I have always been interested with the scenario where the platonic yandere does something irreversible to their "child" and than regretting it. Some examples would be breaking their legs or cutting their hand.
Often the yandere tries to make up with gifts but what good will a new gaming console do if you loved to run and now you can't even stand or what good will a new book do if you loved to paint and now can't even draw a straight line with your non-dominant hand.
The yandere's "adopted" child losing their spark that the yandere had come to love. You don't talk to the yandere, only staring out quietly at a wall even when they make your favorite food and you don't call the yandere mother/father.
The yandere tries to tell themselves that it will be fine and by the end of the week you will be back. But you aren't getting better. In a last ditch effort the yandere comes one sunny day in your room. Under the sheets were your stumps where used to be legs didn't ache anymore. You don't look at the yandere as they say they have something to show them. Before you can react the yandere has hauled them up from the bed and on to their back. Your arms instinctively wrapping around the yandere's neck before they ask if you are comfortable. You nod before the yandere takes them outside where the morning sun is already above the horizon.
The yandere tells the you to hold on tight, you are confused but you wrap your stump legs as tightly as you can around their waist and wrap your arms around their neck tightly. You are about to ask what you two are doing before they take down the hill. Your arms instinctively tighten as they run down the hill. A surprised laugh bubbles out of you. You didn't know if it was because of happiness of feeling the wind in your hair or just the absurdity of it all. Another laugh escaped you, this one wetter as tears prickled at the corner of your eyes.
You didn't notice it but the yandere sped up, almost tumbling down the hill just to hear your laugh ring out and see that smile that rivaled the sun.
The yandere taking you to a lake. The water was cooling on your skin as they carried you until it was over their waist before letting go off you. You struggled for a moment almost going under water before they quickly caught you. A small laugh escaping them as they help you float. The water making you feel weightless and you could finally move on your own without calling for their help. A small bit of independence.
The yandere watched you as you floated and swam close to them. They didn't allow you to go far in fear of you drowning. Your arms burned and ached but you didn't care as you could move on your own for the first time in weeks.
Before you could tire yourself completely they caught you into their arms. They told you it was getting late and you asked if you could come back tomorrow. They smiled softly at your question.
"Of course, honey."
And for just a moment you could pretend everything was fine.
____________
And I just love this concept where the yandere takes something fundamental to the reader and the reader being devastated. The yandere can only give back imperfect versions of what they took in a pitiful attempt to make it right.
I am all for toxic main leads who hurt the heroine. Give me men who ruin the heroine’s life but give me men who BEG on their knees for forgiveness. Anyone else?
In ACOTAR, Feyre is hurt and humiliated by Rhysand and in ACOMAF (A Court of Mist and Fury) I expected we would get uncomfortable, awkward scenes where Rhysand had to slowly rebuild trust with Feyre. But all I was given were a speed run through a few tears and a lot of flirty banter?
What I wished to see in ACOMAF:
Feyre’s Body Was Never Hers Again
– Feyre hating revealing clothes and any comment about her body. She is literally still a teenager who got paraded around and humiliated in front of hundreds of fae. In her shoes I would have refused to show my face on the face of the earth.
I know it is said that Rhysand didn’t mean to hurt Feyre and it was all for her protection but it had hurt her. Feyre was a confused teenager thrust into the world of the fae. She didn’t see Rhys as an ally but as a predator like the rest of them.
I would have loved a scene with Rhysand where he notices Feyre always covering herself in baggy and loose clothes. He doesn't understand why because she has a great body so why should she be ashamed. In an effort to “help” Feyre over it he leaves dresses for her to wear but she refuses. While in classic Rhysand fashion he understands that she is being difficult and stubborn, “Come now, do not hide yourself from me~” It isn't out of malice but because she can't bear to be put on display again where she doesn't have autonomy. The baggy clothes are like armor.
If she wears something tighter she layers like three shirts just so she feels safe and comfortable. I think this is quite a heartbreaking sight to see the once strong girl who stood against Amaratha, hiding behind layers of clothing. The sight would be a slap to Rhysand's face to see the consequences of his actions in front of him every day.
I would have loved a quiet scene with Feyre and Rhysand sitting quietly at the balcony, the shimmering blue dress he had prepared for her laid untouched on the bed.
A thick and loose shirt hung around Feyre’s body, it hid her curves and made her look like she was wearing a moth-eaten potato sack.
“Why?” Rhysand quietly asks after having his gifts refused for weeks.
Feyre didn’t flinch at the question, her gaze was locked somewhere far away beyond the city. Her cracked lips parted into a sigh, “I just can’t…”
It should have given me scenes where Rhysand has to earn back the right to touch her. Soft touches over her arm while intently searching for any hint of discomfort. The room or balcony being silent outside of Rhysand’s quiet, “Is this alright?” and “Can I touch you here?”
My soul would have left me!
– Secondly, Feyre telling Rhysand off and just being done with him. Truly, I commend Feyre for her saintly patience because if I was dealing with what our girl Feyre was dealing with, I would not have patience for Rhysand's teasing and games. The moment he made Feyre read sentences that were just praises about himself I would have stabbed him with a pen and then jumped out of the window.
I would have paid Feyre to just lose it after she had been called “a stubborn woman” for the hundredth time like her wishes for a moment to herself are just a way of playing hard to get.
The anger and frustration building over the weeks where she is expected to perform, like she isn’t far away from home and this isn’t a nightmare she wishes to awake from. Feyre snapping, cursing and shoving the papers with “translations” to the ground in her fit of anger. Feyre’s head snapping towards Rhysand, her grey eyes blazing like a storm and the dark patterns across her skin pulsing like a thudding heart beat, daring him to make a comment. For once in his long life he didn’t have a smart comment or flirty remark, for the first time he saw the bags under the girl’s eyes, the stubborn set of her jaw that would have cracked her teeth.
Feyre takes a shuddering breath before straightening herself and her fingers shaking as she smooths down her hair. “Get out,” she said, her voice tired but with steel behind it. She hated losing her composure, a hunter never loses their composure.
Rhysand stiffened at her order, nobody ordered a High Lord, let alone a mortal girl but he could feel the bond between them spike, he could feel how she was barely keeping herself standing. The feverish words blend into a fiery storm. He turned on his heel but not before throwing one last barb and he ignored how the bond flared on his side.
I think showing Feyre losing her composure shows the ugly sides of trauma and gives her agency. She isn’t just standing around letting everything happen to her and letting others tell her what she is supposed to feel.
The Breakup That Should Have Hurt More
– I am all fine and dandy with Feyre and Tamlin breaking up. Even the fact that Tamlin changed so much. But I would have wanted Feyre to have more conflicting feelings about Tamlin. This was the man she literally killed for to save and died for! She imagined her future with him! And now she feels like she doesn't love him anymore because Rhysand came along? I would be feeling so guilty and like something was wrong with me.
But maybe Feyre tries to make the love bloom back. She thinks it is just because they are both hurt that it doesn’t work but slowly she realizes that Tamlin was just the first person and man she met and bonded with after years.
Tamlin for his part doesn’t notice it, mainly because he has other things to worry about - like his own court and strengthening it back after Amarantha - but also because of his own fae perspective that he has time. Because of the fae’s long lifespans they don’t rush things; they don’t get easily angry, but they don’t also forgive easily, they have long and deep relationships because they have time to get to know their partner. He has time to focus on their relationship, he has time to get to know Feyre again even if it happens after ten years because he has time. Feyre, who is a young human, doesn’t think this way. She isn’t willing to spend years on a relationship that is seemingly dead and she seems to be the only one doing the work. Their perspectives crashed.
Rhysand Didn’t See Feyre As An Equal
– I headcanon Rhysand that he didn’t even see Feyre as his equal. I am not criticising him because he had been enslaved longer than Feyre has even been alive, who would see a human that is practically an insect compared to you as an equal. Me neither! I headcanon that that is why he also paraded her around so freely, he just didn’t care about her feelings because to him she was just a dog.
Also being enslaved didn't do wonders to his mental health and he wanted at least once to be the one holding the leash to feel in control. That could explain why he loves to always visit Tamlin and just pester him knowing Tamlin can’t attack him. It is a way for him to feel powerful and in control when he is Amaratha’s slave. Not admirable but I think understandable.
The fated mates trope is almost always treated as a way to force proximity but imagine you are a decade old fae king and the universe told you your mate - your other half - is a human who you look down upon. For Rhysand the universe is making a cruel joke at his expense.
Rhysand doesn’t tell Feyre they are mates because he wishes to break that bond and at first it is quite muted. He doesn’t feel the pull of the mate's bond because it is under years of pain and xenophobia. He still brings Feyre into the Night Court more or less to annoy Tamlin and also because he wants to “break” the bond to tell the universe it made a mistake.
Though he slowly falls for her he isn’t ready to admit anything and hides his feelings behind sarcasm and denial. His first crack would be when Feyre snaps at him for the first time, that is when he truly sees her. He doesn’t soften immediately but he doesn’t force her to wear dresses anymore but sends loose clothing the next day with a note, “So you aren’t an eyesore.”, he stops with the lessons that were just a way to annoy her and hires her a tutor. Now Feyre doesn’t think he suddenly softened and thinks how nice he is being - that is the bare minimum - she is glad that the irritating fly left her alone.
He first has to learn to respect her. I don't want him to respect her for her power or beauty because I find them too superficial but for her mind and determination to keep going even when the world tries to break her before any real romance happens.
– Because you are the smallest - and newest addition - you are always served first. "Your mother" or as you still call her Maeve ladles a generous portion of the hearty stew in your bowl.
"So you can grow, wean," she says with a small grin, her rough hand ruffling your hair.
– On the table they always have a bowl filled to the brim with mountain. They sprinkle it on everything: meats, bread and even fruits. You had once seen Kester sprinkling some in his tea. You had nearly shed in horror when you heard him hum in enjoyment.
He caught your eyes, nudging the cup towards you with a playful gleam, "Why don't you give it a taste, little one?"
– Saoirse always tries to sprinkle some more salt in your food. "Ma says you need to grow big and strong!" She laughs as she reaches over the table.
Her attempts are only half-hearted, careful enough to not ruin your food. She enjoys the way you swat at her hand in horror. Likes the way your huffs turn into annoyed bleats. It always makes her feel like a big sister with her little sibling - even if you were older.
– The rest of the family takes the food after with Kester and Maeve taking their food last. Before you can start eating your sisters turn their bowls towards them before speaking the familiar words, "Strong hand, warm hearth."
Kester’s heart swells and Maeve’s eyes gleam with pride before responding, "And to your blade.”
– Their eyes flick to you.
They always do in these moments where you are supposed to say those same words. You keep your gaze trained on your bowl, hoping they would let it pass like they usually do. Their gaze linger on you for a moment.
They wait. Raghnaid nudges your foot under the table but you keep your eyes downcast.
Your ear twitches when you hear Maeve let out a small sigh. As if she expected something different. Your hand tightened around the fabric of your trousers.
You closed your eyes; remember the ash. Remember the fire.
Your brow creases. Remember the screams. The cries!
.
.
.
But all you could hear was the soft crackling of the fire in the hearth and the smell of vegetable stew.
Yandere platonic apocalyptic survivor Dad x adopted kid reader
Word count: 1230
Summary: It is the end of the world with undead prowling the streets. You get quite lonely after a time and dream of a pet to ease this loneliness. Thankfully you manage to convince your guardian to agree.
The scorching sun beat at your backs, shirt sticking to your back and the straps of the backpack digging into your shoulders. For what could be the hundredth time you swatted at the buzzing flies stubbornly circling around your head. "I hate summer," you hiss as you swat at the buzzing near your ear. It just changed sides.
The man beside you, Henry, only raised one bushy eyebrow. "Quit whining, kid," he said sternly, his voice breathless from carrying the heavy bag on his back. Though his hand came to swat at the bugs around your head, muttering about annoying bugs and kids.
The street stretched out before you — abandoned cars, broken windows and bodies bloated from the heat scattered across it. The harsh stench made your nose scrunch up as you stepped over one of the rotting bodies.
It was quiet and lonely on the road where you always encountered gurgling undead. They didn’t make for much conversation - you had tried it - they only groaned and moaned in response. But you really wanted a pet to ease the loneliness but Henry or your sugarcoat "Dad" didn’t allow it. "No kid, you can't have a dog, not even a cat or a...spider?" He asks in disbelief, from all the pets his kid could want. "You want to have a spider as a pet?"
You nod at him, a slight grin twitching at your lips at Henry’s disbelieving expression. “Yes, they are small, quiet and don’t need much care,” you respond. “And I can talk to it.”
Henry blinked at you like you just lost your last brain cell to the heat. “Talk to it? Kid, I don’t need you talking to a spider like it would respond. Dogs I would still understand. But a spider?”
You blinked up at Henry, fluttering your lashes up at him and jutting out your lip in a pathetic pout you knew would melt him like butter on a summer day. “Please - ” you ask quietly.
A beat, as you flutter your eyelashes.
“Dad?”
At that one word, his grip around the gun tightened. His Adam's apple bobbed once. Twice. Before he glanced to the side.
A grin threatened to crack your sulk as his eyes narrowed at the way your lips twitched, searching for the lie. He knew the smile was hiding right behind your pouting lips and innocent eyes but after losing everything he couldn’t find it in himself to care. After a long moment his shoulders sagged in defeat and he let out a long drawn out groan.
“Fine, fine,” he grumbles, dragging a hand over his face. “You win, you damn devil.”
The grin you had been fighting stretches across your face, bright and victorious. “Yes!” you cheer, pumping your fist into the air as Henry shakes his head, recalling all his life choices that led to him being manipulated by a kid.
A few days later you both find yourselves in a run down store. A thick smell of rotting meat and spoiled milk enveloped you both as you entered. Shelves were empty and black fuzzy patches of mold clung to the walls and peeked from under refrigerators as you stepped over an unknown brown blob.
“Don’t touch anything, kid,” Henry warns, his hand reaching for your shoulder. You huff softly as his hand holds you firmly like he was worried you would go poking at the first unknown mush.
"I am not that stupid," you respond, shrugging his hand off. Henry grunts unconvinced but let's his hand fall to his side, his eyes glancing at the entrance before his eyes flick back to you. "Check between the shelves."
You roll your eyes at his paranoia. "Yeah, yeah...," you say, dismissively waving your hand but you check every corner out of habit, your ears trained on every click and crack.
You clicked your flashlight on as you walked deeper into the dark store, broken glass crunching beneath your boots. The flashlight flashing into every nook and cranny where you could think of a spider building their nest. As you finally find a nest, tucked in the farthest corner of the shelf with a small spider, smaller than your palm.
While you are trying to gently coax the spider out Henry is impatiently tapping his foot."Hurry up, kid. There are zombies prowling around here," Henry says sharply, his tone full of impatience and worry.
You were crouched in front of a shelf where a small spider had built its nest, trying to softly coax it into the glass jar. “In a minute,” you call out before turning back to the spider that was cowering in the farthest corner. You reach for it gently again. “Come on, come out… I will give you cockroaches.”
A soft snort escapes from behind you. “Cockroaches? Really, kid? Those things would eat that spider,” Henry says, his eyes glancing back at you.
You had made Jerry a small home in the jar with twigs and moss with the lid having holes poked for air flow. Every time you camped you would take Jerry out of your backpack and fed him some canned peas, “I know, I lied about cockroaches, Jerry,” you murmur with sincerity as Jerry nibbles on a canned pea in your hand. "I will find you something better — promise."
Jerry nibbled on his pea before his eight beady eyes turned to look at you, and you could have sworn he understood.
One evening around the campfire you had tried to get Henry to hold Jerry. "No! Kid, I am not holding that abomination. What if it crawls in my shirt? I don't want you crying because I squashed Jerry in self-defense!" Your eyes light up, "You called him his name! You like Jerry!"
Word count: 595
Author's note: I love platonic yanderes' and decided to try my own hand at it. We shall see where this leads.
It was a dark evening as the snow storm clawed outside. Members of the tribe herded the sheep inside for the night. One of the many longhouses, where the door was painted with red sharp markings. Inside the longhouse was bathed in a soft glow from the hearth.
The faint smell of the earlier hearty stew and ash lingered in the room as the man who now insisted was your father crossed the room. His large curved horns caught the firelight and his tails twitched behind him as took his seat in the fur draped chair. It was time again for a story before bed and your siblings or the two girls squabbled on the wolf pelts set out in front of the hearth.
“No, I want to sit closer!” Saoirse, the younger one, bleated as she shoved her elder sister.
“You sat there last time, bampot!” Raghnaid, the elder sister, shot back, kicking her hoof.
“You kicked me!”
Their father, Kester watched his girls tumble like starving wolf pups. He leaned forward in his chair, he didn’t raise his voice, he never did. “Enough you two. Is this the way warriors behave?”
The two girls quieted immediately at their father’s stern words. They shoved each other one last time before shifting on the warm pelts. He gave an impeccable nod, a faint twitch at his weathered lips before his eyes rolled over their nubby horns at you. It was like he always knew where you were.
You always stayed a bit back, close enough to hear but far enough to not intrude, sitting on the hard wooden floor instead of the thick pelts. You hugged your knees tighter, hoping to disappear into the shadows but the father’s gaze didn’t move from you. His yellow eyes caught the firelight - and held you there.
“Why is my littlest kid so far from the hearth?” Kester asks, his eyes flicking to his girls. It wasn’t a question but a summon. The girls’ necks instantly snapped towards you, before Raghnaid shot up towards you. It wasn’t hostile but loud, in the way the whole tribe behaved.
“Come sit with us. You’ll catch the chill, and then Ma will make you eat her bitter herbs,” she laughed as her hand clamps around your wrist. It wasn’t threatening, just firm like escape wasn’t possible. You stumbled as you were dragged away from the shadows between them on the warm pelt. Your back stiffened as Saoirse shifted against you, making room for you before pressing against your side like it had always been that way.
You felt her nose tickle the side of your neck. A surprised “Bah!” escaped you. Your cheeks burned and you silently pray they didn’t hear you. “You smell like us now,” she remarks as she buries her face into your wool, a content bleat escaping her.
“Don’t be weird,” you mutter, pushing her face away half-heartedly.
Kester's - who had been watching the whole thing - eyes softened with something close to adoration. A shiver ran down your spine at his intense look, how he seemed to be cataloging every twitch and hitch of breath.
He reaches his hand to pat your head. A soft gasp escaping you as his weathered hand rests atop your head for a moment. “Good,” he mutters, his fingers running through the curls. You glance up at him, your heart tightening at the certainty in his voice. The girls on either side of you, turning to look at you and their yellow eyes matching Kester’s slitted pupils. “You are one of us now.”
The door to Quillen’s office slams open. Akey stormed in, his hands twitching at his sides like he wanted to strike something. The older man behind the desk only adjusted his spectacles, looking at the student with the kind of wisdom and patience that came with age.
“This is bullshit! I work my ass off until my hands bleed - what do I get? Crumbs!” Akey snaps, pacing around the cramped office. Quillen only raises an eyebrow, unsurprised as he reaches for the steaming cup. "And? You believe that makes you worthier? Just because you have more blisters to show?"
Akey’s head snaps towards him. His jaw tensed like he wanted to argue, but after a beat, his shoulders sagged. He ran a hand through his tangled curls. “No,” he admits, his hands unclenching. “But it’s frustrating.”
Quillen gives a soft hum, raising the chipped teacup to his lips. “Then give up,” he responds, almost dismissively, sipping his tea. “Go on, take the easy way out with the shroom like the rest of them.”
Akey glares at his calm, almost serene expression. "No,” he fires back, the defiant fire rekindling behind his tired eyes. Quillen gives a quiet nod, setting the cup down with a quiet clink. "Good."
A first year magic school student who has been told all his life that he isn’t enough and he should abandon his “tricks” and go back to basics. Akey is determined to become something, to be remembered, to be relied upon so he works twice as hard as anyone else. Though sometimes you have to use harsher methods to catch up with the greats.
Age: 17-19
Akey is not the strongest and he knows it. Akey hates it that he can't lift boulders or do complex magic like others but he won't just roll over and take it.
Akey is a survivor and he will survive against people who can summon winds powerful enough to destroy a house or stop time with a snap of their fingers. Though Professor Kaelith Drass's words made Akey pause: “These tricks work—but will they make you someone you'd follow into battle?" Akey wants to be someone people rely on and trust in battle. He wants to leave a legacy, to be remembered.
He hates it that even if he works his ass off studying and training until he can't hold his spear anymore he still doesn't even get close to the top thirty in dueling. Akey despises it when professors and students call his spells “tricks” because he knows that they are but what else is he supposed to do? That is all he has.
He hates it when they tell him to practice or go back to the basics, it feels like a slap to the face: that they are telling him: "You can't amount to anything, you should just stop." It takes all of Akey's self control to not snap at them.
Physical description: Akey is fairly tall with a slender build, he holds his head high but his shoulders always seem tense - from training or from something else. He has short curly black hair that falls into his sharp brown eyes, always seemingly looking around for weaknesses he can exploit. His lips are often cracked from dehydration or from clenching them too tightly during sparring sessions.
He wears weathered fingerless gloves to protect his ‘soft princess skin’ as he so bitterly calls his easily blistered palms. He usually wears a bright t-shirt marked with soot and dirt and with a faded graphic design on the back. Faint scars trace his arms; a sign of the sleepless nights and anxious breaks in between training when he picks at his old wounds.
The faint sound of coins clinging can be heard with his every step from the small pouch strapped over his chest.
His old spear is strapped to his back, it has cracked and splintered more times then he can count but he doesn’t want to replace it - Akey says it is his partner. He doesn’t let anybody else touch it, let alone wield it. When lost in thought he often plays with the bright blue friendship bracelet tied around the shaft.
Akey getting absolutely bodied by a burly shop owner who has dealt with more rowdy adventurers who think the world revolves around them than he can count.
Maybe Akey was causing some trouble in his shop and the guy just has enough, “I will ask you to leave now, young one.” And Akey is having none of it, still muddy and her spear broken in half from her last encounter she glares at the man, “Oh yeah? And what if I don't, what will you do about it?”
The man looks down at her with years of patience of a man who has seen more hooligans than he cares to count, “You don’t want to find out.”
Akey would let out a sharp laugh before getting in his face, he could smell the stinging smell of swamp clinging to her, “Find out? I have been fighting monsters' trice your size. You don’t scare me.”
The man doesn’t seem too fazed, his shifts his hand on the counter, the wraps around his hand starting to glow a warm orange forming symbols on his hand. Akey swallows as she sees this. “I will kindly ask you to leave,” the man says again calmly but there is an edge of warning in his tone now.
Akey takes a step back raising her hands in defense. “Alright, alright no need to get all that,” she says, gesturing to his glowing hands.
Safe to say Akey got kicked out of that store and is not welcomed there – probably spared herself another pair of broken ribs.
Akey draws small sketches in her journal to show her sister back home who is bedridden. They are usually drawings of places or people she has seen. Akey hopes she could brighten her little sister’s day at least a bit. Though sometimes Akey’s drawings look a bit wonky - a horse looks more like a sausage with legs. “Okay so that’s supposed to be a horse. I know. It looks like a sausage with legs. Don’t judge me.” But her little sister laughs, it is soft and tired but real and just for a moment Akey feels like she is doing at least something right.
Akey bringing a beat up pastry from the road
Akey bringing her sister a pastry from the road. The pastry is a bit soggy and crumbled from the road, it may have been sitting in Akey’s bag beside a muddy sock but Akey presented it like it was a crown jewel.
“I got you something,” Akey says softly as she opens the cloth covering them, looking slightly embarrassed about their sorry state. “Picked them up from a merchant,” Akey’s voice slightly cracks as she holds out the pastry. “Looked decent enough...they just took quite the beating.”
Eli props herself up with a quiet groan. Her hands slightly shake as she picks up the crumbled piece with a small teasing grin, “Please tell me you didn’t take these on one of your adventures.” Eli licks the sugar lining her lips, a lightness in her eyes despite the fatigue. “What was it last time again?” Eli asks before catching her breath. “You falling into a swamp?”
Akey huffs looking mock offended, “I was thrown into a swamp. Big difference” she says, lifting her chin up and looking noble. “You make it sound like I tripped into the swamp like a newbie.”
Eli looks at her, her eyes glinting with mischief, “I wouldn’t be surprised,” she says her lips twitching. “Last time you knocked over a rack of weapons.” Akey rolls her eyes, but a soft smile on her lips, betraying her tough exterior, “Come on, just eat your pastry...”
Akey lost her sight in her left eye due to an arrow wound.
The old centaur couple nursing her back to health and making sure it doesn’t get infected. She spent most of her days propped up by a pile of pillows on her bed with the mare cleaning the slash wound on her arm.
“Shit, I still can't see,” Akey hisses, wincing as the mare rubs salve on a gash along her arm. “How bad does it look?
The mare whispered an apology before reaching out and tilted Akey’s face to the side. Akey’s shoulders tense as her injured eye is exposed. The once sharp nut brown eye had dulled to a cloudy grey, marred by a jagged split in the middle, like a blade had torn through it.
Akey’s jaw tenses. “That bad, huh?”
The mare rubs her thumb on Akey’s chin, searching for the right words before releasing her face.
“No,” the mare said simply. “It just looks like someone tried to kill you. And failed.”
Akey couldn’t accept that she lost her vision in her one eye. But slowly she started to accept it and after some time even thinks her blind eye looks cool as white and calls it her “Ghost eye”.
Akey stood in front of a mirror, she didn’t flinch anymore when she looked at herself when she didn’t see two brown eyes but one brown and the other a misty grey. She reached out and pulled her lower eyelid down, the jagged split that was the mark of the arrow that had skirted past and scarred her. The warped iris and the messy healing where the two sides didn’t quite match where they met didn’t scare her anymore.
“Huh, it looks…cool,” she mutters before shaking her head: she must have lost her mind.
She definitely has been spooked a few times when Eli or the centaur couple were standing a couple times on her blind spot without her realizing it. “ GOD - Stop doing that! I almost had a heart attack!” And Eli getting a pillow to the face.
I imagined her blind eye glowing in the dark. How does that work? No clue, I chuck it up to magic and healing residue - it also sounds cool.
So, I have been reading 1984 by Orwell and got inspired to write my own piece of fan fiction with my character.
Alex talking about the kid that reported his brother and effectively killed him
Alex leaned forward, the old chair creaking under him. "I almost killed the sneaky brat," he said, his voice low, even — like he was reliving the memory.
"Caught him alone. A field trip. Deep in some forest. No telescreens. Just a shove...just one shove," Alex mutters, his voice dropping to a whisper.
Mr Charrington paused mid-sweep, glancing behind him at the younger man, his eyes gentle but sharp — like steel beneath velvet. "Did you do it?"
Alex shook his head, tapping the splintered table with his gloved finger — jittery rhythm, like a racing heartbeat. "Couldn't do it — the kid wasn't the enemy. Just one cog piece in the machine," Alex's eyes dropped to the table, becoming heavy with something quieter. "The Party is the real enemy — not one brat."
The ticking of the old clock fills the room. Mr Charrington stays silent, his eyes slightly narrowed in thought or calculation — filing every word away. His duster drooping in his hand, forgotten.
Alex's head jerks up, his eyes wide and hollow, with something wild and fierce in them. "Just once," Alex says tapping his forehead. "I want to look one of those Inner Party bastard's in the eye..."
His grin cracked across his face — dry, too wide. "When I put a hole through their skull."
So, I decided to revive him after I made him about five years ago in 2020 and had promptly forgotten about him after he became a prince, before of what he was a vegetarian contract killer. Yes, I do not understand myself either.
So I thought to introduce this bundle of joy that became a water prince kidnapped by a pirate captain from a vegetarian contract killer that of course only killed evil people — whatever that meant.
Old Alvis in 24.5.2020
So Alvis, as you can see from the knife and blood, he is killer. A stylish killer at that who dresses in purple suits because black suits are overdone. I can't remember much about his past because I just didn't think about it but I think he had a tragic backstory because why not. So, I had written that he looked innocent and was peaceful, but he also was a heartless contract killer - how does that work exactly? He has half the face of the devil tattooed on his neck to show us he isn't as innocent as he seems. He was probably meant to be a villain or an antagonist; I can’t really remember.
Intermediate Alvis in 8.7.2020
This Alvis is no longer a killer, but I have no clue what purpose he even served anymore. He just looks a bit more polished and a bit more like a soft boy, which also became his personality. I have to say I love the tattoo on his neck, with the devil that still stayed. I think it looks pretty cool and breaks his design more even if he isn't a heartless killer anymore.
I had written that he liked golf, karate and gymnastics but I mostly imagined him golfing like a rich kid and hiding under an umbrella to not burn. Seemingly he also likes Disney movies, I do like a character whose favorite movie is The Beaty and the Beast.
After some time Alvis got a brother named Royden who was a king. This was when Alvis became a prince. The story roughly went like this: Alvis was the adopted son of the king and Royden's adopted brother, he was kidnapped by pirates as ransom, but he gets swept in an adventure with the crew. It was a kind of adventure story where Alvis and the pirate captain fell in love in the course of the adventure. This would have been perfect enemies to lovers with the tropes: knife to the throat, flirty threats with Alvis bound to a chair, his hair sticking to his forehead and blood running down from his cheek from the small cut and the pirate captain grabbing him by the hair to pull his head back, "Not so tough now, pretty boy.", saving each other and nursing each other's wounds and of course, "Why do you care?" Or "Who did this to you?"
Now in my new story he is getting another rework to fit better in the premise but I think I will somewhat keep the idea that he got kidnapped by a pirate crew and is swept up in a bigger adventure.
The gentle scrape of the knife against the wood filled the room. Despite the man’s calloused hands, he worked with gentle precision — first notching the base of the spoon then carving one across it. When satisfied, he raised it to his face, blowing softly on the spoon; sending the fine dust and tiny wood chips in the air. Rubbing the last of the dust off, he dipped his finger in a small wooden bowl with red ink. The soft mush of the crushed red leaves clung to his finger as he traced along the carving, the colour seeping into the engraved grooves.
Explanation
Rune carving in the quiet evening is a common sight in Thrymoria. Runes aren’t only for weapons but everyday items like brooms, pots and cribs. A well-placed rune on a broom might help it sweep thoroughly every nook and cranny or ensuring the stew never burns in the pot. Mothers mark their baby’s cribs with protection runes against the harsh cold winds and evil spirits. My own oc has runes carved on her spear for protection and accuracy – though after a miss it sparks heated debates if it works around the fire.
Another slice of life moment. After the war in my fantasy world my oc and her sister were taken in by a centaur couple. My oc's sister made a small protection rune on their pot which I find very cute.
Some drawings for a magic sword that isn't legendary.
This is an ice sword that doesn't really have any powerful magical abilities and so it was forgotten in history.
A repost but I just wanted to write some more information.
An Ice sword that maybe was made as a copy of a legendary Ice sword. In the pictures below it is depicted the Ice sword during the spring when the ice starts to melt off. And when the ice is completely molten it just looks like a normal sword.
What I would find narratively funny is that every winter you need to coat the sword in snow; kneel on the snowy ground and pat snow on the blade so that in few hours the snow hardens into ice and it looks like a sword made out of ice. Maybe you also need to repair it the same way when it is chipped.
It does have a few perks: not as strong as the legendary Ice sword which can create ice glaziers but some perks at least. It protects the user from cold winds; you have to hold it in front and it does slice through the cold( you may still feel a slight chill though). It emits a soft chill from it, like standing in front of a freezer. And of course extra durability and damage to its attacks.
Yeah, not the best sword but isn't that always with copies. It does look cool though and it does keep you cool in the warm summers or in a desert. A popsicle which can stab people.
The winter in my fantasy land that is inspired by Vikings and Scottish culture.
When the barren hills are covered in snow, many prefer to stay around the fire but the high-pitched laughter of children can be heard from the biggest hill.
During the snowy winter days, the children love to take their parents shields to use as a slide. They know they will be scolded by their parents because shields are meant for war and not for sliding down a hill. Though this does not stop them from sneaking away with the sturdy shields. The older children are carrying the surprisingly heavy shields in pairs and a younger child trying to also help- their small face scrunched up in determination. The children have competition who can slide the fastest and farthest. They make a line of the shields, tying them together like a train before sliding down. It always ends in someone falling out, going backwards or other mishap that leaves the others howling with laughter and running up the hill to go again.
The parents fondly roll their eyes as they watch the children zoom down the hill. The parents reminisce about their own younger days when they also had sled down the same hill. As the sun begins to set and the children's mittens and boots are soaked from snow they start to drag themselves back towards their respective longhouse. The parents always have a hot drink ready and a fire burning in the hearth as the children are bundled up in a thick fur blanket in front of the crackling hearth.
Some cute slice of life moment in my fantasy world. Fun to think about my own Oc zooming as a child down the hill and tumbling into a snowbank.
All was silent around us, only for a gentle breeze that lightly swirled. I studied him closely, though my mind was clouded by signs of danger. Every muscle and thought commanded me to turn around and run. After taking a few shaky breaths I pushed those thoughts aside and focused my attention back to his hand. Slowly it crept to rest on his sword’s hilt. A sharp pain pierced my back where my wing used to be, causing me to gasp. When I looked back at him his shadow seemed to shift, swirling around him like a storm and engulfing him. I forced my hand to stop trembling as I clutched the hammer from my waist. Clutching the handle tightly I could feel the fear and reason fading away as bloodlust and anger were taking over. The hammer began to crack as its size started to expand. The hammers head slit open, and a dragon’s head emerged roaring from its prison. This time will be different.
