#blooming panic quest x reader

[doodlenoodleboi]

Sally face head cannons

Authors note: If you don’t specify I’m gonna pick for you most of the time it’s gonna be headcanons, they tend to be easier and quicker to write.

TW: Not professional, might have misspellings and improper grammar, I just do this for fun. Nsfw, mentions of drugs, stoner Larry, Larry is 2 years older then Sal, some non accurate writing I haven’t watched or played Sally face in years but remember the general plot. Btw when this wrote Sal is 17-19

SFW

◦ Sal doesn’t have the best relationship with his father.

◦ Sal tends to get misgendered a lot to the point he doesn’t even correct people he couldn’t care less anyways and hates unnecessary confrontation.

◦ Sal keeps his glass eye on his bedside table and one nice he actually drunk out of the cup.

◦ Sal isn’t the best at saving money when it comes to video games. He doesn’t spend his money on much In high school besides games for his game boy and other systems.

◦ Sal loves rock music and listens to music whenever he can, he owns an old stereo along with a walk man and mp3 player. (Keep in mind his teen years are in the 90’s)

◦ Along with his hair Sal also ventured in make up in skincare.

◦ Because half of his face being disfigured he tried his best to at least look normal with make up and help it heal better with skincare.

◦ Sal has the worst split ends and uneven layers because he never actually had his hair cut properly he always has done it himself.

◦ Sal is rather geeky when it comes down to it, owning as much technology as he could by in the 90’s.

◦ Sal is most comfortable showing his face to Larry among anyone else almost like a big brother to him of sorts.

◦ Sal gets rather socially awkward when it comes to people liking him so you would have to be in his friend group to have a chance of a relationship or some established connection before hand.

◦ Once you and Sal become friends as he’s comfortable with you expect things like him painting your nails and rocking out to music

◦ If he does later show romantic interest in you before he shows you his face he will be anxious about what you’ll think about him after he shows you.

◦ He’ll even teach you how to play his guitar if you’re interested.

NSFW

F

◦ Sal Is obviously a virgin it’s hard to get close to him let alone take of his mask so you’ll have to have patience to get to this stage.

◦ For-play could be longer then the actual sex for the first time and he might back out from nervousness before you guys can even start.

◦ Sal is not a shy guy maybe introverted but not shy but moments like this make him extremely vulnerable so he’s flustered and embarrassed.

◦ If you find the courage to kiss him he has his mask on he’s whipped. He would be a flustered and embarrassed mess and he might even tell Larry about how exciting it was. You were probably his first kiss as well.

◦ Sal would be around 5 inches 5.5 hard (let’s be realistic here ain’t nobody taking much past that.) Just enough to reach the back of you’re and make you gag.

◦ Sal even if he’s isn’t pornhub but still likes to prep you, after all sex is a rather sacred thing so he tries his best to treat you with care even with his inexperience.

◦ He would probably be a nervous teenager at the back of Spencer’s trying to find lube (that doesn’t get used) and other things trying not to be seen. Covering up this purchases with a rock album or something of equal value.

◦ Sal is big on after care asking you how it was if it wasn’t obvious, he would be nervous after and still not realizing he actually did that.

◦ Sal isn’t big on giving hickeys but he doesn’t mind being especially on his jawline and neck. When talking to his friends he will just say it a bruise or injury just that’s always been there. But it’s almost obvious that it’s not.

◦ Once you’ve done it once he’s nervous to ask for you to do it again so he does enjoy make out session to keep him down.

◦ Sal didn’t heavily masturbate before hand honestly rarely doing it at all until he had sex once and now that’s all he thinks about ever since.

◦ He loves laying kisses against you when doing it but never hickeys as he’s a bit scared of hurting you.

◦ He holds your hands during sex for comfortability.

◦ His favorite positions would probably be missionary and cowgirl he’s a pretty vanilla switch.

◦ Mostly a service top and a shy bottom, it’s not like he’s generally shy he just gets embarrassed seeing you on top but overtime he gets used to it.

Sorry i accidentally deleted the request!

[ilycove]

Quest mindlessly hums as he's supposed to be teaching you how to play guitar. He has you placed in between his legs, snuggled up nicely to his chest. You can feel his thighs rubbing against your hips, and you almost think you're dreaming.

His guitar strap is wrapped around your neck and his arms are over yours, mocking the movements yours are making. You can see his hands so clearly, so vividly. They're almost like a painting, his tattoo, bones, and veins sticking out perfectly, like a picture perfect memory.

He keeps whispering in your ear. Try this cord. You're doing so well. Now, place your index finger on this one. A little flatter. Bend your fingers more. Stay focused, angel. But how can you focus?

How can you focus when you can feel his lips against your ear? How can you focus when you can still feel his piercing gaze, burning through your skin? How can you focus when his chuckle is so light and airy, like something you would hear in your darkest fantasies? How can you focus when his body around you tightens, and brings you closer?

How can you focus with him around?

You feel the vibrations from his chest against his back, and you’re trying so desperately to block out all noise other than his instructions. You're trying not to listen to his husky whispers and his chuckles that make your heart flutter.

Quest’s rough pads of his thumb and index finger find their way to your chin, eyes looking down upon you with mischievous and teasing eyes. “My, we’re getting quite distracted there, aren't we?”

“Not- not at all, Quest. I’m focused. just like you asked me to.” You cleared your throat and forced your hesitant fingers to focus back on the cords you were playing, remembering his previous instructions.

“So obedient,” He chuckles once more, a deep noise resounding from the depths of his chest, eyes swirling with danger and scrunched up like he’s having the time of his life. 

(He probably is.)

“You seem rather nervous though.” His grip on you tightens and faux sympathy on his face completely disappeared, replaced with a cruel smirk. His thumb rubs on the corner of your bottom lip and he leans in closer, teasing you. "Do I make you nervous, angel?”

Your breath stopped completely, and your heart was beating so loudly you were sure he could hear you. Your eyes tore away from his sight and paid close attention to his lips, slightly dry and still pulled into a grin that only the devil would wear.

“You’re awfully desperate today, aren’t you?” His warm breath fans over your lips, spearmint and strawberries being your only source of air at the moment. He outright laughs at the way you shrink away from him and bite your cheek in embarrassment. 

His hand lets go of you chin, wrapping around the back of your head and pulling you closer. “That’s alright, though. You look absolutely stunning like this, wrapped around my finger.”

[stintsy]

Bloomic banner drop !!!! Couldn't find one so i made one >:]

[mysilaan]

HEADCANON REQUESTS (OPEN)

ENGLISH VERSION (I also take requests in French)

Hi !! Iman there 🍒

I’ve decided to dedicate this blog to my writings and mainly for my headcanons on some fandoms I’m in !🌷 

I write about :

⭐Blooming Panic

⭐The Arcana 

⭐Touchstarved

⭐Eldarya The Origins

⭐My Candy Love (New Gen too)

I’m taking any headcanons requests in the ask box !!

RULES 🍒

❌I do not take any request outside of the 4 games I listed. Maybe later on, I’ll take requests about other fandoms but not for the moment !! 

❌I do not take any NSFW request, I may do some soft NSFW if I feel like it, but never something too explicit.

❌If I consider a request inappropriate, I’ll allow myself to delete it.

⚠️FOR THE ARCANA

I do not take requests for Portia for the moment (I haven’t done her route yet, sorry…)

⚠️FOR MY CANDY LOVE

I do not take requests for Armin HSL (I didn’t play his route) and Eric (sorry, I just don’t like the character enough… But I can write some angst about him tho ^^)

I’m looking forward to your requests 💖

How to easily find my headcanons?🍒

Under my posts, I always use these tags ⬇️ You can click on them to find my writings! #mysilaan headcanons #mysilaan touchstarved headcanons #mysilaan mcl ng headcanons

[v3x-y0urs3lf]

Blooming Panic if MC was the author.

Unfortunately I haven’t written fanfic in over 2 or 3 years so you’re all getting headcanons.. even then I’m high as shit and barely know what I’m talking about. Expect this to be halfassed.

Okay, this mainly follows Toaster’s storyline just.. without romance to be more accepting to everyone’s tastes.

I know canonically the servers been around for like 2/3 years and MC (who I’m just going to continue to call MC for the hell of it.) only has just joined.. but what if they were also BloomBot?

Like, assuming MC doesn’t ACTUALLY work in finance and assuming that they’re actually good enough at coding to make the server possible.. it’s not too bad of an idea.

Hear me out. BloomBot secretly being a person this entire time, watching their chat history, listening in on calls but being unable to actually say anything? Probably gets lonely.

.. So MC makes their own account and joins in, pretending to have no idea who any of them are.

Or another idea - BloomBot just belongs to them and is just your average bot, Mc joins because they themselves have lost all motivation for the series and doesn’t know what to do with it.

I also really like that idea.

Imagine just MC writing and rewriting the final chapter over and over again, or better yet, imagine MC NOT writing the final chapter. Just staring at a blank document with 0 ideas. Likely in tons of stress and no motivation to continue writing but knowing they have thousands of fans waiting for the next chapter.

MC joins a ton of fan servers to try and get some inspiration from ideas but only one really clicks with them - the super secret discord server that we all know of.

There’s moments of guilt within them when Jules or Nightowl are worried or upset with no sign of the final chapter but the chapter continues to be prolonged.

I promised there’d be no particular romance forced into this despite it being Toast’s route but here’s a slight snippet of what I think would happen depending on characters.

Toast.. isn’t much to say really. It’s similar to his natural route where he tries to find who’s behind this, maybe some deep coding down and he might get an email from BloomBots code (Can you tell I know nothing about coding? lol.) I’m not saying he’d know that MC is the author, I just wouldn’t be surprised if he started offhandedly mentioning that sometimes a long break from work is needed and VERY MUCH okay to do so when MC is in call with him.

Nightowl is stressed with both his own school problems and NOW he doesn’t have a way to escape the dread of exams and finals. In a way.. He can relate to that reason the anonymous update was explained with. It might just be me but the way the update described it, it’s pretty obvious the ‘author’ was under stress. He can relate to that stress and probably rants to the MC about it in a late night call.. Knowing someone can relate with you and that you aren’t alone does wonders to someone’s mental health, especially since Nightowl is still pushing through his stress and still moving forward.

Quest.. I completely forgot his character but I think he’s a bit too busy to think about the problem deeply. Sure, The last chapter probably won’t be uploaded but.. it’s not the end of the world? He has work and being the server mod.. the biggest problem he has is making sure everyone else is calm and okay. If MC ends up confessing that they themselves are pretty stressed for whatever reason then he totally gives some great advice, tells MC to take life slow and to take breaks if they need to.. which actually kind of helps knowing you can take your time and go at your own pace.

Xyx is actually bummed out about the whole thing. If blooming panic ends then.. does that mean the community ends? People like having a community to go to and ESPECIALLY when someone is so adrenaline hungry like Xyx then things can be.. hard during times like this when it’s suddenly ending. Xyx isn’t one to vent about it but if he sees MC down about it then he’ll definitely find a way to make them spill (as in vent.) One way or another he’ll convince MC to take a break and he tries to cheer them up.

I understand a lot of this was probably mischaracterised and I apologise for that. I do really want to hit it off as a writer but I’m honestly not really good? Lol. I really am trying, I promise. Thank you for your patience.

[whatologys]

baking cookies with quest

𝔴𝔞𝔯𝔫𝔦𝔫𝔤𝔰: none

𝔭𝔞𝔦𝔯𝔦𝔫𝔤: quest x gn!reader

𝔴𝔬𝔯𝔡 𝔠𝔬𝔲𝔫𝔱: 0.6 k

𝔯𝔢𝔮𝔲𝔢𝔰𝔱𝔢𝔡: yes/no

𝖌𝖊𝖓𝖗𝖊: fluff :DD

𝖕𝖗𝖔𝖒𝖕𝖙𝖘: /

𝔫𝔬𝔱𝔢𝔰: got this out too late, sorry bbgs <3

𝔰𝔲𝔪𝔪𝔞𝔯𝔶: making christmas cookies with quest

The cozy aroma of vanilla and cinnamon filled the air as you and Quest bustled around the kitchen, engaged in a synchronized chaos of holiday baking. The countertop was adorned with an array of ingredients—flour, sugar, and an assortment of festive decorations for the anticipated family Christmas party.

As the two of you navigated the confined space, it quickly became apparent that the kitchen, charming as it was, wasn't exactly designed for a duo on a mission to create the perfect batch of Christmas cookies. Mixing bowls and trays of cookie dough seemed to multiply, conspiring to test the limits of the quaint workspace.

With an affectionate chuckle, Quest quipped, "Angel, we need to get a bigger kitchen, I swear." His laughter was infectious, a harmonious backdrop to the joyful chaos unfolding around you.

You grinned, narrowly avoiding a collision as Quest pivoted with a tray of freshly cut cookie shapes. "Maybe we should add that to our Christmas wish list," you teased, juggling an armful of colorful decorations—sprinkles, miniature sugar men, and edible glitter.

As you reached for the sugar, your hand brushed against Quest's, creating a momentary pause in the lively dance. His gaze met yours, and in that shared instant, the holiday magic seemed to transcend the limitations of the kitchen's size.

Undeterred by the close calls and friendly banter, the both of you continued with your festive mission. The cookie dough was rolled, cut, and carefully adorned with an assortment of sugary delights. Laughter echoed in the kitchen, accompanied by the rhythmic beat of holiday tunes playing softly in the background.

With the last batch in the oven, you and Quest surveyed the cheerful chaos you had created together. The kitchen, though small, was now a canvas of holiday delight, a testament to the shared laughter and teamwork that defined this special season.

As the aroma of freshly baked cookies wafted through the air, you and Quest shared a satisfied smile. The warmth of the kitchen, the joyful mess, and the promise of sweet treats for the family party created a moment that transcended the limitations of space.

With the scent of freshly baked cookies lingering in the air, you and Quest set about tidying up the kitchen, sharing a few playful flour fights and wiping down countertops. The laughter continued as you swapped stories of past holiday mishaps, turning the cleanup into a delightful encore to the baking extravaganza.

Once the kitchen was restored to its pre-cookie chaos state, you both hurriedly prepared for the family Christmas party. Quest, showing his efficiency, gathered the last batch of cookies, carefully placing them in a festively adorned box. The anticipation of sharing your sweet creations with loved ones added an extra layer of excitement to the evening.

Quest, now holding the precious cargo of cookies, joined you at the door. You, ever the organized one, had already grabbed both your coats and the car keys. A playful grin passed between you as Quest marveled at your readiness.

With a gentle squeeze of your hand, Quest remarked, "You're the holiday MVP, angel," and together, you stepped out into the chilly night. The crisp air held the promise of festivities, and as you locked the door behind you, the twinkling lights of the Christmas tree inside cast a warm glow onto the snowy landscape.

Hand in hand, Quest and you made your way to the car, the box of cookies carefully cradled between you. The engine roared to life, and soon, you were driving through the quiet streets, adorned with twinkling lights and festive decorations.

[nsuiswitch]

therapy is expensive but Quest telling me I'm pretty is absolutely ✨free ✨

[h-ruchiyo]

synopsis :

after entering a chaotic discord server through a random link on Twitter, it was an understatement when you felt like you were being watched by someone.

starring : quest, xyx, toasty, etc.

warning : profanities, blackmail, sex, dubcon, noncon, self-harm, suicidal thoughts, etc.

— prologue

— chapter i

— chapter 2

— chapter 3

[dumjokes]

Hi everyone! Sorry I've been gone a while!! So I won't be doing killer chat x reader fics for a while cuz I've lost inspiration, but I will do it again one day! But, I am open to doing blooming panic x reader fics right now!

[gutspiller]

blue diner

read it on ao3 here

you're a fae, or something unfamiliar of the sort, and quest's curiosity gets a quick hold of him when he sees you wandering.

you take a chance at fate.

Tear stains crawl down your cheeks, drying before they hit your collarbone. You sprint across the garden, legs wobbly with fear and straight adrenaline. You’re being chased, you fear.

Upon seeing the human’s face for another time, you cry out, falling into the dirty pond water. You cough, lifting yourself back up onto a fairly-sized lilypad. There’s nothing you can do, you think, he’s already seen me.

You shriek whilst choking up water, crawling back into the grove desperately. Your eyes are wide as saucers, and all you can think to do is hide . Hide back in the lavender trees, back under the willows and the blossoms up top the lily pads where you daren’t lead a fairy hunter.

The hunter’s face peers through your sanctuary, donning a vexed face. “Hey, wait!” The man yells, pushing back daisies to see you. His face is oddly kind-looking, a concerned furrow settling between his brows. “Um,” He stumbles, “My name is Quest–! I’m not trying to hurt you,”

Panicking seeing the hunter– Ugh, “ Quest”, inch back towards you, you squeal out of fear, rattling your head back and forth in useless defiance.

After a long silence of nothing but cicadas and fireflies buzzling in the humid pond air, Quest whispers a gentle inquiry.

“What are you?”

His voice is sweet. It’s calm, unlike the hunters you often see prodding around at these parts. The man’s mouth is dying to curl up into a smile, but he’s biting his lip to prevent it.

You don’t want to be tempted, but you are. You can’t help it– his gentle expression and soft demeanor pulls you in like a boat to it’s dock.

“...What do you think I am?” Your wings bat against your shoulder blades softly, glittering pixie dust on the dirt below when they touch. Quest’s eyes narrow in frustration, but soften at the sight of your unmarred expression. You purse your lips together, and flit your eyes to your right shyly.

He doesn’t respond, instead lifting an unsure hand. “May I..” Quest starts, before creasing his eyes in harmless curiosity.

“Touch your wings?” You shrink back for a second, before itching at your arms nervously. You’d never let anyone other than a few pests brush up against your wings, but it was starting to entice you, to let him in your world.

It feels so wrong, so inconceivably wrong ..that it’s right. “Okay.”

Putting all your trust in this stranger, you think, is simply laughable. To think you’ve been so barred off for your entire life, and the first time you meet someone even the slightest bit of nice, you snap and bend and curl to his will.

The second his big, soft hands land on your wings, you shiver, flexing your back on instinct. His touch is nice, but cold, and cold is often not around your place of inhabitance.

Your face flushes pink at every bend his fingers glide across, squirming under his touch. It almost feels indulgent, leaving your guard behind. But as you’re feeling his skin, it doesn’t seem to matter anymore.

His semi-calloused, scarred skin feels like fresh rose petals out of a garden. You feel sacred under his hold, despite the clumsy shifts that often occur.

Something is blooming under your skin, leaving fleeting emotions at bay.

You fear you won’t be able to keep it inside.

[doodlenoodleboi]

Hello, heard you were taking reqs! Could you possibly write beach day hcs for all of the love interests of Bloomic?

Quest

- I could see him awfully insecure about his body in the way of thinking that he scares people whether it be the tattoos or simply how beefy he is.

- Please comfort the poor man he’ll feel a lot better afterwards

- He’s the dad of the group that has the sunscreen and a cooler full of water.

Naked Toster

- Nope, good luck getting him out of the house let alone in a swimsuit.

- He can be professional and or social when he needs to but in his personal time , he prefers not interacting with people and even more so going outside and being perceived by other people.

Xyx

- Probably the most confident of the group, flexing his muscles, swimming, and simply enjoying himself

- He definitely makes fun of the rest of the group if they happen to burn in the sun.

- Definitely a “Gotta keep the tan up…. It's not a skin color it's a lifestyle but you wouldn't know that because you’re as pale as a ghost.” type of guy. Don't let him get a hold of TikTok or social media for that matter.

Nightowl (I don’t like him)

- Most stylish swimsuit ever

- He makes the biggest deal over the fact that is so, enjoying the temporary glory of being the prettiest boy on the beach. (Probably took pictures for instagram.)

- he forgot sunscreen and luckily he doesn’t burn but he’s still upset cuz this man definitely uses skincare.

(this was in my drafts for sooo long)

[ilycove]

Quest likes to think he met you where the soul had met the bone, where your smiles and touches made his heart ache. His arms envelop you, calloused finger tips drawing sleepy circles into your waist. He sits and breathes you in, breathes you out.

Compared to him, you're little in his arms, really. You lay there with your head resting on one arm, and connecting little freckles of his like you're creating constellations with the other. The two of you just sit in serenity, not wanting to break the silence and tenderness that floats in the air quite yet. Part of you doesn't want to leave because, well you're comfortable, but if you'd turn around you would meet his pretty blue eyes that are like an ocean that threatened to swallow you whole. Or, willingly, you’d drown. And you weren't so sure if you’d want to be saved. 

Quest dips down to kiss the nape of your neck, relishing in the soft chuckles you make as you tighten your grip on his forearm. He doesn't budge a bit, and decides to bite softly as to not hurt you but to raise a few gasps out of you. His smirk grows when you glare playfully at him over your shoulder, and you can practically feel your faux melting at the sight of his face. 

You're drowning.

And you really, really don't want to be saved.

He presses a firm kiss on your jaw, waking you up further. As you sit up, he inches his one arm to your face again to bring you closer to him. He places gentle kisses on your cheekbones, the bridge of your nose, the corner of your mouth, wherever he can reach. He hums against your skin, "Good morning."

Quest's lips find your neck once more, becoming more firm as they travel down to your collarbones. You gently run your hands through his hair, bringing him out of his sleep driven trance. "G'morning. It's way too early for this."

You yawn almost instantly after saying that making Quest's smile grow wider. Sarcasm drips from his voice as he kisses your cheek again, and again, and again. "Oh wow, I'm hurt," he gives you a playful pout to counter your rolling eyes. "Really, I just wanted to show you how much I adore my angel. Is that so wrong?"

He brings a hand of yours up to his lips and matches his smile with your own. Neither of you mention how his voice dipped a bit when he called you yours. Neither of you minded it. If it were up to you, you'd adore it all the more if he'd just call you that forevermore. Hearing him say "angel" was like he reinvented the word and gave it a new meaning, like it was his initial around your neck. As much as it was yours, it was his. Forget your name, you just wanted him.

You met his eyes again – sinking and drowning and dying – and you give him a little kiss on his lips. Then another one. Then you two are one. Like a set of gloves, you just go together, you're meant to be.

You pull away with a whine, doe eyes looking into ones of a Greek God. "I have to get ready for work."

"No you don't. Just call in sick."

You squint at him but there's no malice behind your stare. A smile refuses to leave your bruised lips. "I've done that one too many times for you, they're gonna start getting suspicious."

"Then fake it. Pretend you have a sore throat. Just stay with me a little while longer." Another kiss is pressed to your knuckles and you're dead. You've drowned in him completely. And you're totally okay with that.

"How can I just pretend to have a sore throat?"

A toothy smile graces his features, painted with mischief and cheekiness, sculpted from the finest hands. "I know a way or two."

Quest laughs when you slap his chest and he laughs a little harder when he hears your laughter, too.

He means it when he calls you angel. He hears God themselves whispering behind your voice like background vocals in a song when you speak and he sees the gates of Heaven when you smile. In the so called ugliness of your tears he sees himself and that itself makes him yearn for you all the more. He pulls you closer to his chest, his heart in sync with yours. 

He knows he isn't a good person, but if he gets to stay here with you for just a second longer then he knows he did one thing right. You had become his home, a sacred oasis. If he was told he would die tomorrow, he'd be more than fine spending the time atoning for his sins in your arms.

Quest kisses your neck again. His lips travel, traced with electricity. He finds your  pulse point and lingers, kissing it softly. He attempts to kiss once more, but it's more smile than pursed lips when he hears your laughter again.

The ocean is not a home for angels. It's inhospitable, dark and unforgiving. But as long as you swear yourself to the tides and mutter its praises, it will hold onto you.

[thelittlepoetprincess]

[SFW] 𝐀𝐮𝐭𝐮𝐦𝐧 𝐃𝐚𝐭𝐞 [Bloomic Spoilers]

Finally, the day you were waiting for. The ever-elusive half-day at your corporate office. You waited anxiously, eyes studying the clock as the hands slowly ticked along. The energy in your usually monotonous, simple office was different, charged with a strange air of excitement. The coffee machine was empty, the paper neatly organized, and everyone synchronized in excitement to escape at 11 o'clock and have the rest of the day to themselves. Even the usual office grumps seemed to be a little more agreeable. The clock clicked to that fated time, the office suddenly buzzing to life as everyone gathered their things to leave while the managers bid everyone a good day politely. You bolted out of the building, taking in the crispy autumn air with gleeful delight. You've always been a fall person, enjoying the orange and red leaves, the chilly air, and the caramel apples… speaking of which, your favorite pop-up stand should have swapped over to their fall treats by now. You found yourself going straight there after work, happily texting your lover about what he wanted before you bumped into someone. You immediately began a string of apologies as you stepped back, eyes on the ground before looking up to your boyfriend chuckling at you.

"Whoa there, angel, you have to start looking when you're going."

"Quest?!" You said his old discord name in surprise, as you find yourself doing out of habit when caught off guard by him. He found it adorably amusing. Michelango repeatedly attempts to dive into your arms excitedly, though the pup couldn't do much against your toned lover.

"Seems you and I had the same idea. I was trying to surprise you after work with your favorite but this one got held up at the groomers because he refused to leave." He gestured to Michelangelo, kneeling beside your pet to play roughhouse with him. He looked up when his number was called. "Ah, wait here, I have a surprise for you."

He returned from the booth with two cups: hot chocolate for himself a warm apple cider for you, and two straws so you could sneak some of his hot chocolate. The special treat was a fresh pumpkin cheesecake scone, your guilty pleasure for such a day. "Surprise!"

He laughed softly, as he allowed you to take the cups from his gloved hands. It gave him a special kind of joy to see you smiling so much, even as the cool wind nipped at your nose. "Today is a special day so I have everything planned already, Angel. I have your favorite shoes in the car waiting for you already. You'll need them but enjoy this first."

You bit into the still-warm scone, reveling as the white chocolate and pumpkin flavors danced on your tongue. The scone was soft and perfectly crumbly. Quest watched you with adoration in his cyan eyes before wrapping his scarf around your neck, it smelt like apples and cinnamon. It seemed he'd changed his cologne recently to reflect the festive mood. "Don't give me that look."

"What look?" Quest asked as he pressed a series of loving kisses on your temple and forehead before walking beside you, pulling your hand in his pocket. The three of you walked together to the familiar navy blue SUV parked nearby. Quest held the door open for you while the sliding door allowed your spoiled fur baby to hop in the back seat. You were briefly covered in sloppy dog kisses before he sat back and behaved himself when Quest got in.

"You always get this sideways smirk when you have something special planned."

"Pft. I do not!" His voice slightly raised a pitch before the two of you laughed together. That's when you noticed the picnic basket in the back of the car alongside a cooler, Quest winked playfully and started the car before the three of you set off toward your destination. Car rides always made you sleepy, and given you'd topped off on apple cider, a scone, and half of Quest's hot chocolate with the addition of the perfectly set heater you were out within minutes. Quest drove carefully to avoid waiting for you, oftentimes stealing glances at you or stroking your cheek gently.

Quest stopped the car at the destination, getting out first and setting up first while you slept peacefully. Your dreams were hazy mixes of you swimming in cider while Onion screamed at you to get out of his pot before you slowly were stirred away by the cold air brushing on your face. When you came to the sun was peeking through the trees, red, orange, and yellow leaves falling down like rain. The scent of his apple cologne flooded your nose, though it was pleasantly mixed with the smell of the park. Quest was carrying you bridal style but had a hand on Michealgo's leash as he trotted beside him. "Good morning, Angel."

He spoke lovingly, pressing a kiss on your forehead while you blinked in awe. It was like a scene from a movie: a perfectly set-up picnic with a pile of leaves just beside the blanket. Given how rosy Quest's cheeks were he'd been working on the set-up for a bit. You couldn't help but shower him in kisses while he carried you, the two of you giggling along. You wiggle out of his embrace, enjoying the walk through the city's forest park hand in hand. "Oh, you didn't have to do this, Quest."

"I know, but I wanted today to be special for you and us. A half-day of work is to be celebrated." He stroked your knuckles with his thumb, trying to warm up your hands with his own. He guided you to the picnic blanket, letting you get settled in while he played with Michelangelo to try and offset that endless energy he seemed to have. You giggle as Michelangelo dove at Quest, knocking the gentle giant over before covering him in kisses.

"Angel! Ha, our son is attacking me!" He teased out while waving his arms before Michelangelo spotted you and bolted over. With a swift dive, you tumbled back with the black American bully into the large pile of leaves with a laugh. Quest came jogging up and he picked up a squirming Michelangelo before getting pulled back down into the leaves with you. You laughed at his disheveled appearance: ruffled black hair, misaligned glasses, and a half-tugged-off jacket. Leaves decorated his hair and body like jewelry and it took you a while to pick them all off. "Well then, was this a good date, Angel?"

"10/10, wouldn't trade it for the world, my love."

[https-st4r]

Blooming panic ;Masterlist

Nothing here yet!

[mysilaan]

HEADCANON REQUESTS FRENCH

Hello tout le monde 🍒

J’appréhende un peu mais bon…

J’ai décidé en fin de compte, à dédier ce blog à mes écrits, et plus particulièrement sur mes headcanons 🌷

Voici une liste de jeux sur lesquels je fais des headcanons : 

⭐Blooming Panic

⭐The Arcana

⭐Touchstarved

⭐Amour Sucré (New Gen inclus)

Je prends toutes vos propositions de headcanons dans la boîte à questions !! Mais il y a quelques règles que je vous prie de prendre en compte avant…

❌Je ne prends aucune proposition en dehors des quatres jeux de ma liste pour le moment.

❌Je ne prends pas de propositions NSFW. Je peux écrire du soft NSFW mais rien de trop explicite.

❌Si je considère une proposition inappropriée, je me réserve le droit de l’ignorer et la supprimer.

⚠️POUR THE ARCANA

Je ne prends pas de headcanons sur Portia pour le moment étant que je n’ai pas encore fait sa route. (Promis je m’y met vite)

⚠️POUR AMOUR SUCRE

Je ne prends pas de propositions de headcanon sur Armin HSL (UNIQUEMENT) car je n’ai pas joué à sa route. Je n’en prends pas non plus pour Eric, cette fois-ci car il s’agit  simplement d’un personnage que je n’apprécie pas (je peux cependant prendre des requête de angst writing…)

Si vous souhaitez vous renseigner sur ce que j’écris, mon compte wattpad est joint à mon linktree dans ma bio. Certains de mes écrits ne correspondent plus trop à ce que j’aime faire mais cela peut vous donner un aperçu en attendant que je poste ici ⭐

J’ai hâte de recevoir vos propositions 💖

[theetherealbloom]

AS GOOD A REASON - CH. 3 | OBERYN MARTELL

Chapter Three: There Will Be No Glory

Summary: You, who has made it her life's work to get retribution on those who mistreated and harassed you when you were a child. The scars on your body are a physical reminder of the suffering you endured at the hands of abusers, and they also provide the fuel for your years-long quest for retribution.

Paring: Oberyn Martell x Fem!Reader

Warnings: 18+ MDNI DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT, MINORS GO AWAY, GoT is full of serious and harmful topics, mentions of SA, Rape (not the reader), Murder, Violence, Gore, War, Poison, Scars, Burns, Scratching, Su!c!de, AU, Age–Gap Romance, Angst, FLUFF, Eventual SMUT, Swearing, PTSD, Depression, Anxiety, Crying, Suggestive content, Flirting, Blood, War, Religion References, Nudity, Domestic Abuse, Incest, Prostitution, Weapons, Fire, Horror, Character Deaths, Rewrite Alternate Universe, Sex, Alcohol, Revenge, 

Word Count: 8.4k

A/N: I swear I’m cookin’ back here. I've been writing this series non-stop for days lmao. Idk what hit me?? I actually have the next chapter ready to post too lmao. Hope everyone is doing well!

Side note: I’m dyslexic and English isn’t my first language! So I apologize in advance for the spelling and/or grammatical errors. As always, reblogs, comments, and likes are always appreciated. Thank you and happy reading!

Song: hunter by Paris Paloma

Previous Chapter → Next Chapter | Series Masterlist | Main Masterlist

KING'S LANDING, THE SEPT OF BAELOR — EARLY MORNING

The Sept of Baelor was alive with a flurry of activity. Servants moved swiftly, preparing for the grand wedding of Joffrey Baratheon and Margaery Tyrell. Every corner of the grand sept was being scrubbed, every flower meticulously placed, every banner hung with precision. The sun had barely risen, casting a golden hue over the stained-glass windows, but already the heat of the day was making the air feel thick and heavy.

You were in the midst of it all, arranging the delicate floral garlands along the altar. The scent of the flowers was overwhelming, mingling with the incense that filled the Sept. Your hands moved mechanically, arranging the blooms with precision, though your mind was elsewhere. The headache that had been gnawing at the edges of your consciousness all morning now pulsed with a vengeance, a searing pain behind your eyes. It was getting harder to focus, and the heat didn’t help.

Voices echoed through the Sept as people hurried by, servants calling to one another in preparation, but it was all a dull hum in your ears. You pressed a hand to your temple, closing your eyes for a moment as the migraine intensified. The world seemed to blur at the edges, the weight of your own thoughts pressing down on you, mingling with the physical pain. 

Then, suddenly, a firm hand gripped your arm. You gasped, eyes snapping open as you were pulled away from your work, your feet stumbling beneath you. The world spun as you were dragged through the corridors, away from the main hall. 

Your first instinct was to fight back. You kicked, struggled, your heart pounding with panic. But the grip was unyielding, dragging you into a darkened alcove, hidden away from prying eyes. 

“What are you—? Let go of me!” you hissed, your voice strained with fear and frustration as you fought against your captor, kicking and trying to free yourself.

Then, in the dim light, you saw him. Oberyn Martell. His eyes gleamed with amusement, but there was something else in them—a hunger, a dangerous edge. He didn’t release you, instead pressing you further into the shadows, the cool stone wall biting against your back.

“You—” you began, breathless, still trying to regain control of the situation, but Oberyn leaned closer, cutting off your words with the intensity of his gaze. 

“Shh," he whispered, his voice a low rumble that sent a shiver down your spine. "I’ve been looking for you.”

His words hung between you like a dangerous secret. His body pressed against yours, firm and unyielding, his hands bracing on either side of your head, caging you in. Your heart raced as you realized there was no escaping him now. You forced yourself to meet his gaze, determined to maintain your composure despite the sudden surge of heat that flushed your skin. 

“What are you doing?” you demanded, your voice shaky but defiant. “We shouldn’t be here—”

Oberyn’s smile widened, the corner of his lips curving into a wicked smirk. “Shouldn’t we?” His tone was teasing, but his eyes were dark, intense. His face was so close, his breath warm against your skin. “You’ve been avoiding me. I’ve noticed.”

“I’m working,” you replied, trying to maintain control of your voice, trying to keep your heart from pounding so loudly in your chest. “And you should be—”

But Oberyn interrupted you, his hand brushing lightly against your arm, sending sparks shooting up your spine. "You carry yourself with grace, more like a lady of the court than a servant.” His gaze trailed over you, studying you, watching the way you tried to hide the tremor in your breath. “It makes me wonder… who are you really?”

Your throat tightened. The question cut too close to the truth. You had worked so hard to blend in, to be unnoticed, yet Oberyn’s gaze seemed to peel back the layers you had carefully built. He was too perceptive, too sharp.

“I’m no one,” you lied, your voice steadier than you felt. “Just a servant.”

Oberyn chuckled softly, but there was no humor in it. He leaned closer, his lips brushing the shell of your ear as he spoke. “A servant who speaks with such eloquence, who watches others like a hawk, as if you’re calculating their every move.” His breath was hot against your skin, his presence overwhelming as he whispered, “You’re planning something, aren’t you?”

Your pulse quickened. His words were dangerous, far too close to what you had been so careful to hide. Oberyn was watching you with an intensity that made your skin burn, and for a moment, you couldn’t breathe. He saw through you in a way no one else had. The facade you wore was slipping under his gaze, and you weren’t sure if you could hold it up any longer.

“I don’t know what you mean,” you said, your voice barely more than a whisper.

Oberyn tilted his head, his dark eyes searching yours, reading the fear and the defiance in equal measure. He smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “You’re a good liar,” he murmured, his lips brushing against your skin as he spoke. “But I’ve spent my life around liars. And you... you are no ordinary servant.”

You swallowed hard, your back pressed firmly against the cold stone as Oberyn’s presence enveloped you. His fingers brushed lightly against your jaw, tracing the line of your face as he studied you. "There's something about you," he said, his voice soft but dangerous. "Something... familiar."

Your breath caught in your throat. He was getting too close, too close to the truth you had buried so deeply. You had to regain control, had to push him away before he uncovered everything.

“Let me go,” you whispered, though your voice lacked the strength you intended. 

Oberyn’s eyes glimmered with something unreadable as he held you there, trapped between him and the wall. He leaned in, his lips hovering near yours, the tension between you crackling like wildfire. “Not yet,” he whispered, his voice a promise, a warning. 

And in that moment, you realized you were caught.

Oberyn stood so close, his presence overwhelming, his eyes filled with that dangerous blend of curiosity and something more primal. You could feel the heat radiating from him, the air between you thick with tension, as if the entire world had fallen away, leaving just the two of you in this darkened corner of the Sept.

His voice, low and smooth, broke the silence, sending a shiver down your spine. “My sister used to write to me, you know,” he began, his lips curling into a small, almost bittersweet smile. “Princess Elia. We were always apart, but her letters kept me close to her.” He paused, watching you closely, as though he could see right through the facade you’d carefully built over the years. 

You stiffened at the mention of Elia, your heart clenching painfully. You hadn’t heard that name spoken so intimately in years. You were only a child then, but you remembered her well—kind, gentle, her presence like a soft light amidst the darkness that surrounded the Red Keep. Your hands trembled slightly, but you quickly clenched them into fists, trying to maintain your composure as Oberyn continued.

“There was one letter,” he mused, his voice softening as if recalling a distant memory. His fingers lightly traced the air, as if mimicking the act of writing. “She wrote about a servant. A girl, a child really, whose parents had given her away. She never mentioned the girl’s name, but she always said how kind she was. How strong, despite everything.”

Your breath caught in your throat. You knew he was talking about you. Elia had been the only one who had shown you kindness, who had given you a place to belong when the world had taken everything from you. But you couldn’t let him know that. You couldn’t let anyone know who you truly were. The weight of your past was a burden you had carried alone, and it had to stay that way.

Oberyn stepped closer, his eyes searching yours, as though he could find the truth hidden behind your carefully guarded expression. “I wonder…” he whispered, his lips hovering near your ear. “Was that girl you?”

You swallowed hard, every instinct screaming at you to run, to get away, but Oberyn’s presence held you in place. His gaze was relentless, burning into you, waiting for an answer you couldn’t give.

“I—” You struggled to find the words, your mind racing, but your throat felt tight, your heart hammering in your chest. You had spent years building this mask, this life as a mere servant, someone no one would look at twice. But now, in the span of moments, Oberyn was threatening to tear it all away.

His hand lifted, fingers grazing the side of your face, and the world seemed to narrow down to that single point of contact. “Who are you, truly?” he asked, his voice barely more than a whisper, but there was no mistaking the intensity in his tone.

The question hung in the air, suffocating. His proximity, the way his body loomed over yours, the way his eyes pinned you in place—it was all too much. The pressure, the closeness, the danger of being exposed—it all came crashing down on you, and suddenly, something snapped inside you.

Without warning, you moved.

Your knee shot up, connecting with Oberyn’s side, hard enough to knock the wind out of him, but not enough to cause real harm. He staggered back, his expression briefly shifting to one of surprise before it morphed into something almost amused. But you didn’t give him time to recover. You slipped out from under his arm, using his momentary lapse to dart past him, your body moving with an agility you hadn’t shown before. 

He chuckled, low and dangerous, clearly not expecting the sudden resistance. “I see,” he murmured, rubbing his side where you’d struck him, his eyes gleaming with something far more dangerous than before. “You’re full of surprises.”

But you didn’t stop to listen. You were already moving, slipping back into the main hall of the Sept where the other servants were still bustling about, preparing for the wedding. The light from the stained-glass windows bathed the room in a kaleidoscope of colors, but you barely noticed. Your heart was pounding in your chest, adrenaline still coursing through your veins as you forced yourself to keep walking, blending back into the crowd of workers.

No one seemed to notice your disheveled state, the faint tremor in your hands as you returned to your duties. You grabbed a bouquet of flowers, your fingers working mechanically as you set them in place, your mind racing with the encounter you had just escaped.

Oberyn had been close—too close. You had no idea how much he truly knew or how much he suspected, but it was clear he wasn’t going to let this go. You could still feel his eyes on you, the way he had studied you as if he could unravel all your secrets.

But you wouldn’t let him. You had survived this long by keeping your past hidden, and you wouldn’t let anyone—no matter how charming, how dangerous—pull you back into that life. 

As you worked, your mind kept replaying his words, the way he had looked at you with that knowing gaze. You could feel the danger closing in, but you had no choice but to press on. The game was far from over, and you would have to be even more careful from now on.

But one thing was clear—Oberyn Martell was not a man easily fooled.

KING'S LANDING, THE SEPT OF BAELOR — DAY

You lingered in the cool shadows of the Sept, hidden from view, just another servant who wasn’t meant to be seen. You weren’t supposed to be part of the grand ceremony at all. Your role, after all, was to prepare for the feast that would follow this extravagant display—a celebration meant to rival even the greatest of royal unions.

But something compelled you to stay.

The air was thick with the scent of incense, and the sound of hushed murmurs echoed off the high stone walls as nobles and lords gathered to witness the joining of Houses Tyrell and Lannister. It was all falling into place, every step of this elaborate plan leading to this moment. The tension in the room crackled like lightning before a storm.

You stood, your heart pounding, as Margaery Tyrell, radiant in her flowing gown, walked down the aisle on the arm of her father, Mace Tyrell. Her golden hair shimmered in the light of the stained-glass windows, and her face was calm—serene even—as though she had been preparing for this her entire life. You watched closely, your gaze sharp, dissecting every movement, every flicker of emotion. The entire event was a spectacle, a symbol of power, of politics. It was all theater. 

Mace Tyrell paused at the base of the steps, his expression proud as he handed his daughter to the waiting king. Joffrey stood at the top, his grin smug, cruel even, as he accepted Margaery’s hand. For a brief moment, your eyes lingered on the boy king, revulsion curling in your stomach. His reign had been a reign of terror and madness, and yet, in this moment, he stood like a conqueror, basking in the adulation of his subjects. 

Margaery, ever poised, ascended the steps with him, her head held high as she moved beside Joffrey. The High Septon awaited them, his voice booming through the Sept as he began the sacred rites. You felt a strange sense of detachment, as if watching the scene unfold from a great distance. Yet, there was a thrill beneath your skin—a deep, quiet satisfaction. Everything was in motion now, and there was no turning back.

The High Septon’s voice echoed through the hall, reverberating off the stone walls: 

"Let it be known that Margaery of House Tyrell and Joffrey of the Houses Lannister and Baratheon are one heart, one flesh, one soul. Cursed be he who would seek to tear them asunder."

As the words filled the air, you couldn’t help but smirk slightly to yourself, hidden in the shadows. Cursed, indeed. The irony of it all, the pageantry, the vows, the promise of unity, knowing what was to come—it was almost poetic.

You watched as Joffrey, in all his arrogance, turned to Margaery, taking her hands in his. "With this kiss, I pledge my love," he declared, loud enough for all to hear. His voice carried the same venomous self-importance it always had, as if he truly believed himself a benevolent ruler.

The crowd erupted in applause as their lips met in a kiss that was supposed to symbolize the unity of two great houses. You watched with an unreadable expression as Margaery played her part flawlessly, the perfect bride, while Joffrey basked in the adulation.

From your vantage point, you caught a glimpse of Sansa Stark, her face pale as she leaned toward Tyrion Lannister. Her eyes were dark, her lips pressed into a thin line as she whispered, "We have a new queen."

Tyrion, ever the cynic, barely glanced at her as he muttered under his breath, “Better her than you.”

You felt a surge of something—was it pity?—for Sansa, trapped in this viper’s nest with no escape. But this wasn’t your concern, not today. Today, the wheels were turning, and soon, this entire charade would unravel. You could feel it in the air, the undercurrent of tension beneath the applause and celebration. It was almost time.

The ceremony concluded, and the newly crowned queen and her king descended the steps together, the picture of royal power. The applause grew louder, the lords and ladies of Westeros rising to their feet in celebration of this union. But all you could focus on was the bitter truth behind it all. 

Your migraine throbbed in your temples, the dull ache intensifying as you stood there, watching the farce unfold before you. But you smiled, knowing that by the end of this day, Joffrey would no longer be king. The poison had already been set in motion, and the pieces on the board were exactly where you needed them to be.

For now, you would watch. The storm was coming, and you would be ready to strike when the time was right.

THE WEDDING RECEPTION 

KING'S LANDING GARDEN, RED KEEP — DAY

The garden was a riot of color and sound. Banners of crimson and gold fluttered in the warm breeze, the sigils of House Lannister emblazoned on every surface. Long tables stretched across the lush greenery, laden with golden platters of roasted meats, fruit, and delicate pastries. Lords and ladies of every great house in Westeros mingled, their voices a hum of excitement, laughter, and gossip, all gathered to celebrate the union of Joffrey Baratheon and Margaery Tyrell.

Jugglers tossed brightly colored balls high into the air while fire-breathers sent plumes of flames into the sky. Their movements were smooth and practiced, as if the entire performance were just another part of the show that was the king’s wedding. Some even walked on stilts, towering over the crowd, while musicians played lively tunes in the background, the melodies weaving in and out of the general din. 

You stood back, observing from the edge of the gardens, the soft perfume of roses mingling with the smoky scent of roasted meats. The spectacle of it all, the opulence, the grandeur—it was enough to make anyone feel insignificant in its shadow. You glanced down at your own hands, trembling slightly as you worked to keep them busy, adjusting a garland of flowers, though your task had long since been finished.  

The whole scene was a display of power, the ruling elite flaunting their wealth for all to see. Each lord and lady wore their finest silks, their jewels glinting in the midday sun as they danced, laughed, and raised their goblets in celebration. But beneath the surface, there was an undercurrent of tension. It lingered in the air, a brewing tempest on the horizon.

As your eyes drifted over the crowd, you spotted Bronn, Tyrion, and Podrick making their way through the guests. Tyrion’s face was hard to read, his usual wit tempered by the weight of the moment. He and Bronn exchanged quiet words, but even from a distance, you could see the unease in Tyrion’s posture. He didn’t want to be here, that much was clear.

And then, from across the garden, your gaze landed on Oberyn Martell. He and Ellaria Sand were seated near the fountain, utterly captivated by a contortionist performing impossible bends and twists before them. Ellaria laughed softly, her eyes alight with amusement, while Oberyn watched the performance with a more measured gaze. 

For a fleeting moment, his eyes found yours.

The world seemed to slow as the intensity of his gaze sent a jolt through your body. His dark eyes, filled with a mix of curiosity and something deeper, locked onto yours, as though he could see through every wall you had carefully constructed. Your heart quickened, and an unexpected warmth spread through your chest. The moment stretched between you, silent and loaded with meaning.

But you couldn’t hold it. Your pulse raced, your palms dampening with sweat as you quickly tore your gaze away, focusing on the flowers at your feet. You forced yourself to breathe, but the weight of his attention lingered on your skin, like a touch that burned long after it was gone.

You busied yourself again, rearranging the flowers though they didn’t need rearranging, anything to distract yourself from the flutter of nerves in your stomach. What was it about him? The way he looked at you wasn’t like the others. It was as if he knew something—something about you that no one else did. 

Your hands shook as you tried to steady your breath. You weren’t supposed to stand out here, in this garden full of lords and ladies, and yet… here you were, caught in the eyes of a man who seemed to see too much.

Out of the corner of your eye, you saw Ellaria lean in closer to Oberyn, whispering something into his ear, her hand resting lightly on his arm. Her eyes flicked briefly in your direction, curiosity burning behind them. The same possessive glint you had seen before was there, but now it was tempered by a different kind of intrigue.

Your heart pounded in your chest. You weren’t sure if you were relieved or unnerved by the brief reprieve from Oberyn’s gaze. Either way, you knew one thing: nothing at this wedding was what it seemed.

The air was thick with revelry, the laughter of lords and ladies mingling with the melody of flutes and the clink of goblets. Everywhere you looked, you saw power—power flaunted by those who had it, and coveted by those who didn’t. But you played your role, dutifully present, a servant watching a play unfold.

At the head table, Olenna Tyrell moved with a deliberate grace, her hand trailing through Sansa Stark’s carefully braided hair before lingering on the stones of her necklace. The movement was subtle, her fingers deft, plucking at the polished purple gems with a kind of ease that only someone of her station could manage. It was easy to miss if one wasn’t paying attention—but you were always paying attention.

Your eyes narrowed, recognizing the faint gleam in Olenna’s fingers as she discreetly palmed something. The strangler. A crystalline form of poison, almost impossible to detect once dissolved in wine. Your heart beat faster, but outwardly, you remained composed, blending into the background of the celebration.

No one else seemed to notice. Not Sansa, lost in her sorrow, nor Tyrion, pouring himself another goblet of wine as he approached the table. Olenna’s conspiratorial smile went unnoticed by the rest, except you. You stepped closer, pretending to busy yourself with the trays of wine, ready to serve at a moment’s notice, but your ears were sharply tuned to their conversation.

You heard the last bit of Olenna’s words as she turned to Sansa, her voice low but pointed. "Perhaps if your pauper husband were to sell his mule and his last pair of shoes, he might afford to bring you to Highgarden for a visit. Now that peace has come and all is right with the world, it would do you good to see some of it." Olenna cast a glance toward Tyrion, her eyes gleaming with amusement. “You must excuse me. It's time I ate some of this food I paid for.”

Tyrion smirked, but the bitterness in his eyes was unmistakable. He raised his goblet in a mock toast, the weight of his station pressing heavily on his shoulders.

As Olenna moved away, the music changed. The musicians struck up a familiar tune, the one they always played for the Lannisters—a song of lions, of power.

"A coat of gold, or a coat of red, a lion still has claws..."

Margaery seemed to be enjoying the performance, her laughter light and genuine. But Joffrey, ever the restless king, was bored. He stood abruptly, tossing coins at the musicians as if they were little more than beggars. "Very good. Very good. Off you go," he said dismissively. The musicians scrambled to collect the coins, bowing as they backed away from the table, desperate to avoid the king’s wrath.

From where you stood, the entire spectacle felt sickening. You clenched your jaw, your hands hidden beneath your sleeves as you forced yourself to remain composed. It was all a game to them. A game of politics, of power, of lies. The poorest in King’s Landing would never see the remnants of this feast, no matter what Margaery or Joffrey decreed. You knew the truth. People like you—those without titles, lands, or coin—were little more than pawns to be sacrificed in their endless struggle for dominance.

You watched Margaery lean toward Joffrey, her hand resting on his arm as she tried to soothe his restlessness. "My love, why don't we make the announcement?" she said, her voice soft, almost coaxing. Joffrey banged his goblet against the table, the sharp clang silencing the crowd as he stood.

"Everyone!" he called out, his voice booming over the garden. "The queen would like to say a few words."

The crowd cheered, applauding the queen they had already accepted as their own. Margaery stood gracefully, her smile serene as she addressed the crowd. "We are so fortunate to enjoy this marvelous food and drink. Not all among us are so lucky. To thank the gods for bringing the recent war to a just end, King Joffrey has decreed that the leftovers from our feast be given to the poorest in his city."

More applause followed, and Joffrey beamed, soaking in the adoration of the crowd. Cersei, ever watchful, approached Margaery with a forced smile. "You're an example to us all," she said, placing a kiss on each of Margaery’s cheeks. The queen mother’s jealousy was palpable, her eyes glinting with barely concealed disdain.

You stood there, watching it all with clenched fists beneath your sleeves, your breath coming in slow, measured draws. The words, the gestures, the smiles—it was all smoke and mirrors. They paraded their generosity, their wealth, their power as if it were a gift to the realm, but you knew better. This peace was fragile, built on the bodies of the innocent, and it could shatter at any moment.

Your fingers dug into the fabric of your dress, a habit you had developed over the years. You scratched at the skin beneath, the pressure grounding you as memories flashed before your eyes—memories of pain, of cruelty, of the Mountain. The heat of the branding iron. The smell of burning flesh. Your own screams ringing in your ears until the world went dark.

You bit down hard on your lip, forcing the memories to retreat back into the dark corners of your mind. But the tension remained, a heavy knot in your chest, coiled tight like a viper ready to strike. Everything around you—the laughter, the opulence, the false smiles of lords and ladies—was part of this never-ending cycle of power. A gamble played at the expense of lives like yours.

Standing at a distance, you felt Oberyn’s eyes on you again. He lounged with casual arrogance, a wicked smile playing on his lips as Ellaria sat on his lap, delicately feeding him a grape. His gaze lingered on you, his expression one of amusement, as if he found your presence there tantalizing. His nod in your direction was slow, deliberate, and the smirk he gave you only made your pulse race. You quickly turned away, determined not to give him the satisfaction of seeing the effect he had on you.

Your focus shifted, catching Cersei out of the corner of your eye as she exchanged curt words with Brienne of Tarth. Whatever was said made Brienne visibly uncomfortable, and she soon excused herself, walking away with her usual brisk pace. You weren’t close enough to hear their exchange, but the look on Cersei’s face said it all—disdain, irritation, and a certain dangerous pleasure in making the taller woman feel out of place.

Just as you were about to step away, something else caught your attention. Pycelle, with his hunched posture and greasy fingers, had cornered a young maid—Serena, you realized with a scowl. Inwardly, you cursed. Pycelle was one of those men you despised most at court, his pretense of wisdom nothing more than a shield for his lechery. You moved closer, keeping your head down, pretending to adjust your serving tray as you eavesdropped on their conversation.

Pycelle’s voice was low, his tone sickeningly paternal as he said, "No, no, come to my chambers and I will examine you personally."

Your stomach churned at his words, but before you could intervene, Cersei’s voice cut through the air like a dagger.

"She’ll do no such thing."

Pycelle jumped, his greasy face paling as he turned to see the queen standing there, her expression cold and unyielding.

"Oh, Your Grace," Pycelle stammered, his voice trembling slightly. "Yes, well, this young lady sought my advice..."

Cersei’s smile was sharp and cruel. "You should see Qyburn. He’s quite good."

The maid, eyes wide with relief, quickly dipped her head. "Your Grace," she murmured, then hurried away, escaping Pycelle’s grasp.

Pycelle’s face contorted into an expression of disgust. "Qyburn? Deplorable man. Brought shame on the Citadel with his repugnant experiments."

Cersei tilted her head, her smile never wavering. "More repugnant than your gnarled fingers on that girl’s thighs?"

Pycelle stiffened, his eyes darting around nervously. "Your Grace, I am a man of learning."

Cersei’s eyes gleamed with dangerous amusement. "My little brother had you sent to the Black Cells when you annoyed him. What do you think I could do to you if you annoyed me?"

Pycelle’s face turned ashen. "I never meant to annoy anyone," he mumbled, his voice now a pathetic whimper.

"But you are," Cersei said softly, stepping closer, her gaze boring into him. "You annoy me right now. Every breath you draw in my presence annoys me. So here’s what I want you to do: I want you to leave my presence. Leave this wedding right now. Go to the kitchens and instruct them that all the leftovers from the feast will be brought to the kennels."

Pycelle’s mouth opened in protest, but Cersei cut him off sharply. "The queen is telling you the leftovers will feed the dogs, or you will."

For a moment, the old man seemed to consider arguing, but one look at Cersei’s smile—a cruel, dangerous curve of her lips—and he thought better of it. With a shaky bow, he muttered, "Yes, Your Grace," and scuttled away like the coward he was.

Cersei smiled after him, pleased with herself.

What a bold-faced cunt, you thought bitterly, watching her bask in her small victory. Everything about her was venomous—her beauty, her power, her cruelty. She wielded them all with deadly precision, and you hated her for it.

With a steadying breath, you made your way back toward the head table, slipping seamlessly into your role. You refilled goblets, offered plates, your presence unnoticed among the nobles. But beneath your mask of calm, your mind churned. Every move, every word, every gesture at this wedding was a lie—a careful façade constructed to conceal the rot beneath.

The clamor of the wedding feast carried on, a haze of laughter, clinking goblets, and the gleam of gold and silk that shone in the late afternoon sun. The Lannisters and Tyrells reveled in their temporary triumph, their smugness saturating the air like a sickly perfume. But you knew better than most how quickly fortunes could turn in a place like King’s Landing. The city was a pit of snakes, and the shift of power could change in an instant.

From where you stood, just close enough to watch but far enough to remain unnoticed, your eyes followed King Joffrey. He sat at the head of the grand table, restless and bored, his twisted amusement turning toward the fool juggling before him. Margaery, ever the dutiful queen, smiled gracefully at his side, playing her part flawlessly. 

But Joffrey… he was never satisfied.

You saw the glint of cruelty in his eyes before he even stood. The familiar spark that made your skin crawl and your stomach twist. His voice cut through the air, sharp and mocking.

"A gold dragon to whoever knocks my fool’s hat off," Joffrey declared, his sneer stretching wide as he stood, scanning the crowd like a predator ready to pounce.

The fool, a trembling man in motley, barely had time to react before the guests joined in. Laughter echoed as food—chunks of bread, slices of fruit, and bits of meat—were hurled at him. You could see the fear in his eyes, how his smile wavered as he danced awkwardly to avoid the barrage. 

Your hands clenched into fists at your sides. The sight of it—how quickly cruelty had become sport—set your blood boiling. You knew this game, too well. You had seen it before. You had lived it.

Joffrey’s laughter rang loud, ringing in your ears like a taunt. 

You couldn’t take it anymore.

With a sharp inhale, you turned on your heel, walking briskly away from the spectacle. You could feel your heart hammering in your chest, the fury bubbling beneath the surface, the memories threatening to overtake you. The jeers, the screams, the sound of flesh meeting stone… all of it haunted you still, and this—this senseless cruelty—stirred it back to life.

The clamor of the feast swirled around you, a whirlwind of laughter, clinking goblets, and hushed conversations. Your hands moved mechanically as you helped arrange the giant feast table, replenishing trays of roasted meats and lavish platters of fruits. Yet your mind remained a storm of its own, the anger still simmering beneath the surface from what you'd just witnessed.

This court—its twisted bets, the cruelty woven into every interaction—was a festering rot, and you couldn’t allow yourself to forget that. Not for a moment. Not here, where forgetting meant losing yourself to the madness.

As you moved to refill goblets of wine, you saw Cersei and Tywin strolling past, their expressions as cold and imperious as ever. You kept your head down, but their voices reached your ears, low and murmured.

Tywin’s tone was calm, almost bemused. “You’re in rather a good mood.”

“I suppose I am,” Cersei replied, her voice holding a faint, bitter edge.

“I won’t ask why,” Tywin remarked, his gaze never faltering as they passed by.

“Small pleasures,” Cersei added, a sharpness in her words that hinted at something more, something dark beneath the surface.

You busied yourself with the table, arranging goblets when you caught movement from the corner of your eye. Oberyn and Ellaria had entered, gliding through the crowd with a grace that seemed to draw every eye. Their presence commanded attention, not unlike the very snakes that represented their house.

Oberyn's deep, silken voice cut through the air as he greeted them. "Your Grace. Lord Tywin."

Tywin turned to face them, his expression as stony as ever. "Prince Oberyn."

"I don't believe you have met Ellaria," Oberyn continued smoothly, gesturing to the woman at his side. "This is the Lord Hand Tywin Lannister and Cersei Lannister, the Queen Regent. Or, I suppose it is former Queen Regent now." The jab was subtle but unmistakable. "Lord Hand and Lady Cersei, this is Ellaria Sand."

Ellaria stepped forward, her dark eyes gleaming as she curtsied. "My lord. My lady."

Tywin offered a curt nod, the barest flicker of acknowledgement. "Charmed."

Cersei, however, let her gaze linger on Ellaria for a moment too long. “Can’t say I’ve ever met a Sand before,” she said, her words dripping with disdain.

You stole a glance at Ellaria, whose demeanor had shifted, a spark of fierceness flashing in her eyes. Her voice was like steel wrapped in silk. “We are everywhere in Dorne. I have ten thousand brothers and sisters.”

Oberyn’s lips curled into a smirk. “Bastards are born of passion, aren't they? We don’t despise them in Dorne.”

The corner of your mouth twitched, nearly betraying a smile at Oberyn’s thinly veiled jab. You bit your lip, forcing yourself to remain composed, knowing how easily any sign of amusement could draw unwanted attention.

Cersei, however, did not miss a beat. “No? How tolerant of you.”

Oberyn leaned in ever so slightly, his eyes never leaving hers. “I expect it is a relief, Lady Cersei, giving up your regal responsibilities. Wearing the crown for so many years must have left your neck a bit crooked.”

His words were a dagger, sharp and cutting. And as he spoke, his eyes flicked to you for the briefest moment, a knowing glance that sent a shiver down your spine. He knew. He had known the entire time you were standing there, silently witnessing the exchange.

Cersei’s smile faltered, if only for a heartbeat, before she recovered. “I suppose you’ll never know, Prince Oberyn. It’s a shame your older brother couldn’t attend the wedding.”

Tywin chimed in, his voice as cold as ever. “Please give him our regards. With any luck, the gout will abate with time, and he will be able to walk again.”

“They call it the rich man’s disease,” Oberyn shot back, his tone dripping with sarcasm. “A wonder you don’t have it.”

You almost choked on your own breath at the boldness of his words, gripping the tray of food tighter to maintain your composure. Every word he spoke was a calculated strike, each one landing with precision, and you admired his audacity.

Tywin’s expression remained impassive. “Noblemen in my part of the country don’t enjoy the same lifestyle as our counterparts in Dorne.”

Oberyn’s gaze darkened, the air between them thick with tension. “People everywhere have their differences. In some places, the highborn frown upon those of low birth. In other places, the rape and murder of women and children is considered distasteful. What a fortunate thing for you, former Queen Regent, that your daughter Myrcella has been sent to live in the latter sort of place.”

Your grip tightened on the tray as Oberyn’s words struck like a whip, slicing through the false pleasantries of court. You admired him for it—for his boldness, his refusal to bend to their rules, their cruelty.

But you also knew that such boldness could come at a cost.

Without another glance, you quietly moved away, slipping back into the sea of nobles and servants. You busied yourself with pouring wine and serving food, but your thoughts lingered on the dangerous dance unfolding before you. The court was a place where words were as deadly as swords, and you could only hope that Oberyn’s sharp tongue wouldn’t cut too deep.

Yet, as you glanced back at him, standing tall and unyielding, a part of you knew that he wouldn’t be so easily broken.

The air was thick with tension, festivity clashing with the cruelty lurking just beneath the surface. You stood near the head table, your place behind Sansa Stark’s chair, a silent observer in the midst of the spectacle. And Joffrey, the cruel little tyrant, loved his games.

From the center of the garden, you heard the familiar tap tap of Joffrey’s goblet. He rose from his seat, commanding attention as if the entire world existed solely for his amusement. His voice rang out, high and grating.

“Everyone, silence! Clear the floor,” Joffrey called, smirking as his gaze swept over the gathered crowd. “There’s been too much amusement here today. A royal wedding is not an amusement. A royal wedding is history.”

You could feel the unease ripple through the crowd as Cersei and Tywin returned to their seats. Their expressions remained impassive, but there was a shared sense of something darker brewing beneath the surface. You, too, felt the shift, your body tensing as you braced for what was to come.

“The time has come for all of us to contemplate our history,” Joffrey continued, his voice dripping with arrogance. “My lords... my ladies…”

A lever was pulled, and from the gaping mouth of a giant lion, a red carpet unfurled, rolling down the middle of the floor. The crowd leaned in, curious, and you felt your stomach twist.

“I give you... King Joffrey... Renly, Stannis, Robb Stark, Balon Greyjoy. The War of the Five Kings.”

From the lion’s mouth, five dwarves emerged, each dressed to mock the fallen kings of Westeros. They paraded around the floor with exaggerated movements and comic glee, drawing laughter and applause from the nobles. But you could feel the weight of it—the insult, the cruelty embedded in the display.

The dwarves pranced around, playing their parts. One, dressed as Renly Baratheon, twirled about the center with an exaggerated flourish. Another, playing Robb Stark, shouted, “I am the King in the North!” His wolf-head helmet bobbed comically as he danced. The Joffrey dwarf stood at the center of it all, reveling in the absurdity, while the real Joffrey watched, his face alight with sadistic glee.

You saw Tyrion’s face, stoic yet darkened with distaste, and you shared in his disgust. Every part of you was braced for the inevitable humiliation, the way Joffrey delighted in belittling those who had fought and died with honor. The scene continued, with the dwarves mocking and prancing, their movements a grotesque parody of real battle. 

“Let the war begin!” the Joffrey dwarf cried, and the chaos of the mock battle began. Robb Stark’s dwarf clashed with the others, while the Balon Greyjoy dwarf pretended to drown in an invisible sea, his gurgling cries echoing through the hall.

You glanced at Sansa. Her face was pale, her eyes wide with shock as she watched the dwarf dressed as her brother fall to the ground, his wolf helmet tumbling off. Joffrey laughed, his high-pitched cackle reverberating through the room. “Your head!” he cried, pointing at the fallen wolf.

Your fingers curled into fists, nails digging into your palms. You sneered, your lip twitching as you barely restrained the anger rising within you. You wanted nothing more than to lash out, to put an end to Joffrey’s twisted plans. But you couldn’t. Not here. Not now.

The crowd cheered, applauding the spectacle as Joffrey stood, a cruel smile on his face. “Well fought! Well fought!” he exclaimed, his voice brimming with satisfaction. “Here you are—champion’s purse. Though you’re not the champion yet, are you? A true champion defeats all challengers. Surely there are others out there who still dare to challenge my reign.”

His gaze landed on Tyrion. “Uncle. How about you? I’m sure they have a spare costume.”

The crowd erupted into laughter. You clenched your jaw, biting down on the inside of your cheek so hard you tasted blood. Every fiber of your being screamed treason. Never had you wanted more to defy a king than in that moment.

Tyrion rose slowly, his expression unreadable. “One taste of combat was enough for me, Your Grace,” he said, his voice steady. “I would like to keep what remains of my face.”

You almost smiled at the subtle barb, but it was quickly followed by another.

“I think you should fight him,” Tyrion continued. “This was but a poor imitation of your own bravery on the field of battle. I speak as a firsthand witness. Climb down from the high table with your new Valyrian sword and show everyone how a true king wins his throne. Be careful, though. This one is clearly mad with lust. It would be a tragedy for the king to lose his virtue hours before his wedding night.”

The crowd went still, the tension palpable. You could feel it, the shift in the air as Joffrey’s expression twisted into anger. He marched over to Tyrion and, without warning, poured the contents of his goblet over his uncle’s head.

You bit back a gasp as wine trickled down Tyrion’s face, his hands clenched at his sides. His voice remained calm, but you could see the fury in his eyes. “A fine vintage. Shame that it spilled.”

Joffrey, ever the petulant child, sneered. “It did not spill.”

Margaery, sensing the rising tension, tried to intervene. “My love, come back to me,” she called, her voice sweet yet pleading. “It’s time for my father’s toast.”

But Joffrey was far from finished with his torment. “How does he expect me to toast without wine? Uncle, you can be my cupbearer since you’re too cowardly to fight.”

You watched in disbelief as Joffrey dropped his goblet, forcing Tyrion to kneel and retrieve it. Your own anger mirrored the look on Tyrion’s face, your nails biting deeper into your palms as he knelt to retrieve the goblet, only for Joffrey to kick it away. The humiliation was complete.

Sansa kindly retrieved the goblet for Tyrion, silently nodding in acknowledgment. He turned to hand Joffrey the cup but sneered, “What good is an empty cup? Fill it.”

Tyrion pours wine for Joffrey in front of Cersei and hands it to him.

“Kneel,” Joffrey hissed. “Kneel before your king.”

Tyrion did not move.

Joffrey’s voice rose, venomous. “I said… kneel!”

Before things could escalate further, Margaery stood. “Look—the pie!”

The crowd’s attention shifted to the giant pie being carried in. Joffrey turned his gaze toward it, temporarily distracted. He strode forward, hacking at the pie with his sword. Doves burst forth, fluttering into the air.

But you weren’t watching the birds. No. You saw Olenna, her hand quick and deft as she slipped something into Joffrey’s goblet. A stone. A strangler stone that she took from Sansa’s necklace.

Your breath hitched in your throat, but you did not react. You acted enraptured, like the rest of the crowd. You helped serve the pie, your movements mechanical, your mind racing. Sansa turned to Tyrion, her voice a whisper.

“Can we leave now?”

Tyrion’s response was measured. “Let’s find out.”

As you continued serving, your eyes flicked back to the head table, watching as Joffrey took his goblet and drank deeply. A small smile tugged at your lips as he swallowed.

The end was coming. You could feel it.

“Mm, good,” Joffrey muttered. “Needs washing down.”

He took another gulp, arrogant and unaware, until it hit him. The first sign was the subtle hitch in his breath, almost laughable at first—until it wasn't. The coughing came next, sharp and violent, ripping through him like a wild beast gnawing at his throat. His regal posture crumbled, hands clawing at his neck as if to tear the poison from his skin. His face twisted, contorted, morphing from haughty superiority into sheer terror.

The hall shifted with his agony, the murmurs turning into gasps, the gasps into cries of panic. Chaos rippled through the crowd like wildfire, nobles scrambling, eyes wide, horrified. But you did not move. Your body remained still, a statue amidst the storm of panic, unmoved by the sight of the boy-king choking on his own hubris.

Joffrey’s sputtering, retching—every grotesque, gurgling sound—echoed through the hall, yet all you could hear was the pounding of your own heartbeat. Slow. Steady. A contrast to the pandemonium erupting around you. It was a symphony of suffering, and you reveled in the silence that enveloped your mind. His pain meant nothing to you. 

Your eyes drifted across the garden, over the faces twisted in fear, horror, and confusion, and then... there was him. Oberyn. His dark, probing gaze locked onto yours from across the hall. His brows furrowed, lips parting ever so slightly. Surprise? No, curiosity, perhaps even confusion, flickered in his eyes as he searched your face for something—anything—but found nothing. No flicker of emotion, no sympathy, no shock. Just the cold, hollow indifference that had settled into your bones like an old companion. 

You didn’t flinch, didn’t waver. Why would you? This was one of the moments you had been waiting for. The reckoning. All of Joffrey's cruelty, all of his venom, had finally come back to devour him whole. His pitiful gasping, the frantic clawing at his throat, was a fitting end for the boy who thought himself untouchable.

Joffrey gurgled, his face now a deep shade of purple, eyes bulging, lips frothing. The people around him scrambled in vain, trying to save a life that was already slipping away. You remained still, cold as ice, watching it unfold with detached precision. The world could burn around you, and you would not care.

Oberyn’s eyes lingered on you longer than they should have, as if he were trying to understand the enigma standing before him. He didn’t. He couldn't. No one could. There was no more humanity left in you for him to grasp.

Joffrey’s choking grew louder, more desperate. His hands flailed, reaching for his mother, for someone to save him from the inevitable, but no one could stop what was coming. No one could stop you from witnessing the justice you had longed for.

Margaery rushed to Joffrey’s side. “He’s choking!”

Olenna, ever the actress, called out, “Help the poor boy!”

But there would be no help. No saving the king. You watched, unmoved, as Joffrey staggered, his face turning purple, vomit spilling from his lips. Jaime rushed to him, but it was futile. Joffrey was dying.

And all you could think of was how fitting it was. There would be no glory for Joffrey Baratheon. No legacy. Only pain. Only death.

“My son. He’s gone. My son!”

Around you, the world screamed and wailed. Cersei’s frantic cries cut through the air like a knife, but you barely registered them. You were detached, distant. Untouchable. 

It was strange—the numbness. The apathy was a shield you had forged long ago, layer by layer, through every injustice, every cruelty, every wound. You were unbreakable now, untouchable by Joffrey's suffering or anyone else’s. There was a quiet power in that, a dark satisfaction, as you watched the boy-king's life wither before your eyes. 

His torment did not sway you. Not a muscle in your body flinched. Your fingers, relaxed at your sides, held no tension. You didn't care. Not anymore.

“He did this. He poisoned my son, your king. Take him. Take him! Take him! Take him!”

Cersei, her screams filled the hall, but you felt nothing. The king was dead. And soon, the unraveling of this court, this rot, would begin.

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