rift between them.

"... So. Why did you come? I know it wasn't to spend time with me," Thea asked. Kit frowned, a pang of guilt striking her at this.

She shrugged. "I like to sit here after a rough mission and not drink to prove that I can. My mom needed it for everything - I only need it to have fun. I train my brain not to use it to heal things... 'cause it doesn't work."

"I get that. I got used to not drinking, 'cause my fiancé can't hold his liquor for shit," Thea recalled, smiling at the memory. "I know it's not the same - we just avoided it for the sake of his dignity, 's all."

Kit chuckled. "Oh, trust me, I've lost my fair share of dignity to it."

"... Egan?"

"Egan," She nodded. They both smiled then, the curves of their grins surprisingly similar when placed beside each other.

After a while, Thea spoke up. "You can go whenever you want. You don't have to sit and wait for me." Kit shrugged again, reaching for her glass of water.

"Nah. You gotta tell me more about that fiancé of yours first."

"...Yeah?"

"Yeah."

#thea/kit you will always be famous #abbotts angels #oc: thea graves #helena writes #oc: kit mckenzie #mota oc #mota fic #mota #masters of the air #masters of the air oc

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