#LABYRINTH CADENCE

[ibrithir-was-here]

The Goblin King's Huntsman

Ok so, I have been unable to draw or write for a few weeks now, so here's an old thing for the sake of feeling like I'm sharing something :/

Ages ago, I had a dream where Sarah went back to the Labyrinth with an older Toby, and got chased around by a masked figure sent by the Goblin King to capture her and take her prisoner. But eventually, as one does in dreams, the sense came that this persuer was just as much a prisoner of the Labyrinth, and when I woke up I started trying to craft a story for how he ended up as the Goblin King's Huntsman (I think I actually ended up headcanoning he was also the guy with the Muppet Blind Pew type mask at the Goblin Ball who keeps showing up watching Sarah and Jareth)

Long ago, when the mountains we know were no more than mole hills, and our mole hills were taller than the tallest mountains, a king’s daughter lay abed, wasting away from Melancholy. Her one true love had gone away to war, and had never returned. Now it looked as if she would soon follow him. 

Her father, the king, was distraught with grief and worry. He called all his wizards and wise women to help the princess, but none could discover a spell to cure her. They tried all manner of  weird and worrisome things, slime and snails, puppy dog tails, thunder and lightening. But nothing they tried worked. The princess grew paler and paler and weaker and weaker each day.

Finally, her father could bear it no longer, and in his grief, made a rash bargain. Now, this kingdom bordered that of the Labyrinth, ruled by the fearsome Goblin King, who would grant you  a wish if you said the right words, but never without a price. It was to him that the king turned. If the Goblin King would help his daughter, he promised to give him anything his heart desired. And the Goblin King agreed.

"But you must keep your word”, He warned, or terrible things would befall the king’s house.

 That very night, the Goblin King flew to the castle, entering the chamber of the princess in a beam of moonlight, as she lay motionless upon her bed. Taking her by her cold hand, he asked her what would be the first thing she would do if her heart was light once more. Thinking that she dreamt, the Princess replied that if the cause of her sorrow were taken away, she would dance away the night until the sun filled the sky.

With that, the Goblin King lifted her right out of the bed, declaring that they would do just that. And in the blink of an eye the Princess found herself in a beautiful ballroom, dressed in a gown made of tears and moonlight. There, amid a throng of strange and wondrous people, she danced away the night in the arms of the Goblin King. This went on every night for a month, and each day the Princess’s eyes grew brighter, and her cheeks more rosy, and she began to smile more and more.

The court was delighted, and none more so than the king, who had quite forgotten he still had yet to pay the Goblin King’s Price.  The day soon came, however, that the Goblin King presented the glowing Princess to the court, as fresh and lively as she had been before her One True Love was forced to leave her.

“Your daughter is well once more, neighbor.” said the Goblin King, “And now I would name my price, and I ask for the Princess Seraphine's hand in marriage.”

A cry of shock rang through the court, and none were more stunned by this request than the Princess herself. For though she was grateful to the Goblin King, and now considered him a dear friend, she did not love him,and could not think of anything she had said or done to make him think otherwise.

 “Sir, I will always be your friend, but I cannot marry you. My heart still belongs to Prince Meander, and ever shall until the day I too shall die, and be with him again.”

“ But the Prince is gone, my lady,  never to return. And besides, your father promised when he sought my services to grant whatever request I should ask of him. In my kingdom, you will never die, and as my wife, you  have to ask, and I will turn the universe upside down for your sake.”

Again, the princess repeated her assurance of gratitude and friendship, but stated that no matter what her father had promised, she had made no such bargain, and was not bound to uphold it. She did not love him, and would not marry him. At this second refusal, the Goblin King grew angry, and might have done something in his anger that he would have regretted, but at that moment, the doors to the palace burst open, and a stooped and haggard man stumbled into the hall.

His hair had grown long, and a patch covered one eye. His clothes were tattered and torn, and his armor had long since rusted. But the Princess knew him at once, and rushed to his side before he could fall. It was her One True Love, come back to her against all odds. 

They fell into each other arms, and kissed as only those who have walked beneath the shadow of death and come back into the sunlight can. And their kiss was so pure, and so true, that though they did not know it, the Goblin King’s claim upon the King and the Princess was utterly broken, for this kiss had healed her far more than any of his magics had.  For a long moment after, the Prince and Princess simply held each other, overcome with joy upon being united. Then the Prince’s eye fell upon the Goblin King.

“Ah! You dare show your face here villain?! You whose fell creatures aided the ranks of our enemies, and you whose dark fogs of forgetting spread out across the fields, ensnaring those trying to return home after? Many a dark and dangerous road I’ve traveled to find my love again.  I know not what mischief you do here, but it ends now!” And he drew a rust cankered sword upon the Goblin King.

The Goblin King did not move, or speak, he simply stood, staring at the lovers. The half-blind prince, with one arm around the Princess, who was holding the shivering, shaking man up as best she could. Her eyes had grown wide as she heard the Prince’s tale, and now they were dark and cold as they looked upon the Goblin King. Finally, with a sweep of his cloak, he bowed to the couple, sneering.

“It seems your ladyship need not wait till Death’s embrace to reunite with your lover. As you’ve made your feelings quite clear, I shall respect your wish, and pursue my suit no further. However, remember this--” 

And in a flash quicker than a strike of lightning, he was by the Princess’s side, whispering into her ear, with all the spite and malice he possessed:

 “The Price is still not paid…”

And then, he was gone.

The kingdom did not see nor hear anything of their worrisome neighbor for many a year, and by and by the unease left by the Goblin King’s threat was lifted. The reunited Prince and Princess were soon married, and in time, the Princess, now the Queen, gave birth to a healthy son, who grew into a fine young boy. He loved nothing more than to wander the fields and forests that lined his kingdom, making friends with all he met, noble or peasant, animal or fae. He was a kind and gentle boy, loved by all who knew him, so that he was never without a friendly eye watching over him, which eased his parent’s worries.

And then one day, when he was seven years old, he wandered farther than was his want, as though drawn by some strange and silent music. Past the orchards and fields, past the forests and falls, up the airy mountain, down the  rushing glen, into a strange waste land of bracken and gorse, until suddenly, he came upon a gate, bound to a stone wall that seemed to stretch endlessly out across the horizon. 

There was something odd and foreboding about the place, but the young prince was not afraid, for he had never before had need to fear. All the world was his friend. And so without hesitation, he pushed upon the heavy gate. It swung open easily, and the prince skipped inside as it shut silently behind him.

And from that day, his grieving parents never saw the young prince again.

[starstwinkleplanetsshine]

Daughter of the Sea

This one is dedicated to @aswallowssong. Thanks for being the Cady to my Angie, and thanks for trusting me with your beloved daughter of Apollo. It's been a blast getting to know her <3

Chapter Twenty-Nine: Drachma for Your Thoughts (Read on AO3)

“Drachma for your thoughts?” 

Cady’s voice pulled me out of my swirling head and back to where we were sitting on the beach. It was well past curfew, but Percy had left earlier that evening with Nico to finally start the plan that the son of Hades had suggested almost a year ago now. A plan so dangerous, so insane, that the mere thought of my brother going through with it meant I had been on the verge of a total breakdown all day. So when I showed up to the infirmary well past midnight, my eyes bloodshot and my hands trembling, I didn’t argue when Cady suggested we take a walk to the beach. 

The harpies hadn’t been very active this summer, anyway. 

“I’m just thinking about how in a week all this will be over.” I kept my eyes on the dark waves in front of me, but I could feel that Cadys’ were trained on me. I wished I could just walk into the sea and run away from it all, but I knew things weren’t much better under the waves. 

“Four days until your birthday.” Her voice was more somber than I had ever heard it. What she should’ve said was “four days until Percy’s birthday.” It didn’t matter that we were twins. His was the one that counted. 

“Four days until the end of the world.” I was trying to make a joke, but Cady didn’t laugh. 

“Do you ever think about the mortals?” I asked after a couple minutes of the waves being the only sounds between us. 

“What?” 

“They have no idea their whole world is hanging in the balance right now. They have no idea what's going on, the war we’re fighting, the battle that will determine the fate of…everything. They have no clue what we’re about to do for them. They just think there’s some really bad storms.” My words spilled out and I didn't try to stop them. There was no point censoring myself with Cady. 

She was quiet again before chuckling lightly, which caught me by surprise. “I think about them all the time. I think…I think that’s who we’re really fighting for.” 

I finally turned my head towards her, and I could see a look of resolute determination on her face in the pale moonlight. 

“We have to fight for those who can’t fight for themselves,” she continued, “whether that’s the gods who are too busy or mortals who can't know the danger they’re in.” 

I let her words settle on me as a smile crept onto my face. I thought about how much older she looked in the shine of the silver moon, and how much she had taught me about the world we shared in the past year. So much of the half blood I was, or was becoming, was thanks to her, Percy and Annabeth. 

“That’s very heroic, Cady.” 

She shrugged, her expression unchanging. “It’s our job.” 

I had never thought of it that way before, but as soon as she said it, I knew it was true. If demigods had one purpose in the world, it was to span the gap between the gods and mortals—to fight both of their battles. It always had been. 

My gaze wandered from the waves to the sky above and I began absentmindedly searching for stories in the sky, the ones that Annabeth had taught me—anything to get my mind off everything that had happened that day. My eyes landed on a new constellation, the form of a hunter who seemed to be a little older than a girl—Zoë. Percy had told me about her, how she was a Huntress of Artemis who had died fighting the Titan Atlas while defending him and, ultimately, the gods. 

Her place was in the sky now, as Beckendorff’s was underground. Along with Lee Fletcher. And Castor. And so many others that had been lost in the past year. 

Would I, too, find my own place amongst them soon? Would I join my namesake in the sky with my brother close behind as our souls found their way, hopefully, to Elysium? 

“I only met her once.” Cady’s voice once again saved me from my thoughts. I peeled my eyes off the sky and turned to her. 

“The Hunter?” 

She nodded. “I saw you looking at her. She was strong, and brave, and very wise.”

“Do you think we’ll end up there someday?” The words tumbled out of my mouth before I could stop them, and Cady furrowed her brow. 

“Angie…”

“I guess there’s already an Andromeda constellation, so probably not—” 

“Angie!” Cady cut off my pathetic attempt to downplay my question. “Why would you say that?” 

I met her eyes and immediately wished I hadn't. Something about them made me drop the walls I always had up. Maybe it was because I was so close to the sea, which always made me feel more honest. Or maybe it was the inherent vulnerability of being under the night sky after midnight. Or maybe it was just because Cady had become the closest thing to a sister I had in the past year. 

But whatever it was didn’t matter as I let out a heavy sigh and took a deep breath. 

“I don’t think I’m walking away from this, Cady.” 

Her eyes got sad. 

“You’re gonna be okay.” 

I started getting flashbacks to my conversation with Percy just the night before that had sounded a lot like this. I heard his words echoed in my own.

“I wish I could trade places with him. Take what is supposed to be his.”

The words were a lot harder to say than I thought they would be. Cady was quiet, but I knew she understood who I was talking about.

“It should be me, anyways.” I finally got out. 

“Why would you say that?” 

“Can you imagine a world without Percy?” 

Her eyes fell to the sand and she took a deep breath before answering. “No.” 

I wondered if she was remembering those awful two weeks last summer like I was. The time we feared we had lost him for good. 

“Me neither. I don’t…I don’t think I’m supposed to live in a world without him. I don’t know how to explain it, but I just know. So if that means I give my life so he lives, it’s what I’ll do.” I had never been more sure of anything in my entire life. 

“Angie—“

“No, Cady. I’m serious.” I met the girl's eyes, and all I saw staring back at me was fear. And pain. And heaviness. Eyes that were usually as bright as the sun, kind and shining with her father’s light, were as cold and dark as the moon. 

“It should be me.” I kept talking in the heavy silence. “Percy’s the hero, he’s the one everyone needs. If he was gone, camp would never be the same. You know it’s true, you felt it last year. Everyone would be…lost.” 

Cady looked like she wanted to say something, but stopped herself. 

“No one needs me that way. Maybe…” tears filled my eyes as I started to verbalize the one thing I had known for so long, but could never utter, “maybe that’s why I was sent here so late. Maybe that’s my destiny. To save my brother, the real hero, so he can fulfill his purpose. Fulfill the prophecy. Maybe I’m supposed to be the spare. And—” my voice broke— ”maybe that’s not a bad thing.” 

“Angie, we’ve talked about this.” Cady’s eyes were filled with exhaustion. 

“I know! But this time…this time these thoughts aren’t coming from Kronos. It’s not because I don’t think I’m good enough. It’s because I think I am. Just maybe. Maybe I’m enough to save him. To give him a future. To give everyone a future.” I watched as Cady's eyes filled with tears, her shoulders slumping even more. She stayed silent, as if she could tell there was more I needed to say, and I took a deep breath. 

“For my whole life I never knew where my place was. It took me fourteen years to find it, to be shown it. And I know I haven’t been a part of this world for very long, but from the second that trident appeared over my head, I stepped into a shadow I didn’t even know was there. And I spent a long time resenting that shadow, even if I wouldn’t admit it. But the past few months, few weeks really, I realized—maybe that’s the point. Maybe if I can be a shield for Percy, somehow, that will be enough. Maybe I was brought here—“ 

“You weren’t brought to camp just to die.” Cady's words were sharp, cutting like the knives she loved to throw. 

“But what if I was?”

Cady just sighed. “What aren’t you telling me?” 

“What?”

“I can see it in your eyes. There’s something you’re not saying”

I took a deep breath, wondering if I was that bad at hiding my feelings or if she was just that good at reading them. 

“Hestia visited me this afternoon.” 

“Hestia?”

“Ya, like the goddess.” 

“I know who Hestia is. But why did she visit?” 

“She…” Now that I had to put it into words, I was having a hard time making sense of it. Between helping Percy prepare to leave, and feeling the need to be strong for the other counselors and younger campers after Beckendorff’s funeral, I hadn’t had much time to process her words. I told Cady everything the goddess said—the parallels between the original Andromeda and myself, the way that the fates of my brother and I were tied just as Perseus and Andromeda’s had been. I told her about the warning she gave me, how I shouldn’t fight Percy's battles. 

“She said that learning to yield is powerful, and sometimes more important than fighting.” She was quiet for a while, probably trying to untie all the words I had laid in a tangled mess at her feet. 

“What does that even mean?” 

“I have no idea.” I began tracing my fingers in the sand, doodling seashells that didn’t hold their shape. 

“There’s more, isn’t there?”

I let out a sigh—keeping any secrets around Cady was hopeless. 

“I told you she warned me. But what that warning was…I’m really scared, Cady.” 

My best friend's eyebrows pulled together as a concerned frown grew on her face. She reached a hand over and gripped mine tightly, the feeling grounding me and giving me the strength to continue. 

“She said that I needed to learn to control myself, learn to yield, or I would ‘doom us all.’ Those are the words she used. ‘Doom us all.’” 

“That’s encouraging.” 

Cady’s words were so dry, I burst into laughter. She quickly joined me, both of us unraveling as we howled into the night. It must’ve been a ridiculous sight—and we were getting too loud, I knew it. Soon the harpies would find us, but we didn’t stop. We laughed until tears pooled in our eyes and our sides hurt. 

It felt strange. There was nothing to be laughing at, really. Percy was gone. We were at war. The titans were getting closer by the day. But even so, we were laughing. It was almost as if we could forget it all, even just for a moment. 

But then that moment ended. 

Our laughter died and soon the sound of the waves was once again the only thing between us. The air grew heavier, and with it, my heart. The lightness the laughter had brought flew away on the wind, and we were left alone in the black night once again. 

“I wish I knew what she meant.” 

“I think…” Cady hesitated, as if she was afraid to keep going. “I think she was pretty clear, actually.” She turned to face me again, and her eyes were that mixture of gentle and serious that I had only ever seen her pull off. “You can’t fight Percy’s battles for him. When the time comes…maybe you step aside.”

I shook my head. “I can’t do that. Maybe…Maybe that’s not what she means.” 

Her eyes got sad. “You need to realize that you’re not Percy.” Those words would’ve been harsh coming from anyone else. “You don’t need to be Percy. You said it yourself—ever since you got here, you’ve been living in his shadow, a shadow you didn’t even know was drowning you. And sometimes I wonder if you stay there because you think you have to. Because you think you’re not worthy of the sun.” 

Tears rushed to my eyes quickly as her words knocked the air out of my lungs. 

“But believe me when I say this, Angie—everyone is deserving of their place in the sun.” She managed a smile, and I swear the stars shined brighter. “You don’t have to live in Percy’s shadow. It’s like the myth—your destinies are intertwined, Percy’s success is yours. That means that you can do different things, be different people, and still stay connected. You don’t need to stay in his shadow for that.” 

“But what if—” my voice caught and I couldn’t stop the tears from falling onto my cheeks. “What if I don’t do enough, and he dies. What if I don’t try and protect him, and we lose him.” 

Cady took a deep breath as if the very thought pained her. “If Percy is…fated to die, there’s little we can do. But we don’t know that. Prophecies are tricky, and hard to understand. And the more we try and change them, or work against them, the quicker we make them come true.” She looked into the sky before continuing. “What if you interfere and that ends up causing more harm?” 

A sense of hopelessness washed over me. “I don’t want to live without him.” 

I saw a tear streak down Cady's cheek. “I know. But someone has to keep on living when others die.” 

I felt my eyebrows pull together as a terrifying thought crossed my mind. I had never considered that I would live past this week, past my sixteenth birthday. I had made up my mind that Percy was the one walking away from this, not me, and I was determined to do anything I could to make that happen. 

I hadn’t considered other people might be thinking the same thing, might be making those choices, too—regardless of what other people wanted. 

“You don’t think you’re walking out of this either, do you?” 

Cady dropped her head, staring at the sand. “I know I’m not.” 

“Cady—” 

“You’re not the only one who wants to protect people.” Her head snapped up, and I saw a harshness in her eyes. “This is what I’ve been trained for. My siblings walk away from this. You walk away from this. Gods willing, Percy walks away from this. But not me. Not if I can save them.” 

My head felt like it was spinning. No no no, it screamed. This isn’t right. It as to be me, it has to—

“They need you, Cady.” 

She shook her head. “Nobody needs me. They'll miss me, sure. But they’ll be alright. They’re strong.” 

“I need you.” Desperation and fear were swelling in my chest as I choked back a sob. “I can’t do this alone.” 

“You’re not alone, Angie. You never have been. And even when I go, you never will be.” 

Her words weren’t making sense to me, and panic rose in my stomach as I thought about the very real possibility of losing Cady and Percy within the next week. And Annabeth. And Rosie. And—

I was about to break into hysterics when I felt Cady's hand on my arm, with it the familiar feeling of her magic spreading across my nervous system. Usually I didn’t like when Cady used her gifts on me without asking, but in this moment, I was glad. I couldn’t go down that spiral. I would be falling and falling into the darkness for days—that was a bottomless pit I knew I would never be able to climb out of. 

“Thanks, Cades.” I breathed out as her healing touch calmed my anxiety. I took a deep breath, my first one all day, and met her burdened eyes. 

“You’re gonna be okay, Angie. We don’t know what’s going to happen. Maybe we all walk away from this.” But I could tell she didn’t believe her words. “But even if we don’t, you’ll still be okay. Maybe staying behind is what you were sent for—if there’s still a Camp Half Blood in the next week, they’ll need someone to turn to. They’ll need a leader. They’ll need you.” 

I shook my head instinctively. “I’m not—” 

“But you are, Andromeda. You’re Percy’s sister. You’re Poseidon’s daughter. Whether you like it or not, that power is already within you. Everyone else sees it. It’s about time you start seeing it, too.” 

It was all too much. I clenched my eyes shut and forced myself to listen to the waves, to think of nothing else but the sound as they crashed onto the shore. No more wars, or battles, or prophecies, or doomed brothers, or self-sacrificing best friends. No more gods and titans and doomsdays. Just the sand under my fingers and the sea in front of me. 

It didn’t work. 

“I’m not who everyone thinks I am. I can’t be what everyone needs me to be.” 

I was on my feet and sprinting away from the water before Cady had time to call my name, and I didn’t stop running until the door to Cabin 3 was slammed shut behind me.

[dkniade]

タルタリヤ：「俺が欲しいのは勝利ではなく、磨くこと。」

公式の英語翻訳は「It is not victory that I seek, but improvement.」と言うことだ。

「勝利」と「鍾離」が同じ「しょうり」の読み方を持っているのか…？へぇ…それ以外も、面白い見方だね…尾形回帰さんの「セツナドライブ」の作詞もこう言う見方をしますね。

「駆け抜けてゆけ　無我夢中でいい

格好なんて気にしないで

ただ衝動に身体委ね」

つまり

「Cut through all that’s in your way; just lose yourself in the moment

And don’t worry about how you look

Just let impulse take over and guide your body」

[hellinistical]

in which you are trapped in a haunting pact with Caleb, bound by the pomegranates you unwittingly took. Caleb x fem. reader. mdni.

Part two here

tw: kidnapping. dubious consent/non-con. choking. manipulation. forced arrangement. coercion. scaring. panic attacks. nightmares. threatening of loved ones.

wc: 10.7k

The pomegranate orchard sprawled like a cursed labyrinth, its gnarled trees clawing at the ashen sky, their twisted branches skeletal and accusing. The bitter clouds churned above, heavy and oppressive, a leaden canopy suffocating the air with an unnatural stillness. The light barely penetrated the gloom, casting long, distorted shadows that seemed to shift and writhe, as though the orchard itself were alive and watching. 

Hanging like swollen wounds, their dark crimson skins mottled and bruised, glistening faintly in the little sunlight presented. Some had burst open, spilling their putrid seeds onto the blackened soil, a grotesque mockery of spilled blood. The ground was slick and sticky, as if the land itself bled in a silent protest. Bitter winds slice through the orchard, the howl a whispered warning, carrying the faint, acidic tang of decay. The rustling of the brittle leaves sounded almost human, like the dry whispers of unseen figures lurking just beyond sight. In the distance, a crow’s cry pierced the silence, sharp and grating, cutting through the thick atmosphere like a blade. The sound didn’t fade; instead, it seemed to linger, twisting unnaturally, echoing back and forth between the crooked trees.

Heavy footsteps crunched the brittle leaves below, their sharp sounds splintering the fragile silence like broken glass. His sandals, worn and cracked, struck the earth with a deliberate cadence, their weight unforgiving in their wait for departure. Each step left behind a faint imprint, quickly swallowed by the restless soil as if the orchard sought to erase his presence.

The ends of his robe dragged through the dirt, gathering its stain—dark, earthy smudges seeping into the white threads that might have once been pure. The fabric clung and twisted, weighted by the dampness of the soil, as though tethering him to the cursed ground.

Above, the crow’s cry came again, louder now, a guttural warning that seemed to reverberate through the trees. The sound merged with the eerie rustling of the leaves, their whispers sharpening into something intelligible yet incomprehensible, a chorus of voices too faint to follow but too distinct to ignore.

And yet...

His eyes lingered on a single leaf that had defied the rot and ruin surrounding it. Its green shimmered faintly in the muted light, an unnatural vibrancy that seemed out of place amidst the decay. It quivered slightly, though no wind stirred, as if beckoning him closer. Beneath it hung a fruit, untouched by the blight that marred its siblings, its skin smooth and taut, glowing a deep crimson that bordered on otherworldly.

How did this happen?

He was sure he had killed them all. Every last one. The orchard had been his domain, its life snuffed out by his own hand. The trees, once vibrant, now stood as withered husks, their fruit rotting where it fell, their roots choking in soil poisoned by his will. There was no room for life here—he had made sure of it. And yet...

That single leaf, green and defiant, mocked him. It was small, insignificant, but its existence burned in his chest like a splinter lodged too deep to remove. His fingers curled into a fist as he stepped back, the weight of realization settling over him. The leaf shouldn’t be there, and neither should the fruit it sheltered.

A smile almost rose to his face. Almost. But his lips hesitated, caught in the tension between amusement and unease. He could almost admire its resilience, the audacity of this life that refused to die, as though it had been waiting—challenging him.

A laugh bubbled in his chest, rising unbidden, loud and boisterous, yet devoid of humor. It spilled out of him, echoing through the lifeless orchard like a cruel specter. The sound was harsh, jagged, and wrong, as though the land itself recoiled at its presence.

“Defiant to the last,” he muttered, his voice low and sharp, as if addressing the fruit itself. The defiance only fueled his resolve.

Without hesitation, he reached out and tore the pomegranate from its branch, his grip crushing the delicate stem with a brutal finality. For a moment, he held it in his hand, the fruit’s weight heavier than it had any right to be, almost as though it resisted his grasp.

With a vicious twist of his hands, he split it open. The rind cracked like brittle bone, its blood-red juice spilling over his fingers, staining them with its vivid essence. The stark white flesh inside was veined with crimson, its beauty grotesque and unsettling. The seeds, glistening like rubies, tumbled free, falling to the earth like droplets of freshly spilled blood.

The air thickened as the orchard seemed to shudder, the ground beneath him trembling faintly. A sharp, metallic tang filled his nostrils, and the hum, once faint, now roared in his ears, a relentless rhythm that seemed to emanate from the fruit itself.

His laughter died in his throat as his smiled shifted, stifling itself into a chuckle. 

“The seed of vengeance is sown, and the promise is broken.”

The shadows around him deepened, crawling closer as if drawn to the fruit’s destruction. The ground beneath his feet cracked, a network of fissures spreading outward.

***

Your bed was unusually cold, but not so; winter had long since approached, and the snows were well into place, their heavy flakes falling in absurd elegance, a reunion with the earth that was both beautiful and terrifying in its silence. The chill settled into your bones, seeping beneath the blankets, but it was nothing new.

No, the cold wasn't what bothered you.

It was the dreams.

Each night they came, vivid and suffocating, like they were not dreams at all, but memories dredged up from some other place, some other life. They had started innocently enough—fleeting glimpses of darkened forests, whispers on the wind, strange figures lurking just beyond the light. But now, they were growing more real, more unsettling, the edges blurring with your waking moments.

You had stopped sleeping soundly weeks ago.

In your dreams, you walked through an orchard—a pomegranate orchard. The trees, gnarled and twisted, loomed overhead, their branches reaching down like the fingers of some forgotten god. The air was thick with the scent of decay, yet the fruit—pomegranates, gleaming blood red—hung from every tree, too heavy for the branches that bore them.

The dreams always ended the same way.

You would reach for the fruit, compelled by something you couldn't name, your fingers brushing its smooth surface, only for it to burst open in your hands, the seeds spilling out like blood from a wound. The voice would come then, whispering in a language you couldn't understand, its tone low, almost mocking.

Each time you awoke, you were left with a lingering taste of iron in your mouth, and the sensation that something had shifted, something had changed, though you couldn't say what. The coldness, yes, but also the weight of the dreams pressing down on you, growing heavier with each passing night.

You’d seen a priest. Three of them, in fact. And an oracle. None of them had anything useful to say.  

Sure, the priests had been polite, their hands steady as they muttered prayers over you, their voices low and soothing. They spoke of purification, of light and darkness, of the spirits that roamed the earth- the usual stuff. But their words felt empty- like they were reciting from a script they’d memorized just for this kind of thing. Their incense did nothing to clear the air, and the talismans they’d brought you did little. They were a token, nothing more.

The oracle, however, had been…strange. She’d stare at you with eyes that seemed to pierce through you, as if peeling back you skin, tissues, and muscles, down to the bones and deeper. She spoke in riddles you didn’t care to try an figure out for more than a day, words twisting in ways that made the hairs on the back of your neck and on your arms stand up. 

But you did remember one thing. 

How her gaze was almost pitiful, and the last line before she ultimately went silent.

“The pomegranate seeds have been spilled. They will find you.”

You tried to understand, you really did. The words clung to you, spinning in your mind, but they felt as if they were wrapped in shadows, half-formed and out of reach. Pomegranate seeds?  What did that have to do with anything? Aside from the dreams at least. And besides, no pomegranate would grow here; it was far too plush a land- too vibrant and thriving. Pomegranates only grew in hot, dry places. The soil was rich, the air thick with moisture, and the trees were lush and green. At least, it was that way in the summer and spring. Now it was late winter. 

Never mind that. 

Swinging your legs over the side of the bed, the cold wood pressed uncomfortably against your skin, sending a shiver up your spine. The chill wasn’t anything you weren’t used to- it always got like this in winter. 

You glance at the fireplace, untouched since the last time you managed to stoke a fire. You’d have to light it again- soon, when you had time. Eh, it could wait for now. 

The farm was waiting for you, and with it, your work. The chickens needed to be fed, the barn doors needed fixing, and the well was still frozen over.

With a heavy sigh, you rise to your feet, feeling the weight of your body against the cool air. You step carefully, avoiding the floorboards that creak underfoot, and cross the room to the window. Snowflakes continue their relentless descent outside, drifting in and out of view as the wind picks up, swirling around the empty landscape.

Grabbing your coat and gloves, you sluggishly tug them on, the motions stiff and uncoordinated from the lingering cold in your joints. You hold the sleeves of your nightgown tight against your wrists, trying to keep them in place as you slip your arms into the thick wool coat. It doesn’t quite work. The fabric bunches awkwardly beneath the layers, twisting and pressing against your skin, the discomfort a small, irksome distraction in an otherwise bleak morning.

Your fingers fumble with the buttons, the chill making them clumsy, and you tug your gloves on with the same sluggish effort. The leather is stiff and worn, the seams stretched from years of use, but it’s enough to keep the worst of the cold at bay.

You exhale sharply, your breath misting in the icy air of the room, and glance toward the door. The world beyond it waits, indifferent and unchanging. The tasks ahead loom large, heavy in your mind, but there’s no avoiding them.

With a final tug to straighten your coat, you steel yourself and step forward, boots scuffing against the wooden floor as you make your way to the door. The cold greets you like an old adversary the moment you open it, biting at your face and creeping past the gaps in your layers. But you push through. You always do.

Outside, the snow continues to fall, the landscape quiet and heavy beneath its weight.

***

The chickens squawked and flapped in a frenzy as you tossed the feed onto the frozen ground, scattering it with a hurried motion to keep the snow from clinging to your coat and gloves. Their frantic clucking rose in a chorus, a cacophony that only deepened your irritation.

"God—hey���no! That’s all you’re getting, you freeloaders," you snapped, shaking the nearly empty bag at them for emphasis. One particularly bold hen pecked at your boot, and you glared down at her.

Flipping them off with a gloved hand, you added, "I’m gonna turn you into a soup just for that. Matter of fact, who’s got eggs?"

Your voice echoed in the cold air as you scanned the coop with a narrowed gaze. Most of the chickens scattered at the sound, pecking furiously at the feed as though they hadn’t eaten in days, while a few stayed huddled together near the corner, unbothered by your threats.

Grumbling under your breath, you made your way to the nest boxes, brushing a layer of frost from the wooden edges. Carefully, you reached inside, your fingers brushing against something warm. A small victory, you thought, as you pulled out a freshly laid egg.

"One of you finally decided to be useful," you muttered, holding the egg up as if showing it to the flock. The hens clucked indifferently, entirely ungrateful for your ongoing tolerance.

You shook your head, pocketing the egg in the folds of your coat, and moved to check the other boxes. "Soup," you repeated under your breath, the word a half-hearted promise. "Mark my words. Soup."

"She laid an egg?" Josephine’s voice called out from the window, muffled slightly by the frost-covered panes. She peered out, her gray hair tucked under a knit cap, the lines on her face softened by the faint light streaming through.

You turned, clutching the egg carefully in your hand, and squinted back at her through the falling snow.

"Yeah, one of them decided to be useful for once," you said, holding the egg up for her to see. "The rest of them are freeloading."

Josephine chuckled, a dry, raspy sound that carried a warmth the cold couldn’t touch. "Don’t be too hard on them. It’s a miracle any of them are laying at all in this weather. Poor things probably feel like they’re in the Arctic."

"They’re fine," you replied, brushing snow off your sleeve. "I feed them, don’t I? Besides, they’re tough little things."

Josephine leaned further against the sill, her joints too stiff and fragile to be out in the biting cold. "Well, don’t break that egg before you bring it in. We might need it for supper."

"You think I don’t know how to handle an egg?" you shot back with a mock glare.

"Not with those gloves on," she teased, grinning despite herself.

You rolled your eyes and turned back to the coop, muttering under your breath. "I’ll bring it in safe. Not like we have a whole flock waiting to replace it or anything."

Josephine’s laughter followed you, soft and fleeting, as you went back to your work. It wasn’t much, but even her small remarks made the cold day feel just a little warmer.

Not even a second passes before you hear it: a faint, wet crack. Your heart sinks as you freeze, slowly looking down at your hand. 

"Gods..." you mutter under your breath.

Sure enough, the egg is broken, its yellow yolk oozing between your gloved fingers and dripping onto the snow below.

"Cursed chickens," you hiss, shaking your hand instinctively, though it only makes the mess worse. The yolk clings to the wool of your glove, smearing like a bad omen. You curse again, louder this time, kicking at a nearby patch of snow in frustration.

You wipe the yolk off your gloves quickly, making sure Josephine doesn’t catch sight of it—she'd never let you hear the end of it. You brush the remaining mess onto the snow, hoping it’s out of view before she can see the disaster.

"Grandmother?" you call, turning back toward the house. "I'm, uh—I'm gonna go to the market. The horses are good, right?"

Your voice comes out a bit more strained than you intended, but it's enough to keep her from asking too many questions. The market is a short walk, but it’ll take you most of the day. And truth be told, you don't relish the thought of another day with only the chickens and the endless chores for company.

Inside, you hear a faint groan from the other room before Josephine responds. "Yes, yes, they’re fine. Just make sure you get back before dark."

"Of course," you reply, trying to sound more confident than you feel.

You hesitate for a moment, then glance back at the coop. You can’t help but wish for just one more egg, a small consolation for the misfortune of the morning. But you know it’s pointless. You’re not going to get any more today, no matter how hard you try.

"Fuck," you mutter under your breath, glancing down at your now-eggless hands. "Guess I’ll just have to buy them."

You head back inside quickly, pulling your coat tighter around you, and grab your purse from the hook by the door. The cold is starting to seep through your layers again, and you can already feel the chill nipping at your fingers.

Still, despite the morning’s mess, a small part of you is eager for the trip. Eggs are a rarity these days, and you haven't had a decent meal in weeks. The market might be a small reprieve—at least for a little while.

***

The market was...gross. Gross, crowded, wet. Mud clung to every surface, pooling in the uneven cobblestones and splattering onto hems and boots alike. The air was thick with the scent of damp wool, unwashed bodies, and the acrid tang of smoke from hastily lit fires.

The man didn’t like it—not that he was a fan of humanity to begin with. They moved like insects, a swarm of noise and chaos, bartering and shouting, their voices clashing in a discordant symphony. He towered over them slightly, his presence noticeable but not quite commanding.

His clothing was woefully out of place for such weather. The himation draped over his figure was far too thin, the edges soaked and clinging to him as if mocking his indifference to the cold. Snow clung to his sandals, his feet chilled but steadfast against the biting frost.

The crowd parted instinctively as he walked, some murmuring complaints at his carelessness as his steps splashed muddy water onto their garments. He ignored them. He always did.

His eyes scanned the bustling market with vague disinterest, a predator among scavengers. Stalls lined the streets, overflowing with goods: baskets of wilted vegetables, carts of salted fish, bolts of cheap fabric in dull, washed-out colors.

And yet, as he moved through the throng, his attention drifted—not to the wares, but to something far more elusive. Something that lingered at the edges of his awareness, like a scent carried on the wind, or the faint echo of a memory just out of reach.

He stopped suddenly, his gaze narrowing on a stall piled with winter fruit. Among the pale oranges and frostbitten apples, a single crimson pomegranate sat, its skin glistening unnaturally in the dim light.

His lips curved into a faint, humorless smile.

"Well," he muttered to himself, his voice low and rough, "isn't that something?"

"Excuse me!"

The voice startled him—not the sound itself, but the sheer audacity of it directed his way.

You stumbled past him, nearly colliding, your basket of produce wobbling precariously in your hands. One of the eggs inside cracked, a faint, sticky wetness starting to seep through the cloth lining, though you hadn’t noticed.

His eyes followed you, narrowing slightly.

You didn’t look back. Your focus was entirely on the fruit stall ahead, where the winter fruits were piled high. He watched as you approached, your fingers brushing over frostbitten apples and oranges with practiced ease, checking for firmness, for ripeness.

Curious.

You paused at the pomegranate, the same crimson fruit that had caught his attention. For a moment, his breath stilled, waiting.

But you didn’t take it.

Your hand hovered, then moved on, picking up an apple instead.

The man’s gaze lingered, his curiosity piqued despite himself. You left the fruit untouched, walking away as though it meant nothing at all.

His fingers twitched at his side. Strange. Most would have taken it, drawn by its unnatural allure, even if they didn’t know why. But you? You walked past, oblivious.

His gaze sharpened as realization dawned. No, not oblivious—wary.

You had seen the fruit. He was certain of it now. The way your hand had hovered, hesitated, before choosing something else—it wasn’t chance, nor indifference. It was deliberate.

His fingers flexed at his side as he watched you, taking note of the subtle tension in your shoulders, the way your eyes darted briefly toward the pomegranate and then away, as though avoiding something dangerous.

You knew.

Not in the way others might. Not with clarity or understanding. But something within you had recognized it for what it was—or, perhaps, what it wasn’t. And instead of succumbing to its allure, you had chosen to move past it.

The man’s smile grew, faint but unmistakably sharp, curling at the edges like smoke. This was unexpected. Most people stumbled through life blind to such things, ignorant of the strange and the unnatural, even when it was placed right before them.

But you? You saw it. And you chose to walk away.

He tilted his head, considering you as you handed a coin to the vendor and turned to leave, your basket shifting with the weight of your purchases. Snow clung to the edges of your boots as you moved with purposeful steps, casting one final, fleeting glance back at the stall—and, inadvertently, at him.

That fleeting glance. Wary. Appraising.

His smile vanished, replaced by a flicker of something darker.

And so, he followed.

Silently at first, blending into the crowd, a shadow among the many. He kept his distance, his footsteps measured, not too fast, not too slow—just enough to remain unnoticed. His eyes never left you as you wove through the market, your pace quickening as you made your way toward the edge of the town.

He watched as you passed by stalls, the vendors' shouts fading into the background, the market’s noise muffled under the steady rhythm of his own heartbeat. Your unease was palpable, your steps purposeful, as though you knew you were being watched, yet you refused to acknowledge it directly.

He admired that about you. Most would have fidgeted, glanced over their shoulder, or given in to the primal fear that comes with being hunted. But not you. You walked with the sort of quiet determination that made him all the more curious.

Through the alleys and narrow paths, you moved with a sense of knowing, a sense of urgency that tugged at him.

There was something in your movements—something sharp, something instinctual—that made him feel as though you weren’t just trying to escape, but were leading him.

And so, he kept his distance. Close enough to see you, but far enough to remain just a presence in the background.

The market’s noise faded as the streets narrowed. He could feel the chill creeping in with the wind, but it wasn’t the cold that had his attention now. No, it was you—wary, sharp, unknowingly playing a game with him.

"Let’s see where you go," he whispered under his breath, the words barely audible.

As he passed the fruit vendor, the farmer at the stand smiled. “Sir, would you like a pomegranate? It’s the last of this season.”

He looked at the farmer, at how he leaned over the stall, holding the pomegranate out to him. It gleamed in his hands, its skin rich and flawless.

The last of the season, huh?

"No," he replied quietly, his voice cold and precise. "Not today."

"Granny? Granny, I'm home!"

***

Your boots crunched in the snow, the sound sharp and clear against the muffled backdrop of the winter day. The path beneath you shifted from the soft powder to the slush of the thawing ground, then to the thick, stubborn mud of the dirt road that hadn’t frozen over yet. It clung to your boots, stubborn and sticky, each step making the journey feel slower, more deliberate.

The words spilled from your mouth, half-relieved, half-frustrated, as you made your way toward the warmth of the house. Your voice cut through the cold air, but there was something strange in the way it echoed—almost too still, too empty, like it was bouncing off walls that shouldn’t be there.

You pushed the door open, the familiar creak of the hinges greeting you, but something felt off. The warmth from the hearth didn’t reach you, the air inside too still, too quiet.

The house seemed empty.

"Granny?" you called again, stepping further inside. Your eyes swept the room, landing on the empty chair by the fire where she should’ve been, knitting or reading or simply gazing into the flames. But there was nothing there—nothing but the faint, cold smell of the earth creeping in through the door, the faintest trace of something… wrong.

The kitchen was untouched, the table bare, and the silence was thick, almost oppressive.

Your heartbeat quickened as the feeling in the pit of your stomach began to rise. You knew the house was old, but it had always felt alive, warm with the presence of your grandmother. Now, it felt... hollow.

A strange shiver crawled down your spine, as though the house was holding its breath, waiting for something. Or someone.

"Welcome home."

The words sliced through the heavy silence like a knife. You whipped your head around, your heart skipping a beat as you saw him standing there, just inside the door. The man from the market.

His smile was too warm, too wide. His eyes gleamed with an amusement as he closed the door behind him with a soft click, shutting you in.

You took an instinctual step back, your hand tightening around the handle of the door you’d just entered through, but it was no use. It was already too late.

He was too close now.

"Your coat?" he asked, extending a hand, his smile lingering, unbothered by the tension that crackled in the air.

You froze, staring at the hand he offered, as if it were a venomous snake. Every nerve in your body screamed to refuse him, to turn and run—but there was no escape. The cold, oppressive feeling from earlier intensified, filling the room, the walls suddenly closing in.

"Get out." Your voice was firm, but your body felt rooted in place. You tried to gather your bearings, but the unsettling calmness of the moment was too suffocating.

His smile didn’t falter. He stepped closer, the warmth of his body too near, too intrusive.

"Not yet," he murmured softly, his eyes never leaving yours. His hand remained outstretched, waiting. "You and I have much to discuss."

“Where’s my grandmother?”

The door was behind you, but the air in front of you seemed to thicken.

Your breath catches at his words. "Where's my grandmother?" you demand again, a trembling edge creeping into your voice. Your fists clench involuntarily at your sides, desperate to hold onto something solid, something that might keep you anchored in this strange, unsettling moment.

He tilts his head slightly, a smirk curling at the corner of his lips. "You mean Josephine? She's fine, I promise you."

But the way he says it—the way his eyes gleam—makes your skin crawl. The lack of any real warmth, the forced calm in his voice, sends a shiver down your spine.

Before you can react, before you even have time to process his words, he’s already taken your coat from your shoulders, his fingers brushing against your skin as he pulls it from you. You freeze, the realization that you hadn’t even felt him move causing your heart to race.

"No..." you mutter, shaking your head. "No, where is she?"

Your voice rises, cracking with the tension building in your chest.

But his smile only widens, almost pitying. "Don't worry," he says, his voice low, smooth, as though trying to calm you with his false assurance. "She's not far. Not far at all."

You can’t tell if he’s mocking you or telling the truth, and that uncertainty claws at you, drowning out the rest of your thoughts. The room feels too small now, and every corner is crowded with his presence, his waiting.

"What do you want with me?" you finally force out, your voice barely a whisper.

His words hung in the air like a dark cloud. "Like I said. We have things to discuss."

He gestures toward a chair—your chair, or at least, it should have been. But it wasn’t. It was far too fine, far too pristine for the rest of the crumbling shack. The wood gleamed like freshly polished mahogany, the fabric soft and deep in color, too extravagant to belong in a place like this. It was as though he had placed his own stamp on your home, turning the room into something that didn’t feel right.

It wasn’t his chair.

But that was exactly how he acted. Like he belonged here. Like this was his space.

You hesitate. The room is too heavy, too thick with his presence. Every instinct screams for you to run, to bolt for the door, but your legs feel like lead, your body unwilling to move.

Your gaze flicks from the chair to him, and for a moment, you see something in his eyes—something dangerous. Something that wants you to sit. Wants you to comply.

The smile on his face is patient, too patient.

"Take a seat?" he repeats, his tone smooth but carrying an underlying edge.

Your pulse quickens, but you force yourself to breathe. You know he’s trying to manipulate you, to force you into submission, but you won’t give him that satisfaction.

"No," you reply, voice firmer than you feel. You take a step back, trying to create distance between you and the chair, between you and him.

The air in the room seems to darken with his response. His smile never wavers, but the coldness in his eyes sharpens, as if he were enjoying your defiance.

"You misunderstand," he murmurs, his voice low and almost amused. "This isn’t a choice, love. Take a seat. I insist."

The words are like an invisible force, pressing against you, pulling at your very core. You can feel something—gravity?—something heavier than air itself, pushing you down, urging you toward the chair. Your muscles scream in protest, your mind races, but your body moves against your will.

You clench your teeth, the sharpness of the motion grounding you against the force that threatens to break you. You sit, but it’s not voluntary, not a choice. The chair feels foreign beneath you, the fabric too soft, the arms too well-formed. It's his chair now, and you hate it.

As you settle, the man steps closer, the air thickening with each movement. His smile stretches wider, an unsettling satisfaction behind it. His eyes gleam with something predatory, though it’s hidden beneath that calm, almost bored exterior.

He doesn’t answer immediately, his gaze flicking over you, almost like he's savoring the moment. Then, slowly, he steps back, his expression thoughtful.

"What do you want with me?"

"Everything," he says, his tone deceptively gentle, as if speaking to a child. "I want everything you have."

His fingers are cold as they grip your chin, turning your face toward him with an unsettling gentleness. You can feel his gaze weighing down on you, as if he's studying you, dissecting every reaction, every twitch of your body. The question is a strange one, unsettling in its simplicity:

"You didn't take the pomegranate. Why?"

Your breath hitches, but you force yourself to remain still, your eyes meeting his despite the overwhelming desire to look away. The way he speaks, the way he presses into your space—it’s like he’s daring you to defy him, but the weight of his touch, of his presence, is too much.

You swallow hard, your throat dry. You didn’t take the pomegranate, yes, but the reason feels almost insignificant now. It’s not about the fruit anymore. It’s about him. The way he’s here, in your home, making demands, insisting on control.

The silence stretches, thick with tension, as his thumb runs lightly over your skin, a strange, almost affectionate gesture that makes your stomach churn.

His eyes never leave yours, waiting. Expecting.

You know the answer should be simple, that you should give him something that satisfies him, but you don’t want to play his game. You can’t play it.

The cold touch of his fingers presses harder, forcing your jaw to tighten in an involuntary response.

"Answer me," he says, his voice turning slightly darker. "Why didn't you take it?"

“I didn’t want it. Not enough coin.” A pitiful excuse. But, a half-truth. You bought eggs. 

The grip on your chin tightens, and your breath catches in your throat as his fingers dig into your skin, cold and unyielding. "Lies." His voice is a low growl, soft but cutting through the air like a knife.

You wince, your jaw aching under the pressure, but you refuse to look away. You fight the urge to squirm, to pull away, to lie your way out of this. The coldness in his eyes, though, leaves no room for hesitation, no space for escape.

"I didn’t want it," you repeat, forcing the words out despite the sting of his touch. "I have enough already."

But his face twists in disbelief, the smile fading entirely, replaced by a cold, calculating intensity. His thumb brushes across your skin again, but it no longer feels gentle—it feels as though he’s searching for something beneath the surface.

"You don't get to lie to me." His voice is quieter now, dangerous in its softness. "Why didn’t you take it?"

A heavy silence settles between you, thick with something you can’t name—an urgency, a power dynamic shifting with every breath. The weight of his presence is suffocating, pressing down on you, and the realization that he isn’t going to let you leave until you comply makes your heart race in your chest.

He knows you’re holding something back. He’s not asking because he wants an answer; he’s asking because he wants to break you.

His fingers, ice-cold and unrelenting, drift across your jawline, and you instinctively flinch at the touch, the intimacy of his proximity overwhelming. His other arm braces against the chair, closing the distance between you, and his breath brushes against your skin, the sound of his words a low whisper, too close.

"I'm familiar to you, hmm?" His voice is thick with something darker, almost possessive. "Caleb."

The name hits you like a punch to the gut. Caleb. You blink, trying to make sense of the words, but the sound of your name from his lips sends a jolt of recognition through you. You’ve heard it before—somewhere deep in the recesses of your mind, in a place you can’t quite place.

"What?" You force the word out, disbelief crashing over you like a tidal wave. You don't want to understand. You can't.

"My name." His voice is cold now, almost amused at your confusion. "My name is Caleb. And you broke our promise."

The world seems to tilt on its axis, your breath freezing in your chest. Promise? What promise?

A thousand memories flash—disjointed fragments of a time long past, faces that don’t quite fit, voices that are just out of reach.

But none of it makes sense.

The way he says it, the way his eyes darken, hints at something deeper, something long buried beneath the surface.

"Promise?" you repeat, your voice barely a whisper. You don’t know what he means. You can’t know what he means.

He leans closer, the heat of his breath on your neck sending another wave of discomfort through your body. "You promised me you wouldn’t forget."

Forget? What was he talking about? Your heart pounds in your chest, and suddenly the room feels smaller, the walls pressing in on you.

The only thing you’re sure of is that whatever this promise was, it’s something you never agreed to. Something you never even knew you had made.

Your breath catches in your throat, and before you can even process the shift in his movement, his lips are on yours, cold and forceful. The shock of it seizes your body—an electric jolt of surprise, of horror. The pressure of his kiss is suffocating, overwhelming, and you feel trapped under the weight of it.

You try to pull away, to break the contact, but his grip on you is unyielding, his hands keeping you firmly in place, as if locking you into the moment. Your heart races in your chest, pounding against the cage of your ribs. Every instinct in your body screams at you to fight, to push him away, but the force of his kiss disorients you, blurs your thoughts.

Everything in you fights against it. You don’t want this—you never wanted this.

The coldness of his lips, the sharpness of his fingers gripping your jaw, the way he dominates the space between you—it all feels wrong, like a violation of something you can’t quite define.

His tongue brushes against your lips, demanding entry, and the part of you that still has control tenses in resistance. Your breath quickens, heart thundering in your ears, as you turn your head, the strain of your muscles pulling against his hold.

But he’s relentless, insistent, as though this was always the endgame.

And it’s then, in the midst of the storm of confusion and anger, that it hits you: He’s not just Caleb. Not the Caleb you thought you knew.

This... this is a different man entirely.

The world around you blurs, your senses drowning in the sharp pressure of his lips, the roughness of his hold on you. One moment, you're sitting—frozen, fighting, overwhelmed—and the next, your back hits something soft and plush. The bed creaks beneath you, and you realize, too late, that you've been moved. You don't know when it happened, but now you're lying there, the softness of the bedding contrasting with the harshness of his body pressing against yours.

Your chest tightens as his kiss returns, insistent and suffocating. His presence feels like a weight, pressing down on you from all sides, a physical force that you can’t escape. His hands roam with a practiced familiarity, like he’s done this before, like he knows how to break you, how to keep you in this moment. Your heart pounds in your chest, and every instinct screams at you to push him away, to run, but your body betrays you, frozen in place, unable to muster the strength to move.

It’s like he’s taken control of everything—your thoughts, your body, the space around you—and you can feel yourself slipping into a fog, disoriented, trapped in this strange reality where nothing makes sense anymore. The soft sheets beneath you feel wrong, a dissonance with the terror swirling in your chest.

His lips move from yours, but it’s not relief. His breath is hot against your skin as he traces a path down your neck, his grip tightening, and you can’t shake the feeling that everything you thought you understood, everything you thought you knew about him—about you—is slipping away, piece by piece.

“Do you understand now?” he whispers against your skin, his voice low, almost mocking. “Do you remember?”

But you don’t. You can’t.

“If you can’t remember, why did you take them?”

Your eyes only held confusion. Frustrated, he asks again.

“The pomegranates were supposed to be dead,” he all but hisses, his hand moving to your throat, squeezing. “But you brought one back. How?”

The pressure on your throat tightens, sharp and relentless, and your body tenses as you gasp for breath. His words are barely audible, but the venom in his voice cuts through the fog in your mind, and suddenly, everything is clearer. The question—How?—echoes in your head, your pulse hammering against his fingers as if to answer him, but your throat betrays you, unable to form the words.

His eyes, dark and furious, bore into you, and the weight of his gaze feels like a brand on your soul. There’s an urgency in his touch, like he’s desperate for an answer that you don’t have. His grip on your throat tightens further, and you can barely think, only feeling the constriction in your airways, the frantic beat of your heart.

"Pomegranates..." you manage to whisper through clenched teeth, barely able to speak, your voice rasping in the thick tension of the moment.

He doesn’t release his hold, not even a little. The threat in his touch is clear, and something deep inside you knows he's not just angry—he’s frantic.

"How did you bring them back?!" His voice is a low growl now, filled with a chilling sense of desperation. "You had no right."

You choke on your breath, the weight of his question landing like a hammer. You know the pomegranates he’s talking about—how they weren’t supposed to be here, how they were dead. You never should’ve found one, never should’ve brought it back. But it’s not the how that you can’t answer.

It’s the why. Why is he so invested in them? And why are you suddenly the one in danger over them?

The world spins, but his hands on your throat ground you in place, trapping you in a moment where the answer is just out of reach.

“Did you think I wouldn’t notice? I walk through that hellish field every day. And every day, they are all dead. So what did you do?”

The cold grip around your throat tightens again, and your breath becomes shallow, each inhale a struggle. The urgency in his voice, the desperation, the fury—it's almost enough to send you into a panic. He’s so close now, his breath mixing with yours as he presses into you, demanding answers, demanding something from you that you don't even understand.

The mention of the hellish field sends a shiver through you. You know exactly where he means—the barren stretch of earth where the pomegranates are supposed to lie dormant, rotting, where no fruit should grow. It had been a place of silence, of dead leaves and dust. The pomegranates had always been gone, and you thought nothing of it when you found one that had somehow survived.

But now, he is asking about it, and something in his words tells you that this is more than just a passing curiosity. He’s not asking because he’s wondering how the fruit is growing. He’s asking because he knows. He knows it shouldn’t be possible, and somehow, you’ve made it so.

“I didn’t…” you gasp, your voice weak, struggling against the pressure of his hand. “I didn’t mean—”

“You didn’t mean?” he interrupts, his fingers digging into your skin, forcing you to look him in the eyes. “Do you think I care about your good intentions? Do you know what this means? What you’ve done?”

You try to focus, but his eyes are too intense, and you can feel the world around you closing in, everything blurring except the sharpness of his words, of his grip.

He knows. He knows, and that makes you realize you’ve stepped into something far beyond your understanding.

“You... you were the one... who killed them...” Your words come out haltingly, the pieces falling into place—his anger, his fury, the strange obsession with the pomegranates. “You—You’re the one who made them die.”

The realization hits you like a bolt of lightning. This isn’t about the fruit. This isn’t about something that grew in the wrong soil. This is about something much darker, something he’s tied to, something you can’t comprehend.

And yet, as the words leave your mouth, you wonder—how could you have known? How could you have guessed?

The pressure on your throat burns, every second stretching into an eternity as you feel yourself slowly suffocating under his gaze. His eyes, dark and furious, make you feel small, insignificant, like nothing more than a mere insect beneath his heel. His grip tightens further, the reality of his anger closing in like a vice around your neck.

Your thoughts are clouded, your body trembling, desperate for air, for release from this moment that feels like it might swallow you whole. The world around you blurs, and the edges of your vision darken, but you can't afford to lose consciousness—not now, not when everything feels like it's slipping through your fingers.

The field, the pomegranates, the months since you wandered through that cursed stretch of earth—they all seem like distant memories now, as irrelevant as the flutter of a bird's wings in the storm of your present. What did it matter? You never meant for any of this to happen.

Months? Yes, it had been months since you came across the field, since that moment of discovery. The fruit had been so alluring, so strange. But now, it doesn’t matter. It doesn't matter at all.

All that matters is this: the suffocating weight of his hand on your throat, the rage in his eyes, the sense of power he holds over you in this very moment. It’s not about the pomegranates anymore, or the field, or anything else you’ve done. It's about survival, about whether you can stay conscious long enough to find a way out.

"You have no idea what you’ve done," he hisses through clenched teeth, his voice low and venomous. His fingers dig into your skin, making it feel as though your very breath is being stolen from you. You can feel the blood rushing to your head, the pressure mounting, and for a moment, you wonder if this is how it all ends.

It’s hard to focus, hard to think. And then-

The realization hits you like a cold slap to the face. Your breath catches in your throat, the air refusing to fill your lungs, even as his grip loosens just a fraction, as if sensing your sudden understanding. The seeds. Those damned seeds. You had taken them, thinking nothing of it. Just a curious moment, a strange instinct to keep something from that cursed field. They hadn’t grown, though—at least, you’d thought they hadn’t.

But one of them had.

The cold weight of it settles in the pit of your stomach. You must have dropped one, somewhere between your hurried walk and the spill of your water satchel. Perhaps on the way home, or somewhere in the market. It could have fallen unnoticed, but it had taken root. And now… now, you know exactly what that means.

It wasn't just the fruit that was alive—it was the seed itself, brought back from the dead, blooming in a place it shouldn’t. In the wrong soil. Under the wrong conditions. And he must have sensed it, felt the change, the unnatural resurrection of something that was supposed to stay buried.

It wasn’t just a seed anymore. It was something else. Something that had no place in this world, and definitely no place in your hands.

Your pulse spikes, your breath still strained but clearer now. You can’t let him know you’ve figured it out. Not yet. Not until you can find a way to make this right—or at least survive the next few moments.

"I didn’t… I didn’t mean to," you rasp, the words stumbling out, barely audible. "I thought they were dead... I thought I was doing no harm."

His eyes narrow, a sharp flicker of something darker passing through them. He doesn’t speak at first, his fingers still lightly brushing your skin, but there's no mistaking the shift in the atmosphere. The air thickens, tension pulling tighter, and the room itself seems to darken in his presence.

"You didn’t mean to?" His voice is dangerously low, but there’s an edge of disbelief in it. "You thought they were dead?"

The mockery in his tone is almost worse than his rage, as if everything you’ve done—everything you thought was inconsequential—has led to this. The pomegranate, the seed, the field… this has been waiting for you. Waiting for someone to make the mistake of finding it, of bringing it back.

"I didn’t know," you whisper, your eyes darting to the edge of the room, anywhere but his burning gaze. "Please... I didn’t know."

For a moment, there’s silence—heavy, suffocating silence. And in that silence, you realize just how much danger you’re really in. This isn’t just about the seeds. It’s about what you’ve awakened. What you’ve released.

And he’s not done with you yet.

“That doesn’t matter. You owe me. You owe me everything. The pomegranates are a contract. How many seeds did you take?”

His grip on your throat has tightened again, though not as much as before. He’s holding you in place, forcing you to face him, to answer him, to acknowledge what you’ve done.

Your pulse quickens, fear seeping into your veins. He’s right. You owe him, but what he doesn’t know is that you hadn’t taken them for any grand purpose. You’d been foolish, reckless even, thinking that the seeds were just something to keep, something harmless. But now, his words cut through you like a blade—those seeds were never meant to be collected, never meant to be used. They weren’t just fruit, they were a binding, a covenant, a contract you hadn’t understood.

You swallow hard, trying to focus, trying to keep your voice steady. "I—I only took a few... just a handful," you whisper, your words hoarse as they tumble from your mouth. "I didn’t think they’d… grow. I didn’t think it meant anything."

Which hand? The right or the left? It’s such a simple thing, such a small detail, but you can feel the gravity of it. He’s making a game of it. Toying with you. You wonder if this is his way of breaking you down, piece by piece.

“A handful, huh? So I should decide how many then?”

“No!”

“So how many?” Caleb’s voice is almost playful in its mockery. “Actually. I’ve decided. Which hand did you take them with?”

Your breath catches in your throat, a lump of dread settling in your stomach. You can barely think, your mind reeling from the weight of his question, his control, his power over you.

A lie wouldn’t do you any good. He’d know. He always knows. The truth is the only way out, even if it feels like a betrayal of your very self.

You try to steady your breath, your hands trembling at your sides as you force yourself to speak, though your voice is barely a whisper. "The right," you manage, the words feeling like acid as they leave your mouth.

“So should I take it? Or break it?” His voice is laced with amusement, yet the question itself is far from playful. There’s a menace in his tone, a quiet assurance that whatever choice you make will only lead to more pain, more consequence.

Your right hand trembles at your side, feeling like a weight you can’t escape. It’s as though he’s already decided your fate, and the moment you answer, it will be sealed. The choice—take it or break it—feels like the very foundation of your existence teetering on the edge. One wrong move, and you’re shattered.

It’s not just your hand he’s talking about. It’s everything. The lies. The theft. The contract. And you have to make a choice.

"Well?" He presses, his smile widening slightly, his patience wearing thin.

His grip tightens around your mouth, pressing down hard enough to stifle your breath. The weight of his hand is suffocating, and your thoughts are scrambling to make sense of everything. His words from earlier echo in your mind: You can thrive with no hands.

Calebs gaze shifts.

“Nevermind that.” he takes your right hand, kissing it. “You can thrive even with no hands, I’m sure, so that would be pointless.”

You try to push through the panic rising in your chest, but it only gets worse when one thought cuts through everything—Josephine.

Your grandmother. Where is she? What has he done to her?

You open your mouth to ask, but his hand clamps over it with more force, cutting off your words, your breath. You struggle, your pulse thundering in your neck, the terror building with every passing second. You can’t think of anything else but Josephine, and the fear of what might have happened to her.

"Shhh," he says softly, almost patronizingly. His voice is too calm, too cold. "No need to speak right now. We'll get to that later."

“Caleb-”

“You took a few. It doesn’t matter. Your hands will know how many it was, even if you forgot. And your tongue will know how many you’ve eaten.”

"Six," he repeats, his voice cold as he watches your hands, as if counting them. The weight of the word presses down on your chest like a heavy stone, and your throat tightens. Six. The number echoes in your mind, a cruel reminder of what you've done, of the mistake that’s now spiraling out of control.

"Please-" his hold goes to your hands, and his eyes close. you struggle to break free, try to kick at him, but he's firm.

"Six."

Dread fills you.

"Six?"

"Six seeds. You ate six seeds."

You struggle against him, your breath quick and uneven as you fight to break free, but his grip is ironclad. His hands are everywhere—on your wrists, your throat, your arms—and no matter how hard you kick or twist, you can’t escape. He’s too strong.

"Please..." you gasp, the word slipping out in a broken whisper, but it’s more out of desperation than anything else. You can feel the weight of the seeds in your gut, the aftermath of your recklessness settling like a poison in your veins.

"Six," he repeats again, the word dragging out in a way that makes it sound almost like a verdict, as though he's already decided what will happen because of it. The dread in your chest deepens, and the air around you feels thick, heavy with an impending sense of doom.

His eyes close for a moment, like he’s savoring the knowledge of your mistake, the fact that you’ve already crossed a line you didn’t even understand until now. When he opens them again, they’re sharper, more piercing than before.

"You don’t understand the consequences," he says softly, almost too calmly. "But you will."

You try to steady your breath, to gather yourself, but everything inside of you is shaking, fear and confusion clouding your thoughts. What did it all mean? Six. Six seeds, and now you're trapped, tangled in a contract you barely remember signing, but which he is now holding you to.

"Six," he repeats one last time, his eyes scanning you like a predator eyeing its prey. The word is both a warning and a promise. 

His voice is a low, chilling whisper, a cold wind sweeping through your mind with every word.

"Six seeds in the winter. Six months. Every year."

The weight of his words sinks in slowly, painfully. Six months? Every year? A feeling of dread floods your body, a cold sweat breaking out across your skin as the meaning starts to claw its way to the surface. The pomegranates. The seeds.

The finality in his words cuts through the air, sending a cold shiver down your spine. His hand remains on your jaw, pressing down, his eyes never leaving yours. He leans in, his presence suffocating, his breath hot against your skin.

"You... you will be bound to me. Me. Every year."

The implication of his words settles over you like a weight too heavy to bear. Each year, you’ll have to answer to him, every winter, every cycle, every six months, until... until what? The uncertainty gnaws at you, but the truth is undeniable: you’ve made a pact. And now, you are bound, tethered to him in ways you don’t fully understand yet.

The reality of what he's saying—what it means—sinks in like ice, creeping through your veins. Your breath catches in your chest, and the urge to run, to escape, is overwhelming. But you know better now. You know you can’t escape him. You’ve already given too much away, unknowingly, thoughtlessly.

"You won’t be free," he continues, his voice a low, venomous promise. "Not for as long as you live. Every year, you will return to me. And you will serve your purpose." His thumb traces your lower lip, slow and deliberate, as if savoring the taste of your fear.

"Every year." The words ring in your ears, a constant reminder of the contract you’ve unknowingly entered.

You open your mouth to protest, to plead, but nothing comes out. What could you say? How could you explain that you never meant for this to happen, that you had no idea the consequences would be so... severe?

His eyes gleam with something darker now. Something almost... triumphant.

"You’ll learn the price of what you’ve done," Caleb murmurs, his grip tightening around your wrist, holding you firmly in place. "And when you do, you’ll understand why you belong to me."

His lips crash against yours, urgent and hungry, as if trying to consume you whole, each kiss more fervent than the last. But in that brief, fleeting moment, as his hands grip at your body, you see it. The truth in the shadows of his touch.

His fingers, stained with something dark. Black and red. It’s not just dirt. Not just the earth.

Juice.

The realization hits you in an instant—what you thought was just a product of the field, of his rough nature, was something far worse. Something tied to the very fruit that had been the cause of this entire twisted encounter. His hands, stained with the dark liquid of the pomegranates, blood and juice entwined together. You could smell it faintly—a sweet, acrid scent that clings to him like a curse. It coats his palms, dripping as he touches you, as if his hands were forever stained by the fruit’s sacrifice.

A chill runs through your spine as his touch lingers, his grip tightening. The pomegranates, the seeds—he’s been part of this too. His very essence is tied to them. He’s not just a man, not just some random stranger from the market. He’s part of the cycle, just like you. He’s no god, hes a curse! A snake! 

You try to jerk away from his touch, but the force of his hands holds you firmly in place. The stains on his skin are like a brand, marking him, marking you. It’s as though the blood of those fruits courses through him now, and through you.

The softness of the bed feels foreign against your body, like you’re sinking deeper into a pit you can't escape. Your nightgown clings to you, the fabric damp and uncomfortable against your skin. You can’t remember when your boots came off, but the cold from the snow on your clothes lingers, biting at your skin as if it’s refusing to let go. It’s a strange contrast—how you feel trapped in this bed of softness, yet every part of you is screaming for escape.

Caleb’s presence is overwhelming, suffocating. He follows you, his weight pressing down, his breath hot against your skin. His hands are still stained, dark and red, as though the pomegranates’ curse has been embedded in his very touch. Each time his skin brushes yours, it's like you can feel that stain transferring—marking you, binding you further to him.

You try to shift, to find any escape, but his hold is unyielding. Your heart races, your mind scrambling for any way out. But everything feels wrong—like this is the inevitable result of a choice you didn’t even consciously make. The blood on his hands is no longer just the pomegranate juice; it feels like it’s becoming your blood too, intertwining your fates.

"Stay still," Caleb's voice murmurs in your ear, his tone low, almost soothing in its malicious calm. "You’ve already done enough. Now, you just have to accept it."

The weight of his words settles heavily on you, the reality of it all pressing in, making it harder to breathe. You close your eyes, trying to block him out, but you can’t escape the feeling of being completely consumed. He is everywhere—his hands, his touch, his scent.

And you are trapped.

He opens his mouth to bite, and there, you see it- fangs. Horrible, horrible fangs, like a snake. And when he bites-

Your breath is erratic, each inhale sharp and frantic, as your chest heaves with the remnants of the nightmare. The warmth of your bed clings to you like an unwanted weight, your body still tense from the terrifying images that danced in your mind. You blink rapidly, trying to focus, the disorienting haze of sleep still clinging to your thoughts.

It wasn’t real. It couldn’t have been.

But as you scramble out of bed, panic surging through your veins, your legs barely hold you up. You stumble, almost falling as you rush through the dim hallway toward Josephine’s room. Your heart pounds in your ears, and your hands tremble, brushing against the walls to steady yourself. Every step feels like it takes forever.

You reach her door, your breath caught in your throat. You hesitate for just a moment, but the terror, the urgent need to see her safe, pushes you forward. You twist the handle and burst into the room.

"Granny?" you call out, your voice trembling. The room is dark, the shadows in the corners unnerving, but the familiar smell of Josephine’s comforting herbs fills the air. You can hear her slow, steady breathing from the bed, the soft rustling of blankets as she shifts in her sleep.

For a second, you just stand there, listening. Waiting.

Relief washes over you as you realize she’s still there, still alive. The nightmare, the horrible fangs, seem to retreat into the dark corners of your mind as the reality of the moment settles in. Your mind fights to differentiate dream from reality, the lines so blurred, you almost can’t tell where one ends and the other begins.

You collapse onto the edge of her bed, your hands trembling as you reach out to brush a lock of gray hair from her face.

She stirs slightly but doesn’t wake.

Your heart stops. The basket, innocently placed beside Josephine’s sleeping form, feels like a jolt of ice through your veins. Pomegranates. Red, ripe, gleaming under the dim light filtering through the cracks in the curtains. You blink, your vision swimming for a moment as you try to steady yourself, but there they are—those cursed fruits, as if mocking your worst fears.

The world seems to tilt as the realization sinks in. You hadn't brought them inside, had you? The dream... had it been a dream? Your eyes dart from the basket to Josephine, your breath catching in your throat. Her soft, even breathing remains unchanged, oblivious to the dangerous gift that sits at her side.

You step closer, as if by instinct, as your fingers tremble at the edges of the basket. Each pomegranate gleams like a secret, an omen you can’t understand, yet it feels all too real.

You stumble away from Josephine’s side, the unease gnawing at your gut. The sight of the basket, so innocently placed, is now burned into your mind. But the chill is not just in your bones; it’s in your very skin.

Racing to the mirror, you meet your own reflection. At first, the face staring back is foreign—disheveled, pale from the cold, with eyes wide in panic. But as your gaze drifts downward, you freeze.

There, just below your jawline, is a mark. The skin is raw, bruised, angry red. It’s a bite. Caleb’s bite.

Your hand reaches up, touching the tender spot. The scar doesn’t just throb with the usual tenderness of a bruise; it burns.

What had been a dream now feels like a slow, suffocating reality that’s slowly tightening its grip around you. You feel his presence lingering like a shadow just outside, and you know deep down that he's watching you, even from a distance.

Outside, the first rays of sunlight are breaking through the clouds, spilling over the snow. You watch as it melts, revealing the earth beneath, yet it feels wrong. Almost like the sun, so pure and innocent, is powerless in this moment. The air feels thick with something you can't name, the stillness broken only by the slow, steady drip of melting ice.

Everything feels wrong. And with each passing second, it becomes clearer: you are no longer in control. The pomegranates have bound you to something you can't undo. The bite on your neck, the basket by Josephine's side, the promise... it’s all real.

And you have no idea how to stop it.

©hellinistical 2024 do not copy, translate, distribute, plagiarize, or reproduce in any form without permission, and do not share to any media outside of tumblr.

[swordgrace]

“𝐨𝐮𝐭𝐭𝐚𝐤𝐞” — 𝐚𝐞𝐠𝐨𝐧’𝐬 𝐠𝐚𝐫𝐝𝐞𝐧.

┊ 𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬: originally apart of part 2 of “what honor demands” before I turned it into the beach scene & whatnot. I honestly wish I kept this version in instead in hindsight.

read part 2 of “what honor demands” here.

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 4.1K.

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: smut lite (mdni), fingering (fem!rec), praise kink, hair-pulling, outdoor sex, body worship, oral sex (fem!rec), grinding, dry humping, making out, breast play, lots of sweet antics, jacaerys is a certified munch, soft smut.

𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫’𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞: aaaand we’re back !! also if this feels weird/out of place, it’s because it is — it’s a “deleted scene” so to speak and was supposed to segway into something else before I scrapped it! I honestly love it though & I hope you all enjoy! ❤️

IN THE OVERGROWN LABYRINTH OF AEGON’S GARDEN, YOU INTWINE YOURSELF IN JACAERYS’S AFFECTION, LIKE THAT OF BLOOMING IVY BLANKETING PILLARS OF STONE.

The scenery was something from a fairytale, cranberry meadows and wildflower patches illuminated by both moonlight and the dancing glow of fire. Balerion’s stony, ruby eyes gazed down upon the both of you, the blood of Old Valyria standing before him.

“I would never leave this garden, if I could,” You sighed, interlacing your fingers with Jace’s own. He kept your hand close to him, thumb brushing along the ridges of your knuckles. “This means a great deal to me. Thank you for bringing me here, Jacaerys.”

A tranquil veil blanketed your surroundings, inky dusk glittering with thousands of stars above. Moonlight touched your tresses, its breath of silver bathing you in an ethereal glow.

A chasm of silence drifted between you both, the wordless void more comfortable instead of awkward or terse. Many feet away, Vermax had reclined into the earth, the dragon’s slumbering shape rising over the peak of the tall, swaying grass.

Dusky curls were roused by the whispering gale, slithering about through the gardens. It was a primeval labyrinth of overgrown foliage, the earth draped in a layer of soft meadow grass and petrichor.

“Perhaps we needn’t leave,” Jacaerys crooned, fingertips ghosting over the delicate slope of your jaw, a crackle of heat simmering between you. “We could remain here — stay a thousand years.” In his candor, he exposed the folly of youth, the boyish fantasies of relinquishing his duties.

No longer would the whispers of his bastard blood plague his steps, loom like some grievous shadow above his birthright — and he would be free to do as he pleased. Jacaerys envisioned an existence without the crushing responsibility of nobility, and for a moment, he could taste liberation.

Impervious to Jacaerys’s stirring inner turmoil, even you could glimpse the flicker of desperation, this forlorn glint that revealed a deeper melancholy. As Jacaerys ascended into manhood, the reality of his being had become weighty, like iron manacles.

It was naive to believe that your shared life with Jacaerys would be full of whimsy and joyousness, when this world was already so cruel and unforgiving. You intended to navigate the tenuous political climate with him at your side — and that was all you truly needed.

Through a threadbare smile, you reached for the velvet of his doublet, brows knitting together as you considered his words. “How do you propose we survive? Live from the berries here, sleep beneath Vermax’s wings?” Your whisper placated his worries.

A huff of laughter escaped him, followed by an amiable smile, digits twined together with your own as he lifted your knuckles to his lips. “We would endure, you and I,” Jacaerys uttered, gaze resolute with confidence before he drew you closer. “It sounds like a pleasant life.”

“It does,” But it was not reality, and he knew this just as well as you did. “Perhaps in another lifetime.” With a gentle cadence, you peered toward the skies, examining the numerous constellations, and you did not yet feel the sting of exhaustion.

“In another lifetime.” Jacaerys’s lament did not sour the moment, and instead, his lips began to curl with a glint of playfulness. “In another lifetime, I hope that this remains the same.” He uttered, speaking in regards to your flourishing union.

“If fate wills it, I hope so, too,” Unable to mask the ebullience of your grin, a sweet giggle bubbled from your parted lips as Jacaerys began to escort you away from Balerion’s obelisk, and into the untamed meadow of Aegon’s Garden. “Where are we going?”

As he urged you to trail after him, he waded out into the sea of thickets and wildflowers, unceremoniously depositing a spacious bedroll onto the ground. It was a picturesque evening for stargazing, and the weather was amiable.

Perplexed, you watched as Jacaerys unclasped his cloak, the swath of rich velvet draped over the bedroll, and he lowered himself to the plush surface. “Come,” He canted his head to one side, chin jutting in the direction of the heavens above. “It is a perfect night for it.”

Gleaming celestials above provided an enchanting backdrop to the Garden, stars kissing the dark line of trees that surrounded you. Gathering your skirts, you lowered yourself to Jacaerys’s flank, casting your eyes towards the skies.

Serenity enveloped you, the ambient hush of nature providing a background hum as you laid down, sprawling out across the bedroll. You tucked an arm beneath your head, gaze momentarily flickering toward your companion.

Regal was a mere understatement — he embodied the posture of a prince, demeanor endlessly charming, as if it oozed from him naturally. A generous smattering of freckles blanketed his visage, most prominent along the bridge of his nose.

“We were made to study the stars, when I was young,” Dissolving the silence with a lament, your lips twitched into a fond smile. “Constellations are the constant companion of a good sailor.” A soft exhale escaped you, then.

Jacaerys laughed — an ebullient, jovial sound that warmed your insides. “You would make a good Velaryon,” He mused, leaning back upon his elbows, dark hues searching the empyrean. “Do you have a favorite?”

“The Moonmaid,” A hum vibrated from your lips, stare bright with the reflection of the heavens. “The free folk say that if one glimpses the red wanderer within the Moonmaid’s pattern, it is a good time for a man to steal a woman.”

It was your giggle that vexed him so, like the pealing of bells that graced his ears. The Prince’s brow quirked, likely born of playful apprehension. “How does a Celtigar lady come to know of Wildling superstitions?”

With a roll of your eyes, you craned your head, softening gaze glowering upon him, visage one of amusement. “Wildling superstitions,” Your cadence adopted his own, digits idly twirling within your hair. “I read often — plenty of nursemaids to regale me with stories, my Prince.”

A bout of congenial laughter permeated the night’s temperate breeze, as Jacaerys searched for your red wanderer. It was bemusing to watch him survey the skies, dark brows furrowing together before he shook his head.

“I do not see this red wanderer,” A peculiar inkling of suaveness crept into his tone, as smooth as poured honey. “Perhaps you’ve been fed too many of these free folk tales.” His tone became teasing, lips twitching into a smirk.

“Perhaps the Prince needs a better look,” With a mischievous counterpoint, you reached for his wrist, moving his hand until it hovered above a minuscule dot in the atmosphere, its glow a gentle shade of crimson. It was nestled amongst the stars, cradled in the hands of gods. “There.”

There it was, socketed within the Moonmaid’s center — the red wanderer, its gentle glow a faint contrast to that of the stars.

Jacaerys withheld the urge to grin, reveling in the sensation of your silken fingertips cradling his wrist, directing his line-of-sight toward the constellation. “Would the Wildlings agree that this is an opportune time for me to steal you away?”

His flirtatious remark was steeped in a warm lightheartedness, the spark of gallantry reaching his eyes, burrowing itself into your very bones. A familiar heat permeated your features, crawling along your spine like a raging fever.

Words turned to ash upon your tongue, countenance dissipating from playfulness to something tender, your gaze unable to tear itself away from him. He was smiling — pearlescent, debonair, that of a young man whose adoration was thinly-veiled.

“Perhaps,” A hitch formed within the depths of your throat as he grew closer, breath feathering over your brow, earthen hues appreciating your splendor. “If his Grace asks politely, that is.” The corner of your mouth pulled into a smile.

His handsome, gentle features and gallant disposition, the kindness that touched his eyes — he was nothing short of perfection. You envied the woman that would become his Queen; they would have only the best — Jacaerys deserved nothing less.

Careworn digits tenderly caressed along your hairline, where tresses kissed flesh, before sluggishly finding the slope of your jaw. “May I?” Jacaerys uttered, the husky inflection within his voice turning your stomach to molten liquid.

With a mere nod, you waited with bated breath, welcoming the curve of his mouth with a subdued glee. Hovering above you, you felt the brief brush of dusky curls tickling your cheeks, inviting his kiss with an excitable exhale.

It began as a crawl of a kiss — slower, intended to savor, rapture interwoven into each stroke of his lips. It was you who reciprocated with a growing fervor, one hand reaching toward the collar of his tunic, fingertips meeting a sea of velvet.

A salt-tinged breeze wafted through the surrounding grove of pine, rustling the small woodland with it. In the throes of midsummer, it was endlessly warm, and you welcomed it with such relaxation.

Jacaerys felt a tightening within his throat, canting his head to one side, deepening the kiss with a trembling exhale. Anticipation and exhilaration flooded through him, stirred to arousal when your digits wandered toward the nape of his neck.

A feather-light touch lingered against your cheek, the pad of his thumb absorbing the velvety warmth of your skin. You felt him move closer, torso partially grazing your own, one palm moving to rest beside your head.

Between ambrosial kisses, he met your doe-eyed gaze, teetering upon the knife’s edge of desire. Surrounded by the eclipse of wilderness, thickets of dragon’s breath and night orchid, your heart echoed his name, an amorous lament.

“Everything you do drives me to madness.” Jacaerys mumbled, his confession blistering through your ribs, evoking a wave of yearning from you. Elation rushed through him like the swell of a tempestuous tide, crushing him with such weight.

“Jacaerys …” A threadbare utterance, carrying with it a thinly-veiled affection intermingled with ardor. Reaching forth, your fingertips drifted across his visage, sculpted by merciful gods. You found his freckles, mapping them as you would a constellation.

His throat bobbed in a valiant attempt to bottle his brief bout of nerves, digits stroking along your cheek, reaching toward your tresses. “I ache to see you and be near you,” It was as if your heart had swelled tenfold within your breast. “And even that is not enough.”

There was a weight to his confession that stole every shred of air from your lungs until you were left with nothing but a burning. An audible hitch formed within your chest, nerves set ablaze. A fire smoldered within your belly, one that demanded to be extinguished.

“Then you mustn't stray too far.” Beseeching your paramour to stay by your side, Jacaerys obeyed, forehead brushing against yours. It became increasingly difficult to withhold whatever desire you felt, letting it sear your veins like a raging fire.

Wordlessly, Jacaerys’s mouth ghosted above yours, inviting as ever. His lips were flushed, a delicate shade of rose that enticed you thrice over, just as they did now — and you met him halfway.

Gallant were his ministrations, treating you with the utmost consideration, a tender hand that you ached for. One palm snuck from the collar of his doublet to his chest, nails coursing over velvet until you reached his abdomen, listening to the hitch in his exhale.

Your lips tormented him in the most perfect way imaginable, silently pleading for more without needing to command him. Jacaerys’s mouth moved in a blissful tandem with yours, passion festering as seconds stretched into an eternity.

A faint moan coagulated within the pit of your throat, threatening to burst forth when his hand cupped beneath your jaw. Following a gentle caress, his digits continued; lower, lower until he found the silken laces of your gown.

A simpering gasp ripped through your diaphragm, bringing with it a wave of want. It was as if your entire being was tethered to him in — two souls, once adrift — now, two bodies joined as one.

“We do not have to.” Jacaerys assured, prying himself from the saccharine curve of your mouth, features permeated with scarlet. Every fiber of his being screamed for you in a way that transcended mere want.

Whatever fire he had stoked within you, it was smoldering, its heat so intense that it threatened to scorch you, too.

Without a whisper, your hand found his own, still hovering around the threads that held your gown aloft. Prompting him to tug, you watched his throat tense from the simple gesture, lips colliding again with a passion that dwarfed that of any previous entanglement.

A shudder cascaded down his spine, heart searing with an arduous want, gingerly unraveling you from the confines of your garments. He adjusted his position, climbing to find his purchase between your legs, hand drifting along your supple thigh.

“I want to,” A breathy sigh slipped past your parted lips, whispered between ecstatic breaths as Jacaerys kissed you once more. Your taste swarmed his tongue, that of sweetness and a gentle temptation. “Please.”

Resistance seemed nonexistent, resolve beginning to fracture before your very eyes as his hand glided along the length of your body. Peeling aside gossamer fabric and thin remnants of silk, he unraveled you, rapturously absorbing the intimate details of your physique.

Gooseflesh raked along your spine, a peculiar thrill stinging your stomach, heat beginning to coalesce as you urged him closer. Exploratory fingers make their way to the row of clasps that hold his tunic aloft, undone just as he disrobed you.

Untarnished flesh glistens in the moonlight, your frame exposed to him, gowns parting down the center as you coax him into a kiss. Passion flourishes like untamed ivy, able to feel his hand caress you wherever possible.

A weightlessness seeped into your posture, comfort unfurling from within, coupled with that of a mounting want. Dishonor did not feel sinful within his embrace, and you felt invincible — like obsidian, to be molded from his incessant flame.

Bodies continue to glide together, friction crackling where space becomes increasingly nonexistent. Flesh meets flesh, a seamless mold that prompts you to shiver, mouth a roaring flame as you continue your barrage of kisses.

Jacaerys groans; a low, sonorous sound that bleeds into your lips, lost within the chasm of your maw. It is your tongue that brazenly teeters along his lower lip, silently tempting him to mend the bridge — and he does, without faltering.

A ceaseless avidity unfurls from within your hearts, an exchange of adoration through physicality. He shudders at the sensation of your fingers raking through his curls, teasing and tugging wherever you please.

The mere tilt of your hips rouses a fire within his loins, the constant entanglement of enthused bodies only furthering the flame. Jacaerys hands worship your flesh, each caress whispering with devotion, with an endless craving.

A cacophony of nature’s hum teems around you, silvery tendrils of the moon’s glow enveloping the both of you. Its ghostly shade turns you into something ethereal, as if you weren’t beautiful enough in the eyes of your Prince.

Jacaerys steels himself, a tremor of an inhale blistering through his diaphragm. Exhilaration floods him in one blinding rush, excitement soon to follow as it dawns on him — love.

The executioner of duty, the bane of all sensibilities; he knew then that he could not part from you, and this ceased to be an amorous fling. Earthy-brown hues cast themselves to your visage, bewitched by the tender expression that paints your features.

He allows his lips to pepper themselves over the curve of your jaw, descending toward your collar, somewhat exposed by the sag of your dress. Your flesh tastes of summertime — a saccharine warmth that entices him so, dragging him further into your heart.

The celestial penumbra that hangs above you is picturesque — Jacaerys can see starlight pooling from your gaze, as if you were some goddess. His lips worship you further, come to spill confessions along the plane of your body.

Affectionate touches are lavished against his curls as your digits peruse through his tresses, sending shockwaves of delight throughout his abdomen. With his doublet undone, unceremoniously pooling into the grass, your delicate stare traces over countless freckles.

His movements are smooth, a regal posterity about him even as he levies kisses to your sternum. Eager, pouty lips find the peak of your breast, pebbling beneath the dusky gale, suckling gentle and feather-light.

A gasp inhabits your throat, sputtering out into the starry night as you tug at his curls, body responding instantaneously. Jacaerys’s hot breath blankets your flesh, digits shifting to cup your breast, careworn pads kneading into pliant skin.

A mere caress of your breast is enough to drive you mad, nipples pert and aching, screaming for his touch; the very air he breathes is one that invades your lungs. There is a subdued carnality to him that begins to bleed through, like ink spilled onto parchment.

“Jacaerys,” Wrought with mounting desire, you yearn for more, mouth parting as a myriad of whines escape you. His enthusiasm is palpable, able to be savored as he caresses you, teasing your breasts. “Gods, please.”

“You are devastating,” Jacaerys sighed into the valley of your breasts, the bridge of his nose ghosting over your velveteen flesh. He worries that you might slip through his fingertips, as if you are nothing more than a mere spectre, a figment of fantasy. “Divine.”

Praises murmured into your heart sink into your bones, and you are left with the agonizing wake of desire. The hand that once toyed with your breast snakes down, seeking the honeyed apex between your thighs.

A jolt of pleasure stabs at the juncture between your legs, bleeding with heat as your hips roll into the pressure of his hand. “Do not torment me.” With a whine, your digits find his abdomen, nails raking across his lean musculature.

“I wouldn’t dare, my Lady.” His utterance bathes your flesh in warmth, plump lips continuing to decorate your sternum in reverent kisses. Your hips keen forward again, daring to cause a ripple of friction between your bodies.

Eager fingers slip against the seam of your cunt, gingerly dragging across your petals until they push inward. A shudder rolls down your spine, ripping wisps of air from your lungs as one of your hands caresses across his crown of curls.

Sighs of wanton passion drifted from you in droves, legs parted as he pressed his thumb to the pearl of your cunt. It was easy to evoke a reaction from you, the constant writhing, gasps and whines, the look of complete and utter bliss.

With exploratory strokes of his fingers, gooseflesh prickles your skin, a wispy breeze dancing across the wheatgrass that sways around you. His mouth is a relentless thing, driven by desire as he draws kisses against your stomach.

Lower still, his nose ghosts along your hips, earthen hues glittering with devotion, a beguiled smile that tugs at your heartstrings. “I have yearned to taste you again.” A breathy confession fell upon your thigh as Jacaerys kissed you there.

Inhaling a gust of your saccharine scent, Jacaerys kissed his way to the gathering slick between your thighs, palms smoothing themselves against your legs. Within his touch lies ardor, the very essence of devotion, spoken through a lingering embrace.

Molten heat coalesced against your nethers at his amorous remark, arousal slick and warm. With a hitch of your breath, you watched, enraptured; that familiar dusky mane descended to your cunt, lips flush against your inner thigh.

Freckled shoulders bullied their way between, garnering enough space for his appetite to be properly sated. His tongue raked embers across your cunt, which clenched around the phantom sensation of him.

It is fever you feel, a heat so blisteringly strong that it threatens to consume you still, licking across your flesh, only sated by your paramour. Jacaerys is disarmingly gentle in all things, the tender heart of a warrior-prince, whose kisses leave imprints upon your heart.

The tip of his nose brushes along your petals, tongue splitting deeper still, until he sluggishly laps at your core. Your taste permeates his mouth, bittersweet ambrosia that draws him into some lovestruck haze.

A myriad of moans shake your chest, fluttering through your diaphragm and into the open air. The ministrations of his tongue are divine, as if this skill is something he’s practiced for some time.

The coil of taut heat within your stomach seems to tighten as Jacaerys greedily laps at your cunt, like that of a man starved. A sharp groan blossoms throughout his sternum as you incessantly tug upon his curls, urging him closer.

A tremor gripped your thighs, twitching around his head as your hips lurched forward. The friction that simmers between you both is enough to keep him wanting, grinding against the bedroll in an attempt to relieve his own arousal.

It is then that he seeks the pearl of your cunt, pressing a string of wanton kisses to the sensitive clutch of nerves. A shiver of delight grips your spine, throat erupting with a moan as your back begins to arch.

“Jacaerys,” A whine escapes you, his name tumbling from your mouth as if it were a desperate prayer, uttered within the walls of the sept. A slithering breeze brushes over your naked flesh, form writhing atop the bedroll. “Please!”

His name rolls from your tongue with such reverence, enough to bring him to heel. Another broad stroke of his tongue laps across your cunt, gathering with it a slew of your nectar.

Knuckles turn taut as one palm haplessly fists the bedroll, the other caressing into your Prince’s curls, coaxing him further. With a twist of his mouth, he moves to the pearl of your cunt once more, pliant maw wrapping around it, stimulating you with his suckling.

Slurred cries of ecstasy slip past your lips, back arched, keening into any sliver of friction he offers. The dusk is vibrant — a celestial canvas hanging overhead, the scent of wildflowers and petrichor soothing your senses.

There is a primal messiness to his devourance, chin steeped in your arousal, mouth latched to your cunt as he evokes torrents of bliss from you. A rush of white-hot delight sears your bones, blanketing you in a wave of pleasure, stomach swirling with a violent heat.

A babble of neediness spills from your tongue, akin to some melody that Jacaerys commits to memory. Flush and feverish, you feel the onslaught of your climax, a fire lapping at the shoreline as you writhe beneath him.

Desirous moans and wanton whimpers serve as his own ecstasy, as his hips stutter into the uneven leather of the bedroll. With your thighs clenched around him, he dutifully laps at the remnants of your peak, drunk upon the sight of you.

With a shaky exhale, Jacaerys’s lips danced their way across your body, until finding the hollow of your throat, cementing your union with a lingering kiss. A smile toyed at the corners of your mouth, hands finding his biceps.

“You must tell me when the red wanderer is upon us again.” A teasing sigh fluttered beside your ear, wisps of pitch-dark curls tickling your cheek. Jacaerys settled beside you, body attached to yours, heart to heart.

Allowing yourself to beam, your fingertips trailed over the rosy dusting of his chest, inching toward the column of his throat. Hands remained pledged to one another, caresses unabated and tender.

“You were superstitious,” A playful remark of your own set his features ablaze, your lips gently peppering themselves along his shoulder, one kiss for every freckle — and there were many. “Not anymore, it seems.”

“You changed my mind on the matter,” Jacaerys uttered, digits cupping your chin, thumb drawing circles into your jaw. “Any more Wildling tales you have for me this eve?” His lips titled into a smirk of amusement.

“I am certain that I can think of one to entertain you.” A peculiar light crept into your gaze; a love overgrown, a love that was not subtle in the slightest. It was then that your mouth sought his own, and he was aching; heart placed within the palm of your hand.

[imorynn]

⋆✩ 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐟𝐢𝐧𝐝𝐬 𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐭 ( l. calderu)

⋆✩ pairings : lilia calderu • fem!reader

⋆✩ warnings / mentions : depictions of mental health struggles, burnout, anxiety, emotional distress, comfort, mentions of nudity, baths, angst, fluff, lilia taking care of you! please prioritize your well-being

⋆✩ word count : 3k+

⋆✩ tags : @madamspellmans-met-tet

⋆✩ a/n : Please remember to be kind to yourself. Take breaks if you need to, allow yourself to feel, and seek comfort in the things that bring you joy and peace. You are never alone in your struggles, and your feelings — whatever they may be — are valid, you matter. This was a little heavy to write, but I hope this brings you a bit of comfort and joy <3

The room languished in dimness, its corners softened by the hesitant embrace of twilight, as another indistinct day bled into obscurity. A chaos of papers sprawled across the desk — half-filled notebooks, annotated drafts, and crumpled failures that bore the scars of fleeting inspiration turned sour. Shards of fractured thoughts clung to the edge of a ceramic mug, long abandoned, its contents a cold, bitter shadow of former comfort. Amidst the disarray, a faint, rhythmic clicking emanated from the keyboard, the cadence uneven — hesitant, then frenzied — as if each keystroke could carve coherence from the labyrinth of your mind.

Your body had betrayed you weeks ago. Sleep came in fits and bursts, cruel in its inadequacy, leaving you more fatigued upon waking than when you had closed your eyes. Standing for longer than a few moments brought on vertigo, the world tilting like a ship caught in a storm. Your legs trembled under you; your limbs would not stop from racketing. Even sitting upright had become an exercise in endurance, your focus slipping like grains of sand through tightened fists. Your day-to-day flow was unmoored, the concept of time fractured into pieces of light and shadow that no longer adhered to the clock. You could not help but feel hideous, an empty shell of the person you used to be. Even your brain, once sharp and unyielding, has turned against you. It demands stimulation, then recoils at the slightest effort, leaving you stultified and overwhelmed in equal measure. The cruel paradox is almost laughable, but you can’t even summon the energy for that.

Your posture betrayed the toll; shoulders curved under an invisible yoke, neck stiffened by hours of neglect, digits quivering with a fatigued urgency as they alternated between scrawling ink onto paper and translating disoriented thoughts onto the sterile glow of the monitor. The screen’s light painted your face in stark relief, illuminating knitted brows and eyes ringed with exhaustion.

Each line you wrote — whether traced by pen or clacked with desperate precision — felt both like a purge and a plea, a futile effort to wrest order from the chaos that churned within you. The words blurred together as you read and reread them, dissecting each syllable, cataloging for meaning in the spaces where meaning seemed to slip away. The soft hum of the computer blended with the shift of cushions beneath you and the whisper of paper beneath your hand, a symphony of toil that bore the weight of an unrelenting inner storm. And still, you could not stop. Could not stop chasing the fleeting promise that, perhaps, the next word might finally bring clarity — or at least silence— to the tempest.

Lilia had been patient — that is, at the beginning. Truth be told, she always harbored such grand patience when it came to you. She had tried coaxing you to bed with the tenderness of a woman who had weathered storms far greater than this, easing the pen from your clutch with soft murmurs that sought to bind you in reason. But reason, elusive and foreign, had long since slipped from your grasp. The days had obscured, each one bleeding into the next, and with them, so had her forbearance. What began as gentle encouragement turned to silent insistence, her words firmer, her gaze heavier, until tonight, she stood at the precipice of your unraveling.

Her figure filled the doorway, the tender light casting shadows across her features, etching worry into every delicate line. The ends of her maroon-tinted mouth, once so quick to curl into the warmest and loving smile for you, were clasped with exasperation, and her dark irises glimmered with something more profound than concern — a tightly woven twine of frustration, sorrow, and love she could no longer conceal.

She found you hunched on the couch, a blanket tangled around your clammy frame, loosely draping over your shoulders. You did not even notice her at first, too lost in the fog of your own misery.

Finally, she moved forward, her footsteps deliberate and unhurried, like the passing of time itself. Her shadow swept over you before her voice, low and lilting with its natural timbre, cut through the oppressive silence.

“Enough.” The utter was a soft command, steady but resolute.

You did not turn. Could not. Your gaze remained fixated on the page before you, though the words had long since dissolved into meaningless smudges. Ink bled into the fibers like a wound reopened again and again, staining your fingertips and every letter typed over, your palms, your very thoughts. “I can’t,” you rasped, barely audible, tone hollow and stretched thin. “I’m almost done.”

Her sigh was soft yet audible, a weight in the room that you couldn’t ignore. She stepped closer, the hems of her skirt grazing the floor before her silhouette draped over your hunched form like a caution. “No, you’re not. You’re grinding yourself into dust, darling.”

The truth in her words landed heavily, a stone descending into still water, the ripples quaking through your chest. Yet still, you refused to meet her eyes, refused to acknowledge her underlying honesty. “I said I can’t stop,” you snapped, the sharpness in your tone cracking under its own weight. “Don’t you get it, Lilia? If I stop, everything— everything, just for one second — it all falls apart. I fall apart.”

“And you think this is holding it together?” she retorted, her voice cutting, each remark peeling back another layer of your defiance. “Look at what you’re doing to yourself. Do you even remember the last time you slept? Ate something that wasn’t cold coffee or a stale bag of chips?” The coolness of her rings bit into her digits when they tightened their hold over the cushions, trembling faintly as if she were holding back something fiercer. “I can comprehend that all those things aren’t easy for you, but you’re killing yourself, piece by piece, and for what? To prove you’re enough? To push until there’s nothing left of you?”

The room seemed to diminish in size, her words closing in around you. The dull pain in your chest spasmed, a visceral reaction to the veracity you attempted so hard in brushing aside even if it lingered, it floated, it haunted. For a moment, the only sound was the faint hum of the computer and the shallow rasp of your breath, the silence all consuming. Anger and despair warred for control when your arms came up to push against the table in front of you causing her to slightly step back. “You don’t understand! — You don’t know what it’s like to feel this… this useless. To not even recognize your own body, your own mind. To fail at the one thing you’ve always been good at.”

Lilia’s expression softened, the sharp brinks of her frustration giving way to something deeper, sadder. What Lilia saw brought nothing but ache and pain to her poor heart. You were unwell, eyes ringed red, and bags beneath them practically the size of a quarter. While your complexion still carried its hue, it lacked the depth the sun and proper rest brought upon you. She moved closer, her movements deliberate but unthreatening, until she stood beside you, one of her hands grappling with wanting to reach out to still your trembling ones. “I understand more than you think,” she declared quietly, carrying the weight of centuries you could not begin to fathom. “But this… this isn’t strength.” Her hand gestured to the mess, to your body curled in on itself, to the dark hollows beneath your eyes.

“I’m not asking you to stop because I don’t understand,” she gently spoke now but no less wavering. “I’m asking because I do. I’ve been there, trying to outrun the weight of your mind, thinking you can carry it all alone. But you can’t. No one can. And if you keep going like this…” Her voice faltered for a moment. “If you keep going like this, I’m afraid there won’t be anything left of the woman I love to save.”

Her words hung in the air, heavy and unrelenting, like a mirror held too close — forcing you to confront the reflection of your unraveling. Your exhale clawed its way up your throat, and your hands finally went still when Lilia’s came in contact with them. The pen slipped from your grip, rolling to the edge of the desk before coming to a halt.

You wanted to argue at first, to push her away, but the fight had drained out of you. The tears came suddenly, unbidden, hot, and relentless, cascading down your cheeks. “I don’t know how to stop,” you whispered, words barely audible over the sound of your sobs. One of your hands came up to bury into your tangled hair, defiance slipping into a broken plea. “I don’t know how.”

The space between her shoulders welcomed your exhausted physique, arms encircling to swaddle you just right because gods, you needed this. Your head bowed into her chest as she drew you into her shawl, her heat, her strength, her homely fragrance. She did not shush you, feed you with false hopes or tell you it would be okay now; she simply held you, her hand stroking your hair despite its matted and disheveled state, her presence grounding you in a way that felt both painful and necessary. The sobs came in waves, wracking your body with a ferocity that left you gasping. Lilia held you as though you were something precious, palms cradling you with the utmost care, her lips falling over your forehead in murmured reassurances.

“Come, my love,” She reached down and she coaxed you gently to your feet. She wrapped an arm around your waist and you wrapped yours around her neck for stability.

She guided you into the bathroom, positioning your body over the closed toilet seat. “Sit here while I draw you a bath. ” You sat down with a sigh, tipping your head back against the wall behind the toilet and letting your eyelids flutter shut for a moment, trying to ignore the pounding of your temples. And although your eyes were closed, your brow remained quirked. As if even in your thoughts you came face to face with the problems you were trying to avoid. You heard the pause of movements before a soft kiss was met with your forehead, somewhat easing all the tightness you were undergoing, and that little smile of yours was enough for her to resume her actions.

You heard the streams of water running, followed by the soft shuffling of Lilia’s movements; she worked with quiet and deft efficiency, adding a few drops of oil that released a grounding aroma in the air. Steam rose around you and softened the edges of the room in gentle swirls, carrying the fragrance of herbs and oils — lavender, chamomile, a hint of rosemary. All serene and soothing within your aching lungs as you inhaled deeply. The tinge of citrine within the atmosphere made you open your eyes, already sensing your lover hovered above you.

Lilia’s chocolate browns swirled softly with compassion and love, leaking reassurance before she crouched between your legs. “Let me help you, my heart.” Her graceful fingers worked methodically to unbutton your shirt, to slip it from your shoulders with such a tenderness that made your throat tighten, blinking back tears at the nickname she tended to call you, your head dipping down. Her touch never lingered too long, never straying from what was necessary. When you were exposed before her, vulnerable in a way that has nothing to do with nudity, she does not gaze at you with pity or repugnance. Only love. Fierce, unyielding love.

She stood from between your legs and held her hands out for you to take, which you obliged. You delicately placed your hands in hers and stood up. She undid the string of your pants and slid them down your lower body as you stepped out of them.

“You don’t have to do anything,” she whispered when your forehead brushed her temple, her fingers moving to tuck a damp curl behind your ear.

You did not resist as she helped you into the water, the soaked warmth enveloping you like a cocoon. A soreness took over, yet you welcomed the capacity of it, the tension in your muscles unwinding in increments as the heat seeped into your aching joints. “I’ll go get you a towel and set out some fresh clothes.”

You trembled from its temperature, and while the act somewhat alleviated your body’s ache, it did not reach or thaw the hollow coldness concealed in your chest. You sat in the center of the tub, knees drawn to your bare chest, shoulders hunched like a battered bird too afraid to unfold its wings. The water glimmered faintly, lavender-scented and calm, a direct contrast to the tempest inside you. You stared blandly at the surface but could not bring yourself to move.

Lilia returned back into the bathroom and was met with your expression. The light pranced across her features — those soft laugh lines, her sharp cheekbones, and her ever-watchful gaze that had always seemed to see you, truly see you. You could not bring yourself to meet those eyes now.

“I don’t know why you bother,” you whispered, your voice brittle as a dried leaf, barely holding itself together. You brought your knees tighter into your abdomen, your gaze intended downward as though the clear dampness of it might envelop you entirely. “This isn’t me. I'm not going to stop — I’m not… that version of a person. I don’t even know who I am anymore.”

She tilted her head, silver locks framing her features in similar shape to a halo, but her eyes blazed with something sharper than sympathy — resolve. “You’re still you, y/n.”

You shook your head vehemently, tears glazing your eyes as you attempted to form the words that gnawed at your chest. “No, Lilia, I’m not. I’m not the person you fell in love with anymore.” The words spewed out, ragged and raw and shameful. “I’m nothing. I stand here, right before the debris of everything I was, and there’s nothing left — I’m nothing. I don’t even know how… how or why am I still existing.”

Her shawl was discarded, kneeling beside you as her hands, holding a washcloth, dipped into the water and wrung it before shuffling closer. “Tilt your head back for me,” she instructed softly. It was neither commanded nor meek — it was a simple request, spoken with the intimacy of someone who knew how to speak to you when words felt unbearable.

You obeyed, streams of warm water dampening your head. You groaned softly at the feel of warm water on your scalp, slowly letting yourself melt against her touch. Grabbing a bottle of shampoo, she poured a generous amount upon her palm before finding its way to your hair. Discarded from her signature rings, her fingers followed and worked through the unkempt tangles with infinite patience, scrubbing away the residue of neglect, her touch both practical and reverent.

“I know it’s hard to stop,” she began, her hands moving in leisured, circular motions. “You think if you stop, everything will fall apart. That there’s no time to rest. But your body is telling you otherwise. You need to learn and listen. You are wrong, you aren't debris. You are not a ruin.”

A dry and bitter laugh emerged, and you glanced at her finally, your tears uniting with the water droplets pelting your skin, not even sparing a care if the burn of suds collided with your vision. “Look at me,” you croaked. “Look at me, Lilia. I can barely stand without falling over. I can’t sleep. I can’t think. My body is falling apart, my mind’s barely hanging on, my heart — the very heart you say that’s yours and that you love isn’t good! You're right, there's nothing left to save! And I don’t — I don’t know how to put it all back together.” Your breath hitched as a sob tore through you. “I don’t know why you’re still here. I wouldn’t blame you if you didn’t — if you didn’t love me anymore.”

“How dare you.”

You blinked, taken aback, oxygen cutting off as you completely met her gaze. Her orbs were moistened, yet they were fierce, unfaltering in their intensity.

“How dare you think so little of my love,” she spoke firmly and loudly and hurt laced every utterance. Foamed fingers wounded around your shoulders and turnt you towards her in one smooth motion. “Do you think my love is conditional? That it’s so fragile, so shallow, that it would shatter because you are struggling? You, who have shown and given me everything — every piece of yourself, every ounce of your light, your soul, who has taught me to find my way back. Do you think I would abandon you now, when you need me most?”

Her words demolished you, the sheer force of them tearing through the walls you had built around your remorse and despair. Streaks of tears once more down your drenched cheeks, her thumbs stroking them away, her fingers swiftly swatting back the mingled water and soap from your eyes as she tipped your chin up and lightly kissed your forehead.

“My darling girl, let me continue helping you. Let me take care of you. You do not have to endure this all alone.”

With a soft nod from you and another kiss from her, this time directed to your lips, she gently turned you around and proceeded to wash your hair, thoroughly swilling every bit.

She then gathered a washcloth and preferred body wash, dipped it into the water, and rubbed it together to get it foamed. She washed you with exact loving care, moving the immersed rag over your tired muscles, cleansing away the grime and the heaviness of the past weeks. She hummed softly under her breath — a melody you do not recognize but find comforting in the velvet brittle of her octave nonetheless — and you close your eyes, surrendering to her ministrations.

"Your hand?" As she uprose fully, without wasting a second you gave her your fingers to hold, and she steadied you onto your feet as you stepped out. She huddled you out of the tub and bundled you in the fuzziest towel you loved. One palm cradled the curve of your cheek while the other steadied upon your covered waist. "let's get you dressed, my love."

You sat at the hem of the bed, partaking in drying yourself up — though she wouldn't allow it — as she smoothed your lotion over your parched skin, gingerly taking in the way the ointment dissolved across your shoulders that was ensued with a soft kiss.

"You are not debris," she repeated as she slid your limbs into fresh and comfy clothes, aware of the way your eyes brimmed with tears. "You are not a ruin, and you most certainly are not 'nothing'." Her movements were unhurried, as though time itself had decelerated and permitted her this moment to care for you.

She does not allow you to lift a finger, guiding you to the bed with a patience that feels endless. The sheets were warm, the pillows plumped just so, and she tucked you beneath the blankets before nestling in beside you. Those cinnamon brown pools engulfed you in their safety assisted with the loving strokes of her fingers upon the side of your face. "If you fall, I will be there to catch you. If you cannot sleep, I will hold you. If you cannot think, then allow me to hold those thoughts for you. If you fall apart, and your mind is barely grasping onto reality, I am going to help build you up again, and again, and again. Every version of you, I love and will continue to love. You are here right now, and that is all that matters to me."

Her arms embraced you in a way that left no ounce for uncertainty —you are hers, and she will care for you, no matter how broken you feel. The pads of her fingers continue soothing patterns on your back, her lips landing in tender kisses on your temple, the crown of your head, your soaked cheeks. “You are not a burden,” The warmth of her words bristled through your shaggy tresses. “You are my love. My heart, do you understand? Let me hold you.”

And so you do. You give her the privilege to hold you, relinquishing to her love. It does obliterate the chaos or untangle the knots within you— it simply cannot, unfortunately. Though in her arms, the compressing load you have carried alone for so long felt just a fraction lighter. The tightness in your chest eased, the burn in your throat subsided, and the tears you have been swallowing for the past days ebbed. You nestled your head in the hollow of her neck, her heartbeat lulled your aching bones, your broken soul, your tender flesh, and you let those tired eyes of yours flutter shut with the feel of her lips grazing your forehead.

[viagracex]

hey bae I actually adore your writing!! Could you do something fluffy with Arthur tv and fem!reader where she’s rambling to him about like Greek mythology or smth random whilst sat in his lap and he’s just playing with her hair and listening? And she stops bcs she’s usually quiet and she feels bad for rambling but he reassures her bcs he’s genuinely so interested in everything she’s saying? Or something like that obviously adjust it to your preferences! Thank uu :)

Whispers of Olympus

arthur frederick x fem!reader

summary: during a rambling about greek mythology you and arthur reach a profound, mutual realization.

warnings: greek mythology, mythological violence, emotional intensity

note: i absolutely loved writing this!!! i got a bit carried away but writing this caused my inner percy jackson kid to come out as someone who’s obsessed with greek mythology. once i started writing i couldn’t stop I spent 6 hours straight just putting all my ideas on paper! this filled me with so much joy you have no idea. i did put my own little spin on the ending. hope this is what you were looking for!

4.6k words

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In the soothing cocoon of your shared living room, with the soft hum of the city outside and the dim light from the television casting flickering shadows around, you found yourself in a familiar, cherished position: nestled comfortably in Arthur's lap, your back against his chest as you recounted tales of Greek mythology with animated enthusiasm. Your hands moved expressively, painting pictures of epic battles and divine machinations as you delved into the ancient stories that captivated you so deeply.

Arthur's fingers gently combed through your soft hair as you nestled comfortably in his lap, your eyes alight with enthusiasm. The warm afternoon sunlight streamed through the window, casting a golden glow over them both as you regaled him with tales of gods and heroes.

"...and then Theseus sailed to Crete to face the Minotaur," you continued, gesticulating animatedly. "Can you imagine how terrifying that must have been? A massive labyrinth filled with deadly traps, and at the center, a monstrous bull-man waiting to devour you!"

Arthur smiled softly, completely enraptured by your passion. He loved the way your eyes sparkled when you spoke of mythology, how your voice took on a lilting, storyteller's cadence. Though typically reserved, in moments like these you fully blossomed, painting vivid pictures with your words.

"But Ariadne gave him a ball of thread to find his way back out," you went on. "It's called Ariadne's thread, and it's become a metaphor for solving problems with logic. Isn't that fascinating? How these ancient stories still resonate today and shape our language and thinking?"

Arthur nodded, his fingers still gently combing through your hair. "It is fascinating," he agreed softly. "Tell me more about Ariadne. What happened to her after she helped Theseus?"

You shifted slightly in his lap, her eyes lighting up even more at his question. "Oh, that's where it gets really interesting! You see, after Theseus defeated the Minotaur, he took Ariadne with him when he left Crete. But then..." Paused dramatically, your hand resting on Arthur's chest. "He abandoned her on the island of Naxos while she slept!"

Arthur's brow furrowed. "That seems rather ungrateful of him," he murmured, his hand moving to trace gentle patterns on your back.

"It was!" you exclaimed. "But here's where it gets better. The god Dionysus found her there, fell in love with her, and made her his immortal wife. He even placed her crown in the sky as the constellation Corona Borealis."

As you spoke, Arthur found himself imagining the scene, picturing the lonely goddess on that distant shore, her heartbreak transforming into divine love. He gazed down at the woman in his arms, marveling at how she brought these ancient tales to life with such vivid detail.

"It's a bittersweet story," he mused, "but I suppose it worked out for Ariadne in the end."

You nodded eagerly. "Exactly! And there are so many interpretations of what it all means. Some say it represents the transition from maiden to wife, or the union of mortal and divine. Others see it as a cautionary tale about trusting strangers."

As you continued to expound on the various scholarly debates surrounding the myth, Arthur found himself captivated not just by the story, but by the infectious enthusiasm. Your cheeks were flushed with excitement, hands gesticulating wildly as you spoke. He loved how you could lose herself so completely in these tales, how the usual shyness melted away when you got caught in a passionate rambling.

"Oh! And did you know that the Minotaur itself is a fascinating symbol?" you asked, barely pausing for breath. "Some interpret it as representing the bestial nature within humanity, or the struggle between civilization and our primal instincts."

Arthur listened intently, his fingers still absently stroking you hair. He loved how your mind worked, connecting disparate ideas and finding meaning in the smallest details. As you spoke, he found himself drawn into her world of myth and symbolism.

"That's fascinating," he murmured. "It reminds me a bit of the story of Cronus. Do you know that one?"

Your eyes lit up even brighter. "Oh yes! Cronus, the Titan who devoured his own children. That's another myth with so many layers of meaning."

You shifted in his lap, turning to face him more fully, hands coming to rest on his shoulders. "Cronus ate his children because he feared they would overthrow him, just as he had overthrown his own father, Uranus. It's a story about the cyclical nature of time and power, and the fear of being replaced. But Rhea, his wife, she was cunning. She managed to trick him by wrapping a stone in swaddling clothes instead of baby Zeus," you explained, your voice lively with the thrill of storytelling.

Arthur nodded, his hand moving to cup your cheek gently. "And in the end, his fear became a self-fulfilling prophecy, didn't it? Because Zeus, the child he failed to eat, was the one who ultimately dethroned him."

"Exactly!" you exclaimed, her eyes shining with excitement. "It's a perfect example of how these myths often contain deep psychological truths. Cronus's attempt to cling to power ultimately led to his downfall."

Pausing for a moment, your brow furrowing in thought. "You know, there's an interesting parallel between the Cronus myth and the story of Oedipus. Both involve prophecies of sons overthrowing their fathers, and both show how attempts to avoid fate often lead directly to it."

"Oh! And speaking of Zeus, there was this time when he transformed into a swan to seduce Leda... it’s such a bizarre yet fascinating tale, showing just how far the gods would go for love—or lust," you chuckled, your eyes sparkling with amusement.

Arthur's chuckle rumbled in his chest, a warm sound that vibrated against your back. "The gods really didn’t have any limits, did they?" he mused, his intrigue palpable in his tone.

You nodded, pleased with his interest, and continued, "Not at all. Their stories are filled with such raw emotions and dramatic plots. Like the story of Persephone and Hades, this tale is one of my absolute favourites!" you exclaimed, your eyes lighting up with renewed excitement. "It's a story of love, loss, and the changing of seasons."

Arthur's hand continued its gentle ministrations in your hair, his fingers weaving through the strands as he listened intently. "Tell me about it," he encouraged softly, his eyes never leaving your animated face.

You shifted slightly in his lap once again, getting comfortable as you prepared to dive into the story. "Well, Persephone was the daughter of Demeter, the goddess of harvest and fertility. She was a beautiful young goddess, and Hades, the god of the underworld, fell deeply in love with her."

As you spoke, Arthur's free hand began tracing more lazy patterns on your back, his touch soothing and warm. You leaned into him, drawing comfort from his presence as you continued your tale.

"Hades was so smitten that he decided to abduct Persephone and take her to the underworld. He burst through the earth in his chariot, snatched her up, and disappeared back into the depths before anyone could stop him."

Arthur's brow furrowed slightly at the mention of abduction. "That seems rather drastic," he murmured, his hand stilling momentarily in your hair.

You nodded emphatically. "Oh, it was! Demeter was absolutely distraught when she discovered her daughter was missing. She searched the earth for nine days and nights, neglecting her duties as the goddess of harvest. As a result, the earth began to wither and die."

Your hands moved expressively as you spoke, painting pictures in the air. "Can you imagine the desperation she must have felt? A mother searching endlessly for her child, while the world around her fell into ruin?"

Arthur's expression softened, his fingers resuming its movements now running gentle caress through your hair. "It must have been heartbreaking for her," he said softly.

"It was," you agreed, your voice taking on a more somber tone. "Eventually, Zeus had to intervene. He commanded Hades to return Persephone to the world above."

You paused dramatically, your eyes meeting Arthur's. "But there was a catch. You see, Persephone had eaten six pomegranate seeds while in the underworld.

"And eating food from the underworld meant she was bound to return there," Arthur guessed, his voice soft with understanding.

You nodded enthusiastically, your eyes bright. "Exactly! For each seed she ate, she had to spend one month of the year in the underworld. So, for six months, she stays with Hades, and for six months, she returns to the world above with her mother."

As you spoke, you realized how long you had been talking, how many stories you had shared. A flush crept up your cheeks, and you suddenly felt self-conscious. "Oh," you said, your voice dropping to a whisper. "I'm sorry, I've been rambling on for so long. I didn't mean to bore you with all these old stories."

You started to pull away, but Arthur's arms tightened around you, holding you close. "Don't apologize," he said, his voice warm and sincere. "I love hearing you talk about these myths. The way you tell them, they come alive. It's like I can see the gods and heroes right in front of me."

Your eyes widened in surprise. "Really? You're not just saying that?"

Arthur shook his head, a tender smile playing on his lips. "I'm not just saying that," he assured you, his voice gentle but firm. "Your passion for these stories is... captivating. The way your eyes light up, how animated you become - it's beautiful to watch."

His words sent a warm flutter through your chest, and you felt your blush deepen. Arthur's hand moved from your hair to cup your cheek, his thumb brushing softly against your skin.

"Tell me," he said, his blue eyes gazing intently into yours, "what drew you to Greek mythology in the first place? What is it about these ancient tales that speaks to you so deeply?"

You hesitated for a moment, surprised by the question. It wasn't often that someone asked about the root of your passion, and you found yourself searching for the right words.

"I think... it's the humanity of it all," you began slowly, your voice growing stronger as you continued. "These gods and heroes, they're so powerful, so larger than life. And yet, they struggle with the same emotions we do - love, jealousy, pride, fear. Their stories are our stories, just painted on a grander canvas."

Your words hung in the air for a moment, and you watched as Arthur's eyes softened with understanding. He nodded slowly, his hand still gently cupping your cheek.

"That's beautiful," he murmured. "I never thought of it that way before, but you're right. These stories have endured for thousands of years because they speak to something universal in the human experience."

You smiled, your heart swelling with warmth at his understanding. "Yeah," you said softly. "And there's something magical about how these stories have been passed down through generations, evolving and taking on new meanings as they go. It's like we're part of this grand, unending conversation across time."

As you spoke, you noticed the golden afternoon light had shifted, casting long shadows across the room. The sun was beginning to set, painting the sky in vibrant hues of orange and pink visible through the window. It reminded you of the story of Apollo driving his sun chariot across the sky.

"You know," you began, a playful glint in your eye, "the ancient Greeks believed the sunset was caused by Apollo reaching the western edge of the world with his chariot. As he descended into the underworld to make his nightly journey back to the east, the sky would blaze with colour."

Arthur's gaze shifted to the window, taking in the spectacular sunset. "It's a beautiful explanation for such a stunning sight," he mused, his arms tightening slightly around you.

You nodded, snuggling closer into his embrace. "They had stories for everything - the changing seasons, the constellations in the night sky, the ebb and flow of the tides. It's like they wove magic into the very fabric of the world around them."

As you spoke, Arthur's eyes drifted back to your face, a soft smile playing on his lips. "You weave magic too, you know," he said softly. "The way you bring these stories to life, it's like you're casting a spell."

Your cheeks flushed at his words, a warmth spreading through your chest. "I just love sharing them," you murmured, suddenly feeling shy under the intensity of his gaze.

"And I love listening," Arthur replied, his voice low and tender. His hand moved from your cheek to gently tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. "You know, there's a story I'd like to tell you now, if you'll let me."

Curiosity piqued, you nodded eagerly. "Of course," you said, settling more comfortably in his lap.

Arthur took a deep breath, his eyes never leaving yours. "Once upon a time," he began, his voice taking on a storyteller's cadence that mirrored your own, "there was a man who thought he understood the world, he thought he knew everything there was to know. He had traveled far and wide, studied ancient texts, and prided himself on his knowledge, never realizing there was magic all around him."

His fingers traced delicate patterns on your skin as he spoke, sending a shiver down your spine. "But one day, he met a woman who showed him that there was still so much wonder left to discover. A woman who saw the world differently. She had eyes that sparkled with ancient wisdom and a voice that could bring long-forgotten tales to life."

You felt your breath catch in your throat, recognizing yourself in his words. Arthur's gaze was intense, filled with an emotion you couldn't quite name.

"This woman," he continued, his voice soft and reverent, "she opened his eyes to a world of wonder he had never known existed. She spoke of gods and heroes, of love and betrayal, of triumph and tragedy. And as she spoke, the world around them seemed to shimmer with possibility."

The setting sun cast a warm glow across Arthur's face, turning his eyes to liquid gold. "With every story she told, every myth she unravelled, the man fell deeper under her spell. He found himself looking forward to their moments together, eager to hear what new tale she would weave. And as the days turned to weeks, and weeks to months, he realized that the magic he sought wasn't just in her stories - it was in her."

Arthur's voice grew softer, more intimate, as he continued. "He saw how her eyes lit up when she spoke of Aphrodite's beauty, how her hands danced through the air as she described Hermes' swift flight. He noticed the way she bit her lip when she was deep in thought, trying to remember some obscure detail of a lesser-known myth."

You felt your heart quicken as Arthur spoke, his words painting a picture that was achingly familiar. His hand moved to cup your cheek once more, his thumb tracing gentle circles on your skin.

"And then one day," he murmured, "as the sun was setting just like this, painting the sky in hues of gold and pink, he realized something. He realized that all the epic love stories she had told him - Eros and Psyche, Orpheus and Eurydice, even Zeus and his many conquests - paled in comparison to how he felt about her. The way his heart raced when she smiled, how his skin tingled at her touch, the warmth that bloomed in his chest when she laughed - it was a magic more powerful than any myth or legend."

Arthur's voice grew tender, his eyes shimmering with emotion. "He realized that she had become his Ariadne's thread, guiding him through the labyrinth of life. She was his Persephone, bringing light and life to his world. She was his muse, inspiring him to see beauty and wonder in every moment."

As he spoke, the last rays of sunlight painted the room in a soft, golden glow. The light caught in your hair, creating a halo effect that took Arthur's breath away. He paused for a moment, drinking in the sight of you.

"And so," he continued, his voice barely above a whisper, "the man decided to write his own myth. A story of two souls finding each other, of hearts beating in sync, of love as timeless as the tales of old."

Your breath caught in your throat as Arthur leaned in closer, his forehead resting against yours."In this story," he murmured, "the man realizes that the greatest adventure, the most magical journey, is the one he's embarking on with her."

Your heart raced as Arthur's words washed over you, each syllable resonating deep within your soul. The room seemed to fade away, leaving just the two of you suspended in this moment, bathed in the dying light of day.

"He sees that every day with her is like turning a new page in an epic tale," Arthur continued, his voice low and tender. "Each shared laugh, each quiet moment, each passionate debate about the meaning behind an ancient myth - it all weaves together to create a tapestry more beautiful than any he's ever seen."

His hand moved to cup the back of your neck, fingers tangling gently in your hair. "And as he looks into her eyes, he sees galaxies of stories yet untold, constellations of dreams waiting to be explored together."

You felt tears prickling at the corners of your eyes, overwhelmed by the emotion in Arthur's voice, in his gaze. Your hands moved to rest on his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath your palms.

"He realizes," Arthur whispered, his voice thick with emotion, "that he's fallen deeply, irrevocably in love with her. Not just with her stories or her passion, but with every facet of her being."

Your breath caught in your throat, your heart pounding so loudly you were sure Arthur must hear it. The world seemed to shrink down to just the two of you, the last golden rays of sunlight wrapping around you like a cocoon.

"In this moment," Arthur continued, his thumb gently caressing your cheek, "he wants nothing more than to be a part of her story. To write chapters with her, to face whatever challenges may come, to celebrate every triumph and weather every storm by her side."

You felt a tear slip down your cheek, overwhelmed by the depth of emotion in Arthur's words, in his eyes. He caught the tear with his thumb, his touch impossibly gentle.

"And so," he murmured, "he decides to take a leap of faith, just like the heroes in her tales. To be brave, to open his heart, and to tell her how he feels."

Your heart pounded in your chest, Arthur's words echoing in your mind. The room seemed to hold its breath, time suspended in this magical moment between you.

"And what did the woman say?" you whispered, your voice trembling with emotion.

Arthur's eyes sparkled, a tender smile playing on his lips. "Well," he murmured, "that's where our story diverges from the ancient myths. Because in this tale, the ending hasn't been written yet." His hand cupped your cheek, his thumb gently caressing your skin. "You tell me. What does the woman say?"

For a moment, you were speechless, overwhelmed by the depth of emotion swirling within you. The setting sun painted the room in hues of gold and rose, casting a warm glow over Arthur's face. In that light, you could see every fleck of colour in his eyes, every line etched by laughter and contemplation.

Your mind raced through all the myths and legends you had shared with him over the months. You thought of Orpheus braving the underworld for Eurydice, of Psyche completing impossible tasks to be reunited with Eros, of Odysseus journeying for years to return to his beloved Penelope. All these tales of love and devotion swirled in your mind, but none seemed to capture the depth of what you felt at this moment.

You took a deep breath, your hands moving to cup Arthur's face. The warmth of his skin under your palms grounded you and gave you courage.

"In this story," you began, your voice soft but steady, "the woman realizes that she's been weaving her own tale all along, without even knowing it. Every myth she's shared, every legend she's brought to life, has been leading her to this moment."

Your hands moved to cup Arthur's face, mirroring his gentle touch. "She sees that the magic she's always sought in ancient stories has been right here all along, in the way he listens, in the warmth of his embrace, in the depth of his understanding."

"She realizes," you continued, your thumbs gently caressing his cheek “that she's been falling in love too, with every shared moment, every exchanged glance, every passionate discussion. She sees that this man has become her Hades, not in darkness but in depth - in the profound way he sees her, understands her, cherishes her."

Arthur's eyes widened, a spark of hope igniting in their depths. His hands moved to your waist, holding you closer as if afraid you might disappear.

"She realizes," you continued once more, your voice growing stronger with each word, "that their story is one for the ages. Not because of grand quests or divine interventions, but because of the quiet magic they create together. The way he makes her laugh, the comfort she finds in his arms, the spark that ignites when their minds connect over shared passions."

Your fingers traced the contours of Arthur's face, memorizing every line and plane. "She sees their future unfolding like a tapestry, woven with threads of shared adventures and quiet moments. Mornings spent discussing philosophy over coffee, evenings curled up reading to each other, weekends exploring ancient ruins and bringing history to life."

Arthur's breath hitched, his hands tightening slightly at your waist. The room around you seemed to fade away, leaving just the two of you suspended in this moment,

"In this moment," you whispered, your forehead resting against his, "she realizes that all the love stories she's ever told pale in comparison to the one she's living. That the greatest myth, the most powerful magic, is the connection between two hearts beating in sync."

Your eyes locked with Arthur's, and in that moment, it felt as if the very fabric of reality shifted around you. The room seemed to shimmer with an otherworldly light, reminiscent of the golden glow that surrounded the gods in ancient tales. You could almost hear the whisper of the Fates, weaving this moment into the tapestry of your lives.

"She knows," you murmured, your voice barely above a whisper, "that this is her odyssey, her great adventure. Not across wine-dark seas or through monster-filled islands, but through the landscape of the heart. A journey more perilous and more rewarding than any faced by the heroes of old."

As you spoke, the last rays of the setting sun painted the room in a kaleidoscope of colours. The warm light caught in Arthur's hair, creating a halo effect that reminded you of the radiance of Apollo. His eyes, fixed on yours, seemed to hold entire galaxies within their depths.

"She understands now," you continued, your fingers tracing the line of his jaw, "that every story she's ever told has been preparing her for this moment. Every tale of love and loss, of triumph and tragedy, has been teaching her how to open her heart, how to be brave in the face of uncertainty, how to recognize true love when it stands before her."

Your hands moved to rest on Arthur's chest, feeling the rapid beat of his heart beneath your palms. It was a rhythm that seemed to echo through your own body, as if your very souls were in sync.

"And so," you whispered, your voice trembling with emotion, "she says yes. Yes to this adventure, yes to writing their own epic tale together, yes to a love that rivals any myth."

Arthur's eyes shimmered with unshed tears, a smile of pure joy spreading across his face. The room around you seemed to pulse with an otherworldly energy, as if the very air was alive with the magic of this moment.

"Yes," he breathed, his voice filled with wonder and reverence. "Yes to all of it?."

As if moved by an invisible force, you both leaned in closer, your noses brushing. The air between you crackled with electricity, reminiscent of Zeus's thunderbolts. Your heart raced, pounding a rhythm as old as time itself.

"Arthur," you murmured, your fingers tangling in his hair, "I love you. Not just as Penelope loved Odysseus or as Psyche loved Eros, but in a way that's uniquely ours. A love that's both ancient and new, timeless and immediate."

His hands tightened at your waist, pulling you impossibly closer. "And I love you," he whispered, his voice filled with a reverence that made your heart soar. "With every fiber of my being, with every beat of my heart, I love you."

As you gazed into each other's eyes, the air between you crackled with anticipation, electric and alive. A silent conversation passing between you in that infinite moment. Then, as if drawn by an irresistible force, you both leaned in.

Your lips met in a kiss that sent shockwaves through your entire being. It was soft at first, a gentle press, like the first brush of sunlight at dawn. But then it deepened, becoming something more profound, more passionate. Arthur's hand cupped the back of your neck, pulling you closer, while your fingers tangled in his hair.

The kiss was everything you had ever dreamed of and more. It was Aphrodite's blessing and Eros's arrow, a divine union of souls. You tasted the sweetness of ambrosia on his lips, felt the strength of Hercules in his embrace. The world around you seemed to fade away, leaving only this moment, this connection.

As you kissed, you could almost hear the Muses singing, their celestial voices weaving a melody of love and destiny. The room filled with a golden light, reminiscent of the radiance of Mount Olympus itself. It was as if the gods themselves were blessing your union, creating a private universe just for the two of you.

In that moment, you understood how Zeus must have felt when he first laid eyes on Hera, how Hades was so captivated by Persephone that he reshaped the very laws of nature to be with her.

In that moment it felt like you understood everything.

[theinnerunderrain]

Love Me Dead [Yan!Boyfriend x Fem!Reader]

Warnings: Yandere themes, manipulative behaviors, heavily dialogue bc it's just mostly talking and gaslighting, college life, may be somewhat confusing but it's that story that is up to your interpretation!

+

"[First Name]."

A sizable and gentle hand enfolds your wrist, eliciting a startled leap at the unexpected touch. Casting a curious glance over your shoulder, you discern the hand's owner—a figure with a tousle of rich brown locks. The air on campus carries a lingering blend of pumpkin spice and damp rain, while vibrant leaves in hues of red, yellow, and orange blanket the cement walkway, creating a tapestry beneath your feet.

It was none other than your boyfriend, Asuka.

"Why do you keep ignoring me?"

In a hushed plea, etched with concern and confusion, he inquires, his pallid complexion a canvas for the anxious query. A delicate flush graces his cheeks and ears, a subtle scarlet trace, suggesting an earlier pursuit in an attempt to bridge the distance between you.

"Did I do something wrong..? If I did, then just tell me..."

A dance of confusion painted upon your countenance, a pirouette of bewilderment as you gracefully turned, aligning yourself to face him fully. Brows knitted in contemplation, coral lips drawn into a slender seam, your expression spoke the eloquence of perplexity.

"I'm not ignoring you though..?"

"You are..! You barely text me anymore and avoid me around the campus like I'm some sort of infectious disease.."

He spoke anew, his voice ascending to a higher pitch, an accusatory gaze fixated upon you as though your uttered words were mere echoes of deceit. His other hand delicately enveloped your wrist, creating a symmetrical hold that left you suspended in a still, unsettling equilibrium.

"No I'm not..? Asuka, we both have been busy and I can't spend all day messaging you."

In the chill of the season, you grapple with an awkward attempt at reasoning, noticing the warmth and clamminess of his hands. The contrast, his heated touch against your soft skin, sends an uncomfortable shiver down your spine. Asuka, momentarily lost in contemplation, lets his lips curve into a frown. In that moment, he resembles a kicked puppy, the weight of his next words settling heavily in the air.

"..Are you mad at me..?"

In a suspended breath, he momentarily halted, drawing nearer to you. Amidst the bustling backdrop of students hurrying to their classes, you couldn't help but wonder if curious gazes were directed your way, recognizing the peculiarity of your shared moment beneath the open sky.

"Are you still hung up about last time..? If that's the issue then I'm really sorry, and I've already apologized before...!"

As Asuka continued to speak, words flowed incessantly from his lips, a torrent of increasing urgency evident in the rapid cadence of his cherry-toned voice. A palpable hysteria seeped through his every syllable, mirroring the rising heat radiating from his fervent body. It was as though he embodied a ticking bomb, gradually approaching the brink of overheating, poised to unleash an explosive torrent of emotions.

"Hung up on what?"

Inquiring, you sought release, gently weaving your fingers to disentangle from his grasp, a delicate dance to temper the heat that enveloped. Yet, his clasp remained unyielding, an unspoken embrace refusing to relent.

"Hung up on that time when I was being unreasonable and it made both of us late to our classes."

"No..? Why would I be mad about something like that?"

In the labyrinth of his spoken thoughts, you weave a delicate tapestry, attempting to decipher the cryptic echoes of his mention of unreasonableness. Despite the elusive nature of clarity, you gracefully surrender to the intrigue, deciding to waltz within the enigmatic dance of his words, a willing participant in the artful play of understanding.

"No, there's something wrong but you just won't say it...."

Persistently, Asuka insists, and a subtle irritation blooms within you, despite your inner plea for calm. Yet, his next words delicately wound your heart with a touch of sorrow.

"Do you not love me anymore..?"

"What..?"

In incredulity, you queried, gazing at the young man whose eyes teetered on the brink of cascading tears. The threat lingered in the wells of his eyes, poised to spill over and trace the contours of his fevered cheeks. Yet he continues to rambled.

"Ha! Everything makes sense now. All that cold attitude, and you avoiding me everyday. You lost feelings for me, didn't you?"

His voice crescendoed, rising in both volume and pitch as he advanced, closing the distance until his face hovered mere inches from yours. In this intimate proximity, you couldn't help but sense the burgeoning awareness among fellow students, as they subtly turned their attention toward his unfolding, hysterical unraveling.

"Asuka, how can you say something like that?"

You try to calm him down, speaking in a much softer and calmer tone compared to the man, as if you were a mother trying to calm down a crying child.In the hushed cadence of your voice, a gentle river of reassurance flows, seeking to temper the tempest within him. Your words, soft and serene, weave through the tumult like a mother's lullaby, an attempt to pacify a sobbing child.

"You know...If you had just told me normally that you didn't like me anymore then I would have just accepted that as it is."

Yet, like whispers through the air, your words glide past him. Though a subtle calm embraces him, his voice, now a gentle breeze, unveils a softer cadence, a stark departure from the turbulent tone that had echoed before.

"But why'd you have to go ahead and treat me like that?"

He inquires, guiding your hand to caress the contours of his cheek, gently pressing it against the tender warmth of your palm as if seeking solace in its soft embrace.

"Asuka...I understand you're frustrated but I do love you, and I haven't stopped loving you.."

In hushed tones, your words tenderly caressed the air, coaxing him to nestle against your palm. With a gentle touch, you traced the padded side of your fingers across his cheeks, a soothing rhythm to quell the tempest within him. A graceful guidance led you both to a tranquil refuge, where a brown bench cradled the quietude. There were no other students in sight.

"It's just that, everything has been so stressful with finals and stuff....I swear, I'm not trying to ignore you."

You painted on a smile, and Asuka, with an intent ear, absorbed your words, as though orchestrating a delicate symphony of comprehension within the corridors of his mind.

"But how can I be so sure?"

Once you convince yourself of soothing the man's agitation, his voice resurfaces, posing a question that resonates within your chest, setting a subtle cadence to the rhythm of your heartbeat.

"That you're not just saying that, and that you actually mean it? That you still love me?"

In the quiet expanse of a moment, you pondered his words, delicately crafting a response to safeguard the delicate balance of his emotions. At last, your voice returned, accompanied by the gentle caress of your other hand, tracing a tender path beneath the canvas of his eyes.

"I do love you and you should already know that, Asuka."

Your words, like a subtle elixir, lingered momentarily before gracefully permeating his being. He surrendered to your touch, a gentle immersion into the warmth of your embrace, his grasp on your essence unwittingly tightening. Closer he drew, until the shared touch of both your knees wove a delicate closeness, an unspoken harmony.

"I do...?"

"Yes, you do."

In a graceful motion, you extended your arm, inviting the young man into an embrace willingly embraced. He leaned into your touch, his hand delicately finding its place on the small of your back, creating a tender connection. His body emanated warmth, reminiscent of an oven preheated for hours, yearning for the moment when it could be tenderly turned off. In that intimate embrace, moments stretched like delicate strands of time. His hands held firm against your waist, and his chin found solace upon your shoulders, a subtle dance of closeness. The air bore the comforting aroma of cinnamon and coffee, a fragrant reminder of his presence. As the embrace gently loosened, you parted, a reassuring smile gracing your lips.

"Then, it's settled? I promise to make more time for you, so don't go around thinking I don't love you anymore, alright?"

His countenance eased, a gentle nod painting the canvas of his expression. Where tears once traced delicate paths on his visage, they now evaporated, leaving behind a softened countenance. His lips, once adorned with the weight of sorrow, now curved into a tender smile.

"You promise?"

Once more, you inquire, drawing him into a tender embrace. Your hands cradle the back of his head, granting him the sanctuary to bury his face in the crook of your neck. Unmindful of the ticklish dance of his warm breath upon your skin, you remain oblivious to the subtle curvature of his lips into a contented grin. Nor do you discern the palpable brightening of his eyes, responding softly to your words.

"I promise."

[thef1diary]

Above The Chaos | D. Ricciardo

Summary: Amidst your birthday celebration’s chaos, you find solace on the rooftop with a bottle of wine. Daniel joins, offering comfort underneath the starlit sky.

— part of the Birthday Bash fics

Of course I had to post the Danny one on my own birthday 🤭!! I had sm fun writing all of these fics and I hope you loved reading them just as much

pairing: daniel x fem!reader

wc: 1.4k

main masterlist taglist form

© thef1diary 2024. all rights reserved. Do not copy, steal, translate, or repost any of my work

The bass thumped through the floorboards, reverberating in your chest as you navigate through the throng of partygoers. Smiles flashed, conversations melded into a cacophony of voices, and glasses clinked together in a rhythmic cadence, each toast a testament to the joy and camaraderie of the occasion. It's the kind of party that Daniel always excels at throwing, especially for your birthday.

The air is thick with excitement, and you catch glimpses of familiar faces. "Happy birthday!" friends and family exclaim as they pass, their voices drowned out by the thumping bass of the music. You offer grateful smiles and nods in return, the corners of your lips twitching with the effort of maintaining your facade of enthusiasm.

Yet amidst the lively chaos of your birthday party, a particular longing tugged at the corners of your mind, an unspoken yearning for something more profound than the fleeting euphoria of the crowd, something quiet.

As you maneuvered through the crowd, you found yourself drawn towards the kitchen, spotting an unopened bottle of wine sitting on the counter. Quickly swiping it away, your gaze darted through the crowd, finding an escape.

You slipped away unnoticed, a ghost in the whirlwind of merriment, ascending the staircase leading to the rooftop sanctuary. Each step carried you further from the pulsating chaos below, closer to the solace of the night sky. As you emerged onto the rooftop, a soft breeze greeted you, earning a sigh from your lips.

The city sprawled before you, a labyrinth of twinkling lights. It was your favourite spot in your home as you could spend hours here in peace, watching the bustling cars pass through as everyone was eager to get to their destinations.

You found a quiet corner, away from the glare of the city, slipping your heels off and sinking onto a weathered bench, relishing the cool kiss of the night air on your skin.

Closing your eyes, you allow yourself to breathe deeply, filling your lungs with the crisp night air.

You uncork the bottle of wine, the rich aroma filling the air, but you remember that you forgot to bring a glass from downstairs. Just as you ponder the predicament of forgetting a glass, a familiar voice broke through the stillness of the night.

"Hey, there you are," Daniel said softly, still startling you slightly. You placed a hand on your chest, breathing deeply, "you scared me."

"Sorry, didn't mean to. Mind if I join you?" He spoke as he appeared beside you with a warm smile.

You looked at the twinkling sky for a moment, and then back at him. "Not at all," you replied, shifting over to make room on the bench. Out of all the people in the party, Daniel was the one whose company you always welcomed, even if you only wanted silence.

Daniel settled in beside you, his presence a comforting anchor amidst the vast expanse of the rooftop. He glanced at the bottle of wine in your hand, a mischievous smile playing on his lips. "Good choice," he commented, making you look down at the bottle and chuckle.

"I didn't even notice." It was a bottle of wine from his collection. "But I forgot to bring glasses," you added.

Daniel's grin widened, and he reached into the pockets of his jacket, presenting two wine glasses with a flourish. "Not to worry," he said, holding out the glasses towards you. "I came prepared."

You couldn't help but laugh at his resourcefulness, accepting the glasses with a grateful nod. "Thanks Danny," you said, pouring a generous amount of wine into each glass before handing one towards him.

"You're seriously wearing a jacket in this weather?" You eye him oddly, a laugh bubbling up in your throat again.

He shrugs, "you know I get cold, feel my hands." He holds out his free hand in front of you, and you easily clasp it in yours. "Aw, you poor baby," you tease him, setting your wine glass down to poke his reddening nose.

Daniel chuckled as you teased him, his cheeks flushing slightly at your playful jab. "Hey now, don't make fun of me," he protested, though his tone was lighthearted. "Some of us are just more sensitive to the cold."

You grinned, unable to resist poking his nose again. "Well, lucky for you, I happen to be an expert at keeping people warm," you said, squeezing his hand affectionately.

Daniel's eyes sparkled with amusement as he leaned in closer, his breath warm against your cheek. "Is that so?" he murmured, his voice low and teasing.

You felt a shiver run down your spine at the proximity, the heat of his body radiating against yours. You hummed, your voice barely above a whisper. "A birthday girl special."

He leaned his head against your shoulder, one hand holding on to yours while the other swirled the wine in the glass, still not wanting to sip it just yet.

"Speaking of, why are you up here instead of enjoying the party downstairs? it's for you after all," he questioned, his voice softening.

"Just needed a moment to recharge, away from the chaos downstairs," you explained, squeezing his hand once more.

Daniel nodded in understanding, his gaze drifting to the city skyline as if contemplating your words. "I get that," he said, his voice sympathetic. "Sometimes, a little quiet time is all you need to appreciate the celebration even more."

You sighed contentedly, grateful for his understanding. "Exactly," you agreed. "And having you here makes it even better."

"Oh yeah? You're not gonna tell me to leave?" He grinned, a playful tone returning in his voice.

You rolled your eyes, dropping his hand and pushing him away. "Don't make me change my mind," you teased, giving him a mock glare before breaking into a grin. "You're stuck with me now, whether you like it or not."

Daniel chuckled, leaning back against the bench with a playful smirk. "I thought I already was, from the moment we met years ago."

You jutted your chin out, "touché."

With a grin, you picked up your wine glass, raising it in a toast. "To chaotic parties and rooftop retreats," you declared, your voice filled with sincerity.

Daniel mirrored your gesture, his eyes meeting yours with a warmth that made your heart flutter. "To moments like these," he added, his tone soft but filled with meaning.

As your glasses clinked together, the sound echoing softly in the stillness of the night, you couldn't help but feel a sense of gratitude wash over you. Gratitude for the quiet moments of connection, for the laughter, and for the unwavering support of a friend who understood you like no other.

You took a sip of the wine, expecting the familiar taste of Daniel's signature blend. However, to your surprise, the flavor was different, richer and more complex than usual. You furrowed your brows in confusion, glancing at Daniel with a questioning look.

Daniel watched you closely, a playful smile tugging at the corners of his lips. "Notice anything different?" he asked, a hint of mischief in his tone.

You nodded slowly, the taste of the wine lingering on your palate. "Yeah, it's... different," you admitted, searching for the right words to describe the unexpected flavor profile.

Daniel chuckled softly, leaning in closer to whisper in your ear. "I've been working on this blend for quite a while," he confessed, his breath warm against your skin. "I wanted it to be perfect for your birthday."

Your eyes widened in surprise, touched by his thoughtfulness. "You did all this for me?" you asked, feeling a warmth spread through you at the realization.

Daniel nodded, his gaze meeting yours with sincerity. "Of course," he said softly. "You deserve nothing but the best."

As you sat there together, savoring the exquisite flavor of the wine and the warmth of Daniel's company, you couldn't help but feel a sense of calmness wash over you. With each sip, you could taste the love and care that had gone into crafting the perfect blend, and you knew that this birthday would be one you'd never forget.

You leaned your head against his shoulder this time, finding his hand again and threading your fingers between his. “Thank you for everything; the party, the wine, it's perfect.”

“Anything for you,” he murmured, as if stating a simple fact, but it warmed your heart, making you wonder how you were so lucky all those years ago to meet Daniel.

The night stretched on, the stars twinkling overhead like diamonds scattered across the sky. While you retreated to the rooftop for a moment of peace, you realized that you wouldn’t have found the peace in silence like you did in Daniel’s laughter.

Taglist: @lochnoch @llando4norris @monsieurbacteria6 @namgification @lilymurphy03 @sargeantdumbass @hiireadstuff @racingheartsposts @d3kstar @xjval @namjoonswaifu @isabellewinchester @thedecalcomania-blog @casperlikej @khaylin27 @mlioravanfleet @nikfigueiredo @wonnou @jointhehunt67 @gxuh @landoslutmeout @barcelonaloverf1life @regalbanshee @megudaeggu @c-losur3 @thenotoriouserg

[veephoenix]

the last song | n.s.

With the new album finally completed and a new song dropping in a couple of days, Noah takes his girl to the studio, hoping to show her around without the chaos of past recording days, and maybe, he can get that last song he's been dreaming of.

one shot ✨ | noah sebastian x fem.reader word count: 2.3k tags: established relationship, fluff, fluffy sexual content (it's not too explicit), reader has a slight kink for noah's silver chain (who doesn't, let's be honest), no trigger warnings, just noah being in love and being loved back.

The studio is finally empty. 

After weeks of relentless work and dedication, days blurring into nights, headaches, frustration, last-minute changes, and ups and downs not only in the sounddeck, but also in the mood of the whole team, the album was finally ready, and in a matter of days, new music would fill spaces beyond the studio’s confines.  

         Noah steps aside to let her in. She is enveloped in the grandeur of the space. Never before had she been in a recording studio, and its magnitude overwhelms her. The expanse stretches out before her, a labyrinth of hallways leading into rooms of creativity. There are framed records adorning the walls, a testament to the artistry that thrives within these walls. This feels like the type of place Noah would call home. Too bad she hasn’t fully realized yet that his home is her,no matter how many hours he’s spent away from her locked in this very right place. 

         While she is fascinated by the array of instruments, cables, and other things she doesn’t know the name of, it’s Noah himself who captivates her the most. His joy is palpable as he gives gently explanations about the use of each room, each instrument. His enthusiasm is infectious. He’s so eager to share his world with her. 

         This is one of the reasons why she’s so in love with him. 

         His passion. 

         And she is lucky enough that he’s equally passionate about music as he is about her. 

         Taking her hand, he leads her from one room to another, continuing his explanations and sharing curiosities about this and that, mentioning the guys, the places where each one usually sits while they review the recordings, the Starbucks cups that pile up in the corner of a table when they’ve been locked in there for twelve hours and start to suffer the effects of not seeing the sunlight or hearing the sounds of the outside world, anecdotes that ignite her laughter, a sound that makes Noah’s heart flutter. 

         She asks him about the new music, she pleads to hear at least one song, a piece, ten seconds. Nearly begs him. She knows she just has to utter the word “please” and Noah will give her anything she wants. This evening, she wants to hear the melodic cascade of his voice, get lost in the way Noah turns words into dreamy melodies. It’s not enough to hear him speak; she wants to hear him weave words into a song; she wants to drown in the melodies he has put into lyrics that speak of her, of the moments when they are stripped of all mundanity, of clothes and fear, when they are alone, skin to skin, and when all that can be heard is only the rhythm of their beating hearts and the symphony of their shared passion. 

         He insists he can’t. He wants it to be a surprise. He has hopes that when she listens to the album, one or two songs will get her on her knees, while others will lead her to beg him to fuck her to the cadence of those. 

         Embedded within the lyrics of the new songs are a few confessions, but there’s a time for those to reach her ears, and it’s not tonight. 

         He silences his phone and sets it aside while she occupies herself by tinkering with the buttons on the soundboard. A few minutes later, Noah sneaks up behind her, enveloping her in his warm and slipping his hands beneath the fabric of her white t-shirt.  

         “There’s actually... one last song missing,” he murmurs against the fragrant scent of her hair.  

         “One last song?” She asks, her curiosity piqued. She begins to turn round, but Noah holds her in place. He rests his head on her shoulder, and with a trail of his fingers along the curve of her stomach, he elicits a subtle shiver that she tries to ignore. “I thought you said the album was complete, that you had finished...”

“Not quite yet,” he replies, planting a ghostly kiss on her earlobe. 

         She can sense the cool, minty breath against her neck, and it sends a shiver down her spine. He has been indulging in a mint candy, and her mind wanders to the tantalizing thought of having his mouth between her legs at this moment. The idea of that refreshing sensation sends a rush of desire coursing through her veins, and she can’t help but wonder if it would be enough to push her over the edge. 

         She smells of jasmine and the promise of spring. He wants to inhale her, breathe her in.  

         Concerned, she wriggles in his embrace until she can face him, stepping back a few paces as she speaks. She wants him to take her seriously.

         “I didn’t know, Noah. I wouldn’t have asked you to bring me here if you were still in the middle of—”

         With a single step, he reaches her again, his smile widening at her endearing bewilderment. He captures her lips in a kiss, stealing her breath away. The taste of the candy is still on his lips, and his fresh breath enters her mouth as their lips part.

         It’s in the way their mouths fit together that she finds reassurance that they’re perfect for each other. She knows she’s found the boy of her dreams, and the mere thought of being apart from him feels unbearable. She doesn’t know how she will survive next time he goes away on tour. For now, she will live in the way his tender kisses have a way of evolving into passionate bites that ignite a delightful flutter in her stomach. 

         “You’re adorable,” he says over her lips. 

         For a moment, she feels dizzy. Then, with a determined frown, she grabs a handful of Noah’s black hoodie, attempting to appear assertive, though to Noah, she resembles nothing more than an adorable kitten.  

         “You told me the album was complete, that you would only bring me here once the work was done and this was empty so that you could let me explore and touch things and…”

         “And record the last song,” Noah interjects calmly, looking into her eyes, smile tugging at his lips.

         Her brow furrows even deeper, her head tilting slightly to the side as Noah’s gaze traces the contours of her face, his eyes filled with admiration for every freckle, that little ever so tiny scar earned in a childhood adventure, the faint blush spreading through her cheeks.  

         “Noah, I don’t understand.”

         “Let me show you…”

         With her skin already responding to the anticipation, Noah’s hands find their way under her t-shirt, caressing the skin of her sides. It’s always just one touch and she’s already putty in his hands. She can’t help it; the man has that effect on her, that power over her. She would give him the world if she could because no one ever makes her feel as cherished as he does.  

         So, when he gently lifts her t-shirt, after worshipping her with light, seductive kisses along her neck and jawline, she allows him to undress her. His lips touch her shoulder, his tongue tracing a slow path until it finds the pulsing vein of her neck. A sharp intake of breath escapes her lips as he tenderly sucks at her skin, his fingers expertly finding their way beneath her skirt and underwear, eliciting a low, sweet moan from deep within her.  

         It’s the first of many moans to come.  

         Noah smiles against her flushed skin. His cock twitches. His heartbeat races.  

         The music is playing now. 

         He showers her with kisses, his hand cradling the side of her face as he traces a line with his finger from between her legs, through the valley of her breasts, up to her clavicle. 

         Growing impatient, she tugs at his hoodie, and sensing her urgency, he assists her in removing it. Underneath, Noah wears a black tank top, and her eyes immediately gravitate to the silver chain adorning his neck, previously hidden by the hoodie. With a heated spark in her eyes, she hesitates for a moment before seizing the chain and pulling Noah down to her awaiting mouth. 

         With one hand clutching his chain and the other sliding to the back of his head, she revels in the sensation of his soft hair sliding between her fingers. He emanates the intoxicating scent of masculine perfume and tastes like pure adrenaline—a potent combination that renders him utterly irresistible. He’s as addictive as a man can get. He’s tall, muscular, handsome, and fucking sweet. 

         And best of all, he is hers.  

         Noah scoops her up, intending to place her atop the sound deck. It would be a great place to fuck her on, but he quickly realizes it wouldn’t be comfortable at all, and he doesn’t want her to get hurt. 

         He pivots towards the couch—a place where he had envisioned her countless times before… Sitting there with pen and paper, crafting songs about her, he had often pictured her naked form, her eyes shimmering with anticipation, beckoning him to find his place between her legs, to envelop her with his body, to fill her up with every inch of him.

          With care, he lays her down on the couch, positioning one knee on the cushions to remain close to her, determined to prolong their kiss for as long as possible. He doesn’t think he can breathe without her nearby. 

         She is never shy when it comes to showing how much she wants him, how much she needs him. She’s unapologetically about her desperate desire, and that’s something that drives him to the brink of madness. Her eagerness only serves to make her so fucking attractive that he thinks he could eat her up. He’s consumed by that need, to bite and taste her in a surge of primal instinct, yet he manages to maintain a sweet and seductive demeanor. She brings out both the beast and the tender lover in him, and somehow, it’s a harmonious blend that feels inexplicably beautiful. 

         With each touch, nibble, and kiss, her passionate responses start escaping from her lips, wet with lust for him. Their clothes disappear in a matter of minutes, and as Noah finds himself —and his skilled tongue— nestled between her legs, savoring her essence, and impregnating her with his fresh minty breath, the symphony of his name being carried through long feminine moans fill the studio walls in ways he could never have imagined. 

         But it’s when he’s buried deep inside her that the music truly comes alive. 

         Together, they create a melody of ecstasy, Noah playing her body like a virtuoso, eliciting the perfect notes and sounds with each touch, kiss, thrust. She’s a tangled delicious mess beneath him, but every whimper and sigh and plea for more is a testament to her trust and love for him, a hymn sung in the throes of passion. 

         Occasionally, a primal growl escapes him, the beast within yearning to be unleashed, but she, the angel, the muse,keeps him grounded, wrapped in her wings, guiding him along the lines of their shared musical score. 

         As their bodies glisten with sweat, the tempo of their lovemaking begins to slow, descending from its crescendo, their ragged breaths filling the remaining spaces of their song. She smiles against his cheek, nuzzling her nose against his skin. She holds him close, unwilling to let go just yet. Unwilling to ever let go. 

         “So?” She murmurs, teasingly playing with her teeth on Noah’s earlobe.

          He squirms in an attempt to escape her, but her teeth follow him, leaving him with no choice but to retaliate by biting her shoulder and descending to capture on of her nipples in his mouth, coaxing one new sound from her lips. 

         “So?” he repeats, mumbling between clenched teeth, his tongue teasing her hardened nipple. 

         “Did you record the song?” she asks playfully, gesturing with her eyes towards the sound deck. 

         “No. No, I didn’t,” he admits with a laugh, feeling himself softening inside of her. 

         “Oh, well…” she licks her lips, pretending to think of what to do now. The weight of Noah feels so nice on top of her that it would be enough to just keep on holding him. “What are we going to do about it?” she continues. “Any idea?”

         She does have an idea. 

         Her cheeky tone catches him off guard, and this time, it’s him who frowns as he gazes up at her. His chest and stomach press against hers, and with each laborious breath she takes, he feels the rhythmic rise and fall of her body beneath him. He considers moving, but before he can act, she wraps her leg around his, anchoring him in place.

         She bites her lip, tempting him to do the same; to lower his head and kiss her and bite her and leave her breathless. 

         A second later, she reaches down towards her bag on the carpeted floor beside the couch and retrieves her phone, unlocks it, and opens the voice recording app. 

         “Maybe we should try again, don’t you think? And perhaps we should try to be… a bit louder?”

         His eyes darken. 

         “Think you can do that?” she asks him, a devilish smile painted on her face. 

         “I can definitely make you sing louder,” he growls, feeling himself hardening once more while still inside of her. His home. 

         She has a way of provoking him that never fails to get him hard anywhere, anytime, in no time. 

         “Do I… press play now?” Her fingertip hovers over the screen. 

         Noah responds by pulling a few inches out and thrusting hard into her, their bodies moving in perfect synchronization against the worn fabric of the sofa they are laid on. She lets out a scream as her fingertip presses the play button. The phone falls with a thud on the floor. 

         And with that, they’re making music once again. 

         One last song. 

         One more time. 

         Louder. 

[writtenbylupin]

I have been meticulously reading an immense amount of wolfstar fics since 2021, so I'll give y'all my humble opinion on the best fics I've read, from the popular to the non popular ones:

WOLFSTAR FICS RECOMMENDATIONS ON AO3

POPULAR ONES THAT YOU MIGHT HAVE ALREADY HEAR OF:

"Best Friend's Brother" by bizarrestars (there's jegulus in this one as well. Remus is Regulus' best friend, and James is Sirius'. Regulus and Sirius don't talk anymore)

"Crimson Rivers" by bizarrestars (Hunger Games au. heart breaking. you will cry for months. there's also jegulus, dorlene, and marylily).

"The Cadence of Part-time Poets" by motswolo (High-school plus band au. my pearsonal favorite. I love it)

"Kill Your Darlings" by MesserMoon (Deaf Remus. College. other couples povs like jegulus and marylily. I cried so much. haven't recovered)

"Dear Your Holiness" by MollyMaryMarie (priest Remus. I know, it's weird, give it a chance anyway)

"all my cards are here" by haey1 (band au)

"Not Another Band AU" by TheLovelyZee (band au. I really love band au's)

"Sweater Weather" by lumosinlove (hockey au. Sirius is the captain, Remus is the physical trainer)

NON POPULAR ONE'S (some of it might be popular and I'm just not aware):

"Staying Strangers" by 3amAndCounting (texting. IT'S SO AMAZING. they actually talk about stuff before running away when they're sad, I'm obsessed)

"oh thou, my lovely boy" by bigthief (Dead Poets Society au)

"Blends" by rvltn909 (coffee shop au)

"A Wolf's Heart" by mizdiz (ill Remus. I cried. a lot.)

"cruel summer" by moonystarx (girl__almighty) (teenargers spending the summer toguether)

"Of Memories and Milk Thievery" by moonymoment (divorced wolfstar raising Teddy)

"Show Me Love" by EtoilesLaNuit (a one-shot of a universe where wolfstar didn't work out and everything falls apart. I sobbed reading this. If you feel like crying, this is your fic. If you're looking for a happy ending, run away from here)

"labyrinth" by moonymoment (they have a past, but now Remus is back, and Sirius doesn't know what to do)

"sirius black and the "mystery girl"" by tjmcharg (lily tries to figure out who is this person sirius is dating. Hogwarts au)

"every christmas from now on" by mandarino_o (fake dating. they're so obvious. im in love)

"Godlight" by Badhairred (F1 DRIVERS!!!! wolfstar and jegulus. they hate each other at first)

"Best Friend's Wedding" by amberlink (fake dating. famous sirius. remus works for him. past romantic prongsfoot)

"saccharine" by moonymoment (GHOST SIRIUS!!!)

This is it everybody, these are the main ones for me. enjoy and thank me later (:

[cherri-ying]

Sing for me, little Nightingale (Yan! Scaramouche x Reader)

Ao3 link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/56024689

Felines are deserving of their accolades. Merit embodies their nimble spines and ductile limbs; bodies like pliable sand, threading their way through knots, twists, cavities and labyrinths. The prince of the hunt flexes and swipes his talons and his victims are swift to falter, their necks wringed and their spines contorted in ways that are unnatural to their physicality.

“I’ve got you now.”

At times, though, even a cat doesn't remain undefeated.

“How stupid are you to think that a cheap disguise would work against me?” He almost sounds amused, his words an arctic hiss against your ear. Reaching up, Scaramouche claws at the thick cloak that veils your face and tears it to your shoulders. Your hair is quick to mime the departed elements, hanging in disarray across your face. A mantilla of unkempt tresses, veiling whatever thoughts sketch your visage.

The Balladeer regards the sight of your person with a sort of contemptuous delight. Forcefully knelt at his feet with your wrists bound behind you and your head drooped in defeat—or in pensiveness. It's a shame Zapolyarny is so devoid of windows. What light finds it's way into these all-too familiar stone chambers is too sparse to see what expression you're making.

“Well? Say something. Or have I rendered you incapable of speech?”

Tentatively—begrudgingly—you tip your head back, back, back until your irises lock with the hypnotic indigo tinctures belonging to the puppet who leers dauntingly above you. Locks of such a hue that only you could wear part like the red sea, revealing a thin, perhaps solemn, ambiguous smile—the last expression the harbinger could anticipate. Or desire.

“Thwarted again, hm?” You chuckle and it sounds like frost, “and I even took extensive measures to conceal my tracks. No good?”

“Failures are bound to repeat themselves.” Scaramouche doesn't nuisance himself with that syrupy facade he wears to rope his targets right between his molars. Malice is a noisome stench in the air as he adds, “This is the seventh time I’ve had to retrieve you. I'd figure you’d have learned your lesson by now, but time after time you insist on making yourself a burden to fetch.”

“There's no harm in trying, is there?” You maintain that strange curve on your plush lips. It’s difficult to tell what you're thinking, or feeling.

“‘No harm’, yet you delude yourself into believing that a time would come when you could successfully evade me. I wonder how long it’ll take until those dreams of yours crumble and die.”

“You know, there’s a word for what you are,” you state after a thoughtful pause. “I think it’s called: overbearing.”

What a strange person, with a strange smile. Normally, Scaramouche would meet such defiance by smiting his poor victim to dust within the blink of an eye. In your displays of resolve, though, the invincible harbinger finds himself crouching to your level, trailing a slender hand against your windpipe. How easily he could squeeze the life from your throat until you begs for reprieve; choke you of your indignation. Instead, he allows it to linger there without purpose, applying no pressure, grasping nothing.

“And there’s a word for what you are.” He nearly whispers. Difficult. Stubborn. Irrevocably his. “Irrational, when I only want what’s best for you. And what’s best for you, is to offer me your complete submission.”

“Even though I’d sooner offer my life than yield to you?” A new tone makes itself heard in your cadence. Such words, such simple, few words, reveal what lingers beneath your otherwise indifferent facade.

Sagacious. Provocative. Challenging.

Of course, you're testing the boundaries of Scaramouche's resolve, as he does with yours. Suddenly, the atmosphere is taut and palpable with tension for what may become of the future.

Sly, sly little songbird.

Something most unanticipated happens, and you reveal your hands, which you freed from their binds. Maybe it shouldn’t surprise Scaramouche, what with your prowess in the art of escape, but regardless your smile stretches in the presence of the astonishment that lifts his eyebrows and makes his eyes flash white, if only briefly. You take your time observing such a paltry display of rare, raw, emotion, how it shapes the contours of his features at the command of your actions. And gently, you take his hand that graces your throat and tenderly place it on your cheek.

"Ah... You've always been this way, haven't you, Kunikuzushi? Since the very day fate first connected your eyes to mine? " You slant your head into his cold hand with all the fragility of a shedding lotus petal descending into a reservoir, resting your cheek against his cold, liquid touch. Although, the action is far from affectionate. Rather, it's reminiscent of a sort of obstinacy, wearing the facade of love.

"You pine for my heart like you're starved for my flesh.” You take his hand and pass it through your cloak, poising it on your chest, right above your pumping heart.

"But... Perhaps I have no heart to offer you. What then? What will you do when you realize, there is no flesh to pick from my bones? No heart beneath my ribs?"

Scaramouche trudges through your words, running them across his mind. No plausible answer makes itself seen. He relinquishes his hand from your chest.

A cat may not have wings, but it is unrelenting.

“If you have no heart…” He murmurs, before smiling a bitter smile, “Then I’ll make you learn how to love.” how to love him. “I’ll create a heart in the shape of my love, and then I’ll take it. By force if I must.”

"You're willing to create something, just to seize and destroy it..." His words taste like blood upon your tongue. Strange. Carrying pleasantry and uncanniness in a sordid congruence. your lips falter from their smile.

"What a rotten soul you have... When will you realize that your avarice will be your demise?"

A wry, perhaps relenting chuckle emerges from your throat. Then you sigh.

"Perhaps we were made for each other." “

Then why do you run from me? Why do you fight, when you’re meant to be mine?” He asks, vehement, pertinacious.

"But that is where you're mistaken, Scaramouche. You see—” You direct your pointer finger to his chest, resting it in the junction between his collarbones.

“—You're tenacious in pursuing me. But I'm," You points at herself, "Tenacious in avoiding you. We are made for each other like the same ends of two magnets. The same, yet destined to be apart."

There it is, another one of your challenging remarks. The chirping nightingale wriggles free and unfurls it's wings, just as the cat thinks the bird is trapped beneath its paws. And oh, how infuriating, how exhilarating you are. Hatred is a simmering tempest that ignites the harbinger's temper. He despises how affixed he is to you, to the thought of trapping you beneath his claws, only for you to fly free and rejoice your liberation in song. It's petty. It's pathetic. It's irresistible. The Balladeer scoffs.

“Is this all just a game of push and pull to you? Just how long are you willing to avoid me?”

 “How long are you willing to pursue me?”

“Until you submit to me.”

“Then, until you set me free.”

Scaramouche can only watch as you put on your hideous, inhuman, anomalistic smile. Fine, then. If nothing else, he’ll build you a gilded cage to lure you into a golden prison disguised as a paradise. He’ll rip your wings from your body, flesh and bone marrow hanging in loose tendrils, so to erase all notions of flying free from your unreadable mind that he tends to make his possession, until you’re bleeding so sweetly beneath his claws. His beautiful songbird, who sings in the shape of his love.

Because you were made for him. He, the heartless one, who wishes for a heart. For your heart, which you are't willing to offer. Which you wish you never had.

You’re the only one who believes he still has a soul; that he ever had one, rotten as it may be.

Scaramouche cannot let that go. Regardless of how many times you flee from his talons, he will find you and chase you to the very ends of this earth.

Fly away, little singing nightingale.

[starstwinkleplanetsshine]

Daughter of the Sea

Chapter Thirty-Two: I Visit Olympus for the First Time

(Read on AO3 here)

It was late afternoon when the vans dropped us off at the Empire State Building. I watched Mrs. O’Leary heel at Percy’s whistle as the van doors slid open and the campers poured out onto the street, some of them looking a little car-sick after the long drive. I didn’t wait until everyone was out before I rushed over to Percy, practically tackling him. 

“It worked.” I breathed out, and it wasn’t a question. 

He nodded and I could practically feel the power tingling on the surface of his skin. “It worked.” 

I pulled away and couldn't stop the smile from spreading across my face. He looked older, taller. More handsome and sure. 

Percy didn’t smile back. 

“How many?” His words were short, and it brought me back to the moment. His eyes left my face and were scanning the crowd. 

“Forty total. No Ares Cabin.” 

I saw a flash of anger in Percy’s eyes before he quickly shook his head. “Stubborn Clarisse.” He grumbled. “Not many to fight a war, but it's enough.” He stopped scanning the crowd and looked back to me. Finally, he cracked a smile. “I’m glad you’re here.” 

He slung an arm around me and walked closer to the group of demigods, all of which looked very nervous. I didn’t blame them—it was the largest group of half bloods I’d seen outside of camp, and we were probably sending off so much demigod aura that every monster in the northeastern United States knew we were here. Not that that matters anymore, I thought. 

Annabeth came up to us, her laptop slung on her back. I would’ve thought it was strange if it was anyone else, but for her, it made total sense. 

She frowned at Percy. “What is it?” 

"What's what?" he asked.

"You're looking at me funny."

I snapped my head to my brother just in time to see what Annabeth was talking about. His eyes were wide, his mouth hanging open slightly, the hint of a smile pulling at the corners. He looked like an idiot, and I had an idea why. 

"It's, uh, nothing." He turned to the rest of the group, and I wiped the smile off my face. "Thanks for coming, everybody. Chiron, after you."

Our old mentor shook his head. "I came to wish you luck, my boy. But I make it a point never to visit Olympus unless I am summoned."

"But you're our leader."

He smiled. "I am your trainer, your teacher. That is not the same as being your leader. I will go gather what allies I can. It may not be too late to convince my brother centaurs to help. Meanwhile, you called the campers here, Percy. You are the leader."

A surge of pride welled in my chest as I looked up to my brother, whose arm was still around my shoulders. He straightened up as he looked around at the other campers, who were all staring at him expectantly. It was as if he was just realizing what we had all known for ages. 

He took a deep breath and squared his shoulders. "Okay, like I told Annabeth on the phone, something bad is going to happen by tonight. Some kind of trap. We've got to get an audience with Zeus and convince him to defend the city. Remember, we can't take no for an answer."

Convincing Zeus didn’t sound like an easy thing to do, but Percy said it with such confidence that I actually believed we could do it. I followed him to the doors of the building, walking side-by-side with him. Right before we crossed the threshold, Chiron blocked our path and shook Percy’s hand. 

"You'll do well, Percy. Just remember your strengths and beware your weaknesses." Something about those words sent a shiver down my spine, but I didn’t have time to think about it before he turned to me. 

“Follow your brother, defend him well. Defend Olympus. Not all heroes get the same glory.” He shook my hand next, and I tried to ignore the sinking pit in my stomach. I’d never thought of myself as a defender, I wasn’t trained as a defender. I was trained as a fighter. 

But even so, I nodded and attempted a smile. 

“Lead them well. I know you can.” 

Surprisingly, he was talking to both of us. 

“Let’s go!” Percy shouted to the campers, and I ripped the shells off of my neck. 

We decided to go up the elevator to Mount Olympus in two groups. Percy and Annabeth took the first, I took the second. I was more than happy to, since the Apollo kids went in the second group. We would only be a minute behind the first, but it gave me a little time to talk to Cady again. 

“You ever been to Olympus?” I asked her, my voice low. 

She nodded and gripped one of the knives on her holster. “A few times. For the Solstices. It’s beautiful.” 

“I’ve never been.” 

She cracked a small smile at me. “You’re in for a treat.” 

Just then, the doors slid open and the horrible disco music clicked off. 

My breath caught in my throat. 

In front of me, a path of floating stones led through the clouds up to Mount Olympus, the actual, original Mount Olympus, hovering six thousand feet over Manhattan. In the distance, the mansions glittered gold and white against the sides of the mountain. Gardens bloomed on a hundred terraces. Scented smoke rose from braziers that lined the winding streets. And right at the top of the snow-capped crest rose the main palace of the gods. It was the most majestic, beautiful thing I had ever seen. I was so taken by the sight that I didn’t realize anything was wrong until I heard Cady’s voice. 

“It’s so quiet.” 

“It’s not usually quiet?” 

She shook her head, her face solemn, and I didn’t ask anymore questions. 

I walked up to Annabeth and Percy, the rest of my group following behind. Percy seemed relieved at the arrival, but Annabeth seemed annoyed. I wondered what conversation they had been in the middle of. 

We made our way across the sky bridge into the streets of Olympus. The shops were closed. The parks were empty. A couple of Muses sat on a bench strumming flaming lyres, but their hearts didn't seem to be in it. A lone Cyclops swept the street with an uprooted oak tree. A minor godling spotted us from a balcony and ducked inside, closing his shutters.

We passed under a big marble archway with statues of Zeus and Hera on either side. Annabeth made a face at the queen of the gods.

"Hate her," she muttered.

"Has she been cursing you or something?" Percy asked. Last year Annabeth had gotten on Hera's bad side, after the Labyrinth, but Annabeth hadn't really talked about it since.

"Just little stuff so far," she said. "Her sacred animal is the cow, right?"

"Right." Percy answered. 

"So she sends cows after me."

I tried not to smile. "Cows? In San Francisco?"

"Oh, yeah. Usually I don't see them, but the cows leave me little presents all over the place—in our backyard, on the sidewalk, in the school hallways. I have to be careful where I step."

“That’s disgust—” 

“Look!” Pollux cried, cutting me off and pointing to the horizon. "What is that?"

We all froze. Blue lights were streaking across the evening sky toward Olympus like tiny comets. They seemed to be coming from all over the city, heading straight toward the mountain. As they got close, they fizzled out. We watched them for several minutes and they didn't seem to do any damage, but still it was strange.

"Like infrared scopes," Michael Yew muttered. "We're being targeted."

"Let's get to the palace," Percy said, breaking us all from our trance. 

No one was guarding the hall of the gods. The gold-and-silver doors stood wide open. Our footsteps echoed as we walked into the throne room.

Of course, "room" doesn't really do it justice. The place was the size of Madison Square Garden. High above, the blue ceiling glittered with constellations. Twelve giant empty thrones stood in a U around a hearth. In one corner, a house-size globe of water hovered in the air, and inside swam the Ophiotaurus, half-cow, half-serpent. I had heard a lot about the creature from Percy, so I wasn’t surprised when he walked over to it, speaking gently as it mooed. 

I walked toward the thrones, most of the demigods following me, and a woman’s voice floated across the hall. 

“Hello again, Andromeda Jackson. You and your friends are welcome.” 

I broke into a smile and bowed at my patron. “Lady Hestia.” 

Everyone followed my example. 

Hestia regarded me with her red, glowing eyes. “I see you have let your brother walk his own path. I am proud of you. You must not falter in this.” 

I felt my cheeks flush hearing her speak to me this way in front of the whole camp. But I wasn’t in the hot seat for long, as the goddess turned her intense eyes to my brother.

"I see you went through with your plan, Percy Jackson. You bear the curse of Achilles."

The other campers started muttering among themselves: What did she say? What about Achilles?

"You must be careful," Hestia warned him. "You gained much on your journey. But you are still blind to the most important truth. Perhaps a glimpse is in order."

Annabeth nudged Percy. "Um . . . what is she talking about?"

I glanced to the floor as eyes began to turn to me as well. Cady elbowed me in the side. 

“Did you know about this?” 

Before I could respond, Percy cried out and his knees buckled. Annabeth and I barely caught him in time before he crashed to the ground. 

“Percy! What happened?” She yelled. 

"Did . . . did you see that?" he asked.

"See what?"

He glanced at Hestia, but her face was expressionless. She stayed focused on Percy, and as much as I wanted her to, she wouldn't look my way. 

"How long was I out?" Percy muttered.

Annabeth knit her eyebrows and glanced at me with a worried look. 

"Percy,” I started, “you weren't out at all. You just looked at Hestia for like one second and collapsed."

Everyone’s eyes were on Percy. I could feel his panic. But when he spoke again, he sounded sure. 

"Um, Lady Hestia," he said, "we've come on urgent business. We need to see—"

"We know what you need," a man's voice said, and everyone looked around to see where it came from. Suddenly, a god shimmered into existence next to Hestia. He looked about twenty-five, with curly salt-and-pepper hair and elfish features. He wore a military pilot's flight suit, with tiny bird's wings fluttering on his helmet and his black leather boots. In the crook of his arm was a long staff entwined with two living serpents. I had never met Hermes before, but I knew it was him. 

"I will leave you now," Hestia said. She bowed to the aviator before gliding over to me. She placed a warm hand on my cheek, loving and kind, and looked down at me. I didn’t even care that everyone was staring. “Remember what I’ve said. Remember who you are, and remember that your time will come.” 

And with one final smile, she disappeared into smoke. 

When I looked back at the scene in front of me, the god of messengers did not look happy. 

"Hello, Percy." His brow furrowed as though he was annoyed with him, and my brother bowed awkwardly. 

"Lord Hermes." he sputtered out. "Hello, George," he said after a few moments.  "Hey, Martha.” 

I assumed he was talking to the snakes, although I didn’t know for sure. 

There was more silence, before he spoke again. "Um, Hermes, we need to talk to Zeus. It's important."

Hermes's eyes were steely cold. "I am his messenger. May I take a message?"

Percy glanced over to me, and I could tell this wasn't going the way he had hoped. Behind us, the other demigods were getting restless. I knew what he was about to do before he spoke. 

“You guys," he said. "Why don't you do a sweep of the city? Check the defenses. See who's left in Olympus. Meet Annabeth and me back here in thirty minutes."

Silena frowned. "But—"

"That's a good idea," Annabeth said. “Connor and Travis, you take half. Angie, you take the other.” 

The Stolls seemed to like that—getting handed an important responsibility right in front of their dad. They usually never led anything except toilet paper raids. "We're on it!" Travis said as he began to herd half the group out of the throne room. I glanced back at Percy, my eyes unsure. I wanted to stay with him, I wanted to be at the center of it all. 

Not all heroes get the same glory. 

Chirons voice rang in my head. 

Not every battle is yours to fight. 

Hestia’s words swirled next. 

“Okay.” I said finally, glancing at the demigods who were left. They all turned to me, looking at me the same way they looked at Percy. I swallowed my worry. 

“Demigods, on me!” 

The last thing I saw before leaving the throne room was Percy’s proud smile as he nodded at me. 

I snuck back into the throne room about fifteen minutes later, leaving my group of demigods with the Stoll Brothers. I couldn't explain it, but something deep inside told me I needed to go back, needed to be with Percy. 

I walked in to see Annabeth crumpled at the feet of her mother’s throne, sobs filling the air. 

I was at her side in an instant. 

“What happened?!” I came in so fast, I startled both Annabeth and Percy.

He explained the conversation they had with Hermes, told me everything he said about Typhon and the war and Luke. How the gods wouldn’t come to our aid, how we were on our own. There was a long silence before Percy spoke again. 

 "Annabeth," Percy said, "it's not your fault. I've never seen Hermes act that way. I guess . . . I don't know…he probably feels guilty about Luke. He's looking for somebody to blame. I don't know why he lashed out at you. You didn't do anything to deserve that."

“Hermes lashed out at Annabeth? 

She stared at the hearth like it was her own funeral pyre. 

Percy shifted uneasily. "Um, you didn't do anything to deserve it, right?"

She didn't answer. Percy’s eyes strayed on the bronze knife strapped to her arm as if he was seeing it for the first time. A chill went up my spine. 

"Percy," she said. "What did you mean about Luke's mother? Did you meet her?"

He nodded reluctantly. "Nico and I visited her. She was a little . . . different." He described May Castellan, and the weird moment when her eyes had started to glow and she talked about her son's fate.

Annabeth frowned. "That doesn't make sense. But why were you visiting—" Her eyes widened. "Hermes said you bear the curse of Achilles. Hestia said the same thing. Did you . . . did you bathe in the River Styx?"

"Don't change the subject."

"Percy! Did you or not?"

"Um . . . maybe a little."

For the second time that day, accusing eyes landed on me as Annabeth asked the question, “Angie, did you know?” 

I couldn’t meet her eyes. “Um…maybe a little.” 

He told us the story about Hades and Nico, and how he'd defeated an army of the dead. I noticed he left out the part about her echoing voice, but since that was something I didn’t even understand, I let it slide. When he finished talking, Annabeth shook her head in disbelief. 

"Do you have any idea how dangerous that was?"

"I had no choice," he said, getting slightly defensive. 

“And you let him go through with this?!” She turned on me. 

"It's the only way he can stand up to Luke." I countered. 

"You mean . . . di immortales, of course! That's why Luke didn't die. He went to the Styx and . . . Oh no, Luke. What were you thinking?"

"So now you're worried about Luke again," Percy bristled. Annabeth’s eyes narrowed. 

"What?"

"Forget it.” Percy said with finality. "The point is he didn't die in the Styx,” he continued, "Neither did I. Now I have to face him. We have to defend Olympus."

Annabeth was still studying Percy’s face, like she was trying to see differences since his swim. "I guess you're right. My mom mentioned—"

"Plan twenty-three."

She rummaged in her pack and pulled out Daedalus's laptop. The blue Delta symbol glowed on the top when she booted it up. She opened a few files and started to read.

"Here it is," she said. "Gods, we have a lot of work to do."

"One of Daedalus's inventions?" Percy asked. 

"A lot of inventions . . . dangerous ones. If my mother wants me to use this plan, she must think things are very bad." She looked at my brother. "What about her message to you: 'Remember the rivers'? What does that mean?"

Percy shook his head. I furrowed my brow, trying to think of what Athena could mean by that. As usual, I had no clue what the gods were trying to say. Which rivers was he supposed to remember? The Styx? The Mississippi? Maybe…

Just then the Stoll brothers ran into the throne room.

"You need to see this," Connor said. "Now."

The blue lights in the sky had stopped, so at first I didn't understand what the problem was.

The other campers had gathered in a small park at the edge of the mountain. They were clustered at the guardrail, looking down at Manhattan. The railing was lined with those tourist binoculars, where you could deposit one golden drachma and see the city. Campers were using every single one.

I looked down at the city. I could see almost everything from here—the East River and the Hudson River carving the shape of Manhattan, the grid of streets, the lights of skyscrapers, the dark stretch of Central Park in the north. Everything looked normal, but something was wrong. I felt it in my bones before I realized what it was.

"I don't . . . hear anything," Annabeth said.

That was the problem. I had only lived in New York City for about a year, but in that whole time, it had never been quiet. 

Even from this height, I should've heard the noise of the city—millions of people bustling around, thousands of cars and machines—the hum of a huge metropolis. You don't think about it when you live in New York, but it's always there. Even in the dead of night, New York is never silent.

But it was now.

"What did they do?" Percy’s voice sounded tight and angry. "What did they do to my city?" Percy pushed Michael Yew away from the binoculars and took a look. Katie stepped aside from hers to give me a turn. In the streets below, traffic had stopped. Pedestrians were lying on the sidewalks, or curled up in doorways. There was no sign of violence, no wrecks, nothing like that. It was as if all the people in New York had simply decided to stop whatever they were doing and pass out.

"Are they dead?" Silena asked in astonishment.

Ice coated my stomach. A line from the prophecy rang in my ears: And see the world in endless sleep.

"Not dead," Percy said numbly. "Morpheus has put the entire island of Manhattan to sleep. The invasion has started."

[soulessjourney]

Quiet Confessions

Paring: Astarion x fem!DurgTavReader

Word count: 1.4k

Summary: As memories flood back, Tav opens up to Astarion beneath the moonlight, sharing the chains that bind her.

Warnings: Truama talk, mentions of abuse and violence, Angst, fluff, hurt and comfort, Tav being an emotional wreck in the softest way possible, talk of self hatred

A/N: I'm gradually working my way down the list of tasks I need to complete, which means I'm getting closer to the fantastic requests I've been receiving. If you have a request, feel free to share it! I thoroughly enjoy bringing your ideas to life!

Uncertain of how long you had been away from camp, you found yourself lying in the grass, gazing up at the moon. Time slipped away as you became lost in the labyrinth of your thoughts. The journey began when a torrent of memories, once erased during your escape from the ship's pod, flooded back, triggering a piercing headache. These recollections unveiled a darker version of yourself, one capable of committing unspeakable acts in pursuit of power. The realization of your own monstrous nature left you feeling contaminated, haunted by the deeds done beyond your control.

Choosing to forget the past, you had embarked on a new life, hoping to bury the shadow of the person you once were. Yearning for the demise of that former self and its memories, you couldn't help but wish they had perished the day you awoke on that ship.

The serenity of your contemplation was interrupted by the soft cadence of approaching footsteps. Astarion, with his distinctive gait, revealed his presence. Over the past few months, you had honed the ability to identify individuals by the sound of their steps—a skill cultivated, perhaps, by the constant threat of someone attempting to sneak up on you.

Sitting up, you turned to Astarion, offering a tender smile, reciprocated by his affectionate gaze. "Once again, I fail to surprise you, my love," he remarked, settling down beside you.

You shrugged, reclining in the grass, allowing your gaze to settle on the moon. A comfortable silence enveloped the space between you as Astarion leaned back on one hand, holding a book in the other. He never felt the need to inquire if something was amiss; he understood that you would approach him when ready, just as you had done for him. Neither of you pressured the other, always waiting until one felt inclined to share what weighed on your minds. This dynamic defined the perfection of your relationship—rooted in trust and patience, creating a beautiful harmony. Astarion sensed your internal struggle and refrained from prying, recognizing the feeling of being bound to something without an escape.

You debated with yourself on how to approach the topic. Keeping your gaze fixed on the sky, you decided to let your thoughts flow into words. "Sometimes when I look in the mirror, all I can see is a monster—a cold-blooded killer who gazes into people's eyes as life leaves them. I hate how good it makes me feel when it happens," you suddenly confessed, pulling Astarion's attention away from the book. He closed it, placing it beside him, and lays back beside you, offering his undivided attention. He was prepared to listen to every word, no matter how violent or disturbing, understanding that being present for you in this moment was the best form of support.

"As I would take off my armor and examine my arms, a part of me felt ashamed of what I saw. Scars where the skin was rubbed raw. Initially, I thought nothing of it, but now I can feel those shackles that kept me confined to that room. A room with a window too high for me to look out, allowing sunlight to reveal its true small and decaying nature. A room where the body of the person I murdered lay in the corner, reeking of death, and I was forced to stare at it for days until the stench drove me mad," you whispered, furrowing your eyebrows as your mind wandered back into that haunting memory.

Anger surged through Astarion upon your confession. You were a prisoner of your own mind, with no escape until recently, just like him. Astarion refrained from touching you as he observed you beginning to fall back into the past—a familiar experience, losing oneself in a memory and reliving it.

"The day I felt those chains break from the ground was the day I learned how to truly walk. It was the day I killed so many people, and every single one of them begged for their life. I remember laughing and smiling like an accomplished fool when I took their lives. It's so disgusting, knowing that I did what I did, how I killed the people that I did. With that came the pure torture my so-called father put me through. He would lock me in this room with his followers and see just how much pain I could take. He claimed it was to make me stronger, to be the perfect killer I was born to be. But each time they cut into me, I lost myself piece by piece," you whispered, your voice thick with emotion.

Astarion rolled onto his side to look at you, studying your features as you spoke. He noticed the subtle cues—how your jaw clenched when discussing anger-inducing events, how your eyes softened when recalling taking an innocent life, and how your nose would scrunch when lost in thought. Everything about you was beautiful, breathtaking even, which intensified his resentment for the pain you had endured.

As you spoke, Astarion began to grasp why you lingered sometimes, gazing at views or exploring houses and temples. These were sights stripped from most of your life, confined to the inside of a cell or a room, enduring unimaginable pain.

What you chose to share next shattered Astarion and revealed the depth of your strength. "But now that I have Wyll, Gale, Karlach, Shadowheart, Lae’zel, Halsin, and even you, I'm learning how to be strong for the first time ever. I'm learning how to confront the darkness and face my own reflection without resentment, knowing that I bear the face you love and cherish. I'm learning how to truly live for the first time, and it terrifies me," you confessed. Astarion felt his eyes soften, his hand moving to rest beside yours, his pinky gently brushing against the side of your hand in a small gesture of comfort.

Lost in your memories, you didn't even register the subtle caress of his finger on your hand. Your eyes had glazed over, ensnared in the labyrinth of your mind, silent tears tracing their path from the corners of your eyes. Your profound silence began to concern Astarion; it seemed as if you were paralyzed in that moment, with no discernible movement. He felt a sense of helplessness, unable to assist you in the way he desired, as he, too, often succumbed to the torturous memories inflicted by Cazador.

When a strangled sob shattered the silence between you, Astarion sat up and enveloped you in his arms. This was a method he knew could often bring comfort when you broke down. No words needed to be spoken as he held you tightly. You were someone who wore a mask around others, refusing to reveal your vulnerabilities. Yet, with him, you found solace and strength, as he did with you. Lae’zel often remarked on how you both carried the weight of the world, calling you two sides of the same coin.

Or when rejecting Gale, he commented on the irony of your love for Astarion, noting the striking similarity in your personalities. While said to hurt you, there was truth in his words. You and Astarion understood the shared pain and the deep connection between you, choosing to be there for one another and share love you both craved.

Drawing you closer, Astarion let your head rest in the crook of his neck, his cheek against the side of your head. He released a breath he hadn't realized he was holding when he felt your arms wrap around his middle, bringing you back from the daze you were trapped in. You were here, in his arms, holding on as if afraid he would vanish if you let go. Leaning back slightly, he cupped your face in his hand, running his thumbs over your cheeks in a soothing manner. "There you are, my love. I was worried I lost you," he said, the concern and fear evident in his voice.

Shaking your head, you placed your hands over his, leaning into his touch. Although your response was silent, he understood. "Can we stay and watch the sunrise? I've never seen it before, and I want to experience this new thing with you," you whispered, searching his eyes for any sign of rejection. You wanted to linger, to feel alive, if only for a moment, before returning to the mask you had carefully crafted.

Pressing his lips to the crown of your head, he nodded, pulling you closer and shifting so you both could sit in a more comfortable position. "Of course, my love. For you, I'd sit through a million sunrises if you asked me to," he said, prompting a small smile to grace your lips. This moment with the person you cherished was your sanctuary, he was your home.

[lumi-klovstad-games]

Weakness Of The Word: a Warhammer 40,000 Short Story

An Iron Warrior and a Word Bearer may not have been the best of cousins to assign together... [3,296 words]

The ruins of the Mechanicus outpost stretched before them, a labyrinth of collapsed walls, shattered pipelines, and jagged ferrocrete shards reaching skyward like the ribs of a desiccated beast. Herok led the way, his heavy boots crunching against the rubble with mechanical precision. Each step felt like a metronome ticking down to some inevitable catastrophe. Behind him, Brother Ghekiel’s voice grated on his ears, a mix of fervor and condescension that had poisoned the Iron Warrior’s mind since the raid began.

“This desolation,” Ghekiel intoned, his voice amplified by his helmet’s vox-grille, “is the symphony of the Dark Gods. Do you not feel it, Herok? The discord of broken machines, the whispers in the dust? This is their will manifest!”

Herok said nothing. Words with the Word Bearer were wasted effort; they merely encouraged him to continue his pontification. For the tenth time in as many hours, Herok cursed his misfortune at being assigned to this raid group. Chaos warbands were fractured by nature, disparate fragments of the Legions thrown together by necessity or circumstance. But the Iron Warrior’s methodical hatred and logical pragmatism clashed violently with the Word Bearer’s manic zealotry.

Ghekiel was relentless. “You think me blind to your disdain, Herok. You iron husks wear your contempt like armor. But your bitterness, your doubt—those are cracks in your façade. And through those cracks, the Gods see everything.”

Herok clenched his fists as he stepped over a collapsed column. His patience was like iron: impressive, but not infinite. He had tolerated Ghekiel’s barbs throughout the raid, gritting his teeth and focusing on the mission: to recover any usable relics or data from the outpost. But each taunt, each misstep, each pause to deliver yet another sermon grated against the iron chains of his restraint. It had not helped that their squad, once much larger, had seen other, more effective, Marines fall dead in the line of duty. Those of value perished, and then this... rambling FOOL... somehow survived.

“You preach endlessly, Ghekiel,” Herok finally growled, his voice a deep rumble like distant artillery. “But you contribute nothing. Do you seek to inspire me? Or merely fill the void left by your own lack of worth?”

Ghekiel laughed, a dry and grating sound. “Ah, there it is. The bitterness of your kind. So quick to anger, so eager to lash out, yet so blind to the truth. You mock the Word, but it is through the Word that we are made whole.”

Ghekiel’s words echoed in the gloom, the cadence of his voice heavy with feigned wisdom. He clutched his accursed Book of Lorgar as if it were a weapon, his crimson gauntlets glinting faintly in the dim light.

Herok’s fists clenched, the servos in his power armor whining softly with the tension. Restraint was a lesson hammered into him long ago—not by patience or virtue, but by necessity. To react in haste was to waste energy, and energy was always in short supply.

Still, Ghekiel tested his limits.

“We are made whole through the Word,” the Word Bearer repeated, his voice reverent. “Even you, Iron Warrior, though you refuse to see it. The Word binds us together, strengthens us against the Void, and—”

“—is nothing more than the delusion of the weak,” Herok interrupted, his tone razor-edged. “The truth does not need to be written, Ghekiel. It is carved into the galaxy with blade and bolter, not ink and lies. What you call “Chaos” is simply another resource to be harnessed and mastered. No gods, no masters, but what we choose to serve.”

The Word Bearer’s smile widened under his helmet, as if Herok’s disdain was a triumph in itself. He gestured theatrically with the book. “You mistake faith for frailty. What you call delusion, I call purpose. And purpose, Herok, is what you lack.”

Herok’s head snapped toward him, his helm’s glowing optics flaring briefly. “Purpose?” he hissed. “You think your hollow chants and scribblings surpass the will of an Iron Warrior? I have the MISSION. It is purpose enough for any soldier, Ghekiel, and unlike your foolish book, it is a purpose I can see, touch, and affect. It does not lie in your absurd scriptures. If you spent half as much time devoted to this mission as you did proselytizing your treacherous gods, we would have been done by now. We would be home. And I would, at last, be free of YOU.”

Ghekiel only chuckled, the sound like dry parchment crumbling. “You mistake defiance for strength, brother. But no matter. The Word shall guide you, in time, whether you accept it or not.”

Herok let out a sharp exhale, the sound amplified by his helm’s vox-grille. He didn’t reply, forcing himself instead to focus on their surroundings. The corridor stretched on, its walls scarred by ancient battles and streaked with grime. The oppressive silence of the place was broken only by the distant drip of leaking fluids and the occasional groan of stressed metal.

Herok’s patience frayed with every step, Ghekiel trailing just behind him, his incessant muttering a grating background noise. Herok imagined the Word Bearer’s head beneath his boot, imagined silencing that ceaseless voice forever, but he bit back the urge. There would be time enough to deal with Ghekiel once their mission was complete.

Finally, the corridor widened into a cavernous chamber, and the air grew thick with the tang of rust and burned oil. Towering machinery, long dormant, cast shadows like sleeping titans across the room.

Herok strode ahead without hesitation, his augmented vision scanning the gloom for any signs of usable tech. The hum of his armor’s systems filled the void left by Ghekiel’s sudden silence. For the first time since they had begun this wretched mission, Herok allowed himself a moment of reprieve.

But he knew it wouldn’t last.

They came to the heart of the outpost, a cavernous chamber where massive machinery loomed like sleeping titans. The air was thick with the tang of rust and burned oil, and the flickering glow of damaged lumen-strips cast the room in an eerie half-light. Herok immediately began scanning for any signs of usable tech, his augmented vision cutting through the gloom.

“Stay focused,” Herok snapped. “We’re here to recover resources, not to waste time on your useless evangelical drivel.”

“DRIVEL?!” Ghekiel said, his voice rising. “You think yourself above the Gods, don’t you? Typical of your faithless Primarch’s ilk. Always slaves to logic and machinery, blind to the greater truths of the galaxy.”

Herok ignored him, striding toward a rusted cogitator terminal. He activated the device with a hiss of sparking circuits, its display stuttering to life. Worm-like mechadendrite tendrils snaked from his backpack and connected to the hardware at various points, bypassing some systems while bridging others by completing damaged circuits. The system’s machine spirit, momentarily functional again thanks to these bootstrap repairs after far too long asleep, easily divulged the secrets Herok had been sent to retrieve. Data began streaming across the screen, fragments of corrupted code and scraps of information. Herok focused on deciphering the mess, tuning out Ghekiel’s ramblings.

But the Word Bearer was not so easily silenced. “You cling to your pragmatism like a drowning man to wreckage. But deep down, you know the truth. The Omnissiah you mock, the False Emperor you despise—they are nothing before the Pantheon. And when you finally accept this, you will—”

Herok’s patience snapped. He turned sharply, towering over Ghekiel. “Enough!” he bellowed, his voice reverberating through the chamber. “You speak of truth, but all you offer are lies wrapped in madness. I have seen your so-called ‘Gods,’ Ghekiel. I have seen their promises turn to ash and their power devour those foolish enough to trust them. Do not lecture me on truth.”

For a moment, Ghekiel was silent, his crimson helmet tilted as if in contemplation. Then he chuckled, low and mocking. “Ah, Herok. Your rage betrays you. You claim to despise the Gods, yet you speak of them with such passion. Perhaps you fear them? Or perhaps, deep down, you know they are your only hope.”

Herok’s fists tightened, the ceramite of his gauntlets creaking under the strain. “Hope is for the weak,” he said coldly. “I do not fear your Gods. I despise them. Just as I despise you.”

The task done, the mechadendrites retreated from the control panel, and the machine perished yet again. “We have what we need from this location.” Herok commanded, “We will move on to the next collection point.”

Hours passed as the two warriors searched the ruins further, collecting relics of unknown importance, their tension simmering just below the surface. For Herok, the mission was enough. He knew why he was there and what he was to retrieve. He was content with the task itself. There was no point in examining things further. Good soldiers followed orders, they didn’t divine them. But Ghekiel, the zealot, saw Godly Revelation in each relic found and data log retrieved. He saw apocalyptic truth, purpose that surely could only be derived from the Ruinous Powers themselves. And it grated on Herok. It grated like Hormagaunt claws on ceramite. The air was heavy with unspoken words, each moment a potential spark to ignite the powder keg of their animosity.

It was Ghekiel who finally lit the fuse.

As they prepared to leave the chamber, having recovered a handful of relics and reams of data, the Word Bearer stopped abruptly. He held the Book of Lorgar aloft, its tattered pages illuminated by the flickering lumen-strips.

“Before we leave, Herok,” Ghekiel said, his voice filled with venomous zeal, “you will listen to the Word. You will hear the truth, whether you wish to or not.”

Herok froze, his back to Ghekiel. Slowly, he turned, his eyes narrowing. “Do not test me, Ghekiel,” he said, his voice low and dangerous, “Or I will test you in a manner befitting Iron.”

But Ghekiel was beyond reason. He began reciting from the book, his voice rising with every word. “And so Lorgar spoke: ‘Through suffering, we are remade. Through devotion, we are eternal. Bow to the Pantheon, and be freed of—’”

Herok moved with the speed and precision of a predator. In an instant, he was upon Ghekiel, his gauntleted hand closing around the Word Bearer’s throat. He slammed Ghekiel into the nearest wall, the impact shaking the room.

“I warned you,” Herok growled, his face inches from Ghekiel’s. “I warned you to stop. But you are truly a Bearer of Words: always rambling, never listening!”

Ghekiel struggled, his hands clawing at Herok’s grip. But even as his strength faded, his laughter echoed through the chamber. “You cannot kill the Word,” he rasped. “The Word is eternal!”

Herok’s gaze locked onto the Book of Lorgar, its tarnished brass bindings glinting faintly in the dim light. The pages reeked of incense, blood, and countless decades of hollow devotion. Ghekiel clutched the tome as though it were an extension of his very soul. Without hesitation, Herok reached forward, tearing the book from the Word Bearer’s grasp with his full cybernetic strength.

Ghekiel staggered back, his hands momentarily groping for the lost artifact before clenching into trembling fists. His crimson armor hummed with the unholy energies coursing through it, but Herok remained unmoved. He stepped back and held the book aloft, his contemptuous sneer audible through his vox-grille.

“Eternal?” Herok rumbled, his tone a venomous snarl. “Let us test that.”

Ghekiel’s eyes burned with fury. With a roar, he lunged forward, his crozius arcanum blazing with crackling energy. The weapon descended in a wide, furious arc, trailing a path of searing light. Herok shifted his weight at the last moment, the crozius skimming his pauldron and showering sparks into the stale air. The Iron Warrior countered with a swift, piston-driven punch that slammed into Ghekiel’s midsection. The blow landed with the force of an artillery shell, denting the Word Bearer’s armor and forcing a guttural cry of pain from his lips.

Ghekiel swung again, his crozius a blur of cerulean lightning. Herok sidestepped the blow and retaliated with a backhanded strike that sent the Word Bearer reeling. Ghekiel recovered quickly, snarling his perverse scriptures and invocations to his Dark Gods as he charged. The two combatants collided in a brutal melee, their power armor screeching and groaning under the strain of their ferocity.

Herok’s movements were cold and calculated, each strike methodical, aimed to dismantle and destroy. Ghekiel, by contrast, fought with the frenetic zeal of a man possessed, his every action imbued with chaotic fervor. He brought the crozius down in another thunderous swing, aiming for Herok’s head. Herok raised his forearm, the weapon smashing against reinforced ceramite with a deafening crack. He seized the opportunity, driving his knee into Ghekiel’s abdomen and forcing the breath from his foe’s lungs.

The Word Bearer stumbled, but his fanatical resolve drove him forward. He jabbed at Herok with his crozius, the weapon’s power field crackling dangerously close to the Iron Warrior’s helm. Herok twisted his torso, narrowly avoiding the strike, then grabbed Ghekiel’s wrist in an iron grip. With a savage twist, he wrenched the weapon from his opponent’s grasp and flung it aside.

“Is this the so-called strength your little gods have granted you?” Herok taunted, his voice a low growl. “Strength is not given. It is claimed.”

Ghekiel roared, swinging his fists wildly. One punch glanced off Herok’s breastplate, another struck the side of his helm with a hollow clang. Herok retaliated with a thunderous headbutt that sent Ghekiel staggering backward, blood streaming from wounds under his helmet. 

The fight was a blur of violence—fists pounding against ceramite, the hiss of venting hydraulics, the scrape of armor against stone. Herok’s mechadendrites lashed out, coiling around Ghekiel’s arms and legs like serpents, restraining him with unyielding strength. The Word Bearer struggled against the mechanical appendages, spitting curses and prayers through bloodied teeth.

Herok yanked Ghekiel forward, their visors inches apart.

“Your Gods have failed you, Ghekiel, as they were always going to,” he snarled, his voice devoid of emotion. “And so has your faith.”

With a flex of his servo arms, Herok lifted Ghekiel off the ground, suspending the battered Word Bearer like a broken marionette. Ghekiel thrashed weakly, his movements sluggish and uncoordinated. Herok raised the Book of Lorgar, its weight strangely satisfying in his hand.

He swung the book forward with the force of a battering ram, the edge of its brass bindings connecting with Ghekiel’s face. The impact shattered the Word Bearer’s teeth and dislocated his jaw with a sickening crunch. Ghekiel’s head snapped back, blood spraying from his mangled mouth as he howled in agony.

Herok did not relent. Having silenced the mouth that spewed lies and weakness, he now targeted the voice itself. He struck again and again, the book slamming into Ghekiel’s exposed throat. The blow crushed his vocal cords and splintered bone, silencing the Word Bearer’s screams. Blood sprayed from the ruin of Ghekiel’s neck, soaking the pages of the very tome he had so fervently worshipped.

The Iron Warrior’s anger reached its zenith. With a final, primal roar, he brought the book down repeatedly, each strike punctuated by the wet, meaty sound of flesh and bone yielding to unrelenting force. Ghekiel’s body convulsed briefly before going limp, his head lolling to one side, lifeless. The mindless puppet’s strings had been cut.

Herok's servo arms released their grip, and the Word Bearer crumpled to the ground in a heap of broken armor and bloodied flesh.

The air was heavy with the stench of blood and burnt ozone, and the chamber seemed to hold its breath, as if recoiling from the violence that had just unfolded.

Herok loomed over the broken body of Ghekiel, the Word Bearer’s crimson armor now darkened by the ichor pooling beneath him. His hands still gripped the remains of the Book of Lorgar, its once-sacred pages now smeared with blood and oil. The chamber was finally, thankfully, silent, save for the faint hum of damaged machinery in the distance. Herok surveyed his handiwork with the detached satisfaction of a craftsman inspecting a finished project. The Word Bearer had pushed too far, and the price had been paid—nothing more, nothing less. He examined the tome. A tiny portion of him was curious and desired to read it, simply to understand the weakness and idiocy of his former companion. But in the end, he knew it was a waste of time and energy — time and energy far better given to the mission itself. As a book, it was pointless. It would offer him no truth, insight, or strategy that improved his abilities or lot, and indeed, it had already proven its uselessness to Herok’s cause by instilling in Ghekiel those qualities which had led to self-made ruin. As a weapon, a simple blunt instrument, it had proven barely sufficient for the task he appointed, though he did not argue with the satisfying results.

“This is a book of falsity and weakness.” Herok declared, “A tool by the weak to control the weak. And a true Son of the Fourth Legion has no need of such!”

He let the ruined tome slip from his fingers, watching it tumble onto the rubble-strewn floor. He then stomped it underfoot, bringing all his incredible armored and superhuman weight down upon the simple book with impossible force. The cover shattered, and pages pulverized as his foot ground the text into a small crater in the floor, destroying the hated object utterly. Turning his gaze to Ghekiel’s lifeless form, Herok’s lip curled in disdain. He crouched low, his voice a low growl that carried an almost mocking finality.

“I cannot say if your so-called ‘Word’ is eternal, Ghekiel,” Herok growled, his tone colder than the void. “All I know for certain is that you most certainly were not.”

He rose to his full height, casting one last glance at the Word Bearer’s corpse. There was no regret, no second-guessing, only the cold satisfaction of a problem solved. Ghekiel’s endless prattle had been silenced, and Herok could now return to his work without distraction. Murder was not a moral quandary or a philosophical dilemma. It was merely a tool, as essential and unremarkable as the bolter slung across his back. And in this moment, it had well served its intended purpose.

As he stepped away, the heavy crunch of his boots echoed in the chamber. He dutifully retrieved the relics and data they had collected. For a Son of Pertuabo, only the objective truly mattered.  His task was complete, and that Ghekiel’s incessant religious blathering were snuffed out and silenced by his own hands was the only reward he needed given all that he’d been through.

Herok left the ruins behind, his mind already turning to the next battle, the next task, the next moment of cold, precise, mechanical calculation. Ghekiel’s words, his faith, his very existence—all of it was just another pointless footnote in the endless litany of war. 

For Herok, that was all it would ever be: the thoughtless babbling of a stooge too weak to examine the lies he mindlessly repeated, and so bought his own doom with his mindless devotion. Ghekiel would be forgotten by the galaxy swiftly, just like all the rest of the nameless dead of the Long War.

Just as the weak deserved.

Herok keyed his vox-transmitter: “This is Herok. Mission accomplished. Moving to the extraction point.” 

“This is Thunderhawk Obsidian Fury. I read you Brother Herok. I scan no trace of Cousin Ghekiel. Inquiring as to his status.”

“Killed in Action, Obsidian Fury.”

“Acknowledged Brother Herok. We shall be at the extraction point shortly. We shall see you there. Iron Within.” “Iron Without.”