#THE FLOW OF THE CLOAK AND ALL THE SHAPES

[s0ckh3adstudios]

might digitalise + render it later if i have time but AUGH that video u posted last night got me,, i had to draw him,,.... anyway. an offering /silly

OOOOOOOOOHHGDHFHHFFSFFGGFHHH STOP THIS IS SO COOL. OH MY GOSHHHHHHHHHGGGGG

[dmitriene]

cw: shibari (possibly incorrect description), overstimulation, crying, aftercare.

practicing shibari with simon riley, your body tied up neatly, perched on the dark, cottony sheets, burgundy, thick oiled ropes, biding and twisting into the shape of small hearts, looping down your torso, plump breasts all bitten and swollen, nipples glistening under the dim light from saliva, and below, where the rope digs into your supple thighs, keeping them apart, exposing your drippy pussy to the gaze of his ravenous, inky eyes.

simon's eyelids heavy, making his pale eyelashes quiver, hiding his eyes, as he watches your pussy flutter and twitch at the press of button vibrator against your soppy slit, oozing in glistening tracks down the underside of your thighs, dribbling on the sheets with crystalline drops, as pretty as the tears that coat your face, skin warm to the touch, burning, as you sob and twitch, eyes glassy with falling tears.

he scoops closer to you on the sheets, letting the mattress sag under his heavy weight, his shadow cloaking you almost fully, making you lean to him instinctively, overstimulated, buzzing on the shimmering, sizzling heat that tickles at your lower belly, the steady drip of your slick tacky against his thick, long digits as he rubs them against your puffy folds, making you jolt with a hiccuped keen of his name, sweet, as simon let's you nuzzle in his neck.

single finger slipping at your sappy hole, teasing around the spasming muscle, twitching at every brush of his calloused fingertip, until he doesn't slips in, stretching you lightly, barely perceptible over the goosebumps and trembles that wrack your body, muscles tensing, rippling as you try both to run away, and lean into him more, canting your round hips, sinking onto his finger, letting him glide against your spasming walls, thrusting in, the heel of his palm rubbing harshly over your clit.

one touch after another, one finger after one more, until simon don't plugs your greedy pussy full of his rough digits, filling you up and fucking his fingers in and out steadily, curling against your small, spongy bump, your thin walls snug around the intrusion, so pleasurable, as he strokes you slowly, with shallow pumps of his fingers, before simon presses a small, buzzing button against the pebbled bud of your clit, your delicate spine arching, painfully so, as he grunts in the answer to your sobbing wail.

it's too much, your pussy being filled full and the buzz against your swollen, twitching clit, you try to move, legs and arms tensing against the ropes, but it's futile, simon presses and twirls, through your muscles burning, body going jelly lax, as your pussy gushes down, squelching around his fingers with a dripping flow of your creamy cum, making you hiccup into his shoulder, slumping when he cradles you closer.

soothing with hoarse purrs you can't comprehend, your head muddled, his hands working on the ties carefully, knowing well your supple skin littered with indents from the ropes, as he frees your arms, letting you curl them weakly around his neck, clinging tight with small, fragile sobs, while he rubs at your delicate spine, hand moving up towards the nape of your neck, squeezing at the sweaty skin lightly, anchoring you.

main masterlist. quidelines.

[sanguinesmi1e]

Pt. 1 Pt. 2 Pt. 3 (you're here)

Full fic on Ao3

Art of LBM

Pt. 4: An Unexp-ectoed Party (not on Ao3 yet)

Constantine was quietly freaking out. He couldn’t be sure, but he suspected that the ghost who had turned itself into a cute little tatzelwurm to avoid answering questions might be something far beyond his capabilities to deal with. Everything it said and did suggested it was way outside his scope of experience. While Tim used a shoelace to play with it like a rambunctious kitten, John mentally catalogued the things that threatened to give him a panic attack:

Before the ghost even arrived, the blinding power flowing through his spell array nearly knocked him flat. It had felt like being swatted in the eyeballs by an eldritch god.

The ghost appeared in human form, fully alive, before being transformed by the summoning magic. John had only ever heard whispers of legends about a being who could do such a thing. The legends were vague and grandiose, but some epithets included The One Who Walks Between, He Who Straddles Life and Death, Twilight Walker, Shroud Danger Child, and The Halver. 

The ghost could not only see his soul at a glance, it could perceive all the damage he had done making deals with demons.

The ghost implied it was on casual, friendly terms with the Ancient of Time aka Chronos, Kala, Father Time, etc. And that it had altered the timeline at least once already.

It could age. Despite what the ghost said, only Neverborn should be able to age. The dead were static, and given the death that he could feel sustaining the portal, this ghost had definitely died.

It was brilliant enough to pinpoint a weakness and successfully distract Tim by transforming into a shape that could manipulate his protective instincts. John did not want to admit that he also felt protective of the cute little blighter.

It had hopped out of the summoning circle as if it were just chalk scribbles, despite John working in some of his most powerful containment spells as a matter of what he had thought was excessive precaution.

Shite, the list had already reached seven items. The tatzelwurm (had Drake really just named the thing Little Baby Man?) glared at him and called him “Gross!” 

“Seriously!? This cloaking spell should be more than sufficient.” John grumbled. “Did it really have no effect?” If so, that was gonna be item number eight.

Little Baby Man tilted his head. “It worked.” Then he huffed with amusement. 

Thank fuck for small blessings. 

A quickly muttered spell turned his burning cigarette into a makeshift sort of laser pointer, and Constantine distracted Little Baby Man while he tried to think of what to do next.

“Hey kid, this is a problem.” He kept his voice low, and watched to see if the tatzelwurm appeared to pay any attention to him. It dedicated all its attention to the glowing dot, and ignored the two men.

“I assume this isn’t the normal direction your interrogations go.” Drake wound his shoelace around his hand and pocketed it. “It’s certainly a first for me.”

“Ditto, in so many ways.”

“Any idea what to do now?”

“We should probably return him where he came from, and wait for Zatanna to get back from wherever she’s disappeared to now.” John would really like a second opinion. He would also like to dump this mess in someone else’s lap and be on his way. 

Although to be fair, watching the tatzelwurm careen around after his lazer dot was actually pretty fun. Not that he’d ever admit it. Still, the creature was done answering questions and John wasn’t prepared to bind the thing because he didn’t think he’d need to pack the tools to bind an eldritch god when Batman called him to do a “quick consult.”

Danny couldn’t remember the last time he had this much fun. The CEO person played with him! He did feel a bit bad for hurting his foot, but it was difficult to dwell on regrets or worries when he could attack the string instead. And now there was a red dot to chase! It was very fast and sneaky, but he was faster and sneakier.

Is this what Paulina felt like when she wished herself to be a giant chibi version of herself to be loved and worshipped by everyone? Because he felt adorable. And fierce. He was going to kill that red dot so hard when he finally sunk his claws in it!

Frustratingly, it seemed to also have intangibility powers. Well, Danny knew what to do about that! He concentrated ectoplasm into his paw and bapped it down hard on the dot. This scorched the floor a bit, but when he lifted his paw, the red dot was skewered on one of his claws. It tried to tug away, but he clung tight. Apparently its size belied its strength, because it started to drag him across the floor. 

Danny tried to release the dot, but his claw was firmly snagged, so he resigned himself to being dragged back into the chalk circle. He tingled a bit as he crossed the perimeter, but it wasn’t a bad sensation, just a little odd. Then a portal opened up and pulled him through the water filled tube snake toy sensation in reverse and ugh! Just as bad the second time, if not worse.

The spell spat him out in human form under the Specter Speeder. Or rather, it ejected him at speed so he smacked into the bottom of the Speeder before falling back to the ground with a heavy thud. Thankfully he didn’t crack his head against the concrete, but he still couldn’t stifle a pained groan.

A firm hand wrapped around Danny’s ankle and dragged him out, and he found himself staring up at Drake and Constantine for the third time that day.

“Uh, hi,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “I suppose I have some explaining to do.”

Being able to create ghost portals would come in real handy right about now. Maybe he should just commit some arson and let these two deal with escaping the basement on their own.

[novaursa]

Where Dragons Dare (2/3)

- Summary: After your declaration to marry Alicent in the small council meeting, the day of the wedding finally comes. And so does your first wedding night.

- Pairing: male!targ reader/Alicent Hightower

- Note: reader is referred to as Y/N, is twin brother of Rhaenyra and is bonded with a dragon. For more of my works visit my blog. The list is pinned to the top.

- Rating: Explicit 18+

- Word count: 5 000+

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @literaturedog

- A/N: This was requested by @witch-of-letters. Enjoy! ❤️ Battle of the Stepstones is add as a bonus, because I love writing dragon battles. The last part will be posted later tomorrow once it is done.

- Previous part: 1

- Next part: 3

The grand hall of the Red Keep is awash with the glow of thousands of candles. The flames dance across golden tapestries depicting the histories of Old Valyria, but today the storied past pales in comparison to the momentous occasion unfolding before all in attendance. The wedding is one spoken of in whispers and rumors, but now it blooms before the gathered lords and ladies with all the splendor and gravitas worthy of House Targaryen. 

You stand at the altar draped in black and red, the rich silk of your doublet catching the light in subtle ways. The fine Valyrian embroidery at the hems speaks of dragons in flight, each thread imbued with dark crimson that shimmers like fresh blood. A black cloak, edged in deep scarlet, flows from your shoulders, fastened at your throat with a clasp shaped like a coiled dragon. Your hair, the silvery-white of pure Valyrian descent, is tied back, letting your angular features and sharp violet eyes take in every gaze, every emotion displayed openly or hidden away. At your side hangs Blackfyre—your birthright as Prince of Dragonstone—its pommel set with a ruby that gleams like a beating heart.

Before you, Alicent Hightower stands radiant in a gown of deep emerald green. The dress, fitted perfectly to her frame, billows out in layers of silk and fine lace, each shimmering with golden accents as she moves. A delicate crown of silver leaves and pearls rests atop her auburn hair, carefully arranged in elegant curls. Her eyes, a brilliant shade of brown, reflect a mixture of pride, joy, and the quiet steel she’s honed under the pressures of courtly life. There is a softness in her gaze, however, reserved only for you as her eyes meet yours—a silent understanding, a shared relief, and a promise of what is to come.

The Septon's voice rings out, leading the words of the traditional vows. Beside you, Rhaenyra is practically glowing with excitement. Her smile is unrestrained, her eyes darting between you and Alicent with genuine happiness, a sister’s joy at seeing her twin brother embrace his own fate. She wears a gown of pale red, adorned with the colors of House Targaryen and a crown of silver atop her flowing locks, her presence radiating confidence as the heir’s sister and a firm ally to your cause. 

King Viserys is seated in a place of honor, his face full of warmth and pride. His smile is wide as he watches his only son wed the woman who has become a daughter to him over the years. He has the contented look of a father who finally sees his children happy, a rare expression in a court filled with ambition and schemes. He lifts his cup in a subtle toast to you and Alicent, his eyes misting over slightly with emotion.

Daemon Targaryen, your uncle, stands near the rear of the gathered nobles, his silver hair catching the light as he observes the ceremony. His expression is inscrutable, but those who know him well enough can see the slight curve at the edge of his lips, the way his gaze sharpens whenever it falls upon you. For all his unpredictability, there is a flicker of pride there—a satisfaction, perhaps, that you finally asserted yourself against the forces that sought to control you. Daemon has always favored those who carve their own path, and today you have done just that.

As the ceremony draws to a close, you step forward to place a cloak upon Alicent’s shoulders, the symbol of House Targaryen enveloping her as you claim her as your own. The green of House Hightower blends now with the red and black of the dragon, a union that cements alliances but more importantly binds two hearts that have long yearned for this day. When you lean in to kiss her, there is a softness, a tenderness in the way her lips meet yours, and the hall erupts in applause, though the world shrinks to just the two of you in that fleeting moment.

As the applause dies down, Otto Hightower, the Hand of the King, watches with a carefully controlled expression. His eyes flicker between you and Alicent, a mixture of satisfaction and unease buried beneath his calm demeanor. Though this is a victory for him in securing his daughter’s position, there’s a tension in his jaw—he had hoped to control this outcome more closely, but you’ve slipped from his grasp, a dragon untamed. He studies you with the gaze of a man who sees both a rival and a dangerous ally.

At the feast, Rhaenyra approaches you first, practically throwing herself into your arms. "You did it, Y/N! I knew you would," she beams, her joy infectious. "Alicent looks so beautiful, and you—you were magnificent. I’ve never seen the council so speechless!" Her eyes sparkle with mischief. "And Uncle Daemon, I think he’s actually proud of you for once."

You chuckle, wrapping an arm around your sister. “He probably is. But I didn’t do this for him or the council. This was always for her.” Your gaze drifts back to Alicent, who’s engaged in conversation with a group of highborn ladies, her laughter soft and genuine.

Viserys claps a hand on your shoulder. "You’ve brought honor to our house, Y/N. I couldn’t be prouder of the man you’ve become. Your mother would be so proud, too." His voice carries a slight tremor as he mentions Queen Aemma, but it is quickly overshadowed by his joy.

You offer him a warm smile. "Thank you, father. I’ll do everything I can to ensure that this union strengthens our house."

Daemon is the next to approach, a goblet in hand and that familiar smirk playing on his lips. "I didn’t think you had it in you, nephew," he says, voice laced with amusement. "I was beginning to think you’d let others chart your course forever. But you’ve surprised us all, haven’t you?"

You meet his gaze squarely, your own smile more restrained but no less confident. "Some paths are worth fighting for, uncle. Even if they’re not what others expect."

Daemon raises his cup in a mock salute. “Spoken like a true Targaryen. Perhaps there’s more fire in you than I thought.”

The feast carries on with music, laughter, and the clinking of cups. You and Alicent share dances with the lords and ladies of the realm, but every now and then, your eyes find each other’s, and the world falls away again, leaving just the two of you in this sea of people.

When you finally manage to steal a private moment with her in a quiet corner of the hall, she takes your hand, squeezing it gently. “I was so afraid,” she admits in a hushed voice, her eyes reflecting the firelight. “Afraid that we’d never be able to reach this moment. But here we are.”

You brush a strand of hair from her face, letting your hand linger against her cheek. “You’re mine now, Alicent. I’ll fight for you, for us, against anyone who tries to tear us apart.”

A flicker of relief passes through her expression, followed by a warmth that softens her usually reserved emotions. “And I’ll stand by you, no matter the storm we face.”

The words hang between you like an unspoken vow—one more binding than anything recited before the Septon. 

The night deepens as the feast continues, a blur of music and the warm glow of candlelight reflecting off the ornate dishes piled with food. Laughter and the sound of clinking goblets fill the Great Hall. You and Alicent sit side by side at the high table, your hands occasionally brushing against each other beneath the table. The touch is small, but each time it happens, there’s a comforting warmth, a silent reassurance between the two of you. Alicent’s soft smile, reserved just for you, never quite fades from her lips.

As you’re enjoying a brief moment of quiet conversation, the sound of footsteps approaches. Gwayne Hightower, Alicent’s brother, strides up, his eyes bright with joy. "Sister! Y/N!" he greets, his voice tinged with the exuberance of youth. His resemblance to Alicent is striking, though his features are more angular, his posture that of a man eager to prove himself. "I couldn’t let the night end without offering my congratulations." He gives you a hearty clap on the shoulder, his grin broad. "It’s about time someone put a spark in this old court! You’ve done well, my friend. I’ve known you since we were boys, and I’ve always believed you’d find your way."

You return his grin, reaching out to clasp his forearm in the familiar gesture of comrades. "Gwayne, your support has never gone unnoticed. I’ve always valued your friendship, even when we got ourselves into trouble as children. But I think this time, we’ve both stepped into something greater than mischief.”

Gwayne chuckles. “You certainly have, Y/N. And Alicent—” He turns to his sister, his tone softening with genuine affection. “I’ve never seen you look happier. I’m glad you’ve found this happiness, even if I’ll be the one who has to keep a closer eye on courtly matters with you from now on.”

Alicent smiles warmly at her brother, her hand gently resting over yours atop the table. “Thank you, Gwayne. Your words mean more to me than you know. And don’t worry, we’ll both make sure to keep you busy in your duties, though perhaps with fewer pranks than when we were children.”

The three of you share a laugh, the ease of old friendships and sibling bonds lightening the mood.

Soon after, the familiar figures of Lord Corlys Velaryon and Princess Rhaenys approach. The Sea Snake is every bit the powerful figure one expects, his deep blue doublet adorned with intricate silver embroidery resembling the waves of the sea. Rhaenys is resplendent in crimson and gold, her presence commanding yet warm. There’s a certain wisdom in her gaze as she looks between you and Alicent, as if she sees beyond what most do.

“Prince Y/N, Lady Alicent,” Corlys begins, his voice deep and steady. “Congratulations are in order. The union of Targaryen and Hightower is a strategic move, and one I hope will bring stability to the realm. But more than that, it’s clear to see the bond you share.” His eyes linger on you, a hint of approval in his expression. “And perhaps this is the start of a new chapter where the young find their own path amidst the expectations of the old.”

Princess Rhaenys nods, her lips curling into a knowing smile. “It is good to see love and strength walk hand in hand. The history of our houses has often been marked by conflict, but this—” she gestures subtly between you and Alicent, “—this has the potential to change much. You both carry the future on your shoulders now.”

You bow your head slightly in respect. “Thank you, Lord Corlys, Princess Rhaenys. Your wisdom is always welcome. I hope to earn that respect in time and prove that this union is more than just a political move.”

Rhaenys’ eyes glint with something sharp and approving. “Oh, I believe you will, Y/N. The blood of Old Valyria runs deep, and you’ve shown you’re willing to chart your own course. I, for one, look forward to seeing what comes next.”

As they step away, Lord Tyland Lannister, clad in rich reds and golds, approaches next. His sharp features and keen eyes give away his nature as a man ever mindful of the shifting tides of power. “Prince Y/N, Lady Alicent, it is a joyous day indeed.” His voice is smooth, practiced, yet there’s an undercurrent of genuine intent behind his words. “House Lannister is ever eager to lend its support to the Targaryen line. May your union be fruitful and prosperous. It seems the dragons have found a way to blend strength with the grace of the Reach.”

You nod, ever cautious with Tyland’s honeyed words. “Thank you, Lord Tyland. Your support will be remembered, and I hope our alliance will benefit all corners of the realm.”

He offers a slight bow before moving off, ever mindful of where the winds blow.

The feast begins to wind down, and as tradition demands, there is the looming expectation of the bedding ceremony. The air in the hall thickens with the anticipation of it. Some lords and ladies begin to gather, murmuring and glancing toward you and Alicent with barely hidden excitement. The tension, the ribald jokes, the whispers—it all threatens to reduce the sanctity of this moment to a spectacle.

Before anyone can make a move to initiate it, you rise to your feet, the air of command in your posture silencing the crowd before the teasing can begin. “There will be no bedding ceremony tonight,” you declare, your voice clear and firm, leaving no room for argument. The hall quiets instantly, the murmur of protests caught in the throats of those who thought to see the night end in such a manner.

Daemon, standing with arms crossed at the edge of the hall, lets out a low chuckle, his approval evident in the sharp nod he gives you. “Let the young prince make his own choices,” he says, his voice carrying across the room. “There’s enough spectacle in these halls without turning the most sacred of nights into another charade.”

The crowd hesitates, unsure whether to push the matter. But when you meet your father’s gaze, Viserys nods slowly, an expression of both surprise and respect on his face. Otto Hightower, who had been watching with tension in his eyes, finally relaxes, a subtle sigh escaping him. His face settles into an expression that resembles something close to approval, a rare look from a man who values tradition and order above all.

Alicent looks at you with deep gratitude and admiration, her fingers squeezing yours as she stands. You turn to her, your expression softening as you offer her your arm. “Shall we retire, my lady?” you ask, your voice laced with tenderness.

She dips her head slightly, eyes shimmering with emotion. “Let’s,” she replies, her voice barely more than a whisper as she takes your arm.

Together, you walk down the long aisle toward the doors leading out of the Great Hall, every eye on you both as you leave. There is a certain weight lifted from your shoulders as the doors close behind you, the noise of the hall fading as you enter the quieter, more intimate corridors of the Keep.

As you walk side by side toward your chambers, the echoes of your footsteps and the distant flicker of torchlight create an almost dreamlike atmosphere. Neither of you speaks, the silence between you comfortable, filled with the knowledge that this is just the beginning. When you reach the doors to your shared chambers, you pause, turning to face her fully. You lift her hand to your lips and press a soft kiss to her knuckles, your eyes never leaving hers.

“No more performances,” you murmur. “This is just us now.”

Alicent’s eyes shine as she steps closer, her other hand rising to rest against your cheek. “I’ve never wanted anything more than to be with you, like this, away from prying eyes.”

With that, you open the door and guide her inside, the world outside forgotten as the heavy oak doors close behind you both, sealing away the courtly intrigue and the expectations of the realm. In this moment, it’s just you and her, bound together by choice, love, and a shared determination to forge your own destiny.

The chamber is bathed in the soft light of the fire, shadows flickering across the stone walls as the door closes behind you both. The silence stretches, not uncomfortable but full with the awareness of what comes next. For all the warmth you share, the affection that’s blossomed over years of quiet moments and unspoken glances, this is new for both of you. The air is tinged with the sweet fragrance of candles, the soft rustle of fabric as you both stand there, suddenly unsure how to proceed.

You turn to face her, meeting Alicent’s gaze. There’s a nervousness in her eyes, a slight quiver in her breath, but beneath it lies trust, and something more—desire, hesitant but real. You step closer, reaching out to take her hands in yours, your thumb brushing over her knuckles in a gentle, soothing motion. “Alicent,” you murmur, your voice softer than usual, tinged with both affection and concern. “Are you sure? If you’re not ready—”

“I am,” she interrupts softly, her voice a tender whisper in the quiet of the room. Her cheeks flush pink, but her eyes never leave yours. “I’ve never been more certain of anything.”

You nod, letting out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding. Slowly, you lean down, capturing her lips in a kiss, tender and delicate. Her lips are warm against yours, the kiss a gentle exploration rather than a fervent rush. You both linger in the simplicity of it, letting it ease the tension from your bodies. When you pull back, you see her chest rise and fall as she steadies her breath, her eyes searching yours for reassurance.

Your hand moves to the clasp of her dress, fingers hesitating for a moment before you look at her once more. “May I?” you ask softly.

She nods, her voice catching slightly. “Yes… I want you to.”

With careful fingers, you undo the clasp and let the fabric slip from her shoulders, revealing the pale skin beneath. The dress pools at her feet, and she stands before you in just her shift, delicate and vulnerable. Her eyes flicker down, shyly avoiding your gaze as you take her in. In turn, she reaches out, her hands trembling slightly as she begins to unlace your doublet. There’s an unspoken agreement between you—a mutual understanding that this moment is as much about trust as it is about desire. You help her with the laces, guiding her hands until your clothing is cast aside, leaving you both bare in the warm glow of the fire.

For a long moment, you simply stand there, your breaths mingling, your eyes tracing the curves and lines of each other’s bodies. There’s a sense of curiosity mixed with reverence, your gazes shyly meeting before drifting again, both of you learning and memorizing the sight of each other.

“Beautiful,” you whisper, your voice filled with sincerity. Alicent’s breath hitches at the word, her eyes shining as she looks up at you, her lips parting as if to say something, but words fail her. Instead, she just reaches out, fingers brushing over your chest, her touch sending a shiver through you.

You gently take her hand and guide her toward the bed, the furs soft beneath your feet as you lead her down onto the mattress. You lay her down with the utmost care, your eyes never leaving hers, searching for any sign of discomfort. Her lips part as she draws in a shaky breath, her chest rising and falling rapidly, but her gaze is steady, trusting.

You lower yourself beside her, your hand caressing her cheek as you lean in to kiss her again. This time, the kiss is deeper, a gradual melding of lips as you both begin to relax into each other. Your hand trails down, brushing against her collarbone, then lower, until it rests just above her breast. You pause, your eyes flicking to hers for permission, and when she nods slightly, you continue, cupping her breast gently, your thumb brushing over the soft skin. A soft gasp escapes her lips, her back arching slightly as you explore her.

“You’re so beautiful, Alicent,” you murmur against her lips, and she responds with a soft sigh, her hand sliding up your back, pulling you closer.

Your kisses begin to wander, trailing down her jawline, to the tender skin of her neck. You feel her pulse quicken under your lips, her breath growing more uneven as you move lower. When your mouth finds her breast, she gasps, her fingers threading through your hair. You take your time, savoring each reaction, each soft sound she makes as your lips and tongue explore her.

As you move lower, her breath catches, her fingers tightening in your hair when you kiss the curve of her hip. You glance up at her, seeing the mixture of nerves and anticipation in her eyes. She’s never experienced anything like this, and neither have you—not truly. But you remember the lessons Daemon half-teased, half-instructed you on during that one visit to the brothel, showing you the ways of pleasure in a more practical, if unconventional, manner. While you hadn’t partaken that night, you watched, curious, and the knowledge lingers now, guiding your movements.

You press a kiss to the inside of her thigh, and she lets out a soft whimper, her fingers clutching at the furs beneath her. You murmur a line from an old Valyrian poem, the words ancient and filled with meaning, letting the sounds roll off your tongue as your kisses grow more intimate. “Gevives isse tolvie jelevre—beauty in every breath,” you whisper, your breath warm against her skin.

When your mouth finally finds her core, she gasps, her body tensing for a moment before she melts into the sensation, her hips shifting instinctively toward you. Her breath comes in shallow bursts, her hand gripping your shoulder as you apply what you’ve learned, taking your time, listening to the way her body responds. When she lets out a soft moan, her voice trembling with pleasure, you smile against her, murmuring another line from the poem—words of love and devotion that have been passed down through generations.

Slowly, you trail your kisses back up her body, feeling her trembling beneath you. Her hands reach for you, pulling you close, and when your lips find hers again, the kiss is hungry, filled with the taste of her desire and the passion that’s been building between you both.

You position yourself above her, your eyes locked on hers as you ask one last time, “Are you sure, Alicent?”

Her response is a breathless nod, her hand cupping your cheek as she whispers, “I want this. I want you.”

You enter her gently, inch by inch, mindful of her innocence, watching her every expression for any sign of pain. She winces slightly at first, her brow furrowing, but her fingers dig into your back, holding you close as she adjusts. When she finally opens her eyes again, there’s no hesitation, only trust. “Move,” she breathes, her voice barely audible, but full of need.

You start slowly, each movement careful, deliberate, letting her body adjust, her warmth enveloping you. Her breaths come out in soft, quick bursts, her nails dragging lightly across your skin as she holds on to you. The tension in her body gradually gives way to something else, her hips meeting yours in a rhythm that’s both instinctive and hesitant.

As the moments pass, the awkwardness gives way to a deeper connection. The tenderness remains, but passion begins to take root. Alicent’s breath hitches when she wraps her legs around your waist, her hands pulling you closer. You respond to her need, moving with more urgency as she finds her own rhythm, her body moving against yours in a dance that’s both new and timeless.

When she pushes herself up, shifting into your lap, there’s a sudden surge of boldness in her gaze, something wild and free. You guide her movements, your hands steadying her as she takes control, her breathless gasps mingling with your own. The intimacy between you grows not just in the physical connection but in the way you respond to each other’s needs, desires, and unspoken fears. It’s a union forged in trust, love, and the desire to explore the depths of what you share.

Eventually, when the night reaches its quiet peak, you collapse together into the furs, breathless and spent, your limbs entangled as you hold her close. Here, in this moment, there’s only the warmth of her skin against yours, the sound of her steadying breaths, and the knowledge that this is only the beginning of your shared life together.

As sleep slowly claims you both, you press a final kiss to her forehead, murmuring words of love in Valyrian, promising her with every breath that this night is just the start of what you’ll build together.

The sky is a bruised shade of twilight, thick with smoke and ash. The stench of blood, sweat, and salt fills the air as the waves crash against the jagged rocks of the Stepstones. This place is a wasteland—a battlefield stained with the bodies of the dead and dying. For over two years, the Crabfeeder’s men have held these islands, turning them into a butcher’s yard. But today, you intend to end it. Today, the dragons return in fire and fury.

You sit atop Dallax, your black-scaled beast, perched on a ridge overlooking the main encampment of the Triarchy’s forces. His green eyes gleam in the dim light, and his body shifts restlessly beneath you, eager to unleash his wrath. His teeth, hidden within the dark flesh of his jaws, retract only when his rage is stoked—a menace lying in wait. You run a gloved hand along his neck, feeling the raw power coiled within him. “Soon,” you whisper, your voice firm yet laced with anticipation. “We will end this.”

Below, Daemon Targaryen plays his part to perfection. Clad in soot-streaked armor, a white banner clutched in one hand, he approaches the enemy lines. The Crabfeeder’s forces, a mix of hardened sellswords and conscripts, watch from behind their sharpened stakes and crude fortifications, unsure whether this is truly surrender or another of Daemon’s ruses. The Prince of the City moves with a calculated slowness, his steps deliberate, his head lowered just enough to give the impression of defeat. But you know him better. There’s a fire in his eyes—a fury barely contained behind that facade of submission. The plan hinges on this moment, on the Crabfeeder’s arrogance and greed.

From your vantage point, you spot Lord Corlys Velaryon’s forces hidden in the shallows, ready to pounce the moment the trap is sprung. The Sea Snake commands his men with a veteran’s precision, their silence a stark contrast to the braying jeers coming from the Crabfeeder’s ranks.

Daemon finally stops, mere feet from the Crabfeeder’s line, where a grotesque figure emerges from the shadows. Drahar, the Crabfeeder, is a ghastly sight, his face hidden behind a cracked and twisted mask, his skin mottled from disease. He raises a hand, halting the jeers, and for a moment, silence reigns.

Then, chaos erupts.

Daemon’s false surrender is cast aside as he draws Dark Sister in a blur of Valyrian steel, cutting through the nearest soldier in one swift, practiced motion. Blood sprays into the air, catching the dim light as the battlefield roars back to life. The Triarchy’s soldiers charge forward, desperate to claim the prize they believe within reach, but they are rushing headlong into a trap.

It’s your moment.

With a word in Valyrian, you urge Dallax into a dive. His wings unfurl, dark as midnight, blotting out the dying light. The air screams past you as you plummet toward the battlefield, the ground rushing up to meet you. “Dracarys!” you roar, the command slicing through the din of battle.

Dallax responds with a torrent of flame that incinerates everything in its path. The first line of the Crabfeeder’s men is engulfed in a roaring inferno, their screams swallowed by the relentless fire. Armor melts, flesh sizzles, and bone turns to ash in mere moments. You bank sharply, pulling Dallax into another dive, this time focusing on the siege engines positioned along the ridge. The ballistae, meant to keep the dragons at bay, are shattered under the crushing weight of dragonfire and claws. Timber explodes, splinters raining down on the screaming soldiers below as you rip through their defenses with ruthless efficiency.

You catch a glimpse of Daemon, now fully engaged in the melee, his sword a blur of lethal grace as he carves a bloody path through the Triarchy’s forces. He fights with a savage joy, laughing as he dodges and counters, the battlefield his stage. Corlys and his men surge from the shallows, catching the enemy in a brutal pincer. The once-confident soldiers of the Crabfeeder are thrown into disarray, their lines crumbling under the combined might of dragon and steel.

You circle back, eyes locked on Drahar, who attempts to retreat deeper into the labyrinth of stakes and pits his men have constructed. But there’s no escape. You guide Dallax lower, skimming the ground, his claws gouging the earth as you close in on your prey. The Crabfeeder looks up in desperation, his eyes wide behind his mask as he realizes his end is near.

“End him!” Daemon’s voice echoes in your mind like a phantom’s dare, though the words are drowned out by the roar of battle.

Dallax’s jaws snap open, his teeth glinting as they slide out from their hidden sheaths. With a snarl, he lunges, clamping down on Drahar with a sickening crunch. The Crabfeeder’s mask falls away, revealing a twisted visage frozen in terror before his body is torn apart in a spray of blood and gore. Dallax shakes his head, flinging what remains of Drahar’s corpse into the dirt before incinerating it with a final jet of flame.

Around you, the battlefield is a scene of utter carnage. The ground is slick with blood, littered with the hacked remains of soldiers. Men scream, their limbs severed, or burn as they try to flee, only to be cut down by Corlys’s disciplined troops. The cries of the dying are a symphony of suffering, underscored by the relentless roar of flames. Dallax moves among the survivors like a shadow, crushing and burning any who dare to resist.

As the last pockets of resistance are snuffed out, you land amidst the ruins, stepping down from Dallax’s back. You scan the battlefield, taking in the broken fortifications, the piles of charred corpses, and the men who now kneel in surrender. Victory is yours. The Stepstones are won.

Daemon approaches, blood splattered across his armor, a wild grin on his face. “Well done, nephew,” he says, his voice carrying a note of satisfaction. “I thought I might have all the fun, but you’ve stolen quite the show.” His eyes gleam with shared triumph, the bond between you strengthened through battle and bloodshed. “The Crabfeeder will feast no more.”

You smirk, wiping sweat and grime from your brow. “Someone had to keep you from getting killed. I couldn’t let you take all the glory.”

He laughs, the sound cutting through the dying echoes of the battle. “You’re learning. Perhaps there’s more of me in you than anyone cares to admit.”

As Daemon moves to rally the remaining men, your thoughts drift, carried away on the winds of victory. The image of Alicent appears in your mind—her gentle smile, the way her hand rests on the curve of her belly, swollen with the child she carries. You think of your son, Aegon, barely more than a year old, his bright eyes so full of curiosity. It is for them that you fight, for the future you intend to build, for the family you have claimed as your own.

The taste of blood and ash lingers on your tongue, but underneath it all is the yearning to return to them, to hold Alicent in your arms and feel the soft weight of your son as he rests against your chest. You think of how you will recount this victory to them—how Aegon will listen in awe, his little hands reaching out as if to grasp the tales of dragons and battles. You smile to yourself, imagining the way Alicent will scold you softly for the bloodshed, though you know she will be proud all the same.

“Soon,” you murmur to yourself, the words almost lost in the wind. “Soon I’ll be home.”

But for now, the battle is done, and the Stepstones are yours. The fires burn low as you gaze out over the broken landscape, your thoughts with your family, even as your dragon’s shadow stretches long over the conquered land, a reminder of the price of victory.

[poetryvampire]

painfully needy Rolan going into rut

Had this on the brain lately. I don't think it would take much to make Rolan an absolute mess but imagine how worse it would be when he's going into rut. Boy would snap so fast

Rolan x afab non-tiefling reader

Have some 🔥spicy🔥 musings

*this went longer than I wanted lol. But if you like it tell me if you want more 🧡

● Rolan had been doing this dance with you for months now. Both working at Sorcerous Sundries you saw each other regularly, even tried to work together as much as possible (not that he'd ever admit that). The banter, the playful mockery leading to not so subtle flirtation was easy until now.

● The conversations didn't flow like before. A joke about becoming a doe eyed scarcely dressed maiden -like the ones on the covers of those novels you so enjoy- suddenly lead his mind to wander. Any wisecrack replaced with the image of you gazing at him so lustfully. An image that stays with him for the rest of the day (and night).

● Lia and Cal are very vocal about his uptick in irritability. He tries to ignore them but they're not wrong. Ever little thing sets him off. He's frustrated at himself. For letting the feelings get so far without truely noticing. For being too proud or too embarrassed to act on them.

●He often forgets his words as his eyes lingered on your lips, your neck, your figure. More than once you caught him staring and to his surprise no offense was taken. Just a quizzical look, perhaps a soft smile that flooded his face with warmth.

●Rolan would have almost preferred you'd have met him with anger. Now the hope of you ran rampant through him. That if he was ever to give in he may be met with the embrace he so longed for. The need for you was growing by the day. He even took care to not stand to closely to you now. He coursed himself for it. How had he become so starved for affection that even the scent of you sprung his body to life.

●The wizard had spent many nights forced to take action if he was to ever find sleep. He'd be tangled in his sheets, hair wild, trusting violently into his own fist. He tries to keep his fantasies to more abstract forms of pleasure but as hard as he tries the vague shapes melt into crystal clear images of you. It would always be you around him like a vice that would push him over the edge.

● There were times he'd lose himself so throughly he'd cry out your name as he came. Embarrassed by this lack of control, Rolan told himself it was better to happen here than in front of you.

● Going into work that morning something felt off. Rolan's whole body felt extra sensitive, aching. The horrible thought finally struck him at midday. Was he going into rut? Now!? With such little warning? He calms himself. He's not certain after all.

● Until he's been paired with you to clean out and old study turned storage room. He's hyper aware of your scent. Its filling his lungs,making his knees weak. The room isn't exactly small but it's stuffed with stacks of books making moving around a problem. You're constantly having to squeeze (delightfully, terrifyingly) close to each other.

● Luckily you're busying yourself with the task at hand. Rolan prays you won't notice how red (red-er) his face is or the sizable bulge he's currently cloaking with a stack of books. The straining against his pants is almost painful. He's eyeing the door, anything to escape the heat building in his blood.

●His eyes fall back to you and all notions of making a run for it leave his mind. Along with everything else that isn't right in front of him. You looked a vision, standing on and old box body spread across the book self as you attempt to reach something on the top shelf. Not only was it a perfect view of your form, it reminded him of a pose one might see in an old painting.

●Suddenly the box wobbled threatening to send you falling backwards. Your scream was cut short as you felt Rolan catch you, arms wrap around your middle tightly pressing you to him. His face buried in your hair he couldn't help utter a deep groan. The wave of intoxicating aroma washing away his last bit of restraint.

●With ease he flips you around, pressing you into the shelf, a maon escaping your lips. Your hands came to his chest not to push him away but in a gentle caress.

●'Rolan? Please,' was hardly out on your mouth when they were swallowed by his lips. He kisses you like a drowning man breaking the water's surface. Madly, desperately as if any second you may be taken away for him. Hungrily he deepens the kiss and your lips part for him with ease, both of you relishing in the taste.

●It's only when you part for air he realizes he's been rocking his hips into you. An apology catches in his throat as you grind back against him. He's dizzy with lust, his own heartbeat pounding in his ears.

●His lips find your neck, kissing, sucking and biting. Trying his best not to break the skin. Your moans drive him on. His hands are frantic running all over you. Soon your hands lead his to the laces on your dress. He makes quick work of it.

●Rolan takes you in his arms again and lays you down on a near by table. A little too eager he tears your under things away completely. But to his awe you only laugh and spread yourself out for him to drink you in fully. You're a goddess in his eye and he intends to worship.

●Words spill senselessly from him as he lavishes you with his mouth. 'Fuck, Fuck! You're beautiful you're perfect. I need- God's, l need you I need you.' He hasn't the brain for elegance now. He's kissing you everywhere maoning words of love into your skin.

● As he makes it to your thighs he cannot help but bury is face between them. The sweet taste of your sex has him throbbing with out so much as a touch. He wants to make sure you're nice and ready for him. You're not a tiefling after all and he couldn't bare the thought of hurting you. It doesn't take long before you're dripping wet against his tongue as he slides wildly between attacking your entrance and your clit.

●You stifle a scream as an orgasm suddenly rips through you, your thighs shaking in his grasp. Youre still panting but you pull him away, drawing him closer to you. As you pull him into a soft kiss your hands unlace his pants (finally) freeing his erection. Though to hold him lightly his gasp is sharp. He's painfully hard; his head already glistening with precum.

●As he runs he length against your folds he tries to center himself. He doesn't want to be too rough or finish terribly fast. He wants to go slow but when he catches on your entrance he can't help but thrust into you, the relief of his agony so close. You tremble but encourage him on. His name quickly becoming a soft prayer on your lips.

●He's wrapped inside you now, almost all the way. The pleasure overwhelming him he opts for quicker shallow thrusts. He's taken aback by how vocal he is as more sweet lustful nothings spill from him. Rolan's control is fading fast. He's practically shaking, slamming himself into you losing whatever rhythm he had. The sight of your face contorting with pleasure is pushing him to his end. He can feel the hot pull in his gut. And suddenly something else as.

●A chill runs over him as he feels the swelling at the base of his cock. He grasps it and pulls out not wanting to subject you to something he didn't even take the time to explain. In part he's too late. He didn't fully knot but he still comes hard, spilling thick ropes all over your stomach and thighs. Fuck, you're beautiful like this.

● He blushes deeply and panics, apologizing over and over. He didn't want it to be like this. You run your fingers through his hair and kiss him gently. You don't know that much about teifling biology but Gods you wanted to learn. Rolan tries to believe you, that this wouldn't scare you off.

● He adjusted his pants, somehow still as uncomfortable as before. Perhaps it was the sight of you dressing. How you made no move to do away with his mess before you did. He could take you again easily. But not here.

● You convince him to claim illness and leave work early. To take time to rest. He agrees wanting to lock himself away from the world. And yet he also agrees to meet you that night. Then he'd have a more level head. A chance to explain himself and perhaps to hold you in his arms for longer.

Xoxo thanks for reading friends ❤️

[ranticore]

some fashions from dry bowl, the largest continuous piece of land in siren

damp cloaks of some description are worn almost universally by aquatics on all continents if they have to spend time on land. phocids need them to protect their sensitive skin from desiccation. selkies may be fully furred but they can be bleached easily in the sun. in dry bowl, cloaks made of reeds are used as the aerenchymatic tissue within the stalk is an effective sponge and holds water extremely well. the river selkies have strict beauty standards and being sun-bleached is considered highly unsightly. this cloak features a clasp made from a piece of cut and polished scalefish scale, traded from the coast. the hat provides shade and more damp, and is built from a stick bent into a wishbone shape so that the back is open (selkies and phocids couldn't wear a hat with a closed back because of their posture), which is used as a frame for more reed thatch. fancy versions of the hat tend to ornament the central spike. sandals are worn for extended walks on dry land; selkies don't have particularly thick footpads.

reed silk cloak with gourds. the pollen equivalent of sirenian reeds is expressed in long thin strands, forming fluffy, wind-dispersed clumps at the top of the reed. these will continually fragment into tiny particles unless harvested and boiled in water, which causes the tissues to contract and toughen. this can be spun into thread. reed silk is incredibly light and floaty in texture, requiring a heavier backing for it to drape nicely, but several layers of silk sewn together can make for an outfit light enough that it can be worn in flight. landstrider harpies don't need that functionality, so they back their silk with much tougher woven plant fibres (similar to linen). with this extra weight behind it, it flows very nicely when hopping, like a ribbon. sun visors are worn here as shade is hard to come by. this outfit is complemented by the hollow, gourd-like seed casings of a ground-dwelling plant. they make a nice rattling sound and their bright red colour is eye-catching. finally, this harpy has had his wings glued and decoratively cut to match the cloak, with additional star-shaped 'windows' in the wings which will cast bright spots upon a shadow-puppet stage when held against the light.

a wrestling outfit featuring the fake teeth and bones of 'vanquished foes'. in reality they're the cut and carved shells of riverland arthropods, burned for the few seconds it takes to turn them white, sewn into a stretchy grass and sinew cloth. this is more about theatricality than anything else, and the clattering sound adds to the sport. the knuckle-guards worn by zeta are nearly always leather, which can be produced from soft-bodied fauna of the river and substrate.

[bettelaboure]

⊹The Brushstroke of Desire ⊹ | Choi Seung-Hyun

⊹ Pairing: Choi Seung-Hyun x Reader ⊹ Warnings: explicit sexual themes, sensuality, intimate situations, and emotional vulnerability ⊹ Word count: 2 k ⊹ Authors note: usually I prefer smut myself, but dear God, how I giggled like a little girl writing this...

⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹

The first time you noticed him, Seung-Hyun was an island amidst the buzz of the gallery’s opening. While the guests swirled in clusters, exchanging pleasantries and hushed critiques over champagne flutes, he remained apart, alone. His presence was subtle but undeniable. A man who seemed to move through the world as if it bent to his will. A man who had no need to hurry, yet, here he was, pausing in front of your painting with a quiet reverence that made your breath catch. His hands were tucked into the pockets of a perfectly tailored suit, a suit that whispered of wealth, of power, yet there was nothing about him that seemed conceited. No, it was as if his calm, unhurried attention to your work held a deeper meaning—an unspoken invitation to witness something intimate, something only the two of you could share.

The brushstrokes of your piece were a map of your soul. The color choices, deliberate. The shapes, reflections of your inner chaos and quietude. When his gaze finally shifted toward you, it was not the casual glance of a viewer. His eyes were sharp, tracing the arc of your expression, as if reading between the lines of your existence, searching for a truth hidden in plain sight. In that moment, you felt a delicate dance of exhilaration and vulnerability flutter in your chest. Was it possible? Could he—this stranger who was no stranger at all—see what you had poured into the canvas? The raw, unspoken parts of yourself you had laid bare for the world?

There was no small talk. No hollow pleasantries. Just a single question that made your pulse race. “Tell me about this one.” His voice, smooth and deep, lingered in the space between you.

The words spilled from your lips with a kind of honesty you didn’t know you were capable of. You spoke of the emotions that had driven you to paint, the restlessness that had gnawed at you, the nights you had spent lost in a haze of color and shadow. You spoke, but it felt as if he wasn’t listening for the facts, but for the unspoken weight of your experience. And all the while, his gaze remained fixed on you—intense, unwavering, as though he could see inside you, past the surface. As though he was savoring every word you uttered.

It was as if time itself had paused, drawn into the magnetic pull of his attention. When he spoke again, it was with the slow certainty of someone who knew exactly what they wanted. "Dinner?" The invitation was simple, yet his eyes held something more—a promise. One you were unable—or unwilling—to deny.

The restaurant was a hidden gem, tucked away in a quiet corner of the city. The atmosphere was soft, intimate, as if the world outside had been temporarily forgotten. Candlelight flickered against the polished wood, casting shadows that danced along his features, highlighting the sharpness of his cheekbones, the curve of his jaw. He was a man sculpted by grace, by power, by something deeper that you couldn’t quite place. The faint scent of his cologne wrapped around you like a cloak, soothing and heady all at once.

Each brush of his fingertips against your knuckles was an unspoken question, a quiet exploration. There was nothing accidental about his touch—every movement deliberate, calculated, designed to unravel you piece by piece. His hand rested lightly on your thigh, a soft pressure that sent heat spiraling up your spine. Your breath caught, the touch innocent, yet charged with an energy that sent your thoughts scattering.

The conversation flowed, weaving between art, life, and the things left unsaid. Seung-Hyun spoke with a depth that made you lean closer, drawn not only to his words but to the way they were delivered—with purpose, with intention. His eyes, always steady, seemed to see more than you were willing to show. There was a slowness to his every gesture, as if he savored the moment before he moved on to the next. Each sip of wine, each lean toward you as you spoke—it was as if he was tasting you, savoring the very essence of your being.

“How did you start painting?” he asked, his voice low and hushed, as though it were a secret shared between you and him alone. His gaze never wavered from your face, studying the way your lips moved, the subtle change in your expression.

You hesitated only for a moment before speaking, the words tumbling out, soft and confessional. “It wasn’t a choice. Not really. I think I’ve always needed to paint. It was my escape when I was younger—a way to channel everything I couldn’t express. But over time… it became more than that. It became the lens through which I see the world.”

He nodded, his expression softening with understanding. “Art,” he said thoughtfully, “is one of the few things that can capture both the chaos and the calm of life. It holds everything—the contradictions we don’t want to face, the truths we don’t want to see.”

Your heart skipped a beat at his insight. There was a quiet intensity in the way he spoke, as though he understood the very marrow of your soul. “You speak as if you’ve felt it,” you remarked, your voice barely a whisper.

“I have.” He leaned back, studying you as though he were memorizing the way your face lit up when you spoke of your passion. “Art is the one thing in this world that remains untouched by power or wealth. It demands honesty. And it’s not just beauty that I seek—I collect art because it forces something real from me. It opens a door to truth that nothing else can.”

The silence between you thickened, pregnant with a tension neither of you acknowledged yet both could feel. Then, after a beat that stretched between you like a taut wire, he added, “And you—your presence, your passion—it’s like you’re a piece of art yourself.”

You felt the words as if they were a physical touch, something that shifted the air around you. A compliment, yes, but something far more intense. Your chest tightened, heat creeping into your cheeks.

“You mean that?” Your voice trembled with the question, the sudden vulnerability of being seen so completely, so intimately, leaving you breathless.

His lips curved into the faintest smirk, one that didn’t quite reach his eyes, but there was something deeper there, something that told you that he had already seen more of you than anyone else ever had. “I don’t say things I don’t mean.”

By the time the night was over, you weren’t sure if you had eaten anything at all. The taste of his voice, the weight of his gaze, and the subtle brush of his fingers against your skin had rendered everything else distant, irrelevant. When he drove you home, the silence in the car was heavy, charged with an unspoken understanding, a quiet storm brewing between you.

You barely had time to breathe before realizing your phone—your lifeline to the outside world—was left in the passenger seat. You had resigned yourself to retrieving it the next day, but Seung-Hyun was not a man who left things unfinished. The next morning, a soft knock echoed at your door, and when you opened it, there he stood, phone in hand, his presence commanding the space.

But something else—something more—was in the air now.

As you stood there, a whisper of sound broke the silence. Your voice. Soft, needy, breathless.

Seung-Hyun froze, his breath hitching at the sound. His pulse quickened as he stood just beyond the threshold, rooted in place, a witness to the private moment unfolding before him.

He could have walked away. He should have. But the pull, the magnetic force between you, kept him there. Instinct moved him, and he turned the knob, stepping into the space you had unwittingly made for him.

The sight of you, sprawled on the bed, fingers grazing over your own skin, lost in a moment of desire you hadn’t known he would witness, was enough to make his chest tighten. His pulse thudded louder in his ears, a rush of heat flooding his veins.

For a heartbeat, time seemed to stop. Neither of you moved. Neither of you spoke. Your eyes locked, and in them, he saw everything—the vulnerability, the longing, the rawness of the moment. It was an invitation, and he accepted it without hesitation.

With deliberate slowness, he closed the door behind him. His voice, barely a whisper, was thick with something you both felt but refused to name. “Were you thinking of me?”

The confession was already there, written in the flush of your cheeks, the rise and fall of your breath. Your body answered before your lips could. The weight of his gaze held you in place as he crossed the room, each step deliberate, measured. He traced the curve of your jaw with a fingertip, and the touch was gentle, reverent, as if he was learning you with each caress.

When he kissed you, it was slow—an unhurried exploration, as if he was savoring the taste of you, imprinting it on his memory. Every second stretched between you, thick with the promise of more. His hands moved with the precision of an artist, memorizing the way your body reacted to his touch. The way you gasped when his lips brushed your inner thighs, the tremor that followed every slow, deliberate caress.

And when he finally took you, it was not rushed. It was deliberate, the way he studied every inch of you, the way he held you as though you were something fragile, something precious. Each movement was a stroke on a canvas of skin, each whisper of his name from your lips a note in a song only the two of you could hear.

When the world outside had faded, and you lay tangled in his arms, the soft light of dawn spilling through the curtains, you felt an unfamiliar sense of belonging. Not just to him—but to the moment. To the quiet certainty that this—whatever this was—had changed you both, irrevocably.

And in the stillness, he whispered against your shoulder, the ghost of a smile in his voice. “I came to return your phone.”

You laughed softly, a sound that felt too light, too free for everything that had just passed between you. And in that moment, you knew. This was only the beginning.

[claramelooo]

CRIMSON REVERIE

Hey, babies! I must confess that this was a story that I wrote with my instincts, I simply let the characters flow. I love filling it with intensity and adding love, I want this to be, in fact, the hallmark of my writing.

And of course, we are entering the final stretch of this saga :)

so enjoy it a looooot <3

MINORS DO NOT MUST TO INTERACT

Warnings: angst and truth revealed

Summary: Wanda discovers the truth about the necklace, and cannot accept it.

Hey. Now I've a masterlist

SOLIS

The crossing between the multiverses was a storm of colors and impossible shapes, a parade of fragments of realities tearing and stitching themselves as you moved forward. It was a hypnotic and chaotic spectacle, where the unknown seemed to breathe around you, whispering secrets no one could comprehend.

You were in Wanda’s arms, the only constant amid the chaos. The warmth of her body against yours was more than physical; it was a silent promise of safety, a beacon in an unpredictable ocean. Your eyes were closed, but even in unconsciousness, there was something about you that radiated a unique strength.

Carol walked beside you, silent at first, but her unease was evident. Her eyes constantly darted to you, as if trying to decipher a riddle that refused to reveal itself. Time passed, and finally, she broke the silence.

“So…” Carol began, feigning casualness as her gaze remained fixed on you. “She’s really real?”

Wanda didn’t reply immediately. Her full attention was on you, her gaze intense and protective, as though her mere presence could ward off any threat.

Carol cleared her throat, insisting. “You know, it’s not exactly common to see someone cross dimensions carrying another person like they’re a lost treasure. I’m curious.”

There was a moment of tense silence before Wanda finally responded, her voice low, almost a whisper, but laden with something primal. “She’s more than real. She’s everything.”

Carol raised an eyebrow, clearly intrigued, but she didn’t interrupt. Wanda continued, her eyes shining with something that bordered on fervor. “I found her when there was nothing left, when the entire world was against me, and yet... she stayed. She saw me. She gave me something even magic couldn’t bring back.”

Carol let out a small sigh, a mix of understanding and discomfort. “And that’s why you’re willing to do all this? For her?”

Wanda looked at Carol with an intensity that made the Captain shrink back for a brief second. “I’m not willing. I will. Because she’s my light, and no matter what happens… I won’t let her go out.”

The silence that followed was filled only by the hum of realities unraveling around them. Carol looked away, Wanda’s words echoing as an unshakable truth, impossible to challenge. After all, who was she to judge someone who had found such a strong reason to fight?

When the last tear in the multiverse opened, you arrived in a vast, desolate field, where the silence was broken only by the sound of boots from an army standing ready. Strange was at the center of it all, his eyes sharp, and his cloak floating with a purpose of its own. Around him, the Avengers stood prepared to fight, weapons and powers ready to face whatever emerged from the portal.

But when Wanda stepped through, carrying you in her arms, the chaos ceased.

Strange raised a hand, signaling his army to stop. His gaze moved from Wanda to you, then to Carol, before returning to Wanda. There was something in his eyes—not just surprise, but recognition.

“She’s real…” Strange murmured, the incredulity in his voice hanging in the still air.

The field seemed to hold its breath, every hero frozen in a moment of shock as they watched Wanda emerge from the portal, you in her arms like something sacred. The tension was palpable, but Strange remained calm, though his eyes betrayed the depth of his understanding.

The Avengers around him, weapons still raised, began to relax, but only slightly. Natasha stepped forward, her eyes narrowed, analyzing every detail. Steve remained still, his shield instinctively raised. Tony, however, broke the silence with a typical comment.

“Well, look at that, the witch brought a… friend?” His voice dripped with sarcasm, but his eyes were fixed on you, clearly trying to piece together what was happening.

“Tony,” Steve warned, though even he seemed unable to tear his gaze from you.

“She’s not a threat,” Wanda declared, her voice firm but quiet, like a promise. Her gaze burned with something fierce and unyielding.

Strange took a step forward, his hands clasped in front of him. He seemed to avoid direct eye contact with Wanda, focusing instead on you. “The necklace,” he said finally, pointing to the pendant around your neck. “Where did you get that?”

You opened your eyes slowly, confusion etched across your face as you looked around. Strangers, all of them, and yet… there was something familiar. Wanda held you closer, an almost overly protective gesture, as Strange approached.

“Don’t come any closer,” Wanda growled, her magic crackling in her hands.

“I just want to understand,” Strange said calmly, though his posture was tense. He knew what was at stake. “If what I think is true, she’s not just unique… She’s impossible.”

“What are you talking about?” Wanda’s fingertips blackened, magic already summoned. “She’s real. And she’s mine.”

Strange hesitated, keeping his hands raised in a gesture of peace, but his eyes remained fixed on the sun-shaped pendant around your neck. He spoke slowly, as if weighing each word before releasing it.

“I’m talking about something that shouldn’t exist. A broken line in the fabric of time. That necklace… it’s not just an ornament. It’s an anchor, a link to something beyond our comprehension.” He paused, as if struggling to organize his thoughts. “She… shouldn’t be here.”

“Watch your words, Strange,” Wanda murmured, her voice low and threatening. Her blackened fingers trembled, and the magic around her seemed to pulse with the intensity of her rage. “She is everything that should be here. And you will not touch her.”

Strange looked at Wanda, a mix of pity and caution in his expression. He knew the line was thin, and the witch was teetering on the edge of an emotional abyss. “I’m not trying to take her from you, Maximoff. But you need to listen. Because if what I’m seeing is true, we’re dealing with something that affects more than just you or this world.”

“Stop it,” Wanda interrupted, her voice rising in intensity. “You don’t understand! You think you know because you have books and spells. But this…” She looked at you, her expression softening for just a moment before hardening again. “She’s mine. Every life we’ve lived, every sacrifice we’ve made. This isn’t a mistake, Strange. This is love.”

“Love or destiny?” Strange countered, his eyes gleaming with something between curiosity and reverence. “Because if she is who I think she is, there’s no separating the two.” He motioned subtly to the pendant. “Do you understand what she’s carrying around her neck? That energy isn’t just ancient, Wanda. It’s primordial. It’s the origin.”

Wanda shook her head, stepping back instinctively, as if she could push Strange’s words away. “You’re wrong! It can’t be that. I would know. I would feel it. I would see it in our lives together.”

“But you didn’t,” Strange replied, his voice softer now, but still firm. “Because you couldn’t. Because this isn’t something that reveals itself. It’s something that manifests, in time and necessity.”

Wanda’s disbelief was palpable. She looked at you, searching for some confirmation that what Strange said was absurd, but all she found was your confused gaze, still lost in the whirlwind of emotions and information.

Strange continued, his voice now heavy with gravity. “She is more than a being. She is a point of convergence, something that all cosmic forces recognize but cannot control. And now, Maximoff, she is at stake.”

Wanda pressed her lips together, trying to hold back the tears threatening to fall. “No. You’re wrong. It doesn’t matter what she is to the universe. She’s mine. And no one is going to take her away from me.”

“That,” Strange said, pointing at Wanda, “is precisely why she is different. Because even with all the power and chaos surrounding her, you see her as a person. Someone to be loved, not feared.” He took a deep breath, the tension on his face easing slightly. “And perhaps, Maximoff, that’s exactly what she needs to be right now. Before the rest of the multiverse realizes what’s happening.”

Wanda didn’t respond. She only pulled you closer, her trembling hands tracing gentle lines along your skin as if to reassure herself you were there—whole and hers. But in her mind, Strange’s words echoed like distant thunder, heralding a storm she knew she couldn’t ignore for much longer.

Tears streamed down the woman’s face. “Feared?” she murmured, the word escaping like a broken whisper. Her eyes fixed on your face, even closed in the torpor of sleep, and she felt a pang of despair at the peace in your expression. Peace that, perhaps, she could never truly protect. She held your hands—your youthful skin standing out against hers.

“How could something so pure be feared?”

You were everything to Wanda. Her doll, so precious and untouchable. Her bright sun, chasing away the shadows of her own soul. When everything around her was darkness, you were always the light guiding her back, the anchor keeping her connected to her humanity. But now, Strange’s words seeped in like poison, awakening something she didn’t want to face.

Why you?

She knew there was something about you, something no one else understood. The way your presence seemed to alter the very fabric of reality around you, as though the universe bent to accommodate you. The way you bore the weight of chaos magic, not as an imposition but as if it were a natural, almost organic, part of you.

You couldn’t be just human.

The idea was unbearable, but Wanda knew she couldn’t avoid it any longer. Every word from Strange, every unspoken suspicion, every piece of evidence pointed to a greater secret buried deep within your existence. A secret Wanda feared to uncover because it meant you weren’t solely hers.

But you were. You had to be.

The sound of boots echoing behind her broke her train of thought. Strange had moved closer, his gaze now a mix of curiosity and something heavier, almost sorrowful. He opened his mouth to speak, but Wanda raised her hand, a silent warning.

She wasn’t ready to listen.

Carefully, Wanda adjusted you in her arms and stepped back, keeping your presence as a shield between you and the world that seemed determined to unravel you. Her mind was a whirlwind of denial and fierce protection, but in her heart, a doubt grew like a shadow.

“What is she?” Wanda asked, her voice low and hoarse, almost a whisper swallowed by the vastness around her. She didn’t lift her gaze, fixing it on you in her arms as if the answer might lie in the softness of your breathing or the warmth of your skin.

The tears at the corners of her eyes glimmered under the magical light still hovering around, and even without meeting them directly, no one there could doubt what was happening: Wanda Maximoff, the most feared and powerful woman they had ever known, was fragile.

Stephen Strange saw it. He saw the vulnerability hidden in the witch’s careful gestures, in the trembling fingers brushing a strand of hair from your face. He saw the weight she bore, the duality of her strength and fragility.

Slowly, he straightened his posture, squaring his shoulders. The gravity of the moment demanded more than words; it required a delicacy he rarely needed to wield.

Stephen took a deep breath, adjusting his stance as every eye in the room turned to him. The silence was palpable, broken only by the distant sound of held breaths. Wanda continued to hold you in her arms, her gaze fixed on Strange, daring him to say something that could explain the impossible.

“There are stories, legends even, lost in the darkest corners of the Multiverse,” Stephen began, his voice firm but laden with reverent respect. “Stories of the Guardians Infinitum. They are not merely powerful beings. They are... embodied concepts, tied to the fabric of the Multiverse. Each of them belongs to a clan, and each clan is responsible for maintaining the fundamental balance of existence.”

Thor crossed his arms, his surprise evident. “Guardians of the Multiverse? I’ve not heard of them in Asgard.”

“You wouldn’t have,” Strange replied without breaking his gaze from Wanda. “They existed before Asgard, before Odin. Before even time had form.”

“And her?” Natasha asked skeptically, leaning forward. “Where does she fit into this?”

Strange hesitated, as if the words were difficult to articulate. “She... is a Solis. The rarest of all. The clan that represents the Sun, the primordial essence that fuels everything that exists. They don’t just create; they maintain the cycle of infinity. Pure cosmic energy, capable of shaping realities and undoing even the most absolute forces, like death.”

Tony let out an incredulous laugh, breaking the silence. “So, what you’re saying is she’s a walking cosmic battery? Fantastic. Just tell me she has a self-destruct button.”

“Shut up, Stark,” Wanda snapped, her voice sharp as a blade, but her gaze remained fixed on Strange.

Stephen ignored Tony and continued. “The Solis clan was... lost. Almost all of them were destroyed by Thanos. He feared them because they represented something he could never control: primordial energy, the force that keeps the Multiverse connected. But now...” He looked directly at you, still unconscious in Wanda’s arms. “She is the last. And that makes her a target.”

Thor frowned, his expression growing serious. “If the clan was lost, how is she here? How did she survive?”

“That’s what I need to find out,” Strange admitted. "Wanda?" He raised an eyebrow at Wanda, encouraging her to say something.

“Her parents. In every life, they were already gone, and Y/n was either raised by adoptive parents or in orphanages. In this life, she told me about a fire. It was massive, violent. She and the necklace were all that was left.”

Thor crossed his arms, gripping his hammer tightly as if feeling the weight of the story unraveling. “A fire that destroys everything... and spares only a child and an artifact? That doesn’t sound like a coincidence.”

“It isn’t,” Strange replied, his voice grave. He stepped into the center of the room, his cape softly flowing behind him. “The Solis were known to protect their descendants with extreme measures. Even in moments of annihilation, they created mechanisms to ensure their essence—their power—would never be entirely lost.”

Tony scoffed, breaking the silence with a cynical laugh. “Right, so we’re talking magical inheritance now? Some kind of cosmic insurance policy? Because, frankly, this sounds straight out of bad fiction.”

Natasha shot Tony a cold look but said nothing. Her focus remained on Wanda, who held you even closer as if fearing someone might snatch you away. Wanda seemed lost in thought, but her hands trembled slightly, betraying the storm inside her.

“It’s more than that,” Strange said, ignoring Tony’s comment. “The clans were masters of manipulating existence itself. It’s possible her parents channeled everything they had to protect her, sacrificing their own lives in the process. The necklace she carries... it’s not just a keepsake. It’s a link. An anchor for her power.”

Wanda finally looked up, her tears dried but her eyes still shimmering with conflicting emotions. “So, you’re saying this wasn’t an accident? That she survived because they wanted her to? For... what? What kind of life is that?”

Strange held her gaze for a moment before answering. “I don’t know if it was a choice or desperation. But what’s clear is that the fire wasn’t just an accident. Someone knew what she was. And they tried to erase her before she could realize her potential.”

The silence that followed was so heavy it seemed to fill the entire space. Thor appeared to be digesting the information, while Natasha watched Wanda’s every move, ready to intervene if necessary. Tony rubbed his temples, visibly uncomfortable but without a joke to lighten the mood.

Thor finally broke the silence, his deep voice resonating through the room. “And the necklace? Does it hold that power too?”

“Not exactly,” Strange said, stepping closer to Wanda. “The necklace is a channeler. It stabilizes her energy, prevents her from consuming herself. Without it...” He looked directly at Wanda, as if willing her to grasp the weight of his words. “Without it, her power would be chaotic. Unstable. And devastating.”

Unconsciously, Wanda pressed the necklace against you, as if Strange’s words had confirmed her worst fears. “She won’t lose it. No matter what.”

Strange nodded slowly, but there was something more in his expression, something he hesitated to say. Finally, he spoke, his voice lower. “Wanda... the necklace might also be the key to something much greater. Something not even the Guardians of Infinity could fully understand.”

Wanda’s gaze hardened. “What are you trying to say?”

Strange hesitated for a moment before responding. “I’m saying her power might not be complete yet. And Seline... the child... she has a destiny too. It’s not just the Solis bloodline running through her veins. It’s your magic as well. Chaos. A cycle within a cycle.”

Wanda didn’t respond. She simply held you closer, her eyes fixed on the emptiness ahead as if processing the weight of everything she had just heard. The room was tense, and even Tony was at a loss for words this time.

What no one noticed was that, in the corner, a small golden flame danced on the edge of the necklace, pulsing softly as if alive and listening to every word.

Standing abruptly, her breath uneven, Wanda tried to compose herself. “And what am I supposed to do, huh?”

“Leave her here,” Strange said plainly.

Wanda laughed, but there was no humor in her voice; it was sharp, dripping with irony and despair. The room fell silent as her magic began to thrum in the air, red energy crackling with intensity. Everyone held their breath, watching the witch who seemed on the verge of exploding.

“You think I’m going to leave her here? With you?” Wanda gestured, her voice filled with disdain and disbelief. “In another universe, surrounded by strangers who would never understand what she is? Who would never protect her like I would? You’re insane, Strange.”

Strange remained calm, but his expression was serious. “Wanda, I know you think you’re doing what’s best for her, but listen. Here, I can study her, help her channel her powers. If she’s as powerful as she seems, she’ll need control. Guidance.”

“She has control,” Wanda snapped, her anger boiling over in her words. “And I’m the only guidance she needs!”

“Wanda—” Strange tried to reason, but before he could continue, she raised her hand, and with a swift motion, flung him against the wall. The impact was loud, making the shelves tremble as books tumbled to the floor.

“Only I can protect her!” Wanda roared, her magic crackling around her, transforming the space into a storm of chaotic energy. Natasha stepped forward, ready to act, but hesitated when she noticed something.

It was your voice, so soft it was almost a whisper amid the chaos, that cut through the air like a blade. “Wanda? What happened?”

The room froze.

You were awake, your eyes blinking in confusion as you looked around, vulnerable and so small you seemed to shrink within the vastness of the unfamiliar space. “Why... is everyone yelling?” Your voice trembled, each word an effort.

Wanda turned to you instantly, her expression shifting from rage to something softer, almost broken. All the energy around her seemed to wither, as if your very presence was a balm to the storm inside her.

“You’re awake...” Wanda murmured, kneeling beside you. She pulled you close again, one hand gently stroking your head while the other clutched the necklace around your neck, shielding it from every gaze in the room.

Strange, still recovering from the attack, remained silent, watching. The golden flame on the pendant glowed more intensely, as if echoing Wanda's promise. But something in the light seemed different... something he knew Wanda hadn't yet noticed.

"Wanda, I..." You tried to speak, but your voice failed, and your hand found hers, squeezing it gently. "I'm scared."

The sound of your vulnerability seemed to break what little was left of Wanda. She closed her eyes, her tears returning silently. "I know," she whispered, her voice laden with desperate tenderness. "But you don’t need to be afraid. I’m here. And no one is going to take you away from me. Ever."

The silence that followed was tense, but Strange knew it was the right moment. He didn’t try to approach immediately. Instead, he stayed where he was, rubbing his sore neck while observing you and Wanda. His eyes fixed on the pendant, glowing softly, before meeting yours.

"You know what that is, don’t you?" he asked, his voice careful, almost hesitant. He didn’t want to scare you.

You looked at him, confused, then at the necklace around your neck. Your hands instinctively touched the pendant, its familiar warmth offering a sense of security. "It’s just... it’s just a necklace. It was my mother’s." Your voice was low, as if the words carried a weight you didn’t even know existed.

Strange frowned, not in disbelief, but with cautious curiosity. "Do you feel anything when you wear it? Something... different?"

You hesitated, your fingers still on the necklace. "I... I don’t know. Sometimes it feels alive, like it has a heartbeat of its own." You looked at Wanda, seeking comfort in her gaze. "But it’s just a necklace, right? Just a keepsake."

Strange took a step closer, slowly, as if approaching a frightened animal. "It’s not just a necklace. It’s an artifact from a clan that shouldn’t even exist anymore. The Solis Clan. And you... you’re proof that it still does."

Your eyebrows knitted in confusion. "What does that mean? What’s really happening?"

Strange took a deep breath, realizing he needed to be direct. "The Solis Clan was responsible for maintaining primordial energy, the force that connects everything in the Multiverse. They were powerful, but also dangerous. And for reasons no one fully understands, they were wiped out. Or at least, that’s what we thought."

Your eyes widened. "Wiped out? Why?"

He hesitated but continued. "Because the power they carried was too immense. So much so that it could destabilize everything—every life, every universe. The kind of power people fear because they can’t control it."

"So you think I’m like them?" Your voice trembled.

"You’re not like them," Strange corrected. "You are one of them. The last. Which means, somehow, you survived what destroyed your clan. And the necklace—it’s connected to that. It protects you. Or maybe, it protects the power inside you."

Your hands fell, your eyes wide in shock. "I don’t... I don’t want to be dangerous. I don’t even know what you’re talking about."

"I know it’s a lot to take in," Strange said, his voice gentler. "But you need to know. You need to understand what this means. Because, with or without your consent, that power is in you. And there are people out there—things out there—that will want to use it. Or destroy it."

You shook your head, tears streaming down your face. "No. I’m not that. I’m not a monster."

"You’re not a monster," Wanda intervened, her voice firm and laden with emotion. She cupped your face, forcing you to look at her. "You’re mine. And no one is going to hurt you. Not while I’m here."

Strange watched the scene, his expression a mix of understanding and concern. "Wanda," he began, but was cut off.

"Don’t say another word," Wanda snapped, her voice cold. "She’s scared enough already. Do you think explanations and theories will help? They won’t. She’s not an experiment for you, Stephen. She’s a person. And she’s staying with me."

You looked from Wanda to Strange, trying to process everything. His words echoed in your mind: power, danger, clan. But it was Wanda’s voice that seemed to anchor you, like a beacon in the storm.

"I just want to know who I am," you murmured, your voice barely audible.

And in that moment, Wanda realized that despite all her love and protection, perhaps you needed to hear more truths than she was willing to accept.

Hours later, Strange offered a room in the tower. Wanda hesitated; leaving you there, so vulnerable, in a place that wasn’t your home, felt wrong. But you were exhausted, your eyes barely able to stay open, and reluctantly, she agreed.

Now, Wanda stood before a mirror in the room, her face illuminated only by the soft glow of the moonlight. Her thoughts were a whirlwind. Solis. The word seemed to vibrate in the back of her mind, laden with meaning. Guardian of Infinity. Wanda had always known love was complicated, but this... this was a destiny she had never imagined.

If she had enemies before, she now had an army of threats.

The sound of the door opening pulled her from her thoughts. You entered, your hair still damp from the shower, wrapped in a fluffy white robe that seemed too big for your small frame. Seeing Wanda, you smiled shyly and approached. Without a word, you gently kissed her shoulder, a soothing gesture that made her tense shoulders relax slightly.

"Where are the boys?" you asked, your voice soft and concerned but clearly tired.

"With Agatha," Wanda replied, straightforwardly.

You raised your eyebrows, surprised. "Oh. So Professor Harkness… she—"

"Knows everything? Yes." The answer came quickly, but then Wanda’s voice softened, almost thoughtful. "She helped me at the beginning of all this. To understand my magic. She saw things in me that even I didn’t understand."

You were silent for a moment, absorbing the information, but you couldn’t hold back your next question. "And… and what happens now?"

Your voice came out short, almost breaking, as if the answer was something you were afraid to hear. Wanda turned to you, and this time her eyes were steady, full of certainty.

"Now, we’ll find a way. Because this is bigger than the two of us," she said, her voice filled with conviction.

Before you could ask what she meant, Wanda extended her hand and placed it gently on your belly. You froze, holding your breath.

"This is..."

"Seline," she murmured, a small but tender smile forming on her lips. "Yes, my love. She’s here. Our Seline."

Tears filled your eyes before you could stop them. Your whole life, all you had ever wanted was this: a family to love, protect, and call your own. Now, against all odds, it was happening.

Wanda wiped away a tear that rolled down your cheek and held your face in her hands. "I know it feels impossible. I know it’s a lot. But you’re not alone. We’ll do this together."

You smiled through the tears, your hand covering hers. "No matter what happens, Wanda. I’ll protect them. I promise."

Wanda’s eyes softened, but there was a fire in them—a resolute determination. She leaned in and kissed you, gentle but with an intensity that said everything words couldn’t express.

Outside, the world was on the brink of a storm. But there, in that room, under the moonlight, there was a sliver of peace. It wasn’t just chaos—it was creation emerging from it. And both of you knew, with all certainty, that you would do whatever it took to protect this new life—this family you were building.

It was a blessing. It was a miracle. It was only the beginning.

The entirety of your life had felt adrift, rootless, homeless. The world seemed vast, empty, an infinite expanse where you were but a forgotten particle. But now, as you looked at Wanda—your light, your strength, your reason—and felt the warmth of the silent promise between you, something shifted within you.

That emptiness was filled. Not with magic, but with love. A love that pulsed in the walls of that house, in the laughter of the children you called your own, in the knowing glances exchanged in the quiet of the night. A love that turned chaos into purpose and destiny into a shared choice.

You had never understood what it meant to belong until this moment. Until you felt the weight of a mutual promise, of a future you would build together, of a family that was as imperfect as it was unbreakable. The infinite, which had always seemed so cold and distant, was now warm, embracing—and it was yours.

You looked at Wanda, at the soft curve of her smile, the strength she radiated. There lay the answer you had always sought. It wasn’t about being the Guardian of Infinity. It wasn’t about the powers you possessed or the battles you had fought. It was about the love that finally anchored you. With Wanda by your side, with Tommy and Billy in your life, with Seline growing within you, you felt alive for the first time. Not a life that chose you, but one you had chosen for yourself.

You were whole. Not because you had found a destiny, but because you had created a home. And that night, as the moonlight bathed the two of you in a silvery glow, you knew you would shine. Not just as the Guardian. Not just as a survivor. But as someone who had finally learned what it meant to be loved.

It was enough to realize that this thing called infinity had always been inside you. And now, it was brimming with love.

~*~

Tag list <3

I'm crying with a piece of bread in my mouth u.u

So good to see R building a safe home, and that's what I wish to for all of us.

@vyvvycg @rosekjsses @3liyuh @trindad2k

@indentity0018 @beggingonmykneesforher

@idkwhatever580

@reginassecretlover @trying-to-do-good

@imjustvibingsworld @mbxoxo @jazzyxqzl @eternallyconfuzed @ctrlaltedits @sheriffhaughtearp

@lesbiansweet @i-luv-w1men @htinha157 @syssmin @wandasslut3000 @fuzzygiantlamphorse @imaginaryblogger01

[moonlitrogue]

Channeled love note ~ from a special source of love + Ask Game ↓

Dear beloved, seeker of romance. Yes, that timeless, luminous, beautifully ridiculous thing. It arrives with meaning, knocking at your door to deliver a message from someone who's keeping you close in their heart. So reach within, let the soft glow of love, pink and unimposing, flow from your heart all the way to your head and toes. Do you feel it yet? Now let's take a breath and exhale slowly through the mouth. It helps to close your eyes when you do this. Take your time. When you feel centered and the pink light glows soft and steady, choose a picture you're drawn to, below. You'll find a corresponding letter, from a special source of love in your life. They could be present in your current life - a partner, a lover... or maybe you'll meet them in a different place in time? Love is a great adventure afterall.

Let me know how your pile made you feel!

Scroll to the bottom for the ask game details

pile 1 → 2 → 3

Letter #1

How did I not fall for you at first sight? It is true, with time and familiarity, I've peeled back the layers you've cloaked yourself with. The more time goes by, the more I fall in love with your details. I'm glad we're past our early days. You loved to challenge and I loved a challenge. You were so flighty and mysterious, but you could never resist expressing yourself. You were so defiant and sharp, slicing and moulding the frontiers of my mind. I guess we can call it a form of intellectual courtship? Even in our ego clashes, we were so compatible! As much as you loved unraveling my mind and giving me sleepless nights (mostly your words... fine your voice... and your eyes?), it was also what drew us closer. Our differences were vast, our edges and history shaped by the forces of life. I like the grit and raw beauty of your soul. You leaned into my story, like moonlight falling on water, illuminating the spaces, no. Beautifying those parts of myself I was so afraid to show you. How did you manage to unravel me like so? When our voices softened to understanding, like we recognized somehow a bridge had formed with the conversations we threw like stones. Tentative and wary, we made our way across, meeting in the middle. We were like puzzle pieces, coming together. Our contrasting outlines falling into place, from which a picture of our love emerged. Now, this love that feels so natural, like an alternative possibility, of a life where you didn't exist just seems absurd to me. I want to say I love you, but this feels like more. What's more than love?

Loving you is as innate and necessary as breathing, and I know it sounds hella cheesy, but - loving you is paradoxical. I think even my breath spells your name but you make me breathless. Did you eat well? Food is food, other things are other things - not sustenance (you are mine). So eat well and rest well. I'll always be finnicky and fussing over you. Am I annoying? Good. It's payback for how annoying you are, with your annoying wit and annoying beauty. Can't have a moment's peace with that bright mind of yours. Come, torment me some more.

Letter #2 :

There are few things I'm certain of and on top of that list is how I'll love you, through our ever evolving ways. Maybe the days of our youth will pass by like this. Questioning the world and the feeling of uncertainty beating in our hearts. And I may even be reckless to think this but what do they matter? When all's said and done, only love is left in this world. Let me master you, let me learn about you the way the earth knows the roots that press deep into it. How do your days and nights sit on your shoulder, the dreams you carry beneath your ribs. The taste of your quiet, the weight of your want. Let me press kisses against the places you think I cannot, should not see, let me love you there too.

Does your chest tremble like mine does, when you say my name? Soft, sometimes teasing; always like it belongs to you.

I'll let you hold my joys, and you need not fear them slipping by. Not when my joy is you. And let me hold your sadness, for they're mine too.

I don't blame you for fearing that love is fleeting. I'm afraid of it too. No, let me show you that the world is wrong to ask that of you. It is not to be earned or bargained for, and let me be the proof that it's not. Yet, I will savour falling on my knees for you. Like the sun meets the horizon, I'll be patient to be let in when you need it the most. Sink into me. I'll hold your sorrows and joys. The way love carries us even when we do not know how to ask for it. For beyond the first desire, beyond the first moments of our passion and meeting, I find myself still consumed by you. The world will take and time will take too, only love remains. And if love is all that remains when the world is done with us, I'll give mine to you until nothing of me remains untouched by the knowing of you.

Letter #3 :

I need to be honest with you. The times we spend together, long days, longer evenings. Hearts spent and happy when we get home. Can't I get some more of you? I swing between humility and arrogance. All I ever want is to exist beside you, quietly. Dare I impose this upon you? It's ridiculous really. I'll just be sitting there minding my own business and suddenly, I'll think of you and feel this overwhelming rush of warmth in my chest. Your voice in the morning, when you kiss me goodbye, like the softness of the morning sun, slipping through my fingers.

You're my accomplice, in all things ridiculous and real. I can't believe you're stuck with me. Because I will be right here, with you. In every way a person can be, through every terrible day, through every ordinary Tuesday.

I will be here to hear your grumpy and tired sighs, when you're really hangry but you decide it's the perfect time to develop really strong feelings for that thing that doesn't really matter. And you forget it the next day. It's so cute that you're often torn between the meadow's hush and a neon-lit club, because as the end of the night rolls in ... we forget where we are.

Our shadows move in a drunken haze. The breeze becomes a poet. And your hand in mine is a song I hum forever. These moments I take in carefully. When I'm alone, in my mind, I trace your face and the sound of your voice. Us keeping each other humble. I'll never let you know how crazy I am about you. Do you still not know it yet? Is that why you let me hold you a little longer? I know you watch me and know me, learning my habits and the way I speak by heart. (And my voice definitely doesn't sound like that, but you do you.)

So, here we are, picking each others' habits. Like the way you eat fruit or place your feet up on the chair like that or chew on the poor, poor chewable objects. You're so clever, you are. I can never be subtle with you, you break the damn doors when I sulk. And it makes me smile and bite my lips, really it does. You know it when I'm too stubborn to ask for help, because you do that too, you know? And when I make a fool of myself, who's going to roll their eyes and make fun of me before I'm told, "I knew this was going to happen." You're so helpful like that. How lucky I am that our paths crossed. That I have the honour of loving you and sharing this life with you.

💌 ASK GAME : LOVE NOTE DELIVERY

• each emoji stands for a different source of love in your life. pick an emoji you're drawn to :

🍊 | X | 🥂 | 🐢 | 🥃 | 🌺 | X | 🎠 | 🦋 | 🐞

• comment the chosen emoji + a word in your native tongue or foreign language that you find beautiful.

• a corresponding note for the emoji will be shared (in the form of a short channeled message for you)

• open for the first 15 slots

Hope you enjoyed the reading ! 💕

[gladiatorcunt]

Hi! Can I request a scenario or one shot (whichever you prefer) with Anakin loving to touch/grab Y/N’s butt?

Hi, and yes you can <3

Anakin Skywalker is an ass man through and through. Before you had taken the plunge and taken your friendship to the next level, you could practically feel his eyes burning holes into your ass. No matter how far you were standing away from him, he'd always find himself devoting every ounce of his attention to what he's honestly convinced is a gift from a higher power.

You were only shocked the first time, but it was a bit silly in hindsight when you realized just how "close" Anakin liked to be with you. He drags his eyes and hands all over your body no matter your relationship, he's just a very physical person with the one he loves. (Though you don't let yourself think about in what way until it's too late.)

He immediately grabbed two big handfuls of your ass when you had your first kiss. It's like he was spending just as much time and effort groping the fat globes as he was sucking the soul out of your tongue.

Smacking your ass is how he starts his day and giving each cheek a rough but loving squeeze is how he ends it. His default sleeping/cuddling position is your leg thrown over his torso and him keeping you there with a firm hand on your ass. His grip is so tight that you can't even roll over if it starts to get uncomfortable.

Sometimes he prefers to laze around in bed and marvel at the sight of your plump flesh in the inescapable hold of his prosthetic arm. The glint of the metal bouncing off the shimmer of your skin. He'd rather lose his other arm than hurt you, but he does enjoy pinching and prodding at your ass cheeks until there are hoards of red welts and finger shaped bruises.

He'll nuzzle when he's giving you aftercare and cleaning you up, paying extra special attention to the area. You wonder if he drags it out so long just so he'd have an excuse to paw at it, but he does that regardless of the situation, time, or place.

You're embarrassed to recall the instances where in the beginning, when you were nothing more than "very good" friends, you would spend hours debating with your handmaids over which dress made your butt look better. Which one would drive him to the point of no return, and which one would coax the drool to flow from his maw like a river of milk and honey. You used to wait until you knew he was already looking (he always was) so you could coyly drop something and bend over right in his face to pick it up.

You still do it; Anakin has come to anticipate it in every waking moment. He has to smother his hungry smile under his palms, or you'll lose the nerve.

His obsession's most tender form shows itself when he returns to their chambers after a harrowing mission or a grueling meeting with the council.

The doors slide open to reveal your tired husband, his body and soul no doubt needing to be mended in your arms. So you let him envelop you with his entire being, you allow his weight to make you sink further into the bed until you're pinned. Whether he wants to rut against you or just lie on top of you for the rest of his days and past them to the death of the universe, you are ready to receive him.

He simply shimmies his way down your back today and rests his weary head on the swell of your ass. Your boy king of the stars lets his glittering cloak of unfathomable responsibilities crumble to dust over your soft jiggling skin. Ani skirts the tip of his nose along your ass crack like he's giving it a nose kiss in greeting. He flattens his tongue and drags it up and down through whatever enticing garment you're donning, getting it and you soaked in seconds flat.

"Missed you, angel."

He is not talking to you.

faetreides 2024

[lostintransist]

It Had Been Love

Companion story to It Was Almost Love | AO3 for It Was Almost | AO3 for It Had Been

@frostynight0265 I hope I did this story justice for you. CW: Reader is dead, Simon dies off screen, John Price grieves. I make it somewhat better by the end.

Price knew Simon had passed the same way he knew you had disappeared from this plane; the weight of an unseen hand on his shoulder.

Trapped behind his desk, he hadn’t noted the date. Buried alive in bureaucracy, calling his former lieutenant hadn’t crossed his mind. He should have. Maybe Simon would have outlived midnight of your death anniversary. Too late. How many times had he been too late to save a soldier?

The cloak of distance always came with the hand of fate on his shoulder. The shift in the air, the tightness that encased his chest, they told him someone had gone.

A date seared into his neurons blinked at him from the watch face that remained set to London time. Tucking his face into his hands, John wept.

When his tears had dried, the salt leaving tracks on his cheeks, John called for a welfare check on a veteran under the name of Simon Johnson.

Simon didn’t want to keep his father’s name when he retired. Man had looked at John from the weakly inclined position in a hospital bed back on home soil and told him.

“Call me Simon Johnson. You were a better father than my old man ever attempted to be.”

John had pulled him into a hug then; touched beyond reason and treasured the gift.

Simon woke to a warm, wet, long tongue slathering him in kisses. Bringing both hands up to block more unwanted attention, he brushed fur.

Fur?

The only creature that loved him like this with fur had been Riley.

Snapping his eyes open, he found Riley.

That dog had died, retired, fat, and happy years ago.

The people who took Riley in had sent him a paw and nose print as well as a few photos and some ashes after the good boy had passed.

Riley settled, pressed against his ribs, nose following the junction of Simon’s shoulder.

Memories returned slowly. Losing his leg, losing the only thing that gave his life meaning, missing you. He finally remembered the last few moments and he sighed.

His chest didn’t ache anymore. His back didn’t scream at him for laying flat, nor did his ankle ache. The leg the bomb had taken from him had been the same as yours. He thought of it as fate.

Craning his head up, he found two legs, knees, ankles, and feet. His brows tucked close together.

Glancing at Riley he commented aloud.

“Well, that is a bit unexpected.”

Riley licked him again.

“They spoiled you bad at your hospice home, huh?”

Simon sat up. Wiping the slobber from his face with one hand, he settled the other in Riley’s scruff. He wore a comfortable henley, black of course, a pair of dark wash jeans, and his favorite pair of boots that had fallen apart nearly fifteen years back. The local cobbler had been shocked to hear how long they had served. No mask covered his face. He found all his scars in place as he ran his searching fingers over his skin.

“Well Riley, where the hell are we?”

The old man of a dog moved like he was two again, bounding up to his paws. Riley nosed at Simon’s arm, encouraging his friend. Sitting up, he took in the one-room cottage. A small table and a cheery blaze spoke to a kitchen to his left. To his right, he found a large bed. The covers were turned down like someone had expected him. The wall next to the bed had been shaped out to be a bookshelf. They overflowed with familiar-looking spines. A rocking chair sat next to the shelves, inviting him in. At the end of the bed, a deep chest blocked any cool air that would have flowed from the door. Simon assumed this door led to outside.

Standing from the worn stone floor was easier than Simon had ever experienced. Even childhood had been riddled with aches and pains from the hurting hands of his father. Stretching experimentally, his hands brushed the beams.

“I wonder if these could hold me,” he muttered as his hands settled to either side of the thick wood.

Lifting himself until his shoulder prevented any more height, the wood remained silent. Dropping to the floor Simon noticed that his knees didn’t creak with the motion.

“Huh. Death is a lot more well-built than I expected.”

Riley barked and spun in a circle once.

“Alright boy, you’ve been here longer. Let’s go and explore.” Simon smiled at his dog. He couldn’t find a word that held the strength of his feelings for this reunion.

The exterior of the storybook cottage exceeded his expectations. Riley took off at a full sprint. A clearing ringed in flowers and towering trees welcomed him to walk wherever he may wander. Riley circled the house three times before coming to trot at Simon’s side as they explored each bit of the unexpected treasure. Simon found a small garden, unfamiliar plants pushing their heads through the soil.

Time moved like it had before death, but more kindly. The weather shifted with the sun but earth-shaking storms or scorching heatwaves never appeared. When Simon longed for a day to sit by the fire and listen to the rain patter against the thatched roof, the afterlife obliged.

A full set of seasons spiraled before something changed. With each new season, he would open the cabinet where his clothes lived and find appropriate options for the weather. When the snow got parted around his thighs it even provided coats for Riley.

Each morning Simon rose he stretched a bit taller and breathed a bit deeper. Tending to the garden he ate from for pleasure and not for sustenance became one of his favorite ways to pass the time. Walking with Riley in the woods surrounding the small clearing he saw birds and bucks and all manner of animals trailing through the underbrush.

He could feel himself healing.

When winter arrived that first time he did not need to pace the small space like a caged animal. Contentment had never been something he achieved in life.

Spring rose with the pushing up of snowdrops. As the snow melted away a path revealed itself. Clear cut from the trees and bushes the trodden path beckoned him forward, into parts unknown.

He ignored it for a season.

The urge to wander grew, the soles of his feet treading closer each time he explored the woods.

Simon would have ignored the pull indefinitely. Riley had other plans.

The normally well-trained dog alerted at the edge of the path. Body rigid, fur quivering, and attention riveted to Simon. Once he noticed that his dog needed attention, Simon watched in horrified confusion as Riley took off.

Chasing a dog is never fun.

Running after a military-trained bomb dog while fighting back the overwhelming need to vomit due to spiking anxieties? Particularly worse.

They ran for several minutes. Simon never fully lost sight of Riley until a sharp curve to the left.

A shout and laughter had him laying on even more speed.

Skidding to a stop Simon saw an impossible sight.

You, who he had learned to love in your absence, pinned under his dog. You ran your hands all over Riley with cooing words of him being such a good dog, and what a big boy. Riley soaked it up as if Simon did not love on him daily.

A short whistle from Simon had Riley jumping up and settling at his heel.

The words tangled on his tongue. God, the things he wanted to tell you. He wanted to yell and weep and tackle you down like Riley had.

“Long time no see. How you doing, Simon?” You sat up, eyes finding his even in the distance.

“Well…I’m dead,” he lifted and dropped one shoulder.

Your laugh damn near sparkled. Standing, you brushed off any dirt clinging to the seat of your pants.

“Happens to the worst of us.”

Simon laughed. Fully belly laughs that launched sound far and wide. The grin that split your face was worth dying to see.

Masterlist

[apoloadonisandnarcissus]

Megathread: All Clues concerning “Elrond = Sauron” in “Adar meeting/Kiss scene” (2x07) - Part I

Fellow fans and I have discussed this theory several times, and in many posts, but I think it’s time to create the ultimate megathread, with all the clues, about it. 

And brace yourselves: this is a long read. The amount of evidence is mindblowing and so extensive I had to make two posts about it: Part II.

I) Visual clues:

1) The Touch ™

Let’s start with the obvious one:

This might parallel Sauron’s proposal to Galadriel in 1x08 (and even Galadriel’s reaction is somewhat similar in both scenes):

In 2x08, there’s also a callback to his previous offer (in Season 1 finale): I would have placed a crown upon your head. I would never have rested until all Middle-earth had been brought to its knees, to worship the light of its Queen.

In 2x07, there is an actual callback to Sauron’s offer in 1x08; when Galadriel reveals to Celebrimbor that she did wanted to accept Sauron’s offer (to be his queen):

2) Elrond's Inexplicable Glow Up

When Elrond arrives at Eregion, leading the Elven army, his face is soiled with dirt and mud. However, in the tent with Adar, he’s all cleaned up, with a fresh face, and pristine clean and polished armour and cloak, and flowing hair.

You have the beauty of your foremother, Melian of the Valar. If even a fragment of her wisdom is in your veins, you must know you cannot defeat me in battle. Adar can't see a pretty boy without gushing over him, 2x07

Why is this mention of Melian odd in this context? Melian was the Maia who fell in love with an Elf, Thingol, and birthed Lúthien, the Half-Maia, Half-Elf lady who married Beren, a human (and these two are Elrond’s ancestors). Maiar falling in love with Elves? Does this ring any bells?

Adar compares Elrond’s looks to one of the Maiar, angelic beauty (that Elrond, in spite of having Half-Half-Half-Maia blood, cannot truly have, no matter how attractive he is). And this isn't the first time in Season 2, that Adar talks about Maiar beauty, either:

And after what seemed endless thirst and hunger... I saw it. His servant's face. Sauron's face. And it was beautiful. Adar talks to Halbrand/Sauron, 2x01

There is also a lot of fire (red) on this scene; especially over Elrond himself: the ones who read my post about Sauron's color code in "Rings of Power" already know that red is the color used to signal Sauron's deceptions.

3) The Mystery of the Two Pins 

Hercule Poirot has entered the chat because the pin Elrond usually wears isn’t (1) the same as the one he has on in the scene with Adar, nor (2) the one he gives Galadriel: these are two different pins.  

Elrond’s pin is square-shaped and fits the circle; and the metal is mate. The one he used on the tent scene with Adar is diamond-shape and shiny (like Galadriel’s), and it’s placed on top of the circle (and not inside). 

3) Passing plot-device objects in an intimate manner is kind of their thing

4) The Two Saurons in Prince Durin’s speech

This is actually my favorite clue, and it’s used in mystery/thriller genre.

When Prince Durin is giving a speech to the Dwarves of Khazad-dûm to get them to fight for Eregion alongside the Elves, he mentions Sauron on two occasions. And what’s the footage on screen?

Sauron with Celebrimbor at Eregion (predictable):

But then, we have this: Elrond leaving the Orc camp after his meeting with Adar. Odd...

After we see him leave Orc camp, Elrond's next scene in 2x07 is him in full battle. Which might indicate that the battle didn't stop for Adar's meeting with Elrond... for some reason. 

4) Bear McCreary (OST)

“Elrond’s theme” is not present in the “Kiss OST”, which is strange, because when two characters kiss, usually their themes are mixed together. Yet, in 2x07, we only hear “Galadriel’s theme”.  

"Battle for Eregion": 4:27 - 5:20 (Kiss OST)

"Last Temptation": 6:27 - 6:55 (Rendition of Kiss OST with Sauron's theme on the background | this bit was edited and cut from 2x08, for some reason)

II) Autopsy of a Scene 

In this scene, we, the audience, see Elrond acting completely out of character. “Rings of Power” has established him as diplomatic character, a politician, and even Adar himself tells us this: "You are a courtier. More suited to wielding a scroll than a sword."

We do see (the real) Elrond growing into his “warrior” role in this episode, however, we still witness a certain vulnerability and unsureness to him during his scenes at the Battle of Eregion, because he’s starting his warrior arc, and we see him suffering with the loss of his kin, and his anguish and heartbreak over Durin not coming to help.  

We don’t see this in this scene, at all. It’s a completely different vibe. Here, his body language and attitude it’s like he owns the room. Even when Adar is a bit uncertain, "Elrond” is commanding and bold. Sure, he knows that Durin will come to help, but Adar’s legions are still massive (and the Dwarves only manage to control the situation in 2x08 because the Orc army is shattered and their leader is having a religious experience at the top of the hill).

Let's dig in:

"Your kin"!?

"Not before you have painted the sands of the Glanduin black with the blood of your kin."

Nevermind the threat, Elrond calls the Orcs Adar’s “kin”. Why is this odd? Perhaps we should recall Galadriel’s chat with Adar back in Season 1, to understand how the Elves truly see the Orcs:  

Adar: My children have no master. Galadriel: They are not children, they are slaves. Adar: But each one has a name. A heart. A heart. Galadriel: A heart created by Morgoth. Adar: We are creations of The One, Master of the Secret Fire, the same as you. As worthy of the breath of life, and just as worthy of a home. Soon... This land will be ours. Then, you will understand. Galadriel: No. Your kind was a mistake. Made in mockery. Adar reveals to Galadriel that he killed Sauron, 1x06

Galadriel calls the Orcs "slaves" and "your kind" because their existence is a mockery to the Elves themselves. Morgoth breed them as a corruption to Eru (Ilúvatar)’s creation (the Elves are called the “Children of Ilúvatar”). Meaning: no Elf alive would ever acknowledge the Orcs as “children” out of nowhere (let alone Elrond who’s meeting Adar for the first time, but apparently can read him so well like he has known him for ages).

The previous scene to Elrond’s arrival at Eregion, there's a lot of weight on Sauron’s blood being black, too: If you do not believe me, cut him open. Look at his hand, look at his blood. Black as pitch" as Celebrimbor describes it. We also see Sauron perform an illusion for his blood to appear red.  

Adar: My children have endured cruelties your bravest couldn't bear to hear spoken aloud. Elrond: "Are you prepared to spend their lives so freely, Adar? Are they?"

Why does Elrond keeps acknowledging the Orcs as "Adar's “children" or “kin”? He’s the enemy, and there is no agreement or diplomacy happening in this scene, because Elrond has been antagonizing Adar even since he set foot on that tent. There is no reason for Elrond to talk like this... unless he’s not Elrond, at all.

Because, in 2x01, we saw another character speaking in such a way: 

There is one. Since Galadriel's defeat, she sought out a new ally. An ancient sorcerer, to instruct the Elves in forging a new weapon. One you first told her about. A power over flesh. Do you remember those words? A power that will allow him to use your children as slaves in his army once more. Sauron/Halbrand "plants the seeds" of the Battle of Eregion in Adar's mind, 2x01

And this is the moment when Adar realizes that Halbrand is, in fact, Sauron, and later has Galadriel confirm his suspicion. It’s the mention of “his children” (Orcs) that triggers the recognition between them. Maybe, because: "Do you want to know what he [Sauron] offered me? [...] Children." He tells Galadriel, in 2x06.

The “idea” of the Orcs came from Morgoth, and Sauron was the one who used Dark magic to see it through. And, perhaps, that "magical imprint" creates a recognition between them, because, like Charlie Vickers said, Adar and Sauron share a deep and mystical connection.

Why is all of this relevant? Because after “Elrond” calls him “Adar” (“Father of the Orcs”), there is a switch on Adar’s whole demeanor, and we can even see him looking deeper into Elrond’s eyes, as if he was suspecting him not to be actually be Elrond. And we can see this in Adar’s body language:

Vorohil: The enemy outnumber us ten to one. So why the confidence? Elrond: Because I know something the Father of the Orcs does not. Vorohil: And what is that? Elrond: Even now Prince Durin is rallying a legion of Dwarves to our aid. And at the first rays of sunlight... you will guide them straight into Adar's flank [...] Ride to them now. Meantime, I will ensure that Eregion's walls hold for one more night.

Elrond continues to call Adar the “father of the Orcs” after he leaves the tent for some reason (force of habit?).

But it has to be noticed that Vorohil himself is puzzled by Elrond’s confidence and boldness. And why is Elrond sending him away, exactly? It’s not like Durin and the Dwarves need an escort to get to Eregion, we know they have been there before, in 2x03. Or is he sending him away for him not to tell anyone about this meeting with Adar? 

It's also worth mentioning that another character is also "ensuring that Eregion's walls hold for one more night":

Sauron: Lord Celebrimbor refuses to permit a counter-attack. He says the river will protect us [...] And that is why we're not going to obey him. Gather your finest troops. I am taking command of our defenses.

And how would Sauron know that the Dwarves are coming to help Eregion? Because King Durin III has one of the Seven rings of power, connected to Sauron himself. Which means that Sauron has a direct streaming service into Khazad-dûm, and is aware of everything that happens there. More; King Durin (by the power of his ring) doesn’t allow the Dwarves to help Eregion. Which means, the Elven army will be defeated (just like Sauron wants).

Planting the seeds of discord 

The diplomacy isn’t in the room with us, because we, the audience, don’t see Elrond trying to reason or deal with Adar in any way, shape of form. Instead, Elrond taunts him with doing Sauron’s biding and sacrificing the Orcs’ lives, while going full warmongering on Adar. 

Adar: Sauron is my enemy as much as yours. Give me what I need to defeat him and let us all be rid of him. Elrond: Is it not you that has done his bidding by laying siege to Eregion? Adar: Eregion has fallen into shadow. It belongs to the Deceiver now, as does every Elf within its walls.

What an odd thing for Elrond to say... How does he knows that Adar is doing “Sauron’s biding”? Has he earned his “gift of foresight” already? Without his ring of power? 

Elrond: Are you prepared to spend their [Orcs] lives so freely, Adar? Are they? Adar: The Ring for Galadriel's life. What is it to be? Elrond: Ask me on the field, when the neck with a blade against it is yours.

In this scene, "Elrond” is taking advantage of the Orcs’ dissatisfaction with Adar to create even more conflict between the “father” and his “children”. And the camera lingers on Glûg after “Elrond” says this: who was the first to betray Adar for Sauron, and stroke the first blow to kill him, in 2x08?  

Why is Elrond using tactics from Sauron’s playbook of manipulation and deception in this scene, exactly? Because, here, he’s “planting the seeds” of everything Sauron wants: the Battle of Eregion proceeding (as planned), the Orcs betraying Adar, and giving Galadriel a means to escape (which appears to be the only reason why Elrond is there, in the first place).

Houdini Elrond 

Elrond removes the pin in front of the Orcs and not one sees or says a thing about it. Glûg might have seen it (as I’ve read some fans saying), but Galadriel breaking free wasn’t going to stop the battle, so there was no point in him allowing it; and Galadriel killed several Orcs during her escape, so it kinds of contradicts the theory that Glûg  “let it slide” because he was upset with Adar. 

However, the Orcs being blind it’s one thing, but Elrond boldly faces Adar without his pin. Are you telling me that this corrupted Elf, with thousands of years old (older than Galadriel herself), doesn’t notice that Elrond’s pin is missing and that he took it off? 

What kind of sorcery is this!? Is almost like... magic.

"Forgive me"??

Why is Elrond asking for Galadriel’s forgiveness in this scene, exactly? It can’t be because he’s allowing her to stay as Adar’s prisoner, because he’s giving her a means to escape. And he looks very emotional for it to just be a trick to fool Adar. 

Also, Elrond being there in the first place is a contradiction to the promise he made Galadriel, in 2x04: 

Galadriel: Promise me, Elrond, you will put opposing Sauron above all other considerations. Even my life.   Elrond: I will make no promise whose asking is borne of that Ring. But I swear to you... defeating Sauron will come first. Even before you.

Is he apologizing because he broke his promise? Or because he’s about to kiss her (as I’ve read some saying)? All of these justifications seem kind of weak.

There’s another character who has a lot to apologize for, and who already had a similar to parallel this one, back in 1x05:

[whimsicalnightfairy]

Chapter One: Something In The Water

(The Quiet Between Worlds series)

Summary: Seventeen years after her mysterious arrival in the Night Court’s mountains, Astra hears a calling in the stream outside her cottage—an ancient magic stirring for the first time in centuries. Raised by the witch Seraphine, Astra begins to unravel the truth about her past, her powers, and the name that was never hers to forget. Meanwhile, deep in Hybern, the Cauldron awakens. It whispers of the fourth Archeron, long thought lost. The wall between realms cannot fall without her. And now that Astra is stirring… so is war.

The stream sang to her that morning.

It wasn’t unusual for the mountain spring to babble, but today… the song was different. Softer. Sadder. Like it remembered something Astra had long forgotten.

She crouched at the edge, dipping her fingers into the icy water. The sun hadn’t yet risen above the jagged peaks of the Night Court’s outer mountains, and mist clung to the moss-covered stones like breath held too long. Wildflowers bowed in silence. Even the wind seemed to hush.

Astra leaned closer.

Her reflection shimmered on the surface—golden-brown hair tangled from sleep, pale skin kissed with moonlight, blue-gray eyes rimmed with shadows. The same eyes she saw in dreams she couldn’t explain. Dreams that didn’t feel like dreams at all. They came like memories in disguise—flashes of firelight, a woman’s scream, blood on marble, the high, chilling cry of a newborn.

Her cry.

She looked away. It was too much. It always was.

Then—stillness.

The stream, which had murmured gently against the stones every morning of her life, stopped flowing.

Astra blinked, frowning. She dipped her fingers back in, but the water had gone still and cold as glass. Her breath caught. Magic pressed against her skin like a pulse beneath the earth—quiet but unrelenting. Alive.

The air shifted.

Behind her, the wooden door creaked open. “You felt it,” Seraphine rasped.

It wasn’t a question.

Astra turned slowly. The old witch stood in the threshold of their crooked little cottage, a threadbare cloak hanging off her shoulders. Her gray hair was twisted in a loose braid over one shoulder, her gnarled fingers wrapped around a mug of steaming tea.

Astra nodded. “Something… changed.”

Seraphine stepped forward. Her gaze swept the stream, the trees, the mountains around them. “The Cauldron stirred.”

Astra blinked. “The Cauldron? That’s just an old fae tale.”

Seraphine’s eyes sharpened. “You think me a collector of tales, girl?”

Astra didn’t respond.

The witch knelt at the edge of the water. “Magic this old doesn’t move without reason. Something has awoken.” She dipped one finger into the water. The stillness broke—slow ripples spilled outward.

“You felt it in your blood,” Seraphine murmured.

“I don’t know what I felt,” Astra said. “It was like… something calling. Like someone saying my name—but not with words.”

Seraphine’s eyes snapped to her. “You heard your name?”

Astra hesitated. “Not mine.”

Seraphine rose, the steam from her cup swirling around her like smoke. “There are truths you were never told. Things I buried because they were too dangerous to dig up.”

The words hung heavy in the morning air.

“I found you seventeen years ago,” the witch said. “In a basket woven with enchantments, on the edge of the wildwood. Barely alive. A newborn girl wrapped in silken cloth torn and bloodied.”

Astra went still.

Seraphine’s voice dropped lower. “A charm was stitched into the blanket. Old magic. Meant to erase your scent, cloak your power. But not from me. Not from the mountain.”

“Why?” Astra asked, throat dry. “Why would someone leave me?”

“You weren’t left,” Seraphine said. “You were taken.”

Astra’s breath hitched.

“The one who brought you here died before I could stop her. She thought to raise you, shape you into something else. But fate had other plans.” Seraphine exhaled. “So I did what I could. I kept you safe. I taught you to control the whispers in your blood. I gave you a life that wasn’t yours to begin with.”

Astra looked down at her hands. Hands that had lit candles without flame. That had healed broken roots with a single word. That had once made the stars tremble when she screamed in her sleep.

“You’re not just anyone, Astra,” Seraphine said. “You are the daughter of magic itself. Born of ancient blood. A key that was hidden.”

Astra’s eyes snapped up. “A key?”

Seraphine nodded once. “You are the fourth Archeron.”

The name hit her like a gale.

“I thought there were three,” she whispered.

“So did the world,” Seraphine said. “But you were taken the night you were born. Hidden to protect—or to prevent.”

Silence stretched.

“Something is pulling you back to who you were,” the witch murmured. “The Cauldron has stirred. And it knows your name.”

The Inner Circle - Velaris

Across the mountains, far from the quiet of the cottage and the mountain stream, the quiet of the Night Court was disturbed by a shift—a pulse of power felt only by those who were attuned to magic’s depths.

In the House of Wind, Feyre paused, her head snapping up as the distant hum of magic filled the air. Her lips parted slightly, as if tasting the wind for something elusive. It was subtle, but it wasn’t the usual sense of magic in Velaris—the magic of life, of growth, or the hum of peace that suffused their city. No, this was different. Older. Darker.

“Did you feel that?” she asked, her voice soft, but heavy with something unnamed.

Rhysand, standing by the large window overlooking the city, didn’t look away from the view, but his jaw tightened. “I did.”

Cassian, always perceptive, turned from the map on the table. “What is it?” His eyes narrowed, a flicker of suspicion crossing his face.

Azriel, sitting in the far corner, had already risen from his seat, his shadows stirring in restless response. “It’s not a normal pulse,” he muttered. “It’s… ancient.”

Feyre felt it in her bones. She wanted to say something, but the words eluded her. “What is it? Where is it coming from?”

Rhysand’s eyes narrowed, and his expression grew more serious. “It’s too far for us to feel it this intensely, but it’s coming from the north. The outskirts of the Night Court.”

“And it’s not just the Cauldron stirring,” Azriel added quietly. “It’s something else. Something… old. Something that has been waiting.”

Cassian looked at Azriel. “What do you mean?”

Azriel’s wings shifted, shadows flickering like fireflies in the dim light of the room. “The Cauldron’s magic is waking. But this isn’t just that. There’s someone else tied to it. Someone we weren’t expecting.”

Feyre’s heart dropped. “Someone? What do you mean, Azriel?”

Azriel didn’t answer. He only looked at Rhysand, whose brow furrowed deeply. Feyre could feel the tension in the room. There was something more—something they hadn’t fully understood yet. Something dangerous.

“The fourth Archeron,” Rhysand murmured.

Cassian shot him a sharp look. “What do you mean, the fourth Archeron?”

“I felt it,” Rhysand said, turning back to the window. “The magic in the air. It’s calling to something. Someone. And I think we’re about to learn who that someone is.”

Hybern’s Realization – The Wall’s Breaking

Hybern paced through the cold stone halls of his dark palace, his boots echoing in the silence. His thoughts were consumed by the Cauldron and its sudden, inexplicable stirring.

He had long known that the Cauldron held the power to shape reality itself, to break the very walls of the mortal world and the land of the Fae. What he hadn’t anticipated was the stirring that began with the name that now haunted his every thought: Astra.

The name seemed to pulse with ancient magic—something far older than even the Cauldron itself. He had once believed the Cauldron to be the greatest key to breaking the wall between human and faerie lands. But the Cauldron was not merely an object of power. It needed something—someone. Or, rather, it needed them.

The four Archeron sisters.

The thought hit him like a thunderclap, and in that moment, everything became clear. The wall, the separation between worlds, could only be broken when the Cauldron was activated with the blood of all four Archeron sisters.

But that would only happen if all of them were turned fae.

His thoughts turned to the three known Archeron sisters—Feyre, the High Lady of the Night Court; Nesta, fierce and strong; and Elain, gentle and kind. They were powerful in their own right, but they were incomplete without the missing piece. Without Astra.

The fourth sister, hidden away for years. The one who had been taken from her family the night she was born, raised in secret by the witch Seraphine. Astra’s existence had been buried—until now.

Hybern’s lips curled into a cruel smile as the Cauldron’s power pulsed again, stronger than ever. The spell to shatter the wall was closer than he had thought. Astra would be the key to the final piece of the puzzle. Once she was turned fae, everything would fall into place.

All he had to do was find her.

“She’s out there,” he murmured to himself, his voice low and deadly. “And when she’s one of us… everything will change.”

The Cauldron’s surface rippled with a low hum, as though it, too, could sense the approaching truth. The stirring was no longer subtle—it was urgent, calling out to the missing Archeron sister. Astra.

With her, the Cauldron would rise to its full potential. The wall would fall, and the human realm would be swallowed whole by the faerie lands. Hybern would reign, unchallenged. His reign would not just be over the land, but over the very fabric of reality itself.

Astra.

“Find her,” he whispered, his mind already turning to his next steps. “Before anyone else does.”

Chapters: Prologue

Taglist: @fuckingsimp4azriel @tele86 @bookloveralways13

Please let me know what you guys think so far!

[phantomteafrog]

50 Goat Questions

I really wanted an ask game similar to the Lamb and Narinder one for the Goat. I love hearing about everyone’s head cannons for these characters and I wanted to see more of people’s version of the Goat! Of course, I took inspiration from @transtistic’s Lamb questions, so some questions may be the same or similar, but I think they’re great questions for the Goat too!

Remember to have fun with this and I hope you guys enjoy!

Use the tag {#cotl goat ask game} so we can see all the answers!

Does your Goat go by any other name than The Goat? If so, what?

Is your Goat’s lore similar to the Lamb? (I.e. hunted down and sacrificed)

How old was your Goat pre-crown?

Did your Goat have any specific skills prior to getting the crown?

Does your Goat have any noticeable features?

How tall is your Goat?

Is your Goat petite, curvy, jacked?

What does your Goat identify as? Were they born differently than what they identify as? Do they lean a certain way? (Masc, fem, they honestly don’t care they just go with the flow?)

What kind of hair does your Goat have? (Is it soft? How much do they have?)

Do they use their hair for anything?

Is your Goat a specific species?

What do their horns look like?

How chaotic is your Goat? Are they constantly looking to mess with someone or something?

Is the crown just a crown when not in use? Does it shape into something else? ( I.e. hair tie, bracelet, necklace?)

Does your goat wear something other than the canon cloak?

Does your Goat wear jewelry or makeup?

Does your Goat have facial hair? ( a goatee? lol)

Is your Goat flirtatious?

How floppy are your goats ears?

What’s your goats favorite weapon? Least favorite?

Does your Goat have a favorite curse?

Do they have a favorite color?

What’s your Goat’s favorite season?

How good of a cook is your Goat? Would they feed the cult members negative foods (i.e. bowl of poop or follower meat) behind the Lambs back?

Does your Goat have a favorite dish?

What’s your Goat’s diet? (Vegetarian, omnivore, carnivore?)

How was your Goat introduced to the Lamb? ( accidental summoning, they just showed up, etc.)

What’s the relationship between you Goat and Lamb?

Does your Goat have a specific purpose of being around the Lamb? (They were summoned to protect, they have a secrete motive to help the lamb, etc)

Do they have a favorite cult member? Least favorite?

Do they ever leave to do crusades on their own? Do they only go with the Lamb?

How does your Goat deal with spies?

How do they deal with dissenters?

Do they have their own place in the cult? (Do they live with the Lamb? Do they sleep wherever?)

Do they have a specific job in the cult? Do they just help out the Lamb? Are they an equal leader with the Lamb?

How does your Goat feel about the Bishops? What about Narinder/The One Who Waits (TOWW)?

Does your Goat ever open up about their past? With who?

Is your Goat trustworthy? Are they only trustworthy to specific people? Who?

Is your Goat manipulative? Can they convince the Lamb, a Bishop, or a cult member to do something they wouldn’t normally do?

What’s your Goat’s opinion on cannibalism?

How merciful is your Goat?

Is there a job your goat likes doing specifically?

What’s your Goat’s stance on torture?

Would they kill a cult member? Do they need a reason to do so?

Would they go behind the Lamb’s back to do something if the Lamb ruled against it?

Does your Goat and their crown get along? What kind of relationship do they have with it?

Like with the Lamb and TOWW, is there a God behind the crown?

How stealthy is your Goat? Can they hide even from the Red Crown? Are they clumsy?

What is your Goat like around the young cult members? Do they teach them how to mess with other cult members? Are they actually good at taking care of the them? Do they not like being around the young cult members?

Freebie! Tell us a head cannon about your Goat!

[thevoidscreams]

I have an idea for the last days of Mating Press March: Vulkan with a little wifey from a Ice World. Taking an example from his brothers, he searched for a mother to his Legion and a lady to be at his side and found and feel in love with you. Like the gentleman I imagine him being, he began courting her gallantly, taking advice from the Primarchs, and finally the love sick couple married. After their wedding, he takes her to bed to consummate. The contrast between his extremely warm body temperature and her freezing as they make love :3. Plus the extra fact that Vulkan is going to obviously be very careful around her and the best lay she's ever had. As always, he's the king of aftercare, offering her all sorts of comforts

Day 5 Year 2: Warning: First time sex, tooth rotting fluff, This man has no pull out game, you will have cum in you.

Words: 2971

"I hope that you are adjusting well to the temperature my love." Vulkan hummed softly, his deep voice vibrating through your body as he carried you to your honeymoon suite. "It's a bit warm but I think I'll live, especially in your arms." He smiled, his burning eyes creased at the edges with the expression as his delight showed on his face. "I am glad to hear it. We'd hoped that the temperature would be cool enough after some adjustments." Your heart fluttered with the sentiment. "You lowered the temperature of the ship, just for me?" He kissed your forehead sweetly. "Of course, I want my wife to be comfortable in her new home." Vulakn's words were all affection for his beloved and you could feel it in each syllable. He stopped by the door where two of his sons stood guard. “You may take your leave my sons. Your mother and I will need our privacy.” They nodded and left, but not before congratulating yourself and your husband on your nuptials. The room was spacious, it offered all the comforts of a personal space that one might require, and the bed was the centerpiece of it all.

Vulkan set you down on the edge, his eyes alight with desire and eagerness as he unclasped the cloak around his shoulders and set the article of drake scales aside. He was dressed ornately, for such an occasion called for nothing but his best. His wedding attire had been hand crafted from fine materials and his head and arms had been adored with the fangs of great drakes and the claws of the giant ice beasts that roamed the frozen wastes outside the city he had taken you from. The crown of teeth was set aside the cloak and the fabric of his shirt untied to free his scarred onyx chest to you.

You had been similarly garbed, the dress fabric had been woven for just this occasion and it flowed around your form like a silken wave of starlight. Vulkan had been on top of all the preparations of your gown and the choker of drake scales and gemstones had been a labor of love that he had made of his own two hands, gathering and weaving and fixing each gem into the center of each scale. Even in the dimness of the room it glittered so prettily. It matched the set of bracelets that wrapped from your wrists up to your forearms and ended at the elbow, shaped into the slender body of the ice dragons of your home world. The set seemed to glow against your skin. But the primarch could not see any of the beauty but your own. His twin hearts hammering as he knelt at the edge of the bed, his fingers brushing the edge of the fabric as he swallowed the uncharacteristic nervousness that threatened to choke him.

"May I, my flame?" He inquired, longing to see you bared to him. You nodded, biting your lip in anticipation. Hoping he would like what was underneath.

As he drew the fabric up and over your head his breath caught in his throat.

Lace and leather intermingled with smaller drake scales, forming a set of lingerie that, while not terribly complex, held everything in a snug and tantalizing manner. You had been so excited to show your primarch but his shocked expression left you wondering. "Is it okay my love?" You pressed, suddenly worried that he did not like what he saw.

If Vulkan had not been on his knees before he might have fallen to them. He already knew that you were the most radiant creature in the universe. But knowing and seeing were two very different things.

He found his voice at last as his hands reached for you. "It is.. beyond words." His touch was hot and it sent a jolt up your spine as his warmth sunk into you. The people of your world were often compared to the ice that fell from the sky year round. Cold and unyielding. But Vulkan found he enjoyed the cool touch of your skin, it was refreshing in a way. "Never have I seen such beauty all in one place, or one person. How did you make this piece."

His burning fingers brushed over the leather of one strap adorned with scales.

"The woman of your home village, I asked them what would please a man of your home world on their wedding night. They all came together to help me make this.. and to give pointers."

His smile returned tenfold and he leaned in to claim your lips. "Always full of surprises you are."

Vulkan felt his cock strain against the light fabric of his pants and groaned. "I find that I am very eager to explore more of your form my flame. Please, may I?"

"Yes. Of course, I am all yours."

He groaned in pleasure at your words, knowing that it was true. You were his and he was determined to have all of you tonight. He laid you back, his hands caressing your thighs as he settled between them, his face lowering to your stomach. He placed a kiss there, making you giggle, his smile widened and he kissed you there once more, thrilling in the way you wiggled beneath him. He set about kissing a line up from your stomach, planning to revisit those ticklish spots another time. Up from your stomach he kissed a slow line over the bottom of your sternum and between your breasts, which he also planned to revisit shortly. Each kiss left a bloom of warmth on your skin and added to the heat in your lower stomach.

When his lips reached your collar bone you felt as though you were going to burst. Sensing your discomfort he pulled away, and met your gaze. "What troubles you?" His rich deep voice was threaded with worry as he thought perhaps he'd done something that wasn't to your liking.

"I'm okay, I'm just very eager, as is my body. I've been craving you this way for longer than just tonight and all your kissing and touching is just making me want you even more."

He hummed, understanding now. "I see, and what would you have me do first?"

Your cheeks were tinted with a blush as he asked. "Perhaps you could begin between my thighs. Where I am the most sensitive." The thought of that hot tongue on your pussy made you squirm slightly. Knowing it would feel simply amazing. He made a thoughtful sound as if considering your request. "I see, Then I shall do what I can." He began his tortuously slow descent down your body which drew a persistent string of whining from you that seemingly made him kiss slower till he was just above your clothed mound. "Well, it would seem I am unable to go further. I have been barred. with the cloth in the way I can not do as you ask of me." He teased and you wanted to scream. He was SO CLOSE. You could feel the heat of his breath on your cunt but he was teasing you! "Please." You begged. "Vulkan I need you." Giving you some mercy he chuckled and conceded. "Very well." He pressed a kiss right over your clit and your hips bucked up in pursuit of something more.

Well that was certainly something he needed to investigate further. His fingers sunk under your waistband and pulled the panties away, revealing a dripping sex that called to him. He bent low, kissing your clit again, achieving the same result. He liked the way your body responded to him. He licked his lips of the juice that had smeared there and hummed in surprise at the taste. Musky and a bit salty, yet there was a sweetness to it.

He kissed lower over the lips, and found more of that sweetness. Working on intuition he lapped his tongue up between the folds and was rewarded with a cry of delight from you. Vulkan knew then what it is that you had probably wanted and it wasn't just kisses. He rove his tongue up and then back down the valley between your legs stopping only to kiss the small nub above it as well. His arms trapped your hips as you wouldn't stop moving and it was making his retrieval of more sweetness difficult.

You were floored, his tongue was like fire between your legs, so much warmer than expected, but in the best possible way. You moaned and writhed under him as he continued to eat you out, his tongue as skilled at the rest of him it seemed.

You had barely the time to articulate what was happening before your thighs clamped around his head and you came so hard your back bowed off the bed and you were left wailing his name into the night.

The primarch was stunned but drank down the sudden gush of juices that you gave him gratefully. "Are you alright my flame?" He asked as he surfaced from your cunt, concerned for your well being.

"I'm fine," you assured a bit dazed and confused, "you just managed to do what no man before you ever managed is all."

Vulkan felt a swell of pride at that. He may not have been the only man you ever had, but he was going to make sure he was the best and the last you ever had.

He glanced down at his own body to his cock which was fully erect. It seemed as though doing that had only driven him further into his need.

"I must say that I understand the principle of what is next, but I do not have the practical experience to make the next steps confidently."

You smiled and took his hand. "We'll do this together, slowly if we must." You reassured as he crawled onto the bed.

Slowly had turned out to be an understatement once you had his cock in your hand, stroking it as you lined up the head of his member with your entrance. Big was also an understatement. Being a primarch you had been sure there would be some stretching and getting used to, but as you lowered yourself onto your lover's cock it was like losing your virginity all over again. You swore loudly as you felt your inner walls pushed far beyond anything you'd taken before.

"Do you wish to stop? I will not be upset or angry, I can see you are in pain." His hands clamped around your hips and held you still. "Vulkan, let go, I am going slowly so I won’t hurt myself. I just need to get used to your girth, that's all." He shook his head. "I will not see my bride injure herself on our wedding night." You glared at him and he was unsure why. "Vulkan. I can handle this." You spoke with clarity and purpose, you would not leave this room until you had a load of his cum in you. You swore that to yourself and you were not giving up now.

"If it becomes too much, you will stop." It wasn't a question but you nodded anyway. "I will." Relieved he allowed you to continue, his hands resting on your hips and you speared yourself on his cock. It had been a good idea to have him on his back, it allowed you to use your weight to push yourself down his shaft. With a finally deep breath you finally felt the warmth of his thighs pelvis meet your ass as you took him to the base.

"See, I told you I could handle it." You panted and he looked both pleased but very much concerned. His eyes widened a bit as he looked down. "I can see the bugle of my cock through your stomach." He observed, concerned.

"Oh yeah.. pretty cool I say." Your hand rubbed the bulge and he sighed. "Please do not hurt yourself." "I won't." That's why I'm waiting till I've adjusted.

He ran his fingers over your torso where the leather and lace had been before, now it was just your bare skin and the ornate jewelry he'd made you. It made his cock twitch to see you wearing his pieces. You gasped as his cock did so and he pulled his hand away. "Are you alright?" "Yes, oh throne that felt good." You sighed.

You made a small shift so you were resting on his chest, your hips raising and falling once to test the feeling. The moan you both gave was confirmation enough that you were both ready. You raised your hips again, letting them fall, Vulkan hugged you to his chest tightly, the feeling was intense, like nothing he'd ever felt.

The rush was almost like going into battle but his body was not singing for war, it was begging for more of the pleasure he was getting from the steady rhythm of your hips. His own hips bucked, pushing his cock in deep as your hips fell and you gasped, stars bursting behind your eyes as you clawed at his chest in blind need for more of that overwhelming deepness and gratifying pressure. The primarch held you close as he rolled over, squishing you into the soft bed below. His arms were the only thing keeping you from being fully squashed. "It is not like I thought it would be." He growled and thrust into you again, making it hard to think. He set a new rhythm faster than you had been able to manage and harder as well. “Does it at least meet expectations?” You asked. “No. It far exceeds them.”  He growled his reply and his lips crashed into yours stealing a quick burning kiss.

Your panting breaths and words of love were spoken against his lips as he had his way with you, pressing kisses to your lips frequently as he shook the bed with each roll of his body. He enjoyed the sight of your body taking his cock and your breasts bouncing as he rutted into you.

Distantly you were thankful he'd sent his sons away and ordered them to leave you two to have privacy tonight, or else the poor things might have been subject to the string of pure profanity and lewd expressions your new husband had to say.

"I am going to fill your cunt with so much of my seed that you'll be leaking it into next week." The drake lord rumbled, his voice somehow even lower and more commanding. It had you clenching around him as you cried out in assent of this idea. Begging him to fill you to the point of bursting.

His pace faltered and he came hard. The pulsing of his cock was accompanied by a deep warmth that you were sure was him cumming straight into your womb.

You were going to say something, but he flipped you over, his cock slipping free making you whine. Your face was suddenly in a mountain of pillows as he pulled your hips up to meet his, as his cock slipped back in. This angle somehow felt deeper as he thrust into you, pulling you back by the hips to meet each one. He was not slow about it. His earlier concern was replaced by the need to make good on his word. "You are the most beautiful woman in this galaxy and I intend to make you the most beautiful mother as well." He nearly came again as he pictured you very round and pregnant with his children.

You didn't have the presence of mind to respond as he pounded you into the mattress. You were close, but it felt more than just that. You'd come in the past but from nothing even close to a fraction of this much pleasure. You babbled senselessly as he gave another bed shaking thrust and you came apart with a scream that you barely recognized. Your vision went white and your teeth clamped down into something below you.

You came to a minute later from a trembling voice and a hard jostle. Your gaze took a moment to focus as the warm form above you kept shaking you and crying out in concern. It eventually did and you saw your husband with a look of panic and grief on his face. "My flame please! Are you okay!? Please say something." He begged. You smiled dumbly and nuzzled his chest. Oh, you were in his arms, when had that happened. "Heya hot stuff." You mumbled and he sighed, his body was trembling. "What happened?" You asked finally and he took a few steadying breaths.

"You screamed and dug your teeth into my arm. You drew blood." He explained looking like he'd seen death. "Then you went still and quiet and I could not rouse you. I thought I had killed you!" He hugged you close and you wrapped your arms around his neck and shoulder. "No, Vulkan, I'm okay. I just had the moth soul shattering earth quaking orgasm is all."

Vulkan stared down at you in disbelief. "My vision went white and everything. It was wild." You laughed and he looked ready to cry from relief. He reclined back into the bed with you curled up into his arms. "I'm sorry for biting you." You hadn't even noticed his arm had shifted positions. "It is alright my love. It will heal, and if I am lucky, even scar. Then I will forever have a reminder of you to look at." The comment made you laugh. "I'm glad."

You both rested there a moment before you sighed. "We should probably get cleaned up."

He sighed as well. "I suppose we should."

[cherryheairt]

Hi :)

I’ve had this headcanon for a while where thranduil, upon falling in love again, makes it quite obvious he feels strongly about reader but won’t push physical limits of affection quite yet. Due to him having been married before he wants to be sure the Gods approve of him falling in love/marrying again as to not cause ill intend to fall upon reader because of him not being in control of his carnal desires. Reader is oblivious to this and pushes/teases him relentlessly.

Might end in smut upon him knowing reader is safe and he may pursue them fully or just him saying fuck it I see no god but me down here lol

Or just might end in him teasing back big time n leaving reader high and dry (but maybe with an explanation lol we love some open communication ✨)

Thank you! And feel free to mix it up and or change ending I’d just love to see a take on this 🙂‍↕️

hello! I'm so sorry that its been forever since you submitted this. thranduil is a character that we only ever got to see in super serious king mode, and had little screentime at that so I wanted to think through his personality a lot. might be ooc

I personally don't know how to write smut, so I didn't include it. I hope that's okay.

The character will be named Myria (meer-rhea), but have no skin color, body shape, hair color, etc description. She is eleven though, if that matters.

👑

The Gods had long since forsaken Thranduil. After he lost his wife, Legolas' mother, the world seemed to darken along with his own attitude. He changed, and everyone in Middle Earth knew it. Legolas never grew up to know the kind and magnanimous person his father was before his late wife's death.

To him, and the world, Thranduil was a stoic and unforgiving King.

To all, perhaps, except Myria. Myria had been born not too long after Thranduil—in Rivendell. Though the two never met until well into adulthood, Myria liked to say that they hit it off well. Thranduil would never admit the same out loud.

Myria moved from Rivendell to Mirkwood for her studies, thanks to her friend Elrond's advisory, and had since lived there for thousands of years. Youthful as ever, Myria made it her unofficial duty to occupy the King of Murkwood's free time.

She had even befriended his only son, Legolas, despite their age gap. The young elf was approaching 3000 years old soon, and he swore that he was more mature than the she-elf that graced their halls.

Myria didn't mind the head shakes or comments from royal advisors, telling her to mind herself around their King. Thranduil had long grown used to it, anyway.

Myria made her way to his royal chambers, uncaring about her unpropriety with visiting without being called upon. This was their daily routine. Thranduil had his meetings before breakfast, then went back to his chambers to dine alone. Or, he would, if Myria wasn't always waiting right there at his table for him.

"What is for breakfast today, My King?" Myria asked jovially, perched upon one of his carved wooden chairs. Originally, there had only been one for himself, but he ordered a matching one to me made after the woman's incessant visits. Before there was a seat, she simply stood at the table. The thought bothered him, a tinging in the back of his mind telling him that she must be on the same level as him, at all times.

Thranduil's long flowing sleeves and cloaks followed behind him as he entered the room. "You ask this every day, Myr. And what is my answer every day?" He asks, though there is no bite to his words.

"That you 'do not know'. Quite amusing, the all-knowing King not knowing something so simple." She mused, scrunching her nose up at his tall frame.

He fought an amused eye roll, sitting in front of her. He poured himself a chalice of sweet red wine, sipping on it as he replied. "Simple, or trivial? I do not concern myself with such affairs, the food is brought to me and I eat it."

"Careful, Thranduil. That may one day get you poisoned." She mirrored his movements, having waited for him to start drinking.

"By whom? Yourself?" He chuckled darkly, amused at the prospect of such a thing. Mirkwood elves' loyalties ran deep, the chances of him dying suddenly from a cold where higher than dying of poison. "You are the only outsider residing here."

Myria 'hmphed' vehemently, lifting her nose at the accusation. "I hardly can be called an outsider these days. How long have I lived here? Four...five thousand years?"

"Five thousand, two hundred and thirty." He answered for her.

Shocked, she stared at him, mouth agape. "You know the exact year?"

"How could I not? That is the year when my life started to get ten times harder."

She snorted, shaking her head. "I disagree. I think it only got better."

Two servants entered the chambers, one plate in hand each. Platters were lifted to reveal the neatly presented food, a light breakfast of fruit and toasted bread.

Myria and Thranduil dug into it, a pleasent chatter filling the room. "What are your plans for today?" She asked him.

"Same as usual, final preparations for the Feast of Starlight. Though, there is a task I wanted to assign you–" Thranduil was interrupted by a guard rushing into the room. He lifted an unimpressed brow, staring the guard down for his brash action.

"Your majesty, a party of rogue Dwarves have been apprehended in the Mirkwood forest!" To this, Thranduil immediately stood and strided past the guard out of the chambers. Myria, struck by the news, eagerly followed in suite.

"You are not supposed to sit in on prisoners being interrogated, Myria." Thranduil told her sternly, knowing the sound of her light steps trailed behind his own heavy ones.

"When has that stopped me before?" She laughed. It had been a nearly a hundred years since she'd seen a dwarf, and much longer than that since one had been in the depths of the Elvenking's Halls. She was excited to see what brave adventurers had come, and survived the dark forest's curse.

Thranduil seated himself at the head of his lifted throne, elegant giant antlers rooting themselves out from behind the throne like a crown. The one perched on his head mirrored that, thick branches striking in contrast to his pure white hair. Myria took a moment to admire him from her spot at the base of the stairs. The guard next to her didn't even blink at her intrusion, knowing the relationship between the ward and the King was a complex one that even the elders didn't bother to deduce.

Myria stayed silent during the precedings, not moving an inch except to lean her head forward and inspect the Dwarves. The party was quite large, a whole gaggle of Dwarves were bravely setting off to reclaim Erebor's keep and defeat the dragon nested under it. The leader, Thorin, was quite handsome for a Dwarf, not that Myria would say so aloud. For all her teasings, that would surely be the tip of the iceburg for Thranduil's patience.

As the majority of the Dwarves were escorted to the dungeons, only Thorin was left in Thranduil's audience. She listened as Thranduil made his offer, then got rejected harshly by the Dwarven King. Screamed at, being told off by a life form deemed lesser than an Elf, Thranduil had enough. He sent the man away with a flick of his wrist.

As he slowly desended the steps after the dwarf 'king' was escorted away, Thranduil placed a hand on Myrias shoulder.

The cold rings on his hand raised goosebumps on the back of her neck and arms, shivering at the feeling. She cursed herself for wearing an off-shoulder dress, dressing herself for the nice weather that morning. If he noticed, Thranduil didn't say anything. But the tiny lift to the corners of his mouth said plenty. "Do not fraternize with the filth that dirties our halls."

Our halls. The brief words pleasently rung in the back of Myria's mind. She nodded. He knew her well, guessing that she would try to sneak into the dungeons during the feast to try to speak with the curious Dwarves.

He moved his hand down, resting it gently on the small of her back. "Let us go, the feast will not oversee itself."

👑

Myria and Thranduil lounged in his chambers, simply biding time until the Feast of Starlight had begun. Admist muted chuckles and jests, mostly from Myria, Tauriel entered the room. "You called for me, My King?" She bowed shortly. "I have come to report to you." Tauriel glanced briefly towards Myria, nodding when she lifted a goblet towards her silvan friend.

"I thought I ordered that nest to be destroyed." Thranduil said, voice taut with frustration. The spiders had been plaguing their forest for years now, unrelenting.

"We cleared the forest as ordered, my Lord." The woman insisted. "But more spiders keep coming from nests in the South. If we could kill them at their source–"

"That fortress lies beyond our borders. Your orders are to keep our lands clear of those foul creatures. That is your task."

"And when we drive them off, what then? Will they not spread to other lands?" Ever the bleeding heart, Tauriel worried for other people.

"Other lands are not my concern." Thranduil said coldly. "The fortunes of this land will rise and fall. But here in this kingdom, we will endure." As had been the way for thousands of years. Thranduil insisted that Mirkwood keep to themselves, not needing or offering help from any others.

Tauriel nodded stiffly, excusing herself from the King's presence. Before she left, however, he spoke again. "Legolas said you fought well today. He has grown...fond of you."

She paused, thinking his words over carefully. "I assure you my Lord, Legolas thinks of me as no more than captain of the guard.

"Perhaps he did once. Now, I'm not so sure." Thranduil pushed.

"I did not think that you would allow your son to pledge himself toward a lowly silvan elf." She responded, voice slightly hopeful.

Myria leaned forward, too, curious of his answer. Would he allow his heir to love an elf with no royale blood?

"You are right, I would not." Thranduil chuckled humorlessly at the thought of it. Myria bit her tongue, hurt by the comment indirectly. She was no common-born Elf, sure, but had no royal blood to speak of either. She deflated in her seat, drinking down the rest of her wine. "Do not give him hope where there is none."

Is that what Thranduil had been doing for Myria, merely giving her hope? Slivers of special attention, with no intentions of truly loving her. She stood from her seat, leaving the chambers without a word.

Tauriel, too, left quickly after that.

Thranduil stood alone in his chambers, looking at the spot where Myria had once been.

👑

The feast came and passed quickly, Myria in no mood to sing or dance like she usual did at such events. She attended for the sake of politeness, leaving when she had greeted enough people for the night.

She spend the rest of it wallowing in her chambers.

Word got out that the entire party of Dwarves escaped, and Myria silently applauded them for their boldness. She hoped, for their sake, that they were successful in freeing their home.

Days passed, and news of Smaug's death had spread to every corner of Middle Earth. Thranduil was quick to organize his army to march toward Erebor, wasting no time to retrieve his precious gems. Myria had come along on her own white elk mount, following behind Thranduil silently, if only to satiate her curiosity. Last time they had come, Thranduil had rejected the Dwarves' desperate plea for help. This time, he came to declare war if they refused to return his gems.

The damned gems. Always on his mind. True, they were a physical reminder of his late wife and Queen. But it seemed as though he dwelled on them more than he cherished her memory. He did not speak of her, ever. Even to his own son, his wife was but a ghost haunting the halls.

Myria couldn't begin to understand the loss of a spouse, but she did understand that he was too caught up in himself.

Even though she had little intention of fighting the Dwarves, Myria still brought a dagger and bow on the march. Could never be too careful, Thranduil always reminded her. She guided her elk to stand behind his, watching him greet the human leader stiffly. It was almost laughable how mad his manners were, his kingly presence deemed to good for polite small talk.

Myria had been given a temporary quarter near Thranduil's, their tents close as they usually were. He had been too busy to notice her absence lately, both to her joy and displeasure. She missed his daily warmth around her, but knew it was best to distance himself from him. Just this last journey, then she sould go back to Rivendell to live out the rest of her long and lonesome life.

Thranduil plotted with the human leader, Bard, and a wizard by the name of Gandalf. Myria wandered the decrepit town while they did, having no place in war council, nor did she wish to.

By the time she had returned, night had fallen and all the humans of the town were asleep. Myria ducked into her tent, desperate for some solid rest before a potential battle on the morrow. She was surprised to see Thranduil sitting awkwardyl on her cot.

"Thranduil? What are you doing here, you should be resting." Myria insisted, brow furrowed.He stood at her entrance, possibly being left waiting for quite a while.

"I wished to see you before we go to Erebor's gates in the morning. I suspect that the Dwarf will have something up his tiny sleeve. I know you are a capable fighter, but I want you to stay in town tomorrow just in case."

She protested sharply, "I am just as much a fighter as any elf in your army. I will not sit around and wait for you to return–"

"Please, Myria." He rested both of his hands on her shoulders, looking down at her with his deep blue eyes "I could not focus if I knew you were behind me somewhere. If I know you are safe, I can retrieve the jewels easier." Always about the jewels. He should have married them, she thought bitterly.

"Is that an order?"

"It is a request. From a friend." Thranduil said softly.

Myria bit her cheek, crossing her arms. "Fine. I will stay here on the morrow. But, if any fighting breaks out, I will join."

He seemed content with her answer, knowing its as far as he'll get with her stubbornness. "Very well, I'll see you when this is over." He planted a tender kiss to the top of her head before he left to his own tent.

👑

Myria could only watch from afar as negotiations with the Dwarves had clearly gone to shit. More dwarves had shown up, an entire army to match the Elves' golden one. Myria rushed back to grab her bow, bursting out of her tent to the sound of screams in the town. Surely the Dwarves wouldn't target the women and children who had stayed behind?

She was right. It was orcs who had invaded the town, cutting off exits as they slashed through defenseless crowds of people. Myria rushed to help whoever she could, shooting down orcs' fat heads whenever they got too close to a fleeing human. With her dagger, she slashed through whoever she could reach to retrieve each of her arrows.

This arduous process repeated for some time, Myria panting with effort as she continued. The sounds of screams toned done as golden-armored soldiers flooded into the cobble streets and started to push back at the beastly creatins. Myria breathed a sigh of relief, engaging another orc. It was larger than most, with armor protecting its head and chest. She slashed at his with a sword she had taken from dead enemy, yelping when he stabbed into her abdomen with his own weapon. She gasped, trying to keep her composure as he approached above her menacingly. As he lifted his sword above his head again, ready to strike down the Elf, his head was detached from his body in a spray of hot blood.

Myria flinched at the feeling on her skin, feeling disgusted more than she already was with the sweat and dirt covering her. Thranduil came from behind the orc, who was now dead on the floor. He crouched down in front of her, a frantic look in his eye that betrayed his regal appearance. "Myria, look at me!" He shouted, her blurry vision shakily focusing on him. He held her face in his hands, watching her try to keep them open. "It's okay, I'll get you help." Thranduil promised her, gingerly lifting her up princess style. He flinched when she protested in pain, clutching at her stomach to stop the blood from gushing out.

"It's okay, you'll be alright, sweet." He told her, repeating himself multiple times as if to convince himself, too.

He brought her outside of the town, where Elven medics had set up a discreet few tents disguised to the orc's vision by Elven magic. The King layed her gently on a stiff cot, petting her hair comfortingly as she screamed in pain at the medic disinfecting and stitching her wound up. He glared at the Elf assigned to help her, making the poor young fellow sweat in fear of messing uo in front of his King.

Eventually, the sounds outside died out. Thranduil regretted taking his forces to this pit of death. He had lost more Elves today than had ever been lost at one time since the Great War. Elves did not die easily. This was a massacre of great damage to their ranks, to their people. Thranduil mourned the deaths of his kin dearly.

Myria had calmed, pain dulling when given some numbing herbs. She focused her attention on Thranduil, "you came for me." She said, voice barely a whisper.

"Of course, I did. Why wouldn't I?" He asked, rubbing his thumb over her knuckles.

"Your gems...they're still locked away in the keep, aren't they?" She asked.

"The gems are not my priority. They are merely objects, remembrances. You are alive, I need you."

Myria felt tears blurr her vision, clamping her throat shut. "But–I am not from any important bloodline. I am not a Princess, nor—"

"I do not care. You are Myria. The woman who has been by my side for five thousand years. The only lady worthy of being Queen by my side is you."

Thranduil took her into his arms as she cried. He shushed her gently, hands locked into her hair as she clung to him.

"I love you, Thranduil. I have for a long, long time."

"And I, you, my dearest Myr."