#; memories etched in parchment

[nomaishuttle]

basicallyheres the thing. i dont rly want to be immortal like me currently i probably wouldnt rly enjoy that. howeverrr if i got time travelled back to like the beginning of life on earth and was immortal i think i would have a good time bc im a curious girl. even just back to the birth of humanity or civilization... i just wannasee i wouldnt even do anything crazy with my immortality id just like. take a lot of notes abt everything

[certifiedskywalker]

Three Weddings and Your Funeral (Part 2) - Daemon Targaryen

Anonymous asked: Hi certi, how are you ? I love all you're stories and most you do daemon targaryen characterization justice could you do second part  to Three Weddings and Your Funeral - Daemon Targaryen ?

Before the Dance of Dragons, there was another waltz. You and Daemon Targaryen were always drifting in and out, always spinning about one another without moving at all. Your dance of stillness stretched across the continent; but you thought you ended that dance long ago…Daemon, as always, had other ideas.

Part One

A twig splintered beneath your foot with a sharp, ear-tingling snap. At the sound, you caught your loud, ragged breath in your throat, careful not to add insult to self-inflicted injury. You let your gaze fall to the split thing under your shoe and cursed it in the quiet of your mind before daring to look back up towards the abandoned fishing hut. The storm-toppled tree branch that split its planks would be a warning realized too late. When you did look, its foreshadowing was the furthest from your attention.

“I thought I taught you better,” Daemon chided, slinking out of the shadows cast by the hut. His dark armor and silver hair glinted in the moonlight. Under its glow, he was alive and rippling like the bay waves that lapped quietly at the shoreline. One step in the wrong direction and you would be overcome: dragged under and drowned in him. It didn’t help that his eyes moved like the tide too: wishing and washing up and down your frame. “You look well.”

You swallowed after a long moment, forcing the caught breath into your lungs. “Sneaking about King’s Landing in your shadow hardly constitutes a lesson.”

Daemon hummed, the sound light and affirming, tilted up like the start of a dear song; and there you were, being lulled into the warm ease of familiarity. No, nothing about being familiar with Daemon was warm or easy. It was sweltering and you had somehow forgotten about the heat. It returned to you then, and the memory stung with vengeance. 

“What are you doing here?” Your voice did not waver with the question, which surprised you. Perhaps time weakened Daemon’s ability to drag you under. 

“I could ask the same of you,” he countered. The closed-lip smirk etched onto his features was unmoved by your bravery. “You sent word.”

“And you listened, after all this time.” Daemon lingered in his spot in the sand before he stepped towards you, his expression becoming clearer and all the more taunting. It was as if he knew how you, just hours before, had clutched the parchment and traced his lettering. “Did you ever stop listening?”

Nettle-like memories again: endless, stinging flashes of tourneys and weddings spent at Daemon’s side. So many years spent biding by his beck and call like a hound eager to please. What did you have to show for your dedication? A single kiss, before being left entirely to fend for yourself. How you had loathed his silence then; but, with him stood just a pace away, you found yourself unwilling to give him the satisfaction of the truth.

So, you ignored him and asked again, this time through gritted teeth: “What are you doing here?” 

Daemon cocked his head, his smirk widening ever-so-slightly, and stepped towards you until he was only an arm's length from you.

“Why?”

“Why?” 

“Why did you come to meet me here?” His eyes were dark but not like the pitch night about you. The fire in him shone through as it always had, but it was dimmer than you remembered. At your last meeting, his gaze had been wild, spitting like coals needing air…needing you, however briefly. What had he blamed then?

“Impulse.”

With the word, memory stung Daemon too. His smirk melted into the lines on his face, some old and others new. Impulse made your hand twitch with an itch to reach up and be taken under his current. Then, you could learn those new lines and trace them as you had with his lettering. 

You managed to still yourself, curling your fingers into tight fists. Daemon’s gaze flicked your hands before it settled on your face with a gripping cold. His scowl-stuck lips parted, sealed, then parted again, a hesitation that had you almost gleeful. At long last, you had knocked him off balance; though, he eventually found his words.

“You married,” he snapped, his tone icy and startling, and suddenly you were the one careening. He leaned in, his eyes searching yours for…what you were unsure. “Did you not think I heard?”

Your marriage into House Cox of Saltpans had been no great news, hardly news at all. It, like many a marriage, was strategic: safety from dancing dragons seemed a better bet in the far, underfed reaches of the Riverlands. 

Saltpans was a quality choice in that regard, having been stymied long ago by men who called themselves River Kings and ruled the Bay of Crabs by boat before Aegon conquered by dragon. Left charterless, the town never sprawled into a city, and trade, while present, was limited to the sweet meat of pygmy crabs and seashell beads carved by those living nearer to the Trident. With such limitations, House Cox, as the town’s stewards, had few arms to provide to the war effort, an insufficiency that left it rather uninvolved in combat. 

At most, what you heard of the Blacks and Greens was the distant roars of whichever Targaryen most recently claimed the ruins of Harrenhal. Though, it seemed that relative, personal peace had worn out. The wave of dread that accompanied that realization washed your mind clean enough to clarify the object of Daemon’s searching eyes. How could you?

“I am married,” you replied, your voice barely above a murmur, “as are you, thrice over.”

Daemon scoffed, letting his face turn down and to the side.

“Did you truly expect me to wait for you after all that happened?” 

“Do not think me so foolish,” he snapped, his head lifting to meet your gaze. In his eyes then, you saw the Daemon so many feared, the worst of the man you had loved for so long.

“I knew you to be so foolish, or at least so cruel as to expect that of me.”

“Yes, so cruel,” he stepped towards you as he spoke, his boots sinking to the sand with such heated anger that you were surprised the grains did not turn to glass beneath him. “Cruel, yet I have kept my promise. You, your Lord, and these wretched reaches of the Riverlands have been spared dragon fire. Do you think that was by fate? By the Old fucking Gods?”

He was close enough to you then that his breath kissed the peaks of your face, just as it had so many years ago, on another beach, when he told you of his intentions with Rhaenyra. The aching depth of feeling then… It welled up inside you and spilled onto your lips. “Daemon-”

“It was me,” he finished, his nose nearly knocking yours as he leaned closer. “Nyke jāhor daor ivestragī ao zālagon, and you have not burned.”

Daemon smelled of dragon and sweat, and there was the swelter again. Perhaps it was that familiar heat that pushed you to take that one, drowning step, or maybe you were just exhausted by a dance you thought ended years ago. As if you were with Caraxes, you reached a careful hand up to test the heat of the air about his face. Your palm was immediately met with warmth and Daemon’s cheek as he pressed his face into your skin. 

Your breath hitched at the feeling, but your thumb traced the peak of his cheekbone with a gentleness you feared you had lost when you lost Daemon. Comforted and angling for a different approach, you asked your first question again, gentler than before: “Is that what brought you here?”

Daemon merely closed his eyes and pressed his face harder in your touch. So, you asked another way: “Were you compelled by another impulse to tell me, again, that you have danced about me without my knowing? You have known where I was since my leaving you and, again, shielded me from the hard truth?”

“From war,” he murmured, the edge of his lips tickling your palm.

“The truth,” you asserted, and before he protested, you continued. “How?”

Daemon’s eyes fluttered open and it was as if you were children again, before weddings and feelings and knowing. “When I first took Harrenhal for Rhaenyra. I heard of your marriage from the Strong’s there and sent to have eyes on you.”

“By your own admittance, House Cox is removed from your war. There are no spies here in Saltpans.”

“Anyone can be bought,” Daemon answered, much too simply. 

His features went startlingly grey as if remembering a time buried under the sea’s stone bottom, and his eyes fell past you, seeing through the sediment of time. Just like that, Daemon was far from you again. Within your grasp yet entirely out of reach; but there were no arms of another brilliant bride for him to run into. He was, for however long you could stretch this moment, only with you, and how right that felt.

Right, but you knew that, with all he had confessed, you should feel violated, exposed. You should be scathing and demanding an apology. No, you should be demanding that he leave. You and Daemon were married after all, not to each other. Never to each other.

That thought, as it always had, pulled you out from under the tide of him. “You did not answer my question.”

“I did,” he said, his voice alarmingly soft as his gaze flitted back to you. “I have protected y-”

“No, Daemon,” you interrupted, your hand falling from his face. He went rigid immediately, his posture straightening as if shocked by a stabbing blade. The heat of him lingered, but the comfort you had taken in it was gone. “Why are you here, after all this time and everything you have done? If you knew I was here for so long, why not come to me sooner?”

Daemon just stared at you, his sharp eyes and features unyielding. You drank in the sight of his steadfast expression, unsure of how long it would be before you saw it again and too sure that Daemon would leave without giving even a moment’s notice. It was then you saw his armor again, but this time, you saw past the shine of it. You saw the scorch marks, the scratches, each new, like the line in his face. A different sort of heat rushed like a wave against you, nearly knocking you over.

When you looked up at Daemon again, tears stinging in your eyes, he knew that you understood. “I’ve come to take Harrenhal for the last time.”

“The last time,” you echoed grimly, your tears falling freely.

“I wrote to you and then to Green’s own kinslayer,” he winced as if the word struck him before pivoting in his speech. “I am to face Aemond.”

Then, it was your eyes that searched Daemon’s. Your object: fear. When you found no trace, more tears streamed down your cheeks, but Daemon quickly raised a hand to wipe them away. Despite the tenderness of his touch, the pad of his thumb was rough against the apples of your cheeks. Had he ever been soft? You couldn’t recall a time he wasn’t all rough edges.

“He will have Vhagar,” you murmured as the tips of his fingers skimmed the edge of your lips.

“And I will have Caraxes.”

“Daemon, he is swift and fiery, but Vhagar is-”

“I know,” he interrupted, his hand cupping your face. His thumb rubbed against your cheek and, despite the shadowy loom of a stacked fight, Daemon smiled. “Do you remember our first meeting?”

All thoughts that consumed you were of your last meeting, your parting words a terrible echo in your skull…it will be your funeral. How could he be smiling?

“It was Viserys and Aemma’s wedding,” Daemon pressed on, “and you were waltzing with some hoary goat. Do you remember?”

You stared at Daemon, trying to place his smile and intent. Your funeral. You shook your head as you were unable to think of anything else but Daemon’s doom.

“Old fool kept leaning on you. Too frail maybe, or ripe with lust, I never did know which. All I knew is that I needed y- I needed to intervene,” Daemon cocked his head and leaned towards you. His breath fanned across your face as he asked in a whisper: “Do you remember how?”

The question had you drowning in him as if it were the first time. “You came in like the sea and washed me away into the rest of the waltz. You led,” you sniffled through a bitter smile, “rather poorly, I recall.”

“Yes, well, if you recall, I despise weddings. I never intended on enjoying myself, it jarred me.” Daemon brushed the tips of his fingers through your hair slowly, savoring the feel of those strands of you against his skin. “Though, I do like to think we have been dancing ever since then. Married in our own way, without the garish decor and ghoulish crowd.”

“Daemon-”

“So, if you find it in yourself, I would like to dance a touch longer.” He took a step back and let his hand slip from your face just to let it hang in the air between you. An offering you could not refuse.  

The time for words having passed, you took Daemon’s hand and let him lead you until dawn broke at the edge of the Bay of Crabs. When the first rays of Sun kissed the sand, he let the hand holding yours fall while the other remained wrapped about your waist. He pulled you against him until you were sharing the same air, and you could not imagine a day to come where you did share the world with him.

“I cannot turn from you again,” you whispered, your lips brushing against Daemon’s as you spoke. His hand held you tighter.

“You will not have to,” he replied, before kissing you at last. There was no rush to his kiss, despite the distant cries of a battle-hungry Caraxes. There was only Daemon’s last, perhaps only, bit of softness; saved for you. Lips still locked, he spun you in the sand. 

When you parted and opened your eyes, you saw, past Daemon’s shoulder, the shoreline castle seat of House Cox. Quickly, you refocused on the man before you, wishing you could drown in the pools of his eyes as you had done in the past, in those moments that stretched just long enough. All steps in our dance.

“I’ll go,” Daemon said, his tone gentle but his words an order. “Then, after a while, you will go.”

“What if I do not listen this time?”

Daemon let out a breath of a laugh, one heavy with knowing but sweet enough to make you hope. Perhaps you were the fool. “We both know that you will.” “Just this last time,” you murmured. “After this, you are to listen to me.”

“Of course, issa jorrāelagon,” Daemon leaned up and kissed your forehead. The swelter eased with the act and you felt your stomach twist. He took a step back and smiled. “Of course.”

Then, Daemon Targaryen kept his last promise to you: he turned away. 

[slytherinslut0]

MATTHEO RIDDLE- Beg For Me

Chapter Twelve-Info: You and Mattheo have been butting heads for months, since you were assigned as his tutor, and one day during a session full of tense bickering, he has enough.

(This will essentially be a toxic book where we are Theos fucktoy. No love here, very minimal fluff.)

Tags: 18+, Sub!Reader, Dom!Mattheo, Dirty Talk, Toxic Behaviour, Jealousy, Possessive Behaviours, Manipulation, Sexual Aggression, Angst, Emotional Manipulation, (slight) Knife!Play, Teasing, Alcoholism, DubCon, CNC, TomRiddle.

****FIND THE REST OF THE CHAPTERS HERE.

Under the veil of night, Saturday descended, and despite the persistent sickness that weighed you down, you refused to succumb to the confines of your bed for even a second longer. The piercing ache in your head and the relentless runny nose served as mere whispers against your willpower. Ignoring the protests of your body, you ventured out, guided by a flickering determination.

The castle, shrouded in darkness, seemed to echo with your footsteps as you moved. A hushed, mysterious atmosphere enveloped you as you made your way through the dimly lit corridors. Your steps were purposeful, leading you to the heart of intellectual refuge: the library.

As you entered, the soft glow of the lamplights revealed a haven of knowledge, where ancient tomes and modern texts stood shoulder to shoulder, waiting to divulge their wisdom. The familiar scent of aged parchment and ink filled the air, soothing your senses.

Amidst the quietude, you found a secluded alcove, a sanctuary within a sanctuary. The soft light bathed you as you settled into the embrace of an overstuffed armchair, its fabric worn by countless readers before you. The weight of the books in your hands felt both grounding and exhilarating, as if the knowledge contained within could lift you from the heaviness of your illness.

The hours slipped away, the silence broken only by the occasional shuffle of pages and the distant ticking of an ancient clock. Lost in the world of words, you found solace, momentarily escaping not only the physical discomfort but also the emotional turmoil that had plagued you since your clandestine encounters with Mattheo.

Gods, why the fuck were you always thinking about him? Regardless of what you did, that man was in your head--there was no escaping his ghost. Every thought of him wrapped around your mind like a suffocating vine, an inescapable plague that refused to release its hold. His touch, a lingering memory etched into your skin, haunted your senses--the way his hands roamed your body, the warmth of his breath against your neck.

His eyes, a deep, intoxicating brown, transformed in the sunlight, creating ripples of amber like liquid chocolate. The memory of his lips, plush and knowing, ignited a storm of conflicting emotions within you, a potent blend of desire and resentment. Your stomach churned with a strange concoction of yearning and frustration, especially when you recalled the sensation of his messy, curly hair brushing against the sensitive skin between your thighs.

Damn him, you thought--the intensity of your emotions amplifying with each passing moment. You loathed him with a passion that had become entangled with an inexplicable longing. The line between hatred and desire blurred, leaving you entwined in a web of conflicting emotions, unable to escape his ghostly presence in your thoughts. You knew you hated him, you just couldn't really remember the reason why anymore.

Deciding to finally call it a night, you pushed up from the chair, moving back into the shadows of the library as you meticulously returned the book back to its designated shelf, the profound words of the author echoing in your mind. Just as you were about to spin around, a sudden shift in the library's atmosphere sent a shiver down your spine, and an all-too-familiar presence seemed to materialize behind you.

The scent of whiskey filled the air, its subtle aroma enveloping your surroundings, and before you could react, a pair of unsteady arms wrapped around your waist, pulling you back into an unexpected embrace. The touch was rough, not a huge departure from the usual Mattheo, but enough to be entirely noticeable--and his warm breath brushed against your ear as he spoke, his words slightly slurred but not entirely incoherent.

"Raven," he purred, his voice sending a shiver down your spine. "What a delightful surprise to find you here at this hour...how utterly unexpected."

You inhaled sharply, his hands snaking around your waist, pulling you back against him with surprising force. Instinctively, your fingers gripped the edge of the bookshelf in front of you, the polished wood cool against your skin. It felt like the air had been sucked out of the room, leaving you breathless and lightheaded, the overwhelming scent of Mattheo's cologne mingled with a hint of alcohol surrounding you.

Your voice trembled as you tried to keep it steady. "Mattheo...what the hell are you doing here..."

"Why so shocked, princess?" He breathed, his warm breath sending goosebumps cascading down your neck. His teeth grazed your earlobe, sending an electric jolt through your body. "Can't a man of my caliber simply grace this library with his presence whenever he pleases, without arousing suspicion?"

His voice dripped with a mix of confidence and mischief, his hands tightening their hold on you, making it clear that he had no intention of letting go anytime soon. A familiar knot tightened in your stomach, signaling the imminent loss of control. If you didn't gather your composure swiftly, you knew he would once again reduce you to powerlessness, just as he always did.

"Oh, pardon my ignorance..." you responded, your voice thick with sarcasm. "I just never thought I'd witness such a rare event...it's not every day we see a man of your 'caliber' roaming the library, never mind past midnight on a Saturday..."

Mattheo's deep, rumbling groan resonated in the narrow space between you, his hands abandoning your sides to pin you against the shelf. His lips, warm and demanding, brushed your ear with a possessive hunger.

"There's that mouth," he growled, his voice laced with raw need. "Fuck, I've missed that mouth...”

"Matt-" a soft, involuntary whimper escaped your throat, but your protest was abruptly stifled by an unfamiliar sensation. "What-"

Something cold, unyielding, and metal pressed against your skin, sending a chill down your spine. Panic clawed at your senses, urging you to gasp for air, but his palm closed around your throat, silencing you with a ruthless grip. Desperation flickered in your eyes as you tried to make sense of the situation, your gaze fixated on the glint of the blade he was dragging up your arm.

"Mattheo-" you managed to croak, fear and disbelief mingling in your voice. "Is that...a fucking knife?"

Mattheo's silence hung heavy in the air, his warm breath ghosting over your ear as he loomed over you, pinning you forcefully against the shelf. Your hands clung desperately to the wooden edges, the pressure turning your knuckles a pale, ghostly white. With deliberate intent, Mattheo tugged you back against his chest, only slightly, as he directed the switchblade toward your bust and pressed the sharp edge against the fabric of your shirt--the metal biting into the soft material as he cut a precise horizontal line just above your breasts.

"Fuck," the word was almost a guttural moan as it left his inebriated lips. "I've definitely missed those more..."

"Mattheo-" you stammered, your voice catching in your throat. There were a thousand questions swirling in your mind, but the words refused to escape. "What on earth...what's gotten into you? This...this is sick, even for you."

Mattheo's movements were swift, almost serpentine, as he seized your shoulders and spun you around. Before you could react, he pressed you back against the shelf, your hands instinctively finding his chest for support until he captured both your wrists with one hand and pinned them firmly above your head. Speechless and utterly bewildered, you were paralyzed, unsure of how to process the situation.

He smirked, the expression predatory, leaning in closer. With deliberate slowness, he placed the flat edge of the knife beneath your chin, tilting your head back to meet his eyes. The cold steel against your skin sent a chill down your spine, and in that moment, you felt an overwhelming sense of vulnerability, trapped in his intense gaze and the menacing glint of the blade.

"I thought you were the sick one, Raven..."  he purred, his eyes darkening with a mix of amusement and intensity as he observed your reactions, his grip on your wrists tightening. "Isn't that why you bailed on me last night, hm?"

Any semblance of control you had tried to maintain had now entirely crumbled, dissipating like smoke in the wind. Pinned against the shelf, your hands held captive above your head, and a cold blade pressed against your jaw, you felt a surge of exhilarating helplessness wash over you. You knew, at this moment, your sanity was hanging by the thinnest thread, and you questioned your choices more profoundly than you ever had in your entire life.

If you allowed him do this to you, what else will you allow? Anything?

Anything...

Speechless, you nodded in compliance, unable to form any coherent words. Mattheo's huff of satisfaction sent a shiver down your spine, and his sadistic tone remained as sharp as ever.

"Yeah?" he purred, a cruel glint in his eyes. "Poor thing...let me take a look, hm? Stick out your tongue."

Before you could fully comprehend the situation, your lips parted involuntarily, and Mattheo deftly slid the cool blade between them, tugging down your jaw with a chilling precision. An electric surge coursed through your entire body, every nerve ending tingling under the intensity of his gaze. His eyes darkened, and his lips parted, both of you suspended in the charged atmosphere.

He pulled the knife away, and as if in a trance, you slowly extended your tongue, the tension between you crackling like static in the air.

Mattheo's jaw tightened, his eyes locked onto your face with a relentless focus, not a blink daring to interrupt his scrutiny. With a steady hand, he pressed the blade against your tongue, his gaze piercing, as if he were a meticulous doctor inspecting a patient, peering down your throat with unsettling precision.

"Seems fine to me, Raven..." he murmured, a flicker of something unsettling dancing in his eyes, sending a twist of unease to your stomach. "But perhaps you're right...perhaps I am sick..."

With deliberate slowness, he lifted the metal off your tongue, tracing it along your jaw before withdrawing it entirely. The blade disappeared into his back pocket, his unwavering gaze never leaving yours, leaving you with a lingering sense of dread and confusion.

"I'm sick and the only cure for my illness are those sweet fucking lips of yours..." he confessed, his free hand caressing the side of your face, the other maintaining a firm grip on your wrists. He drew closer, his eyes fixated on your mouth. "And I'm not talking about these ones..."

Your breath caught in your throat, your heart thundering so fiercely it echoed through your entire body. Your thighs ached with a desperate longing.

"Although..." Mattheo leaned in further, his thumb brushing gently over your bottom lip. "They could certainly help..."

With an excruciating slowness that felt like torture, Mattheo leaned in, his lips tantalizingly close to yours. The lingering aroma of whiskey swirled around you, intoxicating your senses and making your head spin. Despite your attempts to resist, an involuntary whimper escaped your throat, the sound echoing your helplessness in the face of Mattheo's relentless seduction.

Your heart pounded in your chest, the rhythm almost deafening in your ears, as Mattheo's lips finally met yours. His hand slithered under your jaw, his touch both possessive and electrifying. His lips moved over yours with a devouring hunger, as though he aimed to consume not just your mouth but every ounce of your being, leaving you breathless and utterly ensnared in his kiss.

When he drew back, just enough to lock eyes with you, his gaze glinted with an intensity that sent shivers down your spine. Your entire body thrummed with anticipation, yearning for his touch.

He blinked. "You still want to call this off, Raven?"

"We really fucking should," you whispered, your voice barely audible amidst the charged atmosphere. Your heart raced, the tumultuous conflict within you mirrored in your eyes. "But...I..."

Your words trailed off, swallowed by the intensity of his gaze, his eyes resembling swirling depths that threatened to drown your resolve. A smug smirk played on his lips, his arrogance palpable as he anticipated your next words, relishing the moment. He leaned in closer, releasing his grip on your wrists and bracing his hand against the wood next to your head. You hesitated, caught in the mesmerizing pull of his gaze, a fleeting battle of wills that seemed impossible to win.

"You...?" he prodded, his tone dripping with confidence and challenge, as though he knew he had already won.

"But...I can't," you admitted, your voice a fragile whisper, barely audible against the backdrop of your thudding heart.

The words hung in the air, heavy with the weight of your desires and the weight of what you knew was right.His smirk deepened, his eyes narrowing with amusement.

"Can't, or won't?" he challenged, his tone teasing and infuriatingly confident.

His hand on the wood beside your head tightened slightly, a subtle reminder of his strength, his dominance. The proximity between you crackled with tension, the air thick with the unspoken, the moment hanging in the balance like a fragile thread stretched to its limit.

"What we're doing is sick, Mattheo..." you murmured, glimpsing his lips. "I...I never thought we'd be this close...I still smell you on my clothes..."

His eyes flickered with a mix of amusement and desire, his lips curving into a devilish smile. "Sick, perhaps," he admitted, his voice a low, seductive purr. "But you know it's pointless to try and fight it..."

Your eyes involuntarily dropped to his chest, tracing the outline of his shirt straining against his powerful shoulders. A shuddering breath escaped you as you felt the undeniable pull, the magnetic force that seemed to bind you to him. With a huff, he gently lifted your chin, forcing your gaze back to meet his intense eyes. The proximity was suffocating, electric, and he leaned in slightly closer, his warm breath mingling with yours, until your lips brushed in a tantalizing whisper.

"Every time you meet my eyes...we both know that you're mine..." he murmured against your mouth, hand falling from your chin and trailing down the front of your chest, slipping through the cut in your shirt he'd made just a few minutes earlier. "I think it's about time you admitted it, princess..."

You gasped at the skin on skin contact, goosebumps raising on your skin, and Mattheo hummed, lips trailing toward your jawline and softly nipping at it.

"Am I all that you think about, Raven?" He whispered, and you could tell that his question wasn't really a question, more of a rhetorical statement. "Did it get too loud, and that's why you tried to shut me out?"

You winced in wake of his words. You wouldn’t be surprised if this man could read your mind at this point.

"You're a constant thought," you whispered, your words hanging in the charged air between you. "It’s fucking overwhelming, Mattheo...I can't keep allowing myself to be consumed by this..."

"Just let go, Raven..." he murmured, his voice a velvet caress. "I've got you..."

Your mind buzzed with irritation, his seductive tones grating against your patience. The audacity to believe he could ever truly possess you sparked a simmering anger within. He didn't have you, he couldn't, and his delusions only served to fray your nerves to the brink.

"No, you don't...you can't..." your voice trembled, a fragile protest as his breath caressed your ear, your fingers clinging to the fabric of his shirt. "Stop manipulating me with your pretty fucking words, Mattheo...you're only making everything more difficult for both of us."

Mattheo's demeanor shifted, tension hardening his features. His hand found your jaw, gripping it tightly as he pulled back, locking eyes with you.

"Do you want me to stop, Raven?" he said, his voice uncharacteristically serious. "Tell me to stop right fucking now, and I'll walk away, won't bother you until Wednesday's session." He drew you closer, his jaw clenched. "Just one fucking word, princess...that's all you need to say."

Your silence hung in the charged air, a battleground where your desires and your convictions clashed. Every fiber of your being screamed for his touch, the magnetic pull between you undeniable, yet your mind raged against the chaos, yearning for simplicity and an end to the torment.

Mattheo's eyes searched yours, a storm of emotions swirling in their depths. He held your gaze, his grip on your jaw tightening imperceptibly. The unspoken tension hung heavy, the weight of your unspoken words suffocating in the charged space between you. The choice, the power to end this dangerous dance, rested on the tip of your tongue, yet you found yourself unable to utter the one word that could bring it all crashing down.

"And that's what I fucking thought..." he husked, the words flowing from his lips with a dangerous poison, one that you wanted, more than anything, to get a taste of. "Don't pretend like you're some meek, innocent little girl when I see that vicious mind working behind your eyes, Raven...you've never been afraid to use that mouth before..."

"You're right," you whispered, your voice barely audible. "I'm not meek, and certainly no longer innocent...I left my fucking innocence on your stupid lips..."

"And my hands...my cock..." he purred, his voice low and husky, Mattheo's lips curled into a wicked grin, his eyes ablaze with desire and triumph. "...let's not forget my tongue..."

That tongue--infuriatingly adept and unforgettable. How could such a maddeningly skilled tongue ever escape your memory? Curse him, you thought, curse him to the depths of hell.

"All I have left is my virginity, Mattheo..." you said, fingers tightening their hold on his shirt, tremors rumbling through your limbs. "If I give you that, too...I'm scared of-"

"I don't want it, Raven..." he cut you off, leaning closer, his voice holding a rare gentleness, the smallest flicker of humanity under his suffocating power and arrogance. "Don't feel like you need to give it to me."

Your pulse leapt, throat constricting. "Then what do you want?" You struggled to keep your gaze on his eyes, resisting the pull of his delicious lips. "What do you fucking want from me?"

"I want you to need me like I need you." The answer was quick, almost involuntary, as though he needed absolutely no time to think about it.

Your brows pinched, your lungs hitching, oxygen fleeing you. "Like you need-"

"Wet, breathless, and moaning my name..." he murmured, his lips tracing a path along your jawline, leaving a trail of fire in their wake. His free hand mapped your curves, finding solace on your hip. "That's how I need you."

Your eyelids fluttered uncontrollably as his wet lips trailed down to your neck, assaulting the sensitive skin. His tousled curls brushed against your cheek, setting your flesh ablaze, an uncontrollable fire sparked by his touch. Gods, he was fucking infuriating, in the best way possible. This man possessed a way with words that felt unparalleled, a skill that left you defenseless against his magnetic pull.

His hand started to inch lower, tracing a path down your thigh, and a surge of panic shot through you.

"Not here, Matty..." you pleaded, your voice barely above a whisper, urgency coloring your words.

"Who's around, princess?" he murmured against your skin, his lips ghosting over your neck, finding the hem of your skirt. "Just be quiet for me, pretty girl..."

Your lungs sputtered, nails digging into his skin, his hand slowly trailing upwards on your inner thigh.

"Please, Mattheo...someone could-" you whispered urgently, your words catching in your throat as desire and fear collided within you.

"Walk me back to my dorm," he said sharply, a plan forming in his eyes. "I'll pretend I'm plastered, and you can sling me over your shoulder. If anyone sees, it'll just look like you're doing me a favour..."

Your jaw fell open in incredulity, but before you could utter a protest, Mattheo took charge. He let go of your waist, pulling you off the shelf with a swift motion. His arm encircled you, feigning a drunken stumble, as he leaned heavily against you, weaving a convincing facade of inebriation.

You took a second to button up your cardigan, hiding the cut in your blouse that Mattheo had made with his blade--and without waiting even a second more of time, he urged the two of you down the isle and into the heart of the library. Fear gripped you like a vice as you made your way through the silent library, Mattheo pretending to be completely intoxicated, his weight bearing down on you with every step.

Every creak of the floorboards felt deafening in the silence, and your heart raced with the dread of being caught in this reckless charade. With each step, you prayed that you would go unnoticed, your mind wrestling with the gravity of the situation and the potential consequences of your impulsive actions.

As you tiptoed out of the library and stepped into the silent corridor, the nighttime air flowed through the stone walls, cooling the fevered heat in your cheeks. The tension in your shoulders lessened, but the fire in your core raged on, fueled by Mattheo's intense proximity. His cologne, intertwined with the scent of alcohol and cigarettes on his tongue, seemed to possess a hypnotic allure, drawing you in with an inexplicable pull.

You shot your head around, ensuring no one was within earshot, before stealing a furtive glimpse at Mattheo. Your voice emerged as a mere breath, carried away by the night breeze as it left your lips.

"How did you know I'd be there?" You questioned. "In the library."

Persisting in his flawless portrayal of the world's most inebriated wizard, Mattheo barely cracked his eyes open at your question, his response delayed as though he were lost in his own haze. For a moment, it seemed like he might not answer at all, leaving you hanging on the edge of anticipation. Then, a sly smile tugged at his lips, and your stomach twisted with a mix of curiosity and unease.

"I asked your friend," he drawled, glimpsing you with the worlds most fleeting glance. "Emily."

Your heart stopped. "No you-"

You began, but your words were abruptly cut short as the sharp click of polished shoes echoed through the corridor. Your gaze shot to the source of the sound, and there, with an unsettling glint in his eyes, stood Tom Riddle himself, adorned in his pristine prefect attire. His darkened narrowed eyes bored into you, suspicion and sadistic amusement flickering in their depths.

"Evening my dear witch…Mattheo," he purred, his voice dripping with sinister charm as he advanced, each step deliberate, like a predator stalking its prey under the moonlit night. "What might be going on here, if you don't mind me asking..."

Your heart seemed to freeze, its rhythmic beats replaced by an echoing silence that engulfed you. Time slowed to a crawl, every second stretching into an eternity, giving you ample opportunity to feel the weight of the situation sinking in. The world blurred at the edges, leaving only Tom's penetrating gaze fixed upon you, like a raptor locking onto its target.

Under the burden of Mattheo's seemingly unconscious form against your shoulder, you let out an irritated grunt, trying to maintain an appearance of nonchalance. You met Tom's eyes with a forced composure, your every movement calculated to appear casual despite the storm of emotions swirling within you.

"I found him passed out on a bench outside the library as I was leaving..." each word hung in the air, carrying the weight of a carefully constructed lie, a fragile facade concealing the complexity of the truth beneath. "He's bloody wasted, I couldn't just leave him there..."

Tom's eyes flickered with disappointment, his sharp scrutiny never wavering as he glanced over Mattheo's apparently intoxicated state. There was a subtle sigh of resignation, as if he had expected nothing less from his wayward brother.

"Very well," he said, his tone holding a hint of exasperation. "Take him back to his dormitory, I trust you can manage that. And do remind him that his actions won't go unnoticed, even in the cover of darkness..."

His gaze drilled into you, a silent warning echoing in his eyes, before he turned on his heel and disappeared into the shadows of the corridor. With a lingering sense of foreboding, you guided Mattheo toward his dorm, the weight of the night's events pressing down upon you like an invisible burden.

——————-

Chapter thirteen->

[novaursa]

Legacy (the night is long)

- Summary: Tywin was the man who saved you from Robert's wrath. He was also the man who doomed you.

- Paring: targ!reader/Tywin Lannister

- Note: Be aware of the unspecified time jumps and how canon events don't add up with the story's timeline.

- Rating: Mature 16+

- Previous part: sun over the capital

- Next part: dark wings

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @alyssa-dayne @oxymakestheworldgoround

Jorah Mormont approached Daenerys' tent, with a letter in his hand. The parchment was sealed with an unfamiliar sigil, one that bore neither the lion of Lannister nor the dragon of House Targaryen. Daenerys looked up, curiosity flaring in her eyes as Jorah handed her the letter.

"This arrived, Your Grace," Jorah said quietly, his tone cautious. "It was smuggled into the camp by Varys's contacts. I thought you should have it at once."

Daenerys took the letter, turning it over in her hands, her fingers brushing across the wax seal. She broke the seal and unfolded the parchment carefully, her gaze settling on the words that began to reveal themselves. She read, her eyes widening as the truth of the letter began to sink in.

My dearest sister, the letter began, in a handwriting that was elegant yet steady. You do not know me, but I have long known of you. My name is Y/N, and though fate has kept us apart, we share the blood of the dragon.

Daenerys felt her breath hitch as she continued reading, taking in every word with reverence.

I write to you from Westeros, where I find myself bound in an unexpected alliance. I am now Lady Y/N Lannister, married to Lord Tywin, who sees in me both a strength of my own and a promise of loyalty to House Lannister. But know this—my heart remains true to our blood, our lineage. You are not alone, Daenerys. Though we are separated by sea and circumstance, you have a sister here who thinks of you, who carries your memory, even though we have yet to meet.

Daenerys’s hands trembled slightly as she lowered the letter, her mind racing, filled with emotions she couldn’t quite name. This was her sister—a sister she had never known, reaching out to her across the world. The realization felt both profound and bittersweet.

Noticing her expression, Jorah leaned forward, concern etched in his brow. "Your Grace," he asked gently, "what is it? Who wrote to you?"

Daenerys took a steadying breath, her gaze unfocused as she tried to process what she had read. "It’s… from my sister," she whispered, almost as if saying it aloud would make it more real. "A sister I’ve never met. Her name is Y/N, and she’s… married to Tywin Lannister."

Jorah’s eyebrows shot up in surprise, though he masked it quickly. "Tywin Lannister," he murmured, his tone both shocked and wary. "I had heard rumors of his new marriage, but I never expected it to be to a Targaryen."

Daenerys looked at him, her expression filled with a mixture of wonder and sadness. "She says she’s thought of me. That I am not alone." She paused, her voice softening. "Did you ever see her, Jorah? In the North, when she was a ward at Winterfell?"

Jorah thought for a moment, casting his mind back over the years. "Yes, Your Grace," he said quietly. "I saw her once, many years ago. I was a young man then, visiting Winterfell on some matter for my father, Lord Jeor. She would have been just a girl then, but she had a certain… presence."

Daenerys leaned forward, her eyes bright with interest. "Tell me about her."

Jorah smiled faintly, recalling the memory as if dusting off an old, cherished book. "She was quiet, but there was a strength in her that couldn’t be ignored. She carried herself with grace, even then—a grace I could see was not learned from the North. She had the look of a Targaryen, unmistakable silver hair and violet eyes, and yet there was something solemn about her. I remember thinking she seemed like she carried a great weight, even as a young girl."

He paused, his gaze distant as he remembered. "The Stark children seemed to adore her. Robb Stark, Jon Snow… they were just boys then, but she was close to them. And Arya—she followed her around like a shadow. Y/N took Jon under her wing, I remember. It was as if she had a purpose that even she couldn’t yet name."

Daenerys listened, her heart aching with each word. "So she was… loved," she murmured, almost to herself. "She wasn’t alone."

Jorah nodded, his gaze softening as he looked at her. "No, she wasn’t. She became a part of Winterfell. The North can be a harsh place, but it’s loyal to those who earn its trust. And she earned it."

Daenerys looked down at the letter again, a sense of warmth filling her despite the bittersweet nature of it. "I wonder what kind of life she has now… married to Tywin Lannister of all people."

Jorah’s expression darkened, his voice cautious. "Tywin Lannister is a calculating man, Your Grace. He sees people as assets, tools to be used for his legacy. I don’t doubt he sees her in the same way. But your sister must be strong—she survived Winterfell, and she made a place for herself there. She’ll find a way to endure in the Red Keep, too."

Daenerys nodded slowly, her fingers brushing the edge of the letter as though she could feel her sister’s presence through the words. "She says that her heart remains true to our blood," she murmured, her eyes fierce with newfound determination. "I may be in Essos, and she may be bound to the Lannisters, but we are Targaryens. We are still family."

Jorah’s gaze softened, admiration in his eyes. "A family reunited, perhaps. Someday."

Daenerys looked up at him, a spark of hope igniting in her heart. "Yes. Someday," she agreed softly. She folded the letter carefully, tucking it close to her heart. "Until then, I will remember her words—and the promise that we are not alone."

Wrapped in a plain, dark cloak that concealed your features, you made your way through the narrow, winding streets of King’s Landing, keeping your gaze low as Ser Barristan Selmy walked by your side, ever vigilant. The sky was cast in shades of twilight, the lingering golden glow of the sunset slipping away, giving way to the shadows of the evening.

You cast a glance at Barristan, who looked deeply displeased, his brow furrowed in a way you’d rarely seen. He’d been silent most of the journey, but as the brothel finally came into view, he couldn’t help himself.

“My lady,” he murmured, his tone respectful yet firm, “this… this place is beneath you. Surely, a prince could arrange to meet somewhere more dignified.”

A faint smile tugged at your lips, though it was tinged with a hint of irony. “Knowing Oberyn, I suspect he chose this location precisely for that reason, Ser Barristan,” you replied softly. “It amuses him, I imagine, to think of a Lannister bride stepping into a place like this.”

Barristan’s disapproving look didn’t waver, but he remained quiet as you pushed open the heavy door, stepping inside the dimly lit room. The air was thick with the scent of incense and perfumed oils, mingling with the low hum of laughter and whispers from the patrons scattered around. It was an ambiance that spoke of indulgence and secrecy, and yet, you felt a certain comfort in its anonymity.

In the center of the room, reclining on a plush chaise, was Oberyn Martell, dressed in his usual vibrant colors, his dark eyes gleaming with amusement as he spotted you. At his side, with a quiet, knowing smile, sat Ellaria Sand, her gaze warm yet calculating as she took you in.

“Well, well,” Oberyn drawled, his voice like silk as he looked you up and down, noting the plainness of your disguise with a smirk. “The new Lady Lannister gracing us with her presence, in such humble surroundings. I must say, Y/N, marriage has brought you to… interesting places.”

You smiled, pulling back your hood and allowing him to see your face fully. “And you’ve always had a taste for… unconventional meeting places, Oberyn. You haven’t changed.”

Ellaria laughed softly, her gaze resting on you with curiosity. “Tywin’s bride herself,” she mused, her tone smooth. “I must admit, I didn’t think I’d ever see a Targaryen in Lannister colors. How curious fate can be.”

You offered her a polite nod, though you couldn’t miss the slight bitterness beneath her words. “Lady Ellaria. I suspect fate has played its hand here more than once.”

Oberyn watched you, his eyes glinting with something unreadable as he poured himself a glass of wine. He gestured for you to join them, patting the seat beside him. “Come, sit with us. We have much to discuss, I think. So many bonds between our families, so many… tragedies.”

The words were spoken lightly, but they held a sharp edge that settled uneasily in your chest. You took a seat, Barristan standing protectively behind you, his presence a reassuring reminder of unwavering loyalty and honor.

Oberyn regarded you for a long moment, his smile fading as he tilted his head thoughtfully. “And so here you are, Lady Lannister, wife to the very man responsible for the destruction of both our families. Does that sit well with you?”

You met his gaze steadily, though the weight of his words pressed heavily on you. “Oberyn,” you began, choosing your words carefully, “you know as well as I do that we are often given choices… with very limited options.”

He leaned closer, his voice lowering, his tone soft but laced with bitterness. “I suppose you know that better than most. But tell me, does Tywin Lannister whisper anything to you in those quiet hours about the screams of Elia, of her children? Does he confess his sins to you as if they might be absolved?”

Your heart pounded, the familiar ache resurfacing with each word. You knew well the horrors he spoke of; they had haunted you ever since you first learned of your family’s brutal end. You lowered your gaze, struggling to maintain composure. “I have no need to hear it from him,” you whispered, your voice barely steady. “I remember all too well, Oberyn.”

Oberyn’s expression softened just slightly, though his eyes remained sharp. “And yet, here you are, tied to him. You, a Targaryen, bound to the man whose legacy is soaked in blood—our blood. Elia, Rhaegar, their children… they should be here, living, and yet their lives were ended so that your husband could secure his power.”

A shuddering breath escaped you, and you held up a hand, your voice trembling. “Please, Oberyn… I do not wish to hear more.”

For a moment, he studied you, his anger giving way to a flicker of understanding, though it did not diminish the fire in his gaze. “Very well,” he said, his voice softening. “I can see it pains you as it pains me. But make no mistake—I am here in King’s Landing for two things.”

You looked up at him, the question clear in your eyes. “And what would those be?”

“Vengeance,” he said, the word slipping from his lips with the weight of years behind it. “For Elia. For her children.” His gaze hardened, his voice carrying a quiet, lethal promise. “Justice, however long it takes, however I may have to find it.”

Your heart twisted as he spoke, a mixture of fear and empathy welling up inside you. “And the second reason?” you asked, almost dreading the answer.

Oberyn’s lips curled into a smile, though it lacked warmth. “Why, the royal wedding, of course,” he replied with feigned cheer. “A grand occasion, the whole realm gathered to watch the next king unite with his bride. The perfect stage for anyone with a purpose… and the perfect place to leave an impression.”

Ellaria, who had been watching silently, leaned forward, placing a comforting hand on Oberyn’s arm. “We have waited a long time, and now, we are here. The world will remember what was done to our family.”

You sat in silence, absorbing their words, understanding the unspoken intentions that lay beneath them. There was no mistaking Oberyn’s resolve, nor Ellaria’s quiet fury. You felt caught between two worlds—the blood of your family calling for vengeance, and the precarious ties that now bound you to House Lannister.

“Oberyn,” you said softly, meeting his gaze, “I… I do not ask for forgiveness, nor can I pretend that anything I do could ever make amends for what happened to your sister. But I hope that you know… I have never forgotten. I have never betrayed our blood.”

Oberyn’s expression softened, a shadow of compassion in his eyes. “I know,” he replied quietly. “I don’t blame you, Y/N. But I am not here to forgive, either.”

You nodded, a heavy silence settling over you both. The weight of the past hung thick in the air, filling the space between you, an invisible chasm that could never truly be crossed. Yet, even in that silence, there was an understanding, a recognition of shared loss and the scars it left behind.

Finally, Oberyn’s expression shifted, a flicker of his old charm resurfacing as he gave you a sardonic smile. “But tell me, Lady Lannister—how does it feel to bear that name? To share the bed of the man who holds our fates in his hands?”

You managed a faint, humorless smile, your voice soft but steady. “It feels… like survival, Oberyn. Nothing more, and certainly nothing less.”

He chuckled, though there was no real amusement in it. “Survival,” he echoed. “A fitting answer, I suppose. Just remember, Y/N… survival comes with a price.”

As he leaned back, pouring another glass of wine, Ellaria’s gaze softened as she watched you, her voice gentle. “If you ever need allies, Y/N… remember that we understand you, more than the lions ever could.”

You nodded, feeling the truth of her words settle deep within you. Here, in this darkened brothel, surrounded by the bitterness of shared pain and the fire of quiet vengeance, you felt a strange sense of kinship—a bond forged in blood, loss, and the relentless desire for justice.

And as you rose to leave, with Barristan by your side, you carried with you the weight of their words, their promise, and the unspoken knowledge that, though you wore the colors of a lion, the blood of the dragon and the Martell ties would never truly let you go.

In the quiet shadows of his private solar, Tywin sat at his desk, his fingers steepled as he listened to Littlefinger’s report, his expression as inscrutable as ever. Lord Baelish, standing just a few paces away, shifted his weight, his usual smooth smile in place, though his eyes were sharp, always watching, always calculating.

“The men you stationed around the brothel have remained vigilant, Lord Tywin,” Littlefinger reported, his tone measured. “No disturbances to speak of—at least, none beyond what’s customary in a place like that.” He allowed himself a wry smile, though Tywin’s cold gaze did little to encourage it.

Tywin’s gaze was fixed on a map stretched across his desk, though it was clear his thoughts lay elsewhere. “Good,” he replied curtly. “My wife’s safety is paramount. It is imperative that Prince Oberyn and his paramour understand that they are in King’s Landing at my discretion, not theirs.”

Littlefinger’s eyes gleamed with a hint of mischief. “Ah, Prince Oberyn. Quite the guest of honor, isn’t he?” He folded his hands neatly, his gaze never leaving Tywin’s. “Dorne is rarely so cooperative when it comes to Lannister matters. One has to wonder what they hope to accomplish by bringing him to the capital now.”

Tywin’s lips pressed into a thin line. “Oberyn’s presence here is a reminder of the alliance Dorne holds with the crown,” he stated, his tone as sharp as a blade. “They may smile and offer pleasantries, but they haven’t forgotten what happened to Elia, nor will they. I suspect Oberyn is here not only to attend the royal wedding but to assess how far we can be pushed.”

Littlefinger tilted his head, a glimmer of intrigue in his gaze. “And what do you intend to do about it, my lord?”

Tywin looked up, his eyes cold and calculating. “For now, we extend them the courtesy due to their status. The Martells are careful, and they won’t risk open defiance… yet.” He allowed himself a pause, studying Baelish’s expression as he continued. “But make no mistake—Oberyn and his ilk must be reminded that this is my realm. The Red Keep is not a playground for Dornish revenge fantasies.”

Baelish nodded slowly, a small smile curving his lips. “The Dornish are known for their tempers, after all. And Oberyn is as infamous for his passions as he is for his fighting skills. One might say he’s an ideal instrument to incite… disorder, if left unchecked.”

Tywin’s gaze remained unyielding, his tone filled with quiet disdain. “Disorder is something I do not tolerate. Prince Oberyn will have to curb his impulses while he’s in my city, or he will be reminded of the consequences of forgetting one’s place.” He leaned back, his gaze sharpening. “You are to keep your eyes on him, Baelish. Any shift in his intentions, any move that hints at more than courtesy—report it to me directly.”

Littlefinger inclined his head, his expression unreadable. “Of course, my lord. Though one has to wonder… might it not serve House Lannister’s interests to… encourage Oberyn’s passions in a more controlled setting? A bit of a… release valve, if you will.”

Tywin’s eyes narrowed, his jaw tightening. “You mean to tempt him into some reckless act, a slip of temper that could justify an official response.”

Baelish allowed himself a slight shrug, his expression one of feigned innocence. “Not as crude as that, Lord Tywin, of course. But… Dorne is known for its pride. Oberyn is unlikely to let slights lie—he’ll strike if prodded.”

Tywin considered this, his fingers tapping lightly against the desk. “Oberyn Martell is not a fool,” he said slowly. “He knows we are watching him, and he knows the cost of defiance. But if he were… convinced to show his hand, to reveal just how far he’s willing to go—perhaps, yes, that would indeed serve a purpose.”

Littlefinger’s smile grew a fraction wider, his tone light and conspiratorial. “I may have just the contacts, my lord. A few whispers, a few… strategic pressures in the right quarters. Prince Oberyn may find himself slightly less at ease than he hoped.”

Tywin’s gaze held a glint of satisfaction, though he remained as stoic as ever. “Very well. Proceed. But ensure it’s done subtly. The last thing we need is for the Dornish to think they’ve been provoked outright.”

“Of course, my lord,” Littlefinger replied smoothly. “I would never think of disrupting such a… delicate balance.” He gave a slight bow, his eyes glinting with dark amusement. “And as for Lady Y/N’s protection, I assure you, the measures in place will continue. My men will see to it that her privacy and safety remain undisturbed.”

Tywin gave a short nod of approval, his gaze flickering to the map once more, though his mind seemed fixed on his growing plan. “Good. The fewer chances Oberyn has to weave himself into my wife’s affairs, the better.”

Littlefinger’s smirk deepened, though he kept his tone respectful. “It’s rare to see you so… invested, Lord Tywin.”

Tywin’s gaze darkened, a cold warning in his eyes. “My family is my legacy, Baelish. That is not something I gamble with. Remember that, as you work with those whispers of yours.”

Littlefinger inclined his head, his face the very picture of compliance. “Of course, my lord. I live to serve.”

With that, he slipped from the chamber, leaving Tywin to consider the intricate dance of alliances, enemies, and strategy that was unfolding with Oberyn Martell in King’s Landing.

Joffrey paced back and forth in the golden glow of the late afternoon, the flickering shadows playing across his features. The tension in his expression was unmistakable, his mouth pressed into a tight, dissatisfied line. Margaery watched him from her seat beside the large, open window, her calm demeanor masking the unease she felt as she observed the king’s agitation. She’d seen him like this before—when his pride had been bruised or when something had threatened his sense of power—and knew it was best to tread carefully.

“Joffrey,” she began gently, her voice warm and soothing, “perhaps you might tell me what’s on your mind. It pains me to see you so troubled.”

Joffrey stopped pacing, his eyes narrowing as he looked out the window, avoiding her gaze. “That… that child,” he hissed, venom lacing his words. “That Targaryen bastard Tywin has whelped on her. It has no place here, Margaery. And yet everyone’s acting as if it’s some great blessing to House Lannister!”

Margaery nodded, tilting her head thoughtfully, though her expression remained soft and supportive. “I understand,” she replied calmly. “A child with both Targaryen and Lannister blood would… naturally cause quite a stir. But remember, Joffrey, you are the king. No one can challenge that.”

Joffrey let out a sharp, derisive laugh, his hand gripping the back of a nearby chair so hard his knuckles turned white. “Do you think that matters to them? To Tywin? Or to… her?” He spat the last word with distaste. “They’ll all whisper, saying this child has a claim, saying that it has royal blood, that it deserves something… more.”

Margaery rose from her seat, crossing the room to place a gentle hand on his arm. “And yet, my love,” she said, her voice a soft murmur, “this child will be nothing more than an infant, while you are already crowned, already commanding the loyalty of lords and bannermen. Tywin Lannister knows where the power lies, Joffrey. He has sworn loyalty to you.”

Joffrey glanced down at her, his expression softening just slightly as her words seemed to calm him, though the tension didn’t fully leave his face. “You’re right,” he muttered, though his voice still carried a note of doubt. “But Tywin is ambitious. And if he has a child with Targaryen blood, what’s to stop him from making some… claim for it?”

Margaery kept her hand on his arm, her touch reassuring. “Tywin may be ambitious, yes, but he is also practical. He knows it’s unwise to risk a confrontation with you. And as your queen, I will stand by you, ensuring no one challenges your right to the throne.”

Joffrey’s expression softened further, his gaze finally meeting hers. “You always know what to say, Margaery. You make it sound so… simple.” He paused, his eyes flickering with something almost vulnerable. “But I don’t trust them. Not my grandfather, not the Targaryen whore he’s married, and certainly not the child.”

Margaery offered a faint smile, though inwardly, she made a mental note to discuss this development with her grandmother Olenna. “Then we shall be vigilant together, my king,” she said soothingly. “And if that child ever becomes a threat, we will deal with it… quietly.”

Joffrey seemed to take comfort in her words, a sly smile creeping onto his face. “Yes… quietly. That’s how it should be. I knew I could count on you, Margaery. You have a way of… understanding these things.”

Margaery’s smile remained warm, though her thoughts were elsewhere. She would need to speak with Olenna as soon as possible, to ensure they were prepared for any shift in the court’s dynamics brought about by this unexpected addition to the Lannister family.

“Of course, my king,” she replied, her voice steady. “I am here to support you, always.”

In the cold light of dawn, Stannis Baratheon sat alone in his tent, reading over the crumpled parchment that his spies had delivered to him just the night before. His brow was furrowed, lips pressed into a tight line, as he read the message again, the words seeming to smolder off the page with each reading.

Tywin Lannister’s Targaryen wife—the woman who should have been wiped out along with the rest of her kin—was with child. The blood of the dragon and the lion combined, an heir that, by the laws of inheritance, could lay a claim more legitimate than even Joffrey’s bastard lineage.

The tent’s entrance flap rustled, and Davos Seaworth stepped inside, his expression concerned as he took in the grim look on Stannis’s face.

“My lord,” Davos began, his voice low, respectful. “Is it true? The report… about Tywin’s wife?”

Stannis’s jaw tightened, his eyes cold and unyielding. “It’s true. Tywin’s Targaryen wife carries a child—a child that will carry both Targaryen and Lannister blood. There are some who might say that alone gives the whelp a stronger claim to the throne than anyone else.”

Davos frowned, concern deepening on his weathered face. “But… that’s impossible, my lord. The Targaryens were cast down. Your brother saw to that. The child has no true claim, no right to rule over you or anyone in the Seven Kingdoms.”

Stannis’s gaze turned icy, his voice laced with frustration. “Yet here we are, Davos. The whispers have already begun. And Tywin, with all his clever schemes, is bound to use this child to stir the minds of the lords, to make them doubt my own claim.”

Davos leaned forward, his voice earnest, pleading. “Then we should be cautious, my lord. Tywin Lannister has a way of twisting the truth, bending others to his will. If we react too rashly, we might play right into his hands.”

Stannis’s eyes burned with a fierce determination, his hands gripping the edge of the table. “Caution is weakness, Davos. I will not allow a child—a child of a tainted, dead bloodline that my brother tried to erase—to claim legitimacy over me. No child of the Mad King’s line will ever rule the Seven Kingdoms.”

There was a long, tense silence, and Davos could feel the chill in the air deepen as he realized the path Stannis’s mind was heading down. “What will you do, then?”

Stannis’s gaze shifted, growing colder, more resolute. “I will consult with Melisandre. She will have insight into this, into what this child means and how we can best… eliminate the threat.”

Davos’s heart sank, alarm flashing across his face. He took a step closer, his voice urgent. “My lord, please. Lady Melisandre’s methods are… not without consequence. Consulting her in matters of life and death—especially concerning an unborn child—may lead us down a dark path. One that may taint your honor.”

Stannis’s mouth tightened, his gaze hardening. “Honor does not win wars, Davos. And it does not secure thrones. If this child is born, it will be used as a symbol, a weapon against my rule. It will embolden Tywin’s allies, bolster support for a claim that should never exist. We cannot allow it.”

Davos held his gaze, desperation flickering in his eyes. “But, my lord, there is more to consider than just the claim. Killing an unborn child… it’s not justice, it’s vengeance. And vengeance will do nothing but erode the loyalty of those who follow you.”

Stannis looked away, jaw clenched, and he seemed to be struggling against something unseen. “I know the weight of my choices, Davos. But if we do nothing, we risk being overthrown before we even take King’s Landing. Tywin will not hesitate to use that child as a pawn, as a symbol of power that could rally the realm against us.”

Davos took a deep breath, his voice soft but firm. “I know you seek justice, my lord. And justice will come in time. But perhaps there is another way, one that does not require consulting with shadows or flames.”

Stannis’s face twisted, frustration and doubt warring within him. “I will speak to Melisandre,” he repeated, his voice like iron. “I will hear her counsel. Nothing more.”

Davos’s shoulders slumped slightly, but he did not give up. “Then at least allow me to be present, my lord. If nothing else, I can help temper her… enthusiasm.”

Stannis considered him, his gaze penetrating, and after a long moment, he gave a short nod. “Very well. But know this, Davos: my patience is running thin. I will not let a child born of treachery and deceit stand in the way of what I am owed.”

Davos felt the weight of Stannis’s resolve, and a chill ran through him, knowing how dangerous a path lay ahead. He could only hope that, in the end, there would be some way to save Stannis from the very shadows he sought to wield.

[lockedcemetary]

The Birth of Venus

a/n: this is probably bad, wrote it at 1 am and have never written before and doubt anyone will even see this. written with male/ gender neutral reader in mind but i don’t think i mentioned sex or gender at all, if anyone does see this and likes it or has feedback, tell me!

also not proofread lol

_______________________________________________

hannibal who asks you to be his muse for a nude portrait. He presents this request as politely and professionally as possible, to hide his true intentions. Hannibal who knows damn well he wouldn’t need a reference to properly etch your figure onto parchment, he’s already done it dozens of times.

You, being none the wiser, agree. Albeit a bit hesitantly, but you agree nonetheless. fast forward to the arranged date and time, he has unclothe yourself in his bathroom that’s attached to the master bedroom, for your comfort, he explains. he waits patiently with his sketchbook in hand, legs crossed away from your view. you pay no attention to his body language, but anyone who was even slightly educated on seeing the signs would be able to deduce that he was enjoying the situation in another light.

you exit the bathroom, a towel draped over yourself. you stand a bit over a yard away from him, unsure of what to do with yourself. he assures you that there is no need to be nervous, it’s just you and him, no danger or judgement. this eases you slightly, though he can tell you’re still tense.

he instructs you to place the towel on the desk behind you, and you follow. you turn back to him to see him already looking at you, is that desire in his eyes? Of course not, why would that be the case? he lets his eyes rake across you, taking in small details that he mentally stores away. he realizes he’s staring, and staring is rude, so he pulls his eyes back to his paper. this is when he begins his rough sketch, he will go in and clean everything up later. when he is happy with his sketch, finishing the outline with only a few stolen glances of the beauty in front of him, he looks back up. you’re looking at him, watching his hands in particular. from this angle you can make out the rough shape of yourself, it makes you blush a bit as you realize just the situation you remain in. he sees the pink dusting your cheeks and neck, but doesn’t comment on it. he simply stares.

he drags his line of sight onto the page once more, adding finer details as the minutes pass. he can feel it against his thigh now, but he dare not speak of it or even acknowledge it. this has never been a problem when it was just him, though he knew it would arise when you were standing in front of him as his hand graced the page. he flicks his eyes up for only a second, to regain his senses. the image was starting to take shape now. you could see it, and you recognized it? it was you, in the place of Venus in the renaissance painting The Birth of Venus by Sandro Botticelli.

you couldn’t make out the faces of the other three people in the image, but that wasn’t important. what was important was that Hannibal had led you here, just to simply take in your grace. you hadn’t known it, but this wasn’t simply a ploy to get you undressed in front of him, even if that was part of it. as elegant and chaste as hannibal likes to pretend he is. but he chose to memorialize you in the place of venus, the goddess of love, beauty, and sex. (atleast those are the motifs that apply here)

when he presented the image to you, your eyes widened on instinct. and you took a step forward to take the sketchbook from his hands and get a better look of it yourself, a better look of you, i suppose. Hannibal took note of the decreased proximity, and let his eyes wander. oh if only you knew how often you flitted about his mind. it’d end him, like you inevitably would.

________________________________

i was listening to the song Black Beauty by Lana Del Rey while writing this btw, good song.

[ancient-and-gauntly]

Owl Post

Sebastian Sallow x Reader Warnings: None Summary: Sebastian notices you are upset about not getting post, so decides to write you a small love letter to brighten your morning

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You sat at the your house table in the Great Hall, a slight frown marring your usually cheerful face. You absentmindedly stirred your porridge, glancing around at the students who were receiving letters and packages from their families and friends. The owls soared gracefully through the enchanted ceiling, delivering messages to eager recipients.

Sebastian, your new long term flame, was sitting a few seats down and couldn't help but notice your disappointed expression. He had overheard you complaining to Poppy about never receiving owl mail, finding the mornings in the Great Hall a bit less exciting compared to others. A mischievous smile played on his lips as an idea sparked in his mind. He decided that he would be the one to change that.

Late that night, Sebastian sat in the common room with parchment and a quill, carefully crafting a heartfelt letter to you. He poured his feelings onto the page, expressing the warmth and admiration he felt for you. He sealed the envelope with a dash of wax and pressed it so it was nice and tightly closed, grinning at the surprise waiting to happen. The next morning, before breakfast, Sebastian carefully made his way to the Owlery to choose and owl to deliver the special letter. He whispered his instructions to the her and watched as it soared off into the early morning sky, disappearing among the clouds.

As you entered the Great Hall that morning, you noticed the familiar fluttering of wings above you. A brown, pleasant looking owl descended gracefully, landing in front of you with a small note attached to its leg. Surprised, you took the letter and untied it from the owl's leg. You could hardly contain her excitement as you recognized Sebestians distinctive handwriting. You look over to him, giving him a questioning look but all he did was shrug and smile, going back to the food on his plate

Curiosity and delight danced in your eyes as you slowly unfolded the parchment and began to read:

My Dearest Y/N,

I hope this letter finds you in the best of spirits, and that the sight of this owl bearing my words brings a smile to your face. I've noticed the lack of owl posts in your life, and I couldn't stand the thought of your mornings being any less delightful than they should be.

There's something magical about the way your eyes light up when you're excited or passionate about something. It's a sight I've come to cherish, and it never fails to brighten my day. I've been meaning to tell you how much I love the way you look when you're lost in thought, a thousand galaxies swirling in your eyes.

Some of my fondest memories involve sneaking on to late night walks with you after curfew on those clear nights when the rest of the world was asleep and finding a nice quiet place to just look at the stars while in each others arms. Stargazing with you is like being transported to another realm, where time stands still, and it's just us against the vastness of the universe. Those stolen moments are etched into my heart, and I find myself yearning for more every day.

And I can't help but mention the small glances we share across the common room. It's as if our eyes have a language of their own, speaking volumes in silence. Those stolen glances, the unspoken connection, they make me fall more and more in love with you with each passing day. It's a love that grows stronger, deeper, and more profound.

For the first time in a long time, I feel at home. Not just within the stone walls of Hogwarts, but within the warmth of your laughter, the gentleness of your touch, and the genuine connection we share. You've become an important part of who I am becoming, and I can't imagine it any other way.

I know we've just started this journey together, and I want you to know that I meant every word I said that first night we spent together. I am planning on spending my life with you. Thank you for believing in me and seeing the potential that no one has seen before. 

Forever and Always yours,

Sebastian Sallow

As you reached the end of the letter, face hurting from the smiling it caused you couldn't help but look over at Sebastian once more, who was watching you with an expectant grin. You eyes met, and a silent understanding passed between the two of you. You mouthed a heartfelt "thank you" to Sebastian, your eyes sparkling with gratitude.

Sebastian just winks, a mixture of mischief and genuine affection in his gaze.

[cera-writes]

Hello, how are you? I see you’re taking requests, so could I request kurt x reader where they have a misunderstanding, kinda of angst to fluffy? Thank you very much in advance!

A/N: Thanks for the request! I apologize for getting this out so late! <3 Pairing: Kurt Wagner "Nightcrawler x gn!Reader Tags: pure fluff with some angst

Smoke and Mirrors

The rain lashed against the monastery walls, a relentless rhythm mimicking the frantic beat of your heart. Inside, the flickering candlelight cast long, grotesque shadows that danced on the stone walls. You huddled deeper into your threadbare cloak, the familiar scent of incense and old parchment offering scant comfort.

Kurt Wagner, Nightcrawler, sat across from you, his blue fur damp and plastered to his form. Unlike the flickering shadows, he remained a solid, stoic figure. Yet, his yellow eyes held the same turmoil you felt churning in your gut.

"We failed," you whispered, the words catching in your throat. The weight of the failed mission pressed down on you, a suffocating cloak heavier than the one draped on your shoulders.

Kurt let out a guttural sigh, the sound echoing in the cavernous hall. "Sometimes, even the best-laid plans..." he trailed off, his voice rough.

You knew what he wasn't saying. Sometimes, even the best people couldn't overcome impossible odds. The mission had been a suicide run from the start, a desperate gamble you'd both known might end poorly.

Silence fell between you, a heavy, suffocating thing. You stole a glance at Kurt, his face etched with a weariness that went beyond physical exhaustion. It was the weariness of a soul burdened by failure, a burden you shared.

Suddenly, Kurt's face softened. A small, hesitant smile tugged at the corner of his lips. "Remember that time we tried to teleport that stray cat from the alley?"

You couldn't help but crack a smile in return. The memory, a chaotic blur of fur and yowls, brought a lightness to the oppressive atmosphere. It was a reminder, amidst the darkness, of the absurdity and joy that sometimes punctuated their X-Men life.

As you reminisced, the tension slowly eased. You recounted your most spectacular teleportation mishaps, Kurt adding his own dry commentary. Laughter, hesitant at first, filled the room, chasing away the shadows and replacing them with warmth.

The rain continued to lash outside, but within the flickering candlelight, a different kind of warmth bloomed. It was the warmth of shared burdens, of camaraderie forged in the fires of failure, and of a connection that transcended even the darkest moments.

As the night wore on, the conversation turned to quieter things. You spoke of your dreams, a world where mutants were accepted, not feared. Kurt, in turn, shared tales of his childhood in the circus, his voice laced with a surprising tenderness.

By the time the first rays of dawn peeked through the grimy windows, a fragile sense of peace had settled over you. The mission might have been a failure, but you hadn't failed each other. And in that shared understanding, you found a flicker of hope, a tiny ember that could, with time and nurture, bloom into something brighter.

[summerclementine27]

Sign of The Times 🌹

Summary: Harry Styles is a Roman General who led his legions to many victories. He was favoured by the Emperor and known as an honourable General. Everyone also knows that he loves his wife, Y/N, more than anything, more than victory even, and dreams of seeing her again.

Time and place: Roman Empire sometime between 180 - 192 AD

warnings: bit of smut, breeding, and also old timey vibes due to roman era (so the smut is written in a funky old timey way but i decided to post it anyway).

notes: this is part three of my series of Harry Styles one shots that are inspired by his first album, I’m not doing the stories in order of the tracklist, and I also know that I am changing the meanings of the songs to fit the stories so for instance, sign of the times is about a mother who is dying while giving birth, but I changed it to be about a wife who is urging her husband to come back.

- pics of Harry or AI from Pinterest and the inspiration for this fic is gladiator lol.

The dust of Germania still clung to my skin, mixing with the iron scent of blood that had dried on my tunic. The battlefield had been ours, a victory to be sung by bards and etched into the annals of Rome. But as my men celebrated, raising goblets of wine to their lips, my thoughts wandered far from the camps and the spoils of war.

I could feel the ache in my side where the enemy's blade had found its mark—a shallow wound, they said. Easily mended with time and rest. Yet I craved neither the salves of the medics nor the comforts of the Roman city.

My thoughts were with Y/N, the woman who had waited for me through the years of war, who had kept my heart safe even as my body waded through the carnage of battle. The memory of her letters, the soft parchment that had borne her words across the miles, was a balm to my weary soul.

I cared for nothing as much as I cared for her, for all I prayed for during these years of battle was her safety. “Blessed father, watch over my wife with a ready sword. Whisper to her that I live only to hold her again, for all else is dust and air.” I recited every night, yearning to be in my ethereal wife's embrace once more, where the weight of the world would melt away in the serenity of her seraphic presence.

One of her last letters had arrived not long before the battle. I could still hear her voice in the words she had penned, a voice that had carried me through the darkest nights. I drew the letter from my belt, the parchment worn from too many readings, and let my eyes trace the familiar lines:

“My dearest Harry,” the letter began, “as I write this, I can feel the sun warming my skin, and I think of you, far away in the cold lands of the north. I miss you with every breath I take, and I pray for your safe return each night before I sleep. The fields here are flourishing, the olive trees heavy with fruit, but without you, this bounty feels hollow. The land awaits your return, as do I. I long for the day when you will return to me, when I can hold you in my arms once more, and we can live in peace, away from the horrors of war.”

Her words were sweet, like honeyed nectar upon the lips of a lover, gentle and soothing at first. Yet, as I read on, they grew earnest and urging, the ink heavy with her profound concern. My eyes were drawn irresistibly to the portion of her letter that held the deepest weight for my heart:

“Yet I know, as you read these words, your soul is entrenched in the depths of war, I understand that your mind is consumed with thoughts of victory, that your heart beats with the pulse of battle. But remember, my love, that while you fight for the glory of Rome, Rome shall endure, as she always has. It is you who may not, and it is you I fear to lose.”

Her words were like a gentle whisper, coaxing me back to the world beyond the battlefield. "I beg you, take care of yourself and do not tempt death, for you cannot bribe the door on your way to the sky, you cannot offer coin to the gatekeeper of the heavens, nor sway him with silver as you ascend. You look good down here on this mortal realm anyway. Do not die for Rome, live for her.”

“What shall become of us if we never learn? We have been here before, me tending to the fields of Hispania and you running from the arrows and swords, yet the two of us with the same fate; always caught stuck and running from the bullets. I know what the emperor demands of you, and I know you have led many battles to victory. You hesitate to leave, but you must, my love; you must find your way back to me. Just stop your crying, for this is but a sign of the times.

Stop your weeping, and have the time of your life. Break through the atmosphere of war and bloodshed, things are pretty good from here, Remember, everything will be alright.

Come home to me, my love, come back.”

I closed my eyes, letting the words wash over me, a balm for my weary soul. Come home to me, my love. The phrase echoed in my mind, a mantra that had sustained me through the darkest moments of the campaign. It was these words that had driven me to push forward, to fight for Rome but also to fight for my retirement. To earn the rest of my life back and spend it with my divine wife.

As I rode back to the camp, the letter tucked safely away once more, I repeated the words to myself. “Come home to me, my love.” It became a rhythm, a beat that matched the thudding of my heart, the pounding of my horse’s hooves against the ground. Each step brought me closer to her, to the life we had built together, and to the future that awaited us.

The camp was abuzz with the clamour of soldiers and the scent of roasting meat as I entered, my body still bearing the marks of battle and the weight of victory. The Emperor, draped in his imperial regalia, stood amidst his entourage, his presence commanding the respect of every man within sight. I approached with the measured steps of one who has fought hard and earned his rest.

He turned his gaze upon me, his eyes as sharp as the glint of his ornate armor. “General Styles,” he intoned, his voice carrying the authority of the throne, “when was the last time you were home?”

I stood tall, the weight of his question a heavy mantle upon my shoulders. “Two years, two hundred and sixty-four days, and this very morning,” I answered, my tone steady and resolute. The Emperor’s eyes narrowed slightly, perhaps in surprise or contemplation, as he considered my words.

His gaze lingered on me with a mixture of respect and expectation. “You have led our legions with great skill and valor, General. Rome still has need of such a commander. I urge you to remain in your esteemed position, to continue guiding our armies with the same honor and prowess you have so richly displayed.”

A solemn silence fell over the tent, the air thick with the weight of his request. I took a deep breath, my thoughts drifting back to the letter from my beloved wife, and to the quiet promise of peace that awaited me.

“Your Excellency,” I began, my voice steady but imbued with the gravity of my decision, “I have fought and bled for Rome, and I have served with every ounce of my strength. But my heart and soul yearn for a different path now. I have earned this respite, this time to lay down my sword and return to the life I once knew.”

The Emperor regarded me with a measure of frustration, his fingers drumming upon the armrest of his gilded throne. “You have been a pillar of our military might, General. To leave now, at the zenith of your glory, seems a disservice to the empire that has benefited so greatly from your leadership.”

I met his gaze with unwavering resolve, feeling the echoes of my wife’s words in my heart. “It is not disservice, but rather a fulfillment of a promise I made to myself and to her. I seek not glory nor honor from further battles, but the simple joy of returning to my wife and the life we dream of. My time as a general has been an honor, but it is time for me to embrace a different chapter, one of peace and companionship.”

The Emperor’s expression softened, a flicker of understanding—or perhaps resignation—crossing his features. “Very well, General Styles,” he conceded, his voice carrying a note of reluctant admiration. “If it is your wish to retire and seek solace in the embrace of your beloved, then it shall be granted. Rome’s gratitude will follow you, and your legacy will endure.”

I bowed deeply, the weight of my decision finally lifting from my shoulders. As I walked away, I felt a sense of anticipation and relief wash over me, knowing that soon I would return to the fields of Hispania, to the life and love that awaited me.

"My lord," one of the younger centurions approached me as I prepared to leave camp, a bandage in hand. "We must bind your wound."

I waved him off, though I knew the pain would only worsen on the long ride home. "I'll let my wife take care of me," I said, the words tasting sweet on my tongue, like the promise of harvest in a fertile field.

The journey back to Hispania was slow, each day stretching out like the endless plains we crossed. My thoughts were full of her—Y/N, my beloved, my anchor amidst the storms of war. The land of our villa in Hispania, a sprawling expanse of olive trees and vineyards, awaited me. But it was her presence, her tender touch, that I yearned for with each passing mile.

As my horse’s hooves drummed against the sun-baked earth, I imagined her in the fields, the wind tugging at her hair as she worked, her hands—those skilled, delicate hands—tending to the earth as she did to me. I could see her smile, that secret curve of her lips that had the power to unravel me more than any barbarian’s sword.

Finally, the fields of our home came into view, the golden light of evening casting a warm glow over the land. My heart quickened as I urged my horse forward, a boyish impatience overtaking me.

As I dismounted my horse and set foot on the familiar ground of our estate, I saw her standing there—my beloved, just as I had envisioned, her figure framed by the setting sun, a basket of olives in her arms.

The moment our eyes met, a wave of joy surged through me, overpowering the aches and weariness of battle. Her face, illuminated by the soft glow of the setting sun, radiated a warmth and love that I had sorely missed.

Without hesitation, she ran to me, her movements swift and graceful. The air seemed to hum with the electricity of our reunion. As she enveloped me in her embrace, I was struck by the intoxicating scent of her—lavender mingled with the faint, sweet aroma of the earth, a perfume that spoke of home and tranquility. It was as if every hardship and wound I bore dissolved in the presence of her love.

Her arms, tender and gentle, clung to me with a fierce affection. I could feel the softness of her skin against my own, a stark contrast to the roughened textures of my armor and the hardened scars of war. Her touch was both soothing and electric, a balm for my bruised soul.

As our lips met, her kiss was a sweet, fervent promise, a bridge between the years of separation. Yet, as I pressed closer, a sharp twinge from the wound on my side made me wince. She noticed instantly, her eyes filled with concern.

“Harry,” she breathed, her voice soft and filled with an anguish that mirrored my own. Her fingers, delicate and gentle, brushed against the tender spot on my side. “You’re hurt…”

“It’s nothing,” I murmured, my voice barely more than a whisper as I drew her even closer. I buried my face in the curve of her neck, inhaling deeply. The scent of her, the very essence of comfort and love, was a haven amidst the chaos of my return. “Nothing that your touch cannot heal.”

She led me inside, her movements tender and deliberate as if each step was meant to convey her deep affection and concern. The grand hall, though warmly lit by the flickering glow of the hearth, could not compare to the solace I found in her presence. As I sank into a plush chair beside the roaring fire, the heat from the flames did little to ease the persistent ache in my chest that only her touch could truly soothe.

I watched her with a heart full of gratitude as she worked with quiet diligence, her hands gentle yet skilled as she unwrapped the makeshift bandage and began to clean the wound. Her brow furrowed in concentration, each touch and movement imbued with a mixture of love and worry that spoke volumes of her care.

“You should have let the medics tend to you,” she chided softly, her voice a tender reprimand laced with concern rather than anger. The chiding was a balm, soothing and familiar, reminding me of the times we had shared before the endless battles.

“And miss the chance to be in your care?” I replied, my voice hushed but earnest. I reached up, my hand cradling her cheek, my thumb gently caressing the delicate curve. “I’d rather bleed out.”

Her lips curled into a small, affectionate smile despite her worry. She shook her head, her eyes reflecting a mixture of exasperation and adoration. “You’re too stubborn for your own good, General.”

“For Rome, perhaps,” I said, my thumb brushing tenderly against her skin, “but not for you.”

Once she was satisfied with the bandage, carefully wrapping it with a practiced hand, I drew her into my lap. The firelight danced in her eyes, casting a warm glow that made her seem even more ethereal. Her body fit perfectly against mine, the familiar curves and warmth a reminder of all that I had missed. As our eyes met, the hunger in mine was mirrored by the tender longing in hers.

“I’ve been gone too long,” I whispered, my lips finding their way to her neck. I trailed kisses along her soft skin, savoring the sweetness of her closeness. “I have missed you more than words can convey.”

Her hands wove into my hair, fingers trembling slightly as she tilted her head back, offering me more of herself. “And I you,” she whispered, her voice a soft melody that seemed to float between us, a song of longing and love that had played in my dreams during our separation.

I lifted her effortlessly, cradling her in my arms as I carried her towards our bed—the same one we had shared since our wedding night, a sanctuary of our love and devotion. The silks beneath us felt cool and luxurious as I laid her down, the gentle moonlight streaming through the windows, casting a silvery glow that highlighted the exquisite beauty of her form.

As I undressed her with a reverence that bordered on worship, I whispered against her lips, my voice a soft murmur filled with longing and affection. “I have won many battles,” I said, my fingers tracing the curves of her body with a tender touch, as if trying to memorize every line and contour. “But none so sweet as the victory of coming home to you.”

Her hands, delicate yet determined, moved to the laces of my tunic, undoing them with a familiar urgency that made my heart race. “Then claim your victory,” she breathed, her voice trembling with a mix of desire and anticipation.

I lifted her into my arms, cradling her with a gentleness that belied the strength I had honed on the battlefield. As I carried her to our bed, my heart pounded not from the exertion, but from the overwhelming love I felt for her. The silk sheets, cool beneath us, seemed to whisper promises of solace and intimacy as I laid her down.

The moonlight streaming through the windows cast a soft, silvery glow upon her, making her skin shimmer like alabaster. I gazed at her with a deep, aching adoration, my eyes tracing the graceful lines of her form. Her beauty was both a balm and a flame, soothing the wounds of my soul and igniting a fierce, tender hunger within me.

I began by brushing my lips against hers, savoring the sweetness of her kiss as if it were the nectar of the gods. The taste of her was intoxicating, a blend of warmth and familiarity that made my heart swell. I lingered there, lost in the softness of her lips, my hands gently caressing her face, committing every detail of her to memory.

Slowly, I trailed kisses down her neck, my lips lingering on her pulse point. The sensation of her warm skin beneath my mouth was a caress to my senses, and I felt the urgency of our reunion deepen with every touch. Her breath quickened, mingling with mine, as I moved lower, pressing my lips to the delicate curve of her collarbone.

With trembling fingers, I worked at the laces of her dress, the fabric white and pure, reminiscent of the gown she had worn on our wedding day. As I loosened it, the dress fell away, revealing the soft, flawless skin beneath. My gaze was ravenous yet reverent, taking in every inch of her with a fervor that spoke of my adoration and longing.

I kissed her shoulders with a devotion that made each touch a silent vow. My lips traveled down her arms, leaving a trail of tender kisses that made her shiver with delight. Each kiss was an offering, a testament to the depth of my love for her. As I reached her breasts, I pressed my lips to the soft curves, my tongue exploring with a reverence that bordered on worship.

My kisses continued their journey down her stomach, lingering at the gentle rise and fall of her ribs, tracing the lines of her hips. I marveled at the warmth and softness of her skin, my hands following the path my lips had taken, reverently mapping every contour. The sensation of her skin beneath my touch was a heady mix of comfort and desire.

When I finally reached her most intimate place, I paused, my breath coming in ragged whispers. My heart raced with a powerful mix of longing and adoration. The moment was charged with an intensity I had yearned for during the long years apart, and I could feel the heat of her skin beneath my lips.

With a deep, reverent kiss, I pressed my lips against her, my tongue gently exploring the softness and warmth of her. Her taste was intoxicating, and the sensation made my entire body shiver with pleasure. I heard her gasp, a soft, breathless sound that urged me on.

Her hands gripped the sheets, and I could feel her hips moving subtly, seeking more of the contact she craved. "Harry," she moaned softly, her voice a desperate whisper of desire.

I looked up at her, my eyes filled with devotion and love. "You feel so incredible," I murmured, my voice thick with emotion. "I want you to know just how much I adore every part of you."

She responded with a breathless sigh, her body arching instinctively towards me. "Please, don't stop," she pleaded, her voice trembling with anticipation.

My kisses became more fervent, turning into reckless licks, my movements ever so insistent as I reveled in the sweet, warm taste of her. The sounds of our pleasure filled the room, a symphony of soft moans and urgent whispers that only deepened my desire.

I was consumed with a profound longing for her, a desire that had only grown more fervent over the long years apart. Every moment of our separation had amplified my need to show her the depth of my affection, to make her experience the boundless pleasure that only I could bestow. I was keenly aware of the passage of time and wondered if she had discovered any means to reach such ecstatic heights as I would now bring her. The thought of her satisfaction, the notion of her feeling pleasure as intensely as I had imagined, drove me to the brink of my restraint.

With my touch, I sought to awaken her senses, my fingers caressing her with an ever-gentle firmness, the warmth of my hands mingling with her soft skin. My other hand began a tender exploration, slipping slowly, reverently, into her most cherished sanctuary. Each movement was deliberate, intended to elicit the utmost response from her.

“You like that, my dearest?” I whispered, my voice thick with emotion and desire, my breath hot against her ear.

“Yes, I do,” she replied, her voice a melody of pleasure and anticipation, her breath catching in soft gasps.

“I am determined to make you feel nothing but bliss,” I continued, my heart pounding with the intensity of my commitment. “I wish to taste and honor this sacred chamber of Venus, to give you pleasure that will leave you breathless and yearning.”

I leaned closer, my lips finding their way to her most intimate folds. With tender, loving care, I began to explore her, each kiss a testament to my devotion, each touch a silent vow of my love. My goal was to bring her to the pinnacle of delight, to ensure that every sensation was as exquisite and overwhelming as possible, so that she might feel the depth of my longing and the fullness of my return.

In the quiet sanctuary of our shared chamber, a question lingered on my lips, charged with both tenderness and longing. “Did you pleasure yourself while I was gone” I inquired, my voice a gentle murmur.

Her reply came softly, laden with devotion and a hint of wistfulness. “No, my love. I awaited your return.”

Her words stirred something profound within me, an awakening of emotions that had lain dormant through the years of separation. I felt a deep, aching desire to make amends for all the time lost, to bestow upon her the pleasure that had been denied to both of us.

“I yearn for you to find your release, my dearest Y/N,” I said, my voice trembling with fervent intensity. “Release it all, love.”

As her body trembled with the aftershocks of her climax, I could feel the shudder of her release against my tongue. The sweetness of her pleasure was intoxicating, a testament to the depth of our connection. In that moment, I knew that we both craved something more profound, a union that would fulfill the yearning that had grown between us over the years.

With a fervent determination, I slowly withdrew, my breath ragged and my heart pounding with a mix of longing and anticipation. I positioned myself above her, our eyes meeting in a gaze filled with mutual desire and unspoken promises. The need to be fully united with her, to deepen our connection, surged within me.

Her gaze was filled with trust and desire, and I moved with a tenderness that spoke of my deep affection and longing. Slowly, deliberately, I entered her, feeling the warmth and softness envelop me and savoring the way she wrapped around me, the way she sighed my name as if it were a prayer.

“Harry,” she moaned, and I grew concerned, fearing that the unfamiliarity of my touch after so long might be causing her discomfort.

“Are you alright, my love?” I murmured, my voice low and tender, brushing a lock of hair from her face. Her eyes met mine, filled with a mix of pain and yearning.

“Just... a bit,” she replied, her voice trembling with the effort to contain her emotions.

I continued to move with gentle persistence, my hands exploring her body, seeking to soothe her discomfort. As I found a rhythm, she began to relax, her moans growing more fervent, more eager. The shift from discomfort to pleasure was evident in the way her body responded, and I felt a deep satisfaction in knowing that I was bringing her the release she had longed for.

“Tell me, my love,” I whispered, pressing my forehead to hers as we moved together, “how does it feel?”

“It feels... so much better,” she gasped, her nails digging into my shoulders as her body arched beneath me. “Harry, yes…”

“I want to give you more,” I said, my voice rough with emotion. “A family, a future... I want to watch you swell with our child, to retire from the battlefield and spend my days here, with you.”

Her breath hitched at my words, and her eyes shone with a mix of desire and longing. “Yes, Harry… I want that too,” she whispered, her voice a melody of affection and need.

As we continued, I found a rhythm that was both passionate and tender, the connection between us deepening with every movement. I kissed her lips, my hands roaming over her body, savoring the softness and warmth of her skin. Her eyes fluttered closed as she lost herself in the sensation, and I couldn’t help but marvel at the sheer intimacy of our union.

“I will plant my seed in you,” I vowed, my voice filled with raw emotion. “And you will carry our legacy. Our child will grow strong in your womb, just as our love has grown in this land.”

Her climax hit with a shuddering intensity, her body tightening around me as she cried out my name. The sound was both a release and an invitation, and I followed her over the edge, spilling into her with a groan that echoed my deepest feelings. In that moment, I imagined the life we would create together, the child that would be born of our union.

As we lay entwined in the soft embrace of our bed, the flickering candlelight cast a warm glow over our bodies. The silks beneath us were cool and comforting, a stark contrast to the heat of our passionate union. The scent of her, a delicate blend of lavender and the earthiness of our garden, filled the air and enveloped me, mingling with the aroma of our shared pleasure.

Her skin felt like silk against my fingertips as I traced lazy patterns across her shoulders and down her sides. Her breathing was slow and deep, a soft rhythm that matched the steady beat of my heart. Every sigh and murmur from her lips was a melody I’d missed more than I realized during our years apart.

“You look radiant,” I murmured, my voice thick with emotion as I gazed at her. Her hair was a tangled cascade of dark curls, spread across the pillow like a halo. Her eyes, still clouded with the remnants of our passion, sparkled with a light that seemed to illuminate the room. “I’ve dreamt of this moment for so long.”

She turned her head slightly to meet my gaze, her lips curved into a smile that was both teasing and tender. “And I’ve waited for it just as long,” she replied, her voice a soft caress. “You’re as wonderful as I remembered, Harry. I’m so proud of you, all you’ve accomplished. And this house—” she gestured vaguely around us, “—it’s been my joy to care for it, to make it a place where you could return and feel at home.”

Her fingers traced a gentle path along my chest, sending shivers of pleasure through me. I cupped her cheek, my thumb brushing across her soft skin, and leaned in to press a tender kiss to her forehead. “I’m proud of you too, for everything. For holding our home together while I was away, for your strength and your love. It means the world to me.”

Her eyes softened, and she nestled closer, her body pressed against mine in a way that made me acutely aware of the new life we had created together. “And now,” she whispered, her voice filled with awe and wonder, “we have something even greater to look forward to. I’m honored to carry our child, Harry.”

I let out a deep, contented sigh, my hands resting on her still-flat belly. “You’re going to be breathtakingly beautiful with our child growing inside you,” I said, my voice husky with anticipation. “I can already imagine the way you’ll glow, the way your body will flourish as you carry our little one. You’ll be radiant, like a goddess.”

Her laughter was soft and musical, a sound that filled me with an overwhelming sense of happiness. “I can’t wait to see you as a father,” she said, her eyes shining with love. “Our child will be so lucky to have you.”

I kissed her again, this time more deeply, my hands roaming over her curves with reverence. “And I can’t wait to watch our family grow,” I said. “I imagine them running through our garden, playing in the sun, filling our home with laughter and joy. We’ll watch them grow, teach them, love them. It will be a new adventure, one that I’m eager to begin.”

Her smile widened, and she traced a finger along my jawline, her touch light and playful. “And I’ll be right here with you, every step of the way. Together, we’ll build a life full of love and happiness.”

As we lay there, our bodies intertwined, the weight of the past seemed to lift from our shoulders. The wars, the battles, the bloodshed—they were behind us. What lay ahead was a new journey, one of love and life, and I knew that with her by my side, it was a victory I would cherish for all my days.

[lupinmoonlight]

Amortentia Part 2: You're mine

Masterlist AO3 Part one Part three Summary - After the incident with Professor Lupin, Y/N can't think clearly. She breaks curfew in the middle of the night and makes her way to Lupin's office. She ends up bent over his desk.

Note - This fiction is sexually explicit. All characters involved are assumed to be adults (university age, i.e., 20+). I am so nervous posting this as it is my first time writing explicit content. I hope you enjoy it. I was thinking of having a part 3 for the aftercare? Let me know what you think.

Warnings - teacher/student relationship, rough sex, mentions of bruising.

The rest of the day was a blur. Y/N could not focus on any of her classes. The scent of Amortentia was still filling her senses. The memories of Professor Lupin's lips on hers still vivid, his beard lightly scratching her soft skin, his hands all over her body as if he owned her. She felt dizzy. It was wrong. She knew it was wrong, but that's what made it feel right.

Y/N lingered in the Y/H common room until nightfall. Once everyone had gone to bed, she quietly made her way out. She felt a rush of adrenaline at the idea of breaking the rules. It was almost as if she was not in control of her own body, it was just guiding her towards what it needed the most.

Y/N tiptoed through the darkened hallways, her heart pounding with each step. As she approached the door to Professor Lupin's office, Y/N hesitated. She took a deep breath before knocking softly on the door.

A moment later, the door creaked open, revealing the man Y/N had been craving all day. Instead of his usual scholarly attire, Professor Lupin was wearing a simple grey pullover sweater and black jeans. His hair was tousled, and he had a hint of stubble on his chin, which added to his relaxed appearance.

"Miss Y/L/N? What are you doing out of bed at this hour?" he asked, concern etched on his face.

Y/N could not meet his gaze. A lump started forming in her throat and she didn't trust herself enough to speak. "I just wanted to see you..." she finally let out, her voice barely above a whisper.

Lupin's eyes darkened, his expression shifting from concern to desire. He remained silent for a moment before stepping aside and motioning for Y/N to come in.

Lupin led Y/N to his desk, his steps slow and measured. As they walked, there was an undeniable tension between them. Y/N was nervous, and Lupin's demeanour was serious and focused, adding to the tension in the air.

Once they reached his desk, Lupin turned to Y/N, his eyes searching her face. Y/N shifted uncomfortably under Lupin's intense gaze, feeling as if he was looking right into her soul.

"We can't do this, and we shouldn't have done it," Lupin said sternly, breaking the silence.

Y/N kept her eyes on the floor, knowing how right he was. She started regretting her decision of coming here.

Professor Lupin leaned in, his voice firm and commanding. "Look at me," he said, his eyes locked on her face.

Y/N's gaze flickered up to meet Lupin's, and for a moment, they were caught in his intense, penetrating gaze. Y/N felt a jolt of excitement and arousal, wondering what it was that Lupin was seeing in them, and what he might say next.

"Is this really what you want?" he asked, his tone serious.

Y/N nodded, unable to speak.

"I need to hear you," he commanded.

"Yes, Professor," she whispered. The words made his body tense with desire. He had to hear her consent because he knew that once he'd let himself have her, he wouldn't be able to stop.

He approached her slowly, his lips barely brushing past hers as he made his way down her neck, kissing and biting softly. Y/N was trembling with anticipation. The scent of him made her dizzy. Fresh parchment, wildflowers, chocolate. It was almost too much for her to take yet she needed more.

"Please," she begged, almost ashamed at how desperate she sounded. She could feel his arousal as he pressed his body against hers. His hands were rough and calloused, but they were gentle on her skin as he explored every inch of her body. She felt a shiver run down her spine as he kissed his way down her neck, his tongue tracing patterns over her collarbone. She moaned softly as he cupped her breast through her shirt, his thumb flicking over her hardened nipple.

"Fuck," he grunted. He was drunk on her. He wanted her to be his, he wanted to mark her so that no one else could have her.

In a rush of possessiveness, he bit her neck, leaving a harsh bruise. She gasped. "Please, I need-" she begged again, too flustered to finish her sentence.

"Say it," he commanded. "Tell me want you need."

"I need you. Please," she continued.

Before she could even finish her sentence, Lupin spun her around and pulled her close, pressing his hardness against her lower back. With one hand wrapped around her neck, he slowly began to lower her trousers, his fingers trailing along her skin. Y/N felt her breath catch in her throat as she waited to see what would happen next.

She heard Lupin unbutton his jeans and gasped as she was roughly bent over his desk. His movements were urgent. He needed her just as much as she needed him. One of his hands moved to Y/N's hips, steadying her as she tried to push back into him.

Y/N moaned as she felt a wet finger pressing against her entrance, slowly entering her. He tried to prepare her as good as he could, but her moans became almost unbearable. Without wasting any more time, he positioned himself at her entrance, grabbing her hips with both hands.

Y/N felt a wave of heat wash over her body as Lupin pushed himself inside of her, moaning at the light sting she felt from being stretched. He stayed still for a moment, allowing her to get use to his length. Her breathing became heavy. "Are you okay?" he asked, a hint of concern in his voice. "More, please Professor," she replied, her tone desperate.

All the self-control Lupin had been trying to maintain escaped him as the words left her mouth. "You're gonna take it then," he said as he grabbed a handful of her hair and began thrusting into her with force. "You're mine," he whispered in her ears as he pulled her against his chest. Y/N shivered at his words. The professor she knew to be so kind and soft was now rough and dominant, marking her body. "Yes, Professor," she moaned in response.

Lupin continued to thrust into Y/N mercilessly, the words almost pushing him over the edge. She gasped as he pushed her back onto his desk, grabbing her hips harshly to keep her in place. His thrusts became harder and harder, each stroke taking Y/N closer to the edge of pleasure. It was almost too much and Y/N felt her body trembling as she reached her climax.

"I'm gonna fill you up," he growled as he continued to pound into her. In one final thrust, he buried himself as deep as he could, reaching his climax and finishing inside of Y/N. She could feel him pulse as he filled her with his seed.

Lupin stilled and stayed inside of her for while, both trying to catch their breath. His hands were still holding her hips in a bruising grip. The pleasure was so intense, Lupin realized he had not even bothered undressing Y/N or himself. It was rough and fast, but it was what they both needed.

Y/N whimpered as Lupin slowly pulled out of her and released her hips from his firm grip. She already felt empty. She stayed there, bent over his desk, as if she was waiting for his command to move. Lupin felt ashamed at how easily he lost control with her. He stepped back and pulled his jeans back up as he admired the marks he had left on her body.

"Hey," he said softly. His heart sank when she didn't respond. "Are you okay?" he asked, his voice filled with concern as he gently pulled her trousers back up. Y/N nodded. She could not form a proper answer, still overwhelmed by what had just happened.

Lupin leaned in and carefully lifted her up from his desk, turning her to face him. "Look at me," he said softly as he lifted her chin to meet his gaze. "Did I hurt you?" he asked.

Y/N shook her head "Just a little sore," she whispered, avoiding his eyes. She was a little ashamed at how much she enjoyed being manhandled like that.

Lupin leaned in and pressed his lips against hers. This time, the kiss was gentle, loving, comforting. It felt like home.

"I should head back to my dorm," Y/N said after pulling away, a hint of regret in her voice.

He knew she was right, but he couldn't live with the guilt of just using her for his own personal desires. He should have remained in control, but the attraction was too strong. There was something more to this. He cared about her.

"I can't let you go like that," he answered, his tone serious. "Let me take care of you," he continued as he led her to his chambers.

[literary-illuminati]

2024 Book Review #9 – The Devourers by Indra Das

I was recommended this as an example of a contemporary work where werewolves are actually treated as monstrous and horrifying instead of either romance fodder or one interchangeable variety of supernatural in an urban fantasy kitchen sink. In one sense that was a blatant lie (the monsters are only werewolves in the vaguest sense), but in another one I care about much more it fit the bill perfectly. Funnily enough it basically is a romance (or at least, the overarching framing narrative is), but for once I’m not complaining about that. Excellent read, though does require a bit of a strong stomach.

The framing narrative follows Alok, a history professor in Kolkata whose approached by a mysterious stranger at a festival. The stranger identifies himself as a half-werewolf, an immortal man-eating shapechanger. In between being mysterious and menacing and flirting with Alok, he hires him to transcribe and digitize two historical werewolf manuscripts – journals etched into parchment made from human skin. Those journals are the meat of the narrative, and it rapidly becomes clear they are written by the stranger’s parents; first the ancient norse werewolf who had wandered all the way to the banks of the Yamuna, then the human woman he fell into something like love with and raped as she travels alongside one of his former packmates and hunts him down.

The framing device is the emotional heart of this, and incredibly well interwoven with the manuscript sections. It’s fundamentally a romance, though one somewhat interestingly devoid of real conflict or plot (well, from Alok’s perspective. There’s a whole emotional journey with him going from ‘future food’ to ‘romantic partner’, he just only gets small glimpses of it). There’s I think one real argument or point of conflict between the two of them across the entire book? And maybe one or two points besides that where Alok or their relationship encounters genuine difficulty or danger. Despite that, and despite (or perhaps because of) the ambiguous ending, it all just very much worked for me.

It’s also interesting – and the book does really call this out – that the whole plot is essentially arbitrary. The inciting incident is just a werewolf being angsty and lonesome, and the entire story and all its stakes are strictly interpersonal with nary an epochal revelation or looming existential doom to be seen. It is a sign of how much of my reading diet is genre fiction that this felt like a massive breath of fresh air, I think.

Speaking of love – the book is deeply and intensely preoccupied with the closeness of and overlaps between love and sex and pain and violation and consumption and death. Werewolves consume souls and memories as well as flesh, knowing and even becoming (for a time) those they hunt. This extends to each other as well – regeneration means mating and fighting to the death is an impossibly thin an frequently crossed line, and intimacy and memories are shared by literally allowing someone to take a bit out of you. Izrail kills and consumes both his mother and his father, and this is the only way he ever truly knows either of them. Both he and his father have fallen in love with whole strings of humans across the ages, and each been the ruin of all but one of them. This extends into the use of language as well – I didn’t take notes as I read, but the example that sticks in my mind was the description of one werewolf pressing a mush of chewed flesh into the mouth of another so he might heal as being ‘like a gentle kiss’.

It is just an intensely gory book in general, really. Or not even gory so much as carnal, in the older broader sense. There’s blood and viscera and sweat and sex and piss and shit and tallow made from human fat and game animals eaten bloody and raw. All of it seamlessly intermixed in one richly detailed and incredibly pungent sensory world the book conjures up for you.. This is taken to an extreme whenever the primordial god-monsters that are a shapeshifter’s second soul appears on screen, but even beyond that – like when I say you need a bit of strong stomach to enjoy the book, I really don’t’ just mean in terms of violence.

This ties in a bit with the lack of grand, world-shaking stakes I mentioned but – the book makes excellent use of its period piece sections to really sell this feeling of the weight of history and of being caught up in the wake of events larger than you can perceive. The 17th century sections really nail the sense of the past as its own living, breathing world full of richness and contradictions, rather than just a slate for the present’s psychodrama. Also it’s possibly the first book I’ve ever read which really mentioned the surprisingly widespread and violent history of werewolf hunts in Europe, which I appreciated.

The shapeshifters (werewolves, rakshassa, djinn, ghuls) themselves are absolutely great. Horrifying and disgusting and sublime, with exactly as much detail given as the story needs without succumbing to rpg splatbook syndrome. The idea of werewolves as things which are deliberately created through a(n incredibly violent and traumatizing) ritual process is one I don’t think I’ve seen before? It works here, anyway – though instead of a hereditary curse or contagious infection, it leaves shapeshifters feeling like one of those elite, elevated fraternities who put new inductees through a hell of physical, social and sexual violence for hazing and indoctrination purposes (the usual modern versions being military units, sports teams, and just actual fraternities). Which ties into all those themes of the fine line between love and violence, I suppose.

Or well, not technically fraternity – werewolves are all functionally genderfuild (can take a big nap and wake up looking like whoever they ate last) and while their second selves can fuck I’m not sure either human genders or, like, genital arrangements apply to them. But 3/4 of the werewolves who get any lines are one caricature or another of masculinity and this absolutely informs how the condition and culture are presented. So like, I’ll just go with it.

Anyway, great book! And ‘abuse regeneration by sewing dozens upon dozens of bones and trophies taken from prey into your skin’ is a great look for a werewolf’s human form.

[alicenthightowerrp]

Gathering Delicacies

--- starter with @rideroftheredqueen

It had not been her first choice to begin such a secretive mission; one that she had even kept her children from being privy to. A large part of her desired to fall back on the plan she and the Queen who never was had formed but she could not do such a thing; a moment of weakness was not something the Dowager Queen could afford. It had brought her a small amount of comfort to bring one of the esteemed King's guard; Ser Rickard Thorne with her. Delicately, Alicent reached for the parchment that had made itself at home on her large, wooden desk that held many trinkets. The list of ingredients as well as other delicacies, such as flowers and silk were listed in her sweet, looped handwriting.

A soft sigh escaped her as Alicent began to fold the piece of paper before placing it in her cloak. It was not something the Queen often worn and had only done so once in the past when Helaena had not settled but the cold evening air seemed to do the trick. A smile tugged on her lips at those memories as she buttoned the cloak with ease; the hood falling down her back for now. The soft lilac colour of the Queen's dress followed her as she gracefully moved towards her bed. The gold, seven pointed star laid in the setting sun light as her fingers itched to take it. Alas, just as the green was removed from her attire; as were the religious markings the Queen was known for. Alicent did not understand the slow wave of near peace as she gently placed the jewel - her mother's jewel away for safe keeping.

"Your grace - the Princess Rhaenys." Rickard's deep, familiar voice came into her chambers and Alicent realised she had been staring out of the window longer than she thought. "Yes, let her in." Alicent ordered as her hands slowly brushed down her sides as if the non-existent wrinkles would return. The Queen placed her hands behind her back as she stepped forward to the middle of the room to greet her guest.

Alicent had allowed herself one comfort for the trip; her mother's gold ring that she began to play with as the large, wooden door etched with Targaryen history opened.

[helenablogsworld]

Echoes of Romance in Abandoned Libraries

The damp air hung thick as the twilight settled over the crumbling estate, its ivy-covered walls blending into the darkened woods. A single lantern flickered along the cobblestone path, casting long, trembling shadows that reached like skeletal hands toward the sky. At the heart of the estate stood the library, once the crown jewel of a forgotten scholar's life, now an untouched relic of time’s passage.

Annabelle’s footsteps were light, almost reverent, as she crossed the threshold of the library. Dust motes danced in the beams of fading sunlight that poured through cracked, leaded glass windows. The scent of ancient parchment and decaying leather filled her lungs, a familiar comfort that had drawn her back, time and again, to this forsaken place.

For years, no one came here. The great minds who once haunted these halls had passed into oblivion, leaving only their thoughts etched into brittle volumes. But Annabelle, an outcast from the nearby village, found solace among the forgotten books. There was peace in their silence, and something more—an unseen presence, a whispering that only began when the room was still.

She paused before a tall, creaking shelf, her fingers trailing over the spines of aged volumes. Her heart quickened as she reached the familiar book, its leather binding worn and soft. Letters on the Philosophy of Love, read the title, embossed in fading gold. She hesitated before pulling it free, her hand trembling slightly. Every time she opened its pages, she felt the touch of someone long gone. A phantom of intellect and passion.

The book fell open to a page marked by a single dried rose. Beneath it, an inscription caught her eye, penned in a sharp, elegant hand: To the one who dares seek truth through love.

Annabelle’s breath caught in her throat. She had never seen this before. With trembling fingers, she turned the page and found something strange—a letter folded and pressed flat against the yellowing paper. The wax seal was unbroken. Her pulse raced as she slid her thumb beneath the seal, breaking it with a soft crack.

The letter was brief, but each word seemed to echo in the stillness:

"If you have found this, then you are not alone. The truth of love's secrets lies not in philosophy, but in the heart of those brave enough to seek it. I have waited in these shadows, and I will wait for you still. Midnight, by the lantern's light, beneath the elm in the west garden. Follow the echo, and find me."

Her heart pounded. The ink was fresh, as though written yesterday, yet the library had been abandoned for decades. She glanced toward the windows, where night had fully descended. The west garden, long overgrown with thorny brambles and wild roses, beckoned her with the promise of mystery.

Without another thought, she grabbed the lantern from the desk and hurried outside, her breath catching in the cold night air. The estate loomed around her, its cracked stone walls bathed in the pale glow of the moon. The path to the west garden was narrow and hidden beneath the tangle of vines and branches, but she knew it well—every corner, every twist, as if it had been etched into her very soul.

As she reached the clearing, her breath caught. Beneath the towering elm, an ancient lantern flickered, though no one stood beside it. She stepped closer, the crunch of dead leaves beneath her feet the only sound. Her eyes searched the shadows, waiting for a figure to emerge.

But there was no one.

Instead, the wind carried a voice, faint and distant, like the echo of a memory.

"You’ve come."

Annabelle froze. The words drifted through the air like a whisper, as if the wind itself spoke to her. She turned in every direction, seeking the source, but found only the stillness of the night.

The lantern’s flame flickered wildly, casting erratic shadows on the ground. Her pulse quickened, the thrill of the unknown coursing through her veins.

"Who are you?" she called out, her voice barely more than a breath.

"A scholar, once. A lover, once. But forgotten, like all who pass through these halls. And you? You seek truth where love lingers—among the forgotten."

The voice was closer now, as though it swirled around her, a presence without form. Annabelle’s heart beat wildly in her chest. She felt a strange pull, as if the very earth beneath her feet beckoned her closer to the elm.

"What truth?" she whispered.

There was silence for a long moment. Then, the voice returned, softer, almost tender.

"That love, like knowledge, does not die. It echoes, long after its time has passed. And those who dare seek it shall find it, even in the quietest places. Even here, in the shadows of forgotten libraries."

Annabelle’s eyes filled with tears, though she could not say why. The presence was close now—she could feel it, like a hand reaching through the veil of time. She pressed her palm against the rough bark of the elm, her heart aching with the weight of something she could not name.

"Do you hear it?" the voice asked, barely audible.

"Yes," she whispered.

"Then listen. You will always find me in the echoes."

And as the lantern’s light faded, leaving her alone beneath the stars, Annabelle stood in the silence, listening to the echoes of a love long forgotten, yet never lost.

[cloaksandcapes]

Here's something to dangle in front of your players with regrets of the past they'd like to change! :)

Scroll of Yesterday

Wondrous Item, legendary

“An elegant silver scroll case that was made with care and passion by a master craftsman. Etched into this case is a mural of countless historical moments of tragedy on a grand scale. Inside of the case is a single black piece of parchment.”

This powerful scroll can be used to travel back in time, up to the date of your birth. But the incantation to use it is hidden in celestial ink upon an infernal parchment. In order to read the incantation, you must spend an hour studying the scroll and make a DC 20 Religion or Arcana check, which you can attempt once a day. Every failed attempt decreases the DC by 1. In addition, each time you fail the check you gain 1 level of exhaustion.

Once the incantation is known, anyone may hold the scroll and use an action to speak it aloud. The text on the scroll glows and the scroll burns away. Whoever spoke the incantation is whisked away through time and space to a point of tragedy or regret in their past. They remain there for 10 minutes, and whatever they do may have an effect on the future. After 10 minutes, they are sent back to the point in time they left, taking 1d10 psychic damage for every 10 years into the past they traveled.

History Repeats. Once the scroll has been used, the case will create a new one in 1d100 years.

Divine Obfuscation. The true nature of this magic item cannot be discerned by the identify spell. Any attempt to do so only reveals a cloudy notion of regret, tragedy, and the heavy ticking of a clock. If the legend lore is used on this magic item, it shows memories of others interacting with versions of themselves at different ages.

If you enjoy our content, please support our team of four on Patreon. Get access to over 700+ Magic Items, monsters, tokens, subclasses and more.

[thefandomwritersblog]

Ghost of the Ten Horizon: Forbidden West Hekarro x Fem!OldOne OC Action/Adventure/Romance/Hurt/Comfort Chapter 18

Part 3: Ghost of the Ten

"It’s like he’s picking up parts of the world and showing them to me, saying, 'See? It’s beautiful.'." - Cath Crowley, Words in Deep Blue.

~~

Victoria found herself missing coffee.

Like a lot.

It sat like an ache in her bones and left her craving the familiar ritual and comfort it provided. Memories flooded her mind of Saturday mornings at the ranch, where Mama Maria would wake before sunrise to prepare the first pot of the day. The aroma would drift up to Victoria's bedroom and rouse her from sleep, so she could stumble down to the kitchen with her cousins and savor a cup before starting the day's work. She also missed that first cup after returning from a deployment, waking up in her own bed to the automatic brew set for 6:30 AM—a habit ingrained in her blood now.

A habit she was paying for as the sun began to break through the broken ceiling of her bedroom, shafts of light streaming across the walls and floor. Victoria couldn't help but lament the loss of that morning ritual. The loss of that familiar comfort even as birds sang their cheerful morning songs and the soft murmur of conversation began to echo through the halls of the museum—or The Grove, as the Tenakth liked to call it.

Victoria threw back the thin blanket with a grumble and ran a hand through the tangled mess of her hair as she sat up. The sun was barely up, and it was beyond humid as hell—a heat that clung to her skin and left her covered in sticky sweat. No matter where she went, it seemed to follow her, and more than once now she lamented the loss of precious, precious air conditioning. With another heavy sigh, she stood, her eyes flickering to the door just as the soft scuffle of footsteps stopped in front of her curtain.

Right on time. As usual.

“Victoria, can I come in?”

She huffed, annoyed but impressed that Beta seemed to have memorized when Victoria woke up now. “Yeah.” She grumbled back, standing to stretch, “Whatever.”

Beta entered the room with a warm smile and handed Victoria a tray of food—the same seared meat and broth that she had been eating every morning for weeks now. Victoria blinked at the thought, trying to remember exactly how long it had been since she woke up. She frowned when she was unable to count the exact days, like her memory was fogged with nothing but flashes of grief cutting through it. The same ache that still sat in her heart even now.

Pushing those thoughts aside, she reached for the tray and settled back on the bed to eat. Beta plopped down next to her, placing something heavy between them. Victoria looked curiously at the leather-bound journal and took a bite of her food before picking it up to examine it. The craftsmanship was impressive, with a strong and sturdy leather cover and clean parchment pages inside. The front cover even had intricate geometric designs etched into it.

"It's a journal!" Beta exclaimed happily at Victoria's curious expression, and Victoria had to bite her tongue to keep from making a sarcastic remark. "I asked Petra if she could make something similar to her big book she always carries around."

Victoria took another bite of her food before flipping through the pages of the journal “So, what? I’m just supposed to write in it now, like some kind of ‘Dear Diary’ bullshit?”

Beta nodded, “Exactly!” She chewed on the inside of her cheek as she looked to the closed curtain across the room. “I was just thinking that maybe having something to write down and organize your thoughts with might be helpful.”

Victoria bit down on her tongue again, holding back the bitterness that lingered there. Tried to remind herself that Beta was a fucking kid who just wanted to help. It didn’t ease the anger and hurt, however. So she just set aside the journal and finished her food. She offered Beta quick glance as they sat side by side in silence until Victoria couldn’t take it anymore and shattered it.

“We never finished our talk last time.”

Beta looked thoughtful for a moment before she nodded, “I didn't want to push you too much, especially since you were upset. I figured if you wanted to know more, you’d bring it up again.”

"I'm feeling talkative today," Victoria grumbled as she finished her food and placed the empty tray aside. “So… Zero Dawn isn’t a superweapon, it’s a terraforming system?”

“Yup. Controlled by a fully functioning AI called GAIA. She was built by Elisabet Sobek and team of the worlds leading scientists at the time. Each scientist had responsibility for one aspect of GAIA's functions to keep the system running after…after everyone else was gone."

“And it took a thousand years for us to get to this point?” Victoria gestured to the ruins around them.

"More or less," Beta replied. "After Zero Day, when GAIA Prime's facility was sealed off, it took almost sixty years to completely shut down the swarm. It took another forty or so to successfully start a functioning biosphere. And it wasn't until almost a hundred and fifty years later that humans were reintroduced back to earth."

Victoria let out a sharp breath, tears welling up in her eyes once again. She didn't understand why she kept torturing herself like this. Listening to the demise of everything she loved, as if reliving it would somehow free her from the nightmare. By the time the Swarm had reached the US, most of humanity had already been wiped out. She remembered the suffocating feeling of being trapped in a protective suit just to step outside. It was foolish and futile to think that mankind could have survived. They hadn't even lasted two years, let alone sixty needed to even start.

And that knowledge, that painful truth, was enough to break Victoria in all new ways.

She eventually raised a brow and gestured towards Beta, "What about you? Don’t get me wrong, the grungy scrubs are a vibe but they don't exactly fit the tribal aesthetic."

“Do you remember the Odyssey?”

"The luxury colony ship that exploded while leaving Earth's orbit?" Beta looked away anxiously, and Victoria felt a sinking feeling in her stomach. "Oh, you can't be serious."

"Surprise…" Beta tried to joke weakly.

Victoria jumped to her feet and paced back and forth in anger, running a hand through her hair as hysterical laughter escaped her lips. "This is like something out of a science fiction nightmare!" She turned to face Beta, "So you grew up in the Sirius System?"

“I was technically cloned on a ship that returned to Earth from the Sirius System.”

There was a long, awkward silence, then —“What?”

Beta cleared her throat, but still nodded “I’m a clone. Of Doctor Elisabet Sobek. I was created During the return voyage from Sirius.”

Victoria didn’t have any real answer for that except another —”What?!”

“Look, it’s a long story, and I don’t think we need to really overwhelm you with all the details yet—”

“Victoria?” Beta paused and both of them turned to the curtained doorway, “May I come in?”

Hekarro's impeccable timing saved Beta from having to continue the conversation. She looked visibly relieved as Victoria scowled at her and muttered under her breath, "We are not finished talking about this." With a scowl, she replied loudly, "Yeah, whatever!"

Hekarro ducked into the room right as a mischievous glint crossed Beta's face. She jumped off the bed, holding out the empty journal for Victoria with a grin. "Tell you what: start writing in this and I'll tell you more! Bye, Victoria!

As Beta dashed out of the room, Hekarro couldn't help but smile while Victoria just scowled after her.

With a tired sigh, Victoria plopped back down on the bed and gave Hekarro a cold stare. "Chief," she greeted stiffly, to which he responded with a slight dip of his head and hand over his heart. "What do you want?"

He hesitated briefly, a movement too quick for her to catch if she hadn’t already been paying close attention. "Several squads are out patrolling today, so the Grove will be less crowded than usual. I wanted to know if you would like to accompany me on my rounds. Explore more of the Grove. That is, of course, if you feel up to it."

The memory of their last walk flashed through her mind – lying in the meadow, watching the stars and just… talking to each other. In this new world, it the only moment of happiness she really had. And that terrified her, even if she couldn’t explain why. Victoria eventually shrugged and sighed, rubbing the tension from her neck.

"Why not," she muttered under her breath. "I could use a distraction."

A rush of warmth spread across her face at the pleased expression on his handsome features, and she couldn't help but fight back a smile that tugged at her own lips. In one graceful motion, she stood and made her way towards the door, Hekarro following closely behind. Instead of turning towards the main hall, he veered left this time, leading her towards the back of the museum. The morning sun had risen above the horizon, casting its harsh light over the bustling crater filled with workers scurrying about like busy ants. As they reached a wooden overlook, the pair stood in silence and watched the scene from a distance. It was a surreal sight. The last she’d seen of this exhibit had been during the height of Operation: Enduring Victory, and before that when the museum had been filled with tourists. Now it was almost a shell of its former self, repurposed to fit the needs of the Tenakth.

“An arena?” She asked, unprompted. Hekarro nodded,

“I needed a proving ground for Marshal’s of my own.”

"You really did just take everything you could and make it your own, didn't you?" The words came out sharper than Victoria intended, but Hekarro didn't seem bothered as she glanced at him. There was a contemplative look on his face as he observed the activity below before speaking,

"We must seem like children to you," He sounded almost amused, "We grasp at any remnant of our lost history and repurpose it to fit our present needs, even if it strays from its intended purpose." He gestured towards the crater-turned-arena and chuckled. Victoria shrugged

“I just find it funny is all.”

Hekarro backed away from the edge of the overlook and began a leisurely stroll along the wall of the arena while she easily matched his stride. They passed by banners hanging in the makeshift stands, bringing splashes of color and life to the desolate landscape that had been destroyed by the Swarm.

"Why do you find this idea amusing?"

Victoria hesitated before responding, trying to have a little tact despite usually hammer-fisting her way through every social interaction. "I guess it's just interesting how some things never change for humans. Your tribe finds significance in ruins from my time, much like my people found meaning in ruins that were already thousands of years old. It's almost like how a Marshal is to you like how Rome was to my people."

“Different, yet strangely familiar.” Hekarro observed, “It must be unsettling to witness your own past being utilized in such new and unfamiliar ways. And to see the impact it has had on the world around it.” He turned to face her with a concerned expression, “If it brings any comfort, our intentions were never to offend, but rather to pay homage. We simply didn't fully comprehend the truth before us.”

“Was it willful ignorance on your part?” He blinked at her question, furrowed his brow, and shook his head.

“No, the truth was kept from us, and… I grieve for the future that was denied to us because of it.”

Victoria shrugged once more as they arrived at the next doorway, both of them turning to a passageway that led further into the Tenakth's architectural blend of past ruins. She let out a small huff at the sight and Hekarro's sentiment. "It's not entirely your fault," she pointed out, taking the lead this time and strolling down the ramp away from the arena and into the heart of the intricately crafted wooden platforms and walkways. She observed everything the Tenakth had built in the ruins of the museum. A few Tenakth were scattered about, talking and laughing in sheltered shadows from the morning heat. They glanced curiously at her as she passed by, quickly averting their gazes when they noticed their chief close behind. Victoria paused in the shadows of a particularly tall walkway that opened up to a second level above, sighing softly. “The only thing that matters, I guess, is what you plan on doing with the truth now that you know it.”

“And therein lies the issue at hand.” Hekarro said as he joined her. He too gazed up at all that his people had built before he turned that piercing gazed of his to her. “You’ve changed everything by simply surviving the impossible. Are my people even ready for that truth? Will they ever be? If they refuse it, where does that leave you?”

“Ignorance is bliss, sometimes.” Victoria grunted, "I wouldn't blame them for choosing it."

God knows she had tried, but unlike the Tenakth, Victoria didn’t have a choice but to accept the truth for what it was. With them? Everything could be twisted and warped to make sense.

“And if they choose denial? They already worship Anne as a deity, finding strength and solace in her. If they were to view you in a similar light…"

“I was never much for godhood.” She shook her head, “I don’t have that much of an ego.”

“What of a guide then?” Hekarro asked. Victoria hesitated, furrowing her brow as she crossed her arms. He raised his hands in a calming gesture, remaining composed even as he sensed her irritation. "If not to my tribe, then at least to me. Teach me everything, so that I may guide them."

It was an odd proposition for Victoria, as she had woken up without any purpose or direction. Before, all she cared about was survival - her own and that of her family - even as the Swarm continued to consume everything around them. But now, being asked to guide others felt like a slap in the face. Why her? What wisdom did she have that could be beneficial to Hekarro and his people? She felt like a ghost haunting her past life, a useless relic that didn't belong in this new world. In her darkest moments, she contemplated ending it all by jumping from the roof of this ruined monument of death and war, just to escape the guilt eating away at her from within. Why was she chosen to live and guide when it could have been Anne?

Anne, the peacekeeper. Anne, the devoted colonel. Anne, who gave her all to the people but not to her own daughter.

Anne, who had condemned Victoria to this hell.

Anne, who would have been more suited for this role.

Victoria dismissed her spiraling thoughts and shook her head. "I'm not sure what I could possibly offer your tribe that would be of value," she said.

"Considering all that was stolen from us?" His gaze locked onto hers, piercing through to the very depths of her being. It stole her breath away, leaving her lost in the intense warmth of his honey-brown eyes. "Everything."

It was terrifying how she believed him. Even more scary as she wordlessly nodded her head and sighed, “Well, alright then.” She almost scoffed in amusement, “Lesson one, I guess.”

Victoria gestured to the ruins around her as she started to walk again, following the path outside the cramped ante-chamber before the arena and outside the museum proper to the road overlooking the jungle, “Do you know why this place was built.”

“From my limited understanding, this is a memorial to the Ten. A place where their deeds and stories are preserved.”

Hekarro matched her slow pace as they walked slowly down that path back towards the museum entrance. He kept his gaze level to the tree line, observant and stern. Victoria didn’t notice anything when she looked, but he was more suited to the environment that she was anyway. She gave him a curt nod at his answer.

"That's the general idea. These 'Ten' were actually members of Joint Task Force 10, a branch of the US Air Force that still utilized human pilots. Their presence in this museum is just one small part of a much larger history. Have you listened to many of the exhibits?"

Hekarro nodded as they climbed back up the stairs into the main part of the museum, passing by flickering holograms in the shadows. "Recently, yes. But until a few months ago, most of them were broken or damaged. That's why our understanding of what's preserved here is limited."

“Then you must have heard about “The Hot Zone Crisis” mentioned several times?” Again, Hekarro nodded as they made their way through the hallways and back into the main antechamber before Hekarro's throne. Victoria paused in front of Anne's exhibit, standing still and silent with a frown on her face. “Anne grew up during that time. Our family home isn't far from here, just a few days' walk at best. She met my father while she was serving in the military, and witnessed firsthand how terrible the crisis was. Climate change was spiraling out of control, with nearly all areas in this region becoming uninhabitable due to extreme heat and droughts that were unforgivable. In 2036, our federal government issued an extremely controversial executive order. On paper, it was an attempt to limit the impact of the Hot Zone. They wanted to use their power to force people off their land and into temporary housing until a better solution could be found.”

“Forced?” Hekarro asked, his brow furrowed in concern.

“The federal government had the right of Eminent Domain, which allowed them to take control of certain land under certain circumstances. But at the time, many people in the Hot Zone saw it as a way for the government to seize their land and resources while forcing them to live in fenced-in camps. People refused to leave, and who could blame them? This was their home, no matter how difficult it was to live there. And the loudest voice against Order 73-H was Roberto Medina. He defied the federal government and used all his wealth and profits to provide proper housing for those who chose to stay on their land.”

“I can’t imagine your government was pleased about that.”

“They weren’t” Victoria shook her head, “And in response, the federal government cut off the Hot Zone from all water sources.”

“They’d rather let their own people die from the heat than allow them to stay?!”

“To prove a point and force obedience? Absolutely. And it only gave credence to the claims that the government didn’t care about the people. They just wanted the land. And that really lit a fire under people, and Medina reached out to outside sources to secure water for the Hot Zone. He signed a huge multiyear deal with a water cartel and he asked the Colonel of JTF 10, Edward De La Hoya, to not only protect the mining claims but to protect the water resources. It turned into the first armed conflict on American Soil since the Civil War some 200 years before that. US Robot command sent out drones force Medina and his allies into submission, and when JTF 10 proved just as capable of keeping up with the worlds most sophisticated AI, it turned deadly.”

"I wish I could say I was surprised that it escalated so quickly." Hekarro muttered, his gaze shifting towards Anne's exhibit.

"Some tried to prevent it from getting this far," Victoria commented, gesturing towards the exhibit. "Anne was one of them, and so was my father. They didn't believe that fighting would solve anything. When their call for peaceful resolution went unheard they instead focused on helping refugees - relocating those who wanted to leave the conflict zone or providing aid for those staying behind."

“An honorable cause.”

"A cause that got my father killed," she muttered, her eyes cast down to the sand before she turned and walked up the nearby stairs towards Hekarro's throne. She passed through the holograms into the backrooms, with the sound of her boots echoing off the walls until she finally reached the wooden overlook above the arena. "At some point, US Robot Command decided to launch a strike against Medina and his allies at their headquarters in an attempt to end the conflict once and for all. No one knows exactly what happened, but it's theorized that a JTF-10 munition struck a powering casing of a General Synthetic drone and caused a fission explosion." She pointed down into the crater. "That is all that remains of the base, of Medina, De La Hoya and his unit, and the nine hundred innocent people sheltered at the nearby refugee camp. Nine hundred lives lost, including my father's."

There was a long silence as Hekarro stood by her side. She fought back tears and looked at him. He met her gaze with steady empathy. She wanted to hate him, but couldn't find it in her heart.

"Do you see why I despise this place?" she asked, shaking her head in frustration. "It took everything from me before I was even born. It killed a man I never had the chance to meet - only heard about in stories that my Anne refused to tell me. It changed the woman who gave birth to me, who pushed me away in favor of her duty and pursuit of peace because it's what my father stood for. And even worse, it continued to take until it became my prison for a thousand years. This is not just a place of honor, Hekarro, but a monument to death and loss. Because war does not leave a lasting record of whether it was fought for noble purpose or if it was justified. All that remains in history are the innocent lives taken by war."

Victoria could feel the weight of her anger hanging between them, thick and heavy. She noticed a distant and far-away look in his eyes, as if he was lost in a painful memory. But then his focus shifted back to her, meeting her intense gaze with a softness that caught her off guard. "Thank you," he said, dipping his head slightly and sending his long hair cascading over his shoulder. His hand rested over his heart as he spoke. "For sharing this with me. I understand that it cannot be easy to live here. Constantly reliving these painful memories each day. I am sorry if my desires have caused you more pain."

She couldn't stand how genuine he was being. She wiped at her tears furiously, "A trade then?” She said, almost chuckling as she asked of him the very same thing he’d asked of her not that long ago. A question for a question. Does that sound fair?”

Hekarro's chuckled at that, it’s warmth setting alit a nervous flutter in Victoria’s gut. She turned away from him, hoping to hide the tell-tale blush on her cheeks. "A fair trade," he chimed in, following her as she walked back to her quarters. They were down the hall when she saw Beta emerge from Victoria’s room, clutching a few tools to her chest while another woman, who bore a striking resemblance to Beta, followed shortly after. The pair of them froze when they noticed Victoria and Hekarro, but turned to exchange knowing smirks.

“It’s all set!” Called Beta.

She turned to Hekarro, confused and irritated, but found him gazing warmly at her, a wicked smirk on his face that quirked a corner of his mouth. With an elegant gesture, he held open the curtain to her door and motioned for her to enter first. As they stepped inside, Victoria's breath caught in wonder. Orchid vines cascaded from the ceiling, their delicate petals caressed by sun rays peeking through the damaged roof. The vibrant colors of orange, pink, red and purple danced in the light. Hekarro stood behind her, still smiling when she turned to face him.

"You planned this," she said, shocked. "You asked me to go for a walk just to get me out of my room."

"I admit my deceit," he said with a hint of mischief in his gaze. Victoria wanted nothing more than to wipe that smug grin off his handsome face. Instead, she scowled at him, hoping her face wasn't as red as it felt. "I wasn't sure if we could plant orchids in the trees above your room, but once Aloy and Beta assured me it was possible, I agreed to distract you so we could surprise you."

“Why?”

He bent down and picked up an orchid that had fallen to the floor. He held it out to her. "I gave them to you because I noticed how much you liked them," he explained, his voice gentle and sincere. "and because I wanted to give you something that brings joy instead of sorrow." She accepted the flower, it’s petals soft beneath her fingertips "There is still beauty in this world, Victoria, even amidst all the pain," he whispered, his hand tenderly resting on her wrist as he gazed at her with warmth in his eyes that took her breath away. "And I want to show you every bit of it."

With a final smile, Hekarro excused himself and left the room, leaving Victoria speechless and awestruck. She returned to her bed and laid down, looking up at the swaying orchids above her as she held onto the stray bud in wonder.

And in that moment, the world seemed a little more colorful than it did before.

[onyx666]

☽◯☾ let the moon settle you ☽◯☾

chapter 2

pairing : finnick odair x black fem!reader

warnings : none

don’t hesitate to click on the links （＾ν＾）(underlined text)

Roses are simple flowers. They've always been and always will be, except in Eleven, especially the white ones. Growing in the wilderness here, they're saved for children. At least, that was the case for Jalen. Withholding the symbolism of purity, innocence, and childhood in their color, they rose from the ground to land on top of those kids' graves, burying every strand of hope in their path. It all made sense when you saw them hanging on the Capitol walls, especially in Snow's jacket lapels.

After your return to District Eleven, the air hung heavy with a mixture of celebration and mourning. The stark contrast between the opulence of the Capitol and the solemn reality of Jalen's absence weighed on your heart.

The funeral, a somber affair in the familiar confines of the District became a painful testament to the toll the Hunger Games exacted.

As you stood amidst mourners, grief manifested in every face, you couldn't escape the ache that clung to you.

The simplicity of the white roses, once symbols of innocence, now took on a profound meaning as they adorned Jalen's casket. The earthy fragrance mixed with the heavy scent of grief, and each petal seemed to carry the weight of a lost future.

Jalen's family, faces etched with sorrow, gathered around the gravesite. As you returned with a heavy heart, you felt the weight of responsibility and guilt that came with surviving the Games.

You longed to offer solace to his family, but the chasm left by his absence felt insurmountable.

The funeral unfolded like a painful hymn, each note resonating with the collective sorrow of the District. With a heart burdened by the echoes of the arena, you approached Jalen's casket. The air was thick with unspoken words, and as you laid eyes on his lifeless form, the reality of his sacrifice hit you anew, a tidal wave of anguish crashing against the walls you had built to shield yourself .

The simple gesture of placing wheat in his hand felt like an inadequate offering to the memory of a life lost. Wheat, a symbol of Eleven's resilience and strength, now served as a poignant tribute to Jalen's courage in the face of the Capitol's brutality.

Your fingers lingered on the golden strands, an attempt to grasp onto something tangible amidst the intangible pain.

As you stood there, wanting to rip your heart out and present it to his family in a desperate act of empathy, you realized that at the end of the day, no tribute, no matter how heartfelt, could mend the chasm left by Jalen's death.

The weight of survival, the guilt of being the one to return, bore down on your shoulders.

The air echoed with a heavy silence, each step you took through the muted streets of District Eleven resonating like a lonely heartbeat.

The once-vibrant atmosphere now dulled to shades of gray, the collective grief hanging like a shroud over the community.

As you entered the hushed expanse of the Victors' Village, even the rustling leaves seemed to hush their whispers in respect for the departed.

Your mother, worn by the day's burdens, had departed for work or some other pressing matter, leaving you alone to navigate the quiet corridors of your so-called new "home'

In the dim light of the hallway, a faint glimmer caught your eye-a hint of cerulean peeking through the muted tones of the room. Your steps quickened as you approached the mahogany desk in the study, and there, like a breath of color against the gray, lay a blue envelope.

Hesitation filled your soul before unfolding the delicate parchment, revealing words that spoke of empathy and understanding, a lifeline cast in the sea of sorrow.

The surname « Moon » engraved on the top of the sealed document was already foreshadowed the identity of the sender.

You can’t help but remember the night that nickname is linked to, because in the end, Snow did in fact talk to you that evening.

[Capitol - 17-19] - (The Victor’s Party)

President Snow leaned back in his ornate chair, a glint of calculated amusement in his cold eyes. "You're finally stepping into a world beyond the arena, my dear. A world where the games continue, but the battlefield has shifted."

Your expression guarded, met his gaze. "What does that mean?"

Snow's smile was more a predatory baring of teeth. "Victory in the Hunger Games is but the beginning. You've won the Games, but now you're part of a grander spectacle."

Your eyes narrowed. "I didn't sign up for political games. I survived the arena. That was the deal"

Snow chuckled, the sound sending shivers down your spine. "Survival, my dear, is an art form. And your canvas is about to expand. The Capitol expects a performance from its victors. A display of loyalty, gratitude, and compliance."

You scoffed, a hint of defiance in your voice. "I won't be a pawn in your games."

Snow's gaze grew colder. "Every victor must play their part. The adoration of the crowd is fleeting, but the consequences of disobedience are not."

You square your shoulders. "I won't pretend to be something I'm not."

His tone turned ominous. "We all have a way of making even the strongest conform.

Think carefully, my dear. Your choices have ripples that extend far beyond your grasp. Your mother’s safety, her tranquility, all lie in the balance. My expectations are unyielding, and the repercussions may lead you to a place far less forgiving than this celebration. Don't let your moment of triumph blind you to the reality of your new existence."

The room fell into a tense silence, the weight of Snow's words settling over you like a suffocating cloak. The path ahead, once bathed in the glow of victory, now seemed shrouded in uncertainty and shadows.

Your jaw clenched, a mixture of anger and apprehension simmering beneath the surface.

"What exactly do you expect from me?" you demanded, your voice edged with defiance.

Snow leaned forward, his eyes gleaming with a sinister gleam. "You see, The Capitol values its victors. But that glory comes with expectations."

He paused, letting the weight of his words linger in the air before continuing, "Your admirers in the Capitol have a certain appetite for... entertainment. And as a victor, you're expected to cater to their desires. A small price to pay for the privileges you enjoy, don't you think?"

You recoiled, your eyes narrowing with a mixture of disbelief and disgust. "You can't be serious."

Snow's smile remained chillingly composed. "Oh, but I am."

As the weight of Snow's insinuations settled, You felt a cold knot of realization in your stomach.

The glittering facade of victory was giving way to a reality far more insidious, where the Capitol's expectations extended beyond mere appearances, and the consequences of disobedience were hinted at in the shadows of Snow's ominous words.

Shivers crippled down your spine, dropping your eyes on your hands, you realized where you were, remembering what your hands were full with.

The cerulean letter that was in your hands was awaiting you.

Dear Moon,

As I sit down to pen this letter, I can't help but think about the path you're about to tread upon—the journey back to your home district, the echoes of grief that will accompany you, and the silence that will become your unwelcome companion.

I won't sugarcoat it; the life of a victor is a myth they don't tell you about after the Games.

The adulation of the crowd fades, and you're left with a hollowness that the Capitol's excesses can never fill. You'll find yourself grappling with a silence so profound it becomes its own form of torture.

Returning to your district won't be easy. The faces that once knew you as a neighbor, a friend, will now carry the weight of expectations and projections. The pain, the aching grief, will surround you, sometimes drowning you in a sea of emotions that only those who've walked this path can truly comprehend.

The seashell enclosed in this letter is a fragment, a small piece worn smooth by the tides, carrying the echoes of distant shores and the promise of tranquility.

Sometimes, holding onto a tangible piece of the past can anchor us in the present. I hope it brings you a sense of grounding amid the chaos.

You spoke of never seeing the sea that night we talked, and the ache in my chest has only grown since then. I ache to show it to you, to witness the calming effect it has, much like the moon on the ocean waves. I long for the day when you can experience its vastness, and perhaps find solace in its timeless beauty.

I yearn to share this moment with you. While Snow restricts our actions, perhaps one day, he’ll permit you to visit Four.

Until then, know that you're not alone in navigating the complexities of this existence. We're all stumbling through the silence together, trying to make sense of a life that defies understanding.

Take care, Moon. In the quiet moments, may you find strength, and in the moonlit nights, may you discover a glimmer of peace.

Warm regards,

Your Playboy.

"Your Playboy" you said with a huff. That boy must’ve lost his goddamn mind, you thought.

Not knowing if it was you or the grief talking, you admitted to yourself the truth.

Finnick’s words hit you like a soothing balm, offering a comfort you hadn’t realized you needed. That blue envelope, now a silent messenger in your quiet home, symbolized an unexpected connection in the face of loss.

Deep down, beneath the surface of your consciousness, you always sensed that life after the Games would forever alter the fabric of your being.

The nightmares that haunted your sleep, the shadows that lingered in the recesses of your mind -all of it was a testament to the profound metamorphosis you underwent.

These fears became a shared journey, a common thread woven into the narratives of Pane's victors.

There was an innate knowing, a premonition that whispered truths before they unfolded.

The seashell cradled in your hands echoed the echoes of those unspoken fears.

Finnick's confirmation served as the closure you needed -a confirmation that resonated with the collective pulse of those who bore the weight of victory.

You acknowledged that your struggles were not solitary. Acknowledged the collective scars etched into the souls of Panem’s victors.

not proofread jsjsjsjsj ( i was supposed to post this ages ago omg)

[jadegretz]

Lulu: The Sorceress with a Shadowed Heart by Jade Gretz

Lulu, the black mage, stood atop the crumbling ramparts of Castle Walse, the wind whipping her crimson cloak around her. Rain lashed down, each drop like a tiny, icy needle against her skin. But it was the sight before her that truly sent a shiver down her spine.

Below, amidst the ruins of the once-grand city of Zanarkand, a monstrosity writhed. It was a creature of twisted flesh and bone, a grotesque amalgamation of forgotten nightmares. Its form resembled a warped parody of a Blitzball player – its limbs impossibly elongated, its face hidden beneath a grotesque, horned mask.

Lulu gripped her staff, Lulu's Rod, tighter, the intricate glyphs etched on its surface seeming to hum in response to the dark magic emanating from the creature below. This wasn't some ordinary fiend. This was Kadaj, the fallen Blitzball star, twisted and corrupted by the machinations of Yu Yevon, the ancient evil that Lulu had thought she had vanquished years ago.

It all started with a cryptic message – a single phrase, "The Dream Returns," scrawled on a tattered piece of parchment delivered to the Crimson Spires, the headquarters of the Sphere Hunters. Wakka, ever the optimist, saw it as a hopeful omen – a sign that Spira was finally healing. But Lulu, haunted by the memories of the past, knew better. This was no dream. This was a nightmare reborn.

Their investigation led them to Bevelle, the once holy city now shrouded in shadows. There, they discovered a group of rogue monks attempting to summon Yu Yevon through a forbidden spell – a desperate attempt to achieve a twisted form of "salvation" by merging their world with the dream realm of Spira's Farplane.

The confrontation was brutal. The monks, blinded by fanaticism, unleashed a torrent of dark magic. Yuna, the summoner, bravely fought back, her aeons battling the warped creatures summoned by the monks. But it was Lulu, her black magic a potent counterpoint to the darkness, who finally brought down the lead monk, his final scream echoing through the ruined temple.

But the damage was done. The forbidden spell had been …(see the rest of the story at deviantart.com/jadegretzAI). For more supergirl, chun li, batgirl, tifa, lara croft, wonder woman, rogue and much more, please visit my page at www.deviantart.com/jadegretzai - Thanks for your support :)