#fic: interview with a dark lord

[tommarvoloriddlesdiary]

Harry glanced over his notes, shuffling them around once, then twice. His eyes fell on one of the many, many questions he and the other Gryffindors had compiled over the night.

“Would you say your field is expanding or decreasing?” Harry asked.

“Decreasing,” Voldemort replied without hesitation. Harry’s scar prickled with something vast and telling - something that felt a lot like immense satisfaction.

A morbid curiosity reared its ugly head. “Really?” he asked and squinted his eyes a bit at Voldemort, looking him up and down. “You don’t seem to be taking that very hard?”

“Yes, and why would I, Potter?” Voldemort leaned back and crossed his legs, definitely looking smug. “It is not Dark Lords; it is Dark Lord. If my field is narrowing, and I remain the only one, all’s the better.”

[aethon-recs]

30 Tomarrymort Recs for 2024 — One-Shot Edition (Part 2)

2024 recs continued! Here's a round-up of some of the most compelling one-shots that I came across in 2024 that I hope showcases the diversity of talent in our ship across a broad range of tropes and themes and ratings 🤍

Criteria for this list: one-shot, complete, published in 2024. Can be read in 1 sitting. Overall for 2024, I've split up the year-end recs into 3 parts: (1) Completed Multi-Chapter Fics, (2) One-Shots, (3) WIPs. Here’s the link back to Part 1: Completed Multi-Chapter Fics. 

The 3rd and last part of this list (WIPs/Longfics updated in 2024) will be posted soon. Happy reading!

*

A Moment of Curiosity (or Weakness) by koel7 (E, 6k, complete)

“I’m having these dreams,” Harry says. “You’re in every one of them. I think you’ve been in them for a long time, I just didn’t know it was you.” Tom inclines his head, and Harry sees the red eyes. He sees deathly, pale skin, and a flash of green light. “Do you remember?”

a pale horse by @ictyn (E, 7k, complete)

Harry, a penniless orphan, struggles to survive under the superstitious judgement of his isolated puritan community. One day, a vile omen is left before the church, an omen which portends only doom. The elders choose to cast Harry out, sending him as a sacrifice to a crumbling castle. The Dark Lord waits within, ravenous for the taste of his blood and the sweetness of his soul.

A Prank Unlike Any Other by A_Single_Cactus (E, 2k, complete)

It was April Fools’ Day. Harry decides to prank Riddle by acting differently. He decides to act nice. It doesn’t go as planned.

Adhesion by @telelli-writes (T, 5k, complete)

Overachieving sixth-year prefect Tom Riddle is on the fast track to be Head Boy next year, a Department Head by thirty, and Minister for Magic by forty. Harry Potter, Quidditch star and the most popular boy in school, doesn't factor anywhere into those plans or Tom's life. Until Professor Slughorn pairs the two of them together on a Potions project.

bad guy by @circleofplanets (M, 5k, complete)

Considered the power couple of Hogwarts, Tom Marvolo Riddle and Harry James Potter have been the topic of interest ever since they got together. A series of interviews getting close and personal with their friends and their outsider perspective on the famed couple.

Blood of the Covenant by @solelyseeking (E, 10k, complete)

Perhaps more than Parseltongue ran through Tom's veins. The Gaunts carried a hunger in their blood- not just for power, as is their right- but for each other. Tom thinks of the way their legacy had dripped from Harry's tongue, later that night, as his wrist works beneath the covers. He feels no shame for his urges. Tradition is sacred, after all. And Tom had always wanted a family.

Consume by @known-concepts (E, 4k, complete)

Something goes awry during Voldemort's resurrection, the balances of life and death are upset, and there is only one way to fix it.

cult classic by @aitafrog (G, 3k, complete)

For his whole life, Harry’s been looking forward to leaving behind the Dursleys and making his own fresh start. He’d envisioned endless opportunities ahead of him, with countless ways of reinventing himself. But for all of his daydreams and plans, he never quite imagined his fresh start involving the infamous cult leader Tom Riddle.

Customer Service by lilacscented (T, 6k, complete)

Furious at Borgin & Burkes’ blatant false advertising and shoddy customer service, Harry spends his Christmas Eve on a quest for Justice. Tom, meanwhile, is just punching the clock for some holiday pay. Both of them end up getting more than they bargained for.

deadbolt by @duplicitywrites (E, 8k, complete)

Tom is stunning at sixteen. He has always been an exception in a sea of mediocrity, a chameleon of sorts, conducting himself with the arrogance of genius astride the pity of orphanhood. Each facet of Tom Riddle is a domino on the path of Voldemort; it is up to you to divert them. Or: Harry goes back in time again, and again, and again.

don't blame the stork by @theonceandfuturequeenoftarts (T, 10k, complete)

Harry feels a little adrift after the war, so Magic decides he needs a baby, Magical Britain decides he needs to be Minister, and Voldemort decides he needs some company.

Eternal Hunt by @metalomagnetic (E, 3k, complete)

Harry wants to be good. Tom wants Harry.

Fearsome Thing by @0p4l3sc3nc3 (NR, 13k, complete)

It was him. The angel. "P-pleased to meet you," Tom murmured, and then cursed his tongue for the stutter, and his throat for the raspy tone of his voice, and his heart for being a traitor. And the angel—Harry, he had to remember that name now, it was of utmost importance—smiled at him. "The pleasure is mine.”

Heartbeats by @cyandenial (T, 10k, complete)

Harry Potter, a medical student, volunteered to help in St Mungo's hospital for the summer, to gain extra credits and some practical experience. He was assigned to look over one old man, a task no one wanted, because Tom Riddle wasn’t making it easy for anyone. His horrible attitude brought about every nurse to tears, and Harry was determined not be among those who cried. To everyone's surprise, he managed somehow… Until he didn't.

his love life and death by @noctelier (T, 5k, complete)

Tom Riddle doesn’t get sick. His immune system, just like the rest of him, is extraordinary. Incomparable. No one would dare suggest otherwise. Which is why everyone goes silent when he starts to cough. Or: Tom contracts Hanahaki Disease, knows what he must do about it, and decides he’s better than all that (until he doesn’t).

Ho, Ho, Ho by @moontearpensfic (E, 3k, complete)

Tom's parents take him shopping at the mall, where he scopes out snake paraphernalia and a Santa Claus with pretty green eyes.

if the moon should ever doubt by @fericide (M, 6k, complete)

They meet in the Astronomy Tower.

Mistletoe Managed by @tommarvoloriddlesdiary (T, 3k, complete)

“What’s so bad about magical mistletoe?” Harry asks. Hermione sighs, “Well, magical mistletoe won’t let a person go until they share a heartfelt kiss... So he'll be there a while.”

O Come, All Ye Faithful by @shyinsunlight (E, 3k, complete)

The sanctity of midnight mass requires dignity, composure, and absolutely not dropping the thurible when Harry fucking Potter walks in fifteen minutes late. Harry, who hasn’t darkened the church door since last Easter, and who’s apparently decided Christmas Eve is the perfect time to make his triumphant return to worship.

paint your eyes with sunsets by @boyneptunee (T, 5k, complete)

Tom moves to a new apartment building where he more or less gets himself a boyfriend and a family. Oh, and there's also a cat.

Resonating Souls by @endlessburningdarkness (E, 4k, complete)

Minister Riddle has an unusually dream filled night.

Roughly 19 Years Later by @dividawrites (E, 2k, complete)

Platform 9¾ is a nice place for reunions.

seven by lilacscented (T, 7k, complete)

Harry meets Tom Riddle on the first day of school. He has just turned seven. “So you’re like me,” he says, a statement, not a question. “Meet me in the woods later this afternoon.”

Soil by @ratzeebatz (T, 11k, complete)

The thing about Tom, and many people were aware of this, is that he had a combination of traits that made him both dangerous and infinitely appealing to anyone that spoke to him.  Or: Tom Riddle is a murderous herbologist, and Harry smells better than anything he's smelled before.

stumbling into wonderful by @satflesk22 (E, 5k, complete)

The Ministry sees fit to meddle at Hogwarts in an attempt at curtailing rising pureblood sentiments, to try and lure prospective recruits away from the Dark Lord Nott. Unsurprisingly, the Heir of Slytherin is stuck together in a room with the Chosen One. The worst part is that it bloody works.

The Betrayal (and Boon) of One's Own Biology by @riverxsong-ao3 (E, 7k, complete)

Tom Riddle had always known he was destined for greatness. As a young wizard, he was certain he would present one day as an Alpha - strong, powerful, in charge. When he did not, he came to accept that he must, in fact, be a Beta. Then, one day, everything changed.

The Descent by @chaos-bear (E, 5k, complete)

Secrets, grief and blood magic collide in the depths of the Austrian Alps.

The Good Knight by @mosiva (E, 9k, complete)

Harry and Tom drifted apart at Hogwarts, and Harry hasn’t seen Tom in years as she’s off travelling the world. But Harry doesn’t have time to be sad about it. She’s got problems closer to home – like helping the Order of the Phoenix to combat the recent rise of one Lord Voldemort.

the thing lay dead by @duplicitywrites (E, 7k, complete)

In the end, there was one body that all refused to touch. It unnerved people to see even the corpse. Harry tended to him, this man made mortal. Smooth, alabaster skin and thin, brittle bones. Peaceful in death as he had never been in life. No longer a monster. Now a body, just like everyone else.

this is my persona, secret lover (he's my collar) by souliloquium (M, 3k, complete)

Some things are the same, some things are different. Harry is not the Boy Who Lived. He still finds the locket. And Tom finds him.

We Bow to Each Other, Harry by @liquidluckandstuff (T, 4k, complete)

Harry falls asleep with the Horcrux around his neck and has a very strange dream.

When the Weight is Gone by @marrythemonstersao3 (M, 7k, complete)

In the quiet after the war is over, Harry feels the empty space in his soul like a missing limb. Eventually, his grief and longing come to a head when Death offers him a choice: to move on for good, or go back and do it over again.

*

[strangererotica]

INTENSITY

Anthony Bridgerton x Reader

EXPLICIT CONTENT | MINORS DNI

Mean!Dom!Anthony Bridgerton x Reader • smut smut smut • this is my first Bridgerton fic; please be gentle with me (unless you’re Anthony Bridgerton, in which case go hard as fuck on my ass…) Includes: mean Anthony, rough sex, degradation, cum play, prostitution, oral & vaginal sex, spit

The moment you saw Anthony Bridgerton enter the room, your stomach dropped. His handsome features were sharper than usual, eyes colored black with an intensity you’d never seen before. He appeared to be in a state of rage, well past the usual harshness of attitude he normally presented.

Several of the ladies you ‘worked,’ with at the gentleman’s club flocked to Lord Bridgerton, though it was immediately clear that his interest lay elsewhere. Dispersing them with a wave of his hand, he moved through the women easily. His penetrating gaze refused to soften, growing even more severe when his eyes landed on you.

Bowing politely before him, you forced a smile to mask your anxiety. “Lord Bridgerton,” you greeted. “How good to see you a-.”

He abruptly took your arm, leading you towards the stairs. “Silence. You will not speak until I allow it-do you understand?” Lord Bridgerton’s words bit low at your ear. He guided you to the second floor, clutching you at his side. He reached for the handle of the first door you came too, yanking it open only to realize the room was currently being used. He glared at both its occupants, before pulling the door shut and dragging you to the one across from it.

When this second room proved to be unoccupied, Lord Bridgerton ushered you inside. He kicked the door closed with his foot, his hands busy loosening the white cravat around his neck. “Undress,” Lord Bridgerton ordered, speaking so low and quickly that you failed to hear him. “Very well,” he snapped, aggressively discarding his vest to the floor. Your pulse was racing, your heartbeat thrumming against Lord Bridgerton’s fingers as they slipped beneath the front of your bodice. He tugged your body into his, making you gasp. In his impatience, Lord Bridgerton had failed to notice how genuinely unnerved you were by him tonight.

The previous week had been a frustrating blur for Anthony, as he was busy interrogating interviewing women for marriage. He’d felt himself completely at the mercy of what society and his family told him he must do. Although he’d never admit it, the pressure of being Viscount Bridgerton was exhausting. It was even a bit frightening, in some ways, to have so many people depending on him. Tonight, that pressure would be removed from Anthony completely. He could transfer his nerves to someone else for awhile, allowing you to carry that burden for him.

Sinking his hand over your chest, Anthony felt your heartbeat kick rapidly against his palm. He almost pitied you in that moment, realizing what a fearsome creature he must have appeared to be downstairs. Then again, Anthony reminded himself, did the feelings of a whore really matter to him anyway? He would take what he needed from you, as usual, and move on. Just as he always did. This transaction had taken place between you countless times before. The only difference being that tonight, Anthony had come to you in a particularly dark mood.

His fingers began roughly working the laces of your bodice undone. “Since you seem to have forgotten how a whore behaves,” Anthony scolded. “I shall have to instruct you. Open your mouth.” You parted your lips obediently. Anthony’s thumb hooked between them, tugging your bottom lip downward. His eyes were like black pools, void of emotion as he spat inside your mouth. He closed his hand around your chin, prompting you to swallow, then forced your lips apart with his tongue. Anthony tasted like bourbon, the harshness of his kiss blended with the smooth flavor you’d now come to associate with him alone.

He suddenly pulled back from you, hurriedly undoing his trousers. “On your knees,” Anthony ordered. He felt ready to burst at the seams, both figuratively and literally. His cock was already leaking onto his fist as he worked himself out of his trousers. Anthony tapped the head of his cock to your cheek, satisfied with the way his precum was left smeared down the side of your face. “Why do you insist on painting your face with cosmetics, (y/n)?” Lord Bridgerton asked. “When you look so much better painted in this…?” He dragged his swollen tip along your cheek and lips, pausing there to press just slightly between them. With the head of his cock nestled at the front of your mouth, you instinctively began to nurse it lightly; but Anthony removed his cock and continued his strange, degrading little ‘art project,’ by smearing your saliva and his precum all over your face with his cock.

“Hmm,” he hummed condescendingly. “Perhaps my brother isn’t the only artist in the family?” He pressed the tip of his cock between your lips again, collecting more of your spit, and spread it along your other cheek. “Such a pretty canvas,” Lord Bridgerton observed. “I’ll certainly take great pleasure in ruining it.” He released his cock, letting his shaft rest thick and weighty against your chin. You gazed up at the gorgeous, intimidating visage of Anthony Bridgerton, grateful to see that while his words remained barbed as ever, his countenance had softened considerably. Whatever stress he’d entered the gentleman’s club with that evening, he’d apparently managed to release some of it between then and now.

You decided to test your theory by playfully inquiring “In what ways do you wish to ruin me, my lord?”

Anthony’s confident smirk returned. He lifted you onto the bed and settled between your legs, shoving your dress around your waist. Pivoting his hips over yours, Anthony rubbed his erection against your thigh. A slippery trail of precum wet your leg, the veins along his cock throbbing as he lowered himself over you. “Allow me to demonstrate,” he replied, settling his teeth over your shoulder just hard enough to sting. You winced, drawing in a sharp breath. Without giving you time to recover from the shock of his biting you, Anthony plunged his cock inside you. The air left your lungs at once, your eyes fixing on Anthony’s and the debauched look of ‘victory,’ on his face.

Regardless of how many times the viscount had made use of your ‘services,’ the impact of him entering you always felt like being split in half. Anthony was well endowed, particularly in terms of girth. You’d seen longer cocks before (not that Anthony was lacking in length) but his thickness was on another level entirely. Fitting him down your throat was almost impossible, and your ass?? That would have been unthinkable, had Anthony not spent a considerable amount of time (weeks, in fact) teasing you open with his fingers, working your tolerance up to the point you’d be able to take his cock.

Feeling his climax approaching, Anthony quickly pulled out of you and moved up your body till he was straddling your shoulders. Sweat dripped down his forehead, his cheeks flushed, black eyes wide and craving. Anthony fucked himself over you, his damp chest rising and falling with harsh breaths as the head of his cock bloomed white. Semen pulsed thick and warm onto your lips and cheeks as Anthony frantically tugged his cock over your face. Breathy, vulnerable groans escaped his lips as his orgasm consumed him. The former, fearsome lion of a man he’d behaved as earlier was now diminished to little more than a timid lamb.

Anthony collapsed backward onto the bed beside you, tilting his head to inspect his design all over your face. Semen coated your lips in a milky gloss, streaked in globs across your cheeks, pearly drops beaded on your lashes. Anthony used part of the bedsheet to dry your eyes. He then scooped his cum from your cheeks with his forefinger and fed it to you, guiding it onto your tongue. Planting a satisfied kiss on your breast, Anthony looked up at you with a humble, happy grin. You couldn’t help but chuckle, at this complete change in his character in so short a time.

“Was I that frightening?” he asked, and you nodded: “Very.”

Anthony tutted softly in self reproach, before swiping his tongue across your breast. “Then I should like to make amends for my incorrigible behavior, by apologizing,” he grinned up at you, kissing his way down your belly. “And although most apologies are spoken-.” Anthony lingered between your thighs, his breath dusting your clit, making you shiver. “-I prefer to use my tongue in more creative ways…”

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

In The Gloomy Depths [Chapter 1: Amethyst]

Series summary: Five years ago, jewel mining tycoon Daemon Targaryen made a promise in order to win your hand in marriage. Now he has broken it and forced you into a voyage across the Atlantic, betraying you in increasingly horrifying ways and using your son as leverage to ensure your cooperation. You have no friends and no allies, except a destitute viola player you can't seem to get away from...

Series warnings: Language, sexual content (18+ readers only), parenthood, dolphins, death and peril, violence (including domestic violence), drinking, smoking, freezing temperatures, murder, if you don't like Titanic you won't like this fic!!! 😉

Word count: 5.2k

💜 All my writing can be found HERE! 💜

Tagging: @arcielee @nightvyre @camsdaae @mrs-starkgaryen @gemini-mama

Let me know if you’d like to be added to the taglist 🥰

A note goes sharp, and you swim up through colorless currents—indistinct conversation, an iron-grey draft each time the front door opens, cigar smoke like fog over the ocean—and turn to the viola player. His eyes have caught on the place where your left hand rests on the table by a glass of pear cider, still cold from the icebox, misty with condensation. Rain pours outside. Logs fracture and hiss in the fireplace. Your gown is thick velvet, indigo like the night sky, and the ruffles of your sleeve have slipped back to reveal the evidence roped around your wrist: shadows of trapped blood, rubies that sicken and turn to sapphires and amethysts.

You hurriedly adjust your sleeve. Now the viola player’s eyes are on yours, an overcast blue and improperly direct, and something flies between you: his shock, your shame. You look away and pretend to ignore him. His horsehair bow finds its rhythm again, a tempo like a racing pulse. The quartet is playing The Wild Rover.

Daemon hasn’t noticed. He has ensnared the reporter entirely, here in O’Connell’s Bar in the heart of Galway, just across the street from Eyre Square and only a few blocks west of the Docks and the North Atlantic Ocean. The young man writes for The Irish Times and has traveled from Dublin to interview your husband, once a celebrated newcomer but soon departing and taking you with him. Five years ago a storm blew him in; now the gleam of distant treasure catches his eye and beckons him like the moon calls the tides. He has been this way all his life. You were mad to believe he’d change.

“Lord Targaryen,” the reporter says with his felt-tip pen hovering over his notebook, gazing at Daemon worshipfully, firelight dancing on both of their faces. You glance at the viola player again. He’s still watching you, and this is bad. “You’ve been described as a cowboy by numerous publications and business associates. Do you consider that a compliment?”

Daemon chuckles, smirking and imperious. He puffs on his pipe, elbows propped on the table. His eyes are a deep-set reptilian green, emeralds glinting from the mouth of a mine. Strands of dark blonde hair fall roguishly down over his forehead. “Oh, it’s a massive compliment, isn’t it? A cowboy eschews the safe and the predictable. A cowboy makes his own way in the world. My father was a duke, and now my brother is a duke, and one day my nephew will be a duke, God help us all. And so I always knew that if I wanted anything for myself, I’d have to go out and find it.”

The reporter is smiling, enraptured. He asks, already knowing the answer: “And what was it you found?”

“In the Wah Wah Mountains of Utah, we discovered red beryl.” Daemon talks with his hands, magnetic fields, incantations, spells that once worked on you. “It’s exceptionally rare and a gorgeous stone, high color saturation, not as hard as a diamond but durable enough for jewelry, essentially a blood-colored emerald. I was twenty-five years old and had just put together my first small mining expedition, and here we were sitting on the only known supply of red beryl on the planet. And it was then that I realized that there are these sorts of…natural monopolies that exist scattered across the globe, gemstones that can be found in only one location, and thus if you are the man who owns the mine…every single stone must pass through your hands before it ends up in retail establishments in London or Paris or Milan or wherever.”

“And so you took the lesson you learned from red beryl and applied it to other minerals,” the reporter says as he scribbles in his notebook.

Daemon grins, puffing on his pipe, exhaling smoke like a dragon. And how remarkable he is to have agreed to meet here in this pub like a common man, so unpretentious, so unafraid of the world’s dirt, effortless and yet untouchable, and this is why his miners love Daemon, why they will break their spines and poison their lungs for him. “We kept the Utah mine, of course, and bought up rights to thousands of acres of land surrounding it. I hired more workers. And then I investigated reports of mysterious, unnamed, brand new stones that had been stumbled upon in far-flung places, untamed by civilized men, the earth just waiting to be slit open and butchered like a fat hog. In Madagascar, we found Grandidierite, a bewitching blue-green, the Indian Ocean in miniature, crystalized form. In Tanzania, we discovered Tanzanite, halfway between an amethyst and a sapphire.”

The reporter nods to you as he says: “I believe Lady Targaryen is wearing some this evening, is she not?”

“Indeed,” Daemon replies without much interest. You touch your fingertips to your teardrop-shaped earrings and give the reporter a polite smile. You steal a glimpse of the viola player; he isn’t staring at you anymore—a blessing, a relief—but he frowns distractedly as his bow glides over the strings. “In Australia there was black opal, and in the Dominican Republic we were the first mining operation to encounter Larimar, and then…well, then I heard of Connemara marble.”

“Native to Ireland,” the reporter says proudly. “The lone quarry that’s still producing is right here in Galway.”

“So of course that intrigued me.” Daemon taps on the tabletop with his right hand, and now he is watching you, curling lips, taunting eyes. “And when I crossed the Atlantic to acquaint myself with this quarry and inquire into purchasing it, I was intrigued by the quarry owner’s daughter as well.”

His pen scratching against parchment; black rivers of ink filling up the page. “How would you describe the courtship?”

“Brief,” Daemon says, then laughs. He points to you with his smoldering pipe. “How about you, dear? How would you describe it?”

“Flattering,” you answer honestly, and the reporter makes his notes. “Daemon already had a reputation by then. A captain of industry, a staggering success story, a man who refused to rest idly on his family’s titles, which he could have easily done.” And a man who also refused to marry, rejecting Rockefellers and Morgans and Astors, duchesses and countesses, but asked your father for your hand in marriage after only a few weeks of tours of the quarry and dinners set alight with charismatic retellings of his travels. You knew the Connemara marble was part of the allure, but you took this as a common interest rather than the only thing Daemon wanted from you. Well…one of two things.

“You’ve resided in Galway ever since,” the reporter is saying to Daemon. “Barring a few trips for business. But that is about to change.”

Daemon sucks on his pipe. “I’ve received a very generous offer from Tiffany & Co. in Manhattan. They’ve been around for almost a century, did you know they supplied the Union Army with swords and surgical tools during the Civil War? Real patriots. Not afraid to get bloody. They want to expand into the sale of colored gemstones, not just diamonds and pearls and gold, the same unimaginative pieces peddled by their competitors. And after some long and arduous negotiations, Tiffany has agreed to pay a fair price for the exclusive rights to specimens originating from my mines, and I have agreed relocate to New York City for the foreseeable future to consult with them as a gemstone expert.”

“It’s my understanding that you have family in New York too, Lord Targaryen. Perhaps a reunion is part of the appeal of a move across the pond.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t assume that,” Daemon says impishly. “I haven’t seen Alicent Hightower or her children in years and years. I wouldn’t even know them if I passed them on the street.”

“Is that right?” The reporter’s pen hovers uncertainly over his notebook; he doesn’t think this is the sort of familial disharmony that should be printed in a newspaper.

“But my wife and I will have some company for the voyage,” Daemon continues. “My niece Rhaenyra and her charming husband Laenor will be joining us on Titanic. They’ve been on holiday in the Mediterranean and have several social engagements on the East Coast before they return to summer in England with my brother.”

“Viserys Targaryen, the 9th Duke of Beaufort.”

Daemon grins, not kindly at all. “One man earns a title, eight others wear it.”

The reporter shifts awkwardly in his chair. It’s not the sort of joke he’s allowed to laugh at. Changing the topic, he looks to the string quartet, which is now playing Danny Boy. The viola player’s eyes flick to you; you drink you pear cider and pretend you are unaware. “You’ll be sorely missed in Galway. But what a proper Irish sendoff you’re receiving here at O’Connell’s tonight!”

“Yes,” Daemon muses, the bit of the pipe in his mouth. “A week from now, tugboats will be hauling us out of Cork Harbor and into the Atlantic Ocean, perhaps never to return.”

You shudder as a man enters the pub and a cold draft blows through you. You are terrified of ships, tiny metal buckets at the mercy of bottomless blue, unnatural incursions into inhuman spaces. You have sailed twice before with your parents—once to Le Havre to visit Paris and again on a cruise of the Aegean—and both times you were consumed by visions of water rising up over your feet, bodies thrashing in the waves, bones turning to silt. You don’t want to cross the Atlantic. You don’t want to leave home.

“You look a bit familiar, boy,” Daemon says, and you realize he’s talking to the viola player. You startle, then are relieved to see that your husband has only a dim curiosity in the musician. The reporter has bored him, and Daemon’s eyes are wandering. He is a man of short and restless attention. You have learned this the hard way. “Have we met before?”

The viola player—early twenties, around your age, sandy blond hair and a beard trimmed close to the skin—pauses his fiddling as his three companions carry on. His accent is English, not Irish. “Well I’ve played all over Ireland, sir. All over Europe, in fact.”

“Were you by chance at the McPherson wedding back in February?”

You don’t believe he was, you think you’d remember him; but the viola player nods eagerly. “Yes sir, that was me.”

“Ah! That was a fine night. Excellent duck. Wasn’t the duck good, dear?” But Daemon only half-listens for your response. He has turned back to the reporter and is recounting how he and his expedition hacked through the jungles of Tanzania to reach the location of suspected gemstone deposits, how they endured attacks from crocodiles and chimpanzees and burned up from fevers.

“Please excuse me for a moment,” you say as you rise from the table. The reporter scrambles to his feet to stand as decorum demands.

“Yes yes,” Daemon replies abruptly, not looking at you, then continues his stories.

You escape from the pub through the front door and stand beneath the awning just out of the rain, watching the reflections of streetlights glow in puddles like stars. Across the street in Eyre Square, a public park established in 1710, shadows of ash trees rock in the wind. With trembling fingers, you fumble a Kerry Blue and your cigarette holder out of your black handbag, then realize you don’t have a lighter. Someone else always does that part for you. You sigh and stare out into the rain, taking deep breaths of Irish night, early April, cold and wet and green, the only air you know how to take painlessly into your lungs, blood, bones, the dark damp earth that built you. You cannot imagine living amongst metal skyscrapers and rumbling automobiles instead of verdant rolling hills dotted with sheep.

You hear the pub door open, and you assume it is one of the waiters or perhaps Rush—Edward Rushton, Daemon’s valet and bodyguard, ever-watchful and unwaveringly stern—bringing you the black mink coat you left inside. But to your horror, it is the viola player, carrying his instrument by its neck. You gape at him as rain continues to fall.

“Hi,” he says.

You are clutching your handbag, a cigarette and holder still tucked between your fingers. “What are you doing?”

“I just…I was…uh…” He spots the cigarette. “Oh, do you need a lighter? I have one, hold on…” He begins rooting around in the pockets of his olive green tweed jacket.

“No, I don’t need a lighter,” you snap, glancing anxiously at the door. “I need you to go back inside.”

“Wait a minute, I wanted to—”

“Why are you speaking to me?” Your eyes are wide and petrified, your voice is a sharp whisper. No musician has ever addressed you beyond pleasantries: Good morning, good afternoon, good evening, thank you ma’am, my pleasure ma’am. “What’s wrong with you?”

“Look, I came out here because…I just wanted to ask…” He struggles to find the words. His eyes fall to your left wrist, now fully obscured by the ruffles of your sleeve, then return to your face. “Are you okay?”

“What?”

“Do you…you know…do you need some kind of help or something?”

It’s improper, it’s unthinkable, it’s dangerous. “You’re deranged,” you say as you breeze past him towards the door. “You’ve clearly escaped from an asylum somewhere. I wish you all the best in your recovery.”

He does not grab you—that would be absurd—but he does get between you and the front door of the pub. “Wait, please, I’m sorry, I’m not trying to be rude or to overstep or anything, I’m trying to see if there’s anything I can do—”

“You will make it worse for me,” you hiss, and only then does the viola player go quiet and let you pass. You shove by him into O’Connell’s Bar.

Back at the table, Daemon and the reporter are engrossed in conversation. When you rejoin them, neither of the men take any notice of you beyond the reporter’s momentary rise to his feet. After a minute or two, the viola player returns to the quartet and slips seamlessly into the song they’re playing, Star of the County Down. You gaze into your pear cider, determined not to glance at him even once.

Daemon is saying as the reporter jots franticly: “I am reminded of something I read once in a French fashion critic’s guide from the 1870s. In the gloomy depths of the mineral world, stars are concealed that rival in their beauty those of the firmament. The fresh splendors of dawn, the sun’s incandescent rays, the magnificent sunsets, the brilliant colors of the rainbow, all are found enclosed in a morsel of pure carbon or in the center of a stone. Not everyone can see the potential, not everyone has the skill or the willpower to move the earth and free the treasures trapped beneath. But I found stars no one else knew existed. And my work isn’t finished yet.”

~~~~~~~~~~

At home in Lough Cutra Castle, your family’s estate since 1817, your parents are asleep and Fern is waiting up for you and Daemon, yawning into the back of her hand to try to hide it. She is your maid but she was hired by Daemon, and she scurries around the property like a mouse, eternally picking up toys and articles of clothing and papers that have slid off of tables, head bowed, footsteps so light you often don’t realize she’s walked into a room until she’s spoken.

“Care for some tea, my lady?” Fern asks as she takes your mink coat. Daemon goes directly to his study; you watch him leave with some feeling you couldn’t name, loss, relief, loneliness, resignation.

“No, thank you, Fern. I’m exhausted. Is Draco upstairs?”

“He is,” she says, but with hesitation, as if she is sending you into the lion’s den. You know what that means. You climb the staircase and find him in his bedroom sound asleep, four years old, surrounded by an army of teddy bears. Bears are his favorite animal; he likes the way they roar and brandish their teeth. He is named after the crest of Daemon’s family; Draco is the Latin word for dragon. His hair is white-blonde, a Targaryen trait. As they age it fades to an ordinary sand-like color, and by the time they are middle-aged—Daemon is forty, nearly two decades older than you are—their hair is a blonde so dark it’s almost brunette.

You stand in the doorway watching Draco for a long time. When you think of him, this is the image that comes to mind: your son across a room, or a lawn, or a garden, and you lurking on the periphery, longing to be a part of his existence, feeling so palpably unneeded. Already, he is becoming a stranger. He thinks it’s funny when Daemon insults people and breaks things. He stomps his little feet when he doesn’t get his way and rips flowers from the garden, tosses rocks through the windows of the greenhouse, hurls sticks at hissing geese.

“He’s asleep,” Dagmar says as if she’s scolding you. You whirl to see her behind you in the hall, glowering with those icy Nordic eyes, her hair grey and twisted into a tight bun, her face angular and cold-blooded. Legend has it that Saint Patrick expelled all the snakes from Ireland; you think he must have missed one.

“Yes, I can see that.”

“You’ll wake him.”

“I certainly won’t.”

“A boy that age needs his rest.” And this is how Dagmar has been since Draco was born: You can’t hold a baby like that, you can’t feed a baby like that, you can’t play with a baby like that, never showing you how to do things but only alienating you further and further until you looped around on some hopelessly remote orbit like Neptune circles the sun.

“Yes. Like I said, I won’t disturb him.”

But she does not leave; she only scowls at you with her bony arms crossed over her chest. She is ancient; she was Viserys and Daemon’s governess when they were boys, and your husband wrote to her immediately after Draco was born. She idolizes Daemon. The three of them are a family unto themselves, sardonic and spiteful and fiercely loyal, an oath you can’t figure out how to break. She wins this battle, as she’s won them all. It is not a war but an insurgency, a perpetual struggle for independence, sabotages and hunger strikes that amount to nothing. You retreat from Draco’s doorway and go to find Daemon in his study, bent low over his desk and sketching designs for jewelry men will buy for their wives, sisters, mothers, daughters, mistresses.

He glances over at you impatiently. “What is it?”

“You promised I’d never have to leave Ireland.”

Daemon shrugs, smiling wryly. “And yet…”

“Draco and I could stay here,” you say, as if this has not already occurred to him.

“And people would say my house is not in order. How am I to command the respect of American businessmen when my own wife does not obey me?”

You are desperate. “Half the year,” you plead. “I’ll spend winters in Manhattan and summers here.”

“Absolutely not.”

“What if I won’t go?”

“I don’t see how you’d accomplish that,” Daemon says, as if he’s already bored of this conversation. “You could throw yourself over the ship’s railing and into the Atlantic Ocean, I suppose. But that’s the only way you’re not ending up in New York.”

“You don’t even really want me there,” you reply, your voice quivering. “You don’t care where I am or what I do. Lots of men live separately from their wives, you can as well.” And even now—horribly, humiliatingly—you want him to contradict you, to swear that he does care, that he wants you, that he loves you in the sick brutal way he knows how.

Daemon picks up the dagger he keeps on his desk and uses it as a letter opener to unseal a piece of correspondence from one of his many mines, left in the care of managers just as your father’s Connemara marble quarry soon will be. The hilt is made of gold and has seven small gemstones imbedded in it, one on top of the other: amethyst, tiger’s eye, black opal, emerald, ruby, bloodstone, sapphire. “You know,” Daemon says offhandedly as he skims the letter. “Draco is getting old enough for boarding school.”

“What?” You are shellshocked; it takes a moment for you to sputter a reply. “He’s…he’s four, Daemon. He can’t read more than a handful of words. He just learned how to write his own name.”

“I was only five when my father sent me away.”

“And you turned out to be so normal.”

“No,” Daemon says, a blade-sharp warning, his eyes burning into yours, ruthless green fire. He aims the point of his dagger at you. “I turned out to be extraordinary.”

Draco. Draco sent away. If I lose him now, I’ll lose him forever. He’ll never know me. He’ll never love me. “Please let me have a few more years with him.”

“Sure. In New York.”

“I’ll go,” you surrender. “Fine, fine, I understand. I’ll go. No more complaints.”

“Good.” He sets down his dagger and the letter and resumes his sketching. You’ve been dismissed, but you can’t look away from him: cunning hands that won’t touch you, blood that runs hot enough to scald.

What is this feeling, this hunger, this hatred, all gnarled up together, dark earth glimmering with flecks of jewel-tone light, constellations of subterranean stars? He has hurt you, but he has given you pleasure too, this man who is so impossible to know, to predict, the only man who has ever been inside you. It’s not that you want him, not exactly; you want what he can give you, and the cold truth is that if it’s not him it’s not anyone, never again for as long as he lives. You’ve never craved another body, another soul. If you ever took a lover, you believe Daemon would kill you.

He grins, mocking and cruel. And you are transported back to your wedding night, still euphoric and flushed and panting on the bed as Daemon sighed and got up to go to the washroom, the satisfaction and the shame, the inescapable sense that you have disappointed him. “Did you only come here to be vexing and disobedient, or did you have something else in mind?”

“No,” you say softly, turning away, leaving him with his drawings of rocks stolen from distant corners of the world.

At breakfast the next morning—Fern cracking Draco’s soft-boiled egg and feeding him careful spoonfuls, Dagmar reading aloud to him from The Three Billy Goats Gruff, giving him smiles radiant with warmth you’ve never received from her—you sip tea and spread butter over your soda bread, gazing listlessly at the mist that hangs cool and heavy beyond the windows. Daemon is at the quarry already. You are suddenly acutely aware of the absence of music.

“Hey, lassie?” your father says as your mother tries to coax him into eating his full Irish breakfast: fried eggs, bacon, beans, mushrooms, tomatoes, white pudding.

You look to him, clearing the fog from your skull. “Yes, Daddy.”

“I saw the luggage. Where are you going?”

You keep telling him, but he doesn’t remember; he was becoming forgetful five years ago but now he can’t work at all, can barely even carry conversations. You had a brother who died in infancy and a sister who was taken at eight years old by convulsions. You are the only child left, and there are no other evident heirs to the quarry. This must have been something that occurred to Daemon when he met you, seventeen and overwhelmed by the black magic of him. He had seemed like the right choice: dashing, capable, from an illustrious family, a man who could take charge of the quarry as your father’s health continued to fail.

“Daddy, I told you. We’re going to Manhattan.”

He is stunned, grief-stricken. “What? That far?”

“Yes, on Titanic. It’s the largest ship ever built.”

“Who the hell cares about the ship?” your father says. “When will you be back?”

Never. You and your mother exchange a heartsick glance. She tries to be strong for him; she tries not to show you that her world is ending as you and Draco are taken across the ocean like gemstones mined and smuggled away for cutting. “Soon, Daddy,” you lie. He won’t remember anyway. “We’ll be back really soon.”

And then again ten minutes later, and then again after a half hour, and then again at lunchtime:

Where are you going?

When will you be back?

~~~~~~~~~~

Titanic is not a ship but a wonder of the world, unbreakable like the pyramids, towering like the Colossus of Rhodes, beckoning seafaring travelers like the Lighthouse of Alexandria. It is too large to dock in Cork Harbor, and so two tenders—named, quite appropriately, Ireland and America—are used to shuttle the passengers to the anchored goliath waiting to carry you across the ocean. Aboard, a five-piece string ensemble greets the first-class passengers with The Sunny South, and beaming stewards distribute flutes of champagne, liquid gold freckled with bubbles of trapped air. The men are chucking and shaking Captain Smith’s hand and the women are sighing with soft, feminine awe at the soaring funnels and the sprawling Promenade Deck, steel overlaid with yellow pine and teak, and you stare vacuously back at the shadow of the shore, speaking to no one, noticed by no one, alone in a wonderstruck crowd on a cloud-covered, warm afternoon, April 11th, 1912.

Rush is giving bellboys instructions for the luggage to be taken to your rooms. Daemon disappears with Rhaenyra to inspect the accommodations, their steps swift and careless, laughing like children, Rhaenyra’s blonde hair—yellow jasper, yellow jade—streaming out behind her, her gown a shallow-water bluish-green like the Grandidierite Daemon found in Madagascar. Fern skitters after them to unpack the bags when they arrive in the staterooms and offer to make tea. Laenor, wearing a deep and dignified shade of blue, immediately makes the acquaintance of several Parisian passengers and sets about to stroll the deck with them, smoking their pipes and remarking on the ingenuity of the ship’s design, planning to enjoy the Turkish Baths together this evening. Draco is getting tired and ill-tempered; Dagmar merrily whisks him off to see the Grand Staircase and distract him until the rooms are ready.

Meandering, rudderless, you walk to the deck railing and look down into the water as the ship weighs anchor, unmooring itself from Ireland, stealing you away forever. Trying to distract yourself from weeping—tears burn in your eyes like a stoked furnace—you pretend to adjust your earrings. You wear amethysts to match your gown, dark mauve, a color not long ago only owned by royalty. One of the musicians has appeared to soothe your maladies, desperate terror and melancholy he perhaps mistakes for seasickness. But no, it’s not one of the men from the ensemble that welcomed you aboard; he is not wearing a pristine black suit but a pale green tweed waistcoat and unceremonious plaid trousers. He isn’t a crewmember of Titanic at all. He’s the viola player from Galway.

You jolt away from him, spinning around to ensure no one from Daemon’s party has reappeared to witness this. Then you whisper furiously: “What are you doing here?!”

The viola player stops fiddling and holds his instrument by its neck. His answer is amiable and innocent. “Playing viola.”

“No, why are you on this ship?!”

He shrugs, smiling, his hair blowing in the wind as the tugboats pull Titanic out to sea. “Heard it was the biggest one ever built, unsinkable, extravagant beyond compare. Seemed like something I’d like to experience given the opportunity.”

“You followed me,” you say flatly.

He winks, resting an elbow on the railing. His teeth are small and white; there are lines from the sun around his eyes.

“You overheard our arrangements at O’Connell’s Bar and bought a ticket for yourself? Crossed Ireland, travelled south to Cork, all to stalk me like some lunatic? A nautical Jack the Ripper?”

“Well…I wouldn’t say I bought a ticket.” He is playful, teasing you. “I found one.”

“How did you manage to by pure happenstance find a ticket for Titanic’s maiden voyage?”

“I ran into an aspiring passenger at a pub in Cork,” the viola player explains. “A very nice man, his name was Fergal. Unfortunately for poor Fergal, when the time came to board the tenders, he was…indisposed, and I found myself in possession of his third-class ticket. A strange coincidence!”

“Indisposed?” you say, squinting suspiciously.

“Perhaps he had a few too many pints in celebration and passed out somewhere. Perhaps he got lost on his way to the harbor. Or perhaps he was locked in the pub’s storage room and therefore unable to make it to the tenders in time to sail blissfully away on his trans-Atlantic journey. Who could say for sure?”

“So you stole a ticket.”

“I think that’s a cynical way to put it.”

You are incredulous. “How would you put it?”

“Fortune brought me a ticket. The stars aligned, the saints were looking out for me.”

“If you hold a third-class ticket, you are on the wrong deck of the ship.”

“Shh!” He holds a finger to his lips. “No one knows that, I just wander around playing songs for the rich people and they assume I’m supposed to be here.”

“You have to stay away from me,” you plead, staring out over the ocean. “Daemon can’t see us talking, he can’t know you followed me from Galway, he can’t find out that you saw…” The bruise, the evidence, the betrayal of you not keeping his secrets.

“Relax, I’m not here for you,” the viola player says, and of course he is lying. “I have family in New York City. I left home and haven’t been back in years, and I think now’s a good time for a visit.”

You roll your eyes. “Yeah. Okay.”

He grins, slow and mischievous, and you are alarmed to realize some part of you wants to smile too. “You know what?”

“What,” you offer resentfully.

“I think you want me to be here for you.”

You turn away from the railing to make your escape. “I want you to leave me alone.”

“I’ll think about it,” the viola player quips. And when you glance back at him from the end of the Promenade Deck, ocean wind tearing your hair out of its pins and salt stinging on your skin, he’s still watching you.

[ichorkurt]

ficrecs masterlist ii.

welcome to my second ficrecs masterlist! find my main blog @ichorai. find my own fics here.

below the cut includes jujutsu kaisen, lord of the rings, saltburn, the halcyon, marvel, game of thrones, house of the dragon, prisoners, world on fire, dc, doctor who, scott pilgrim, succession, harry potter, the boys, interview with the vampire, gangsta, arcane, top gun: maverick, and outer range fics!

jujutsu kaisen.

jujutsu kaisen men in the world of work by @drak3n

ೃ⁀➷ naoya zenin.

only a fool for you by @mochimoshis

ೃ⁀➷ satoru gojo.

intertwined, sewn together by @kiwicider

luxury & lingerie by @celestie0

ೃ⁀➷ suguru geto.

the guy i lost my virginity to is stalking me by @gorehsk

lord of the rings.

ೃ⁀➷ legolas.

watcher of wanderers by @entishramblings

saltburn.

ೃ⁀➷ michael gavey.

the golden ratio by @ewanmitchellcrumbs

midpoint by @asumofwords

mine all mine by @humanpurposes

the poetry of logical ideas by @sylasthegrim

stick it out to the end by @aemondsbabe

the halcyon.

ೃ⁀➷ billy taylor.

one more tomorrow by @tomhiddleston

marvel.

ೃ⁀➷ bucky barnes.

nobody's soldier by @im-a-meteorite

ೃ⁀➷ kurt wagner.

bamf babies by @bamfkeeper

for love, we sin the most by @larcenywrites

kurt's instincts are still flaring... you know just how to help by @/bamfkeeper

parents by @/bamfkeeper

untitled by @dinogoofymutated

untitled by @dreaming-tonite

untitled by @kayesfanfics

untitled by @sanguineterrain

ೃ⁀➷ logan howlett.

logan's reaction when you wear one of his shirts by @periprose

ೃ⁀➷ peter parker.

untitled by @forever-rogue

ೃ⁀➷ robert reynolds.

sneaking around by @callsign-swan

yawn by @delopsia

game of thrones / house of the dragon.

pregnancy headcanons by @princessbellecerise

ೃ⁀➷ gwayne hightower.

& now i'm covered in you by @swordgrace

ೃ⁀➷ jacaerys velaryon.

hunger games au by @maidragoste

lotus bloom by @hxtd

ೃ⁀➷ jaime lannister.

the best fit by @casterladyrock

my honor by @daemonbrain

war has changed by @villaingaze

prisoners.

ೃ⁀➷ david loki.

blood bond by @davidlcki

sfw alphabet by @charliehoennam

tall, dark, and handsome by @rebelliousstories

world on fire.

ೃ⁀➷ tom bennett.

best intentions by @/ewanmitchellcrumbs

rocking the boat by @ultraintrovertedgryffindor

dc.

attractive things they do ... without realizing by @ahqkas

ೃ⁀➷ adrian chase.

five times vigilante definitely does not have feelings (and one time he does) by @tropes-and-tales

helluva drug by @lysenfeu

hot venom by @jangofctts

never been kissed by @training4theapocalypse

thirsty by @/training4theapocalypse

ೃ⁀➷ bruce wayne.

clingy mornings by @kurogxrix

wife on repeat by @bat-mom-writer

ೃ⁀➷ dick grayson.

sunset anew by @/sanguineterrain

doctor who.

ೃ⁀➷ eleventh doctor.

cold feet by @undiscovered-horizon

dangerous habits by @social-mockingbird

a day in by @cloginthedrain

my john by @watchoutforthefanfics

safest place in the universe by @holly-the-trash-writer

set things right by @pastanest

ticking love bomb by @/watchoutforthefanfics

scott pilgrim.

ೃ⁀➷ kim pine.

right next door by @writersbarrierblock

ೃ⁀➷ wallace wells.

untitled by @twiixr4kidz

untitled by @/twiixr4kidz

succession.

their marriage proposal by @romeulusroy

ೃ⁀➷ lukas matsson.

normal people by @the-west-meadow

ೃ⁀➷ roman roy.

baby by @richeeduvie

being roman roy's personal assistant (and his obsession) would include... by @senselessviolets

doctor's orders by @strang3lov3

gossamer by @/romeulusroy

i'm annoying by @bowieandqueen11

movie by @eeveebitches

right where you left me by @aurorag98

rivalry by @cum-a-calla

smile like you mean it by @cvrnelians

this hope is trecherous by @aprilthearcher

untitled by @muttsupreme

untitled by @/richeeduvie

untitled by @/richeeduvie

untitled by @/richeeduvie

untitled by @/richeeduvie

untitled by @/richeeduvie

wedding prep by @/richeeduvie

harry potter.

ೃ⁀➷ cormac mclaggen.

finders keepers by @/training4theapocalypse

ೃ⁀➷ fred weasley.

anything by @ibbythebee

beloved, besotted, betrothed by @emeritusemeritus

the boys.

ೃ⁀➷ black noir.

i want to f**k you like an animal by @dollerinna

interview with the vampire.

dating headcanons by @tomriddleslovergirl

untitled by @steph-speaks

ೃ⁀➷ lestat de lioncourt.

gold, and gold again by @theawfuledges

gangsta.

initiation by @imperatorkhaleesi

ೃ⁀➷ nicolas brown.

untitled by @dollwrites

arcane.

ೃ⁀➷ viktor.

my atlantis, we fall by @strangefilms

top gun: maverick.

ೃ⁀➷ robert "bob" floyd.

cliche by @scarletmika

the plan by @geminiwritten

outer range.

ೃ⁀➷ rhett abbott.

house in nebraska by @mustyrosewater

midnight sky by @/mustyrosewater

odds are stacked by @sunlightmurdock

[csainz5]

Mine || Charles Leclerc #16

pairing: charles leclerc x girlfriend!reader

summary: in which seeing people ship you with other drivers fuels the possessiveness in charles.

author notes: can u tell ive been obsessed with culpa mia. also this is my first charles fic (!!!) i made sm tweaks to the original req im so sorry 😭 deff been in a slump recently bc exams but 🙏 no beta read!! this one is still raw asf lol

req: yes/no.

wc: 1.2k words

————

the air as the weekend approached was filled with an adrenaline of its own. drivers loitering on the paddock, a camera shoved up each one of their faces. most of them were making videos for their teams social media, while others were giving interviews. silly banter & playful hazing surrounded the place as the free practices neared. as calm and laid back as the environment was, a new buzz had taken over the virtual world. it seemed like the redbull fans had taken on a new intrest in a the friendship you and max shared, suspecting it could be more than just friends. you’re shocked as you read through the articles, what could possibly make it seem like you were both in any sense more than just friends? max was like the brother you never had, and you, the sister he had always hoped of having. as much as the articles were delusional, you didnt really care that much about them, i mean why would you be afraid when there’s nothing youre scared of being open to the public? okay, maybe not everything. not the time when you were so drunk you demanded every guy on the paddock to quote “settle it with me on the ring”, not the time when you were the culprit behind the hilarious azerbaijan mix up where you stole the champagne on the podium and replaced it with an empty one, and definitely not the fact that you’re already taken, by a person known to all on the paddock.

—

The morning of the race was always an exhilarating one no matter which team youre driving for, or which team you’re rooting for. the passion, the dedication and the confidence in the each and every drivers persona was enough to fill you in the same mindset. though youve always been a redbull fan, which, i mean is definitely not even surprising considering you probably frequent their garage more than some of their own engineers, youve always held an admiration for all the drivers. even you knew how dominant the redbull cars were, so seeing the rest of the drivers still catch up with less resources filled your heart with pride. you look up at the fan’s waiting impatiently for the race to start with a smile on your face. this, will never get boring, you think.

Lord Percival 👑

can’t find you anywhere near here, don’t tell me you’re ditching me today yet again 😔

a chuckle escapes your lips.

You

i wouldve come over but you’re all the way across rn 😭 i’ll definitely be waiting for you after the race tho.

Lord Percival 👑

wow. way to betray me over text babe

You

okay drama queen 😒

Lord Percival 👑

guess you rubbed off on me then mon jolie

You

ill make it up to you, i always do.

just before you press send, you notice the drivers had already left for their respective interviews. whats the point in sending it now anyways, you decide.

—

the dark looms over the sky as celebrations near. the smell of alcohol, weed and god knows fucking what become all too familiar to you at this point. you reach the party alongside max, which considering he’s your best friend was not out of the ordinary for you, but little did you know, it didn’t help the ongoing rumours one bit. the familiar stench of reporters clogs your mind. what the hell were the doing here? and more importantly why were all of them suddenly taking an intrest in your friendship with max? question after question is thrown at you which makes you realise youve had enough of this. you reach for your phone.

You

screw this party

wanna meet up at our usual spot?

Lord Percival 👑

im always down 🙏

—

you could never get sick of this. the same ride, the same atmosphere, the exact same playlist playing over and over again, the curves of the road as you drive through. because you know, at the end of this journey would be the same thing you look forward to, every time. so you get into you car, and drive the same drive to the same spot, once again. at a pillar reading out “623” you stop by the ferrari you know all too well.

there he was. i could never get used to seeing him like this, you think, dressed up in formals but looking formal in no way whatsoever. shriveled hair, buttons unbuttoned, jewellery he knows how to style in just the right way. his crazed eyes of emerald, gazing into you with an intensity that makes your nerves shiver.

“took you long enough to come here” he says, holding you waist. “it was a longer drive than usual” “is that so?” he says, stepping aside you to rest against his ferrari, right beside you. folding his arms, he continues, pulling a cigarette out of his blazer, “want one?” “please, today was a bitch” “i could say the same for me, really” he reaches towards you, lighting your cigarette. “races in monaco are my favourite” he says, looking up at the sky. “yeah, id imagine so. nothing beats home” “yeah, it’s great to be home and all, but theres also something in monaco that beats the thrill any race could give me” he steps forwards, hands placed beside either sides of you.

he pulls the cigarette from your lips, taking in a puff himself. he brings his lips to your ear, “or rather, theres someone in monaco, who beats the thrill any race could give me” he whispers, blowing the smoke away. he flicks the cigarette aside and steps on it, as he lifts your face up, meeting your eyes with his own. “someone who sighs right when i kiss her here,” he goes on to place a chaste kiss on your mole, right on your neck by your jawline. and like a story repeated enough times, you sigh. “someone who arches her back when i pull her hair slightly like this,” he gently tugs your hair, making a makeshift ponytail and like a telltale, you arch your back, the satisfaction of being right sprawled across charles’s face.

“but of all, the one thing that makes me come back to this place again and again, is knowing that—“ he lifts your hips up, making you wrap your legs around him. “you’re mine.” the second he says that, its like all the dots connected in your head. you never thought charles would be jealous of the rumours, given how he was the one who didn’t want your relationship to be public. “charles, are you jealous?” you ask. “so what if i am?” “well, i for one wouldnt want my boyfriend to be feeling like that anymore” “what do you mean?” you pull out your phone from your clutch, “kiss me” “wait what are you doing?” “i said, kiss me” you say, pulling him in by his jaw. “im conf-“ you kiss him, shutting him up. as he closes his eyes he finds himself to not be able to help himself from drowning into you, well atleast until a flash brings him out of his trance. “im going to post it.” “you don’t have to, you know” “but i want to. i want everyone to know how much you mean to me charles. you’re my favourite person and i would hate to see you be jealous”

——

“i can’t believe you actually did it, jolie” “its the least i could do” you say, pecking his cheek. “but ive gotta say, i definitely wouldnt mind seeing this shade of you more often” “you haven’t seen the end of me yet, mon ange”

[zepskies]

⋆˙⟡ Alex (she/her | 29) | writer | Dean Girl ~ EST 2014 | Latina POC 🇨🇺🇵🇷🇩🇴

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[hollowed-theory-hall]

Hi! Idk if you’ve already spoke about this so sorry if you have but do you think that Harry can still speak parsletongue after he’s no longer a horcrux? And do you have any hcs about if theres any changes before vs after he’s no longer a horcrux?

Hi 👋,

Like, in canon, I don't recall it ever being mentioned in the books. But JKR did state in an interview he lost the ability to speak Parseltongue:

Nigel: Can harry speak parseltongue when he is no longer a horcrux? J.K. Rowling: No, he loses the ability, and is very glad to do so.

(Source)

The books don't really mention it, but they intend you to understand it as Harry not being able to speak Parseltongue anymore.

Personally, I like to headcanon he still can. Since it isn't book canon, but stated in an interview, it's pretty loose in canonicity.

Like, my headcanon regarding Harry's Parseltongue is that he wouldn't have been able to speak it if he didn't have a latent gene for it. Like, if a random wizard that had no recent enough Gaunts in their family tree to have the potential to be Parselmouths, became Voldemort’s Horcrux they wouldn't be Parselmouths. Like, I headcanon Lily's maternal grandma was a squib from the Gaunt family, and that's why Harry had a dormant Parseltongue gene that was just activated by becoming a Horcrux. So, he'd keep the ability after the Horcrux is no longer there since it just triggered a gene that was already there. I already talked about how most muggleborns are likely descendants of more recent squibs, so it's not only possible Lily has relatively recent magical ancestry, but likely (also, she has Slytherin green eyes, and was the one to really kill the Heir of Slytherin the first time, let her be a Gaunt).

I think Harry would feel weird after the Horcrux is no longer there. Lighter than he ever felt before. He'd think it's because the war is over and there aren't dark lords or Durlseys to mess with his life, but it isn't. His life likely is still quite stressful while rebuilding the wizarding world, and I think, he'd realize eventually the horcrux left him a little emptier. I think the moment he buries Voldemort and his wand would be the moment he realizes how much he feels the lack of the Horcrux.

I mean, imagine you have a certain amount of soul in you your entire life. Your body, your mind, your spirit, your own soul and magic, the very essence that is you, has recognized another as part of itself, got used to having more soul between your ribs than just your own. and then, in practically a blink of an eye, it's gone. I can't imagine you won't feel it. Like a phantom limb.

I don't think Harry's personality changes much after the Horcrux is removed. Like, I don't think his magic or the allegiance of his wand would be affected by that. I think he'd be fine on that front. I think he'd just feel lighter. Emptier. I think his magic would be a bit off balance in the first few months until he got used to the new balance of his body and soul. And he'd just feel off. Like when you leave your house and you have the feeling you forgot something and you just don't know what — that, but constantly, and about your own soul.

I think the entire journey could be really fun in a fic that uses the loss of the Horcrux as a way to explore Harry's trauma from the war now that it's all over. He feels lighter, the weight he carried all his life is gone, but it leaves him empty and purposeless. That's why I think he would go back to 8th year — back home to find his balance.

[shiorihyugawrites]

Damaged

Before the fall of Wall Maria, a string of brutal murders grips Wall Sina, noblemen found strangled, their mouths stuffed with drugs, and not a trace of the killer left behind. The Military Police call him “The Spider Killer.” But he's no man. She's a ghost in silk and shadow. A serial killer hiding in plain sight. When the scouts get involved, Levi begins to suspect that catching her won’t be so easy… especially when she starts hunting him too. (Levi x OC)

This fic was inspired by my oneshot Velvet Heat.

Chapter One: Shadows in Sina

A/N: This fic takes place before the fall of Wall Maria

The air in the meeting room within Wall Sina’s grand Military Police headquarters was thick with tension, the kind that clung to the walls like damp moss. The polished mahogany table gleamed under the flickering light of oil lamps, casting long shadows that danced across the faces of the four scouts seated at one end.

Commander Erwin Smith sat with his hands clasped, his piercing blue eyes fixed on Commander Nile Dok of the Military Police, who stood at the head of the table, his posture rigid with the weight of authority. Captain Levi slouched slightly in his chair, toyed with the edge of his teacup, his sharp gaze darting between Nile and the documents strewn across the table. Hange ever restless, scribbled notes in a worn leather journal, her glasses glinting as she muttered under their breath about some new hypothesis. Miche leaned back, arms crossed, his nose twitching as if he could smell the unease in the room.

The meeting had dragged on for hours, a tedious back-and-forth about funding, Scout expeditions, and the Military Police’s reluctance to share resources. Nile’s voice, clipped and formal, had just begun to summarize the day’s agreements when the heavy oak doors burst open with a bang. Four Military Police soldiers stumbled in, their faces pale and slick with sweat, their boots scuffing the pristine floor. The lead soldier, a wiry man with a patchy beard, clutched a crumpled report in his trembling hand.

“Commander Dok, sir!” he gasped, saluting sloppily. “Another murder—same as the others. The Spider Killer struck again!”

The room fell silent, the air growing heavier. Erwin’s eyebrows lifted slightly, a spark of curiosity flickering in his eyes. Levi’s fingers stilled on his teacup, his expression unreadable but his attention razor-sharp. Hange’s pen froze mid-scratch, and Miche’s nose twitched again, as if he could sense the shift in the room’s atmosphere.

Nile’s jaw tightened, his dark eyes narrowing as he snatched the report from the soldier’s hand. “Details,” he barked, scanning the paper. “Now.”

The soldier swallowed hard, his voice shaking. “Lord Albrecht Varn, sir. Found in his estate an hour ago. Half-naked, strangled with thin wire marks around his neck. Fifth one this month, same M.O. No witnesses, no traces—clean as always.”

Erwin leaned forward, his voice calm but commanding. “Spider Killer? Care to enlighten us, Nile?”

Nile’s lips pressed into a thin line, clearly weighing whether to share. After a moment, he sighed, tossing the report onto the table. “For the past month, we’ve had a string of murders in Wall Sina. All men, all strangled with what we believe is an extremely thin wire, like a spider’s web. No fingerprints, no footprints, no signs of struggle beyond the marks on their necks. Whoever this ‘Spider Killer’ is, they’re a professional. We’ve got no leads.”

Hange’s eyes gleamed with fascination, her chair creaking as she leaned forward. “A wire so thin it leaves barely a mark? That’s not just skill—that’s artistry! Have you recovered the weapon? Any residue? Fibers? Anything?”

Nile shook his head, his frustration evident. “Nothing. The killer’s a ghost. We’ve combed every scene, interviewed every servant, every guard. It’s like they vanish into thin air.”

Levi’s voice cut through the room, low and sharp. “Sounds like someone who knows how to clean up after themselves. You’re dealing with someone who’s done this before—probably a lot.”

Nile shot him a glare but didn’t argue. Erwin, however, tilted his head, his mind clearly turning over possibilities. “These victims,” he said slowly, “do they share anything in common?”

Nile hesitated, then nodded. “They’re all tied to the Coderoin trade—distributors, financiers, or smugglers. It’s a drug, highly addictive, been flooding the Stohess district. But that’s all we’ve got. No motive beyond that, no pattern to predict the next hit.”

Erwin’s eyes narrowed, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. Levi recognized that look—Erwin was scheming. “A killer this precise, this methodical,” Erwin mused, “could be an asset. If their skills could be redirected… imagine what they could do against Titans.”

Levi snorted, setting his teacup down with a soft clink. “You’re dreaming, Erwin. A killer like that doesn’t just switch sides because you ask nicely. They’re dangerous.”

“Which is exactly why we need to find them,” Erwin countered, his tone unwavering. “Their methods, their weapon—there’s potential there. We can’t afford to overlook it.”

Hange practically vibrated with excitement. “Can we see the crime scene? Please, Nile? I need to see those wire marks! If we can figure out what they’re using, we might be able to trace it!”

Nile rubbed his temples, clearly torn between his distrust of the scouts and the desperation to solve the case. Finally, he relented. “Fine. But you follow my lead, and you don’t touch anything without my say-so. Understood?”

Miche grunted in acknowledgment, while Hange nodded eagerly. Levi said nothing, but his eyes gleamed with a mix of suspicion and curiosity. Erwin stood, his presence commanding the room. “Let’s go, then. The sooner we see this, the better.”

…

The Varn estate was a sprawling mansion in the heart of Wall Sina, its marble columns and gilded gates a testament to the nobleman’s wealth. The scouts and Nile’s men arrived as dusk settled, the sky bruising purple over the towering walls. The air was heavy with the scent of roses from the manicured gardens, but as they stepped into the mansion’s grand foyer, a different smell hit them—blood, faint but unmistakable.

The crime scene was in the study, a room lined with bookshelves and heavy velvet curtains. Lord Albrecht Varn’s body lay slumped in a high-backed chair, his silk shirt torn open, revealing a pale chest and the angry red marks circling his neck. His eyes were wide, frozen in a look of terror, and his fingertips were bloodied, the nails torn as if he’d clawed desperately at the wire.

Levi’s gaze swept the room, taking in every detail—the untouched books, the undisturbed papers on the desk, the absence of any signs of a struggle. “Clean,” he muttered, almost to himself. “Too clean. This wasn’t a fight. It was an execution.”

Hange crouched near the body, her eyes wide with fascination as they studied the wire marks. “Look at this,” she said, pointing to the thin, precise lines. “It’s like a thread, but it’s strong enough to strangle a grown man without snapping. This isn’t just any wire—it’s specialized. Maybe even custom-made.”

Miche sniffed the air, his expression unreadable. “Smells like Coderoin in here. Faint, but it’s there.”

Nile nodded grimly, gesturing to a scattering of small white pills on the floor near the body. “Coderoin. Always present at these scenes. But this time…” He trailed off, his eyes fixed on the corpse’s mouth, where a white cloth protruded, stained with saliva and blood.

One of the MPs, a young woman with trembling hands, spoke up. “We didn’t touch it, sir. Wanted to wait for you. It… it could be dangerous.”

Erwin’s voice was steady, but there was an edge of caution. “Proceed carefully. We don’t know what we’re dealing with.”

The MP nodded, her gloved hands gingerly grasping the cloth. The room held its breath as she tugged, slowly at first, then with a sharp pull. The cloth came free, and with it, a cascade of Coderoin pills spilled from the victim’s mouth, clattering onto the floor like hailstones. The Scouts and MPs recoiled, Hange letting out a startled yelp before leaning closer, her curiosity overriding her shock.

“Stuffed down his throat,” Hange whispered, horrified but fascinated. “This is a message. The killer’s saying something.”

Levi’s eyes narrowed, his mind racing. He’d seen death before—too much of it—but this was different. This was personal, deliberate, almost theatrical. “Whoever did this wanted him to suffer,” he said, his voice low. “They didn’t just kill him. They humiliated him.”

Erwin’s gaze was fixed on the pills, his mind clearly elsewhere. “This Spider Killer… they’re targeting the Coderoin trade specifically. But why? Revenge? Justice? Or something else entirely?”

Nile shook his head, his frustration boiling over. “It doesn’t matter why. We need to stop them before they kill again. But there’s nothing—no footprints, no fibers, no witnesses. It’s like they’re mocking us.”

Levi crouched beside the body, his eyes scanning the floor, the chair, the walls. His instincts screamed that something was off, but he couldn’t place it. “They’re not just mocking you,” he said quietly. “They’re showing you they’re better than you. And they know it.”

Hange stood, brushing their hands on their coat. “We need to figure out what those wires are made of. If we can trace the material, we might find a supplier. And if we find the supplier—”

“We find the killer,” Erwin finished, his voice firm. “Nile, I want my team to assist with this investigation. We have resources, skills—things the Military Police might not. Let us help.”

Nile’s eyes narrowed, his distrust evident. “This is an MP matter, Erwin. You scouts stick to your Titans.”

“And you’re drowning in bodies with no leads,” Erwin countered smoothly. “We can help. And if this killer’s skills can be turned to our cause… it benefits us all.”

Nile hesitated, then sighed. “Fine. But you report to me, and you don’t go rogue. Understood?”

Erwin nodded, though Levi caught the glint in his commander’s eye—the look of a man who saw opportunity in chaos.

As night fell, the Scouts returned to their temporary quarters in Wall Sina, a modest barracks near the city’s edge. The air was cooler now, the streets quiet save for the occasional clatter of a passing carriage. Inside, the four sat around a rickety table, a single lantern casting a warm glow over their faces.

Hange was already scribbling furiously, their journal open to a page filled with sketches of wire marks and chemical formulas. “If we assume the wire is some kind of alloy, maybe something like the steel cables in ODM gear, we could narrow down the suppliers. There can’t be many who can craft something that thin and that strong.”

Miche grunted, his arms still crossed. “Smelled like Coderoin, but there was something else in that room. Perfume, maybe. Faint, but it was there.”

Levi’s eyes flicked to Miche, his interest piqued. “Perfume? You sure?”

Miche nodded. “Sweet, floral. Didn’t fit the scene.”

Erwin leaned back in his chair, his fingers steepled. “A woman, perhaps? Or someone trying to throw us off. Either way, it’s a clue.”

Levi’s mind was elsewhere, replaying the crime scene. The precision, the lack of evidence—it reminded him of someone. Himself, maybe, in his darker days. But this was different. This killer had a flair, a need to send a message. And those wires… he’d never seen anything like them.

“We need to find the supplier,” Levi said, his voice cutting through the room. “Whoever’s making those wires knows who’s buying them. That’s our lead.”

Erwin nodded, his expression thoughtful. “Agreed. Hange, start digging into the materials. Miche, see if you can track down anyone who’s heard of these wires. Levi, I want you to keep an eye on the next crime scene. If this killer strikes again, you’ll be the first to know.”

Levi’s jaw tightened. “You really think you can turn a serial killer into a scout?”

Erwin’s smile was faint but resolute. “If they’re as skilled as you say, Levi, they’re worth trying for. Humanity needs every advantage it can get.”

Hange grinned, her eyes gleaming. “Oh, this is going to be fun! A real-life mystery! I bet I can figure out those wires before the MPs do!”

Miche snorted, but there was a hint of amusement in his eyes. “Just don’t blow up the place, Hange.”

Levi said nothing, his mind already racing ahead. Somewhere out there, the Spider Killer was watching, waiting, planning their next move. And he had a feeling they were closer than anyone realized.

…

Deep in the underbelly of Wall Sina, in a dimly lit tavern where the air was thick with smoke and the stench of cheap ale, a figure sat alone in a corner booth. Rosemary Thorne—Rose to those who knew her—sipped her wine, her light brown doe eyes scanning the room with practiced ease. Her wine-red hair was tucked beneath a hooded cloak, but even in the shadows, her beauty was undeniable, her face drawing more than a few glances from the tavern’s patrons.

She ignored them, her mind focused on the night’s work. Lord Varn had been a sloppy kill, but a necessary one. The Coderoin trade was a blight, and she’d made it her mission to burn it out, one filthy noble at a time. Her fingers, adorned with delicate gold rings, twitched slightly, the hair wires hidden within them ready to spring at a moment’s notice.

Andreas, her mentor, had warned her to be careful. “You’re leaving a trail, Red,” he’d said, his voice gruff with concern. “The MPs are closing in.”

Rose had smiled, her dimples deepening. “Let them come. They’ll never catch me.”

But as she sat in the tavern, listening to the whispers of soldiers and merchants, she couldn’t shake the feeling that someone was watching her. Not the drunken fools at the bar, but someone sharper, someone dangerous. Someone like her.

She drained her wine and slipped into the night, her black dress blending with the shadows. This spider had work to do, and the walls of Stohess were her web.

…

Two days had passed since the Scouts had stood over Lord Albrecht Varn’s corpse, the grim spectacle of Coderoin pills spilling from his throat etched into their minds. Stohess hummed with life around them, its cobblestone streets alive with merchants hawking wares and nobles gliding past in gilded carriages. But for the scouts, the city’s opulence was a veneer over a growing unease. Their investigation alongside the Military Police had hit a wall. Hange and Miche had chased every whisper of a lead on the mysterious wire weapon, scouring blacksmiths, underground dealers, and even alchemists who might know of such a material. Every door slammed shut. People were tight-lipped, their eyes darting nervously when questioned, as if the Spider Killer’s shadow loomed over them all.

“They’re scared,” Hange said, adjusting her glasses as she walked beside Erwin, her boots scuffing the dusty street. “Or paid off. Either way, whoever’s supplying those wires has connections—deep ones.”

Miche, trailing a step behind, nodded. “Smelled it all around us. Fear. Nobody’s talking, not even the usual rats.”

Levi, walking at Erwin’s side, kept his eyes on the crowd, his senses sharp. “That means our killer’s not just skilled—they’re plugged into the system. Someone’s protecting them, or they’re too dangerous to cross.”

Erwin’s expression was unreadable, but his blue eyes gleamed with that familiar intensity. “Which makes them all the more valuable. If we can find them, turn them… their connections could be as useful as their skills.”

Levi snorted, his voice low. “You’re still on that? Good luck convincing a psychopath to join the military. They’d sooner slit your throat than salute.”

Before Erwin could reply, a Military Police runner approached, his face flushed from sprinting. “Commander Smith! Captain Levi!” he panted, saluting. “Commander Dok requests your presence at headquarters. Urgently.”

Hange’s eyes lit up. “A lead? Oh, please tell me it’s a lead!”

The runner nodded. “A witness, ma’am. From the Varn estate.”

Erwin’s lips curved into a faint smile. “Let’s not keep Nile waiting.”

…

The Military Police headquarters was as imposing as ever. Inside, the air was stale, heavy with the scent of ink and old leather. Nile stood in a small interrogation room, his arms crossed, his face a mask of barely contained frustration. Across from him sat a wiry man in his late forties, his hands calloused and dirt-stained, his eyes darting nervously between the soldiers. The gardener, Levi presumed, noting the man’s patched overalls and the faint smell of soil clinging to him.

The room was cramped, with only a wooden table and a few chairs. The scouts took their places along the wall, Levi leaning casually against it, his sharp gaze fixed on the gardener. Hange fidgeted beside him, barely containing her excitement, while Miche stood stoic, his nose twitching as he took in the room’s scents. Erwin stepped forward, his presence commanding attention.

“Mr. Keller,” Nile began, his voice clipped. “Tell the scouts what you told me. Every detail.”

The gardener, Keller, swallowed hard, his fingers twisting the hem of his shirt. “It was the night Lord Varn was killed, sir. I was tendin’ the bushes near the gate, late, ‘round nine. Saw his carriage pull up. He wasn’t alone. There was a woman with him.”

Levi’s eyes narrowed slightly, but he said nothing. Hange leaned forward, her voice eager. “A woman? What did she look like?”

Keller scratched his head, his brow furrowing. “Didn’t get a good look at her face, ma’am. Just her back and side, like. She had blonde hair, pinned up all fancy, like a lady. Wore a fine dress, green, with lace at the neck. Didn’t look like one o’ the usual girls he brought home.”

Nile raised an eyebrow. “Usual girls?”

Keller flushed, his voice dropping. “Lord Varn, he… every Friday, he’d go to a brothel in the city. Pick up a girl, bring her back. But this one, she wasn’t like them. She was… poised, like. Moved like she belonged in a ballroom, not a back alley.”

Erwin’s voice was calm but probing. “And you’re certain she was with him when he arrived?”

Keller nodded vigorously. “Saw ‘em step out the carriage together. She was holdin’ his arm, laughin’ at somethin’ he said. Looked harmless, dainty even. Couldn’t imagine her stranglin’ a man like Varn. He was a big fella, strong.”

Levi’s voice cut through the room, sharp and cold. “Don’t underestimate dainty. I’ve seen kids gut men twice their size. What else did you see? Her height, her build—anything?”

Keller shrank under Levi’s stare. “She was small, sir. Short, maybe five feet, if that. Curvy, but not heavy. That’s all I got. Didn’t see her leave, and she wasn’t there when we found the body.”

Nile turned to his men, his tone authoritative. “I want every brothel in Stohess turned upside down. Find this blonde woman. Bring her in for questioning. Now.”

The MPs saluted and hurried out, leaving the room in tense silence. Levi’s mind was racing. A woman, seen with the victim hours before his death, but not at the scene. It was too convenient. “She’s either the killer,” he said quietly, “or a decoy. Why let herself be seen if she’s the Spider Killer? Doesn’t add up.”

Erwin nodded, his expression thoughtful. “Unless she wanted to be seen. To throw us off. Or to send another message.”

Hange adjusted her glasses, her voice bubbling with excitement. “A blonde wig, maybe? Disguises are easy enough. If she’s as professional as we think, she could’ve planned it all—down to the gardener catching a glimpse.”

Miche grunted, his nose twitching again. “Something’s off. This woman might be connected, but we’re missing something.”

Nile’s jaw tightened. “We’ll find her. And when we do, we’ll have answers.”

Levi’s eyes flicked to Erwin, catching the glint of calculation in his commander’s gaze. He knew that look—Erwin was already thinking three steps ahead, plotting how to turn this mystery killer into an asset. Levi wasn’t so sure. Something about this felt too deliberate, too staged. The Spider Killer was playing a game, and they were all pieces on the board.

…

The Scouts left the headquarters as the sun dipped low, painting Stohess’s streets in hues of gold and amber. The market district was a chaotic symphony of vendors shouting, horses clopping, and children darting through the crowd. The four wove through the throng, their conversation hushed but intense as they dissected the gardener’s story.

“She’s bold,” Hange said, dodging a cart piled with apples. “Showing up with Varn like that, knowing someone might see her? That’s confidence. Or arrogance.”

“Or strategy,” Erwin added, his voice calm but firm. “If she’s the killer, she’s controlling the narrative. Giving us just enough to chase, but not enough to catch her.”

Levi’s eyes scanned the crowd, his instincts on edge. “If she’s that smart, she’s already watching us. Waiting for our next move.”

Miche nodded, his nose twitching as he sniffed the air. “Still can’t shake that perfume from the crime scene. It’s nagging at me.”

Before anyone could respond, Levi’s shoulder collided with someone—a soft impact, but enough to jolt him. His hand shot out instinctively, steadying the person before they could fall. A woman stared up at him, her light brown doe eyes wide with surprise, framed by long lashes that fluttered as she blinked. Her wine-red hair was tied back with a large white bow, giving her an almost childlike innocence, but the curve of her green dress hugged her body in a way that was anything but innocent. A thin shawl draped over her elbows, and strappy heels clicked softly as she regained her balance. Ten gold rings glinted on her fingers, barely concealed by short white gloves, and small dangle earrings caught the fading light.

“Oh, I’m so sorry!” she exclaimed, her voice sweet and melodic, tinged with a flirtatious lilt. “I wasn’t watching where I was going. Are you alright, sir?”

Levi’s eyes narrowed, but he didn’t release her arm immediately. “Watch it next time,” he said, his tone flat but his senses on high alert. There was something about her—those eyes, that smile. Too perfect, too calculated.

The woman’s lips curved into a wider smile. “Oh, I will, I promise. Oh is that the Wings of Freedom? You must be Scouts!” She clasped her hands together, her eyes sparkling with what seemed like genuine admiration. “I’ve heard so much about you all. Risking your lives beyond the walls—it’s so brave. Thank you for everything you do.”

Hange beamed, clearly delighted. “Well, aren’t you sweet? It’s not often we get a thank-you around here!”

Miche’s cheeks flushed slightly, his usual stoicism faltering under the woman’s charm. “Just doing our job,” he mumbled, his eyes lingering on her.

Erwin offered a polite smile, but Levi caught the faint crease in his brow—a sign he was analyzing her, searching for cracks in her demeanor. “We appreciate your kind words, miss,” Erwin said smoothly. “May I have your name?”

The woman laughed, a light, tinkling sound. “Oh, I’m nobody special. Just a girl out shopping, thrilled to meet heroes like you. You’ve made my day!” She glanced at Levi, her eyes lingering a moment too long, her smile teasing. 

Levi’s jaw tightened, his instincts screaming that something was off. Her flirtation was too deliberate. “Is that so?” He asked curtly. “And you’re in a hurry, aren’t you?”

Her smile didn’t waver. “Oh, yes, I am! I’ve got to run, but I hope we meet again!” She gave a little wave, her hips swaying as she turned and melted into the crowd, her ponytail bouncing with each step.

Miche stared after her, a dazed look on his face. “Damn. Wish we’d gotten her name.”

Levi’s eyes were still fixed on the spot where she’d disappeared. “Miche,” he said sharply. “You smell anything?”

Miche blinked, then sniffed the air. His expression shifted, his brows furrowing. “Perfume. Sweet, floral… like at the crime scene. But different. Stronger, maybe.”

Hange’s eyes widened. “Wait, what? You’re just now mentioning this?”

Miche scowled, defensive. “It didn’t click until she was gone. It’s close, but not exact. Could be a coincidence.”

Levi’s voice was cold. “There’s no such thing as a coincidence with this killer.” He turned, his eyes scanning the crowd. “Let’s go. Now.”

They pushed through the market, weaving between stalls and dodging passersby, but the woman was gone, swallowed by the sea of faces. Levi’s mind raced, replaying every detail—her eyes, her rings, the way she’d bumped into him. It wasn’t an accident. She’d wanted to be seen, just like the blonde woman with Varn. A distraction? A taunt? Or something else entirely?

Erwin’s voice broke through his thoughts. “She knew who we were. All of us. That’s not a casual fan.”

Hange nodded, her excitement tempered by unease. “She’s playing with us. Testing us, maybe. If she’s the Spider Killer—”

“She’s screwing with us,” Levi cut in, his tone sharp. “Either way, we’re being watched.”

Miche sniffed the air again, his expression grim. “That perfume… it’s too close to be nothing. We need to find her.”

Erwin’s eyes gleamed with that familiar intensity. “We will. But we’re running out of time. We have to return to Wall Maria by week’s end. If we’re going to catch this killer, we need to move fast.”

..

Far from the market, in a narrow alley tucked behind a row of taverns, Rose slipped off her white bow and shook out her wine-red hair. The green dress was folded neatly into a hidden satchel, replaced with her black assassin’s attire, the deep V-neck dress and thigh cut blending with the shadows. Her gold rings glinted as she adjusted her gloves, the hair wires coiled and ready.

She’d seen them coming—Captain Levi, Commander Erwin, Hange Zoe, and Miche Zacharius. Scouts in Stohess were rare, and their presence could only mean one thing: they were hunting her. The bump into Levi had been a calculated risk, a chance to size them up. Levi’s eyes had been sharp, cutting through her facade like a blade. He was dangerous, more so than the MPs. But she’d played her part perfectly, the flirtatious, starry-eyed girl, and they’d let her walk away.

A slow smile spread across her face, her dimples deepening. “Let’s see how close you can get, Captain,” she murmured, her voice a soft purr in the darkness. She slipped into the night, her steps silent, her mind already planning her next move. The Spider Killer wasn’t done with scouts—not yet.

~

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[starsfic]

Never too early to make a poll

Summaries:

Uncaring of timelines, several children's entertainment companies meet up during a convention, including Elliot Ludwig of Playtime, Isaac Indigo of Indigo Park, and Henry Emily of Fazbear.

AU where the TLT are all streamers- Xiaojiao does video games and motorcycle care, Red does fashion and invention history, while Xiaotian does speed paints and character design. This October, they decide to do a massive stream together of horror games.

AU where Macaque gets married to the wealthy and charming Azure Lion to support his failing theater. However, there is a darkness about his new husband and his mysterious first husband.

AU where Azure Lion sees and falls in love with Sun Wukong...and kidnaps him to Heaven in a rare burst of instinct.

Long Xiaojiao teams up with several other streamers, including speed painter Marcy Wu, conspiracy theorist Todoroki Shoto, and figurine maker Gangle, to play Mario Party for charity. Shenanigans happen, including magic outbursts, old bullies popping up in chat, and general chaos.

To boost morale for the anniversary of Elliot Ludwig’s death, Playtime Co. sponsors a happy hour at a nearby bar for the workers. However, the phrase “loose lips sink ships” rings true, especially when those lips are loosened by alcohol enough to share stories of several weird occurrences. The toys and children alike aren’t sure what to think when, the next day, they’re set free.

Based on this post, the gang is hired to investigate the rumors of a bunny animatronic ghost overnight. The truth is a little more tricky.

During a scouting mission gone wrong, the boys find themselves locked in Draxum's home, hunted by a mysterious figure.

An unsolved mystery show wishes to interview April on the anniversary of her mother's death. When Leo's invited along, he suspects that these detectives are more than what they seem.

The cycle, as it turns out, does not reset the Harbinger when the cycle resets.

When local lord Sun Wukong begs for martial help from powerful witch Azure, Azure decides to help...by killing Wukong's husband.

I make another poll of fics from 2022-2017 and rewrite the chosen one with my current writing ability.

[tommarvoloriddlesdiary]

Numbers 1, 13, 17, and 18 sound very interesting! Are there any snippets that you can share?

oh my 🥹 a lot to get through! hold on tight 💀

unnamed fic number one also known as spy, has a lot going on 😭

it’s very much inspired by the Alex Rider series (specifically the book: Point Blanc) - for those who don’t know what that is, it’s about a young boy whose uncle dies, and he becomes deeply entangled in a world of espionage while trying to find out who killed him. it’s really good, and they have a tv series out for which season 3 is airing in April - give it a watch! i take this concept and sort of run with it - so Harry is an in-coming seventh-year Hogwarts student who finds out his Godfather, Sirius, has died during an auror mission gone wrong. he knows someone isn’t being honest with him - and he doesn't plan on resting until he has answers. here’s a cut:

Harry takes a look around. What was it that Sirius’s mind healer used to say? Five things you can see?

He sees rows and rows of conjured chairs, a raised platform, delicately floating candles - unlit, and the billowing peak of the tent. More than ever Harry can hear Sirius’s dismay at the lack of clowns in attendance.

It’s safer here, so Harry cracks a smile and finally settles his eyes on the dark, gleaming black coffin in the very centre.

He walks carefully through the rows of chairs all circled around it and stops just before the platform raises. Harry feels the telltale sign of overwhelm brew like a potion just behind his eyes, but he shakes it off, tries to delay it. Harry is aware now that he stands there for a long, long while.

Taking a deep breath, Harry places both hands on the edge of the coffin lid and pushes up.

It doesn’t open.

————

mockumentary, also known as fic number thirteen: triwizard tournament, was discussed a bit here! but it never fails to make me laugh, so i’ll share another little cut 🤣

-

Olympe rises from her chair and towers over them. The camera tilts up until it can’t anymore and still cuts off the top of her head. She walks over to the balcony, ducking to pass through the doorway, and crosses her arms behind her back.

She gazes down at the fury of elegant chaos, a smirk creeping up her mouth. The seventh-year students are gliding to and fro, preparing to leave in abraxan-drawn carriages while the younger years watch on with wide, awe-filled eyes.

She continues, “Zhis year will not be une répétition of seventeen-ninety-two.”

————

unnamed fic number seventeen, also known as assassins, is vague one 💀

when I originally wrote down this idea, it was this: spy fic concept - Tom is an assassin, and Harry is a spy; they keep running into each other on various missions and have developed an unlikely friendship. NON-LINEAR - back and forth between past and present narrative — here’s a cut!

When Tom arrived on location, it was to a mess.

Harry Potter never held any qualms or hesitations. If there was a job that needed doing, and the justifications were moral enough, he would do whatever it took to complete it successfully. Unfortunately for Tom (and the meaningless lives that tended to be involved), Harry Potter’s modus operandi typically included wide-scale destructive explosions or the occasional all-out brawl.

This particular scenario happened to showcase the latter.

Potter was panting over an unconscious body. Possibly unknowing to the splatter of blood dotting across his chin, cheeks and nose like crimson freckles. It seemed that he’d been here much longer than Tom - deep cover, likely for months now judging by his scruffier than usual appearance. That hair in particular.

Tom exhaled softly, and thought, He looks good in red.

————

interview with a dark lord, also known as fic number eighteen, is pure nonsense 🤪 here's a cut:

-

Harry glanced over his notes, shuffling them around once, then twice. His eyes fell on one of the many, many questions he and the other Gryffindors had compiled over the night.

“Would you say your field is expanding or decreasing?” Harry asked.

“Decreasing,” Voldemort replied without hesitation. Harry’s scar prickled with something vast and telling - something that felt a lot like immense satisfaction.

A morbid curiosity reared its ugly head. “Really?” he asked and squinted his eyes a bit at Voldemort, looking him up and down. “You don’t seem to be taking that very hard?”

“Yes, and why would I, Potter?” Voldemort leaned back and crossed his legs, definitely looking smug. “It is not Dark Lords; it is Dark Lord. If my field is narrowing, and I remain the only one, all’s the better.”

————

if you'd like to send me a wip, please do! my ask box is open 🥹

[nereidof40k]

This is Chapter 1 of the sequel to the Abyssal Edge interview rewrite, tentatively titled “The First Captain’s Dilemma”, which is a nod to one of my favorite Star Wars fics, “How A Romance Novel Saved The Galaxy.”

Now, there’s a plot twist here. Do you get a cookie if you guessed the twist?

Nope, you get a cookie either way. You’re not here to perform for my entertainment.

This contains Night Lords, a dead body and Sevatar being Sevatar. Do feel free to critique my characterization, I’m running on the understanding he isn’t very good at understanding people and how they think.

@beckyninja , @justanothermemestrider , @yanagikou , hope you like. Had to stop writing because my hand was hurting too bad to continue, but I have more planned.

The massive chainglaive stopped less than an inch from her shoulder, she was certain she could feel the teeth against her skin.

Sevatar tilted his head, looking at her with an expression so familiar it made her brain itch.

“Say that again.” She repeated her statement, feeling as if she was almost but not quite remembering something very important. Looking up at the towering Space Marine looming over her, she slipped her hand into her skirts, retrieving the knife she always wore strapped to her thigh.

At the sight of the knife in her slim hand, Jago froze, a long buried memory dragging itself from the lowest depths of his mind.

He was back on Nostramo, standing in a back alley on the edges of the city. A shiny, sharp bone handled knife in his hand.

In front of him was a young woman, smiling brightly at him, looking up at him with clear admiration.

“Father says I shouldn’t muck around with knives.” She sighed.

“He’s an idiot. You, of all people, need to be able to defend yourself, little vixen.” She chuckled softly in response.

“Thank you, Jago. I love it.” She clutched the knife as he laid it in her soft hand, pressing a kiss to his cheek.

He turned his head as she did, catching her lips with his own. It was all too brief, but he couldn’t resist. Neither did she, leaning into it.

She smiled. “Stay safe, my dear.” Straightening, knowing she couldn’t remain. Pulling her shawl over her pale blonde hair, wary of discovery. “Do Svidanya, Jago Sevatarion.” It seemed almost too formal, too final.

“You too, Lenore.” He wanted to hold her back. This was the last time he saw his little Vixen. It was like she had ceased to exist. And then the reeducation process Astartes went through made him forget.

As the chainglaive was resting on her shoulder, it had ripped her robes slightly, uncovering a lopsided birthmark on her pale shoulder. He knew that mark.

Two children were standing on the edge of a small pond, wringing water out of their hair and clothes.

“Only way that looks like a bat is if you smashed the bat with a hammer.” The boy grinned teasingly.

The girl laughed and swatted him. “Jago! You’re impossible.”

”And you love it, Vixen.”

She was the only one he ever let call him Jago. He hated his name, but somehow it sounded good in her voice.

Dropping the glaive, he picked her up, looking at her very intently.

Under the scars, he knew that face. It pained him to see the long line across her throat, but yet, it was a miracle.

“Vixen.” He murmured. “You kept my knife?”

Those lovely dark eyes widened in recognition at last. “Jago? My Jago?” Her arms went around his thick neck as far as they would go.

“I thought you were dead.” That wry smile on her face at his words was a welcome sight.

“I almost was.” She buried her face in his neck, shuddering. “The Count discovered I was sneaking out.”

Sevatar snarled. This was the first time he had heard her refer to her father by title. Which, knowing her loyalty to family, said a lot.

“What. Did. He. Do?”

“Tried to make me forget about you. Went as far as getting a Drukhari ‘friend’ of his to wipe my memories of you.”

That explained a lot. If he gritted his teeth any harder he might break his jaw. But he wasn’t going to draw attention to what was going on. Plan. He needed a plan. His Lenore must live.

“Talos.” He voxed his friend. Talos would help.

“Sevatar?” Surprise evident in his voice.

“Get me a corpse from somewhere and meet me in the archivist’s room. As similar to her as possible.” To his credit Talos didn’t argue.

He put a finger on her lips as he ended the call. “We’re faking your death. I’m keeping you here with me.”

She eyed him for a long moment, then nodded. “I wouldn’t want to leave. Not when I can remember you again.”

Sevatar put her back down carefully. “Anything you really can’t replace, grab it.”

It was odd seeing her so serious. And the pitiful pile of little trinkets she piled on the table was painful.

As she grabbed the blanket from the bed, a blush spread across her freckled cheeks.

Jago plucked the rolled up poster from her other hand, unrolling it. Smiling to see one of those damned propaganda posters. He hated posing for them, but it was cute how she was apparently drawn to him even without conscious memories of him. “Got a pen?”

Of course Talos had to arrive just as he presented Lenore the signed poster.

Dropping the fresh corpse on the carpet, the apotechary waved his scanner over Sev’s head. “Your head is no more messed up than usual. Now will someone please explain what is going on?”

Lenore just chuckled.

“We’re going to fake her death. I’m not letting the first woman I ever cared for go.”

“This is insane even for you, Sev. “ Talos rubbed his forehead with a grimace. “But let’s do this.”

Sevatar turned to Lenore with that grin. Obviously up to something.

“First off, get those clothes off.”

She stepped back, eyebrow raised and arms crossed, until he elaborated. “We need to dress the corpse like you.”

Grabbing the blanket, she wrapped it around herself, keeping herself completely covered while removing her robes.

Talos, that traitor, just laughed at Jago’s face. No, him looking like Sanguinalia had been cancelled wasn’t that funny, was it?

Lenore eyed the corpse while they worked. “Anyone you don’t like we can blame for my death while we’re at it?”

The two Astartes looked at each other, with matching grins. “Nikolai. Had another injured serf this morning. He needs to stop crippling serfs.” Talos suggested.

“Perfect. He’s an arrogant, self absorbed shitboot. He was about to have an ‘accident’, but getting Curze on his case is much better.”

Once the stage was set, Jago picked up the blanket bundle containing his girl and her things.

“Don’t worry, nobody is going to question me walking around with a mysterious bundle.” He smirked.

“Just like home.” Good, she sounded amused. “Just remember, Jago Sevatarion, I have a knife.” Definitely feeling better then.

Nobody was outside the room, so Sevatar headed for his quarters, smiling to himself, while Talos went for Operation Framing the Idiot.

On his way Sevatar saw several of his least favorite Astartes. Letting out a laugh sent them scattering, evidently convinced the world was ending. Which only made him laugh harder.

Arriving at his quarters he locked the door behind him before depositing his Vixen on the bed.

“Welcome to my humble quarters, my dear.” He bowed theatrically as she poked her head out of the blanket.

[sleepyfan-blog]

Interviews

Author’s Note: This is the next part of the Big E raises the primarchs AU! First. Previous. Next. A big thanks to @plagueparchments, @undeaddream, @kit-williams and @bleedingichorhearts for allowing me to borrow their OCs for this fic! Please rb and support their artistic endeavors!

word count: 5,041 this fic got away from meeeeee

Warnings: none? Please tell me if I need to tag something

Tagged: : @egrets-not-regrets @the-pure-angel @sharenadraculea @whorety-k @gallifreyianrosearkytiorsusan 

Summary: Valdor interviews some candidates to become primary caretakers for the infant primarchs.

Valdor sent out a coded message, asking all  those above a certain clearance level who were not currently assigned to high priority missions to arrive at his office at their earliest convenience in order to discuss a top-secret medium term mission that required discretion, finesse and care. He has already spoken to over a dozen of his fellow custodes, high ranking mortal military officers, admech and civilian mortal staff… Along with the occasional Terran noble. None of them had the qualities that he was looking for as of yet. 

There was a light knock on the door and Valdor called out neutrally “Come in.” A flash of surprise shot through him as Pariah Almach walked into his office. 

“As you say, captain-general. The mission details on the call you sent out were light on details, but I’m… Curious and willing to serve.” The tanned man stated, tucking a stray lock of dark brown hair behind one of his ears and lightly rubbing one of the facial scars on his lower cheek, golden eyes flicking up to Valdor’s face before looking away respectfully.

“There is a reason for that. I have a series of questions to ask you, which I stress you must answer as truthfully and honestly as you can. There are no incorrect answers, but they will determine  your fitness for the mission. If I deem you a potential candidate, I will inform you of the mission details. Due to the nature of the mission it is strictly voluntary, however if you decline the mission, the lord sigilite will remove your memories of the specifics of the mission for the safety of the mission. Do you understand?” Valdor asks, making sure to be upfront. This was the first hurdle that had more than half of the potential candidates who had arrived so far to decline the mission and leave. 

“I understand, Captain-general. I am ready to answer your questions and pass whatever tests are necessary.” The powerful blank answered with a serious and determined nod. 

“Excellent. How much experience do you have working with young children? Specifically infants and toddlers?” Valdor asked, watching him carefully.

Almach blinked rapidly a couple of times, visibly confused before answering “As a child and a teenager, I had many younger siblings I was raised alongside. As one of the eldest, part of my duties were to care for and protect the little ones as best as I could. I haven’t any formal childcare training, but I’ve got a good few years of experience with children of all ages, including infants, sir.”

Valdor noted that down on his dataslate and continued “How do you feel about potentially interacting closely with psykers who will start out wholly untrained due to their nature, as well as those who are closely attuned to the Warp because of their nature?”

Almach shifted a little in his seat “As a Blank of some strength and training, I have dealt with out of control psykers by exerting my own abilities to nullify their own, sir. As long as the psykers don’t attack me for existing, I think I would be able to get along with them well enough… Though I’d need to be away from them for the psykers to learn how to use their powers, if that’s something in the cards for those psykers.” He’s aware that not all psykers who are found by the Emperor’s forces are allowed to continue to live and are brought under his banner. Those tainted are killed to prevent further contamination. Even if the psyker themself is unaware of the darkness they’ve brushed.

Valdor nods, asking several more childcare related questions before saying “I believe that, despite your status as a Blank, you would be a good fit for this mission. As you are aware, The Emperor has many projects going in order to further unify and strengthen humanity. One of these is the Primarch Project. Twenty-one genetically and psychically hand-crafted human infants by The Emperor and each with a multidisciplinary team of the brightest scientific minds who could be found on Terra, created to lead the Legiones Astartes. Most of those scientific minds have been reassigned to the Astartes project, with a couple of the medical staff on hand at any time of the day or night in case the genetically altered infants require medical attention.’

The captain general paused for several seconds before continuing to explain “They were originally to stay in their incubation chambers until their physical maturity was that of a toddler, but strong visions prompted The Emperor to pull them from their tubes early and bring them to a secure wing of the palace. One of these infant generals is a Blank, though how powerful he will be has yet to be seen. Should you accept this mission, you will be assigned the primary caretaker for primarch eleven, the Pariah Primarch. He does not have a name other than Primarch Eleven yet. Your duties would involve the total physical and emotional care of primarch eleven while he grows from an infant to a toddler, which should take up to two years. One of the fail safes that the Emperor put in place in each of the primarchs was to ensure that they would physically mature faster when exposed to danger. You may also be assigned to care for primarchs Five and/or Seven, depending on how many qualified people I find for this mission. What say you?”

Almach swallowed dryly. Could he raise one to three children for war and bloodshed? Admittedly, that’s what they were made for, and his own hands were dripping in the blood of others. He was also keenly aware of what it was like to be a Blank surrounded by non-blanks. How lonely and aching that could get. He would do his duty, despite the guilt that bit at his heart “I will, captain-general. When do I start?”

“Do you have any loose ends to wrap up? Otherwise you will start immediately, and you will be living in the same section of the Imperial Palace as  your ward or wards.” Valdor revealed. 

Almach shook his head “I have no loose ends, sir. Am I allowed to pack a couple of mementos before being transferred to the palace, sir?”

“You are. One of the Golden Host will accompany you to your apartment and aid you in packing, take the rest of the day to get ready.” Valdor ordered. “Oh, and you will be given a week of childcare training before being introduced to your charge or charges.”

“Yes sir.” Almach responded, nodding. He’s not surprised he’s going to be watched while having such information in his head. He got up and headed off, mind running in many different directions at once.

~

There was a light, efficient knock on Valdor’s door, soon after Almach left and he called out “Come in, please.”

“Yes sir.” Apollo responded, quietly walking in, closing the door behind him and sitting down when Valdor silently gestured for him to do so. “I received your call for a highly secretive, multi-year mission? I am here to present myself for it. What do I need to do, sir?”

“Before I tell you about the mission, I have several questions to ask of  you. There are no correct answers, merely the truthful answers you have. If I decide that you are unfit for the mission it is not due to a fault you possess, merely a mismatch in abilities and needs of the mission. Understood?” Valdor clarified, knowing that some of his fellow Custodians would take a rejection of any mission as a failing on their part.

“I understand sir, and I am ready to answer any question  you have.” The Dread Spear responds, lifting his chin a little and squaring his shoulders.

“Excellent. Now, I will ask you a series of hypothetical questions and I want you to answer them to the best of your abilities.” The captain general instructed, before he cleared his throat and stated “You are guarding a very young and willful charge that has shown signs of willfulness and a prickly disposition. They are being difficult and refusing to do what you have told them to in order to keep them safe. What do you do?”

“I remove them from whatever the source of danger is, or I eliminate the danger, depending on whatever is the swiftest option. Is this a bodyguarding mission, sir? I… Do not have experience with such things. I thought the Aquiilan Shields took those missions solely.” Apollo murmured, shifting ever so slightly in his seat.

“This particular mission is set to last for at minimum two years and will be taking place within the Imperial Palace itself, Apollo. There are a number of other… Considerations that caused me to widen the pool of potential candidates. How well can you adapt to humans with enhanced and altered instincts?” Valdor asked.

Apollo thought about the question for a couple of moments before asking “Are you talking about the approved abhuman strains? I have worked alongside different kinds of abhumans before, sir. While they may be a perversion of true humanity, so long as they are willing to serve the emperor, I have no qualms with them.. And as long as their instincts do not get in the way of the mission, they don’t particularly bother me either, sir.”

Valdor hummed, writing down what the younger Custodian said, tapping the stylus thoughtfully against the dataslate before saying “Before I explain this mission it must be said that this information must be kept in the absolute strictest of confidence. Do not breathe a word of this outside of the imperial palace, even among our fellow custodes, even if you know that they are also aware of this duty. If you feel you cannot keep such silence, speak now and you will be removed from the duty roster.”

“I can keep this silent, captain-general.” Apollo answered, shifting a little in his seat again, leaning forward slightly, intensely curious. He’d recently arrived back from a kill mission and had noticed that some of the golden host were abuzz about something, yet they could not or would not say whenever he approached to speak with them. 

Valdor quickly explained about the changes in the Primarch project, and that the infant primarchs had been removed from their incubation chambers and moved to a different heavily guarded and warded section of the Imperial Palace for their own safety, and finishing with “This particular posting would have you taking care of the needs of one or more of the infant primarchs directly. Tending to their physical needs and ensuring that they are adequately emotionally and mentally stimulated as well. You cannot become emotionally attached to your charge or charge. If you feel that you are, come to me and you will be reassigned.”

“I… Infant care is not something I have been trained on, sir and is outside of my realm of expertise. But I feel that I can maintain proper emotional distance from the Primarchs, and should be able to care for whichever one or more of them I am assigned to tend to.” Apollo answered honestly.

“You will be given childcare training for the next week, and then introduced to your charge. I’m sure that you will do well, Apollo.” Valdor murmured, nodding.  

~

Valdor called out, "Come in," As he heard a quiet knock on his door, ignoring the desire to pinch the bridge of his nose. He'd dealt with a half dozen nosy and unfit nobles who had only wanted to know what the mission was. As they had no intention of actually completing the mission he did not tell them. Not that their whining and fussing... and the fact that His Imperial Majesty had shown up to court lat. Again. And with a small dirty towel over one of his shoulders... Rumors abound in regards to why, and he knew that he would need to head those rumors off sooner, rather than later. It was a job for future him, but he's noted down to get done after the initial interviews were done. 

"What is the mission you are seeking to staff, sir?" Zedkiel asked, standing attentively near the door. The Terrab born Raven Guard watching with dark and inquisitive eyes. 

"Before I tell you, I have questions for you to answer first, and the warning that if you are selected for this mission, you cannot tell any of your brothers the mission... And that you'll have limited to time to even contact them over the vox, due to the nature of the mission. If you wish to withdraw now, you may," Valdor explains evenly, watching the other trans-human carefully. 

"I am used to being out of contact with my Brothers for long periods of time during missions, The Raven Guard are primarily trained in stealth, assassinations, and misdirection after all. I will answer your questions to the best of my abilities." Zedkiel murmured, resolute. 

"Good. Now. How do you handle interpersonal conflict? How do you handle discipline of others under your sway? How do you adapt under high pressure situations where you cannot resort to violence?" The Captain General asked. 

Zedkiel was now very intensely curious as to what this mission could possible be about, but restrained the hundreds of inquiries that The Captain General's questions spawned in his mind. He took his time to ponder each question before answering. "I try and find ground with whoever I am in conflict with, to come to a compromise that all involved can live with, if not happy about. As for discipline, I find that corporal punishment leads to long-term issues and prefer to correct problems using more constructive methods. I find redirection and positive reinforcement of the correct behaviors to be a more effective, sir." 

Zedkiel was aware that a number of Commanders and Officers preferred to use the rod and sticks liberally, but he had found that Carrots and gentle correction had much better long-term results, even if it took longer to get unruly Scouts into line, than beatings and terror tactics. "As for high stress non-violent situations, I deal with them by first assessing the situation ato determine the source, and how I might be able to solve or stop the stress. How I would do that depends on the kind of stressor or stressors present, Sir."

Valdor wrote down what Zedkiel said, a considering expression appearing on his face. He was quite certain if he offered a spot for the Astartes on the mission, that Zedkiel would accept without pause. To b able to meet his tiny Primarch. But would he be a good caretaker? From what Valdor knew of the younger trans-human's mission history and personality... The other may be a tad indulgent, but given that he knew that Apollo would be Strict... A gentler hand and limited Astartes exposure should be fine for the infant warlords. "If you refuse this mission after I give you the details, they will be wiped from your mind, for safety and security reasons. Do you understand?" 

"Yes sir. I am ready," The raven guard responded, posture straightening minutely. "The Primarchs were pulled from their incubation chambers as infants for security reasons. They have been moved to a secure wing of the palace and require full time caretakers. Will you be one of them?" Valdor explains deliberately keeping his face neutral. 

Zedkiel's eyes widened a little in shock before the Astartes spoke, voice cracking a little in eagerness, "I would be honored to help care for any of the Primarchs why they are so young." Valdor inclined his head, the corners of his lips quirking up a fraction of a centimeter before flattening again, He's unsurprised by the other's eagerness, "Of those I've interviewed today, you are one of three candidates I've found acceptable for their care team so far. Tie up any loose ends that you have today, then report to Imperial Office 156 on Beta level for training. You and the other caretakers will receive one week of child care training." 

"Yes sir," Zedkiel murmured, saluting Valdor and leaving once dismissed. 

~

"Come on in," Valdor called out as another person knocked on his office door. He had taken just long enough of a break to eat and stretch his legs a little before returning to the desk that His Emperor had given him. 

"Yes sir," Another of the Golden Host murmured, stepping into the room and sitting down. She removed her helmet and massaged her horns, looking him over, a small smirk appearing on her face, "Long day, cap? Just what is this mission? Half the palace is talking about what it might be, or so it feels like." She shook hout her dark hair as she spoke. 

"The mission is highly classified, " Valdor responded before he gave her the same warnings he had given about the secrecy and security level that this mission was and an offer for her to back out before continuing, as well as the pre-screening questions. 

Baphomet flashed him a challenging grin, eyes alight with interest as she leaned over his desk a little, "Oooh, now you've got my attention sir! It's gotta be something special with this kind of security involved. Ask your questions Boss, I'm ready!" 

Valdor cleared his throat a little before answering with several questions in a rapid response, "Do you have any experience dealing with untrained psykers in a non-violent way? How experienced are you with dealing with those who see glimpses of possible futures? How well do you interact with Blanks?"

Baphomet hummed a little, scratching at the base of one of her horns, leaning back in her chair, kicking her feet before answering, "I've corralled untrained psykers before. Especially given how most baseline psykers tend to be squishy. I can usually scruff them if I need to without much issue. Blanks freak me out a little, but the Sisters do important work. As long as the Blank or Blanks in question aren't shitty to me. I'm fine with 'em. But you know how some baselines get with my mutations. I won't tolerate any whining. Oh! I dunno much about seers, though." 

... Considering that Nine had an obvious mutation he couldn't be able to easily hide. Baphomry might be an excellent fit for him as a primary caretaker, despite her disciplinary history. Valdor gives her one more chance to back out of the mission- to which Baphomet flashes him a grin and laughs. He explains about the infant Primarchs, concluding with, "one of them has bird-like wings and future sight. Almost half of them exhibit warp-touched abilities regularly. And all but three of them have shown at least one warp-touched abilities once after being removed from incubation. Are you willing to be a caretaker for the infant Primarchs?" 

Baphomet's eyes widen in surprise and delight as she shot up to her feet, "That sounds line an absolute riot! Fuck yes, I'm up for the challenging mission! I haven't had ... any experience with itty bitties, but I know you. I'm getting kiddie care training before being unleashed on them. I'm absolutely up for it!" The younger Custodes was bouncing a little on the balls of her feet, radiating excitement. 

Valdor nods, a small smile, which he allows to, appearing on his face amused by her exuberance as he instructed her, "Deal with anything you need to. Caring for the infant Primarchs will last for two years at minimum. Possibly longer, depending on how much of a handful they are as toddlers. Report to room 156 on Beta level tomorrow to begin the week long child care course."

"Aye aye sir!" Baphomet chirped before prancing out of the room, grinning widely and helmet in hand. 

There was a quick, rapid knock on Valdor's office door.

"Enter," The Captain General instructed, mildly curious as to who would next present themself for consideration. The fact, as it stood, the caretaking team was half Custodes, did not show any bias on his part, but rather due to the fact that Custodians were likely the best suited to handle infant warp creations meant to Lead Sector-claiming armies when they were fragile and at their weakest. 

There was a rapid clicking sound as a Martian Tech Priest crawled along one wall of Valdor's office. through the door that they were closing with their tail. The Mechanicum's cultist waved a heavily modified hand in Valdor's direction. 

"Uhm. Greetings. Why are you here?" Valdor asked bluntly, pulling out the language translation app on his data slate, ignoring the rising frustration clawing at his mind. 

The Tech Priest clicked rapidly at him for several seconds. The translation software wrote out for him [Here for Assignment. High Priority and Security Level. Serve Omnissiah.]

 ...Great. Sure. Uh-huh. Not. “I see. Do you have other methods of conversation, or is this auditory clicking your only method of communication?” On one hand, it might be good for the infant primarchs to interact with a member of the Mechanicus, and to know that there was a varied methods of communications.. Would it be prudent to allow a member of their tentative allies so close to such a vulnerable resource? Even if several of his fellow Custodes would be present when this priest was as well?

[Singular method of communication.] The priest clicked rapidly, head tilting a little to one side. [Translation simple with helmet and vox-communication systems.]

“While that is true, if you are picked for this mission, not everyone you will need to communicate with has access to a helmet or vox to translate the sounds you are making. Regardless, I have other questions to ask of you, before you receive the details of this mission, if I deem you a fit match. This mission is highly secret and you would not be able to inform anyone else of receiving this mission any of the details. I was handed the task of stocking the best people by the Emperor Himself. Very few people are aware of this mission as it is. If you refuse to take the mission if you learn of the details, your memories of such will be erased permanently. Do you understand?” Valdor responds, leaning over his desk and looming at the tech priest, gaze narrow and focused.

[Understood. Will answer queries. Serve Omnisiah.] The tech priest beeped response. [Will serve faithfully and keep silence.]

Valdor nodded, looking over the list of questions he had and began with “This mission will take a minimum of two years, and will involve a great deal of physical, mental and emotional discretion and effort on the parts of the team members. Do you have any experiences with caring for and disciplining delicate sentient resources? If so, please give examples. Additionally, if you are chosen for this position while you will not want for any resource you may need to successfully complete this mission, are you able to discern between a need that is not being properly fulfilled and a want or desire in your charge that they are trying to emotionally or mentally attempting to manipulate from you?”

[I have worked with tech-priests in training, after they are released from their vat tubes. They can be unruly as their weak flesh can overwhelm them with sensation and stimuli. Routines, training and careful praise/punishment system is effective in keeping them in line. Before they have been fully brought into the fold, some of the young priests in training can get… Stubborn and unruly. I have dealt with youthful manipulations in the past with a firm hand, when interacting with them. Logic and not yielding to yelling or other emotional appeals is important while training and interacting with such resources.] The tech priest - whose name escaped Valdor at the moment - clicked at a steady tempo.

Valdor hummed as he wrote down the other’s response. The lack of regular communication was a bit of a hindrance, but his responses were illuminating and could prove to be most useful in dealing with the infant primarchs. That and they would need to get used to the strangeness of the Mechanicum quickly, so early exposure wasn’t a bad  idea. “Very well. This is your last chance to back out before I explain to you the mission parameters. If you do decide to back out, it will not be held against you in any way.”

[I am ready to serve.] the tech priest clicked.

The captain-general nodded, before explaining the success of the primarch project, and the fact that the infant generals had been pulled out of their maturation tubes as infants due to security concerns, and the fact that the tech priest - amongst others - would be tending to their physical and emotional needs during such a vulnerable point in time, as well as the week long child care training the priest would be taking before being introduced to his charges, finishing with “Currently all of the primarchs are being cared for in a single room together, though that is subject to change, particularly as they grow older and their requirements change. Do you accept this duty?”

[I would be honored, Captain-general.] The tech priest beeped back, his tail flicking a little. 

“Good. Finish up any tasks you have today.” Valdor ordered him, informing the tech priest as to where to report to for training tomorrow.

~

“Sir, are you still looking for candidates for that high priority, top-secret mission?” Adonis asks as he peers into Valdor’s room, where the captain-general of the Adeptus Custodes is sitting, staring at his dataslate as if he hopes it has the questions to all the questions in his mind.

Valdor looked up at Adonis as he spoke and beckoned him inside with a curl of one finger “That I am. I have found some who qualify, but ideally I’d have one or two more on the team to fill it out competently.” He was still somewhat hesitant in including the tech priest in the group… But from what he had read over of Tiny’s service history, the priest should be a good fit, if a mildly mischievous caretaker. 

“I see. What qualifications are you looking for, sir?” The Aquilan Shield asked, tilting his head a little in curiosity as he obeyed the silent order to come into the other’s office and sit down. 

While Valdor had been tempted to simply assig the infant Primarchs a team of Aquilan Shields - particularly those who had been previously assigned young charges in the past, he was also aware of the… Mixed feelings that the Primarchs provoked in many of his fellow Custodes. Mixed feelings that Valdor knew he himself was not exempt from. “I have several questions to ask of  you, as well as a warning to give to you.” He informed the other of the length of the mission, if he refused it that the memories would be taken from his mind, and that Adonis was free to decline the mission with no repercussions.

“Ask your questions, sir. I wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t ready to complete such a mission.” Adonis answered stalwartly, chin lifting up a little, resolute.

“How have you handled medical emergencies that occur to your charges in the past? When one of them fell seriously ill, for example.” Valdor responds. He knew that Adonis had never allowed any of his charges to come to harm during the course of his duties,but illness was an unfortunate thing that happened to baselines. While it was exceedingly unlikely that the infant primarchs could get sick with normal illnesses, and the palace was well-guarded against magical curses and maladies…

They were still gene-crafted infants, and while they were definitely heartier than any natural born infant, there was still the possibility of something unfortunate happening to one or more of them. 

“Fifty years ago, one of my charges fell critically ill. I realized their symptoms and brought them to one of my brother apothercaries who had training in treating the illness that they had fallen prey to. Once they had the medications they required I monitored them closely for signs of relapse or worsening condition, while ensuring that they complied with the medical orders and restrictions they’d been given. I personally ensured that they got all of the nutrients, electrolytes and water they needed in the form of a nutritious but easily consumed soup. Under my care they swiftly and fully recovered from their illness.” Adonis answered promptly “While they were resistant to fully complying, I allowed them to move a little more than recommended in order to get them to consume the soup I created for them without fuss. A little bit of compromise goes a long way to compliance in my experience.”

Valdor nodded as he noted that down, a reflective expression appearing on his face. “I will ask you once more, do you wish to withdraw your name from consideration? If you do not, I will explain the mission parameters.”

“I am ready to serve, sir.” The Aquilan Shield responds, alert and inquisitive.

The captain-general explained to Adonis about how the primarchs had been pulled from their maturation chambers as infants, where they had been placed, adn the fact that his Majesty had been the one primarily taking care of the infants, before realizing that to take care of so many infants at once would effectively prevent him from continuing to reunify the Sol system, amongst His many other duties that had begun to fall to the wayside. Which was why he had assigned Valdor to find appropriate caretakers for the infant primarchs. He finished with “Are you willing to care for the infant primarchs, while they are so weak and vulnerable?”

Adonis nodded “I would be willing to do so, sir. I am well aware of His plans for them in the future and will do my best to guard and guide them, should I be chosen for this mission.”

Valdor nodded, saying “Excellent. I will give you the rest of the day to tie up any loose ends you may have. Report to room 156 on Beta level tomorrow to begin the week long child care course.” 

“Yes sir.” Adonis acknowledged before leaving with a brief salute.

[neverenoughmarauders]

We need to talk about Peter Pettigrew - and why he reminds me of Lockhart

Fics about the marauders tend to ignore Peter - and posts trying to advocate for his inclusion tends to argue how valued he was by the marauders, and how he wasn't really that cowardly or slow...

So please, let's take a quick look at canon, because the reality was that he was a bit slow, quite cowardly and at the end of the day, somewhat of a Gilderoy Lockhart (wait, what?) But he was also a trusted and close friend (and all that can be true at once)

Peter was a coward

Peter chose to betray his friends, not because of some deep held resentment or jealousy, but because it was easy and he, the rat, is all about self-preservation. This is what the author has to say on it in an interview:

But then you have Wormtail, who out of cowardice will stand in the shadow of the strongest person. What's very important for me is when Dumbledore says that you have to choose between what is right and what is easy. [Interview]

And this is what he says himself on the matter:

“Sirius, Sirius, what could I have done? The Dark Lord . . . you have no idea ... he has weapons you can’t imagine. ... I was scared, Sirius, I was never brave like you and Remus and James. I never meant it to happen. ... He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named forced me — “DONT LIE!” bellowed Black. (…) “He — he was taking over everywhere!” gasped Pettigrew. “Wh — what was there to be gained by refusing him?” [POA]

What was there to be gained by refusing him? I absolutely love the reply:

“What was there to be gained by fighting the most evil wizard who has ever existed?” said Black, with a terribly fury in his face. “Only innocent lives, Peter!” [POA]

But that tells you the difference between Peter and the rest of the marauders. They all thought they were fighting a losing battle, but for the rest, it was better to die fighting for what was right. And that goes to the core of the next few books, as JKR says in the interview I was just quoting earlier:

This is the setup for the next three books. All of them are going to have to choose, because what is easy is often not right. [Interview]

Peter was their close friend, but it wasn't an equal friendship

It's canon (ish - the wizarding world article on Remus) that Remus forces the friendship initially between James/Sirius and Peter:

Remus, always the underdog’s friend, was kind to short and rather slow Peter Pettigrew, a fellow Gryffindor, whom James and Sirius might not have thought worthy of their attention without Remus’s persuasion.  Soon, these four became inseparable. [Wizarding world]

In other words, they became inseperable - but they wouldn't necessarily have become friends without Remus.

This is what JKR has to say about Sirius and James' relationship:

Pettigrew, who they, in a slightly patronizing way, James and Sirius at least, who they allowed to hang round with them. [Interview]

And of course we see this in the source text:

“How thick are you, Wormtail?” said James impatiently. “You run round with a werewolf once a month — ”

“Put that away, will you?” said Sirius finally, as James made a fine catch and Wormtail let out a cheer. “Before Wormtail wets himself from excitement.”

So... I think it's clear from canon that yes they are being patronising towards him and they don't respect him very much. That doesn't mean they weren't close friends or that they didn't trust him.

We see them in pictures together (OOTP and DH), we know they made him secret keeper, the Wizarding World article on Remus describes the four as 'inseparable' and let's not forget that Rosmerta identified Peter as James and Sirius friend:

“Pettigrew . . . that fat little boy who was always tagging around after them at Hogwarts?” said Madam Rosmerta. “Hero-worshipped Black and Potter,” said Professor McGonagall.

Peter was a bit slow - but he wasn't as slow as everyone thought he was

Peter is repeatedly noted as being slow - this isn't just some fandom creation:

McGonagall: “Never quite in their league, talent-wise. I was often rather sharp with him." [POA] Voldemort: "Wormtail, I need somebody with brains, somebody whose loyalty has never wavered, and you, unfortunately, fulfill neither requirement" [GOF] James: “How thick are you, Wormtail?” [OOTP]

My favourite comparison is to Lockhart. The plot twist at the end of COS isn't in my view that Lockhart took the glory for other's achievements - we knew he was a talentless thing from the start. We see example after example of what a fake he is. The real plot twist is how dangerous Lockhart really is and how good he is at research and memory spells.

Peter, of course, is good with guidance. He learns to become an animagi thanks to Sirius and James, and he seems to learn some pretty dark magic to blast that street open by Voldemort or his followers; and of course we see him brew that potion with Voldemort's guidance.

Here's a fun comparison between the teachers view of Lockhart and Peter after school (vs in school)

Lockhart: Many of his ex-teachers began to feel that they might have misjudged him because he was demonstrating both bravery and resilience in ridding various far-flung places of dangerous, dark creatures. [Wizarding world] Peter: “Hero-worshipped Black and Potter,” said Professor McGonagall. “Never quite in their league, talent-wise. I was often rather sharp with him. You can imagine how I — how I regret that now. ...” She sounded as though she had a sudden head cold. [POA]

Both are viewed less than favourably, but both turn out to have more magic and cunning than their teachers and peers thought possible.

Peter and Lockhart are also similar in how they (attempt) to make their escape when they are cornered. Lockhart doesn't try to put up much of a fight with Harry and Ron once Harry has disarmed him, just as Peter doesn't try to fight Sirius and Remus. They are both aware of what they are good at, and what they are not good at (well Lockhart seem to only find this self-awareness when a wand is pointing at him, but never mind).

Lockhart eyes his chance when they find the snake skin, and his ONLY mistake is taking Ron's wand which is broken. Had Ron's wand been okay, that would have been the end of Harry and Ron. We know what Peter does. He surrenders until the full moon comes out and just like Lockhart stumbled upon the present of the snake skin, so did Peter luck out with the moon and Remus' transformation. No broken wand means Peter can escape.

In the end, Harry and Ron underestimated Lockhart, but were saved by a broken wand. James and Sirius underestimated Peter, but were less lucky with the outcome:

"I thought it was the perfect plan … a bluff. … Voldemort would be sure to come after me, would never dream they’d use a weak, talentless thing like you." [Sirius in POA]

Pettigrew, who they, in a slightly patronizing way, James and Sirius at least, who they allowed to hang round with them, it turned out that he was a better wizard than they knew. [interview]

[merwgue]

"My name....." SIDE A

Summary: during interrogation, Keir, former Lord of the Hewn City, reflects on the pain and injustice that shaped his life, revealing the darkness that turned him into the villain he's become.

A/N: villain week!! I've been thinking of this fic idea for ages, now I finally made it happen. Its probably going to flop but I'm just happy I managed to make my dream fic a reality😭

Interview Transcript: Keir, Lord of the Hewn City

---

Interviewer: “State your name for the record.”

Keir: “Keir. That’s all you need.”

Interviewer: “Fine. Tell me, Keir—what led you to this? To where you are now?”

---

For a moment, I stare at him. This pompous little scribe, ink-stained hands that never held anything heavier than a quill, sitting here as though he could possibly understand. He wants a story. The tragedy of a villain. Fine. I’ll give it to him.

“I’ll start with my father,” I say, my voice a low rasp. “Since that’s where it all began.”

He nods, quill poised to write, and the memories flood back, hitting me like a storm.

“I was born in darkness. Not just the literal kind—the caves of Hewn City are always in shadow—but the kind that clings to your soul, suffocates any chance of light before it even reaches you.”

My father was the High Lord’s favorite. I was meant to be his heir, his legacy. But he didn’t pass down a kingdom—no, what he gave me was the kind of lessons a man learns with his fists.

He’d come home smelling of blood, sweat, and iron. His eyes cold, harder than steel. There wasn’t a day when I wasn���t walking on the edge of his temper, waiting for the crack of his hand across my face, the boot to my ribs. He called it teaching, training me to be strong. But what he was really doing—what he enjoyed—was beating the weakness out of me before I even had the chance to show it.

“I learned early that love was a weapon,” I murmur, the words thick in my throat. “Something you could use to bend people to your will, to control them. My mother—gods, she tried to show me something different. She would whisper to me at night, tell me stories of places with sunlight, with peace. But that was all they were—stories.”

I swallow, the memories cutting deeper now, tearing at old wounds.

---

“Do you know what it’s like,” I ask the scribe, my voice tightening, “to watch your mother die in front of you? Not just once, but over and over again? Every time she stepped between my father and me, every time she tried to stop him from hurting me, he turned his rage on her. And I had to stand there and watch, powerless, knowing that it was my fault.”

The scribe’s quill slows, his eyes flicking up to meet mine. There’s a glimmer of pity in them, and I hate him for it. I don’t need his pity. I don’t need anyone’s.

---

“When she finally died,” I continue, voice raw, “it wasn’t in some grand act of heroism. No. She died quietly, in her sleep, because her heart couldn’t take it anymore. And I—I couldn’t even grieve. I had to act like I didn’t care, like her death didn’t break something inside of me, because if I showed weakness, my father would have killed me too.”

The scribe’s face pales, but I don’t stop. I can’t stop. The words keep tumbling out, each one more bitter than the last.

“My father expected me to be just like him. Cold, cruel, ruthless. And for a time, I was. I thought it was the only way to survive in this world. I became his shadow, carrying out his commands, doing things that still haunt me.”

---

The memories flood back—so much blood, so much pain. I was barely a boy, maybe sixteen when my father first sent me to “take care of” one of his rivals. I’ll never forget the sound of the man’s screams, the way his eyes bulged as I slit his throat.

I tell myself it was for survival. But the truth? A part of me enjoyed it. The power. The fear in his eyes. I had become everything my father wanted, and I hated it—hated myself.

---

“And then there was Morrigan.”

The name feels like a wound in my mouth, like a piece of glass I can’t spit out. I close my eyes, trying to block out the memories, but they come anyway.

“She was… different. I thought—hoped—maybe she could be my way out. My salvation.”

I laugh bitterly. Salvation. What a lie. I didn’t want to save her. I wanted to own her, to possess her the way my father possessed my mother. To make her mine, to carve out a piece of her light for myself.

“But she was never mine,” I whisper. “She was always his. Rhysand. And when I realized that, when I saw the way she looked at him, I knew there was no saving me. I was my father’s son. Broken. Twisted. Unworthy.”

---

The scribe shifts in his seat, uncomfortable. I can feel his unease, his desire to get this over with. But I’m not done yet. Not even close.

“I tried to protect my court,” I say, my voice rising with anger. “I tried to hold onto the little power I had left. But Rhysand—he took everything from me. He waltzed into Hewn City, into my life, and made me a puppet. He made me bend the knee, made me grovel before him like I was nothing.”

I slam my fist on the table, the chains rattling as the guards step forward. But I don’t care. Let them. Let them hear the fury in my voice, the anger that has burned inside me for decades.

“Do you know what that does to a man?” I shout, leaning forward, my eyes blazing. “Do you know what it’s like to have your life stolen from you, to be made a pawn in someone else’s game? Rhysand, with his pretty words and his false promises—he’s no better than my father. He took everything I had left.”

---

The room falls silent, the air thick with tension. I can see the scribe’s hand trembling, his quill hovering over the parchment as if he doesn’t know what to write next.

I lean back in my chair, the chains pulling tight, and close my eyes.

“I never wanted to be this,” I murmur, more to myself than to him. “I never wanted to be a monster. But this world—it doesn’t give you a choice. Not if you want to survive.”

---

When I open my eyes again, the scribe is staring at me, his face pale, his eyes wide. He thought he’d hear the story of a villain. But what he got—what he needed to understand—is that villains aren’t born. They’re made.

And in Hewn City, we’re made from blood and darkness, forged in pain and fear. The world twists us, breaks us, and we become what we must to survive.

“Anything else?” I ask, my voice flat.

The scribe shakes his head, quickly packing up his things, eager to leave. But before he can stand, I speak again, my voice low, dangerous.

“Tell Rhysand,” I say, eyes hardening, “that his day will come. And when it does, I’ll be there. Waiting.”

---

The door creaks open, and I’m pulled to my feet, chains rattling as the guards drag me back to my cell. But this time, I don’t feel the weight of them. This time, I feel something else. Something sharp and bitter.

Hope.

Because I know one thing for sure:

No one stays in power forever.

@sjmvillainweek ..... okay I may be a bit too obsessed with law BUT COME ON ITS GOOD SHUT UP

[cinnamontails-ff]

Writing Interview Tag Game

Thank you so much for the tag @roguishcat ❤ I love getting to chat about these things.

When did you start writing?

I know this sounds cheesy, but the answer is probably as soon as I could hold a pen. My grandma still has stacks of little stories I wrote (and illustrated ...) when I was a kid. Very cute, but I'm glad I gave up on drawing in the meantime.

I've been writing on and off ever since, but it wasn't until I was in my mid twenties that I decided I'd actively pursue a career in writing. I wrote a few original novels, none of which were ever successful in the world of traditional publishing, then got into fanfiction as a way of rekindling my joy. Once I'm done with my current fic, I'm ready to try with traditional publishing again. Maybe it'll work this time, maybe not, but I guess the bottom line is that I'll always write in some capacity.

Are there different themes or genres you enjoy reading than what you write?

I really like stories that are a little unsettling. Not horror, per se (I'm a coward), but those underlying creepy vibes, especially when they come wrapped up in beautiful language and actually end up culminating in something cool toward the end of the story. "Uprooted" by Naomi Novik comes to mind, "The Devil and the Dark Water" by Stuart Turton, and "Portrait of the Pale Elf" by @larvasmoon.

Is there a writer you want to emulate or get compared to often?

Terry Pratchett is the person who first sold me on the English language. Prior to his books, I'd never seen anyone use English in such a fun, cheeky yet poignant way, and it's definitely something I find myself emulating (all while hopefully putting my own spin on it). I have been compared to him a few times and it's always made my day.

Oh, and I guess Stephen Sommers because people compare my fic to "The Mummy" a lot. Which honestly, is just as flattering.

Can you tell me a bit about your writing space?

At my desk, with a mechanical keyboard. Not because I'm a hipster but because I have absolutely destroyed my laptop's keyboard and then the shop where I'd buy the replacement keys stopped selling my model and I refuse to replace the whole laptop.

I need a sense of quiet when I write. Usually, I write early in the morning before I go to work, and it's honestly my favorite time of the day. It's dark and quiet, I'm all alone, and the day still feels so fresh and full of possibility. I cannot write in public; I find it too distracting. Occasionally, when I'm very in the zone, I'll edit at work but it's never quite as productive.

What's your most effective way to muster up a muse?

Go and hunt that bitch down. I know many people love romanticizing their craft and if it helps them to light scented candles or play aesthetic playlists - go for it! For me, the most powerful tool is routine. Knowing that every morning I will sit down and I will write, whether I feel like it or not. Sometimes I drag my feet the whole time, sometimes things click into place and suddenly, I'm having the best time ever. But I will always put words on the page and for me, there's no better feeling than having written (past tense).

Are there any recurring themes in your writing? Do they surprise you?

You probably know this, but I really, really love stories where a regular guy/gal saves the day. It makes me so happy to see the evil vampire lord taken out by the mousy accountant, the fountain pen striking harder than the sword. I think it's because I like to read about real people. People that you could have met in real life, that seem simple on the outside, but have all this strength locked up inside. It's why I dislike stories with picture perfect beauty goddesses that always have the perfect quip, always take out their opponents with 1 blow because they're just that special.

Normal people are special, too. You just need to look a little harder to see.

What is your reason for writing?

I believe it was Brandon Sanderson who said "Stories are like real life but with the boring parts removed". That has really resonated with me. I think the beautiful thing about stories is that they can portray very real issues and conflicts in a way that is infinitely more satisfying because it's all been arranged just so. It can give you closure, it can make you see something in an entirely new light without feeling confrontational. It's like a really, really good conversation with the author and I hope that's what my writing feels like as well.

Is there any specific comment or type of comment you find particularly motivating?

Two things. I love when readers point out specific lines they enjoyed and I love it when they tell me they reread my work. The term "comfort read" makes me particularly happy because that's exactly how I reread my favorite stories as well.

How do you want to be thought about by your readers?

I think the most important part to me is that my stories feel real. I dislike pretentious, over-the-top writing where you can tell the author is trying super hard to sound clever or sexy or just drowns you in heaps of cheap, undeserved drama that never leads anywhere. With my stories, I want things to feel earned. Natural. Maybe you wouldn't have made those choices, but it makes sense that these characters would have and now we're looking at the very real consequences of their actions.

What do you feel is your greatest strength as a writer?

Character voice, specifically in 3rd person limited. My favorite type of narration because I love getting into a character's head and making you see things through their eyes.

How do you feel about your own writing?

I think every writer struggles with their confidence here and there. I've gone through so many cycles in the past 1.5 years, it's kind of crazy. Going from constant failure in the world of publishing to writing your very first fanfiction just for fun and then having it blow up out of nowhere, all these people showering you in praise, only for the vast majority of them to disappear immediately afterward is a lot to process. We write for ourselves, yes, but as a writer, you can't help but take reader responses to heart. Fortunately, I've never let it influence what I write or how I write; it really only affects my mental state. I know what I like to read and those are the stories I am going to tell, whether they're successful or not.

Aww, this was fun! Tagging @larvasmoon @davenswitcher @pickel182 @karinamay @pouroverpaloma ❤ ❤ ❤