#eye feast flashback

[witherby]

punchline, she can’t feel pain or something happens like she breaks an arm or something yet has no reaction or they do a health scan of her and she has some wounds.

-📝

Ok listen. It didn't feel like it was 3600 words when I was writing it. It just happened. Enjoy the feast though.

⚠️ Content Warnings: Broken bones, starvation/malnourishment, flashbacks, description of injuries, the Batfamily accidentally hurts you ⚠️

Punchline: Analgesia

Masterlist is Here!

You got out of the cell.

With no real place to put you, Bruce initiated a round-the-clock watch, both to monitor your health and make sure you didn't try anything dangerous. "Brucie Wayne" decided to go on a last-minute tour of Asia for a month so that he could take more shifts, allowing his sons time to rest and maintain their own lives without needing to stress as much over...

Well. You.

You, who spent the entire first day staring up at the ceiling and clicking your feet together, refusing to respond anymore to Dick or anybody else after telling them your name. You, who ignored your bed long after the time came where most people should be sleeping, then ignored any food and water delivered to you long after most people should be eating and drinking.

You just smile and click your feet. Click. Click. Click. Waiting. Lying still. Staring.

Except now you aren't. Bruce comes back from upstairs with another tray of food for you to find an empty monitor feed on the batcomputer. The bed is too low to the ground for you to hide under, and the privacy curtain isn't drawn to take cover behind. The pressure sensors on the floor don't indicate any signs of life, either — you aren't in there anymore.

He sets the tray down and starts rewinding the footage, panicking, when you click your heels behind him.

"Boo."

Bruce jumps. Honest-to-god flinches. His body moves automatically, leg kicking out and connecting center-mass with a heavy thunk. You go flying across the main area of the cave with a yelp, hitting the ground and rolling a few feet. The sound of your body colliding against smooth stone echoes in a way that it shouldn't, and you don't try to pick yourself up afterwards.

"Shhhit shit shit," he gasps, running over to your limp body and carefully cradling you. He triggers the scanner in his cowl, checking you over for injuries, and gingerly props you up against his chest. "Kid! Are you —"

You snort, shoulders shaking, then build up into a breathtaking cackle. Literally breathtaking — Bruce presses his fingers into your ribs and feels breakage on at least two of them. His lenses find fractures on three more. He needs to get you to the medbay.

"Kid," he says again, urgently, nauseous with guilt. God, you're just a little girl, heartbreakingly small in his arms. "Punchline —"

"I spooked the Bat!" You gasp, eyes welling with tears. Twin lines cut through your face paint, smearing some of the blue under your eyes with the white. It's haunting. You just continue wheeze and gently clap him on the shoulder, genuinely mirthful. "Fear was made fearful! Ohohoho, that's... that's priceless!!"

"I didn't mean to hurt you," Bruce says. You just laugh even harder at that, sharp, short gasps that only exacerbate your wounds and bounce off the cave walls around you in sickening stereo. He wraps one arm around your back and the other behind your knees, lifting you.

"Let's get you cleaned up, kid...you shouldn't be out here."

"I got you gooood, Batsy!" You grin. "Got you! Got you!"

Click. Click. Click. You knock your feet together again, wrapping your arms around his neck with glee.

"Spooked you baaad!"

His grip on you tightens slightly, then relaxes again. Anything he would've wanted to say to you gets trapped behind grit teeth.

--

Dick knocks gently on the door before he types in the code to your cell and watches it slide open. You chuckle, but don't otherwise acknowledge him as he steps inside with another tray of food.

"Yeah. I guess it would seem silly to knock on a see-through door," he says, sitting on the floor next to you. He sits the tray down and presses his back against the wall, lacing his fingers together. "Just trying to be polite, in light of..."

He glances around your bland accommodations and clears his throat.

"Anyway! You were so kind to tell us your name and we didn't even return the favor. I'm Nightwing."

"Wing-a-ding," you murmur, smiling at the ceiling. Click. Click. Click.

"Sure, you can call me that if you want." He uses his foot to gently nudge the tray closer to your supine form, then lowers his voice conspiratorially. "I'll even let you call me a bad word if you eat."

Your smile grows. "Silly Wing-a-ding. It's not mealtime."

"When's Mealtime?" Dick asks you. "Because, you've been with us for two days, kiddo, and you haven't eaten a bite. If you've got a specific diet, it's no trouble. You just have to tell us what you like. We don't want to hurt you."

You snort at that, lifting a hand to pat your stomach. Underneath your lime green shirt are thick bandages compressing your broken ribs. Your gasping giggles ring like broken chimes in the small space you're sharing with him.

Dick frowns. "I'm being honest. B didn't mean to do that to you, I promise. I'm really sorry it happened."

"Sorry? It was hilarious!" You chirp. "Shoulda seen his face. Popsy would have cracked up. Heehee!"

"Yeah..." Dick sighs quietly. "Can we circle back, kiddo? When's your meal time? If you don't try to eat or drink anything soon, we might have to give you some fluids. And I dunno about you, but I'm not a huge fan of needles."

The hand on your stomach drums the same pattern you knock your feet together with. Pat. Pat. Pat. Click. Click. Click.

"It's soon," you tell him simply. "Popsy says to eat when the world turns into a merry-go-round."

The knot of dread sitting in Dick's stomach tightens. He clenches his hands into fists in his lap and keeps his tone light and curious.

"What's the world look like now?"

You laugh. "Fun house mirrors."

"And...when do you get to drink?"

"When the lights start dancing."

Dick doesn't stay in your cell with you much longer, parting with a half-mumbled excuse of needing to go work on something. He hurries down the hallway and tries not to feel like a failure in his suit.

--

Damian wasn't factored in to the rotation, on account of being the youngest and needing to get up for school, but that doesn't stop him from sneaking through the cave to observe you anyway. Years of training in the League keep his steps light and his presence undetectable, until he's standing just out of sight to the door to your cell and able to watch you at an angle.

Your eyes are closed, your body having finally succumbed to exhaustion, and your breathing is slightly wheezy from your injuries. The bits of your arms poking out of your shirt sleeves are mottled black and blue from hitting the floor so hard.

Damian creeps in a tad closer to get a better look at you. Even unconscious, your resting face is a small smile. No doubt a conditioned behavior from your time under the Joker, he thinks.

There's no tension in your body, which is the most interesting thing. Even the severity of the bruises should be enough to cause a twitch or two as you shift on the floor, much less the broken bones, but it's like —

Oh. He needs to make a note in your file and alert the others promptly. As he draws a pad and pen from his pocket, his eyes glance over the simple observations he's already made of you, and stalls.

You're so small. It doesn't hit him until now just how tiny you are, even for your age. You've got the stature of a five or six year old, and there's clear signs of malnourishment in your body. It's hard to look at you and not feel pity.

It's hard to look at you in general. The face paint is slowly wearing away, revealing your natural skin color underneath, but enough of it remains that you look absolutely haunting. Like something designed for a horror movie.

You've refused to clean your face or change into the clothes others have brought you, clinging to the garish getup he and Bruce found you in. The vivid green of your shirt screams of where you came from, an unavoidable beacon that refuses to allow anyone to forget your legacy.

Damian realizes belatedly that that's the point. You aren't looking to separate your identity from your father. You likely can't.

He clenches his hands into fists and takes his leave. He returns to your cell once more that night, dropping his gifts off with reluctance, and sees his effort pay off almost immediately. The next time he catches a glimpse of you, you've freshened up the face paint with a slightly altered design and are wearing a bright green dress, with your typical bowtie and black shoes.

You, awake this time, catch his gaze and beam knowingly.

Damian looks away. Your genuine happiness twists his chest something fierce.

--

You're out of your cell again when it's Jason's turn to monitor you.

"I don't have the patience to deal with your escape artist bullshit," he calls, twirling a baseball bat in his hand as he walks along the caves corridors. "You can either go back to your cage and behave, or get dragged back kicking and screaming."

You giggle. Jason clocks it coming from his right. The bat switches hands and he walks towards the noise.

"This ain't a goddamn game," he says, "so don't get cute with me, kid, or I'll put the Punch in Punchline."

"That's a good one!"

Jason whips around, finding you sitting on the floor with your legs crossed. Today you're wearing a bright green blouse with suspenders and black shorts, always with the bowtie around your neck. You're holding a batarang in your hands, tracing idly over the shape of it with your fingers.

"Wordplay is my favorite! I'll put the Punch in Punchline. Heheha, classic! Now I know why Popsy liked you so much!"

You tilt your head back and cackle. It comes out in sharp, short bursts. It's so bone-chillingly similar to your dad's that it affects him immediately.

Jason blinks. Suddenly he's fifteen and cuffed, cowering before the Joker as he winds his leg back to start kicking him.

Jason blinks again. His arms and legs ache so badly from the repeated bashing of the crowbar. He's been screaming for Bruce for ages and he hasn't come for him yet, why hasn't he come for him, he promised he would always come and get him —

Jason blinks again. He's clawing at the door handle and trying not to cry as the timer counts down behind him, ticking closer and closer and closer to his death, inescapable. He wishes he'd never adopted the mantle. He wants his mom. He wants his dad. He doesn't want to die. He's too young to die. He's so fucking tired.

Jason blinks again. The bat is missing from his hands and his throat feels like it's on fire. Tim is crouched next to you and assessing the new break in your arm courtesy of the Red Hood. The bat is lying broken in half on the floor.

"Go," Tim says, voice flat with barely suppressed rage. He won't turn his head away from you. "Go home, Hood."

"Bye-bye, Birdy," you mutter, smiling at the ceiling, and knock your feet together. Click. Click. Click.

Bye-bye, Birdy!

Jason feels like he can't breathe. The swelling in your skin is already so bad. What has he done? He wasn't actually gonna hurt you, he just wanted to get you back in your cell where you were supposed to be. He has a code against hurting children, he would never do that on purpose no matter whose kid it was. He didn't mean it.

Jesus, fuck, he didn't mean it.

"I-I'm —" he chokes, warped and crackly through the helmet's modulator.

"GO!" Tim shouts.

Jason turns and walks away. After a tense conversation with Bruce, it ends up being his last time monitoring you alone. He doesn't get the chance to do it again for a month, but your serene smile is never far from his mind.

--

Tim takes over Jason's observation duty immediately. He moves you into the med bay again to set and cast your broken arm. You're quiet the entire time, save the clicking of your feet, and refuse to look at him.

He works quickly and efficiently, wrapping you up without issue, and you don't fight him. He comes to the same conclusion Damian did, when he accidentally brushes against another bruise but you don't so much as flex a muscle.

How entertaining it must be for the Joker, to have a child with congenital insensitivity to pain. How simultaneously infuriating, that one of his favorite methods of submission is unavailable.

Tim wants to throw up.

"There," he says. "I'm sorry, Punchline. Hood shouldn't have been left alone to watch you. It won't happen again."

You don't respond. Click. Click. Click.

"Why don't we get you back to your room? I'll find something for you to do so you're not as bored in there. I'm sure Agent A can get you coloring books, or some crafts..."

Again, you're quiet. Tim breathes in slowly, deeply, then lets it back out. He gently takes your hands and coaxes you to stand up, and you go without complaint as he starts walking you back to the containment cells.

Two sets of footsteps fill the silence of the cave's passageways. One set of lungs struggles to match pace. Tim slows down for you, and the wheezing quiets immediately.

"Do you need or want anything?" He asks. The same, easy smile on your face doesn't change. You walk beside him like he isn't even there. He has to try exceptionally hard not to take it personally, even though it is and he knows it. He knows what you've endured. He knows what you've gone through. He can make a damn good guess as to what you're thinking right now.

And he doesn't have the faintest clue where to start fixing it.

Tim was only under the Joker's clutches for a couple days, at most, and the brainwashing he underwent to become Joker Junior still haunts his nightmares to this day. The conditioning, the bargaining, learning the boundaries, the underlying fear of having to say the right thing, do the right thing, the obsessive need to earn his favor, he remembers it all. Even years later, seeing the Joker makes that sickly itch start up under his skin.

Maybe he's wrong. Maybe he doesn't know how you feel, because he only got the tip of the iceberg. Maybe your experiences are better. Or worse. Most certainly different. He doesn't know, and he hates not knowing things.

When you make it back to the cell, you walk in without complaint. Tim closes the door and keys in a new code to lock it, though he suspects you'll be able to crack it again soon enough. You've got nothing but time on your hands to play with the access pad.

He drops his hand when he's done, staring at you. You're back to lying on the floor in your original position, arms splayed and feet clicking together as you admire the ceiling. He opens his mouth, then closes it. Hesitates. Does it again. You just click your feet.

"Punchline. I'm sorry."

You blink slowly, mouth twitching like you've heard something funny but don't quite wanna laugh.

"If I knew, back then," he says, words stilted and strained. Tim nearly stops there, but he feels compelled to let you know. "If I knew that leaving him would've ended in him doing this to another child...I wouldn't have gone anywhere."

You stop clicking your feet. Your mouth curls into a grin, then thins out, then gets stuck in this uncomfortable half-smirk.

"Popsy misses JJ," you mutter, so quiet Tim only catches it because he's right next to the cell door. There's something sharp in your tone. "He was almost perfect. His first favorite toy."

Tim feels like he's been dunked in a tub of ice. The tips of his fingers go numb and he has to press a hand to his mouth while suppressing a gag. His eyes are stinging behind the domino mask.

"JJ ran away. JJ is a traitor. Popsy has a new favorite, now," you whisper. Click. Click. Click. "Wonder how long that will last." Click. Click. Click. "Wonder how long I'll be his favorite Punchline." Click. Click. Click.

"I'm gonna go talk to A, now," Tim says, stumbling away from you. The both of you feel more relieved the farther away he gets.

Click. Click. Click.

--

Alfred takes shifts for you when no one else is available. He doesn't do it at the computer, though; the screens are too bright for his aging eyes, and the chair isn't ergonomic enough for him.

So he watches you from within the cell.

"Good afternoon, Lady Punchline, my name is Alfred Pennyworth," he greets politely, setting a tray of soup and saltines next to your head. He steps carefully over your body on the floor and perches on the edge of your unused bed, crossing one leg over the other. "The time is just after one o'clock. Today I've prepared a simple miso soup, something light for your decidedly neglected stomach, and brought with me several activities we could partake in, either together or separate. The choice is yours."

He eases the tote bag he brought in off his shoulder and pulls out a series of items: A stuffed bear, which he perches on top of the pillow. A coloring book and a pack of crayons. A jigsaw puzzle. And several books.

"Might any of these appeal to the lady?" He asks.

Click. Click. Click.

"That's alright," he says, as though you gave him any kind of acknowledgement. "I will leave them here for you to explore at your leisure, and come back with more options the next we meet."

He pulls a novel for himself out of the bottom of the bag, gently flipping its weathered pages open, and settles it in his lap.

"Would it bother you too terribly if I read this aloud? You may stop me anytime, of course." You make no expression and take no action against him, so he looks down at the book. "Very well. This story is one of my favorites, so I'm interested to see if you find any enjoyment in it, too.

"When Mary Lennox was sent to Misselthwaite Manor to live with her uncle everybody said she was the most disagreeable-looking child ever seen. It was true, too. She had a little thin face and a little thin body, thin light hair and a sour expression..."

Alfred keeps his voice calm, clear, and steady. There are mild changes in intonation when he speaks for the characters in the book, but other than that, he lets the words wash over the room peacefully. He stays with you and reads for several hours, until he reluctantly excuses himself to tend to his other duties for the manor.

"I shall mark our place in the book and bring it back if you'd like to hear more," he says, stepping past you again. "If you've any other requests, please let myself or the others know. We shall be happy to accommodate you, Lady Punchline."

When he closes and locks the cell door, he almost startles at your soft voice.

"Mistress Mary, quite contrary, how does your garden grow?" You mumble. The smile on your face seems a touch more genuine than before he entered.

Alfred dismisses himself with a final, quick bow, then walks down the halls as Bruce comes back to relieve him. Before the man even gets the chance to speak, Alfred holds a palm up to quiet him.

"I should like to have you place me in regular rotations with our guest," he says. "We have a lot of work to do if we're to rehabilitate the poor girl, and we'll get nowhere if everyone chooses to observe her like an animal in the zoo."

"That's fine, but —" Bruce says, watching almost helplessly as Alfred walks right past him. "Agent A —"

"I shall also request a home visit with Doctor Thompkins to sort out a proper treatment plan for her Analgesia, malnutrition, and very likely no vaccinations. Afterwards, we'll need to start considering educational deficits and behavioral therapy. There's much to do, master Bruce, so pick your jaw up off the floor and go spend time with your newest ward."

Bruce watches him disappear with fond irritation. He pulls the cowl off, understanding there's likely no need to maintain secrecy anyway, if you're going to be here for the long haul.

[fandom-puff]

Fulfilling Duty

Pairing: Tywin Lannister x Reader

Warnings: smut, pinv sex, fingering, reference to pregnancy and childbirth, brief reference to death during childbirth, reference to prostitution, implied arranged marriage, breeding kink, body image issues, implied innocence kink, older man/younger woman.

Italics indicate flashback

Gif creds to owner

After nine long months of pregnancy and two gruelling days of labour, Tywin Lannister finally had the son he craved. Little Darrick was perfect in every way. At almost four months, he guzzled his milk the way King Robert his guzzled his wine; he roared like a lion when something was amiss, fat angry tears pouring down his reddened little face until his mother or father consoled him; his hair thickened and lightened every day, though he showed no trace of Lannister emerald eyes (much you your elation; he already looked so much like Tywin so it was nice to see a shred of yourself in your son’s face).

The birth of your son only strengthened Tywin’s… affection towards you. It was not love- not yet at least- but his respect and fondness certainly grew. During the home stretch of your labour he had barged into the birthing room after overhearing an outspoken courtier’s gossip.

Your labour had dragged on and almost two whole days had passed since you first started having pains. While you had started in relatively high spirits, as progress began to falter almost to a halt and ‘one more push’ became an empty promise, your resolve almost completely shattered.

What had started as determined groans and howls of pain turned into whimpers, and then sobs as you begged the maester to just, please, get it out of you.

It seemed Tywin hadn’t unclenched his jaw for days, and while he wanted to remain just a room away in his office should he be called into the room, the Seven Kingdoms would not stop for any infant, not even the son of the Hand.

He had been walking back from an audience with disgruntled artisans from the city when he overheard some courtiers.

“… glad she’s shut up with the screaming, could hardly sleep a wink last night…”

“… should just cut her open, drag the babe out and have done with it… wouldn’t be the first Lannister woman to die in childbed…”

“… he’ll want another off her, just in case… especially if she gives him a girl…”

Tywin’s nostrils flared with rage, and while he would have so dearly loved to confront the gossiping courtiers, he marched to the tower of the hand, entering your chamber to the shock of your midwives and maester.

“Milord! Women’s work is still happening! The baby ain’t here yet,” scolded Jeyne. She was the eldest of the flock midwives attending you and the most experienced too, and had been crucial in supporting you.

Tywin held up his hand, and jeyne pursed her lips, knowing she could not argue. “Fine. But you’re not to interfere down here, milord. We’re nearly there,”

“You said that- ah- last night,” you said weakly, your voice shaky. Tywin sighed softly and knelt at your side, pushing your hair away from your face. It was a surprisingly tender gesture, one that he had done when you consummated your marriage. “‘M sorry, m-my lord,” you whispered, unable to stop the tears from slipping down your already damp cheeks.

“You needn’t be,” he said lowly, speaking so only you could hear. “You are doing well, just a little longer,”

Although the midwives and maester had repeated the same words over and over again over the last day, Tywin’s firm, authoritative voice reassured you, renewing your determination.

Tywin’s eyes flicked sideways to you. It was the first public event you had attended since giving birth, and he had kept a close eye on you all day. He’d even insisted on your retiring to bed for several hours in between the joust and the feast (“fine, I’ll rest. But only because I didn’t want to watch the archery anyway,”).

If you were tired, it did not show. You looked radiant, smiling serenely as you clapped for the dancing. You had changed into a gown of soft pink brocade, and while he always preferred to have you on his arm in matching Lannister red, he had to admit that the muted pink suited you beautifully, and provided a fresh and youthful contrast to his daughter’s sour, almost vulgar even by his standards, display of power.

“If you continue to glance at me so, you will miss the dancing, husband,” you said out of the corner of your mouth, bemused at the almost uncharacteristic attentiveness of the Old Lion.

“Then I shall miss the dancing,” he said lowly, though he kept his eyes dutifully on the entertainments. “Are you sure you will not sit?”

You rolled your eyes, turning to face him fully. “No,” you said with exasperation. “I am well rested, I promise you, My Lord,” your lips quirked into a smirk. “I may even join in with the dancing,” you added.

Tywins jaw clenched as he looked down at his mischievous young wife. Your pregnancy and subsequent birthing of a viable heir for him had consolidated your power in court- and your worth in the marriage. “Then you shall dance only with me,” he said. “I will not have you jostled so,”

And so the Lord Paramount of the West took his wife by the hand and led her to the dance floor, lest she be manhandled by less careful members of court.

Grinning, you held onto his hand, beginning the steps that you had known since childhood. “I so love it when you give in to my whims, Lord Lannister,” you murmured, laughing lightly at his grumble of agreement. He supposed he owed you a fair bit, now that you had given him his heir.

“You are as stubborn as a mule when you want to be, wife,” he muttered, pulling you closer to his body by the waist as a drunken jester weaved through the crowd, his motley cap jingling. But despite his complaints, Tywin permitted you two more dances, before you retreated from the crowd- the bawdy songs had began, and he would not have his wife passed about like the maidens in the songs.

Instead of sitting back down, Tywin took you before the king, bowing and excusing the two of you. “We must retire for the night, your Grace. Lady Lannister is very tired,” he said shortly, bowing once more as the king waved you away.

You followed him, your face indignant, but you did not dare question him until you were out of earshot of any high lords. “I most certainly am not tired, My Lord,” you said, running a little to keep up with his long strides. “I do not need to be bundled off to bed like a child- again,”

Tywin ignored your complaints, only speaking once you arrived at the entrance to the Tower- and even then he only spoke to the guard at the door. “No one is to enter this tower until tomorrow,” he said lowly, before all but frog-marching you through the door and up the winding stairs.

“My lord?” You asked cautiously when you arrived at his chambers. “Have I displeased you?”

Tywin turned around to face you. “No, wife,” he murmured, stepping closer to you so that you had to look up at him. “You have not displeased me… exasperated, perhaps, but not displeased,” you smiled slightly, opening your mouth to speak, but Tywin cupped your head with both of his hands, his thumbs stroking your jaw. “I intend to bed you tonight, My Lady,” he said, voice gravelly. Your face heated, but you nodded slowly. “Your body should be ready to take me once more,” he continued. “That is if you are agreeable?” He added, raising a brow. He had laid out from the beginning that while he expected you to do your duty and provide him with a son, he would not have you in his bed unwilling.

Nodding slowly, eyes wide as you stared up at him, you let out a shaky breath. "I… yes. Please," you murmured your consent, following him out of the solar to his adjoining bedchamber, where the hearth was crackling and the luxurious bedsheets were already turned down. Tywin poured out a cup of wine, offering you it, nodding when you smiled at the vintage before finishing the cup for you.

“Do you think it will hurt?” You murmured out of the blue, taking your jewellery off and setting it on his dresser.

“It may be a little uncomfortable, perhaps. Not as painful as childbirth, I’m sure, nor breaking your maidenhead,” your eyes widened at his words and he smirked. He so loved to see you flustered. “Such an innocent, wife,” he said, stepping closer to you and undoing the pins in your hair. He nodded his approval when you unwound the braids, shaking out your hair.

“It has been a while…” you considered, looking up at him in the mirror as he stepped behind you, beginning to unlace your gown.

“It has,” he said in agreement.

“Will you be gentle with me?” You whispered, eyes widening as his hand slipped up your front, over your breasts, lightly squeezing your throat before he tilted your head to the side.

“Absolutely not,” he growled into the juncture of your neck and shoulder, his teeth grazing there as your gown fell stiffly to the floor.

You made to turn to begin undressing him, but he lightly batted your hands away, continuing to strip you of your stays and chemise until you were bare before him.

Eyes downcast, you made to wrap your arms around yourself; your pregnancy had left it’s mark on your body, your belly soft and marked with stretch marks, your breasts hanging heavier than they had when you first married. Tywin held your hands by your sides briefly, before his large hands claimed your hips, his thumbs massaging the softness of your belly. “I want another babe in your belly before year’s end,” he said lowly, making you shiver. “I want to watch you swell again with another of my heirs,”

“Yes, my lord,” you breathed, your breath hitching as he gripped your hips tighter, drawing your naked body to his, your skin hot against the cool metalwork of his belt and buttons. Slowly, he began to walk you backwards until your knees hit the edge of the bed, and he helped you up onto the mattress, his eyes blazing with lust. His green-gold eyes pierced you as he removed his chain of linked golden hands, his doublet, his boots and trousers too. Your eyes flicked down briefly as you admired your husband’s build; despite his age, Tywin was fit and strong, and your glance did not go unnoticed by him.

Tywin got up onto the bed, looking down at you as he came up between your legs, which fell apart willingly to allocate his breadth, to which he hummed with approval, his hands dragging up your thighs. You sighed softly as your body refamiliarised itself with the weight atop it, offering him a soft, shy smile. He returned it with a rare quirk of his lips, before his fingers teased closer to your exposed core, shushing you gently when you gasped. Whimpering, you arched your back as he dipped his fingers into your waiting wetness, body tense. “Are you in pain, wife?” He said lowly, his movements stilling.

“No…” you whispered, pushing your hips up to his hand as if to reassure him.

He nodded, looking down at you as his fingers worked you open for the first time in months, though he did not seem out of practice in the slightest. He watched intently as your face contorted, brow furrowing and mouth falling open, and your body twisted while you clenched around his fingers. When he felt the erotic spasming of your inner walls, he nodded and hummed with satisfaction, before withdrawing his fingers. You watched in awe as he used your release coating his fingers and dripping onto his palm to slick up his cock.

“You look as though you belong in a pleasure house in Lys, spread out like that,” he said, his voice gravelly with desire. And he had a point; your breasts rose and fell with shaky, heavy breaths; your eyes were now dark with lust, brow furrowed and lips plump as you stared down at him, propped up on the pillows with your hair splayed out.

“Are you calling me a whore, My Lord?” You questioned, pushing yourself up on your elbows.

“No,” he said, guiding his cock to you. “But if you were a whore, you would be mine alone,”

He grunted, pushing into your tightness. With a cry, you tossed your head back, your nails clawing into the Lion of Lannister’s muscled back and arms as you adjusted to his invasion. You hissed out a curse between your teeth, gasping as he stilled, smirking down at you. “Such deplorable language,” he said, and you could only whimper in response, gritting your teeth and scratching at his back. Despite his promise to not be gentle with you, he held you tight to his body by your thigh, massaging the quivering limb with his hand as you adjusted to the suffocating tightness of your union. With a needy whine, you rolled your hips experimentally, grinding your clit against his pubis. The resulting tightening of your channel had him hissing in pleasure, and with a low groan he began to move with slow deep thrusts that had your head spinning.

One hand still gripping his bicep like a vice, you trailed your other hand over his shoulder anchoring yourself as you made feeble attempts to meet his movements. Grunting, Tywin grasped onto your hips, before moving his grip to your thighs, holding them apart as he began to fuck you harder, faster. You cried out at the shift in pace, arching your back as Lord Tywin took his pleasure (though he gave just as much as he took). He let out a groan of pleasure as his own thighs trembled and his hips stuttered, and he emptied his seed into you.

Moaning lowly, you fell back into the pillows, panting. You felt the bed dip then settle as he withdrew from you and stood, and your eyes slipped shut as you heard him rustling about the room, the door slamming shut. You frowned. He must have dressed quickly. With a sigh, you stood up, albeit shakily and slipped your chemise back on. His thick seed seeped down your thigh as you stood before the mirror, combing out the tangles in your hair with your fingers.

The door opened, and Tywin stepped into the room, but before he acknowledged you, he turned to what you assumed was his squire. “Have the servants bring up two plates from the feast, and a flagon of Arbor Gold,” he said to the lad, who responded with a quiet ‘yes, My Lord.’ “And see to it that Lady Lannister’s handmaidens know to come here on the morrow with her gown and jewels. She will be staying here tonight,”

He dismissed the squire with a nod and shut the door, turning to you with raised eyebrows. “I wasn’t sure if you’d want me to return to my own chambers, my Lord,” you murmured, finally able to smooth your hair down over your shoulders.

“Indeed not,” he said simply. “I was merely arranging some supper and wine,”

You crossed your arms. “And for my handmaidens to come here on the morrow?” You teased.

Tywin only smirked, prowling over to you. “Indeed,” he said. “It would seem, wife, that we must return to bed…” you cocked your head to the side, looking up at him curiously. “An heir will not find its way into your belly if my seed is dripping down your thighs, now, will it?”

[hotchshands]

A Pleasant Surprise

Masterlist | Taglist | AO3

Summary: Hotch starts noticing things about you; You've been eating more, gaining a little weight, craving more attention, and sleeping more. He just assumes it's nothing to worry about until he realizes the real reason why you've been changing.

Pairings: Aaron Hotchner x pregnant!reader

Word Count: 1.1k

Contains: fluff, mentions of pregnancy symptoms, established relationship, mentions of body insecurity, no use of y/n, hotch's pov

A/N: Hotch's toothy smile gets me every mf time!

There was something off about you. Hotch had known it for weeks but couldn't put his finger on it. You seemed to be eating more than you typically would; in fact, you gained weight at your last doctor's appointment. Hotch would remember cause you came back from the doctor's office pouting and asking him if you "looked fat." Hotch immediately ran to your side to comfort you, telling you how beautiful you are. Five pounds heavier or not, you will always be beautiful to him. After that, Hotch made sure to keep a closer eye on you. He noticed you changing more and more every day.

Typically, you'd only get around seven hours of sleep if you were lucky, but now you sleep around nine hours a day. You were also more mushy than normal. You never really liked physical touch, and Hotch understood why, as he, too, was not a big fan of touch either, but lately, you have been craving his touch. During the day, you would sit close to him at the round table and on the plane, reach for his hand whenever it was empty, and play with his fingers. At night, you would crawl into bed as soon as possible and rush to his side to cuddle. Hotch loved this new side of you. He loved the attention and love you gave him every day, but he couldn't help but wonder why.

One day after work, it finally hit him.

You both had finally gotten home from work. Jack was already asleep in his room, and it was almost time for you and Hotch to sleep. After exiting Jack's room, Hotch could see you in the kitchen. The lights were dim, but he saw you grabbing a tub of ice cream from the freezer. You grabbed a bowl and scooped three decent-sized scoops of vanilla ice cream before putting the tub in the freezer. You then grabbed some cookies from the pantry, breaking pieces off into your bowl of ice cream. Hotch continued to watch you from afar, analyzing your every move, trying to pinpoint the cause of this new behavior. He came up blank.

You moved the ice cream into your room, sat on the bed under the covers, and began to feast on your late-night treat. Hotch followed you in curiosity before asking, "Ice cream and cookies? I'm surprised you have the energy." You shrugged in response, ignoring Hotch's comment. Maybe he shouldn't have said anything, he thought to himself as he walked into the bathroom to brush his teeth. Mid brush, he could hear the sound of the TV on. The noise made him drift off into thought. He listed out everything that has changed in you and began compiling a list of possible causes. Stress? Nope, it can't be that since your lives are always stressful, and they haven't been more or less stressful in the past few weeks. Could it be your depression? Hotch doubted it. You have been taking your medication regularly, never missing a dose, and you wouldn't crave attention in a depressive state. Maybe it's biological, not mental. Were you sick? You weren't coughing, wheezing, or sneezing. Then it slowly started to hit him.

Hotch spits out the toothpaste when he begins to get flashbacks to when Haley was pregnant with Jack. He remembers the morning sickness, the increase in appetite, the need for him to be around 24/7, and the pain. He wiped his mouth on a towel nearby, not really much attention to what he was doing. Could you be? Nope. You were taking birth control, and you guys haven't really been sexually active lately. The last time you had sex was before all this change.

Hotch looked over at you from inside the bathroom. You were in the same position as before, eating your ice cream while watching what appeared to be some crime show. Funny how you go from working on crime cases to watching crime cases unfold on the big screen. He returned to his nighttime routine, moving into the bedroom to grab pajamas. He could tell that you were watching his every move out of the corner of his eye. He chucked to himself before going back into the bathroom to change. While changing, his mind returned back to your predicament. He couldn't help but return to the pregnancy theory as he secretly hoped it was true. You weren't in any type of pain, though, and no morning sickness. That is when he remembered overhearing you talk about your mom's love for being pregnant.

"I swear if my mom didn't have her tubes tied, she would love nothing more than to be pregnant again. All she did was walk around naked eating chocolate," you said while sitting at your desk.

Derek and Emily looked a bit terrified, but Spencer didn't. In fact, Spencer went on a rant about how DNA can affect a pregnancy and how everyone can have an array of symptoms. "It's quite common for people to experience pregnancy differently. In fact, research has shown that genetics can factor into nausea experienced during pregnancy. So, based on that, you'll probably have a smooth pregnancy like your mom," Spencer informed the group.

"Ok, pretty boy, you need to stop reading those pregnancy books JJ has," Derek says as the group returns to their respective work.

Oh my God. You were pregnant. That had to be why you acted differently these last few weeks. Hotch quickly finished getting dressed before running into the bedroom. "You're pregnant," he says quite loudly before jumping on the bed and putting your ice cream on the nightstand beside you so he can hug you.

"I'm what now?" You asked, looking at Hotch confused.

Hotch released you from his embrace, placing his hands on your face. "You, my love, are pregnant. We're pregnant," he spoke softly, only to return to hugging you tightly. You sat in silence, too stunned to speak. You tried to wrap your head around the idea of a baby growing inside of you, but you just couldn't understand why Hotch thought you were pregnant. "I'm pregnant?" you asked Hotch as if trying to convince yourself of it. Hotch pulled away from your body to look down at you. He could see the worry and confusion on your face, and he began to wonder, "Do you not want a baby?"

You looked away for a moment to think about it. It's not that you never wanted a baby, but you just couldn't imagine having one. You guys already have Jack, which was enough for you, but the more you thought about it, the more you smiled at the idea. Hotch is already an amazing father, and you weren't the worst with Jack. The two of you could definitely make a second child work, and the team would be thrilled at the idea of yet another little member of the BAU.

You looked back at Hotch, staring into each other's eyes. You moved in and gave him a little kiss on the lips before whispering, "We're gonna have a baby."

[stxrvel]

intrusive (4)

series summary. the holy grail of the seven men who ruled the country's entertainment used to be your friends at school. now, ten years later and between successes and failures, what reason would they have to want to come back into your life? pairing. eventually ot7 x f!reader. content. THIS IS EDITED!! there are new scenes!! 16/9. first of all, english is not my first language so sorry for any mistakes! sadness, lots of mixed feelings, self-hatred, flashbacks, flashbacks. a/n. hi guysssssssssss. its been a while, i know and im so sorry. i hope this chapter doesn't feel too rushed. truth be told, between life issues and that i've been having trouble with inspiration for scenes it took me a while to build this, but surprisingly i'm pleased with the result. now, where do you think we're going and what will we do from here on out?????? surprises come, surprises go. thank you all for your continued support!! i really appreciate the feedback from all of you and reading your comments makes my days. for those who are still here, thank you. see you next time!

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There were too many loose ends to tie up. There were too many empty spaces, too many misunderstood moments that kept your hair standing on end every so often or every time you remembered. They were like gaps, things you didn't know how they had gotten there, how they had happened, or how someone else knew. And you were accumulating them, suspicious, somewhat delusional and paranoid if you asked anyone, but they were held in that space in the back of your head waiting for the right moment to come out.

Between moments of lucidity and memories of the past, there were many things you had superficially let slip by.

Yuna was in front of you, her brow furrowed in concentration and her eyes almost square from the amount of time she had already spent in front of the computer. You had been at it all day, so the moment your friend appeared like it was her own living room and everyone acted like it was nothing out of the ordinary, you just plopped down on the couch with a calm expression, waiting for the perfect moment to let certain things out, to ask certain questions.

There were moments of enlightenment, there were moments of brilliant discoveries. And that day you had discovered something you had forgotten because of the brevity of its recognition, but in retrospect it was something worth knowing, even if there were still too many things, more important things, of which you were ignorant. At that moment, all gathered in the living room of your parents' house, the most important thing was what was on your mind.

“Yuna.”

Your friend barely shook her head in acknowledgement of her name. Your parents were arranging the table in the middle of the couches to settle lunch, surely a big feast like every other day for the past few days and the only reason Seojun took virtual classes that day, and your brother was ogling the dishes with his mouth ajar. Eugh.

But none of them were paying too much attention. Food, social media, ordering, direct messaging, arranging the geometrically correct dishes… everyone had their heads in their own world, and that's why you could hear the moment your father's hair touched the ground when you asked:

“You were the one who set up my book booth at the last convention?”

Four pairs of eyes bore into you.

“What?”

You looked at her expectantly, not letting the mischief interfere with your plans.

“No…! I didn't-I mean, what are you talking about?”

Yuna let out a nervous laugh, just after correcting herself when she got a blunt look from your mother. Your father stood stiffly behind his wife, the frying pan in his hands wobbling so clearly that a few drops of the soup dripped onto the wood of the floor. Your mother leaned over, leaving the plate she was carrying on the table, sending Seojun a look that caused him to swallow his saliva sonorously.

The scene was so comical that you really had a hard time not bursting out laughing.

“It's just that when I talked to Sol this morning she commented something…”

You let the words hover in the air, straining them each time it came to one of them. Yuna straightened up, completely forgetting about the computer for a second, peeling her back off the couch where she was leaning on the floor. Your father snorted in surprise so hard that he was attacked by a cough and your mother had to take the frying pan away from him before he watered down all the soup from all the shaking. Seojun hid behind your mother's legs and you just plopped down on the couch, stretching your legs over the armrest, satisfied with their reactions.

“And what did she say to you, honey?”

Your mother was the most composed, finishing arranging the dishes around the pan while your father had run out to the living room for a glass of water. Among the foursome, your mother was the only one who truly knew what dissimulation meant. You had no doubt that her sisterhood with the others in the room would end once you told them you already knew everything.

“She told me she was afraid I hadn't been able to see what you had done for me,” you frowned looking up at the ceiling, looking genuinely confused. “And it was weird, because we were talking about the last convention.”

Yuna let out a laugh, incredulous.

“And why would you be talking about that with Sol?”

Putting the antics aside, you stood up on your forearms and glared at her.

“Why did you do that?”

“What did I do?”

“Sol told me it was your idea.”

“That's not true!”

“Ah…” you held a hand to your forehead, as if you had just remembered something important. Your gaze swept around the room and Seojun cringed when your eyes landed on him. “True. She said it had been your idea.”

Before Yuna could send a warning glance at your brother, Seojun raised his hand and pointed at your friend, exclaiming:

“It was her idea! It was all Yuna's idea! Tell her mom!”

The two aforementioned closed their eyes, taking a deep breath and bringing their fingers to the bridge of their noses. Their expressions of ennui were unmatched and promptly Seojun was cringing for a completely different reason.

“You're such a jerk,” Yuna mumbled, almost barking in the direction of the poor man seeking to escape his mother's lethal gaze. Instantly, your friend turned her gaze in your direction, meeting that amused look that curled her annoyance just for a millisecond. “I thought you'd be more upset.”

“I was,” you lifted a shoulder, leaning back against the back of the couch as you listened to the string of scoldings your mom was in between yelling and whispering to your brother. “But it's impossible not to see reason when you're talking to someone like Sol.

Yuna also nodded in consideration. It was something that, not just the two of you, but all of Sol's workers agreed with. Sol had a warmth about her, a homely feel to her that made you automatically trust her and take it for granted that, if she told you everything would work out, it was because it would; whether it was by chance of the universe or because she would see to it that it did.

“Then it was a good thing you heard it from her mouth and not your inept brother's,” Yuna sent her another withering glare and you couldn't help the smile that twitched your corners as you watched your mother move the bowl of tteokbokki away from her grasp. It was so funny to see that he didn't always get the baby of the house treatment for a change.

“Were you planning on taking that to your grave?”

Yuna turned, arching her eyebrows. With her lips set in a thin line, you knew she was thinking about choosing the right words to answer you, even though that thing they'd done had led directly to the fact that, at that moment, you'd been able to afford the luxury of asking for vacation for the first time and focusing on what you truly loved to do. Even if they had worked behind your back, the result had not been so fatal.

If you took a few unwanted people out of the equation, that is.

Your friend finally softened her gaze.

“No, I knew you'd find out at some point. From whoever's mouth. A secret can only be kept from so many people.” Yuna rolled her eyes, moving to listen to your father complain from the kitchen. “But I didn't think Sol would tell you so openly. Was it on purpose?”

“Yes. I think she was trying to convince me or make up for something. I'm not sure which.”

Yuna raised her eyebrows, cocking her head in tension for barely a second. If not for the years you'd known her, you probably would've interpreted her short-lived reaction as genuine curiosity, the desire for a tidbit of gossip. But your friend's tension was palpable and it was something that left you wondering a bit, especially when she didn't speak until your father returned to the kitchen.

“Honey, I think I'm going to get a sore throat.”

There were too many loose ends to tie up. There were too many empty spaces, too many misunderstood moments. There were too many things you were still ignorant of and had no idea about; things far beyond what was happening in the present.

There were things you still didn't understand, like why and how Jeon Jungkook, the country's most famous idol and probably one of the celebrities most likely to have easiest facial recognition on the street, had so stealthily stumbled upon your whereabouts or why he had acted as if seeing you again was a reunion with his lost puppy from years ago.

“Are you still upset, noona?”

Seojun watched you warily, your sidelong glance leading him to cower once more behind your father. With lunch settled and the tension gone (barely), you all had been able to enjoy an enjoyable moment. After all, the dense atmosphere that still lingered was only due to the fact that teasing Seojun was fun and more satisfying when you had no reason to do so.

It all came from a great consideration that your family, and even Sol, had for you, trying to support you however they could, even if you didn't even seek their help. As much as you wanted to (and didn't really want to) there wasn't much reason to get angry. Less so when the outcome, likewise, had been favorable.

“We should focus on what's important,” Yuna dipped her spoon into the almost non-existent conversation, finishing her meal and leaving the plate practically glistening, to which your mother was able to sketch a satisfied smile. “We have a meeting this afternoon.”

“Ah. Yes,” Seojun nodded, remembering his place as the second-in-command of the business, because you had actually been relieved of any position you might have held in your own business. “As the person in charge of the treasury of this company, I must admit that the decision made is the most appropriate and in our best interests.”

Yuna narrowed her eyes, seeming it was almost impossible for her to ignore your brother's annoying presence.

“What have you contributed to this business to call yourself the person in charge of the treasury?”

“I've done a lot for this project! Besides, you are focused on advertising. You should be in charge of the public relations department.”

“And I can't handle both?!”

“I set up all the lines of communication with the delivery people and organized the accounts with Dad!” Seojun pulled Dad's shirt collar, pulling him close to his face with a frown. Your dad only let him be, as he savored a wing. “You took charge of net with mom. We can't reverse charges now. Experience and reality speak for themselves.”

Yuna clicked her tongue, irritated.

“Whatever,” shaking her head, she flipped the computer on the table so Seojun and your parents could get a good look at the proposal you had accepted, after arduous study over the weekend as a family. “After a long board meeting, which stretched over the entire weekend, this was the accepted offer.”

You could almost see the zeros running in your brother's eyes, with a budding smile making its way across his face. Your parents looked pleased, proud. And Yuna kept that determined expression; she was really taking all this seriously and you didn't know yet how you could thank her for it.

“Ah…” your mother sighed, holding a hand to her chest. “It's finally happening.”

When she sent you that look with the sparkling eyes you couldn't help but shrink back on your spot on the floor.

“Mom, I think it's best we avoid getting too excited until we've signed.”

Your mother nodded, closing her eyes and breathing to keep her composure.

“Accepted the offer, we were summoned to their facility, which is where we will be heading after resting from this delicious lunch.” Yuna smiled radiantly in your mother's direction. Sometimes you wondered if she wasn't missed at home. But… no, she was much better off here.

“My children have to rest very well to make the best decisions at that meeting,” your mother nodded, stroking Yuna's hair superficially and getting up to pick up the dishes. Seojun got up to help her, but your father stopped him, keeping the warm smile on his face. Of all of them, your father was the most expressive, but you knew that at that moment he was holding back only because at the slightest he would burst into tears. And yes, with a simple glance in your direction, his eyes watered and he had to run away hugging the dishes against his chest.

Seojun sighed dramatically.

“I wish they had been this excited when I entered college.”

Yuna moved across the table, smacking him on the forehead that left him with an instant redness.

“What are you talking about, idiot? You celebrated all weekend.”

Seojun didn't respond, touching his forehead with a grimace. Yuna snorted, not believing your brother's audacity, and turned her focus back to the contents of the proposal you had received from Noble Publishing Apgujeong. You still remembered the screams that had echoed throughout the house when they found the letter from that publishing house in the mail, the most prestigious and probably the highest one could aspire to in the world of writing and for the purposes of editing and publishing. There wasn't a book published under that publishing house that wasn't a success, and that they had sought you out themselves was a great privilege.

“Speaking of celebrations,” Seojun took the floor again, when your parents had finished taking the dishes away and agreed that you would wash them all together before youo left for the publishing house, because nothing was good enough, ”I don't think we've had a moment to at least pop a champagne and celebrate this.”

Your parents remained thoughtful, but you were already shaking your head when Yuna spoke:

“It's true,” her frown said she couldn't believe they hadn't done it yet, but between so many chores, to-dos and new things you were discovering on this new path, you couldn't just take the luxury of doing nothing for a few hours. There was a lot to work on. “We should do it after the meeting. With the contract at home, it will be much better!”

Your father and Seojun cheered in agreement and your mother gave a few claps.

“You're working tomorrow, Yuna.”

“So what?” your friend frowned at you. “Do you think it'll be the first time I've gone to work with a hangover?”

Your mom's throat clearing startled her, and she quickly melted like pudding with a sheepish grin.

“But this time it will be for a good cause…and it won't happen again.”

Your mom nodded, not very convinced.

“Incidentally,” Yuna regained her posture, sending a glare at Seojun, ”we could have y/n finally watch the video reactions of her books.”

“You haven't seen them?” Seojun exclaimed and suddenly the four pairs of eyes felt very threatening.

“… no…”

“Mom?? Did you hear that?!”

“Sweetheart!” your father exclaimed, looking at you as if he had heard that you did something worthy of banishment. “Why haven't you seen the videos, don't you know the good things they say about you?”

“The compliments,” your mother nodded. “Almost the entire internet loves your books.”

“That's an exaggeration, mom…”

“How did you even avoid all that hype?” Seojun asked, leaning over the table. “Even Dad's TikTok wasn't spared, and he only watches National Geographic videos.”

“…I muffled a few words.”

A roar of incredulous refusals followed your words and promptly everyone was moving to corner you against the couch so you had no escape.

“There is no time to waste.” Seojun nodded in Yuna's direction and it offended you too much that the only times they agreed was to do something against you.

“Mrs. l/n, I think dessert will be popcorn,” Yuna moved her computer closer to the center of the table as Seojun settled in behind you, each of your parents on your sides as your friend opened the TikTok web app.

“Hey, no… no. I'm not ready to watch this. I'm not-”

“Nonsense, noona. Even better, this will give you a big confidence boost for the meeting this afternoon.”

You didn't believe Seojun at all. Your nerves were on edge as Yuna moved to sit next to your brother and the first words of the first video echoed in the living room:

“My honest opinion of the A Million Swords trilogy…”

-

“Do you think I might publish any of these one day?”

Your fingers drummed on the keyboard of the desktop computer, watching the letters spinning a story that no one yet knew. No one, except for you and Taehyung at that moment. His gaze was confused as his dark eyes hid behind the dark, unruly, damp locks of his hair. For a pool day, you couldn't have had a better time than writing parts of your still unfinished story, the one you used to run away to when you had a whole reality to mold in front of you. Maybe you should have paid a little more attention back then; attention to details, to gestures, to distances, to forced smiles; maybe if you had paid that kind of attention you would have been able to foresee everything that would happen later… maybe then it wouldn't have hurt so much.

But at that moment, at 14, you could only see with stars in your eyes the enormous possibility that you thought writing would open up for you; the world you were about to discover, much farther away than you thought.

That weekend the pool party was at your house. Jimin had brought a gigantic inflatable pool withJungkook and they all kept splashing water in each other's eyes in the backyard. In your prolonged absence, surely, Taehyung had ventured inside the house to the only place he would know you would be if it wasn't next to them.

“Do I think? I'm absolutely sure.”

Taehyung shook the droplets slipping from the ends of his hair all over your face.

“Tae!”

“Why are you doubting it?”

“I never said I was doubting it.”

Your friend took one of the armchairs that each of the boys had recast in your room, which no matter how much you pulled them out always ended up there again, to sit next to you and watch the unfinished paragraphs on the computer screen. There were four armchairs already gathering dust in the corner of the room that you still hadn't had the heart to take them out.

“Look at that,” the brown-haired man moved his face closer to the screen, splashing more water on you, with a mischievous grin. “It was desire that stirred me, far beyond the reach of reason or any cognitive faculty. In the depths of my being, I knew with unshakable certainty that I was right. Their gaze scrutinized my every expression, searching for ways to break me, while their fingers, far from innocent, accused me relentlessly. Yet, even as the weight of their scrutiny bore down on me, there was no realm, no dimension in this vast, boundless universe where I had not chosen him above all else. Not even as the streets ignited, the houses crumbled to ashes, and the roar of thunder drowned out the cries for mercy…who writes like that?”

“y/n!”

Your other two friends appeared, reveling in the unapproved reading of the first draft of your first novel, and you felt your cheeks burn with embarrassment.

You moved quickly to press the off button and your friends barely let out a short laugh.

“Don't ever do that again.”

“Then don't ever doubt you again.”

“I wasn't doubting! It was just a question…”

“She just wants you to be honest, Tae.” Jimin entered the room, moving right behind his friend and flashing a smile that made your hair stand on end.

“Honest...?”

“Shut up, Jimin.”

The aforementioned barely let out a laugh, under the scrutinizing and confused expressions of his other two friends.

“What do you mean?” Jungkook spoke, trying to gain ground in that unfamiliar room, clasping his hands in front of him in nervousness. He didn't even understand why he was nervous, he just knew he didn't like the obfuscated expression on your face.

“Nothing, Junkookie, Jimin's just an idiot who only knows how to spout rubbish.”

“Rubbish? Where do you even get those words from?”

“I learned it yesterday in literature class!”

“Uh-huh…”

“Stop it, Jimin!”

-

He wasn't a person to be caught off guard. His cautious attitude was something he had developed over time; with the experience of going through and surviving difficult situations; with the toughness of making strong decisions and constantly bearing the burden of being at fault for their consequences.

So no, Min Yoongi took it upon himself to plan things around him so meticulously that every aspect of his life had a place and a time; an hour and a second.

A planning so perfect that at that moment it was slipping through his hands like sand. His friend… no, Dohyun could do nothing but rest his hands against his desk sending him an obfuscated look, trying to look almost as disgruntled as Yoongi was at what he had learned would happen in that office.

“Of all the things I thought you could tell me…” Choi Dohyun shook his head, and on his face Yoongi could tell there were no words that could qualify his surprise. But he was surprised too, to be honest. He didn't know how he had summoned the fortitude to move so quickly from across town, from his study, to arrive at Dohyun's office and blurt that out to his face as if it were any Tuesday afternoon, as if he were simply inviting him to dinner at his house. “I've never underestimated you, Yoongi-ah, but this…”

“Who contacted you?”

“Who contacted me?” Dohyun let out a laugh, which felt a little heavy to Yoongi as he shifted his weight on his feet. “What makes you think I can't recognize a good deal from a distance when I see one? They call me the Shark for a reason, don't you think? I smell business like they smell blood in the sea.”

Yoongi clasped his hands at his sides, a gesture that didn't go unnoticed by Dohyun, who looked up and barely ran his tongue over his teeth before plopping back down on his ergonomic chair.

“The decision is already made,” was all he said to him, generating a flutter of emotions inside Yoongi.

“Who contacted you?” Yoongi insisted, feeling time slipping through his fingers. “How did you find out about… this?”

Dohyun let out a laugh, bordering on sarcasm and disbelief. Yoongi would've taken more time to think about it there, to ponder what he was doing, what his impulses were pushing him to do. But within the framework of his decisions and conflicting feelings, Yoongi had taken a path that he could no longer undo and the least he could do was avoid was to generate collateral damage to someone. Just for the chance to try, even though the probability of having the universe in his favor was microscopic, he decided not to give in to reason.

Maybe he would still be the villain in someone else's story, but in his conscience… maybe… maybe he was right and was looking for no way to excuse himself; to excuse things he could no longer change; to excuse behaviors he could no longer erase and decisions he could no longer undo.

Perhaps, too, it was the price he had to pay for what he had done. For what he had said; for what he had not said; for what he had done and what he had not done; for his action and his omission; for his perpetration and complicity. If Yoongi had known that time in his twenties that such a decision would have taken things so far, so close to the impossibility of healing, he surely would not have made it .

But to regret now, what good would it do him? To mutter apologies now, what good would it do him? To dig through the fibers of an unbridled heart, what good would it do him?

“Yoongi. I am the head of the largest publishing house in this country. If you thought I was going to see fluttering around the internet this opportunity in a million and as an entrepreneur and investor I wasn't going to take it, who are you taking me for?”

He should've dragged Namjoon away when he saw him in the parking lot, because business was his forte and not Yoongi's. Yoongi might as well cringe at Dohyun's words because how was he going to refute them. He had come with fortitude, yes. He had come with resolve and determination, yes; believing that this decision was the right thing to do, the least he could do right. And yet, at that crucial moment, with everything against him and the swords at his neck, Yoongi had his arms crossed again.

Maybe he should've dragged Namjoon along, but… how would he know if he was on his side?

“But don't worry. I'll try to keep you apart. You know I always separate personal matters from my work.”

Dohyun was a professional liar. If telling lies were a profession, Dohyun would quadruple the fortune he now boasts as the owner of the country's largest publishing house. Yoongi hated the way he covered up his poisonous words with honey, as if he couldn't see through the thin texture of the liquid how everything was corroding around him. And Dohyun was not his friend, if he wasn't sure before, he was now.

It's business, Namjoon would say, as rational and objective as ever; a businessman can't have someone around who attacks his vision, his business, that's an enemy.

Yoongi right now was a blob of green soup on Dohyun's pole, about to walk to an important meeting where he would close a million-dollar deal. His insignificance bordered on indescribability, but his diminutive presence was big enough to be considered a splinter in the foot.

The phone rang, breaking the tension in the atmosphere, and instead of answering it, Dohyun sent a glance toward the oak doors and then to Yoongi's limp body. Clasping his hands once again, it shook him inside to think that once again he allowed himself to be trampled. Once again, he was going to be the misfortune in someone's life.

“They're already here,” Dohyun almost muttered, an amused expression on his face. “You can leave now or you can stay and watch.”

Yoongi knew he'd be happy to have him there, watching him bite his tongue, trying to swallow his embarrassment. And wouldn't it be simpler to just leave, to brush against the fate he once let slip away as if it were something so trivial that it didn't tear a piece of his soul to even think about it; to brush against an opportunity he missed, selfish and presumptuous, as if he were the only one whose heart was beating with pain that day.

“I've never asked you for anything…”

“And neither have I,” Dohyun interrupted him, raising his gaze serenely, lifting his chin to acerbic dominance. “And all I'm asking you now is to stay out of my business.”

And Yoongi would've had to agree with Namjoon, because business and money definitely change a person. No one can rise to a high position, of Choi Dohyun's level, without having scored a big armory and a few degrees of tough personality willing to kill to get what they want.

“I received you out of courtesy. To Jin. But I won't tolerate another second of this.”

Dohyun mumbled, and the moment he brought the phone to his ear, Yoongi knew he had lost. Again.

“Hyung…” Yoongi closed his eyes, helplessness winning out over reason, the word sour in his mouth.

“No. I'm sorry, but no. It will happen. Just make your decision, I don't want my guests to wait too long.”

He didn't know if the grinding of his teeth was as loud as he heard it in his head. He didn't know if his behavior was over the top or understandable. He didn't know if he had a right to those emotions or if he had lost it more than ten years ago. Well, ten years in her head. He didn't know if he deserved that moment; to share that space and time and catch off guard someone who could become as cautious as he was now; because if Yoongi learned from anyone to be the way he was today, it was because of her.

He didn't know, in retrospect, if he ever made a good decision in his life.

-

i reeaally want to know your thoughts on this one!! re-edited!

tag: @rinkud @futuristicenemychaos @pastelpeachess @parapiop7 @kokoandkookie @midiplier @thunderg @lizzymizzy-blogg @ladymorrie @butnotmontana @lovelgirl22 @jjeonjjk7 @aurorathi @ot7stansthings @kunacat @borahaetelevision @mylovingstars @ghostlyworld @talyaaas-blog @slowlyshycomputer @jjk174 @maynina @saintomie @damn-u-min-yoongi @juju-227592@yoongznme @queenbloody @leeeeeeeeeeeeeeeesworld @zippaur @v4ksk4tz @kookierry @idk179634 @canarystwin @elliott-calls @devilzliaison @butnotmontana @ismelllikechlorine247 @19yearoldjstryingtolivelife @thatgirliehan @yuuuumii @welcometomyworld13 @sugarbaby69x @whoa-jo @chaotickyrith @dreamerwasfound @darlingz99

[heauxvibez]

He Loves To Talk You Through It

warning: Smut (18+), shoutout to @shes2real for inspiring me because they ATE DOWN with what they wrote today. Please go check their page out!

-

One thing we all love and know Roman for is his way with words. He has a passion for talking, reveling in the sound of his own voice. Yet, as much as he loved to speak, it couldn't compare to the pleasure you felt listening to him.

"Tell daddy how much you love when I fuck you like this..when I look you in the eyes while I hit that spot."

His words always caressed your ears softly, even when they were rough and demanding. Whether he was pinning you down or had his calloused hands wrapped around your throat, every word he spoke felt like a sensual embrace, leaving you breathless with each and every syllable.

"Runnin' ain't gon do nothin’ but make me wanna go deeper.."

That man always makes you feel so many things at once. He has this incredible ability to be both rough and gentle, his words so sinister yet whispered through soft, angelic lips that set your skin ablaze. Your tender, supple skin is handled by his calloused hands, which somehow manage to hold you delicately, with the same gentleness he used to handle your heart.

"Eyes on me.." he commanded with your ass firmly pressed against his pelvis, his dick deep in you almost melting and molding into your wetness as he searched for that spot.

"And don't look away, at all."

You locked eyes with him, staring into his dark eyes through the bedroom closet mirror. That warm, fuzzy feeling in your chest consumed your whole body when he did this. He knew that making you look at him while he snatched every fiber of your being from you would not only make you extremely nervous but also have you begging for mercy.

"A pretty girl like you can't be fucked without me seeing every single moan leave those pretty lips.."

Your whimpers are like music to his ears but listening to them while you were faced down, ass up was never good enough for him. He thrived off having you pinned against his body, physically feeling you fall apart against his skin while you threw your head in the air and allowed your sobs to paint the room.

"Yeah, just like that. Fuck, baby girl. I got you.."

His muscles twitched and tensed against your backside as he held you close by your throat with the hand accompanied by his sleeve. Watching that arm flex as he controlled you practically had your essence dripping down his length. His beautiful smile lines deepened as his lips curled into that sexy smirk that had you swooning each and every time. He watched your eyes divert for a quick second to look at the tattoo. Jesus, he literally had you in a chokehold.

"Look at you, so fucking weak for me right now...melting in my fucking arms,"

Your eyes never left his, just as he wanted, locked in a soul snatching gaze. He felt your body crumbling with every word he spoke, but he held you up. Each heartbeat, each breath, each moan, whimper, bound you tighter to him,

'That's it mama, keep lookin' at daddy.."

He slowly continues his thrusts, being sure to aim for your sweet spot with each movement of his hips. His right hand always finds it's way to your clit rubbing in slow, agonizing circles sliding in between your slit to dip into your wetness and back to your throbbing pearl.

"Damn. You're so in love with me aren't you baby?" he asks before allowing his tongue to trace his lips.

The air felt thin, almost suffocating. You wondered how you could still look this man in the eyes while releasing soft, desperate gasps. Yet, each sound that escaped you, made him throb in response to each breath you made. Your hands clung to his wrists, not to push him away but to anchor yourself as the pleasure pulsed through you.

"You couldn't hide it if you wanted to, you're so damn wet for me..just for me" Your juices still coated his lips from the taste of you he had earlier. He moaned as his mind gave him a quick flashback of his feasting session earlier.

That moan rumbled through your ear almost pushing you to the edge. His fingers still toyed with your clit, pulling away and turning into soft, light taps when he'd hear your breath quicken.

"Aren't you?" he questioned again, this time a bit firmer. A bit rougher.

"Yes, daddy.." you choked out before your teeth sunk into your lower lip. His touch was still steady against your throat. It felt as if every sound trying to escape you was trapped by his grasp.

"Good." his low and husky voice brushed against your ear.

"Because, I'm just as in love with you.." he breathed out, another moan escaping his lips.

You weren't sure how much more of this sweet torment you could take, but you had no choice. The night would be endlessly filled with his touch and the intoxicating words that flowed from his lips.

"Aht, look at me while you cum, sweetheart. You better not look away."

"I just need you to nut one more time baby."

"That's it my love, give me that nut. Fuck, mmm, I love this shit."

---------------------------

Very very random, but hope you enjoyed it!

Tags: @harmshake @southerngirl41 @spritelucozade @empressdede @alichesmi

@msbigredmachine @theninthwonder @blacst4r @sassginamillls @wrestlingprincess80

@headoftheetable @trashbin-nie @sheyaish @tshepisho @mzv11 @venusesworld

[raven-at-the-writing-desk]

june 2024 octa + 4koma manga updates

As a reminder, no Episode of Savanaclaw manga chapter this month ^^ And without further ado, some of the highlights (in my opinion) of the latest manga updates:

This month's cover page illustration features Yuuta and Grim marveling over a chess board (since at this point in the story they're camping out in Savanaclaw). If you look closely, each of the pieces on the chessboard represent the relevant TWST characters; there are two card soldiers (presumably one for Ace and one for Deuce), a wolf for Jack, a hyena for Ruggie, and a lion for Leona on the "white" side. On the opposing "black" side (fitting, since Azul will OB soon) are two eel pieces for the twins and one octopus piece for Azul.

We continue the adorable overly flattering Ace from last month's chapter! Sad to say that I, too, would be completely fooled by this act-- asbfalebqejdqo The older merguard is also very cute and enthusiastic. I love that the manga can give faceless NPCs and mobs actual eyes. It grants them a lot more personality and soul! We continue the adorable overly flattering Ace from last month's chapter! Sad to say that I, too, would be completely fooled by this act-- asbfalebqejdqo The older merguard is also very cute and enthusiastic. I love that the manga can give faceless NPCs and mobs actual eyes. It grants them a lot more personality and soul!

HECK YEAH, IT'S TWEELS tERRORISM TIME BBABY 🤡 Jade and Floyd got sooo many good shots this chapter????? Love that the second page above shows us just how long Floyd is + how the two genuinely delight in scaring our crew (RIP Ace, he looks so close to death's door when he seeks Jade and Floyd peeking at him).

These panels paint the picture of the chase and fight being very frantic for our crew, but really being a chill game to the Leech brothers. They definitely have the upper hand this whole time, and the art helps to convey that feeling!

(Side note: that face Deuce makes with the pinched mouth is also top tier 👌)

So this chapter is the one where Leona swipes the keys to Azul's vault and robs him of all the golden contracts. This results in many, MANY distressed, panicked, and/or desperate expressions from Azul... all of which are soooo delicious <3 There's a ton more than what I've included here (I picked some of my faves), I just couldn't include them all because of Tumblr post image limits.

THE SMUGZUL LAUGH?????? ?? ??? ?? ?????? ? HIS ANSWER TO THE OJOUSAMA LAUGH

Featuring: out-of-shape nerd (relatable) Azul fans fr feasting this update 🙏

RUGGIIIIIIE 🥰 He makes a lot of :3 faces that are just great!!

ANOTHER THING THAT CAUGHT MY ATTENTION WAS THE SHEER AMOUNT OF LEONA SMUG IN THIS CHAPTER I MEAN SEEING LEONA SMUG MAKES ME GRIT MY TEETH AND WANNA KNOCK HIM DOWN A PEG BUT WOW IS HE PRETTY LIKE THIS AUVYFB32T73RANfhbabfobiqrBI/.L;,'KJM;N GGRRRRRRRRRRRRRR I HAT EYOU KINHSCHPLAR I HATE YOU SO MUCH i'm gONA PUNCHHF YOU IN YOUR STUPID SLUTTY ,.,NAFCLAVICLE

anyway Anyway ANYWAY!!!!!! Azul is so close to snapping now, boys :)))) Soon... SOON, OB AZUL AND CHILD!OCTAVINELLE IN HIS FLASHBACK...

Now for 4koma news! This month features a comic about Epel playing Magift/Spelldrive and another comic about Jamil cooking curry.

My favorite segment from the Epel comic! Grim is peak cuteness here, love that he curls into himself to brace for impact, INCLUDING THE FRIGGIN TAIL.

HLBQVUFOQVIYFA; This part made me think of my Gordon Ramsay in Twisted Wonderland series, specifically the fish-themed installment with Jamil and Deuce; in it, Jamil plots on making a seafood dish to serve to Azul as revenge for the events of book 4. In the Jamil 4koma this month, Jamil sees Octavinelle and then considers making a seafood/fish curry with that smug-ass face in the bottom-most panel 💀 That's all for now! See you next month for more~

[moonshinesonic-moonstarslight]

Scene set up for Cumplane currently writing:

Shen Jiu(Shen Yuan): *Stabs his "father" (Wu Yanzi) in the middle of his wedding reception* A present for all the scars you have given me. Physically, spiritually, and mentally.

Shang Si(Airplane): *Sips the wedding wine* Need a hand, husband?

Shen Jiu/Yuan: *fighting off a grown man and dangerous demonic cultivator* Not yet. Maybe later. Actually, while I'm doing this would you evacuate the three people who don't want to watch this from the venue?

Shang Si/Airplane: *finishes cup* Can do. Have fun and use the curtains if you need to.

Shen Jiu/Yuan: *avoiding getting strangled* You just proved that you are the best wife a man could ask for. Thank you, dear!

Shang Si/Airplane: *gets up and corrals the three regular people at the wedding out of the room* Yes, yes. Save your sweet talking for the bedroom, husband.

Shen Jiu/Yuan: *rolls his eyes before dodging a nasty stab by a cursed sword* (mutters) Somethings never change.

Wu Yanzi: *Regretting going with the idea of marrying off his student just to kill his new bride and feed her to the demon they were to 'hunt'* Since when did the two of you knew each other, boy?

Shen Jiu/Yuan: *flashbacks to PIDW's awful updates and Airplane's snarky comments to his rants* None of your business. (Not that you would understand nor believe it)

The demon guests who were here to eat a newlywed and possibly force themselves onto the widow: *Sits back and enjoys the show, munching on the feast as they do so* Far more enjoyable than suddenly getting stabbed by the cultivators in the room!

(Shang Si/Airplane joins in later, because Shen Jiu/Yuan isn't yet up to the point of taking Wu Yanzi on his own. Once the man is dead, the demon guests suddenly realize that they are next on the newlyweds' list. [None of them survive] The three regular people get all of the apologies and some food and wine to take home for their trouble.)

{Note: "Shang Si" is Shang Qinghua's given name. Is he a boy? Is she a girl? No one knows! Airplane doesn't care and Cucumber is going with "wife" because it makes Airplane smile all smug and "bro" because habit...}

[wintrsfell]

You've still got it, I'm just keeping an eye

Headlock masterlist

Previous chapter - Next chapter

Synopsis: After five years away from Winterfell, the reader returns to serve on Cregan's council. Old rivalries and new feelings arise.

Pairings: Cregan Stark & AFAB!Hornwood!Reader

Word count: 2713

Warnings: mentions of the death of a parent, reader is described as 'a woman' and 'a girl' (gender roles are a part of the story), like truly childish at times inner monologue from the reader (we support women's rights and wrongs on this blog)

Notes: getting into it a bit more with a few flashback- type scenes and some of the background as to why Cregan and the reader do not get along. While not written in first person, the fic is mainly for the reader's perspective, and her insecurities make her a bit of an unreliable narrator when it comes to Cregan (she is full on annoying in this, idk what to tell you). I kind of hate the pov but i'm committed now. Let me know if you want to be added to the taglist! Thank you so much for reading the first part, reblogging and commenting<3 (ily). This isn't edited, I've been hungover for like three days and I'm starting to think it's just the flu

The low winter sun starts creeping over the mountains in the East, coming through the window of her chambers and slowly coaxing her from slumber. The light is blinding, making her eyes burn as she blearily blinks them open. Sleep clouds her mind, and for a moment, she does not know where she is. Then, it all comes creeping in. The soft furs against her skin, the familiar crackling of the fire just feet away, the distinct smell of pine and woodsmoke. Her chambers at Winterfell. The very ones she had occupied from ages eight through her late teens. She has not slept so well in years.

The morning routine she follows is familiar. The never-ending struggle with her corset, the braiding of her hair, and the stillness of Winterfell’s thick stone walls all lend themselves to the sense of peace that settles over her. The Lord of the Castle may be an ever-present irritation, but the keep itself feels like a warm hug—like coming home after a long journey.

The castle is quiet as she makes her way down to the smaller hall beside the great hall, where meals are most often taken. The sound of her boots hitting the floor echoes between the stone walls, too loud in the silence. It grates on her ears. Perhaps time is playing a trick on her mind, but she never remembered Winterfell as being this quiet. In her childhood, idealized as it may have become by the years that have passed, the keep was always bustling with life. She remembers running through the halls with Cley and Cregan; days spent exploring the Wolfswood during that one particularly long summer they had gotten when they were ten, remembers Lord Rickon always allowing them to stay at the feasts for just a bit longer than children were usually allowed to. Everything had seemed so alive then, so bright and full of life.

Now, the stillness was almost eerie. 

Stepping into the hall, her gaze flits across the room. One long trestle table sits in the center, and servants are already moving about quietly to set up the morning meal. A fire crackles steadily in the heart on the far wall, casting a warm glow in the otherwise cold hall. For a moment, she stands completely still, resisting the urge to squeeze her eyes shut against the onslaught of memories.

A shuddering breath is taken as she steels herself, small steps carrying her toward a chair near the end of the table. After pouring a cup of tea, she cradles the hot ceramic in her hands, letting it warm her frozen fingers. No one else seems to be awake at this hour, and the moment of peace is somewhere between welcome and unsettling.

Heavy steps against the flagstones draw her gaze to the tall wooden doors leading into the hall. Cregan walks with measured movements, everything about him practiced and precise. His eyes flit across the room, much like hers had done earlier, and narrow slightly as they land on her seated form. There is something intense in his gaze, something almost assessing.

She breaks eye contact first, and somehow, it feels like a loss. We are not playing a game, she reminds herself sternly, there are no winners or losers. Taking another bite of her porridge, she straightens up in her seat. He will not see her be thrown off balance by his presence.

Cregan averts his eyes, and the absence of that intimidating stare makes her let out a quiet breath of relief. It is far too early to bicker with him. Taking a seat on the other end of the table, he starts filling his plate with food, still not looking at her. She eats hers quicker, but cannot help herself from studying him discretely out of the corner of her eye.

His face is a mask of stone, stern and impassive. He looks every inch the formidable northern lord, the sharp angles of his face highlighted clearly in the early morning light. 

She remembers when he had started looking different, when the rounder face of his youth had started turning into the serious face of a man. How she had mentally kicked herself every time her eyes had lingered a little too long on his newly broadened shoulders. It had only been driven by proximity, by the changes of growing from a girl into a woman, but it had been persistent nonetheless.

At times, he had caught her staring. The first time, his brows had drawn together as if confused, a barely perceptible reaction on his otherwise unreadable expression. Then, the ghost of a smirk had tugged at the corner of his lips, eyebrow raising ever so slightly. She had looked away quickly, mentally preparing herself for some annoying remark from him, but it never came. Instead, he had lingered in the library for a moment too long, before making sure his shoulder brushed against hers as he walked past her and out of the room. Only to unsettle her, she was sure. She had avoided him for a week after that, hoping time would make him forget about the encounter, make him forget to tease her about it.

The older Cregan seemed more subdued, less likely to throw out remarks made only to irritate her. Yet there was something in the way he looked at her sometimes, something that made her feel like he remembered their childhood quarrels just as well as she did. 

She pushes her plate away, smoothing out the skirts of her dress on habit as she rises from the table. The steps carrying her towards the door are a tad too quick, and she cringes when she feels Cregan’s intense stare burning into the back of her head. Just as she is about to step through the doors, there is a deep call of her name. Her name, not her title.

She turns, schooling her expression into something neutral as she meets Cregan’s grey eyes. Stormy, as usual. “Aye?”

His eyes move across her features for just a moment before saying, “The council meeting is at noon.”

She blinks at him, her mind struggling to process the fact that he is telling her something actually helpful. Of course, she already knew when the council meeting was. She had asked Cley about it yesterday and written it down. Twice.

Realizing that she is staring at him, quite foolishly, she quickly straightens up, trying to school her features into something resembling a politely neutral expression. She fears it is more of a grimace. “Right. Thank you.” She hesitates for another moment, before adding. “Cregan.”

She ignores how odd his name sounds on her lips after all these years as she turns to walk out of the hall. She forces herself to take slower steps this time.

Cregan Stark has gotten more handsome in the intervening years, she notes with ire, as he lists off the topics of the day’s council meeting. He sits at the head of the table, back straight yet still looking perfectly at ease. She had always envied him that, the ease with which he seemed to move through life. More annoying still, is that he is not even cocky about it. In their youth he could be incessant in his need to prove himself, certainly- but something changes the year after Lord Rickon died. 

He had grown more somber, every word and decision weighed carefully. Where she and Clay could still dissolve into fits of laughter, the most he gave was the ghost of a smile upon the stern set of his mouth. The only times he seemed truly entertained were in the few instances when he still took the time to bother her.

The year they turned six-and-ten, he started outright teasing her. Not in the friendly, casual way that Cley did, but in a nearly condescending tone of voice. She had hated how it always made her face heat. Up until then, he had rarely managed to throw her off balance, but it was as if a switch had been flicked. As if he’d suddenly solved the puzzle of robbing her of any clever remarks.

They had been in the library tower that first time, and upon later reflection, she decided that perhaps that particular part of the keep was cursed. Most of her embarrassing moments with the young Lord of Winterfell had happened there.

She and Cley had been arguing about something or other that she cannot recall now. The year in which some king had died, likely, and Cregan had corrected her in a lazy drawl that made anger bubble up within her chest. She had huffed, glaring daggers at him, and nearly exploded when he only looked up at her, slightly bemused.

She had stood from the table abruptly, moving to put her book back on its shelf, only to realize that the shelf was too high up. She could not reach it. The stupid, bloody keep was built for giants. It was the final straw, and she turned to glare at him again, biting out, “Gods, Cregan, must you always be so insufferable?”

Cley had laughed, but Cregan had only stood, coming to stand behind her in two long strides. He took the book from her hands, nearly making her jump as his fingers brushed hers, and put it back in its place. How did he even remember which shelf it was supposed to be on? Once again, he had to be annoyingly good at everything. Or had he been watching her? The motion made his chest brush against her back, and at the same time he nearly coos, “Aww, that’s not nice, my lady.”

His proximity, mixed with the uncharacteristically soft tone of his deep, accented voice, had made her face feel like it was on fire. Her mouth opened and shut at the same time as he stepped back, looking insufferably pleased with himself. 

She had scrambled out of the library so quickly that she left her cloak behind.

Looking at him now, she couldn’t imagine him doing such a thing. He seemed so serious, so grown, in comparison to her. Most days, she still felt like she was barely keeping her head above water. The incessant need to prove herself that both she and Cregan had felt in their youths, that had made them clash so frequently- now seems to have left him entirely.

She still feels its itch clawing beneath her skin, as she sits at a table surrounded by men. Cregan and Cley were her age, but she feels little kinship with the man Cregan has turned into. His quiet capability, the infuriatingly subtle self-assuredness, the way he spoke so little yet with so much weight, all stood in stark contrast to the way she wanted to speak up just to prove that she belonged there. To prove that while she was not a man, she was just as clever. Perhaps just to prove that she has something to say.

It had plagued her in their youths, and perhaps it is also why Cregan’s need to be right had been so frustrating to her. Cley never seemed to mind, only rolling his eyes in a good-natured manner whenever Cregan was too obvious about it. But to her, it had been like a confirmation that she would never measure up, this need to correct her. These two boys, who were growing up alongside her, got the same education as she did- would get to use it for something. They would be lords, ruling over castles, making decisions, making a difference. She would only be somebody’s wife. The thought of them not thinking of her as clever had made her feel physically ill at times.

Still, she bites her tongue as Winterfell’s steward gives them an update about the state of the harvest. She was trying to learn the art of not speaking unless she had something important to say, of resisting the urge to point out the obvious. It was a childish thing, one that had no place in councils such as this.

The meeting goes on, and for a long time, it is mostly just Cregan and the steward updating them about the state of affairs in the North. Part of her wonders if it is for her benefit, for she can feel Cregan watching her intently from across the table. As if he needs to make sure she is grasping the facts that are being laid out. It makes her sit up straighter, and her mouth pressing into a thin line. Does he truly believe that she cannot comprehend even simple council matters?

The overview is helpful, even if she loathes to admit it. She could have figured it out on her own, she insists quietly to no one but herself. She could have asked Maester Kennet. In fact, she had been planning to. 

Still, perhaps it is nice that she won’t have to.

She can feel Cregan’s eyes boring into her as her quill scratches quick words across the parchment. Maester Kennet is the only other person in the council meeting who is taking notes, and the elderly man has barely written down ten. She has written down hundreds, her wrist aching from writing so furiously, straining to get every word down on paper. She liked taking notes, liked feeling prepared, but it also proved to be an excellent excuse to avoid Cregan’s penetrating gaze. 

The meeting came to an end. She did not know if she was proud of herself for managing to keep her mouth shut, or regretful that she had not contributed anything useful. No one else had spoken either, but this was her first time in the council. She felt she had something to prove, the itch of it clawing at her like something stuck under her skin, trying to get out.

She feels ill at ease as she gathers up her notes into a neat stack, ignoring Cley’s amused expression at her childhood habit still lingering. The other lords file out of the room slowly, leaving behind only her and Cregan. Clutching the stack of notes to her chest, she moves to step out of the room, only to once again have to turn back around at a call of her name.

She turns to face the Lord of Winterfell, wondering if his gaze has left her at all for the past two hours. His features seem to be stuck in a perpetual frown, dark eyebrows drawn together slightly as his eyes meet hers. She resists the urge to look away from his penetrating stare.

“You take a lot of notes,” His deep voice rumbles, eyes flitting down to the parchments clutched at her chest before moving back up to lock onto hers.

Her brows draw together slightly as she hesitates on how to respond. It was a statement, not a question. “I- aye. I do.”

“Why?” Cregan’s tone is surprisingly light, or as light as such a deep voice can be. He sounds almost- genuinely curious. Surely he remembers her doing it since their childhoods. He was always watching, even then.

Because I don’t fancy spending a three-hour long council meeting having a staring competition with you. She manages to bite back that reply, just barely. Instead, she shrugs, her tone matching his. “Makes it easier to remember things.”

To her surprise, he huffs out something that sounds suspiciously like a laugh. His head tilts slightly to the side, and he breaks eye contact for the first time since their conversation began, only briefly, before meeting her eyes again. “You never had an issue remembering things, my lady.” His tone is dry, which she expected. But there is something else there, something nearly warm. Nostalgia, perhaps. Respect, if she is being optimistic.

“Because of the notes,” She insists wryly, brows drawing together briefly at his amusement. At his almost-compliment.

“Right,” Cregan nods, still sounding amused. He does not seem bothered by the slightly awkward, stilted nature of their conversation. If anything, he seems perfectly at ease.

“Right,” She echoes, holding his gaze for a long moment before stepping back with a nod. She turns to leave the room and swears that she sees the ghost of a smile lingering upon his features.

[fayesia]

The Kings Seat

Aemond Targaryen x sister!reader

warnings: nsfw 18+, switch!aemond, jealous!aegon, incest (obviously it's house Targaryen), fingering, creampie, tit worship?, breeding kink, fem!oral, p in v

You moved gracefully around the circumference of the small councils table, wine in hand, dutifully filling the lords cup if need be. You paused by the Kings side, pouring his glass full, aware of his habits as his sister, you witnessed first hand your brothers fall into the clutches of the finest wines and jewels from the streets of silk.

You yourself were taken to the tucked away pleasure houses just a few months ago at the age of 8 and 10. Your brother keeping you close, for he knew well the wrath that would face him if your mother had known he was the cause of your ruined maidenhood.

~flashback~

Instead, he steered you around by your shoulders whispering into your ear about what you saw. Both women and men walked around bare as the day they were but babes, their body's slithered amongst one another like that of a performance, one you couldn't take your eyes off of. A man's hand came up caressing the well endowed woman's breasts, she keened against him arching her back while another feasted between her legs, her hands gripping onto their hair like a salvation she craved.

Your body seemed pleased by the glorious sights of pleasure, shifting your thighs against one another where you felt the stickiness of your need. Aegons whispers by your ear were followed by gentle kisses against your neck, exhaling softly as your breath got stuck by a moan fighting it's way from your throat. His hand wrapped around your hip while another around your neck, gently rolling your head to rest upon his shoulder as he continued to worship your soft unmarked skin that lay bare to him.

He provided you with a dark cloak on the way out to your secret endeavour but it was just your thin white nightgown that lay beneath. His fingers came up to your neck, clumsily he attempted to untie the knot, failing due to his drunken state after having indulged in three full cups of wine. You reached up and he felt your soft fingers against his rough ones, calloused from his training days with Ser Criston.

Your eyes locked and it was like the two of you were looking into a mirror, time stood still and the only thing heard was the shallow breaths between the two of you upon the realisation of your actions.

Gods, this was your sisters husband, your brother.

You could not let such rumours be heard by your mother, lest you were ready to feel her wrath against your face they way she had many times prior. Leaving behind red handprints and purple bruises that marred your white porcelain targarryan skin, her face scowling at you as your eyes brimmed with tears that you willed to never let fall in front of her, that witch who you call mother.

You were pulled roughly from your trance, shocked to find a rather ruffled Prince Aemond. He was always so proper with not even a starnd of his perfectly white hair out of place, and yet here he stood eye patch in hand with his clothing in disarray, must have been in a rush to put them back on you assumed. It was no secret to you that Aegon visited the pleasure houses often, however you were yet to know that Aemond did too.

Still it did not come as a surprise, a boy was to find his needs somehow, if his mother could not give him the proper love required, it seemed fair for him to search for it elsewhere.

Grabbed out of Aegons embrace you were pulled against the tall stature of Aemond, his face reflecting the rage of a very angry dragon, akin to that of Vaghar. Repositioning his eye patch, his eye glared viciously into Aegons. "Skoros gaomagon ao pendagon ao sagon doing, ao mittys!?" Aegons mouth open and shut at the unexpected outbursts. "Bringing īlva mandia naejot iā dīnagon hae bisa! Gods is there ever anything going on in that tiny little head of yours you insolent fuck. skoros gaomagon ao pendagon muña kessa gaomagon, skori ziry hears hen rumours." (what do you think you're doing you fool?! Bringing our sister to a place like this! What do you think mother will do, when she hears of the rumours)

The two of you walk silently back to the castle gates, your eyes briefly flickering over Aemonds face, trying to read what he's thinking, but he offers none of his thoughts in his expression. It remains stoic and unwavering, just like his grip on your forearm until you finally reach the doors to your apartments. Pushing the shocked guard aside, he opens the door shoving you in and leaving without another word.

~end of flashback~

The loud noise of the knights armour clashing together brings you back to your senses. The council rooms doors open and the lords make their way out of the room making way for the king before taking their leave. Placing down the empty jug of wine you let out a deep breath staring down at the table.

"Does something bother you sister"

Whipping your head quickly you meet the pointed gaze of Aemond as he stands next to the Kings seat, hands clasped behind his back as he faces you.

"No, actually, I was just about to leave"

"Ah, not so quickly. Come sit"

It's not your role to take a seat at the small councils table but Aemond stands waiting expectantly next to the dragged out chair. So you walk over and sit on the edge of the seat, clasping your hands together in an effort to hide your nervousness. Ever since that night you and Aegon snuck out of the castle Aemond did not pay much attention and cared little for making conversation. It was only he who knew he kept his distance in hopes to keep his desires at bay.

The desires that rose after seeing you in that sinful place, dressed so innocently with eyes full of desire and lust. A look he would never forget after many a nights spent alone with just his hands on himself and you in his mind. The shame after the first time stopped him from looking into your eyes but the next few times he could barely handle being around you, only the gods know what he might end up doing to you.

"You wish to sit here, do you not sister? Must be difficult being perceived as a simple cup bearer"

You stay silent.

He places his hands on your shoulder, leaning to whisper into your ear as though there are still people in the room, but it is just the two of you and the guards outside.

"You know you have all the knowledge to aid in this talk of war, yet you are forced to hold your tongue, like a kind innocent little girl"

Little girl. The way he says it reminds you of when he shoved you into your room after your late night trip.

"Go to sleep now, little girl"

"But you are not so innocent, sister"

His hands rub against your shoulders sliding up and down your arms, but as he speaks they slide lower, brief touches of his fingertips against the skin exposed by the low cut of your dress.

"For there is only three who know of that night and the lust you sought after, from your own brother"

You try to speak but the words are caught in your throat, only short breaths coming out. His hands lower down your back, delicately untying the laces to your gown in an almost polar opposite way to his brothers clumsy drunken fumbles.

Resting your head against the back of the chair you're left in the perfect position for Aemonds attack against your neck, his movements are fast but the kisses he lays are gentle. A soft nipping against your skin but he's careful to leave no marks for those to see and make rumours of. "Is this how it felt, to feel him against your skin, to feel your Kings lips on your neck?"

You shake your head in a daze, slowly side to side.

"No it feels better doesn't it."

Nodding your head, he unties the last knot of your dress and it slips down loosely, catching onto your forearms that grip the edge of the table. Your bare breasts are on display and his hands are quick to hold onto them. They comfortably fit into his palm, your nipples harden against the cold temperature of his hands. He grabs hold of you, lifting you up from the chair and placing you on top of the small councils table, crashing his mouth against yours faster than you can register his movements.

He tastes like the wine you had just been pouring, you felt like you were drunk off just his kisses alone. Chest to chest. Lips to lips. As your tongues battles for dominance, it was a losing battle on your part. Your hands grasps against aemonds arms but you scratch at his clothing, a sign for him to remove it which he gladly notices. Slipping out of the remaining gown on you, Aemond removes his clothing too until he is stood in front of you in nothing. Both of you bare as the day of your births.

All ideas of sensibility is gone, the thought of someone walking in is not even lingering in either of your minds.

Stepping forward Aemond guides you back onto the small council table except he now sits in the Kings seats with you in front of him, his prize. Leaning forward his hand is hard and pressing against your spine, his mouth wraps around the shape or your left breast while his other hand is busy massaging your right. He suckles at your nipple like a babe with its mother and you understand his needs, softly raking your nails through his straight hair, his moans lost in the flesh of your tit.

You grow more wet and impatient as he continues the treatment to your tits switching between the two.

"Are you feeling needy little girl, rather more like a little slut now"

Gently laying you back down on the table he lifts your thighs to rest in his arms. Whispering as he makes his way between your legs kissing against your inner thighs, the sweet taste of you on his tongue teasing him.

"But that's what you want to be now, my little slut, my own personal whore."

Letting out a sharp gasp followed by a moan your hands reach down to grasps Aemonds head, but as his tongue languidly traces every crevice of your cunt his large hand wraps around both your wrist tightly and pins them above your head. He's almost ferel losing control in a way you had never seen before. He moans into you and let's out growls that compete with that of a dragon. His lips wrap around your pearl and his tongue traces around your tight hole, trying to squeeze its way through the barrier of your maidenhood already broken from your days of dragonriding. Your moans grow louder as you almost reach your peak.

"That's right let the whole castle hear you, so they know you belong to me, Iksā ñuhon" (You are mine). Your back arches off the stone table, a sign that you are close. Yet Aemond stops leading you to whine out at the loss of pleasure.

"No I want to feel you cum with me inside this sweet cunt"

His lips meet yours once again taking the chance to slip his tongue inside when you let out a moan. His finger slips inside of you. "What a truly tight cunt you have sister" You can barely respond feeling yourself completely lost in the desires to pull Aemond as close to you as possible, to merge your bodies into one. A second finger prods against you to meet the first one, he slowly stretches you to fit his cock, the same one that has grown double in size since he first began worshipping you.

"Please Aemond-please I'm so close. Jus' let me cum please~" your words are lost amongst the moans that Aemond draws from you. He fears he will not last long with your responses heading straight to his cock, the tip a bright pink coated in his precum, that runs down the sides in a little stream.

Flipping you around, your front is not squashed onto the table adding further sensations to your already stimulated nipples, Aemonds hands hold tightly onto your hips. Spreading the soft flesh of your bottom he runs his cock against your dripping folds, his fluids mixing with yours making an even bigger mess of your cunt.

"Are you ready? Going to have you take my seed, carry my babe, let everyone know who you belong to, and strengthen the family line." His words come out breathy and needy and you expect to hear a whine by the end of it. But it is you who let's out the sweet noises as Aemonds cock enters your tight hole. He sheaths himself into you wating for you to adjust around him before pulling halfway out. Your mouth opens in a silent scream and your nails scratch marks into the stone beneath you that you know will be seen during the next small councils meeting.

"So good, feels so good my sweet thing, so tight, gods I will not last long, fill you with my babe soon"

Still inside of you Aemond carries you and sits back in the Kings seat, you're facing him and stare into his eye as he bottoms into you completely. Your eyes closing shut but he calls for you to keep them open. "I want you to see my face when I fill you with my seed, as I breed you to take my babe." Nodding your head you're too drunken on lust and pleasure to understand anything.

Wrapping your arms around his neck Aemonds mouth comes to suck and kiss at your breasts once again, a habit he hopes to keep when you began feeding your future babe, to taste the sweet liquid of life you will feed them and him. His thoughts and your tight walls squeezing around him draw him over the edge. As he climaxes he growls against your chest as you kiss his head, the two of you holding each other like each other lifelines. His cum pumps into you and he feels some of it leak down his cock and onto his balls as he pulls out of you.

Pushing two fingers into you he is sure that none of it will go to waste, curling and rubbing against your walls his thumbs rushes against your pearl. Whining out at the gods you cum onto Aemonds hand, the clear liquid mixed with his white cum dripping down from his wrist down to the veins on his arm. "Shhh sh my sweet so good for me." You let out small whimpers feeling his fingers leave you. Holding you close he places a gentle kiss to the side of your head but gets up to get dressed leaving you in the Kings seat, his cum dripping from your cunt.

"Come sister we must be quick before they come searching for us" holding out your dress he helps your stumbing body into it and ties the laces as your maids did this morning. He leaves the room first to not cause suspicion but he's sure to leave the guards with a handful of coins each and threats against their lives in return for their secrecy. You follow a while after, making the walk back to your apartments with your guards and the cum of Prince Aemond dripping down your thighs.

It is two days later when your mother request you to be a cup bearer at yet another one of the small councils meetings. You do so dutifully but as you stand by King Aegons side filling his goblet with wine you see the scratches on the stone tables surface. The very same ones you made when Aemonds cock was ramming deep inside of you and his thighs slapping against the back of your own while his hand rubbed against your pearl. The memory surfacing a deep blush upon your cheeks and neck as you make eye contact with Aemond, his lips curling into a small smirk. You turn and walk back to the wine table hiding your face from the council with acts of being busy refilling the jug but Aegon does not miss the shared look between his siblings. His eyes scanning the marks marred on the table as his shocked expression meets the smug one on Aemonds face.

a/n: wow. ok it has been so long since I've , I've just been very busy and stressed. Hopefully I can get back to writing regularly by October. I'm sure we all know what to look forward to during that month lol. I'm so excited though because it is the first Kinktober I will be participating in! Anyways as always thanks to everyone who appreciates my work and my request are open :D

[lilmisshellfireswritingblog]

The Prophecy Chapter 2: Even Statues Crumble

Summary: Aurelia prepares for her wedding to Lucius Verus and marries him to save her own life.

A/N: Thank you for reading this little idea of mine. It literally came to me as I was listening to The Prophecy in the car on the way to work. If you have any requests as to like blurbs or one shots that happen within this universe, please let me know. I also don't do tag lists but, I appreciate the support! Warnings: 18+, arranged marriage, forced marriage, talks of death, second guessing, weddings, Geta being an a-hole, use of flashbacks, talking about wanting to die, emotions., and as always, let me know if I missed any.

Flashbacks are labeled as such.

Separator banner credit to: sweetmelodygraphics.

Aurelia’s gaze flitted to the reflection of the gown on the bed, her heart sinking. The fabric seemed to mock her. Every thread, every seam, a reminder of the future she never wanted. She felt suffocated by her obligations—by the weight of what was expected of her. Her father, her mother, the Senate, the people—they had all decided for her. They had all played their parts in crafting her destiny, and now she was nothing more than a pawn in a game of politics.

The door opened behind her with a soft creak, but she didn’t turn. She didn’t want anyone to see her like this—not tonight. Not before the wedding.

Her servant, Flavia, stepped in cautiously, her voice gentle as she spoke. "Your Highness, everything is prepared. The gown... the feast… everything is ready for tomorrow.."

Aurelia stood still for a long moment, her hands gripping the windowsill. The breeze from the open window fluttered her hair around her face, but she didn’t feel the coolness of it. She barely felt anything at all. She was numb.

“Aurelia?” Flavia’s voice was concerned now, soft but insistent.

Aurelia slowly turned toward her, her face unreadable, her eyes tired but defiant. “You were right to be excited for me,” she said bitterly, her words sharper than she intended. "But I’m not." She felt the sting of tears rising in her eyes, but she refused to let them fall. She would not cry in front of anyone—not now.

Flavia hesitated, her brow furrowing with worry. “You don’t have to go through with this. You know that, right? You can—”

“No,” Aurelia interrupted sharply, stepping away from the window, her voice suddenly hoarse. “I have no choice. I am to be the Emperor’s wife, whether I want to be or not. It’s this or die.”

Her words cut through the air, thick with the weight of resignation. She hated them. She hated the fact that her life was no longer hers to control. She had no say in who she married, no say in what her future would be. Her marriage to Geta had been forced upon her, too, but at least she had known him, had grown accustomed to his cruelty. This marriage—this union with Lucius Verus—felt like a strange cruelty of its own.

Flavia opened her mouth to protest again, but Aurelia cut her off with a soft, bitter laugh.

“You don’t understand, Flavia,” she whispered, her hands trembling at her sides. “Geta and Caracalla are dead. The empire is in the hands of men who would never think twice about tearing me apart. I am a puppet. A trophy wife. Tomorrow, I’ll stand before the Senate, and they’ll pretend to care, while they all gawk at the new Empress. And Lucius…” She paused, her voice thick with disdain, “He doesn’t want me. He’s just another part of the game. Another ruler who’ll sit beside me in the throne room and we’ll both pretend to love each other.”

Flavia moved closer, placing a gentle hand on Aurelia’s arm. “He’s not like the others, Aurelia. Lucius—he’s different. He was a gladiator. He knows what it means to fight, to survive. He’s not like the men who’ve ruled before.”

Aurelia’s lips trembled at the words. She wanted to believe her. She wanted to believe that Lucius, this gladiator-turned-emperor, was different. That maybe, through some strange twist of fate, he might understand her pain. But the truth was more complicated than that.

She stepped away from Flavia’s touch, pacing slowly toward the edge of the room. Her fingers lightly brushed against the fabric of the wedding gown once more, the weight of it pulling her down. "I don’t want to marry him,” she said quietly, more to herself than anyone else. “I don’t want this life. I don’t want any of it."

The words hung in the air, thick with the despair she had not allowed herself to feel until now. There was a part of her, a small, fragile part, that wanted to scream at the heavens. Why me? Why is it always me who has to bear the weight of the empire’s cruelty?

Flavia, sensing the depth of her distress, approached her once more, her voice softer this time, filled with empathy. "You don’t have to marry him if you don’t want to. You are strong, Aurelia. You can walk away from this. There are other ways."

Aurelia looked at her, her eyes clouded with pain. “What other ways, Flavia? Do you think the Senate would let me walk away? Do you think I could just... disappear?” Her voice cracked, and for the first time in what felt like an eternity, her composure shattered. "I am nothing but a political pawn in their game. If I don't marry Lucius, I’ll be executed. They’ll kill me and then they’ll put someone else on the throne."

Flavia’s heart broke at the words, but she stood still, not knowing how to comfort her. There was no escape, not really. Not for Aurelia. Not for the woman who had already lost everything.

“I have nothing,” Aurelia whispered, her voice hollow. “Nothing left. Nothing to give. Nothing to hope for. This marriage... this wedding... it’s all a lie.” 

Tears filled Aurelia’s eyes, but she quickly wiped them away, turning away from Flavia. “I wish I could die before tomorrow. Just to be free of all of this.”

Flavia’s breath hitched, panic rising in her chest. She grabbed Aurelia by the shoulders, turning her to face her. “Don’t say that, Aurelia. Don’t even think it! You’re strong. You have so much to live for.”

Aurelia pulled away gently, her voice strained and broken. “What do I have to live for? This empire? This crown?” She gestured helplessly to the room, to the gown she would wear tomorrow, to the life that awaited her. “I never asked for any of this. I didn’t want this.”

She sank into a chair, her head buried in her hands as she trembled. Flavia stood helplessly nearby, watching the woman she had served for so long unravel before her eyes.

And for a moment, the silence between them was unbearable, filled only with the weight of unspoken sorrow.

Aurelia’s thoughts were a whirl of darkness and pain but in the quiet, with the wedding gown looming in the distance, she knew—deep down—that she had to keep moving forward, whether she wanted to or not.

It was marriage or death.

For tomorrow, whether she accepted it or not, she would marry Lucius Verus and she would be Empress once more. 

Flashback ~ Before Her Marriage to Geta

The night before her wedding to Emperor Geta, Aurelia lay in her bed, the cool sheets tangled around her legs, but it was the storm in her mind that kept her awake. She stared up at the high, vaulted ceiling, the shadows of the room stretching long and dark, as if the very walls were closing in on her.

She had barely eaten at dinner. She had hardly spoken. The weight of the marriage, of the future that awaited her, hung like a shroud. Tomorrow, she would walk down the aisle in a gown of white and gold, and before the Senate and the people of Rome, she would become Empress Aurelia, the wife of a man she barely knew, a man she had been told to marry to secure her family's place in the empire.

But Aurelia did not want this. Not this life. Not with him. She never wanted the titles or the riches.

A thousand thoughts raced through her mind, but one was clear: she could not go through with it. She would not. If there was any way to escape, to avoid this fate, she would find it. She had to.

She slipped out of bed, her bare feet cold against the marble floor. She had worn the finest silken gown, but now she felt it like a weight—a symbol of the chains that bound her to this life she had not chosen. Moving quickly, she crept to the door, her heart hammering in her chest. The guards would be outside, she knew. They always were. But what if she could slip past them? What if she could leave the palace unnoticed?

Aurelia moved silently through the darkened corridors, her breath coming in shallow gasps as she pressed herself into the shadows, listening carefully for any signs of movement. The stone walls of the palace seemed oppressive in their silence, like the very architecture was conspiring against her.

She reached the door that led to the garden, the place where she used to play as a child, and for a fleeting moment, it felt like a distant memory. The scent of roses filled the air, the sound of the night insects buzzing faintly in the distance. She stepped outside, the cool night air hitting her skin, and felt a fleeting sense of freedom.

But just as she began to move toward the edge of the gardens, a voice sliced through the silence.

“Aurelia.”

Her heart leapt into her throat. She froze. Slowly, she turned to find Marcus Cassius, her father, standing in the shadows, his face unreadable but stern. He had been watching her. Of course he had. The guards would never have let her slip by without reporting it.

“You should be in bed,” he said, his voice soft but firm, like the press of a blade against her throat.

“I—” Aurelia began, but her words faltered. She had no excuse. No lie would work.

She was tired of lying.

“I can’t do this, Father,” she whispered, her voice trembling. “I can’t marry him. I can’t marry Geta.”

Marcus took a slow step forward, his face illuminated by the moonlight, and Aurelia saw the flicker of something in his eyes—concern, perhaps, or disappointment. It was hard to tell. His features were always so controlled.

“I know this isn’t what you want,” he said, his tone gentle, but there was an undercurrent of something darker, something unyielding. “But it is what you must do.”

Aurelia’s chest tightened, her breath coming faster as the weight of his words crushed her. “I don’t care about what I must do!” she snapped, her voice rising. “I care about what I want, what I need. And I need to be free. Free from this. I don’t belong with Geta. I don’t love him. How can you ask me to marry a man I barely know, someone I’ve heard only whispers of? How can you force me into this life?”

Her father’s eyes softened, but the hardness in his face never wavered. “It’s not about love, Aurelia,” he said, his voice almost too calm. “This is about Rome. This is about securing the future of our family. Your marriage to Geta will ensure that we remain in power, that our name remains in the annals of history. You were born to be a part of this.”

Aurelia stepped back, shaking her head in disbelief. “I never asked for this. You’ve always made choices for me, Father, but I’m not a child anymore. I’m not some pawn for you to place in a marriage bed just to secure alliances. I want my own life. I want to choose my own path.”

Marcus’s gaze hardened, his jaw tightening. “You’ve never had a choice, Aurelia. You’ve always known that. The empire does not offer choice to women like you. You are a Cassia, and that means you have a duty. Do you think your mother didn’t know this when she married me? Do you think she didn’t understand that duty? That she didn’t make sacrifices for it?”

Aurelia recoiled, her breath catching in her throat. She had never heard her father speak of her mother with such coldness. It was as if the warmth of her mother’s memory—of her kindness and devotion—was gone, swept away by the weight of duty and power.

“I don’t want to be like her,” Aurelia said, her voice barely above a whisper, her hands trembling at her sides. “I don’t want to give up everything for the empire. I don’t want to be controlled.”

Her father’s expression faltered, just for a moment, but he quickly regained his composure. “You have no choice. Neither does Geta. The Senate has already approved this marriage. The people will expect it. If you do not comply, there will be consequences for us both.”

Aurelia’s world felt like it was collapsing around her. The walls of the palace, the stone and marble, seemed to close in on her, suffocating her. “I don’t care about their consequences!” she cried, her voice breaking, but even as she said it, she knew she was lying. She cared about the consequences—she cared deeply. A refusal would mean disgrace, dishonor, and ruin for her family. And for herself.

“You must go through with it,” Marcus said quietly, his voice final. “You will meet Geta tomorrow. You will marry him. And you will do it for Rome. For us. For your future.”

Aurelia’s knees buckled, and she collapsed onto the stone bench in the garden, her hands pressing against her face. The tears she had been holding back for so long finally spilled over, and for the first time in years, she felt utterly, completely powerless.

Her father’s gaze lingered on her, but there was no sympathy in it. Only the cold, unyielding expectation of a Roman nobleman.

“You will learn to accept it,” he said quietly, before turning and walking back toward the palace.

Aurelia was left alone, the sound of his footsteps fading as the weight of her reality set in. She could run. She could scream. But she knew, deep down, that there was no escape. Not for her. Not from the life her father had chosen for her.

Aurelia stood in front of the full-length mirror, her reflection hazy in the soft light of the candle-lit chamber. Her hands trembled slightly as she adjusted the silk robe that clung to her skin. The room was quiet, save for the soft rustle of fabric and the occasional clink of jewelry being prepared by her attendants. The noise from outside—laughter, music, the murmur of the Senate gathering for the ceremony—seemed distant, almost foreign to her in this moment of solitude.

Her wedding day. It should have been a day of joy, of hope for a future that could be built in the light of love and partnership. But for her, it felt like the closing of a door she had never intended to open.

The door to the chamber opened slowly, and one of her handmaidens entered, holding the delicate wedding gown in her arms. Aurelia’s eyes flickered toward it for a moment before returning to her own reflection. The gown was a brilliant red, trimmed with gold thread, the fabric soft and weightless like a dream. The delicate embroidery along the hem and neckline sparkled faintly in the light—symbols of Rome's glory, of the empire's future that was now her responsibility, and her burden.

"Aurelia?" The handmaid's voice was gentle, tentative, as if unsure whether to interrupt her mistress's thoughts.

Aurelia turned, giving her a tight, thin-lipped smile. "Yes, Flavia?"

"The gown is ready to don, Empress. Shall I help you?" The woman’s gaze was respectful, but there was something else there too—a flicker of sympathy that Aurelia couldn’t bear to acknowledge.

Aurelia swallowed the lump in her throat. She didn’t want sympathy. She didn’t want pity. She wanted to scream, to break something, to tear off this crown of thorns that Rome had placed on her head. But she did none of that. She simply nodded.

"Yes," she said softly, turning her back to the mirror so Antonia could help her slip out of the robe and into the wedding gown.

The cold air of the room pricked at her skin as she stood there, exposed, while her handmaiden adjusted the dress. The fabric felt like it was suffocating her, the layers of fine silk pressing against her ribs, wrapping around her like a prison. Every movement she made seemed to tighten the knot in her chest, that feeling of being trapped.

“Do you want to wear your crown?” Antonia asked quietly as she fastened the gown with a delicate clasp at the back.

Aurelia’s eyes closed for a moment, the thought of the crown heavy in her mind. It was an ancient piece, crafted with intricate gold filigree and precious stones, a symbol of imperial power. It had once been worn by the great empresses of Rome, and now it would sit atop her head—whether she liked it or not.

But no. Not today.

“Not yet,” Aurelia replied with a sigh, her voice flat. She didn’t need the crown to feel the weight of this marriage. The crown would only serve as a reminder of the chains that now bound her to Lucius.

The handmaiden gave a small nod and moved to prepare the rest of the ensemble. Aurelia looked back at her reflection, her eyes scanning her face, her chestnut brown hair, now expertly arranged in a complicated updo, twisted with strands of gold. The gold accents in her gown glinted, catching the light like cruel promises.

Her heart thudded in her chest. It was not fear that made her body tense, nor anxiety over the marriage itself. It was the overwhelming weight of her own complicity. She was walking into this union with her eyes wide open. She knew what this would mean for her. For her future. For her identity.

"I should be happy," she murmured to herself. "I should be proud."

But she wasn’t.

She wasn’t anything but resigned.

She had spent her life surrounded by men who used their power for their own gain—first Geta, then Father, and now Lucius. Each had taken something from her. Her love. Her trust. Her belief in what a marriage could be. Now, this marriage would be no different. Lucius was no Geta, certainly, but the coldness that resided between them was something that neither of them could escape. He may have been the son of Lucilla, the true heir to the throne, but she knew him only as a gladiator—someone who had fought his way to power, someone who had been shaped by violence and bloodshed.

The door creaked again, and another handmaiden entered, this one carrying the veil that would cover her face. Aurelia stood still as it was gently placed over her head. She let the fabric fall into place, the lace soft against her skin. It was beautiful, but suffocating.

“You look stunning, Empress,” Antonia whispered, as if her words would somehow erase the tension in the room.

Aurelia didn’t respond immediately. She couldn’t bring herself to speak, to pretend for even a moment that this day was anything other than the beginning of something that she had not chosen.

The heavy silence settled between them, the air thick with the weight of her decision. The marriage would proceed. The ceremony would go on. She would stand by Lucius’s side. She would wear the crown, and she would endure.

In a fleeting moment, as the last of the attendants left the room to give her space, Aurelia allowed herself one last thought: Perhaps, somewhere in the depths of her heart, she still longed for a different life. A life where she was not bound by duty, not made to be the symbol of an empire, not forced into a marriage for the sake of political alliances.

But as the clock ticked, the reality of her situation gripped her again, cold and unyielding.

This was not her choice. Not really.

She was an empress and empresses did not have the luxury of choice.

Aurelia stepped toward the door, the faint sound of the wedding procession echoing in the halls of the palace. She walked down the corridors, her heels clicking softly against the marble floors, her breath steady. Her hands, now trembling once more, gripped the edges of her gown. She could feel her heart race. But she kept her face neutral, resolute.

The doors to the grand hall opened, and before her, in the vastness of the room, stood Lucius—waiting for her. The air buzzed with anticipation.

And she, Aurelia, stood at the threshold, ready to step into her new life.

The price of power. The price of survival.

And, most of all, the price of being an empress.

The grand hall of the imperial palace was bathed in golden light, its columns adorned with rich purple tapestries and intricate carvings that had witnessed countless ceremonies of wealth and power. But today, this sacred space seemed to pulse with an air of something darker—something forged by the sword, blood, and vengeance.

Aurelia Carina Cassia stood near the altar, her breath shallow and her body stiff with anger, her eyes dark and haunted as she gazed out over the sea of guests. Senators, generals, and various figures of power from across the Empire filled the space, their murmurs low and expectant. It was meant to be a celebration of Rome’s new era, but for her, it felt like a bitter mockery.

Her heart still ached for Geta, her late husband. Cruel though he had been, she had found a way to love him—a love that had never been returned but existed all the same. Now, the man who had taken his place as Emperor, Lucius Verus, stood in front of her.

Lucius Verus. He was unlike anything she had imagined. A gladiator. A slave. And yet, he bore the blood of the true Imperial line. He was her captor and her future husband, thrust into this role by the whims of power. He had murdered Macrinus, the usurper who had orchestrated the deaths of her first husband and his brother Caracalla, but in his victory, there was no joy—only a quiet fury that matched her own.

He stood tall and commanding, his piercing blue eyes scanning her face with an intensity that unsettled her. He was dressed in the traditional garb of an emperor, but his bearing—the broad shoulders, the ruggedness, the battle-worn look—betrayed his humble origins. He had spent most of his time in Rome now in the blood-soaked sands, fighting for survival, earning his freedom through the same violence that had stolen his childhood.

He was, in a sense, a mirror to her own loss. She, too, had been forced to survive in a world she could never control.

And now they were to be joined in marriage, a union that was born not of love, but of survival.

The officiant, a high-ranking priestess, gestured for them to stand at the center of the room, her voice smooth and practiced as she spoke the traditional words of union. Her gaze flickered between the two, noting the tension in their posture, the unwillingness that clung to them like a dark cloud.

Aurelia’s hands trembled as she reached out to take the hand of her new husband. His palm was rough and calloused, the grip firm but not comforting. She could feel the history of his life in his touch—years of hardship, bloodshed, and struggle. His thumb brushed against the back of her hand in a subtle, almost imperceptible gesture, but it was enough to remind her that despite all that had happened, they were bound by something now. A shared future of power, of control, and of the very Empire that had destroyed their lives.

Her lips pressed into a thin line as she nodded, the ceremony continuing in its formalities, yet her mind was far from the words being spoken. She thought of the fateful choice she had been given: marry Lucius Verus or face execution. It was a choice she had made out of necessity, but every fiber of her being screamed in defiance. She had loved Geta, and in that love, she had found a strange semblance of purpose, even if it had been a hollow one. Now, that love had been torn from her, and she was left with a man she neither knew nor cared to know.

Lucius, for his part, said nothing. His expression was unreadable, but there was something in his eyes—a flicker of something that mirrored her own anger. Perhaps it was the knowledge that neither of them had been given the luxury of choice, that their fates had been decided by forces greater than themselves.

The priestess continued with the vows, each word falling like the sound of a hammer on stone. As Lucius Verus spoke his vows, his voice was steady, though there was a quiet intensity beneath it, as if he were speaking not just to Aurelia but to the Empire itself, declaring his authority, his claim to this throne. He had killed Macrinus for the very right to stand where he was now. And she was his symbol of legitimacy, the last link to the imperial bloodline of the old regime.

Her turn came, and for a moment, she hesitated. The weight of what this marriage meant pressed down on her, the reality of her new life settling in. There was no love to offer him. No affection. Just the remnants of a broken loyalty to a man who had never truly loved her.

“I vow,” she said, her voice cold, “to stand by your side, as is my duty. I vow to give you the Empire that you now rule, for what it is worth. But know this, Lucius Verus—there will be no affection, no love between us. Only power. Only ambition.”

For a heartbeat, there was silence. The room held its breath.

Lucius’s blue eyes bored into hers, and for a long moment, she thought he might challenge her words, perhaps even reject her defiance. Instead, he simply nodded, as if he had already anticipated it.

“We will rule together,” he said, his voice steady and unwavering. “There is no room for weakness in Rome.”

And with that, the ceremony was complete.

As they turned to face the assembled guests, the crowd erupted into applause, their faces masks of politeness, their hands clapping with enthusiasm. The new emperor and his empress stood together, united in a marriage that neither had chosen but both were bound by. Aurelia could feel the coldness of her own heart as she stood there beside him, the weight of the imperial crown now heavy on her brow.

Her life, her future, was now irrevocably linked to this man, this gladiator-turned-emperor, whose blue eyes hid more secrets than she would ever be able to unravel. But as they walked down the aisle, side by side, she knew one thing for certain: in the world of power, there could be no true love. Only survival. Only Empire. Only Rome. Only duty.

Flashback ~ The Wedding To Geta

The sun was setting over Rome, casting a soft golden glow over the city that stretched out below the Palatine Hill. Aurelia stood before a tall mirror, her hands trembling slightly as she adjusted the folds of her wedding dress—a gown of delicate silk and rich embroidery that shimmered in the fading light. The dress, fit for an empress, was crafted from the finest materials, but it felt heavy against her skin. Every stitch, every detail, reminded her of the weight of the day, of the promise she was about to make, and the life she was about to step into.

Her reflection stared back at her, but she barely recognized the woman in the mirror. Gone was the spirited young woman she had been before her marriage was arranged. Gone was the girl who had dreamed of love and adventure. In her place stood a woman bound by duty—her fate sealed by the politics of empire, her future written in the cold, unfeeling hand of power.

Aurelia closed her eyes for a moment, taking in a steadying breath. She would have preferred to wait, to delay this moment, to take time to come to terms with the reality of her marriage. But there was no time. The people expected it. The Senate demanded it. And her father, always the pragmatist, had seen the union as an opportunity for political gain—an alliance that would strengthen the family name.

"Are you ready?" came a voice, breaking her reverie. It was her father, standing in the doorway of her chamber. His expression was unreadable, as it always was, but there was something behind his eyes—a flicker of concern, perhaps, or maybe guilt. He had done what was necessary. But Aurelia knew it had not been his choice either.

She forced a smile, the kind of smile she had perfected long ago when she was a child trying to please her father. "As ready as I’ll ever be."

Her father’s eyes softened for just a moment before he nodded. "You will be Empress. You know what that means, Aurelia. It’s a responsibility to Rome. To the future. Remember all that your mother and I have taught you."

Aurelia nodded, her throat tightening. Her future was already laid out for her, and it was not a future she had chosen. But she had always known that in the Roman world, duty outweighed personal desire. She was a woman of privilege, yes, but she was also a pawn in a game of power and politics.

The doors to the chamber opened, and Aurelia’s attendants entered, guiding her to the grand hall where the wedding would take place. The hall was massive, filled with marble columns and the scent of fresh flowers, the long tables draped in crimson cloths. Guests had already arrived, dressed in their finest to witness the union of the Emperor and the daughter of a noble family. But none of it felt real to Aurelia. It all felt distant, a pageant for the empire’s elite, a performance where she was expected to play her role.

Her heart beat in her chest, faster than it had been moments ago. Not from excitement, but from a deep, gnawing apprehension. This man— Emperor Geta—would be her husband. A man who had already shown her nothing but coldness and indifference. Their marriage, she knew, was not one built on affection or love but on the weight of imperial necessity.

As she entered the hall, she could feel the eyes of the guests on her, their gazes heavy, judging. The high-ranking senators, the nobles of Rome, all gathered to witness the consolidation of power that this marriage represented. But Aurelia’s mind was elsewhere, focused on the figure at the end of the long aisle.

Emperor Geta stood there, his back straight, his expression impassive. His dark hair was neatly combed, and his tunic was rich with gold embroidery, the imperial seal shining brightly on his chest. His eyes, dark and unreadable, met hers briefly as she walked toward him. For a moment, there was a flicker—an almost imperceptible shift in his gaze—but it was gone before Aurelia could understand it.

His presence was like a shadow, looming over her, a reminder of what was to come. He was not cruel—at least, not outwardly—but there was a coldness in him, an emotional distance that made her uneasy. The idea of this man being her husband was foreign, unsettling. And yet, as the ceremony began, she knew there was no turning back.

The high priest stepped forward, his voice solemn as he began the traditional rites. Aurelia’s gaze remained fixed on Geta, but he was unmoved. His lips were set in a firm line, his expression a mask of indifference. He did not seem to care for the ceremony, nor did he seem to care for her.

"Do you, Emperor Geta, take Aurelia Carina Cassia to be your wife, to rule beside you in both marriage and in empire, in joy and in hardship, in life and in death?" the priest asked.

Geta’s voice was low, almost detached. "I do."

Aurelia’s heart skipped a beat. He spoke the words with no passion, no conviction, as though the act was nothing more than a formality to be checked off the list. A formality for the empire.

Then it was her turn.

"Aurelia Carina Cassia," the priest said, turning his gaze to her. "Do you take Emperor Geta, to be your husband, to join with him in marriage, in rule, in life, and in death?"

Her lips parted, but for a long moment, no sound came out. Her mind swirled with conflicting thoughts—fear, doubt, and resignation. She had no choice. There was no turning back. The empire was watching her.

"I do," she said, her voice steady despite the turmoil inside her.

The ceremony continued, the exchange of vows, the binding of rings, the symbolic gestures of unity. But even as the final prayers were spoken and the crowd cheered, Aurelia felt nothing but an overwhelming sense of emptiness. She was a wife, yes, but not in the way she had imagined. She was a wife in name, a wife to a man who would never truly love her.

As the final blessing was given, Geta turned to her, offering her his arm as he led her from the altar. His eyes met hers for a moment, and in the fleeting seconds, Aurelia saw something there—something cold, something distant. But she couldn’t place it. She wasn’t sure if it was pity, disdain, or something else entirely. But it didn’t matter.

They were married now. The empire will have its heirs. The empire had its future.

They walked together, side by side, but it felt as though they were walking in separate worlds, worlds that had collided for the sake of duty, of power, of an empire that demanded much and offered little in return.

As Aurelia took her place at his side, she couldn’t help but wonder what the future would hold for her in this cold, loveless marriage. Would she ever find warmth in his eyes? Or would she forever remain a figure beside him, a silent witness to the empire’s unyielding march?

In the end, she knew one thing for certain: the wedding had been the beginning of a new life, but it had not been the beginning of love.

The grand dining hall of the imperial palace was a breathtaking sight, adorned with lavish tapestries depicting the heroic deeds of the emperor's past. The air was thick with the scent of roasted meats, honeyed wine, and exotic spices, while gilded chandeliers cast their warm glow over the guests, whose laughter and chatter echoed off the marble walls. The feast had begun in earnest, but for Aurelia, it felt like an insufferable pageantry, an endless display of opulence that was as hollow as her own heart.

The high table, where she and Lucius Verus now sat side by side, was elevated above the sea of guests, an uncomfortable reminder of the power that now bound them together. At one end of the table sat the new Emperor of Rome, his piercing blue eyes cold and distant, as if he were already surveying the entire Empire with an authority that didn’t need to be spoken. At the other end, Aurelia sat stiffly, her hands clenched in her lap beneath the rich folds of her gown, unable to fully appreciate the luxury that surrounded her. She had been made Empress again, yes, but it was a title that seemed to mock her more than anything else. She had no love for Lucius Verus—her husband only in name—yet here she was, forced to play the part, to smile and pretend that this was all as it should be.

Her gown shimmered beneath the flickering candlelight. It was the color of Rome’s old blood—the blood of emperors, of gladiators, and of countless men and women who had fought for survival. She hated the irony of it all.

Lucius, for his part, barely spoke. His jaw was set, his expression unreadable. He lifted his goblet of wine to his lips and took a long drink, his eyes briefly meeting hers, but only for a second. The tension between them was palpable, like an invisible thread pulling them further apart with every passing moment.

The servants moved around the table with practiced efficiency, placing golden platters of roasted boar, venison, and lamb, their skins crackling with crisp fat, alongside bowls of fresh fruits—pomegranates, figs, and clusters of grapes—and loaves of freshly baked bread. An assortment of cheeses and honeyed pastries were brought in, and the scent of wine—sweet, tart, and heady—filled the air. Flutists played softly in the background, and a troupe of dancers from the East began a slow, sensuous dance, their silks flowing as they moved in perfect harmony with the music.

But despite the abundance of food and drink, despite the spectacle unfolding before her, Aurelia could not enjoy a single moment. Her mind swam with bitter thoughts: memories of Geta, the brutal coldness of his reign, his violence—yet, within that cruelty, she had found something to hold on to, something that had made him hers, even if only in the darkest corners of her heart.

She was brought back to the present by a low voice beside her.

"Not hungry?" Lucius Verus’s voice was quieter than before, his words heavy with something unreadable. It was not a question of concern, but one of curiosity, or perhaps challenge.

Aurelia turned toward him, meeting his gaze. His blue eyes were sharp and intent, as though he were studying her, as though she were the next opponent to be defeated in his personal arena.

"I’m not hungry," she replied, her voice cool, and for a moment, their eyes locked, the silence between them thick and heavy.

Lucius’s lips tightened, though it wasn’t in anger. It was more a quiet acknowledgment of the tension between them. He turned his gaze back to the feast and picked up a roasted fig, placing it delicately in his mouth. There was something almost calculated about his movements, as if every action were part of a larger strategy.

Around them, the feast continued with laughter and revelry. A senator cracked a joke, a group of soldiers clinked their goblets together in a celebratory toast, and a young noblewoman tried to engage Lucius in conversation about the new laws he would enact. Yet, despite the outward merriment, there was an underlying current of unease. The guests were not so naïve as to ignore the strange and uneasy marriage that had just been sealed in the hall behind them.

Lucius shifted slightly in his seat, as though feeling the weight of the eyes that turned toward him.

"You don’t have to pretend," he said, breaking the silence again, his voice low and almost resigned. "I know why you’re here. You don’t have to like it."

Aurelia’s lips tightened at his words, but there was no anger in them. It was merely truth, blunt and direct, as always. She looked down at her hands, unwilling to meet his gaze again.

"I don’t pretend," she replied softly, though she knew the truth of her own hypocrisy. She was pretending, of course. Pretending that she didn’t care. Pretending that this was all something she could endure.

"Then why sit through this?" Lucius asked, his voice barely above a whisper. "Why endure this charade?"

Aurelia raised her eyes to his once more, meeting his gaze squarely. For a moment, she wanted to say because it’s all I have left, but the words wouldn’t come. Instead, she said only, “Because I have no choice, just as you have no choice.”

For a heartbeat, Lucius said nothing. He stared at her, as though seeing her for the first time—truly seeing her. His gaze was piercing, intense, yet something flickered in those deep blue eyes. Perhaps it was understanding, perhaps it was something more, but Aurelia could not bring herself to interpret it.

A loud cheer broke the silence, and Aurelia turned toward the noise. The guests were raising their cups in a toast, celebrating the new Emperor and Empress, raising their voices in the name of Roman glory. It was an exultant sound, but it grated on her nerves, like the clanging of swords against stone.

"To Lucius Verus, Emperor of Rome!" a voice cried from the crowd.

"And to Aurelia Carina Cassia, Empress of Rome!" another echoed.

The room erupted in applause, and for a moment, the noise drowned out everything else. Aurelia didn’t raise her glass. Instead, she simply sat there, her hands folded in her lap, her thoughts swirling in dark circles.

Lucius raised his goblet, the flickering light from the candles catching in the deep blue of his eyes, but he did not look at her when he spoke.

"To Rome," he said simply, his voice carrying authority that silenced even the loudest of voices.

The crowd echoed his words, and for the briefest of moments, Aurelia felt the weight of the empire—its triumphs, its cruelties, and its endless hunger for power. It was the weight she had inherited, and it was a weight that would forever bind her to Lucius Verus.

For better or for worse, she was now his. And he was hers.

The feast continued around them, but for both of them, it had already ended. 

The grand banquet hall was alive with the sounds of music, laughter, and the clinking of goblets, but amid the festivity, there was a tension that seemed to weave itself into the very air. The feast had stretched on for hours, but now the guests were beginning to murmur in anticipation as the next part of the evening approached. The moment that every wedding in Rome demanded—the first dance.

Aurelia Carina Cassia stood frozen at the edge of the hall, her gown heavy around her, the rich crimson fabric swishing as she shifted her weight from one foot to the other. She could feel the weight of every eye in the room, the glances that flicked between her and Lucius Verus, the new Emperor of Rome, her husband by forced choice. He was already standing at the center of the room, his posture perfect, his jaw set in that all-too-familiar way of someone who had long since learned to suppress any sign of weakness.

They were supposed to dance. They were supposed to take the center of the room and spin in graceful circles, the crowd watching and applauding as if this were a storybook wedding. But Aurelia didn’t feel like a princess or a queen. She felt like a prisoner.

Her eyes flicked nervously to the musicians at the far end of the room, their instruments ready, their gazes expectant. They were waiting for her to take the first step, to move toward Lucius and begin the ritual. Her chest tightened with the weight of it. She couldn’t do this. Not with him. Not when every inch of her body wanted to scream in defiance.

Lucius turned toward her, his gaze cool but unreadable, like a glacier that had been worn smooth by the passage of time. He was not nervous. Of course, he wasn’t. A gladiator, a warrior forged in blood, who had danced with death more times than he could count. What was a simple waltz to a man who had survived arenas and emperors’ plots?

"You’re stalling," he said quietly, his voice barely audible over the growing hum of the room.

Aurelia didn’t respond immediately. She couldn’t. She simply stared at him, that same gnawing bitterness rising within her. She was trapped, caught in the unrelenting gears of this machine—this Empire, this marriage. And there was nothing she could do to escape it.

His eyes softened just the slightest bit, but it wasn’t with warmth. It was a recognition of the struggle she was facing, though he would never voice it aloud. Lucius knew what it was to be trapped in chains, though his were made of blood and iron, not silk and ceremony.

When he spoke again, his words were measured, as though he were giving her a final choice.

"You don’t have to like it. But we have to do this, for Rome." His words weren’t a command; they were simply a fact, one that neither of them could escape.

Aurelia took a sharp breath and glanced back at the crowd. She could feel their eyes on her, the heat of their stares burning into her skin. They were waiting for their Empress to play her part, to show the world that Rome was strong, unified under the rule of its new Emperor. She had no choice. She could feel the weight of it in the pit of her stomach.

Taking a deep breath, she straightened her back, trying to summon whatever dignity she had left, and began to walk toward Lucius. Each step felt like an eternity. Her heels clicked softly against the marble floor, the sound strangely amplified in the stillness that had fallen over the room. Lucius didn’t move, didn’t step forward to meet her. He simply waited, his posture as commanding as ever.

When she reached him, there was a brief, uncomfortable pause. He regarded her with those piercing blue eyes, his expression unreadable. Aurelia wanted to say something—anything—to break the silence. To tell him that she would never be the obedient bride he expected her to be. But instead, she lifted her chin, her jaw set in defiance, and placed her hand on his shoulder, offering him the coldest, most formal smile she could muster.

Lucius’s hand slid around her waist, the touch firm but not intimate. It was a touch that spoke of duty, not desire. He began to guide her into the first slow steps of the dance, his movements practiced and smooth, as though he had done this a thousand times before. Aurelia resisted the instinct to pull away, to lash out, but it was harder than she anticipated.

The music swirled around them, the sounds of the flutes and strings filling the room with a kind of ethereal, haunting beauty. The guests began to murmur, some of them leaning in to catch a glimpse of their new rulers, while others smiled and whispered praises. Aurelia could feel their eyes, their judgments, and it made her skin crawl. This was their moment, a moment they had all been waiting for.

Lucius’s grip tightened just slightly around her waist as they moved in time with the music. The movement was mechanical, almost rehearsed. She could feel the tension between them—an invisible barrier neither of them had the will or the desire to cross. Neither of them spoke. The only sound between them was the soft rustle of her gown as they moved in an intricate, slow circle.

Aurelia’s breath caught in her throat. It wasn’t the dance itself that bothered her—it was the feeling of being so close to him, so exposed. His scent, sharp and masculine, filled her senses, and she had to fight not to recoil. The proximity, the enforced intimacy, made her stomach churn.

Lucius seemed to sense her discomfort, but he didn’t falter. Instead, he gave a small, barely perceptible nod, as though acknowledging the weight of the situation. Aurelia couldn’t tell if it was sympathy, amusement, or something else entirely.

The music shifted, becoming faster, more energetic, but still they danced—two figures moving through the motions, a king and queen of an empire built on blood, sweat, and lies. Their feet moved in perfect time, yet there was a palpable distance between them, a gulf that no amount of waltzing could bridge. It wasn’t the graceful, romantic affair the guests had expected. It was a dance of survival. A dance of power.

Aurelia’s mind raced with thoughts of the life she had lost, the man she had loved, and the empire that had torn it all apart. She fought the urge to pull away from Lucius, but there was no escaping this moment. They were bound by more than the silk of her gown or the glittering jewels in her hair. They were bound by the expectations of Rome, by the empire that had demanded this union, this performance.

And so they danced. Neither of them truly present, both lost in the performance. And the crowd watched, applauded, and whispered their approval, as the two of them continued the endless charade that had begun with a marriage forged in blood.

When the dance finally ended, and the last notes of the music drifted into silence, Aurelia was left breathless. Her chest rose and fell with the exertion of holding herself together, and she quickly stepped back, her hand falling from his shoulder. The applause was polite, distant, but it was nothing compared to the silence between them now.

Lucius’s eyes met hers for a brief moment, his expression unreadable. His lips parted as though he might say something, but then he simply nodded.

"Thank you," he said, his voice quiet, though the words seemed hollow to her ears.

Aurelia didn’t answer. She simply gave him a stiff nod in return, the weight of the crown upon her head heavier than ever before.

Then, she turned and walked away, the crowd parting for her like water parting for a stone, their whispers now louder, more insistent but she didn’t care. All that mattered now was the emptiness she felt inside and the weight of the empire that bound her to a man she would never love.

[beansprean]

My Familiar’s Ghost part 67

Masterpost

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(ID in alt and under cut)

ID: Flashback to vampire Guillermo's first hunt. 1a. Wide shot of a middle aged man who looks suspiciously like Paul Simms in a BOSS hoodie and jeans walking down a suburban street at night. 1b. Close up on the man as he looks over toward a rustling sound offscreen. 1c. Zoom out slightly as the man backs cautiously away from a large hedge at the edge of the sidewalk where the noise is coming from. He says, 'Hello? Hey, if you're tryna rob me, I don't have nothin'.' 1d. Close up on the hedge as a dark gap in the branches widens, a pair of orange eyes with slitted pupils glowing from within. The creature says, 'Nothing?' 1e. Wide shot of the street as the man is suddenly pulled headfirst into the hedge with a cut off scream. 1f. Repeat. A fountain of bright red blood spits out from the hedge and splatters on the sidewalk. 1g. Wide shot on the other side of the hedge. In the foreground, Guillermo, wearing a canvas jacket and his old oval glasses, is clutching the man's body to him as he drinks messily from his throat, fangs buried to the hilt as he makes loud gulping sounds. Behind him stand Laszlo and Nadja, the former of which is scowling and trying to wipe off a splatter of blood on the front of his coat. He clicks his tongue and scolds, 'Fledglings are always so messy.' Nadja, arm hooked on his elbow, leans into him with a flirty smile and says 'I remember your first blood-feast, my darling. You were like a wild, hairy beast!'

2a. Close up on Guillermo's open mouth as he detaches from the victim's neck and throws his head back with a satisfied exhale, blood staining his lips and chin. 2b. Zoom out, Guillermo lowers his head and stares past the viewer, a shaft of light passing over his eyes and making them glow a golden orange. His tongue flicks out over his teeth to savor the blood on them. 2c. Waist up of Nandor, standing awkwardly nearby in his leather tunic and cloak, startling out of the slight daze he had been watching Guillermo in. 2d. Reverse shot of Guillermo still crouched on the ground as Nandor says from offscreen, 'Well done, Guillermo.' Guillermo literally glows at the praise, eyes wide and face flushed as a disbelieving little smile creeps up on his face. He replies, 'Th-thank you, M-' Nandor interrupts him, 'But now since you have splattered this chatty man's unvirginal blood all over the place, I will have to hunt elsewhere.' 2e. Low angle wide shot as Nandor transforms into a bat and flies off, calling, 'Do not wait up.' Guillermo stares after him from below, blood-covered hand hovering in midair as he lets out a meek 'Oh, okay...' 2f. Panel of Guillermo back in the present in his fancy red sweater and new glasses, continuing his talking head. He has his arms crossed and face dark with frustration, scowling as he bites out '...Yeah, we've really reconnected.' /end ID

[sunshinemorningstar]

Trials of Apollo animatic wip

Edit: Just realized that things would probably make a lot more sense with the script, so here it is :)

(Keep in mind, this is something I made for a drama project, so a lot of this is whittled down to be comprehensible to people who haven't read ToA- also the reason for the stage directions in the script)

(Music passage 1)

Meg: So, a god again, huh?

Apollo: Indeed, but I will not continue like before. I've learnt from my mortality, and Olympus is… 

Meg: Messed up?

Apollo: Yes, that. 

Meg: Hah, no surprises there. So, what'll you do about, y'know, your dad?

Apollo: I… don't know yet, but what he did… does to me, it isn't right, and neither is what he does to demigods, or… the rest of Olympus, and he cannot be allowed to continue

I broke free on a Saturday morning

I put the pedal to the floor

Headed north on Mills Avenue

And listened to the engine roar

(Music Passage 2)

Meg: So, you've been hanging out with your relatives, huh?

Apollo: My godly siblings, yes. We've not always been kind to one another, but I hope we can be, in the future. You understand.

Meg: Yeah, it's nice to get to know some of my siblings without Nero breathing down our necks

My broken house behind me and good things ahead

A girl named Cathy wants a little of my time

Six cylinders underneath the hood crashing and kicking

Aha! Listen to the engine whine

I am gonna make it through this year if it kills me

I am gonna make it through this year if it kills me

(Music Passage 3)

Meg: So, a revolution?

Apollo: He cannot be allowed to act without recompense, I cannot chance that he will hurt my family again, not you, or my children, or Artemis or any of my divine siblings

Meg: (sits down) …Or you

Apollo: Or me. 

I played video games in a drunken haze

I was 17 years young

Hurt my knuckles punching the machines

The taste of Scotch rich on my tongue

(Music Passage 4)

Meg: (getting up, begin slowly walking off) So, what's it you wanted to talk about?

Apollo: …I got Athena on board

Meg: (stops) Oh

Apollo: We're confronting him tomorrow

Meg: Okay… Don't die, dummy

And then Cathy showed up and we hung out

Trading swigs from a bottle all bitter and clean

Locking eyes, holding hands

Twin high maintenance machines

I am gonna make it through this year if it kills me

I am gonna make it through this year if it kills me

I drove home in the California dusk (Come on stage; take quiver)

I could feel the alcohol inside of me hum (Pause and emotionally prepare)

Pictured the look on my stepfather's face (Open door)

Ready for the bad things to come (Draw arrow; Zeus turns; Fire)

I downshifted as I pulled into the driveway (Lightning thrown; Dodge + Explosion; Another shot)

The motor screaming out stuck in second gear (Shot lands; Lighting thrown; Lightning blocked with arms)

The scene ends badly as you might imagine (Lightning; Lightning)

In a cavalcade of anger and fear (Reach for arrow; Realize the strike is coming, and fall to the ground at “fear”)

There will be feasting (sparks in the corner) and dancing (sparks in the corner) in Jerusalem next year (Tableau as Apollo has his anime power of friendship flashback)

I am gonna make it through this year if it kills me (Get up with great difficulty; Stumble)

I am gonna make it through this year if it kills me (Take arrow, step to strong beat— make + through, stab at “kills me”)

(Music Passage 5)

The aftermath; reeling from his bittersweet victory in the first half

Apollo: I… I did it… We won… (relieved, scared, tired smile)

Olympian throne room bg swirls and fades as if teleportation; Aeisthales

Apollo: (~Eye contact of understanding~) …hey Meg…

Meg: (~Pause of processing~) …You did it, you killed him

Apollo: Yeah…

Meg: So, what's next?

Apollo: I… don't know, but… there's time to find out 

[overlyspecific]

Part 5 of Merlin Hood

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 6, Part 7, Part 8, Part 9, Part 10, Part 11, Part 12

Flashback to Magic Reveal!

Even with the number of times that Arthur called Merlin an idiot, he didn’t actually believe it. At least, not fully. Sometimes he was late waking him up in the morning or he would clumsily drop his lunch and have to go get another, but he was reliable most of the time. Today, however, Arthur had not seen his manservant at all.

When George arrived with lunch, Arthur nearly bit his head off.

Arthur: Where is my useless manservant?

George: I don’t know, sire. No one has seen him all day.

Arthur: If he’s at the tavern again…

Arthur barged out of the room and definitely didn’t angry stomp all the way to Gauis’s chambers. To his credit, Gauis doesn’t even look up at Arthur when he barges in.

Gauis: Oh Arthur, Merlin’s just out at the-

Arthur: If you say tavern, I personally put Merlin in the dungeon until there is snow on the ground.

Gauis:…

Just as Gauis is trying to think of a different excuse, Merlin barges in covered in chicken feathers and holding a struggling rooster.

Merlin: *not noticing Arthur* Gauis, I swear, cant they ever make it easy? Do they realize when they come up with these stupid plots that theres a poor overworked manservant that has to go collect whatever random ingredient and study the perfect spe-

Gaius: *cutting Merlin off before he can say anything incriminating* Oh, Merlin, you’re back. Prince Arthur was just looking for you.

Merlin: *eyes wide* Arthur! What are you doing here? *the rooster in Merlin’s arms tries to take that opportunity to escape, but Gauis takes it from Merlin*

Arthur: *rubbing a hand over his face* Merlin, the day I know what all you get up to when you aren’t with me is a day I fear for my sanity.

Arthur starts to leave the Physician chambers, but remembers why he was there.

Arthur: Merlin, I expect you to be up in my chambers in the next twenty minutes to get me dressed or have you forgotten that there is foreign royalty visiting?

Merlin: *a little too sweet to be sincere* of course, sire.

Arthur returns to his chambers with Merlin following soon behind. Merlin starts to dress Arthur for the feast.

Merlin: *working mostly in silence, quietly humming to himself* raise your arms.

Arthur: *obeying so Merlin can put in ceremonial shirt over his head* You’d tell me if you were in any kind of trouble, right?

Merlin: *surprised by the question* Of course, but what sort of trouble would I get into anyway?

Arthur: I’m serious, Merlin. Half the time I don’t know what you are up to and you come back with these ridiculous excuses everytime. what am I supposed to think?

Merlin: I appreciate the concern, but its nothing really. I’ll tell you if I’m ever in any trouble.

Arthur: You’re a bad liar, you know.

Merlin: I know.

Tension fills the room with things unsaid and Merlin quickly finishes dressing Arthur.

The two make their way down to the feast only a few minutes late. When they open the door, however, the prince and his manservant are shocked with what they find.

The long feast table is filled with royalty and nobility wrapped in fiery green ropes. The servants are similarly tied to the pillars of the room slightly out of sight. The visiting queen is at the front of the table next to Uther with her arms outstretched. She looks up at the sound of the door opening.

Lady Canterlily: *smiling wickedly* Prince Arthur, what a pleasure! *she whispers a spell and Arthur is tied to a chair and slides across the floor to join Uther and Morgana at the head of the table.*

Merlin: *suddenly serious and pulsing with authority at seeing the royals helpless* Let them go!

Lady Canterlily: Oh silly me, I forgot to take care of you too dear. I’m sorry, you servants are always so forgettable. *she whispers a spell and Merlin is tied to a pillar* Now that everyone is here, let’s get this party started.

Merlin struggles against the ropes, but he knows there’s no way out without magic and Arthur is looking over at him with worry in his eyes.

Uther: You wont get away with this! You will be brought to justice and burn on the pyre!

Lady Canterlily: Oh, like how to murdered my family? Like how you burned my helpless daughter? She didnt even have magic! Really she wasnt much younger than your son here. *she walks over to Arthur and reaches her hand out to him* How would you feel if your family was murdered, King Uther?

Lady Canterlily starts a spell directed at Arthur, but she is flung into a wall. Everyone looks around for the culprit, but everyone is still tied up. Lady Canterlily gets up slowly and looks around too.

Lady Canterlily: *suddenly scared, but trying to hide it* Emrys, show yourself!

Nothing happens.

Lady Canterlily: *approaches Arthur again saying a spell more quickly this time. Before it can hit him though it dissolves into golden light* Emrys! *she looks at every person at the table but they are all still tied and and are looking for the second magic user as well*

Arthur takes the commotion to look over where Merlin is tied up. Merlin isnt there. Lady Canterlily follows Arthur’s eyes to the pillar.

Lady Canterlily: It isnt possible!

Merlin: *appearing from behind a pillar* Forgetable, wasn’t that what you said?

Lady Canterlily: You can’t be the powerful Emrys! *shouts a spell*

Arthur: *watches as the green fiery ropes rise up to wrap Merlin back to the pillar* Merlin, lookout!

Merlin: *makes eye contact with Arthur and smiles apologetically before raising a hand up and closing his eyes. The ropes dissolve into golden light exactly like what happened to the curse meant for Arthur* I’m sorry for the sake of your sanity, Arthur, I guess that day is today. *when he opens his eyes, they shine the same golden light*

Lady Canterlily screams in frustration and Merlin continues to make his way to her at his own pace. With each step, the magic seems to flow off of him in golden waves. Lady Canterlily stumbles back in fear.

Lady Canterlily: It cant be you, you’re just a servant!

Merlin: *arm outstretched, just a couple steps away* Let’s just say I go above and beyond. Now, release them before i make you.

Lady Canterlily: Emrys! Why do you protect them? They kill every one of our people without any mercy!

Merlin: I dont protect them. I protect the once and future king. Now release them or you will see just how much i will do to protect him.

Lady Canterlily: *knowing she wont win in a magic fight against Emrys, takes out a dagger and holds it to Arthur’s neck* Emrys, please listen! We will never be free under their rule. I’m doing this for you. Help me kill them and we will rule instead. We will bring magic back as it’s supposed to be. We will be free!

Merlin: I can’t let you kill him. If you kill them all and take the throne, it wont change anything. You will go to war with the other kingdoms and the people will not follow you. So many people will die and Camelot will crumble to the ground. Plus, I kinda like having that prat around. Now, release him or your next breath will be your last!

Lady Canterlily: They will be punished, even if its the last thing I do! *she shouts a spell at Merlin

Merlin: *yells a spell back at the sorceress, but the spell catches him before he is done and he drops to the ground choking*

Lady Canterlily: Now where was I?

Before Lady Canterlily can answer her own rhetorical question, the entire feast hall begins to shake. Where Merlin was choking on the ground a minute ago, there is a blinding orb of golden light sending pulses outward toward the room. Everyone’s hairs stand on end at the table and when they look at the sorceress, there is a flash of golden lightning before nothing remains. The green fiery ropes dissolve from the people in the room.

Merlin: Well that was dramatic *Starts to fall unconscious from using so much magic and Arthur doesn’t hesitate to catch him*

Uther: Guards, seize him!

Morgana: Uther, he just saved all of our lives! You can’t kill him. Arthur, say something!

Arthur just looks at his manservant sprawled in his arms, but is frozen in shock. When the guards come to take Merlin away, he pulls him away from them.

Uther: Arthur! Let go of the sorcerer. The guards will bring him to the dungeons.

Arthur: *suddenly aggressive* No! *catches his father’s expectant look* I’ll take him down myself. He is my problem, after all.

Uther: Very well.

Arthur followed closely by several guards hauls his unconscious manservant out of the feast hall. He catches Morgana’s murderous expression as the door close behind him.

Wooo! That was a long one, sorry about that. Next part will be stay in the past for Merlin’s magic trial, but then we will go back to present time.

[girlwithadragonheart]

Leave Me to the Beasts and Bears

Halsin x Female Reader

Summary: Halsin overhears you singing about your struggles as a woman in the world. Comfort ensues

Word Count: 1,274

Warnings: Paris Paloma song, mentions of rape, assault, SA, graphic flashbacks, this fic is very graphic and intense read at your discretion!!! (I love you don't trigger yourself unless you know it's okay) This is a hurt/comfort because I need it

A/N: This song has been looping in my mind for days, and it really highlights womanhood. Also this is my personal experiences all roped together if you don't like it keep scrolling.

BG3 Masterlist

You had been staying with the Grove for quite a while, and no one seemed to mind. You brought light and life to the druids with your music, and you had become a welcome addition to the lovely place. You had found a quiet overlook next to the inner sanctum and often found yourself drawn there for the peace it brought you.

Your fingers danced idly across your lute strings, humming softly to yourself and the surrounding life.

Halsin heard your melodic voice and found himself drawn to you. Tucked just behind you out of sight. Not that it mattered as your eyes fluttered closed.

Cremate me… Deliver me to safety. So that when it’s spent maybe it will be my own.

Scatter ashes… Leave no marker where you plant it. So the hordes will be disbanded as they search on a treasure map for my headstone.

The druid’s brow furrowed as he heard the softness of your voice carrying solemn words. Little did he know what exactly was on your mind.

Leave me to the beasts and bears. I’d rather that the feast was theirs. They can’t reserve neighboring plots, or request to be buried on top.

Leave me for a day or two, to make sure that I turn blue. For the first time since I drew breath, I’m undesirable again…

Your throat felt tight. You saw them in your mind’s eye. You felt their hands on your skin, calluses scraping against you, nails digging into your arms. Your knees hit the ground with such force they cracked, and you cried out in pain. No one came. Heavy and hard hands ripped your blouse, exposing your chest for predatory eyes.

I’ll tattoo it, just so they think it’s ruined. And if they think it’s ruined, it’s easier to save. But please hurry, if you really love me, and dispose of me unceremoniously in the waves.

You heard the water lapping at the shore as your chest tightened with that familiar panic. Every time you dreamt about it or someone touched you close enough you were brought back to it again and again for days on end. No matter how far you ran, their eyes would always follow you. Their skin was tainting yours no matter where you went. Chest to chest unwilling, but appeasing.

You remembered their fingers carding through your hair, tugging it roughly from your scalp. You remembered how they put it to their lips and breathed in your scent. 

Leave me to the trees and air, I’d rather that the feast was theirs. They can’t reserve neighboring plots, or buy cuttings of my priceless locks.

Leave me for two days or three, ‘til my fingertips turn green. For the first time since I drew breath, I’m undesirable again.

Those rough hands gripped your jaw, forcing your mouth open as silent tears flew down your cheeks. Even if you screamed, no one would hear you. If they did, no one would save you. You were alone. Just the way they preferred.

The other hand traveled to their belt buckle. You heard the metal clanging in your ears as though cymbals were clashing next to your head. It was past the point of warning bells and alarms, you were in it and you wouldn’t get away before… before…

And they will come in such dismay, that they never did discover where I lay. And I will burn, my flesh and form. Screaming the words, “it will never be yours!”

I’ll take the flame over desecration, promise you’ll make all these arrangements. Don’t you dare think it’s overkill!

I wouldn’t wish the watching on anybody, so if for that reason only, swear to me you will!

Halsin watched you stand, and he heard the tears clogging your throat. He watched you scream these words out to the sea, and he felt his own throat close up. Memories of the Underdark and the drow couple started to surface in his mind. Maybe it was the words or the emotions, but what he thought of fondly started to seem less than. He heard you sniffle, and suddenly he felt those restraints on his wrists and ankles again. He felt them touching him, and his mind wanted to trick him into enjoying it. It wanted to appease his captors and draw pleasure where he could, but this… 

He was watching you break, and for the first time it was like looking in the mirror. For the first time he could see someone else breaking and recognize himself in them. 

And you choked up, feeling suffocated by the memory. You’ll never forget what it felt like. What it tasted like. The weight, the heat, the flavor, the intrusion was forever branded on your mind, body, and soul. It would always be there.

Leave me to the beasts and bears. I’d rather that the feast was theirs. They can’t reserve neighboring plots, or request to be buried on top. 

Leave me for a day or two, to make sure that I turn blue. For the first time since I drew breath, I’m undesirable again.

It was barely a melody at this point. More a choked whisper as you fell to your knees, lute laying still on the ground.

You felt the phantom soreness of every event, every time your body was used for someone else's desires. You heard every word of pleasure and longing that had ever passed to your ears. You felt their hands as they groped and poked and prodded even when you said no. Thousands upon thousands of strangers touching you. Friends touching you. Family touching you, and you couldn’t make them stop. 

But it’s fine because they love you. No! No more. This is not alright, I’m not alright. I’m not alright, I’m not, but no one understands, and no one will even listen, and I can’t breathe, I can’t breathe!

Strong arms wrap around you, trying to hold you together, but you’re falling apart freely with no air resistance, and the only thing stopping you is the embrace of warmth and strength and the smell of the earth. You didn’t realize you were screaming. You only thought you were crying, but you didn’t realize how much. 

Not until Halsin collapsed next to you and pulled you into his embrace. 

“I know,” he said softly. “I know.”

You felt his salty tears against your neck as you turned into him, arms wrapping around his neck. Your hands clawed at him desperately, trying to breathe in his safety and comfort all the while he tried to take yours. Kindred spirits, twin flames, two souls having walked the same path, and all you could do was hold onto each other for the ride and pray that you would make it to the other side.

“I’m sorry,” You tell him, burying your face in his shoulder.

“As am I.” His arms encompass you completely, holding you together. His large hands cover your back almost entirely, as though he’s attempting to shield you from your past with his large frame. You allow yourself this brief respite. After everything you’ve endured, you haven’t recovered, and you aren’t sure that you ever will.

It’s of small comfort to you that someone of Halsin’s size and stature knows the pain you’ve endured and has experienced it for himself. But you don’t know those circumstances. Perhaps he is only so large and muscular to protect what he couldn’t in the past. Perhaps he hopes to protect you in the same way.

Either way you are glad he is here.

“You are safe here,” He told you. “They can’t hurt you anymore.”

-----------------------------------------------------------------------

A/N: Are you guys okay after that? I'm not. Whew.

Have a good night <3

Tag List: @leiotyp

As always let me know if you want to be added to the tag list! Requests are open!

[dumbkiri]

​🇸​​🇴​​🇺​​🇱​ ​🇧​​🇮​​🇳​​🇩​​🇮​​🇳​​🇬​ ​

|| ​​ᴘʀᴏʟᴏɢᴜᴇ ||

​🇸​​🇺​​🇰​​🇺​​🇳​​🇦​ ​🇷​​🇾​​🇴​​🇲​​🇪​​🇳​ ​🇽​ ​🇫​​🇪​​🇲​​🇦​​🇱​​🇪​ ​🇷​​🇪​​🇦​​🇩​​🇪​​🇷​

In the Heian Period, [Name] Inumaki was born. She became the Inumaki Clan Leader on her 17th birthday. The village people protected by her dubbed her as The Sorcerer Queen because of her unique curse technique; Cursed Speech. Not only that, she inherited another curse technique which came from her mother. This curse technique was called "The Third Eye". It allowed her to move objects with her mind and harness curse energy to become powerful attacks, gravelly injuring all species that were hit by it.

Uraume stumbled upon this small village and is shocked to hear that not a single soul has heard of Ryomen Sukuna. Baffled and disgusted by these people for having the audacity to ignore the strongest man, Uraume brings this news to Sukuna. Unbothered by the news, Sukuna tells Uraume to let the village be.

Uraume disobeys the order and goes back to the village. The people seem to be friendly and polite as they greeted Uraume with no pause. This unsettles Uraume and angers them to the point where they kill some villagers in the name of Sukuna. And if that wasn't enough show for power, Uraume cooks the people they killed and threatens for the audience to enjoy their meal.

Immediately, the villagers call out for their Sorcerer Queen to save them. [Name] perks up at the sound of her terrified villagers and tells her interesting partner that she needs to go. The man in her temple tells her that he can help her with the intruder. Skeptical, she accepted his help nonetheless wanting to see his true form and power.

Upon arriving on the scene, [Name] is appalled by the sight see is seeing. Her poor villagers feasting on cooked human flesh. Sorcerers today can only imagine the anger the Inumaki Clan Leader felt that day. Stories range from [Name] killing Uraume herself to [Name] controlling her villagers to kill Uraume.

But it was further from the truth. [Name] wasn't the one who wanted to fight Uraume. In fact, it was Sukuna Ryomen who wanted to engage in a heavy battle with his chef. For ruining his plan on having the Sorcerer Queen by his side, Sukuna declared to [Name] that he will put Uraume back into their place.

[Name] had other plans in motion. Instead she declared for everyone to remain still and silent. Sukuna and Uraume were victims to this command that felt heavy on their bodies. The King of Curses watched the young female approach the cooked human flesh with tears in her eyes.

Then she ordered Uraume to clean up her villagers of blood and flesh. Get rid of the human flesh and the dead bodies. Consider this mercy or else she would have had Sukuna beat the living shit out of her.

.....

"Mama, that's a bad word."

"Huh?" You looked down at the child in your arms and nervously chuckled. The child was right, you did use a bad word, but it was for good reason. Although you posed as this child's mother, you were actually [Name] Inumaki; The Sorcerer Queen.

You were telling this story to the child because you needed him to understand you a bit more even in story form. "Ah, Toge, ignore that word. It's just that you know? [Name] must have felt so much anger that day."

The little boy hummed and nodded his head, "Well yeah, if you were cooked as a meal, I would be very sad and mad. No one is going to cook you, right?"

You laughed at his question and hugged his body close to your chest. You snuggled in as he giggled.

"No one is going to cook me up, love. Now let's get you into bed."

Toge crawled out of your arms and began walking to his bedroom. You helped him dress into his pajamas then you tucked him in for some sweet dreams. He was a bit antsy until you commanded him with your soothing voice, "Sleep, young one."

He closed his eyes and immediately fell into slumber. You stayed kneeling by his bedside watching the rise and fall of his chest. A flashback of your own child returned to you and you dismissed it with a sad sigh.

It's been a thousand plus years of your cruel fate. One that was bonded to your King of Curses. You have waited and waited. You died only to come back to life a million times. You've been through wars, famine, sickness to bare the thought of your lover coming back.

Yet these years have made you human again. Caring for a little boy that wasn't yours and protecting the Inumaki Clan to the best of your ability. It was your fault that your clan almost went extinct. So now it is up to you to restore you clan's stability and spot as one of the strongest sorcerer families again.

..............................................................

|| important notice ||

I had to get this idea out of my head. It's a literal plague. So I really don't know if this will actually become a series.

[flusteredmoonn]

so long, london; sirius black

summary: "i left all i knew, you left me at the house by the heath" in which sirius and a girl from beauxbatons academy fall for one another in a romance with a timer on it.

tags: (SFW), fluff, drabble??, fast paced, angst, fast-paced relationship, implied and brief moments of past sex, lots of time skips, brief flashback, beauxbattons!reader, impliedfrench!reader, she/her pronouns, third person y/n.

words: 2.0k+

ttpd tracklist. request.

it was the event of the year. hogwarts was hosting beauxbattons academy for yule, preparing the pagan celebrations as winter solstice crept up to the wizarding world. dumbledore gave some grand speech to the students of the school, before welcoming the girls from beauxbattons academy.

the last oaken doors at the start of the hall were pushed open as a flurry of blue entered the room. behind the group of visiting students marched a magical band, singing an entrancing tune whilst the girls of beauxbattons danced through the hall methodically. their blue coats swayed in time with the music, and their bell-shaped hats covering their eyes mysteriously. everyone in the room was entranced by their movements, watching as they welcomed themselves to the school.

eventually the group of a hundred or so students had made their way to the front of the hall, before being ushered to sit at the front of the four house tables. the headmaster proceeded to both welcome the guests and explain the importances of yule to the school, before imploring everyone to enjoying the warm feast, which appeared in front of them with a pop!

chatter erupted throughout the room, everyone eagerly trying to befriend the foreign students. one of the students from the academy had walked down the red and gold table, trying to find like-aged students.

"hello," a thick accent broke the conversation of the maraudic group and their friends, "may i take a seat," she asked plainly, looking directly at the boy with long black hair, curious at his familiarity.

looking to his friends, he hesitantly responded, "..sure," with a tight lipped smile before moving over to make space for the beauxbattons girl. she quickly thanked him before filling her plate, which had appeared with another crack, ignoring the pulling at her stomach as she stopped herself from asking about the boy.

"how was, the journey over?" a bespectacled boy spoke up across the table from her, continuing to shovel food into his mouth as he looked at her expectantly for an answer.

"it was good, the horses only had to stop once," she smiled kindly at him, smoothing down her skirt. "do you, uh, enjoy this school?" she prompted, trying to continue a conversation with the rest of the group, her accent causing the group to pause as they took a moment to understand her.

some of the girls positively piped up, exclaiming how much they loved coming here. whilst the boys were quieter, sharing a look as though silently communicating, sirius flashing the girl a look, before also answering;

"i mean, james here," the boy who had invited her to sit pointed to the bespectacled boy, "is too busy chasing after lily there," he pointed to a red haired girl who had spoken kindly to her before, leaning down slightly as to align himself with her eye line, "to enjoy his time here," he laughed. she laughed too, realising she hadn't asked their names before. and so, the group had gotten to know her as she got to know them as the moon rose further in the sky.

prior to being dismissed to bed, dumbledore summoned the attention of the entire hall with him tapping his wand on a chalice, "now, before you all retire for the night; remember, we welcome the guests of beauxbattons to our school, for as long as they're here this shall be their home. make them feel welcome". it wasn't a welcoming suggestion but a demand of his students.

and so, the boy stood from the table with a feeling of dread lingering in his stomach. his concern for the next two weeks already pulling at him from the inside out.

the following day, classes commenced once more, with the immersion of the girls from the academy into the already existing classes, rather than the inception of new ones. sirius had seen her, the girl from the evening before, sat in front of him in his transfiguration class. and the feeling in the pit of his stomach pulled at him once more, urging him to act.

smiling to himself, he scrawled a note swiftly, before levitating it subtly onto her desk. hey, didn't know you were in this class.

the girl whipped around quickly, to see who had left the note. a small smile graced her lips upon seeing it was him. she turned back around and quickly wrote a reply before passing the piece of parchment back to him. i wasn't sure until this morning. your house elves had left our schedules next to our beds.

her explanation made it back to him in broken english and messy writing as she tried to translate between the two languages. he chuckled at him, observing several grammatical errors, before writing another note. much of the class was spent this way, passing notes back and forth, with sirius dodging the scrutinising looks from peter, who sat next to him. he knew the boy was confused over the situation, and despite his skittishness, he would bring it up given the opportunity to the rest of the group.

sirius shot a powerful look to peter, who shrunk slightly under the scrutiny of his friend's gaze. he caught the eye of james in doing this, who looked confused by his friends sudden distraction, opposing his scholarly nature.

the next class, and then the class after that had come around, and the long haired boy knew he wouldn't be able to avoid the interrogation of his friends for long. she wasn't in his last class before the lunch break, which he figured would give him some reprieve from the watchful glares of his friends. how wrong he had been. instead, they had resulted to making pointed comments about the entire visit from the sister school;

"hey, pads, how about those beauxbattons girls yeah? nothin' like we have round here," he smirked, though his demeanour slightly faltering when the girls from the very school he had been referencing scoffing at the remark, before very clearly badmouthing him in french.

"dunno, haven't really had the opportunity to speak with them... and any chance i had, you very clearly just ruined for all of us," he rolled his eyes, stirring the cauldron in front of him.

"you seemed pretty preoccupied all day?" remus piped up inquisitively, quirking an eyebrow.

oh, "oh," was all the boy said, waves of memories crashing over him, such a force impending which had left the boy breathless. "she, uhm," he paused, trying to break the ice.

saved by the bell in the clock tower, sirius eagerly packs up his things and throws his satchel over his shoulder, trying to avoid the trail of his friends following behind him. "last i checked, that wasn't an explanation," james swung his arm around the boy as they both fell into step.

for fucks sake, sirius sighed under his breath. "we met over the summer holidays," he gave his friend a tight smile, clearly reluctant to give up the information. "it was... complicated, to say the least".

the fleeting moments over the last six weeks had hit the boy like a train.

she had been staying over at her great aunt's house, holidaying before the brief stay at hogwarts for yule. she had been walking diagon alley, when they had first met. she was curiously venturing into floris and blotts. he had needed to go in to get his texts for the next year at school.

immediately, he was enraptured with her. she had an allure he couldn't describe – which had given him the confidence to approach her. equally as taken by him, they had spent nearly every waking moment of the rest of the break with one another.

every moment they had to spare, they had spent exploring muggle london. finding pockets of silence amidst the loud bustling streets of the city. it was the most content the boy had felt in a long time, and the perfect escape from grimmauld place.

fleeting moments were shared when they got to be alone. truly alone. with breathy kisses filling the space, using one another as a distraction from what loomed outside their cozy bubble.

and yet, all good things must come to an end. so on the last day of the summer holidays, they counted down the reluctant seconds until they had to leave one another. the day spent with hushed whispers and unkept promises, choosing to stay inside with one another rather than navigating the muggle world.

sirius seemed almost dazed as he recalled the rendezvous to his friends, reluctantly relinquishing the information as he pushed the food around his plate. his eyes rolled at the teasing which ensued, ignoring the claps on his back in praise for his escapades. mysteriously, he manages to change the subject of the conversation, his eyes darting around the great hall as though he's looking for someone. looking for her.

after he finishes his lunch, he looks to the front of the hall the gauge how much time he has before he needs to be at his next class, before dismissing himself from the table. without much elaboration, he walks away from his friends, who look at him confusedly.

he was a man on a mission. and so, he stalked around the school looking for the girl from france. and thankfully, it wasn't long before he found her, laughing with her friends.

"y/n" he called quietly, drawing her attention from the laughter amongst her friends.

"sirius?" she whipped her head around, being met with the face of the long haired boy she had just spent the last six weeks attached at the hip to.

"can we talk?"

thus perpetuated the tone of the next two weeks. quickly, the feelings which had surfaced during their time away from school had been dug up from the shallow graves they were buried in on the first of september.

joined at the hip once more, the boy practically had abandoned his friends in favour for the foreign girl's attention. at any opportunity, they were in the other's company, drinking up one another, knowing the fated departure was looming over them. time counted down and very swiftly, two weeks had become two days.

grief clawed at them from the inside out. a melancholic atmosphere swimming through their veins, searching, begging, for more time together. like any couple their age, they decided that the best way to plead to merlin for more time was to intertwine themselves together, justifying that if they were so interlinked that it would be impossible to pull them from each other. to both the students of hogwarts and the students of beauxbattons, they had become one and the same, never seen without the other. many had mistaken this change for the petulant group of gryffindors to have fallen out, but the reasoning had been much more innocent.

sirius was in love.

he loved her. and he wasn't ready to say goodbye. again. he clung to these moments he knew he would look back on as though they had been fleeting. and that moment was approaching quicker than he had hoped. desperately both teens clutched to the remaining moments they had together, before the departing feast.

for once, silence blanketed the pair. they finally sat with sirius' friends as dumbledore gave a superfluous speech over what a joyous opportunity this had been for the school. the timer ticked silently between them, knowing that he wouldn't even be able to see her of off in the carriage.

so, he embraced her tightly, under the stone threshold between the courtyard, and inside the school. as if they had a foot in both worlds. she pulled away, being called on by the chaperoning teacher to maker her way to the carriage. in the back of their heads the timer ticked down, their time was running out. they held one another's forearms unspeaking. neither knew the appropriate thing to say, as the chaperone called out once more.

the timer had hit zero. and she had pulled away from him, whispering a solemn goodbye, walking over to the champagne coloured horses and stepping into the transport. sirius was at a loss for words, as the sand in the time glass had stopped falling, his gaze never leaving the carriage as it had begun to depart. a deafening silence blaring through his ears.

this took me like three days to write huh?? i dont like the ending, but oh well.