#is doomed by something she cannot control

[toasterkoi]

Still your jaded shadow was forced to look upon

Sights not even a ghost should have to see

And as he slumps so listed, he cannot bear to watch

And yet he cannot draw his gaze away and flee

The reason why there's a white baby fuzz Shadow there holding current Shadow's hand is because it went with my headcannon from that one post I did where he originally had that coat color before he was injected with Black Doom's DNA. (VERY briefly, though)

A homage to what he could've been without the impurity that attached itself to him, the alien dna. Which is ironic in a sense, as Shadow is who he is as an indirect result of Doom's influence.

I really liked a comment on that previous post about the headcannon that said something akin to how his white fur that was left over represented the only place Black Doom failed to corrupt: his heart. Like YES!!! PREACH!!!

And, he has all this chaos energy and some kind of alien power that has dangerous consequences if not kept in check (he didn't know this he was like...10 minutes old) Gerald, of course, was aware of this about Shadow, but paid no mind to warn the hedgehog of his capabilities, as he was sure he had the means to control such a consequence. A fatal flaw of his part. So maybe he had crafted the inhibitor rings beforehand but kept them as a failsafe of sorts.

I imagine that Maria was looking to spend time with newly-released Shadow on a regular morning where she was feeling better, show him some of her favourite songs, or create fun mischief around their space-home, but oddly couldn't find him anywhere. Gerald was probably off doing further research for how to link Shadow to Maria's illness. She found herself peeking into an old storage room where the lights were off, and the door slightly pushed open as if someone had entered but not returned. And then... there's a horrifying and mutated elderich horror in the corner that's growling in pain. It's Shadow, and Maria knew that despite the melting and mutating figure in front of her appearing nothing like a small hedgehog. Because, despite the horrid and dark goup, deep down, it was still Shadow.

She was awfully calm about the entire encounter, too, and managed to get Shadow the help he needed to come back to his hedgehog form. I feel like this says alot about their closeness and relationship, because I bet if a rookie, overworked, below minimum wage employee and scientist walked in on mandela catalog Shadow like that, they would've screamed, peed their pants, and run away. They are NOT getting paid enough for this. (Unless they're used to stuff like that, but idk I'm not a scientist on the ARK guys). Just my thought dump herherher

[mutsubaki]

I cannot stop thinking how House Atreides has really died with Leto. All the inhibitions from Lady Jessica’s hunger for power and passion were removed and she truly became her father’s daughter. The further Paul was from the times his father was guiding him, the more he leaned into anger and cruelty. Reverend Mother Mohiam doomed them all when she advised to wipe out that line. Atreides and Harkonnen were supposed to balance each other, and her fear of Atreides incomplacency lead to full loss of control. Maybe Lady Jessica and Leto actually made someone who’d be able to become a saviour, but everyone who was involved in the making of the saviour has fucked him up beyond recognition - because the balance was lost.

And on this note, I can’t stop thinking about how Feyd-Rautha and Paul are really meant to be for peace; war is a result of many centuries of a feud between their houses, and an alliance - a union of resources, mind you - would change the political landscape in the universe. Sure, it makes sense why House Corrino fuiled that rivalry, because such alliance would drastically shift the power dynamics in the Lanstraad.

And it doesn’t matter if Paul, or Feyd-Rautha, or their offspring would become Kvizats Haderach - an all-knowing being would rise to the throne and elevate Fremen with less blood then a desert prophet if they had this power.

But Jessica is her mothers’s daughter because she seeks power before purpose, and is her father’s daughter because she doesn’t care about the cost of power, so; their love story with Leto could be described as something you would leave as a warning on a nuclear waste site: love was there. It didn’t save anyone. On every chance it could save us, love only lead to more destruction.

[jellykyunnie]

Maybe a yandere jinwoo with a reader whos self sacrificial? It would test his self restraint... (~I like to see him unhiged~)

˗ˏˋ Entry : 063 - Sung Jinwoo x Self-sacrificial! Fem! Reader ◛⑅·˚ ♡ ˎˊ˗

ₓ˚. ୭ ˚○◦˚ 𝕊𝕦𝕟𝕘 𝕁𝕚𝕟𝕨𝕠𝕠 ˚◦○˚ ୧ .˚ₓ

[ TW: Self-sacrificing, Death, Pure Violence, Gore, Violent Jinwoo Depiction, Fluff Ending guaranteed so dont come at me with pitchforks. ]

╰┈➤ ❝ [ My Heart Is Nowhere ] ¡! ❞

Again.

You died.

Again.

Jinwoo wordlessly cradles your lifeless body in his arms. There wasn't any other sound aside from the backdrop of crackling fire and buildings collapsing.

His colleagues tremble as they inch closer, sensing the silent doom loom over them.

Sung Jinwoo had always been dangerous. As kind and as polite as he presented himself to the public and them— He was always a dangerous man.

No one can ever determine where his limit lies, he fears no international hunter and looks at the current rank#1 hunter like he's just a small child he flashes a bored smile at.

Those who witness how destructive he is in the gates can only describe the bloodshed he makes as something a warlord can do, or something that the most macabre authors can poetically write that their works would be thrown into the list of banned books.

But anyone with a curious mind can't help but wonder,...

What happens once Sung Jinwoo, the man who controls an army of undead husks— Turns his back against humanity?

What if he decides to forsake his duty towards the people who need him and unleash his wrath towards them instead?

"Hunter Sung... My condolences" Jong-in lowers his head, his throat growing dry as he cannot bring himself to lift up his head and meet the gaze of the man who has just lost someone dear to him even if he didn't know what exactly the relationship between Jinwoo and the body he was holding delicately.

"Three S-rankers, 15 A-rankers, 56 B-rankers and over 100 C rankers, I've only been gone to deal with the other monarchs" Jinwoo starts, his gaze still focused on the person in his arms. "And none of you, none of you, could stop a single woman from giving up her life force in order to completely close off a gate that wont close no matter how many times you had entered inside."

"Her sacrifice was not in vain—" Yoonho tries to say, his words immediately interrupted as Jinwoo was suddenly in front of his face with maddened lilac orbs.

Jinwoo tilts his head, an eerie angle as a vein pops up on his jaw, "She's an E-ranker."

"An E-ranker with a mana level of 5, she is closer to a civilian than a hunter. So unless you have something better to say, keep your fucking mouth shut before I rip your goddamn head off."

Silence befalls the entire place as the temperature felt so chillingly cold despite the ember flames dancing around.

As Jinwoo's back disappears into the distance with his beloved's cold lifeless body.

꒰ .... ꒱

"Dear!' Kyung-hye panics, running down the hospital hallway where he heard his son was in.

Her heart had been racing since earlier since she had heard the death of an E-ranker extremely close to Jinwoo. And now that she could see the blank and lifeless look on his oldest child— She felt a pit in her stomach drop at the sight of him.

The grey eyes he had inherited from her are completely hollow and are now completely pitch black. Jinwoo was in a complete daze as his mother held his shoulder with trembling hands with tears running along her cheeks.

"Oppa..." Jinah could only sob as she hugged Jinwoo who wasn't reacting at all.

It felt as if the life have been completely drained from him.

He wasn't crying.

He wasn't talking.

He wasn't even moving at all even as his family cradles him.

Sung Il-hwan could see it, the pure devastation and helplessness on his son who had always looked as if he could take down anything.

He can only see an empty man completely hollow inside. It was as if Jinwoo's body only houses shadows.

The old man can only purse his lips as he joins his wife and daughter in holding Jinwoo who didn't even bother returning their embrace.

꒰ .... ꒱

He stares at the gravestone in front of him, staring blankly as the rain pitter-patters down his face to simulate tears since he wouldn't cry. It had been seven hours now since you had been buried down the earth to rest your weary soul.

Jinwoo had seen this a total of 5 times already.

This very grey sight where the colours would become muddled and sickening to look at.

He wanted to cry, he wanted to scream and lash out, he wanted to beg it all to be some type of cruel joke. But it seems that his sobs had long been dried that the downpour gave him some fake tears.

The first time you had died of the same reason— The media treated your death like some sort of movie. Something they wanted to film, everyone wanted to suddenly know you.

When you were alive, you were always treated as a laughingstock for trying to still be a hunter despite your pathetic state. Jinwoo grew close with you just because he could sympathize with that struggle.

He knew what it's like to be the receiving end of all those mockery, to be looked at with condenscending gaze silently wishing you death— So how could he resist you?

Even when you were given the chance to be selfish and just worry about yourself; you never did.

You had always looked out for him despite it all. So Jinwoo never abandoned you even when he grew strong with the system.

He liked acting weak because he loved your attention, he would come to you with a bruise on his face even as an S-ranker just so you can tell him off. He didn't mind being smacked in the head, he didn't care that he will be treated like a 4 year old coming home with dirt all over him that his mom will yell at him hours on end— Sung Jinwoo only ever cared about you.

The you with dazzling eyes with stars gleaming inside of them whenver you're enthusiastic, the you who has a melodious voice no matter what emotion you're going through, the you who he has decided to revolve his world around.

So why is it, despite everything he did to prevent this very tragedy— That you still choose to sacrifice yourself for the world who given you nothing but disdain?

Why is it that you choose to walk the same path you take over five times now? Why would you choose the world over him who would give you the universe?

Jinwoo can never know.

He will never know.

Since despite looking like you would tell him anything— He can never completely understand what goes on in that pretty little head of yours.

꒰ .... ꒱

So for the following months, he silently dealt with anguish of your 5th sacrifice alone.

Jinwoo would go to work. Go home. Have a beer. Have a smoke. Sleep? Fuck that. Repeat.

Nothing matters anymore, he never managed to protect you, what's the point of eating anything or taking care of himself?

He had this slight delusion, that maybe if he hurts himself enough— Your ghost would suddenly haunt him and yell at him with that voice he is starting to forget from the constant state of disassociation he voluntarily put himself into.

"Ah, it's that lover boy" Hwang Dongsoo's familiar voice resounds, echoing in the massive hunter building Jinwoo walked into the discuss his next activities with the chairman Go Gunhee. "Sheesh, you look so fucking miserable"

The man laughs, patting Jinwoo's shoulder as if they had been longtime pals since childhood.

"Mr. Hwang, please have respect" Jinchul scolds, holding the man's arm to pry off Jinwoo who hasn't uttered a single word despite the blatant mockery.

"Now, now, I'm just greeting a fellow s-ranker who is grieving, is that inappropriate?" Dongsoo smiles, playing coy as he felt the utter thrill of messing around just a bit more.

"You have no right to talk like that towards anyone, colleague or not" Jinchul insisted, putting himself between the enstranged Dongsoo who left for america and Jinwoo who is clearly still out of it despite the months having passed by since that faithful day.

"What? It aint my fault that bitch is dead." Dongsoo simply laughs, waving his hand dismissively. "If she's so special why didn't he—"

Jinchul couldn't even react.

All of the sudden the room was casted in a mist of shadows with the temperature going down at dangerous state, the air is heavy with this thick suffocating malice that the A-ranker was brough to his knees for the sheer pressure of it all.

And in the middle of the brewing storm of darkness— Was Sung Jinwoo repeatedly pummeling Hwang Dongsoo's face—

OVER AND OVER. OVER AND OVER. OVER AND OVER. OVER AND OVER. OVER AND OVER. OVER AND OVER. OVER AND OVER. OVER AND OVER. OVER AND OVER. OVER AND OVER. OVER AND OVER. OVER AND OVER. OVER AND OVER. OVER AND OVER. OVER AND OVER. OVER AND OVER. OVER AND OVER. OVER AND OVER. OVER AND OVER. OVER AND OVER. OVER AND OVER. OVER AND OVER. OVER AND OVER. OVER AND OVER. OVER AND OVER. OVER AND OVER. OVER AND OVER. OVER AND OVER. OVER AND OVER. OVER AND OVER. OVER AND OVER. OVER AND OVER. OVER AND OVER. OVER AND OVER. OVER AND OVER. OVER AND OVER. OVER AND OVER. OVER AND OVER. OVER AND OVER. OVER AND OVER. OVER AND OVER. OVER AND OVER. OVER AND OVER. OVER AND OVER. OVER AND OVER. OVER AND OVER. OVER AND OVER. OVER AND OVER. OVER AND OVER. OVER AND OVER. OVER AND OVER. OVER AND OVER. OVER AND OVER. OVER AND OVER. OVER AND OVER. OVER AND OVER. OVER AND OVER. OVER AND OVER. OVER AND OVER. OVER AND OVER. OVER AND OVER. OVER AND OVER. OVER AND OVER. OVER AND OVER. OVER AND OVER. OVER AND OVER. OVER AND OVER. OVER AND OVER. OVER AND OVER. OVER AND OVER. OVER AND OVER. OVER AND OVER. OVER AND OVER. OVER AND OVER. OVER AND OVER. OVER AND OVER. OVER AND OVER. OVER AND OVER. OVER AND OVER. OVER AND OVER. OVER AND OVER. OVER AND OVER. OVER AND OVER. OVER AND OVER. OVER AND OVER. OVER AND OVER. OVER AND OVER. OVER AND OVER. OVER AND OVER. OVER AND OVER. OVER AND OVER. OVER AND OVER. OVER AND OVER. OVER AND OVER. OVER AND OVER. OVER AND OVER. OVER AND OVER.

"Mr Sung, I beg you please come to your senses youn man!" Go Gunhee screams, his face completely pale as the pristine white marbles of the hunter association's floors are painted in a deep haunting color of crimson red.

His pleading seemed to be had been succesful as Jinwoo removes his fist from Hwang Dongsoo's face...

What face?

There's nothing there.

Nothing but brain matter remaining as well as bone fragments floating atop the red liquid like tranquil leaves resting on still water.

"S-sung Jinwoo... You" Thomas Andre nearly gags at the sight, his eyes flashing golden but the fire in them suddenly distinguishing as Jinwoo simply stares down at him with that blank and hollow look.

That man always had an odd purple light in his eyes.

But those eyes are only black underneath those ebony locks that had slightly overgrown from Jinwoo not properly tending to himself as of late.

That gaze was a wordless taunt: "Come at me, I dare you, and I'll reunite you with this rotten bastard right here."

Jinwoo wasn't even shaken, he had blatantly commited murder inside a hunter establisment riddled with cctvs and witnesses.

But he didn't even care.

None of the security would dare come near at the sight of his blood-splattered appearance.

They all, perhaps in a way, knew—

That for a man who had already lost everything, nothing can and will ever hold him back.

No amount of rationale, remorse, or anything human can remotely leave a budge on someone who has completely decided to become a monster.

꒰ .... ꒱

No matter how many gates he had been through, no matter how much his army would plead— Jinwoo would become totally numb as he further rises in the system.

Ding. Ding. Ding. Ding.

That sickening toiling of the system notification as he took one life and another back to back like a rabid dog comes to a point Jinwoo owuld rather rip his ears off.

As he holds the head of another high orc, he hears a deep booming voice behind him, "Child, stop this instant."

"Why should I?" Jinwoo asked, turning back to see Ashborn taking in his form.

"I chose you as my heir to stop the monarchs, not to become a senseless murder machine" Ashborn scolds, gripping Jinwoo's bloodied arm who only shakes his gesture off.

"Take it back then if you're so upset" He merely chuckles, sitting down on the corpse of a monster he had just lay to rest. "I've got nothing to lose."

"Emotions are what leads to one's destructions."

"My emotions are also the reason why you chose me to succeed you."

"...."

He couldn't argue with that.

The former shadow monarch had nothing to say.

It was Jinwoo's sheer willpower and stubbornness to keep living was one of the core reasons why he chose him as his succesor. Nobody has the same steadfast and headstrong personality as this very man who is now reduced to a broken and grieving child who only yearns for his family.

"What was it?" Jinwoo asks, "With great power comes great responsibility? Yeah, bullshit."

He grips the sides of his head, trying to drown out all the sounds as tears started streaking down his tired eyes who had completely lost faith in anything and everything.

"Save your sympathy," He chokes out, "Or do monsters like you even feel anything? I haven't slept in a year. That person is the only reason why I ever maintained some sort of humanity even as the system explicitly made sure I will lose all of my emotions, but that single person spared me from ever succumbing into pure madness. I can't remember her voice, I can't remember her face, I can't remember what she smells like."

"So what can I lose?"

He was always the strongest in everyone's eyes. Everyone relied on him for everything especially after he became a high ranked hunter that also took the role of the face of korea. He was put on a pedestal he never wanted to have.

Jinwoo only wanted to take care of his little sister and parents. He only ever wished to be good enough to make them happy and make sure they live good and healthy lives.

So why couldn't he be selfish for even just once?

Why isn't he allowed to to indulge himself after giving up everything for the world?

Why can't he keep you?

The precious and foolish you he loved more than anything than life itself.

Even for just one little request— that he could keep you, but even with that small wish of his— he was denied of it.

He was denied happiness and love.

He was denied of even the simplest of request.

So if he cant have the tiniest of wishes, what hope would he have?

He could do nothing more than weep.

He then feels Ashborn's hand on his head, the digits stroking his strands gently.

"You've done enough, my child."

꒰ .... ꒱

That was the last thing Jinwoo had heard before he woke up in his bed again. Somehow, the late monarch managed to put him to sleep. When he looked in the mirror, his body was built the same before he had the system.

Memories would come pouring in as he looks back at the pathetic him he detested so much.

It seems that in this world there is no existence of gates or any monarch. It's a reality spared from that gruesome world he had hailed from.

Most of his memories are, however, extremely broken. His body clearly remembers things well, but somehow a lot of it are fragmented.

At least it's clear that in this reality he goes to a university studying to become a police. By miracle, he is accepted into his course despite the sorry state of his appearance.

He was cordial and polite with his parents and sister, but he had no appetite so he chose to go to school earlier than usual. Jinwoo just couldn't face them knowing how much he brought them pain and how much of a monster he truly is.

He never went to university in the past, he couldn't because he was immediately went to work due to his mother collapsing and he just never did so in any of his regression.

"...."

"...Woo.."

"Sung Jinwoo!"

He jumps at the silent calling of his name and turned to see,...

You.

"Hey, mister-emo-looking-first-thing-in-the-morning" You grin in a friendly manner, looking up at him with that familiar shine in your eyes.

He looks at you as if he saw a ghost, his hand stretching out and nearly touching your cheek but didn't when his palm almost caressed your delicate skin.

"???"

"You..." He whispers, his voice hoarse and almost broken. "You're okay."

"I'm not gonna die over a hay fever—...." You pause, eyebrows knitting as his blank eyes suddenly tear up. "H-hey, why are you crying? Did you have a nightmare again?"

"You fool." Jinwoo merely replies, suddenly pulling you into an embrace he had oh-so craved. "You absolute fool."

His fingers tangle in your hair, his lips subtly kissing the side of your head as he held you even closer to him. The pressure of his hold nearly choking out the air in you.

You wanted to comfort but at the same time you wanted to curse him out for wherever the hell his strenght originates from with the pathetic build he has!

"Jinwoo!" You manage to wriggle out of his hold and then cup his face.

He kept crying.

Like some sort of child that has been denied something that he cannot communicate his anguish. Jinwoo just kept crying his eyeballs out.

So, you can only soothe him. Whispering comfort to him as your foreheads pressed together so he could feel better.

You stare up at the grey eyes he has. The grey eyes that are dazzling and always filled with kindness.

In front of you, it's just Sung Jinwoo.

He doesn't have any other identity in front of you.

He's just Sung Jinwoo.

So how can he not be a fool who is so inlove with you?

꒰ 🪼 A/N: Should I make a sequel to this? I vibed too hard on fatal trouble hahah. I figured I should give something more meaningful not just another fluffy fic www. So how is it? I hope everyone likes this one heheh,,,, Took me a short while on this one skskskskk. ꒱

ʚ(੭´͈ ᐜ `͈)੭ .｡✧: ~♡ —! stories written by kyunnie; translations, reposts, plagiarism are strictly forbidden.

[arabellasleopardcoat]

Doom of Ghis (Rhaenyra Targaryen x Reader)

Summary: You decide to trick a Queen. It doesn’t quite go according to plan.

Warnings: Smut. Corruption kink. Twisting of religious rituals. Dubious consent? Fingering. Playing doctor.

A/N: I am tired of writing older man x younger woman. Meet older woman x younger woman. Palate cleanser in the middle of writing a new character. Also, I miss writing girls.

“THIS IS NOT a task fit for a Queen.” Rhaenyra looks at Corlys with narrowed eyes. Her annoyance at her own council has begun to build like a sore, and threatens to explode at any given moment.

Presently, it can’t. It would be in poor taste to do during dinner. Lord Corlys has asked her if they could sup in her quarters, to discuss a private matter. She had been expecting war preparations, not this.

“Yet it is a task we require of you.” Her Hand answers, unintimidated by her glare. Rhaenyra reminds herself it is a good thing, not to be feared. She wishes to be a wise Queen, one who is remembered as a champion of peace and not as the next Maegor the Cruel. She wants to be exactly like her father. Viserys the Peaceful.

Viserys the Peaceful never throttled his Hand. And his was much more irritating than hers.

“Why can’t we just… Forgone the custom?” She asks him, crossing her arms over her chest.

“The House of Pahl is already offended by the offer we made them. Marrying one of their daughters, even if it is one of the ones from the second son, to a bastard is an insult. Not having Graces present for the ritual is, too. We cannot afford to offend them any further.”

“Can’t Baela do it?” It sounds childish even to her ears. Rhaenyra isn’t quite sure why she feels so awkward about the ritual, it’s hardly as if she will see something she is unfamiliar with herself. She bets the girl will be more awkward than her, and the thought of having to soothe her seems unappealing. “Or Lady Mysaria?”

“Both of them are quite busy with their duties.” Lord Corlys takes a second to drink from his goblet. It stings, the unspoken fact that Rhaenyra is not. “The Lady Mysaria would provide greater offense, considering her… Previous occupation and lack of relationship to me. As for Baela, I do not feel prudent to recall her from her patrols.”

“My own kinship to you is fairly removed.” Rhaenyra cuts a piece of venison and takes her time chewing. When a Queen wishes to speak, men wait. And it is important to remember her Hand of that fact, especially since he is asking favors. “I am, what? Your second niece? And only through marriage.”

“They feel honored that a Queen will perform the ritual for their daughter. And we need their coin.”

“Slaver’s coin.”

“Coin that will win us the war.” Lord Corlys interjects. “That will buy men. Armor. Weapons. Food.”

Rhaenyra doesn’t answer. She simply cuts another piece of venison.

YOU SIT ON the table, legs hanging off the edge. A fire is lit, and a tea set is already prepared on another low table, along with cushions. A small, dragonglass dome, covers the cakes the Queen and you will share. The message is clear. Your family expects the ritual to go without a hitch.

You aren’t too sure. This Queen you will meet, who will take the place of your elder because your betrothed has no suitable relative to do so, isn’t Ghiscari like you. She is Valyrian. You hate Valyrians.

Cloaked in your pink veil, and wearing your simplest white shift, you await her arrival. You remember your mother’s words. Befriend her. Let her use you and touch you as she pleases. Do not try to instruct her to perform the ritual the right way.

What your mother suggests, simply put, is to see if she can be seduced while being convinced she is the one doing the seducing. Her friendship could give House of Pahl an even greater advantage that you will be getting after you become Lady of the Tides.

Not only control over a fleet that can block trade routes by marrying a Valyrian bastard. Friendship to a Queen. Lover to one. A whispered word in her ear and your wishes shall be law if you play your cards right.

There is no shame in it, your father had said, when they had instructed you as to how to behave. The Red Graces and White Graces do the same and their blood is as noble as yours. They serve the Gods of Old Ghis by providing pleasure to many men. What is asked of you is to only pleasure a single woman.

A single woman who is Valyrian. Whose ancestors burned Old Ghis, and forced yours to flee to Mereen.

It’s not that you object to the fact that it is a woman. You object to Valyrians. They are ugly little things, with queer facial features and skin and hair too pale.

But the woman who enters the room is anything but. She is beautiful, dressed in a black gown that makes her look regal. She has a sweet face, and her distasteful colorless hair is pulled back. It looks less offensive that way, you suppose.

“Your radiance.” You address, lowering yourself from the table you sit in and curtsying. The title has never felt more apt. Her face is beautiful despite her age, and her body shapely.

“Good morrow.” The Queen says. Her voice is delightful too, strong and commanding, with a feminine quality to it. Seducing her now doesn’t seem like much of a chore. “We use the title of Your Grace here.”

“Your Grace.” You rectify, and give her another curtsy. Underneath your veil, you are giving her an apologetic smile. She cannot see it.

You wonder what she thinks of you, cloaked in a soft pink veil that covers both your hair and face. Thanks to the artfully draped pleats, she cannot see you, but you can see her.

She probably thinks you look like a strawberry dipped in clotted cream. You cannot wait to marry and use the Velaryon colors. They look much more dignified than yours.

“I was explained by your Lord Father that I will become your elder after this ritual.” She says, voice full of gravitas. “So there is no need for you to curtsy so much. I hope to become a mother to you.”

“Of course, Your Grace.” You are thankful she cannot see your face, or you would burst out laughing. It’s what is supposed to happen, yet you are not counting on it. “I am sure you are a busy woman. We should begin soon.”

You sit yourself on the table again, feet dangling. The table is the perfect height for bending you over it, but you do not comment on it.

“…I… Of course.” The Queen seems taken aback by how straightforward you are, which makes you smile.

You wait for her to come to you. She hesitates, as if unsure of herself, before coming to stand between your parted legs.

Slowly, her hands pull your veil back. You school your expression into one of quiet dutifulness.

Rhaenyra gasps slightly when she sees your face. You do not allow your face to change, but internally, you are dancing a gig. The veil had been a stroke of brilliance on your father’s part. He always said the best part of worshiping a Red Grace was the reveal.

“You are a beautiful young woman.” She says, starting to map out your features with her fingertips. Her touch is soft, as if scared of hurting you. You play the part of the blushing maiden, letting out a gasp of your own when she traces your lips. Her eyes darken. “Alyn is a very lucky man.”

This Alyn is an accomplished sailor, you hear, and on the fast track to become a Captain. His recent acknowledging by Lord Corlys only propels him higher. You have heard the men admired him from starting from below, unlike other Lord’s bastards.

It’s not a bad prospect. Any man can give you children, you know. It’s not a difficult task. Not every man can give you a fleet.

“And I am very lucky to be marrying him.” You say, after a while. Rhaenyra’s hands have stayed where they are, lingering on your jaw. She doesn’t dare move further down. Her eyes are focused on your lips, as if noticing how intimate the embrace the two of you are in.

Her hands, holding your jaw. Her hips, nestled in the space made by your spread legs.

She goes back to tracing your lips with her thumb, a storm brewing in her eyes. She is confused, this Queen of yours. The intimacy is getting to her, but her morals are holding her back. Rhaenyra is not supposed to take advantage of a maiden she is supposed to welcome as her daughter.

You decide to push her a bit. You take her thumb inside your mouth, cradling it softly in your tongue. Her eyes dart to yours, but you close them, as if delighted by what you are savoring.

Rhaenyra pulls back.

“What are you doing?” She snaps at you. Your eyes open, but your lips remain tantalizingly parted still.

“You are meant to inspect me wholly.” You try your best to sound shy. “Even inside. My mother said…”

Guilt passes once again over her features. You are a poor naive girl, who doesn’t feel anything like arousal. She is the one getting a sick satisfaction over a sacred ritual.

It’s not the truth, of course. But it is what she believes.

She slips her thumb inside your mouth again. You close your eyes, scrunching them tightly. Feigning embarrassment once more. Her thumb presses down on your tongue, drawing a line. It makes drool begin to gather at the corners of your mouth.

As Rhaenyra checks your molars with a careful press of her fingers, warmth begins to accumulate in your core. You open your eyes, looking at her.

She seems absorbed by the task. The Queen barely notices you are holding her gaze, fascinated by your warm mouth. She removes her thumb, wiping it on your chin.

Her hands trail lower. Down your jaw, and to your neck. She keeps her touch light, making you squirm. Everywhere she touches, a trail of goosebumps follows.

“Shh, sweet girl. You are doing so well.” She rubs your shoulder, probably thinking you shake from nervousness and not from pure, sheer want. “So well for your Queen.”

You feel your flower growing slick with her words. You worry if that will give you away when she reaches that part of the examination. Rhaenyra might yet discover that you are not as innocent as you pretend to be. It only makes you wetter.

Would she punish you if she found out? Pinch your little pearl until you cried? Spank your rear?

Her hands slip the straps of your shift down your shoulders. You are left bare in front of her.

Your nipples are pebbled. They have been since she started touching you.

The Queen doesn’t touch you there at first. Not where you need her the most. Instead, her hands trail over your shoulders, teasing you with promises of what is to come. She traces imaginary patterns, all the way to your forearms.

You fight the urge to whine. You just sit there, eyes on your lap, not attempting to cover yourself nor to help her, the picture of dutifulness.

She runs one of her fingers over a taut nipple. You hiss. She gives it a pinch, carefully observing your face. Perhaps wondering how far you will let her go.

You say nothing. She pinches the other one, gently. Then, she cups your breasts in her hands.

“A pretty pair, these.” Rhaenyra licks her lips. You wish she would wrap them around your nipples instead. She continues to give your breast soft caresses, squeezing from time to time. An amused smile appears on her face, when she sees how you twitch when she accidentally brushes your nipples.

“Lay down, love.” She orders you, pushing your stomach. You obey her, laying flat on the table. A feast spread for a dragon.

Her hand lowers your shift even more, exposing your belly button. She touches under it, over your womb. She presses down on it, and you gasp.

The pressure feels odd. It feels good, too. It’s not something you would have thought to do to yourself when playing on your own, but her hand feels scorching hot over your skin.

“Hurts?” She asks you, softly.

“Feels strange.” You reply. “Good.”

Rhaenyra hums. Her hands pull your shift down fully, and take it from you. You close your legs tightly, embarrassed at how wet you are. Your father had ordered you to remove all your body hair before the ritual, so you are bare for her to observe. Completely.

“Spread your legs, sweet girl.” It’s said with a frown. Her hand grazes your bare mound, puzzled by it.

You spread your legs. Your folds unstick with the motion, slick shining between your legs.

“It’s customary. To facilitate the checking of the womanly parts.” You offer her, suddenly embarrassed.

“I see.” Rhaenyra says, spreading your folds. It only makes your cunt leak more. She presses on your pearl with her thumb, almost playing with it. Her face is dark, eyes almost all pupils. No longer a queen, but a dragon.

She doesn’t comment on your wetness, but swirls one of her fingers on it, before dragging it all the way to your pearl. Then, she presses a finger into your hole, checking your maidenhead.

You barely muffle your squeal.

“Tell me.” She says, tone almost conversational, starting to rub circles on your pearl. “Is this customary, too?”

Your mind blanks. Your famous ability to talk your way out of almost everything fails you. She keeps rubbing maddening circles on your pearl, and when you do not answer, she slaps your flower.

You yowl like a kitten.

“Answer your Queen.” She orders.

“No, Your Grace. It’s not.” You have your answer, you suppose. What would she do? Spank your flower. She does so again, making you tense. The pain feels strangely good, forcing blood to rush to the area, warming it. When Rhaenyra runs her fingers over your hole after, everything feels much more heightened.

“Naughty girl.” She scolds. “Get down from the table, and bend over it.”

You obey her, a bit breathless. Rhaenyra remains fully dressed, with a stern look in her face that makes you tremble. Your naked body is now on display, but under her heated gaze, you feel no shame.

You let your upper body hover slightly over the table, hips bent, your backside and flower on display. She pushes down on your shoulder, until your face and chest are squashed against the rough wood of the table.

The wood grains feel interesting against your nipples, making you squirm. You are not sure if the rough scrape is pleasant or not.

“Don’t move.” Rhaenyra says, and spreads your cheeks open. You can feel your other hole winking at her, and she makes a pleased sound. She pushes a finger inside, and quickly retreats it when you tense.

“You have such a sloppy cunt, sweet girl.” She says, voice almost impressed. “It betrays your intentions so easily.”

She begins to torture your pearl once more. She presses inside, rubbing at something that makes your cunt gush.

Rhaenyra is relentless. You try to squirm, but her other hand is firm between your shoulder blades, keeping you pinned down and spread for her. Her motions get faster, touching you in the way you like best. Your peak comes fast and unannounced, making you let out a muffled yelp.

“I think I have to examine you again.” She says, coyly. “Only to make sure.”

You cannot wait.

[novaursa]

Legacy (of dragons and gods)

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

- Pairing: targ!reader/Tywin Lannister

- Note: Canon events have been altered to compliment the plot for this story.

- Rating: Explicit 18+

- Previous part: the march

- Next part: dragonfire

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @oxymakestheworldgoround @luniaxi

The Lannister procession had stopped for the night along the banks of a winding river, its waters sluggish under the pale light of the waning sun. The camp spread out like a sea of crimson and gold, with soldiers pitching tents and stoking fires, the metallic clink of armor and the murmur of voices filling the evening air. At the center of it all, beneath the largest tent adorned with a golden lion on a blood-red field, Tywin Lannister sat at the head of a table, his mood as cold and unyielding as the steel dagger he turned between his fingers.

The air within the tent was stifling, thick with the heat of the gathered torches and the heavy silence that followed the latest report. Kevan Lannister sat to Tywin’s right, his face pale and set in a stern frown. Jaime stood near the tent flap, his armor dull beneath the flickering light, his expression impassive. Between them, the messenger—a frail man in dusty robes—shifted uneasily on his feet, his gaze flicking nervously between the powerful men before him.

Tywin’s voice, when it came, was low and dangerous, like the first rumble of thunder before a storm. “Repeat what you just said.”

The messenger swallowed hard, beads of sweat forming at his brow. “M-my lord, the High Sparrow… the Faith has taken hold of the city. King’s Landing is no longer under full control of the crown. The Sept has been fortified, and the Faith Militant patrols the streets.”

Tywin’s knuckles whitened as his grip tightened on the dagger. “And my daughter?”

The man visibly flinched at the icy edge in Tywin’s voice. “Queen Mother Cersei… she was arrested, my lord. The High Sparrow accused her of sin and impropriety, and…” He faltered, choosing his next words carefully. “She has been made to atone. Her… walk has already taken place.”

There was a beat of silence so heavy it felt as though the air itself froze. Kevan let out a soft breath, his face etched with disbelief and anger, while Jaime remained silent, his jaw tense as he looked away, refusing to meet his father’s gaze.

Tywin’s expression, however, was unreadable, his green eyes fixed unblinkingly on the trembling messenger. “You will tell me every detail,” he said coldly.

The messenger hesitated, but there was no escaping Tywin’s command. “The queen was stripped of her clothing and marched from the Great Sept to the Red Keep, barefoot and unarmed. The people were… merciless, my lord. They hurled insults, food, stones. The walk lasted hours.”

Tywin’s grip on the dagger finally stilled, his eyes narrowing. “And you allowed this to happen?” His voice barely rose, but the fury in it was enough to make Kevan stiffen.

“The Faith controls the city, my lord,” the messenger stammered. “The crown has lost its power.”

Tywin’s silence was thunderous. He turned his gaze to Kevan, whose face was carved in stone. “This is the result of my daughter’s arrogance. Her foolish decisions have not only humiliated herself but sullied the name of House Lannister. She has given our enemies something they will not soon forget.”

Kevan nodded curtly. “The Faith must be dealt with. This cannot stand.”

“And it will not,” Tywin replied, his voice as sharp as a blade. His gaze snapped to Jaime, who still stood motionless by the tent flap. “You have nothing to say, Jaime?”

Jaime finally turned to look at his father, his face unreadable. “What would you have me say? That it should never have come to this? That I warned her?”

Tywin’s lip curled faintly in disgust. “Your warnings fell on deaf ears because you failed to command her respect.”

Jaime’s jaw tightened, but he said nothing.

Before another word could be exchanged, a deep, thunderous roar echoed across the camp, cutting through the murmurs of men and the crackling of fires. The ground beneath them trembled faintly, and every man within the tent turned sharply toward the sound. Outside, voices rose in alarm, and the shadow of something vast passed briefly over the canvas walls of the tent.

Kevan shot Tywin a concerned look. “The dragon.”

Tywin straightened, setting the dagger on the table with deliberate care. “Dismiss the men,” he commanded curtly.

Kevan opened his mouth to object but thought better of it, rising swiftly to usher the remaining guards and the messenger out of the tent. Jaime lingered for a moment, glancing toward his father, but Tywin waved him off with a sharp flick of his hand. “Go.”

Once the tent had emptied and silence returned, Tywin rose from his seat and strode to the entrance of the tent. He stepped outside into the fading light, the faint chill of evening brushing against his face as he looked up toward the source of the disturbance.

Viserion descended from the darkening sky, her great wings beating the air with an almost deafening rhythm. The fires of the camp guttered and danced wildly in her wake as she landed with a massive thud just beyond the edge of the tents. Her cream and gold scales gleamed in the twilight, and her neck curved as her golden eyes fixed on the men who scattered in fear at her arrival. Smoke curled lazily from her nostrils, and her chest rumbled with a sound so deep it made the earth itself shiver.

And then you appeared, sliding smoothly from the dragon’s back, your dark riding cloak billowing around you as you landed with practiced ease. You placed a steadying hand on Viserion’s snout, murmuring something softly to her before turning to face Tywin.

Tywin stood his ground, unflinching even as Viserion’s great eyes fixed on him. The anxiety in the camp was felt, men watching from the shadows as the Lord of Casterly Rock and the dragon stared one another down. For a moment, it seemed as though Viserion might let out another roar, but at your touch, she stilled, the smoke in her breath dissipating as she settled.

“Tywin,” you greeted coolly, pulling back your hood to reveal the silver cascade of your hair. The wind carried faint embers and the scent of smoke, as though the dragon’s fire lingered on your skin.

Tywin’s gaze did not waver as he took in the sight of you and the creature at your side. “Your arrival was… dramatic.”

“Viserion does not know subtlety,” you replied smoothly, stroking the dragon’s warm scales. “Neither do the Lannisters, from what I’ve learned.”

Tywin’s lip twitched faintly, though it was impossible to tell if it was amusement or irritation. He stepped forward, stopping just a few paces away from you, though his gaze remained locked on Viserion. “Is she so wild that you cannot control her?”

“She is not wild,” you countered sharply. “She is mine. She answers to me.”

“And yet her presence unnerves my men,” Tywin said, his voice cold. “You do not need to remind them of their place.”

“Then perhaps they should find their courage,” you replied pointedly. “The dragon will be with us in King’s Landing. They had best learn to accept it.”

Tywin’s gaze flickered briefly to you, something sharp and considering in his expression. “We’ll see about that.”

You stepped closer, your violet eyes steady as you looked up at him. “What is it you summoned me for, Tywin?”

He studied you for a long moment, as though weighing his words. “The city is no longer what it was,” he said finally, his voice low and clipped. “The Faith has seized power, and my daughter—has humiliated this house through her recklessness.”

You frowned slightly, sensing the anger simmering beneath his carefully measured tone. “What has happened to her?”

Tywin’s expression darkened. “She was paraded through the streets, stripped and shamed for all to see. It was a spectacle. A disgrace.”

You exhaled softly, a flicker of pity passing through you despite everything. “And you blame her for this.”

“I blame her for giving our enemies the means to harm us,” Tywin snapped. “Power demands discipline. She has forgotten that.”

You tilted your head slightly, your tone measured. “And what of the Faith, then? What do you plan to do about them?”

Tywin’s gaze was hard, unrelenting. “I will deal with the Faith as I have dealt with every other threat to my house.”

“And me?” you asked softly, your voice almost a challenge. “What do you plan for me and Viserion in the capital?”

Tywin’s lip curled faintly. “You will stand where I tell you to stand, Y/N. And your dragon will serve as a reminder to those who would oppose us.”

You met his gaze, unflinching. “I hope you know what you’re inviting into that city, Tywin. Fire does not play by the rules of men.”

Tywin stared at you for a long moment before his voice dropped to a soft, dangerous murmur. “Then we will ensure the fire serves our cause.”

Viserion shifted behind you, her chest rumbling faintly as if echoing your thoughts. You turned back to the dragon, running a hand along her warm scales. “Be careful, Tywin,” you said quietly. “Fire is not so easily tamed.”

Tywin watched you for another moment, then turned sharply away.

The soft light of candles flickered inside the tent as Tywin Lannister ducked through the heavy flap, the air still tinged with the chill of the evening. Outside, the camp buzzed faintly with the sounds of men settling in for the night—boots on dirt, the crackle of fires, distant voices murmuring—but inside, there was nothing but quiet. A welcome reprieve.

The tent was a well-ordered sanctuary. Rich crimson fabrics lined the walls, the Lannister sigil subtly embroidered into their folds. The centerpiece was a sturdy bed with a carved wooden frame, draped in thick furs and silken sheets. Across the room, Damon slept soundly in his crib, his soft breathing barely audible beneath the gentle hum of the wind outside. The sight of his son—safe, warm, untroubled—brought the faintest softening to Tywin’s otherwise stern features.

You sat by the small table, clad in a loose gown of black and silver that cascaded around you like a midnight cloud. Your hair tumbled over your shoulders, illuminated faintly by the golden glow of the lantern. At the sound of his arrival, you glanced up, your violet eyes catching the light and shining with that unspoken challenge you always seemed to carry.

“Your men are watching Viserion like she might swoop down and devour them whole,” you remarked quietly, a faint smile tugging at your lips as you sat back in your chair. “Is she making them nervous, or are you?”

Tywin snorted softly, the ghost of a smile flickering across his face as he began to remove his crimson cloak, hanging it on a nearby hook. “The dragon unnerves them, as does her rider. It is a good lesson in fear.”

“And what of you, Lord Tywin?” you asked, tilting your head. “Do I unnerve you?”

He shot you a look that could have flayed lesser men, but there was no true sharpness in it. “Not nearly as much as you would like to believe.”

You laughed softly, shaking your head as you stood, walking toward him with deliberate grace. “It’s been a long day. You must be exhausted.”

“Exhaustion is a luxury,” Tywin replied simply, though there was no denying the faint relief in the way he rolled his shoulders and stretched his neck. His gaze flicked briefly to Damon, still asleep in the crib. “He is well?”

“Fast asleep,” you replied, glancing toward your son with a softness that did not often appear in your voice. “It seems he takes after you. He barely stirs, even with the roar of a dragon.”

Tywin’s lips twitched faintly, as if considering a retort, but he let it pass. Instead, he stepped toward the table and poured himself a goblet of wine, the liquid dark as blood beneath the candlelight. “Tomorrow will be a day history records,” he said finally, the weight of his words deliberate. “Our arrival in King’s Landing, with a dragon at our side—it will not be forgotten.”

You folded your arms across your chest, the playful edge fading from your expression. “That depends, doesn’t it?”

Tywin turned toward you, brow arching faintly. “On what?”

“On how it goes,” you replied smoothly, stepping closer until only a breath of space separated you. “If the city welcomes us with open arms, it will be a moment of strength. If they resist, if they see us as a threat…” Your voice trailed off, your gaze steady. “The histories could tell a very different story.”

Tywin’s jaw tightened, though his voice remained calm. “Then I will ensure they see it the way I intend them to.”

You reached out, your hand brushing lightly against the front of his tunic. “You always did believe you could shape the world to your will.”

Tywin’s green eyes locked onto yours, the flicker of heat behind them unmistakable. “Because I can.”

“And what will you do with me?” you murmured, your voice softening into something huskier. “Am I to be part of this vision of yours? A Targaryen astride her dragon, or something far less… mythic?”

He set his goblet down with deliberate care, his hands coming to rest on your waist, pulling you just slightly closer. “You are my wife,” he said, his voice low but firm, as though that truth alone carried all the weight in the world. “And you are more than myth. You are fire made flesh.”

The words sent a shiver through you, heat pooling low in your belly as you looked up into his face. Tywin Lannister, cold and unyielding to the world, was a man of stone to everyone but you. With you, there was something deeper—something raw, something burning just beneath the surface. And in moments like this, when the world outside fell away, you saw it in him.

“Then claim me,” you whispered, your voice barely audible.

His gaze darkened with desire, and in an instant, his hands tightened on your waist, pulling you flush against him. His lips descended on yours, firm and demanding, sending sparks across your skin as you melted into the kiss. Tywin was not a man prone to tenderness; he kissed with purpose, with possession, and yet there was something almost reverent in the way his hand came up to cradle your jaw.

You responded in kind, your arms winding around his neck as you pressed closer, your body molding to his. Your fingers tangled in his hair, tugging gently as you deepened the kiss, feeling his breath catch ever so slightly. When you pulled back, lips swollen and breath shallow, you looked up at him with a wicked smile.

“Undress me,” you whispered, your voice a challenge and a plea all at once.

Tywin’s gaze roamed over you, his eyes dark with hunger as his hands moved to the laces of your gown. He was deliberate, each tug of fabric exposing more of your skin, his fingers lingering where they brushed against you. He lowered the gown slowly, letting it pool at your feet until you stood before him, bare but for the faint glow of firelight against your skin.

“You are exquisite,” he murmured, his voice rough with restrained need.

You stepped forward, your fingers moving to the buckles of his leather doublet, loosening each one until you could push the heavy garment from his shoulders. You tugged at his tunic next, your touch lingering against the hard planes of his chest and the scarred strength of his body. When he stood before you, equally bare, the fire between you seemed to burn hotter.

Tywin’s hands slid to your hips, his grip firm as he guided you toward the bed. You stepped back with him, the furs cool against your calves as he eased you onto the mattress. He followed, his body pressing over yours, the weight of him grounding you as he braced himself above you.

You reached for him, your legs parting as you drew him closer, the anticipation thick between you. “Tywin,” you whispered, your voice soft and wanting.

His gaze met yours, his green eyes locking with your violet ones as he lowered himself. You felt him press against you, the sensation sending a thrill through you as your body arched instinctively beneath him. He entered you slowly, his movements controlled, deliberate, as though savoring every inch of you. Your breath hitched, a soft moan escaping your lips as he filled you completely.

For a moment, he stilled, his face hovering just above yours as you both adjusted to the intimacy of the moment. You reached up, cupping his jaw as you whispered, “Don’t stop.”

Tywin’s control began to fray as he started to move, his thrusts steady and powerful, each one drawing a gasp or a moan from you. You met him with equal fervor, your hips rising to meet his rhythm, your nails dragging lightly down his back as the pleasure built between you. His mouth found the hollow of your throat, pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses there before trailing up to claim your lips again.

“Mine,” he murmured against your mouth, the word rough and possessive.

“Yes,” you breathed, your voice breaking as you clung to him, the world outside fading to nothing but the two of you.

The pace quickened, the tension coiling tighter with each movement, the fire between you consuming everything. You cried out softly as the pleasure crested, your body trembling beneath his as he followed moments later, his breath ragged as he buried himself fully within you.

For a long moment, neither of you moved, your bodies still entwined as you caught your breath. Tywin finally shifted, rolling onto his side but keeping you close, his arm draped possessively over your waist. The quiet of the tent wrapped around you like a blanket, the faint sounds of the camp distant and unimportant.

You turned your head to look at him, your fingers tracing the line of his jaw as you whispered, “Do you still think you can control fire?”

Tywin’s lips twitched faintly, though he did not open his eyes. “I control what matters.”

You smiled softly, pressing a kiss to his temple as you whispered, “We shall see, my lord. We shall see.”

And with that, you closed your eyes, the weight of the day finally giving way to the warmth of sleep, Tywin’s steady breathing a comforting presence beside you. Outside, the fires burned low, and the dragon watched, her golden eyes glowing in the dark.

The air in Cersei’s chambers felt stifling, heavy with the scent of lavender oil that did nothing to soothe the throbbing ache in her body or the sharp sting of her pride. She sat on the edge of a cushioned divan, draped in a simple gown of muted black. A far cry from the golden silks and rich velvets she had once worn as queen. Her golden hair—shorn during her walk of atonement—barely grazed her shoulders, and her face, though still beautiful, was pale and hollowed with weariness.

Tommen sat nervously beside her, perched like a boy who no longer knew how to comfort his mother. His hands fidgeted in his lap as he glanced toward Qyburn, who stood silently near the hearth. The man had been her most trusted ally since her fall, but even he could not erase what had been done to her.

“Mother,” Tommen spoke softly, his voice tentative. “You shouldn’t stay cooped up in here. The maesters say you should—”

“I know what they say, Tommen,” Cersei cut him off sharply, her tone brittle. Her green eyes turned to him, and her expression softened—just barely. She reached for his hand, her grip weak but insistent. “I am not hiding. I will not cower before them again.”

Tommen nodded faintly, though his youthful face betrayed his unease. “We still have Margaery,” he offered quietly. “She’s in the Sept. You told me the Tyrells were weak. If Tywin—” He faltered, unsure if the word still applied. “If Grandsire returns, he’ll make things right, won’t he?”

Cersei let out a bitter laugh, the sound sharp and hollow. “Your grandsire will see what I’ve done and scorn me for it. He’ll act as though it’s his house they mocked, not mine.” Her voice turned cold, a faint tremor of fury beneath it. “He’ll set the world right as he always does—through fear, not shame.”

Qyburn cleared his throat softly, stepping forward. “My queen, if I may. Tywin Lannister’s return could provide you with a path to redemption. There is still strength in your name.”

Before Cersei could answer, a loud blare of horns echoed from outside the Red Keep. The sound was sharp and jarring, splitting the quiet of the morning like a blade. Tommen jumped slightly, his head snapping toward the window, where the banners of the capital fluttered lazily in the breeze.

“What’s that?” he asked, his voice high with worry.

Cersei straightened, her back stiff despite the lingering pain. “Horns,” she murmured, a shadow crossing her face. “A summons.”

The door burst open before another word could be spoken, and Varys stepped inside with his usual calm grace, though his expression was far from serene. His eyes darted briefly to Tommen before settling on Cersei. “Your Grace,” he began, his voice low and urgent. “Lord Tywin has returned.”

Cersei’s face remained still, though her nails dug faintly into the cushion beneath her hand. “So soon,” she said coldly. “And what has brought such a spectacle with him that the horns must scream about it?”

Varys inclined his head, his tone careful. “Your father does not travel lightly, as you know. His banners march through the gates as we speak. But…” He hesitated.

Cersei’s gaze snapped to him. “But what?”

Before Varys could reply, a sound pierced the air—high, unearthly, a shriek so terrible that it seemed to silence everything else in the world. It echoed through the walls of the Red Keep, reverberating like a distant wail of doom. Tommen clutched his ears with a cry, and even Qyburn startled visibly.

“What in the name of—” Cersei began, but another shriek cut her off, louder this time. Outside, chaos erupted. Horns blared anew, more frantically now, and distant screams carried on the wind. The sound of boots thundering across the courtyard and the cries of panicked soldiers filled the air like a rising tide.

Cersei stood quickly, ignoring the ache in her limbs as she crossed the room to the window. When she looked out, her breath caught in her throat.

The streets of King’s Landing swarmed like an anthill kicked apart. People scattered in every direction, pointing toward the sky. Guards yelled orders that fell on deaf ears, their swords raised uselessly. In the distance, high above the city, a vast shadow passed across the sun.

And then she saw it.

A dragon.

Viserion’s cream and gold scales gleamed like molten fire in the morning light, her massive wings stretched wide as she soared high above the capital. Her shadow swept over the streets and rooftops, darkening everything it touched, and for a moment, it seemed as though the very air stilled in her wake. She circled the city, her movements graceful and deliberate, her shrieks echoing as though announcing the end of all things.

“She’s circling,” Varys said softly, his gaze fixed on the sky with something akin to awe. “Three times.”

Cersei’s fingers gripped the edge of the window frame tightly, her knuckles white. “Is this Tywin’s doing?” she asked, her voice trembling with fury. “Did he bring this to my city?”

Varys’s gaze remained calm, though his words were clipped. “Yes. And it appears he means to make a statement.”

As Viserion completed her second circuit, the shrieks grew louder, almost deafening. The city below had descended into chaos—citizens dropping to their knees in prayer, others fleeing into doorways and alleyways. Mothers clutched their children, and soldiers, pale-faced, stared upward as though witnessing the stuff of nightmares made flesh.

The dragon dipped lower, her wings sending gusts of wind across the streets, rattling shutters and banners. And then, as she began her third circle, she turned sharply toward the Sept of Baelor.

The Sept loomed in the center of the city, its grand dome a beacon of the Faith—and a fitting perch for a creature of fire and fury. Viserion beat her wings powerfully, rising higher before descending with deliberate grace. Her talons curled as she landed atop the dome, the metal groaning under her weight. Her body coiled, tail curling down one side of the structure while her wings folded tightly against her back. From the streets below, she appeared like a living statue of destruction.

The city watched in stunned silence, awe and terror mingling as one.

Cersei took a step back from the window, her breath shallow as she turned to Varys. “Where is she? Where is the Targaryen whore who rides that beast?”

Varys did not flinch at the venom in her tone. “Your Grace, it is Lady Y/N. She has returned with your father. On his orders, I presume.”

Cersei’s face twisted with fury, though it was undercut by something far more dangerous: fear. She turned back to the window, her lips pressing into a thin line as she watched the dragon remain perched atop the Sept, her eyes scanning the city as though she owned it.

“She circles us like prey,” Cersei murmured darkly, her voice trembling with rage. “And my father allows it.”

Tommen crept closer to the window, his wide blue eyes fixed on the dragon with awe. “It's… beautiful,” he whispered.

Cersei spun on him, her voice sharp. “It's a weapon, Tommen. And don’t you forget it.”

Outside, the horns continued to blare, but the panic had begun to ebb as soldiers recognized the banners of House Lannister streaming through the city gates. The gold lions marched in disciplined formation, banners unfurling like rivers of blood and gold. The Lannister host had returned—but with a dragon at its back, the city would never see it the same way again.

Cersei turned away from the window, her face pale and taut with anger. “Summon the council,” she snapped at Qyburn. “And find out where my father is. I want answers.”

Qyburn bowed quickly and exited the chamber, leaving Varys standing in silence beside the window.

“This changes everything,” Varys murmured softly, half to himself as he looked out at the dragon. “Fire has returned to the capital.”

Cersei sank heavily onto the divan, her hands trembling faintly as she curled them into fists. “And so has my father.”

She stared blankly ahead, her voice dropping to a low whisper. “I will not let him take everything from me.”

But even as she spoke, the faint shrieks of the dragon echoed again in the distance, a sound that promised power, chaos, and a future that no one—not even Tywin Lannister—could fully control.

The streets of King’s Landing trembled under the boots of marching soldiers. The sound was thunderous, echoing off the stone walls of buildings and the cobbled streets as Tywin Lannister’s procession carved its path toward the Sept of Baelor. The golden lions of House Lannister gleamed in the sunlight, their banners streaming like rivers of fire and blood, punctuated only by the green-and-gold sigils of House Tyrell fluttering in time with the wind. Lord Mace Tyrell, stout and beaming, rode at Tywin’s side with all the self-importance of a man convinced of his own worth.

The city had quieted. Fear still lingered thick in the air—fear of the dragon that perched atop the Sept like an ancient god made flesh—but there was also the growing hum of curiosity. Windows cracked open, and desperate eyes peered down from rooftops as the procession approached the grand square before the Sept. The people were quiet, hushed, too afraid to jeer, too in awe to cheer.

At the head of it all rode Tywin Lannister, his crimson cloak billowing in the wind, his golden armor polished to a mirror’s sheen. His face was cold, composed as always, though his green eyes carried the weight of expectation, the certainty of a man who did not come to parley but to rule. Beside him, Mace Tyrell bounced slightly in his saddle, his bearded face twitching nervously as he glanced toward the looming form of Viserion still perched atop the Sept.

“Your dragon is a fine deterrent, Lord Tywin,” Mace muttered, tugging nervously at his green doublet. “The Faith will surely see reason now.”

Tywin did not look at him as he replied, his voice clipped and firm. “They will see what I tell them to see.”

The Sept loomed before them, its massive steps already filling with robed figures. The Faith Militant gathered like a black tide, armed with spiked cudgels, spears, and shields marked with the seven-pointed star. The sun gleamed off their crude armor, their faces hidden beneath thick hoods, yet the fervor in their posture was unmistakable. At the head of them, emerging from the shadowed entrance to the Sept, came the High Sparrow.

The man was as Tywin remembered him—frail, weathered, his simple robes of grey and beige hanging loosely from his thin frame. But it was his eyes that held a strange power, the unwavering gaze of a man who believed himself unshakable. He moved slowly, his hands clasped in front of him as he descended the steps. The Faith Militant parted for him like water, their presence unyielding but silent as the grave.

Above them, Viserion moved. The dragon let out a low, rumbling growl, the sound vibrating through the stone beneath their feet. With the practiced grace of a creature far more agile than her size would suggest, Viserion began to climb down from her perch. Her talons dug into the sides of the Sept, causing great plumes of dust to rise as bits of stone crumbled under her weight. She slithered to the square below, wings furling close to her body as her long tail swept the ground with ominous finality.

Atop her back, you sat tall in your saddle, silver hair gleaming like molten silk in the light. The dragon’s motion was fluid beneath you, and when Viserion’s massive body finally came to rest upon the square, her wings curled neatly, and she let out a low, ominous hiss. You were a vision of power—your black riding leathers embroidered with Valyrian sigils in silver thread, the saddle a masterpiece of black and gold.

The High Sparrow stopped mid-step, his gaze fixed not on Tywin Lannister, but on you and the beast at your command. For the first time, the faintest flicker of uncertainty crossed his otherwise serene expression.

Tywin reined his horse in at the foot of the Sept steps, dismounting with practiced efficiency. His polished boots struck the stone square as he turned sharply to face the High Sparrow. Mace Tyrell followed clumsily, huffing as he struggled to dismount with his dignity intact. Behind them, the Lannister and Tyrell men fanned out in disciplined ranks, swords at their sides, their banners snapping in the wind.

The High Sparrow inclined his head faintly, his weathered face calm. “Lord Tywin,” he said, his voice soft yet clear enough to carry across the square. “It has been some time since you last darkened the steps of the Sept. What brings you to this holy place with such… pageantry?”

Tywin’s lips curled faintly, the expression cold and humorless. “The Faith has overstepped its bounds, as foolish men often do. I have come to see that order is restored.”

The High Sparrow’s gaze did not falter. “Order, my lord? Or obedience? There is a difference.”

“Semantics do not concern me,” Tywin replied curtly. “You will surrender Queen Margaery back into the custody of her family. You will dissolve your hold over this city and the throne. Do this, and you may yet live to see another sunrise.”

The gathered Faith Militant bristled at the words, their grips tightening on weapons, but the High Sparrow raised a hand, calming them. He turned his attention to you now, his gaze lingering as though assessing something far older, far more dangerous than the man standing before him.

“And you,” he said softly, addressing you for the first time. “A child of fire and blood, astride a creature of chaos. Tell me, do you serve the lions of House Lannister willingly? Or have they chained you as men have always sought to chain beasts?”

You smiled faintly, unbuckling yourself from the saddle and sliding gracefully down Viserion’s side. The dragon shifted slightly at your absence, but remained still, her golden eyes locked on the gathered men before her. You stepped forward, your boots striking the stone square as you came to stand at Tywin’s side.

“I am not chained,” you replied coolly, your voice carrying easily. “And I am no beast. I stand here because I choose to.”

The High Sparrow tilted his head slightly, something unreadable flickering in his gaze. “Then you choose to stand with those who corrupt and defile. With those who believe power grants them the right to rule without faith, without penance.”

Tywin’s voice cut through like a blade. “Save your sermons for the fearful and the weak. I am neither.”

The High Sparrow turned back to him, his expression calm once more. “And yet you come here demanding surrender. Why? Because you hold swords? Because you bring a dragon?” He gestured toward the Sept, the great dome behind him rising high and holy above their heads. “This is the house of the gods. No beast, no army, no man is greater than the Seven.”

Tywin stepped forward, his presence looming like a shadow cast across the square. “The gods cannot save you from what comes next, Sparrow. Nor will your Faith Militant hold against my men.”

The High Sparrow held his ground, though his followers shifted uneasily behind him. “You are a man of numbers and gold, Lord Tywin, but you do not understand faith. Faith cannot be cut with swords. It cannot be burned with fire.”

A sound interrupted him then—a low, guttural rumble that seemed to rise from the earth itself. Viserion shifted her great head, her golden eyes narrowing as she bared her fangs, smoke curling lazily from her nostrils. The sound of her growl carried across the square like a warning, sending chills down the spines of those gathered.

The High Sparrow turned slightly to look at the beast behind you. For the first time, his voice faltered. “Dragons do not belong here anymore.”

You stepped forward, your voice calm but edged with steel. “They belong wherever we will them to be.”

Tywin glanced at you, the faintest flicker of approval in his gaze before he turned back to the High Sparrow. “You have until sunset to decide, High Sparrow. Surrender Queen Margaery, dissolve your militant farce, and relinquish control of this city. Defy me, and the Faith will burn.”

The High Sparrow’s gaze lingered on both of you, his expression unreadable. “The gods will decide,” he said softly. “Not men, and not dragons.”

Tywin did not reply. He turned sharply, motioning for his men to hold their positions as he stepped back toward his horse. You lingered a moment longer, your gaze meeting the High Sparrow’s. For a moment, it seemed as though he would speak again, but he did not. Instead, he turned and ascended the steps of the Sept, the Faith Militant closing ranks behind him.

You glanced at Tywin as you rejoined him, your tone low. “Do you think he’ll surrender?”

Tywin’s expression was hard as stone. “Men like him never surrender willingly.”

“Then what happens next?” you asked, your voice calm.

Tywin glanced back toward the Sept, his gaze lingering on Viserion as she loomed like a living weapon in the center of the square. “Negotiation,” he said quietly. “And if that fails, fire.”

You said nothing, but as you looked back at the great dome of the Sept, you could not shake the feeling that the High Sparrow’s defiance would be his

The Great Hall of the Red Keep was a cavernous expanse of cold stone and flickering torchlight, its gilded edges dulled by years of neglect and turmoil. The Iron Throne loomed at its far end, a jagged monstrosity of twisted steel, a reminder of power as cruel as it was absolute. Today, the room buzzed with quiet tension, courtiers and guards lingering in uncertain clusters as the sound of heavy Lannister boots echoed through the long hall.

Tywin Lannister entered first, flanked by rows of his crimson-cloaked guards, each step measured and deliberate. His polished armor glinted in the light, his crimson cloak trailing behind him like a mantle of blood. At his side, you strode with equal confidence, your black riding leathers and silver-threaded cloak still dusted with the residue of dragon flight. Every eye in the room turned to you—whispers rising like a storm—but none dared to linger too long on the sight of the dragon bride of the Lion of Lannister.

A distant, haunting roar shattered the murmurs, sending a ripple of fear through the gathered crowd. The sound echoed over the castle walls, reverberating through the Red Keep with primal force. Viserion’s massive shadow swept across the narrow windows of the hall as she circled above, her shriek a declaration that fire and power had returned to the capital.

Tommen sat on the Iron Throne, his small frame swallowed by the immense seat of swords. His face lit up with joy and relief at the sight of his grandsire, the golden curls of his hair catching the dim light as he rose to his feet. “Grandsire!” he called, his young voice breaking the silence as he all but ran down the steps of the dais to meet him.

Tywin’s expression softened—slightly—as he stopped to face his grandson. Tommen’s small hands reached for him, clutching his grandsire’s armored forearm as though anchoring himself. “I knew you’d come,” Tommen said breathlessly, his blue eyes wide. “They said you were still marching, but I knew you’d come.”

“You are a king,” Tywin said, his voice steady and calm as he studied the boy. “A king should never doubt the strength of his house.”

Tommen nodded fervently, smiling. “It’s stronger now. You’re here. And… and the dragon is real, isn’t it?”

Before Tywin could reply, another voice cut through the air—sharp and biting.

“So it *is true,” Cersei said, her tone dripping with venom as she descended the steps of the dais. She wore a gown of dark gold that hung loosely on her diminished frame, her face pale, her hair shorn and harsh against the sharp lines of her features. But despite her weakened state, her green eyes burned with resentment as they landed on you. “The Targaryen whore and her beast have come to King’s Landing under your banners, Father.”

The room fell silent at her words, the tension thick enough to choke. Even Tommen flinched, turning to look at his mother in confusion. You said nothing, though your expression remained cold, your violet gaze meeting hers without so much as a blink.

Tywin did not look at her immediately. Instead, he turned to one of his men and gestured curtly. “Take the king to his chambers. He does not need to be here for this.”

“Grandsire—” Tommen began, but Tywin’s gaze flicked sharply toward him, brooking no argument.

“Go, Tommen,” he commanded softly, though there was steel behind the words. Tommen hesitated, glancing between his mother and his grandsire before reluctantly following the guards who ushered him out of the hall.

As the doors closed behind him, Tywin turned fully to face Cersei. His presence seemed to darken the hall itself, his expression one of pure, cold fury.

“Watch your tongue, Cersei,” he said, his voice low and even, yet it carried through the hall like a physical blow. “I will not have my return marred by your pettiness.”

Cersei’s lip curled, though a flicker of uncertainty crossed her face. “Pettiness? You bring dragons and Targaryens into my city, and you call me petty?”

“Your city?” Tywin’s voice turned sharper, his words slicing through her like a knife. “Is this the city you claimed as your own when you were paraded naked through its streets? The city you surrendered to the Faith Militant through your arrogance and your utter lack of discipline?”

Cersei recoiled as though struck, her pale face flushing crimson. “I did what I had to do to protect our family!”

Tywin advanced toward her, and for all her bravado, she stepped back, her eyes wide. “Your recklessness has humiliated this house. You invited the Faith into power, thinking you could wield them as a tool. Now, they rule your city while you cling to scraps of pride and wounded vanity.” His voice grew colder still. “And in your folly, you lost the respect of every lord who might have stood by you.”

Cersei’s mouth opened as though to retort, but Tywin cut her off with a sharp gesture. “Do not speak.”

She faltered, her teeth snapping shut as she seethed in silence, her fists clenched at her sides.

Tywin turned slightly, his gaze shifting to you where you stood calm and unbothered. “Lady Y/N is here because I brought her. She is my wife and the mother of my heir, and her dragon now stands as a symbol of our strength.” He turned back to Cersei, his words a final blow. “You will accept that, or you will leave this city entirely. I will not tolerate your undermining of what must be done.”

Cersei’s chest heaved with barely contained fury, her face pinched and red, but she said nothing.

Viserion’s roar split the air once more, louder this time as she flew low over the Red Keep, her wings casting vast shadows across the throne room. The distant cries of startled courtiers carried faintly through the heavy windows.

The silence that followed was absolute.

Tywin’s gaze remained fixed on his daughter for a long moment before he turned away dismissively. “Return to your chambers. You are no use to me here.”

Cersei froze, her face twisting with indignation. “Father—”

“Go,” Tywin said sharply, his voice leaving no room for argument.

Cersei’s hands trembled at her sides, her mouth opening and closing as though searching for words that would not come. Finally, she turned on her heel, her movements stiff with humiliation as she strode toward the doors, her shorn hair catching the light like a tarnished crown.

The room remained deathly silent as Tywin turned back toward you. His expression had softened—slightly—as he regarded you with a measured calm. “We have work to do,” he said quietly.

You nodded faintly, stepping toward him. “The Faith Militant will not yield easily.”

“No,” Tywin agreed, his voice like steel. “But they will yield.”

The doors to the throne room closed behind Cersei with a heavy thud, and Tywin’s presence seemed to fill the hall once more. The Lion of Lannister had returned to King’s Landing, and with him came the fire and fury of the dragon at his command.

[animeyanderelover]

There's no greater experience than having an hour break in university and trying to write something. I'm sorry for not answering requests but I actually like to put more thought behind them than just simply trying to get something out there. I've wanted to do this for a while now anyways. Those are my two favorite characters from this show so I wanted to write for them.

Tw: Yandere themes, possessive behavior, obsession, delusional behavior, stalking, threats, violence, guilt-tripping, manipulation, threats, violence, death

Yandere Hc's

Wednesday Addams

𝓦What a child full of woe she is indeed. Here Wednesday is the one who has always been judging her parents for their nauseating ways of doting and loving on each other in ways that didn't feel good only to wind up the same way. Perhaps it is just a family curse which has found its way to her at last. Wednesday always thought that she would be the one who would swear all love off yet here her black heart is trying to claw its way out of its cage whenever you are around. She almost feels alive when she is around you and that is deeply disturbing in all the wrong ways. Yet she never utters a single word of it to anyone. No one must find out. This is a weakness she is not fond of and Wednesday Addams very much hates having a weak spot. Anyone else might be able to brush it off as a silly, little school crush but Wednesday knows somehow better. She doesn't just let anyone earn her loyalty and trust but those who do are usually the people she would go to great lengths for. This is so much worse though. She didn't let you in. You have wormed your way in like a parasyte. It's almost admirable how you did it without even trying but that is also where the silent torment lies.

𝓦Her stare is pretty much her signature and you find it a lot on you. Unblinking as always. You might think she is plotting murder. You're not entirely wrong. Wednesday is technically plotting. Just not murder. She's analysing. She's inspecting. She is learning. Her obsessive curiosity whenever a mystery presents itself is not exactly unknown and that principle can be very much applied to this. For someone normally so detached romance is a riddle she is now being forced to solve and understand. And Wednesday? She picks up on a lot. Little ticks and habits you do, often even without you being aware of it. She sends Thing to follow you around whenever you are gone, unwilling to take the risk of doing it herself and be spotted by you. It would be humiliating to say the least if she would let herself be reduced to some lovesick fool who clings to their subject of obsession. She cannot stop the process that has already begun unfolding. Wednesday knows that she is doomed to rot now. However, if she does she will do it as coldly and as calculating as she has always done. Control is the word to use here. She will show restraint where her parents never ever did.

𝓦You'd have better luck convincing her to cut off her own tongue and nail it on the wall than to have Wednesday ever admit that she is jealous. Jealousy is the beginning of emotional decay and she will simply not let that happen. However, it would be one big lie to claim that she is even remotely unbothered whenever you spend your time with other people. There is the death stare of hers again whenever that happens. Yes, this time it is a death stare because what she is scheming now is not nice. Others may simply say that some people are just nice to you but Wednesday doesn't believe that. She doesn't believe that niceness is sincerity. People who are nice usually always have ulterior motives. Normally she sends Thing who will then set up an accident to stop this horrible sight that has her itching to stab her own eyeballs out. In only very few situations where no other options are available will she see herself forced to pop up behind your back and stop this herself. Wednesday isn't nice. She never pretends to be. Well, you know how she is so you can expect that her sharp tongue coupled with her glare will soon scare away anyone who she categorises as an unpleasant variable.

𝓦Wednesday is morally ambiguous, to say the least. She tolerates few and she respects even less. If someone is in her way or if someone keeps important information from her she resorts to rather extreme methods to get what she wants. That is precisely what makes her so terrifying. She doesn't see people. She sees threats and if necessary she will resort to elimination. In terrifying and horrible ways as she is desensitised to violence and gore that would have normal people sick to their core. Now, she isn't a savage of course who just runs around with a gun and shoots anyone in sight. Wednesday is very much like a dagger. She is precise and cuts effectively. Fear is often the first step if there is someone who lands on her list. Warnings written in bleeding ink where she describes in vivid detail what exactly will happen if something should happen to you can do a terrific job in frightening someone and motivate them to never get close to you again. If something should happen to you though an unfortunate accident might just befall the culprit. It is best to not make things personal with Wednesday or otherwise terrible things will follow.

𝓦Wednesday requires her own privacy. She is not like her mother and father who couldn't spend even a day away from each other. Yet protective surveillance is always going to be ensured. Thing is always offering a helping hand. Her visions too provide a good way of keeping danger away from you if she should ever have one where you get in danger. Is this concerning? No, not at all. Wednesday rationalises it. She always does this. This is just to prevent anything from happening to you. Prevention is simply more effective than a cure after all. She doesn't enjoy the thought of harm coming to someone that she has silently claimed in her mind as hers and that is very much why she does the things that she does. The loss of control is always a fear of Wednesday. She would hate if something were to happen to you because deep down she would silently label it as her own failure of not having thought ahead enough. You might not understand. Maybe you will never be able to fully understand why Wednesday does the things that she does. But your own feelings will have to be put aside as Wednesday has clear priorities. Yes, she is a close friend of death. But she prefers you alive and breathing.

𝓦She considers her point of no return when the morbid poems of love begin. Initially she doesn't let anyone see them. It is her only way of expressing what she simply won't be able to express in words to anyone else, not even to you. Eventually she dares to send you a few of them. Never all of them. Only a few chosen ones. Written in elegant handwriting and tugged away in a black envelope with only your name written on it. Always tugged away in hidden spaces in your room or places where you like to spend some time alone by yourself. That is her affection. It is quiet, sometimes cold but very invasive at times. Wednesday will only openly tell you that she loves you very few times but when she does speak it, she means it. When she finds herself brooding with thoughts about you, she sometimes starts playing her cello. Her fingers move on their own and she ends up with her own melody for such times. It's in a way a song composed for you and eventually you learn what it means when the eerie melody echoes through the silence. She doesn't coddle. She never does. Wednesday offers truth far too harshly at times but if there is anything that endangers you, she will have it removed.

Tyler Galpin

☕︎Tyler I simply find fascinating to observe through the lenses of a writer for dark romance. On the outside Tyler is pretty much the perfect boyfriend package. He's sweet, he's soft-spoken, he's caring and he always considers your thoughts and opinions first. Yet there is something or someone else on the inside. A lot of suppressed rage, trauma and something monstrous, figuratively and literally speaking. In this context I simply have to label him as emotionally unstable as he and the Hyde don't speak the same language. Not at first at least. Now, Tyler is aware that with the current situation that he has going on love should really be the last thing on his mind. He has enough on his plate already, desperately trying to balance between a normalcy he craves but can never have and the control that Laurel has established over him via torture, violence and drugs which forces him to follow her commands. Perhaps this is a reminder though that despite everything he is still just a teenager who has just been handed the worst cards possible in life. A monster in the forests when Laurel orders him to be but in town a boy struggling to deal with his first love. And dear lord, does he fall fast.

☕︎It starts out as something very genuine. Tyler knows he shouldn't risk it but unfortunately the heart just wants what it wants. Whilst it looks sweet, it turns into an intense attachment over time. Tyler gets hyper-attuned to all of your emotions. If you're happy then he's floating. If you're depressed or even wind up crying he is spiraling and tries everything to fix whatever it is that is causing you to feel this way. Technically speaking there is nothing wrong with putting your partner's needs before your own. Tyler puts your needs as his first priority instead of his own though and there lies an issue that has never been fully explored even by Dr. Kinbott. The sad truth is that he is far too used to people leaving and abandoning him through no real faults of his own. Even Laurel who he genuinely believed wanted to help him for a certain time turned out to have motives that simply involved using him and now he can't even do anything about it anymore. This is the first situation where he actually has the chance to hold the wheel himself but that is what causes him to clutch it far too tightly. Tyler is controlling too. But he does it with soft words, clinginess and gentle manipulation.

☕︎It feels wrong. He wants to trust you. He does trust you. The horrible feeling is still always there in his gut though. An acidic twist in his stomach, his heart suddenly in his throat. It's overwhelming and difficult to navigate through all of the feelings that always burn within his chest. And he cannot even tell anyone about it. He doesn't want to come over as someone who is horribly jealous. What ends up happening is that Tyler attempts to outshine the rival. He buys you your favorite snacks, he brings you coffee, he compliments you a lot. All with that sweet smile on his face only mildly twinged with nervousness. Sometimes he might also let a passive-aggressive comment slip out but that's all he dares to do. Because Hyde? Hyde doesn't understand jealousy. What he does get is rage and he understands that jealousy is the emotional trigger of it. No further context is needed. It's a terrifying feeling when his heart starts pounding not with fear but with a fury Tyler can't even hold back as it isn't even fully his own. It brings forth one horrifying realisation though. And that is that Hyde starts responding to something that isn't Laurel's command.

☕︎Tyler is already a killer. Not by his own choice. But because he has been brainwashed and enslaved by Laurel who has made her own plans to ressurect Crackstone and for that has decided that Hyde is going to kill people for her. He knows what he has done when he wakes up covered in blood and is completely naked but he can't remember. Perhaps that is the last crumbling wall he has as he doesn't recall how he has done it. Until those dark instincts start to seep into his mind when he observes you. When people get too close his hands start twitching. When someone speaks wrong of you Tyler experiences tunnel vision and he swears that he starts smelling blood even though no one is bleeding. His mind gets hazy and his heart starts drumming violently within his chest, each heartbeat screaming "mine, mine, mine". Most terrifying of all is that he doesn't even realise it when he zones out. There's a pulse behind his eyes and an itching beneath his skin as something else is watching. It is eventually only a question of time until Hyde breaks out and protects and defends his territory the only way he knows how. With claws and teeth. And worst of all? That's the first time Tyler remembers.

☕︎Sometimes that thought does cross his mind though it isn't really his own. The idea to simply take you and keep you somewhere for himself where he can protect you is disturbingly tempting in some moments but simply not possible. It's not something Tyler could justify either even with those other thoughts in his head. So he never acts on it. He can't control if he acts on it in his Hyde form though as feelings and instincts heighten then. Hyde though doesn't act on them either as if begrudgingly acknowledging the not so ideal situation either. Marks of ownership are still made from both sides though. Tyler has an odd tick of keeping you for prolonged times in his rooms until his sheets smell like you. He constantly lets you wear his jackets or shirts, the sight oddly calming for him. Hyde might leave claw marks on trees on the paths you take that take you close or even through it at times. You might even notice dead animals placed deliberately on your path like sacred offerings in a language spoken by predators and monsters. One side claims you through clingy touches and the other through violent protection. The best of both worlds, innit?

☕︎The bond is for both sacred though. For Tyler you aren't just a silly crush. You are an anchor and the one person he eventually ends up orbiting around to a dangerous degree that dives into open dependency. He's almost perfect but incredibly fragile. He answers texts within seconds and if you don't respond to his within minutes the messages and calls quickly pile up because he ends up assuming the worst. He doesn't simply falls in love as much as he spirals into you and the most tragic aspect of it all might just be that he doesn't even resist it fully. And then there is Hyde. To Hyde you are neither prey nor threat. You're other. You're mate. A mate must be protected. A mate must never be let go of. A mate is sacred and to be worshipped in the most violent but reverent ways imaginable. This puts you in an incredible possession as you are even out of Laurel's touch. You are the blind spot, the one person he would never harm even if Laurel were to tell him to do so. It transcends the bond forged through pain and torture with one forged through something much more ancient and primal that rattles both boy and monster to the marrow of the bones. But it also unites them, at least in that aspect.

[so-sures-blog]

Icebound

icebound definition: surrounded, obstructed, or covered by ice.

In which Zane uses his element against the Overlord to save the city and his friends. Because it wasn’t about numbers, it was about family.

❄️🩵❄️🩵❄️🩵❄️

It is the end, and Zane knows it.

The Overlord is conquering Ninjago City, webs of gold stringing across buildings like Christmas lights and tying up his friends like flies. They struggle, but it is useless under the might of the Overlord.

Zane flips out of the way of a golden band reaching to ensnare him and lands on a roof. All of his friends are tied up, and only Zane is free. He knows what he has to do. He is the only one who can.

“Support me, friends. For one last time.”

He takes a running leap off the ledge, and Jay flips midair so his feet plant squarely on top of his. Then Cole, Lloyd, Kai, Sensei Garmadon, and Wu.

He soars, flying straight at the Overlord, and grabs onto his golden fangs.

Immediately, he feels its power, and its agony. Pain rips into every crevice of his body; his jolts rattle and shake and his wires spark under his skin.

“Let my friends go!” Zane shouts.

“Go where, Doomed Ninja?” The Overlord sneers. Its eyes, red and hateful, glare into him.

Zane writhes under the immense pain and power. His body cannot handle it, he knows, and he feels himself falling apart under it.

“The Golden Weapons are too powerful for you to behold. Your survival chance is low.”

But Zane isn’t trying to hold them. He’s trying to destroy them.

He thinks of his brothers. He thinks of PIXAL. He thinks of his father. He thinks of an old man with long white hair as pure as snow and ice blue eyes that visited him a long time ago, who had come and left as quickly as winter did and had breathed that power into him because he saw him worthy of it.

“This … isn’t about numbers … It's about family!”

The golden webs holding the Ninja fall and they escape. He can hear them screaming, telling him to let go, and he thanks them for that. Wu and Garmadon grab onto them and yank them back, away from the oncoming destruction.

His core — his heart — started reaching critical mass. Frost began creeping upon the Overlord’s fangs. Something blue and blinding in his heart freezes under his power, and Zane embraces it. It's his power. His choice.

“I am a Nindroid. And Ninja never quit. Go Ninja … go!”

He is the Master of Ice. He was built to protect those who cannot protect themselves. He stands for peace, freedom, and courage in the face of all who threaten Ninjago.

Frostbite burns his skin away; jolt and wires freeze under the cold; until he is left completely bare.

The last glimpse they get of Zane is him surrounded by a blizzard of his own making, bright and beautiful like a supernova. Burning blue and white with the terrible brilliance of his own determined choice.

Zane died; not as a machine, not as a human, not as a tool of anyone or anything — but as himself. Zane died to save the ones he loves.

And woke up as something completely different.

❄️🩵❄️🩵❄️🩵❄️

PIXAL climbs her way up the steep cliff side, careful to place her foot in secure crevices in case she slipped and fell from the icy mountain. Heavy snow blinded her vision as the blizzard whipped around her, but she kept her pace steady and sure.

It had been months since she had left Ninjago City and began her search. Months since Zane’s death and memorial. PIXAL knew, logically, that she should be back there, properly mourning him. But she could not.

He had never given up on her, not when she was under the Overlord’s control or when she was struggling with the newness of emotions.

And that meant she could never give up on him.

When she had first met Zane, she became more than a machine meant to function. He was vital to her, and she was a part of him.

She carried half his heart, and against all logical explanations, she knew he was still alive.

She did not tell the Ninja of her suspicions: the immediate aftermath of Zane’s loss had been devastating. She’d watched as the team fractured, splitting at the seams as they all fled their separate ways, too heartsore and dizzy with grief to do much otherwise. She did not tell Cyrus Borg where she was going either, for she knew if he begged her to stay, she would.

If she had told them she had seen a snowy wraith emerge from the destruction of the frozen, apocalyptic atmosphere on the rooftop, she would have been told she had imagined it due to her grief.

And while she was grieving, she was not imagining it. She is a Nindroid, and she did not have an imagination. PIXAL was built to observe, to analyze, to collect data and gather information. She built theories and hypothesized, not assumed.

So she followed the signs. She kept track of all weather anomalies that happened across Ninjago — sudden snowstorms, cold drops in temperatures that swept through small villages and towns. It led her all across the country until it ended here, with her climbing up the frozen, snow-peaked mountain.

Finally, PIXAL arrived at her destination.

The Ice Temple.

Slowly, she makes her way towards it. Her sensors indicate the temperature dropping the closer she gets. For a normal human, they would have already gotten frostbite without the proper equipment and numb with it, but PIXAL was made of metal. The cold did not bother her.

She peers into the glacial architecture, but does not enter. Or more like, she is unable to. It feels as if there is some sort of force of winter that is keeping her at bay.

“Zane?” Hope finds its way into the desperation of her voice. Freezing winds whip her hair out of its ponytail and against the purple circuits on her cheeks, but she barely notices. “Is that you?”

There’s nothing except for the howling wind, then her eyes catch movement. Slowly, almost like a ghost, a figure starts to come closer, making a shape against the blizzard.

If PIXAL had lungs, all the air would have rushed out of them.

A being made of pure winter floated in front of her. Formed of ice and frost and molded by the wind, it stood there and looked at her. Opaque ice carved the face that has been imprinted in her memory drives, the one she had traveled across the entire world to see again.

It was frozen, and beautiful, and Zane.

Inside her neural drive, alarms were blaring into her system, flashing behind her eyes. Warning: Severe weather alert. Temperature reaching sub-zero levels. Retreat into a warmer climate —

PIXAL shut off the notifications.

“Hello,” she says. Zane does not move. She dares a step closer. “Do you recognize me?”

He says nothing, so PIXAL continues on. It feels like their roles were reversed when they first met: she, the one struck speechless by the other’s beauty. Him, stoic to it all.

“I’m PIXAL, the Primary Interactive X-ternal Assistant Lifeform. I’m a … friend. I came searching for you to bring you home. There are things about you that you don’t understand. That you have yet to discover. I am here to help you remember.”

Zane is quiet, but she senses that he is listening. Something glowing in her chest aches.

“It is alright if you don’t remember me,” PIXAL says. She cannot cry, but is she would she could. She is still new to emotions, and many are overwhelming her: joy and grief and something fierce and pure deep in her heart. “I remember you. And we are still compatible.”

Zane tilts his head and drifts closer. The snow slows its fall, the wind stopping altogether. Snowflakes gently coat her hair. Now that he is closer, she can see the differences that make him unlike the old Zane: he doesn’t have the one dimple on the right side of his cheek, or the small beauty mark on his collarbone, or the tiny scar on his index finger from his shuriken.

But he is still Zane, even as an icy spirit.

She held out a hand. “Your brothers miss you very much. Will you come back with me, Zane?”

He is silent, staring at her. Unlike before, it is impossible to know what he is thinking. She gazes up at him, imploring. His eyes have no irises or pupils, so she is simply staring up at pinpricks of pure blue light.

Slowly, his hand reaches out of her.

BANG!

A loud sound echoes across the ice, and out of nowhere chains of Vengestone come flying out and capture him.

Fear slams into her. “Zane!” PIXAL cries.

Ice races out from his body and across the chains as Zane struggles, but no matter what, he can’t break them.

PIXAL whips around to face the assailant.

A man in his thirties, wrapped in a thick parka to prevent the cold and wearing a red mask. He has shoulder-length brown hair and is wearing a dyed red straw hat, and under it she can see he is hiding an eyepatch.

“What are you doing?” PIXAL shouts. Anger — an emotion she rarely feels — burns through her.

The man lowers his gun and pulls out another one before she can even blink.

“Sorry, sweetheart. Just following orders.”

Before she can question what that means, he fires. A net tangles her limbs together and brings her down against the cold snow. Before she can fight against it, electricity courses through her.

And then everything went black.

[remembrancer-of-heresy]

His Moon

Summary: Horus learns that Lorgar has a daughter. The thought of his own child takes over his mind.

Horus/fem!OC, Emperor and Lorgar's daughter (OC, platonic), Lorgar/fem!Reader

Warnings: yandere, kidnapping

Word count: 1002

Song: The Cure - Lullaby

This fic was born because of this beautiful post.

The Warmaster looks at one of the many contracts and freezes, unable to sign. Memories of brighter days on Terra capture Horus. The primarch simply cannot, cannot sit behind the documents. The title of Warmaster weighs heavily on his shoulders. The responsibility of continuing the Crusade as a leader weighs heavily. He wants simple human affection.

Horus loved his sons. Everyone was dear to him, especially the members of Mournival. Yet they were war machines. Perhaps much better than ordinary people, but the primarch was connected to them only by gene-seed. Pure science and controlled selection.

It was not the same as the childhood of the primarch himself. When his Father taught him astronomy, the art of war and told him stories of the past. It’s an unforgettable feeling to look at the man in front of you and listen to his every word. While you yourself are still a boy who has not seen the world and has not known its taste.

Neither brother could understand Horus. Couldn't take the place of the Emperor's favorite son. Because that's how it was. The Warmaster was found before anyone else - and therefore Terra is not just a home by name. No matter how hard some of them, especially Lorgar, tried to earn the Emperor's love. All their attempts were doomed to failure.

Even worse, the primarch of the Word Bearers had caused real anger with his behavior. Horus thought that everything would end with the burning of the Monarchy. Until he was told interesting news. Lorgar had a wife. One of the civilians of Colchis, with whom he... fell in love. And he took her to himself. But that was not all.

She was pregnant with the primarch's child.

Something clicked in the Warmaster’s head and he decided to visit the Imperial Palace. Discuss new trade routes, diplomatic meetings, military tactics. Horus did not want to show his excitement. But he so wanted to see a new life. From his primarch blood.

***

“Her name is Erda.” - The Emperor cooed over the cradle with a toy in his hands. A sight unusual even for Horus. - “Unlike all of you, she grows much slower. Even than an ordinary person. But this has its own joy. She will stay this small longer. Isn’t she a beauty, my son?”

It is difficult to discourage a primarch. But little Erda did it. Unfortunately for Lorgar, his daughter will remain on Terra with the Emperor forever. Daughter. Horus says the word again in his mind, tasting it. It sounded like family; love is hidden behind this word.

She is very small, half asleep, but still carefully watches the wooden horse that her current father carved. The girl was bathed in love from birth. And although she was surrounded by the gold of Terra, her lullaby, soft blankets and toys emitted a moderate light. Gentle. Almost lunar.

The girl reaches out and grabs the horse. Smart eyes wait expectantly for some action. Until the Emperor, with a smile that even Horus has not seen, begins to squeeze her. Erda bursts into laughter - the most beautiful melody the Warmaster has ever heard.

"Yes. She's a beauty."

 And Horus can't help but want to take her. But she is still not his child.

***

There is a stir in the chambers and Horus looks up. A smile spreads across his face by itself. The serf girl cleaned his armor with zeal, wanting to scrub away the hardened dirt. The primarch liked best when it was she who looked after his armor and cleaned his room.

At first, the primarch thought that the reason was that she was the best at performing her simple duties. But no, other serfs did a better job. The man had to admit that he simply enjoyed her company. She was nice. A pretty and kind girl - her quiet presence was calming.

Everyone had to look at him with adoration. The Warmaster deserved it. And the serf was no exception, but her devotion was more tender. As if she was always nearby, as if it should be so. If Horus had any tempting thoughts, he suppressed them.

But now... they came out again, taking over his mind. Lorgar was not afraid to admit that he had fallen in love. He lost his wife only because he was terrible at his duties. His pathetic brother incurred the wrath of the Emperor only because he could not renounce the senseless traditions of Colchis.

But Horus was the favorite son. Horus was the best among his brothers, a magnificent warrior and politician. Everyone loved him and everyone wanted to please him. It was not for nothing that his Father gave him the title of Warmaster. The primarch worked as hard as he could, couldn't he take some nice little liberties?

The girl stops and looks sharply at the primarch. Apparently she felt someone else's gaze. Horus can't help but stare at the way her cheeks grow warm and her hands clutch the rag to her chest. So fragile and tender compared to him. She needs only the best care. Especially when her belly will be filled with new life.

"My Lord?"

Even though she is a serf, Horus wants to do everything right. The girl was already amazed by the primarch’s aura. There was no point in putting pressure on her or forcing her to do anything. A man could be a Warmaster not only on the battlefield, but also in romance.

And he really wanted to win such a little heart. Besides, then Horus will have a story for their child about how he met his mother. Omitting details about the imbalance of power.

“Have you ever thought about becoming a mother?”

The last word permeates the entire essence of Horus and he can barely restrain his carnivorous smile. Soon, very soon, his Luna Wolves will be holding a little brother or sister in their arms. It just needs to wait.

And then a lullaby will also appear in his chambers.

[mswyrr]

One of the most important bits of dialogue in hotd is from Viserys in 1x01:

"The idea that we control the dragons is an illusion. They're a power man should never have trifled with. One that brought Valyria its doom. If we don't mind our own histories, it will do the same to us."

This is a man who bonded with Balerion, The Black Dread, the oldest dragon who had actually hatched in Old Valyria. This was the same dragon who flew Princess Aerea, a 12-year-old girl who bonded with him, back to Valyria against her will - sickening and killing her in the process (Fire & Blood, p 263). The little girl was away from her home at the time and probably feeling "I want to go home" but what Balerion did with that feeling killed her. His will was strong and his memory was *deep*.

Viserys only rode him one time, his inaugural flight, and then never again. IMO he experienced something bonding with that ancient beast that--in addition to studying the family's history and Valyrian lore--convinced him of the danger and fundamentally uncontrollable nature of dragons.

It is totally in keeping with canon events that Vhagar, in the current timeline the most ancient dragon alive--a dragon who drank deep of bloodshed and war with Visenya during the Conquest and *likes* war--translated Aemond's anger at Lucerys into murder of the boy and his small dragon. It is perfectly in keeping with what the show has been saying since episode 1.

An ancient, powerful and wilful dragon overcoming the will of its rider is *literally canon*. Princess Aerea must have been terrified during the whole, long flight to Valyria, and yet all her protests couldn't stop the dragon she'd bonded to.

I would also say that the Valyrians turned magical creatures, dragons, into weapons of warfare - that the dragons, in that sense, represent war. And the show is imo fundamentally antiwar - so here war is something you cannot control. GRRM has said the dragons are "nukes," which fits with this reading:

“Dragons are the nuclear deterrent, and only [Daenerys Targaryen, one of the series’ heroines] has them, which in some ways makes her the most powerful person in the world,” Martin said in 2011. “But is that sufficient? These are the kind of issues I’m trying to explore. The United States right now has the ability to destroy the world with our nuclear arsenal, but that doesn’t mean we can achieve specific geopolitical goals. Power is more subtle than that. You can have the power to destroy, but it doesn’t give you the power to reform, or improve, or build.” (source)

War and nukes - you cannot aim them only at the guilty, only at those you hate; you cannot prevent them from consuming the innocent as well. They a raging fire that consumes, that is all. And so, on that level, I just adore what they're doing and how it all fits together.

Aemond's domestic violence fits too - boys go to war thinking it will be honorable and manly and they'll protect "their women" but instead come home and hurt those very women. This thing burns and burns until it is exhausted, and it doesn't stay contained, not within you or outside you. "So it goes," to steal a phrase from antiwar writer Kurt Vonnegut.

The reason I keep coming back to my antiwar reading of the show is that things that people dismiss as "bad" or mock actually come together beautifully if you don't expect to war to be glorious and masterful and heroic. If you take the text seriously, in terms of what the dragons are metaphorically and what characters have outright said about their fundamentally uncontrollable nature. The lore supports what Vhagar did! That she could overcome a teenaged human's will with her century old bloodlust.

[sunsbaby]

❝ when the gun meets the fire ❞

⋆ winchesters + gun .ᐟ reader + lighter .ᐟ reader . .

sam and dean hadn't thought of the possibility that cali and feu would have to meet sometime. seeing as they both resided in the bunker, albeit feu stayed caged up in her room and cali wandered around the bunker like she owned the place. her voice booming throughout the walls, demanding a coke or for dean to help her pick out a pair of boots to wear that day. to which feu let a scowl form on her face at the loudness as she whispered to her collection of lighters.

but, as soon as the two met—it was opposites attract at its finest. feu's fingers grasp onto the backs of cali's dresses while they walk around a crowded area. at a diner if someone got feu's order wrong, cali was up there in an instant.

"she asked very nicely for no pickles and you guys being the rude, disrespectful people you are gave her pickles! fix it now." cali shouted, not caring that everybody and their mother could hear. that girl had no social awareness at all. guns were loud after all. behind her stood feu, no shoes on and scraped up knees—like always—with a cheeky smile on her face.

the once lighter happily munched on her burger with no pickles as the waiter brought over more coke for cali. sam and feu openly judged the two lovebirds sat in front of them as they kissed all over each other in a public space. feus eyes went wide as her mind struggled to comprehend why anyone would enjoy sucking faces with another. she did notice how cali made dean wipe away the burger grease, did she have to do that too?

"sam, do you like doing that to girls as well?" her voice was laced with utter confusion, her brows furrowed as her greasy finger pointed to the couple in front of them kissing.

"feu, please eat your food.." sam was too embarrassed to admit anything, instead he directed her focus back onto the food in front of her; which tasted all the different from the lighter fluid she was used to being fed.

when the boys get caught up in conversation, cali and feu most likely end up zoning out. both girls tracing the marks left on their skin. cali normally only lets herself and dean touch the handprints—he was the one who left them after all—but at times she finds herself calming down more when feu's fingertips lightly dust over them: innocently of course. she was like the little sister the gun never got to have.

cali and feu regularly have sleepovers, that's how cali figured out she could talk to guns. she enjoyed watching feu in her element, allowing her to be herself even in the presence of another; her. feu snuck off once to steal deans other guns so cali could talk some sense into them about how she's the only one he'll ever truly love and the others are just there because she can't be. which dean quickly found out about because cali cannot control her volume at all. feu; however, takes a calmer, sweeter approach talking to the lighters. seeing as they all are doomed to die, but even a little bit of reassurance goes a long way—something she learned.

sunny yaps! A LITTLE AU WHERE LIGHTER!READER AND GUN!READER MEET AND BECOME THE BESTEST OF FRIENDS EVERRR!! COMMENTS ARE APPRECIATED PLSS TELL ME IDEAS OR PROMPTS YOU HAVE FOR THESE 2

special tags! @bluemerakis @dulcescorderitas @h8aaz @bejeweledinterludes @daylighted @titsout4jackles

𝐒𝐔𝐍𝐒𝐁𝐀𝐁𝐘 ® 𓂃 do not repost or copy my works without permission!!

[earphonejackx]

Thanks for replying, and my request is if you could do Makima x female Chaos Devil reader, who is immune to Makima’s powers and loves to cause chaos and mischief, but tones it done for Makima since reader loves Makima.

☠︎︎ MAKIMA x FEM! CHAOS DEVIL

☠︎︎ AN - Thank you SOO much for requesting!! I haven’t wrote in awhile and I’m so happy people still want me to write <3 NOW LETS GET INTO OUR DOOMED YURI

☠︎︎ CW - Makima uses you for your power but she’s obsessed with you :3

♱ Makima who was surprised when she found out that you were immune to her power. She liked having you around because of that too, keeping you around meant that she could use you anytime, but also another excuse to hide her loneliness

♱ Makima who often can never really “controls” you and whenever your chaos gets out of hand she has to put her foot down and assert her own dominance without using her control abilities

♱ Makima who admires your chaos and wild nature, but never makes that known. She once found out that you were trying to tone down your behavior for her, but she Often encouraged you to embrace it. “Come now reader. Show the world how chaotic you really are.”

♱ Makima who finds out that you love her. She isn’t surprised since she knows everyone loves her, but it’s different with you. With you, she doesn’t really know why you are attracted to her but she likes the fact that she doesn’t have to control you for you to like her.

♱ Makima who sometimes is very concerned for your chaotic nature but doesn’t ever question it as you don’t question her of her abilities.

♱ Makima who sometimes is often frustrated she cannot control you so she uses other tactics to assert her control, which works SOMEtimes but you can catch in to what’s she’s doing pretty fast and you often get sad she doesn’t love you without control

♱ Makima who likes it when you sneak into her office during work hours to love on her. She loves that she thinks you’re obsessed with her. She’s addicted to your power, or maybe it’s you.

♱ Makima who won’t admit that she’s inlove with you rather she shows you off as something she can use as another advantage in a battle. You’ve called her out on this serval times but she only shushes you. “Hush now. I do love you but only if you give me your power.”

[galaxygermdraws]

Finally designing the Sonic cast. or. at least. Some of them. There are too many characters in this franchise these are just the ones I think about the most often. So uh. Ya. I will leave any notes under the cut since I have a lot, although not every character will have notes because we haven't explored every character (and share them with @shadesofvermillionvoid)

(reblogs with tags/comments are appreciated. Thankyu)

Sonic

Sonic's earring is Chip's bracelet. I don't think Sonic particularly likes having anything on his wrists, and Sonic Forces made that worse

The regulators are based directly on Sonic Prime, as I love the regulators in that show and think the idea of giving Sonic something similar to Shadow's Inhibitor Rings makes a lot of sense

He got those little markings due to accidentally absorbing some of Chaos' DNA

Tails

Tails has goggles like in Sonic Boom, because I like Boom Tails' design

He still has his robotic bits from Sonic Lost World, he still managed to keep his free will, but what happened was Zavok used his ability to control robots to force Tails to fight Sonic. Since then, Tails has updated his cybernetics so he can filter out any suspicious frequencies that could take his free will.

The cannon arm from Lost World is now basically like the guns from Mario and Rabbids, where you hold it in your hand and it like covers your arm. It's like that

Tails is a skeptic. This is the funniest bit but also thanks to Boom (the bad luck episode) it has some precedence

Knuckles

Knuckles in our lore is deeply spiritual (we are developing Mobian belief systems because we are Insane) , and the first time he saw Sonic he noticed he looked similar to the murals in Hidden Palace. So when Sonic turned out to be good, that made sense to him, as Sonic was common in a lot of prophetic murals around the island.

Knux actually thought Sonic was a god at first. Then he saw him choke on a Chili Dog.

He put beads around his spines after the events of Sonic Forces, since the war was over and he could relax for the first time in months.

Amy

Amy, like Knuckles, actually has a deep connection to her belief systems. We haven't figured out everything exactly, but she and Knuckles quickly bond over this aspect of their lives

I styled her quills differently because I kind of like giving her something that makes it obvious she is a hedgehog

Similarly, I gave her a back spine, and the hedgehog nose, since I had never realized she has the same kind of nose as Tails or Cream

Shadow

Shadow wears eye makeup. He puts it on every morning. For a while he had to have help with it (from both Rouge and Amy), but eventually figured out how to do it himself

He has yellow sclera due to the Black Arms blood. Similarly, he has a longer tail than most Mobian hedgehogs, and he cannot retract his fangs. His blood is green

He has some less favorable urges. Mostly related to the whole "Black Arms feed on living creatures" things, but they don't crop up often

He and Rouge have matching earrings

Rouge

I based her design off of Sonic Prime because I honestly prefer that design more. One because she looks like an actual spy, and two because it's based on her Sonic Heroes design. Similarly, she has Prim's hair tuft

Gave her the bat nose a lot of people do because I like the way it looks

I don't have a lot of thoughts about Rouge as of right now I am so sorry.

She and Shadow have matching earrings

Silver

Silver has a lot more scrapes and burns from his future, even though it's been fixed several times

He is displaced from time. He doesn't feel connected to his current future, especially since in our lore he is one of the few people to remember Sonic 06 (it's because in our lore, Timeline B Silver got his powers from Mephiles, in the sense that those time powers had to go SOMEWHERE after the timeline reset.)

I am going to be designing a weird messed up form for Silver (like Werehog or Doom Morph for Sonic and Shadow) based probably on Mephiles to some extent

Blaze

Like Silver, she has remnants of powers from the previous timeline. She already had fire powers in Timeline A, but she has much stronger ones now, as she still has Iblis inside of her, although the powers are no longer destructive, as they were never provoked

Her dimension is actually a result of Solaris ceasing to exist. That power still existed and had to go somewhere, so it ended up resulting in the Sol Dimension.

[mistyheartrbs]

cannot stop thinking about weird barbie and queercoding and how her subplot mirrors margot robbie barbie’s main plotline and the Implications of it all. because like. weird barbie is introduced as this outsider who lives on the fringes of barbieland society (it’s intentionally never made clear whether she was exiled or chose to set up camp there herself; the way mckinnon plays her makes me think probably a mix of both) who, as one of the other barbies (i want to say alexandra shipp/the author?) explains, was one of the prettiest barbies until a little girl played with her too hard, and now she’s an outcast. the barbies call her Weird Barbie behind her back and to her face. this is because of something she couldn’t control (first parallel to robbie’s barbie, whose crisis is brought on by gloria’s own feelings of negativity) and yet she’s forced away because of it. going to hop onto a brief tangent here and say one of the things that never sat right with me in toy story 3 was the weird...demonization? of the preschoolers who chew on/break/otherwise harm the toys because in a story where the Very Ultimate Dream of any toy is to be loved and played with it’s bizarre that they then seemed to be saying well, actually, there are Wrong ways to play with toys when these kids didn’t know any better. and it would’ve been easy for that to be weird barbie’s deal - a freaky little girl played with her in the “wrong” way and doomed her as a result. but she gets to be a hero! she leads the resistance!

robbie’s barbie is immune to ken’s brainwashing bc she experienced the real world’s misogyny and more specifically felt gloria’s messy complex human emotions - her “dark and crazy” drawings, as sasha calls them - stemming from the pain of being a woman in society. weird barbie has never been to the real world and still manages to stay immune, along with her mansion of misfit toys (including, as other tumblr users have pointed out, magic earring ken aka Gay Ken) - there’s layers to that. in both robbie’s barbie’s and weird barbie’s cases, their girls placed Weird and Unpleasant feelings onto the perfect ideal that is Barbie™ and absolutely upended their lives as a result - but they became fully realized people because of it. barbie chooses to go back to the real world to live as a human woman because she wants to feel all those messy and bizarre human feelings! she loves them! she loves humanity and the avenues through which she reaches that love are women being unabashedly freaky and weird both within and outside of her understanding of the world she lives in. what a queer experience. what a way to showcase that scary exciting feeling of being on the very fringes of girlhood and needing to define it for yourself. pink birkenstocks. she leaves barbieland better than she found it. she can’t stay there anymore. she loves the people around her and she loves herself and that self-love is something she’s earned now. weird barbie gets to run sanitation. gloria’s ideas for ordinary barbie foster understanding. barbie is sasha’s stepmom now probably. greta gerwig you’ve done it again.

[ang3lofdivinity]

🎐⋅˚₊‧𝖫𝗈𝗏𝖾’𝗌 𝖠𝗉𝗉𝖾𝗍𝗂𝗍𝖾‧₊˚⋅🐚

Relationship(s) :: Jinx + Calypso!fem!reader

Genre :: Fluff, hurt/comfort

Format :: Story

Warnings :: More Arcane season 2 act 3 spoilers! Some implications of SH (reader), a bit more trauma, happy ending, the gods kinda suck, HOMOSEXUALS FINALLY GET TOGETHER!!/hj, kinda inspired by Jorge’s cut song from Epic “Appetite” along with “Would You Fall In Love With Me Again”, Reader gets better at the end here, READER IS NOT CALYPSO - more so takes her place, possibly suggestive at the end?

A/N :: AHHHH I cannot believe I wrote THIS much that I had to make a new part entirely. But nonetheless, happy holidays everyone! I hope everyone stays safe this year and gets some good stuff nevertheless of what you’re celebrating! (Side note: ..Should I turn this into a series with more parts? I’m gonna hold a poll for when the time comes — which will be right after I post this). I hope this lives up to your expectations everyone!! + HAPPY NEW YEARS!! (W.C: 10.6k)

Ⅰ - Ⅱ - Ⅲ

Jinx does not remember how long it has been since you’ve left. And you can say the same.

You’ve only been hiding away for as long as you possibly could without the bluette finding you before she left you, just like all the others. See, this is why you shouldn’t allow your emotions to gain control over you! They’ll take the things you love the most as you’re left there to cry and mourn over their loss. And this time? You actually allowed yourself to fall for their tricks!! You’re so STUPID, aren’t you? You should’ve known that this would’ve never been able to last.

She is a lost mortal, and you are an imprisoned goddess.

And the ones pulling the strings?

The gods above. For they hold more power over the both of you than you could possibly know. Or do they?

You lay down, cured up into yourself as you cry against the forest floor, everything around disappearing. (At least it felt like it, as you had begun to focus on the fact that you were crying for so long, your throat going sore and your eyes getting all red and puffy).

It’s pathetic of you really, all of this is pathetic.

You should’ve never allowed yourself to grow attached, you should’ve never allowed yourself to open up to Jinx, you should’ve KNEW that this was doomed to happen one day! Nothing can ever go right for you, can it now?

‘So whats the next course of action’, you ask yourself.

To wallow in your sorrow for a bit longer. To allow yourself to bawl your eyes out as Jinx is taken from you.

.

Time has become useless as Jinx stands at the edge of the beach, breathing heavily, her fists clenching and unclenching as she grits her teeth.

Does she always have to mess things up?

Does she always have to be the Jinx?

In the wake of your disappearance, she feels something staring at her.

Upon turning around however, she sees..

Some kind of ball of pure light??

It’s almost blinding as she stares at it, the luminosity making it almost impossible to define the shape of the object. Covering her eyes with an arm while groaning, she speaks up.

“Hello?”

“You’ve had your fun, mortal.” A voice booms, distant yet close, vibrating through the air. Though it doesn’t exactly feel like one singular voice, it feels more like.. thousands. Thousands of voices as they echo and vibrate. Its presence feels heavy, suffocating. As if she’s being strangled.

And as they speak, she knows what this is.

“Your presence here has disrupted the balance. She was meant to suffer, to repent. Not to cling to you.”

Jinx glares, lowering her arm to stare at the thing.

“Balance? Suffering? You’re the ones screwing her up, not me.”

“This is not your concern. Leave this place and let her fate proceed as it was written.” The tone of the voices grows sharper, as if she was going to listen to them.

“Over my dead body.” Jinx spits the words like venom.

The form twists in agitation, and the faint sound of crackling can be heard.

“You defy orders from the gods?”

“Damn right I do.” She huffs as she narrows her eyes at the form before her, nails now digging into the flesh of her palms.

“She’s not your pawn anymore. And if you try to keep me from her, I’ll blow this paradise of yours sky-high! I’ve got enough bombs to make that little heaven of yours look like rubble.”

There’s an uncomfortable silence that lingers after her words are spoke, but shortly after - the form slowly turns smaller and less bright, making Jinx thankful.

“Very well,” they finally relent, voice hollow.

“But know this, mortal: your bond with her cannot last. You will only bring her more pain.”

“And you cannot deny our orders forever. We have more power than you possibly imagine.”

With that, the light travels off elsewhere, leaving Jinx alone once more on the empty shore.

You don’t know how long you’ve been walking, the forest endlessly stretching all around you, the grass brushing against your feet as you continue to walk. The crashing of waves still manages to fill your ears, but it is still not able to keep drowning out the chaotic storm of your own thoughts.

It hurts. All of this hurts.

It shouldn’t, but it does anyway.

Leaving her was the only way, you tell yourself. If she stayed, she would forever hate you - wouldn’t she? There was no chance for either of you, ever. There never truly was.

She is a mortal meandering around without the knowledge that lies in the powers of those she barely knows of.

You drag yourself further away from her and deeper into the forest. You stop momentarily, your chest rising and falling with labored breaths, the tears on your cheeks now cold from the salty air from moments before.

Your mind races with images of Jinx from those very moments, however: her wild eyes, her expression as she looked up at you, the way she’d yelled after you, that vulnerability of hers for just a moment.

You kneel on the grassy floor, clutching your head, overwhelmed by the sheer amount of emotions crashing through you. Your tears drip into the blades of grass below, disappearing instantly, as if the island itself were swallowing your grief.

You try to focus on your resolve—to forget her, to let her go.

But it feels like trying to breathe underwater: suffocating and unnatural.

You take a moment before allowing yourself to fall on your side on the islands grassy floor, tears falling one after the other. The mist seems to grow denser ahead, swirling in unnatural patterns even as you lay on your side. Eventually, you find yourself squinting, unsure if your mind is playing tricks on you or if something, or someone, is moving within it.

Before you can decide, you hear it: a low hum, resonating in your chest like the strum of a string on a rather angelic instrument. The sound is faint, but it pulls at you, compelling you to rise. Against your better judgment, you lift yourself up by your elbows, staring at the mist as it.. contorts into something.

You should turn back, shouldn’t you?

But you don’t.

A soft, distant voice cuts through the silence surrounding you, faint and trembling, as though carried by the wind. At first, you can’t make out the words, but as you lean closer, they grow clearer:

“She’ll come for you.”

The voice isn’t Jinx’s, but it echoes with the same determination, the same desperation. Your breath catches in your throat as you shake your head with a bitter laugh, trying to push the voice away, but it clings to you like a shadow.

“No,” you whisper to yourself.

“She can’t. She won’t.”

But the voice is unrelenting, whispering again and again until it drowns out your thoughts entirely:

“She’ll come for you. She always will.”

A shiver runs down your spine, and slowly, you find yourself laying back down on your side, fluttering your eyes closed as you try to make yourself think of something else �� ANYTHING ELSE besides this.

And suddenly, your mind wanders the meeting you had last night:

The evening air hung heavy with a solemn stillness, the kind that pressed against your chest and made every breath feel like a burden.

Nevertheless, you sat alone on the cliff’s edge, the ocean sprawling endlessly before you, its waves gently lapping at the rocks far below. The twilight sky melted into soft hues of lavender and rose, but the beauty of the scene was lost on you. It did not matter, you know. You… you really are a monster, you didn’t deserve to enjoy such beautiful moments.

Your hands trembled as they clutched your knees. Your thoughts churned endlessly, circling back to Jinx—her words, her defiance, and the way she just STARED at you after she’d slapped you.

And just as you were thinking of the incident, the faintest whisper of wind brushed past you, some sort of.. odd feeling of a being you couldn’t describe. However, you didn’t need to turn to know who it was; the soothing hum of magic and the faint scent of jasmine told you everything.

“Janna,” you murmured, your voice soft and weary.

The goddess finally stepped into view, her ethereal form seeming to shimmer like sunlight caught in the folds of silk. Her translucent blue robes flowed as though stirred by an unseen breeze. She truly did look like a goddess in this form, much better than some of her others.

“Dear goddess,” Janna spoke, her voice a gentle melody carried by the wind.

“I’ve come to speak with you about the mortal.”

Your chest IMMEDIATELY tightened, your fingers curling into the fabric of your clothes.

“You mean Jinx?..” you whispered, barely audible.

Janna’s gaze softened as she stepped closer to you. Even with her calming presence, you still had the worst feeling pooling within your stomach as you continued to avert your gaze from her.

“Her presence here has caused… ripples. The other gods are restless. They believe her defiance threatens the balance of this island, and of you.”

You shook your head, sighing.

“She’s not a threat. She—she cares about me. She’s just…” Your voice faltered as you tried to explain, to defend Jinx, but the weight of your own guilt dragged the words down.

“She is bold and unyielding,” Janna interrupted gently, her tone neither condemning nor approving.

“And that is why the gods have decided she must leave. For the sake of the island. For your sake.”

Your heart dropped at those words.

“No,” you said, almost instinctively, your voice trembling.

“She doesn’t have to leave. I can handle this. I—I can fix this—”

“(____).” Janna’s voice was soft yet firm before she let out a soft sigh. She knelt beside you, placing a light hand on your shoulder.

“This isn’t about blame. It’s about what is best for you. For her.”

Tears welled in your eyes as you looked at Janna, your lips trembling.

“I mean.. she already hates me,” you whispered.

“She’ll never forgive me if I send her away, though.”

Janna’s expression remained calm, her gaze filled with an ancient understanding.

“Perhaps. But she will live. And so will you.”

Your hands fell limp at her sides, your gaze dropping to the ground. The weight of Janna’s words settled over her like a storm cloud brewing at the distance of the horizon. And as you thought of the way her sharp edges had softened just for you. And yet…

And yet, your mind returns to your failures, your mistakes.

“I’ve done terrible things,” You whispered, your voice barely audible once again.

“Hurt people. Hurt her. She deserves better than this.” You swallowed hard, closing your eyes against the flood of emotions threatening to overwhelm her.

“Maybe… maybe the gods are right. Maybe she should leave. It’s for the best.”

Janna’s gaze lingered on you for a moment, as though searching for the truth in your words. Finally, the goddess rose from beside you, hands folded behind her back.

“The choice is yours, Dear Goddess. But know this: love is not something the gods take lightly. What you share with her is rare… precious. Do not cast it aside without understanding the weight of what you will lose.”

With that, Janna turned and began to fade into the soft hues of the twilight, her presence dispersing like mist on the wind.

You remained seated, your shoulders hunched as silent tears traced paths down your cheeks.

Jinx would be better off far from her, far from the island and its burdens, wouldn’t she?

And yet, as the stars began to dot the sky above, a small voice within you whispered that she was breaking something she could never truly repair.

A warm liquid trickles down your cheek.

As you reach up, you realize it's a tear.

Ah, you didn’t even realize it.

You let out a small bitter laugh, falling back down on your side before your shifted, now looking up at the midnight sky above you.

So beautiful..

But beauty cannot erase the pain that all of these actions have caused.

And so, now you find yourself slipping in and out of consciousness - eyes fluttering every once in a while.

It takes you a while, but slumber finally finds you, and you have one of the most terrible nights of rest ever.

Days, or maybe even weeks, pass in silence on the island once more much to Jinx’s displeasure. You’ve both done this so many times, it’s gotten annoying. But she cannot find you anywhere she looks as desperate as she tries, though remains stubbornly on the island, refusing to give up on you. To waste the time, she spends hours tinkering with gadgets or staring out at the ocean, muttering curses at the gods under her breath.

Then one evening, as the sun bleeds crimson into the horizon, you finally return. You’re quiet and pale, all of your happiness dulled, as though the island itself has leeched off of your energy.

And Jinx doesn’t waste a second upon seeing you enter the walk closer to her near the shore.

“Trinket.” She stands up, heart pounding as she approaches cautiously.

You avert your gaze from her, taking a shaky deep breath.

“You should’ve left.”

“Not gonna happen.” Jinx steps closer, her voice softening.

“You’re not alone anymore. I told you I’m not leaving.”

You shake your head, tears already welling in your eyes.

“Why do you keep fighting for me? I’m broken. I’ve ruined everything. Besides, if you stay here.. you’ll never be able to see the outside world again!”

Jinx stops just inches from her and cups your cheek—this time, her touch is gentle, her fingers lingering where they’d once struck you.

“You’re not broken, Angel. You’re just scared. Same as me.”

You look up, startled by the tenderness in Jinx’s voice.

“I said things I didn’t mean. I know messed up.” Jinx’s voice catches, something you might’ve not noticed if you weren’t paying so much attention to each of her words.

“But you’re the only person who’s ever made me feel like I’m not some lost cause, that I'm worth fighting for. So if you think I’m giving that up- giving you up? You’re dumber than you look.”

A tear slips down your cheek as you laugh faintly, a small smile gracing your lips.

“You always have a way with words, Pixie, don’t you?” Jinx grins at the small comment before chuckling herself.

“Yeah, yeah. Just shut up and let me fix this.”

You hesitate for a moment before falling into Jinx’s arms. For the first time in what feels like centuries, you let yourself believe, just a little, that you’re not alone anymore.

Jinx holds you impossibly close, feeling the weight of your trembling shoulders against her own. For a long moment, neither of you speak. The quiet is only broken by the rhythm of the waves against the shore nearby.

The last light of the sun bathes the two of you in hues of gold and crimson, as if the world itself were holding its breath for you both.

Jinx pulls back just enough to meet your gaze. She wipes away the tear on your cheek with her thumb, her hand lingering there for a second longer than necessary.

“You’re not getting rid of me that easily, trinket.” Her voice is quieter now, lacking its usual sharp edges that she spoke so casually with usually.

“You can try to push me away, yell at me, slap me if you want, but I’m staying here. Because I want to. Because you… mean something to me.”

Your lips part as though to say something, but no words come out. Your heart feels as though it’s caught in your throat, something warm pooling within your chest as you stare at her.

“Don’t look at me like that,” Jinx murmurs with a faint, nervous grin.

“Like I’m saying something stupid..”

You shake your head quickly, your hands gripping the front of Jinx’s top, as though afraid to let go - that if you did, she’d disappear.

“You’re not. You’re… you’re really not.” Your voice is barely above a whisper.

Jinx’s grin falters as she leans closer, searching your eyes for any trace of doubt.

“I don’t care what the gods say. I don’t care about whatever twisted plans they have for you. You’re mine, Angel. And I…” She hesitates for the first time, the words heavy on her tongue. She’s scared.

But..

“I love you.”

You freeze, your breath hitching while your eyes widen at the bluette’s words.

Jinx laughs nervously, rubbing the back of her neck.

“There. I said it. Now you can—”

“You love me?” You cut her off, your voice wavering as you say each syllable. Your expression is something more akin to joy.

Genuine and authentic joy.

Something you haven’t allowed yourself to feel in so long.

Jinx smirks faintly at you.

“Yeah, I do. And don’t you dare make me say it again.”

You laugh through your tears, and you quickly cup Jinx’s face with both hands. And this time? Your touch is soft, steady, and filled with the tenderness as the words the woman before you had just spoken.

“You’re not the only one who’s afraid,” you admit, your own voice shaking. But neither of you seem to mind.

“Jinx… I love you too. I think I always have. From the moment you washed ashore, even with how weird that sounds.”

Jinx blinks, her breath catching at the words before her lips curl into a soft, genuine smile.

“Well, would you look at that? Guess we’re both messed up, huh?”

“I guess so.” You take a deep breath, grinning with delight.

Jinx chuckles softly as your hands slide to her shoulders, pulling her closer. Neither of you hesitates this time. And your lips meet in a kiss. It’s soft and tender, something you wish could last forever. The ocean wind seems to still for the moments as you both are too immersed within the kiss, hell— it feels like everything has just stopped entirely, and that it’s just the both of you here.

When you both finally pull back, Jinx grins, her forehead resting against your own.

“Took us long enough, didn’t it?”

“It doesn’t matter how long it took. You’re here now.” You replied, gently booping her nose as you smile wider.

and she gets an.. idea.

“One more, then? I think my appetite has grown for more than just some food tonight.” Jinx smirks, pulling you closer to her by your hips

You find yourself giggling before you nod, capturing her lips in a kiss once more.

The gods watch in silence from their unseen perch, all coalesced together as they stare down at you both.

Who would’ve known that sheer love for one another could foil their plans?

“I think they’re quite cute together!” One exclaims, before quickly being nudged by another god

“Still. She’s meant to suffer, not find LOVE!” The god yelps, hands on their hips.

“What do we even do?” Another asks with a soft tone, fidgeting with their fingers.

Silence overpowers the perch before whispers begin to spread from all around, gods talking amongst themselves of what to do before one raises a hand, causing all of the ones around them immediately silence, listening to what the figure had to say.

“We sit and watch for now. If anything needs to happen, however..” They pause for a mere second before continuing.

“We’ll be sure to take care of it.”

Calypso!Reader and Jinx masterlist

[universefcb]

Heeeeeey hope you’re having a wonderful day or night sweetie

So I’m a law student right and we do these things called mock trials it’s basically fake court trials but like I’m a person who cannot control their facial expressions and can’t control their laugh so it takes me so much practice at home to have some self control so how about something like reader practicing a trial at home with Marc Bernal?

Thank you in advance ����

↬❥ Love court

Marc Bernal x Fem!Reader

sy: You are a lawyer, but in simulated classes, you can't stay serious. So you decided to ask your boyfriend for help..

a/n: I'm sorry if this isn't what you asked for, I researched the subject a lot and studied a lot, and still didn't understand anything!💔! And sorry if there are mistakes, English is not my language.

warnings: Marc Bernal being a cute and funny boyfriend. Cute content.

Y/N was determined to take this mock trial seriously. The problem? She simply couldn't keep her composure. Her face betrayed every thought that passed through her mind and, to make matters worse, her tendency to laugh at the wrong times had already earned her some dubious looks from the teachers.

That's why she decided she needed intensive training. And who better to help than Marc Bernal?

“Come on, honey, if the defendant is even remotely funny, you’re doomed!” Marc said, leaning back on the couch while holding a notepad, clearly taking his role as “opposing counsel” far too seriously.

Y/N rolled her eyes, but a smile escaped before she could control herself.

“That’s what we’re here for! I need to get better. So no jokes, Marc. Let’s go!”

He cleared his throat, adjusting his posture and placing imaginary glasses on his face.

“Your Honorable Judge… and a beautiful one, by the way… we are here today because my client, Miss S/N, is being accused of very serious crimes.”

“What crimes?” She crossed her arms, trying to keep her tone professional.

Marc paused dramatically.

“Stealing blankets at night and murdering popcorn on the couch.”

Y/N bit her lip to hold back her laughter, but Marc's mocking expression made it harder.

“Protest!” she said, trying to be serious.

“Denied,” Marc replied immediately. “Let’s get to the facts. For consecutive nights, my client was caught pulling all the blankets to his side of the bed, leaving this poor citizen exposed to the unrelenting cold.

“That’s not true!” Y/N shot back, trying to contain her laughter. “I’ll share the blanket… eventually.”

“Eventually is not always, my dear. And more! We have concrete evidence that the accused destroyed an entire bucket of popcorn, which was clearly not just for her!”

He was dramatically pointed to the table, where an empty popcorn bucket actually sat.

Y/N closed her eyes at him.

“Witnesses?”

Marc smiled.

“Mr. Popcorn Bucket is here to testify.”

He held the empty bucket and made a thin voice:

"It's true, your honor! I saw everything! She said she would share, but in the end, I was left with nothing!" He made a high-pitched voice.

This time, Y/N couldn't hold it in. A laugh escaped her and she fell back onto the couch, covering her face.

“It can’t be serious…”

Marc leaned forward, a victorious gleam in his eyes.

“You may laugh at our mock trial, but you won’t laugh at the real one. Come on, take a deep breath and try again!”

S/N hired fund, adjusting her stance.

“Okay, okay. I’m ready. Let’s do this right now.”

Marc cleared his throat, returning to his “professional seriousness.”

“So, Ms. S/N, tell us: what do you have to say about the accusations?”

She headed straight for him, keeping her face neutral.

“I do not confirm or negotiate with these discussions.”

Marc arched an eyebrow.

“Hmm, interesting. But if you’re not to blame, how do you explain the cold nights I spent?”

“Maybe… it’s a circulation problem?” she suggested, trying to sound convincing.

He pretended to write it down on the notepad.

“Ah, so you’re to blame for my cardiovascular system? Intriguing. But let’s get back to the popcorn bucket case.”

Y/N raised her hand.

“Objection! That’s irrelevant!”

“Denied,” Marc replied with a mischievous smile. “The popcorn bucket is a victim in this case, and deserves justice.”

She sighed dramatically.

“Okay, I admit it! I ate all the popcorn. But in my defense, you were distracted by the game on TV and I was hungry!”

Marc put his hand on his chest, feigning indignation.

“Then admit your guilt!”

Y/N crossed her arms.

“Can the judge at least grant a light sentence?”

He scratched his chin, pretending to ponder.

“Hmm… maybe. How about… a kiss as payment for your crimes?”

She laughed, rolling her eyes.

“That doesn’t look very professional to me.”

“But it seems fair,” he retorted, stepping closer.

She sighed, feigning reluctance.

“Okay, accept the sentence.”

When their lips met, Y/N had to admit that perhaps the mock trial hadn’t been as serious as it should have been. But at least she was practicing self-control… in a way.

[novaursa]

Legacy (strings of time)

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

- Pairing: targ!reader/Tywin Lannister

- Rating: Mature 16+

- Previous part: dark wings

- Next part: long live the king

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

The air on Dragonstone was heavy with the scent of salt and sulfur, the volcanic island shrouded in an eerie mist that clung to its ancient stone walls. Melisandre stood alone in the shadowed chamber of the Painted Table, her crimson robes flowing like molten fire as she chanted in the guttural tones of her native Asshai. The flickering flames of the surrounding braziers cast dancing shadows against the walls, the light refracting through the ruby at her throat, which pulsed like a heartbeat.

Before her, a small brazier burned with an unnatural intensity, fed by oils and powders she had sprinkled into its depths. The fire danced and leaped, responding to her incantations, its flames twisting into shapes that seemed to defy the natural world. Faces appeared briefly—shadowy, indistinct forms that flickered in and out of existence like ghosts.

She was searching, reaching across the vastness of Westeros for her target. The former Targaryen princess, now Lady Lannister, was an anomaly to her visions, an enigma that refused to be revealed fully. Melisandre’s lips moved faster, her voice rising in urgency as she pushed harder against the veil of the unseen.

But then, something shifted.

The flames, which had been obedient and malleable, suddenly roared higher, blazing with a white-hot intensity that forced Melisandre to step back. A wave of heat rolled over her, searing and oppressive, and she raised her hands to shield her face. The ruby at her throat flared violently, its light so bright it painted the chamber in crimson.

“No!” she hissed, her voice breaking. “Show me! Reveal her to me!”

But instead of clarity, the fire erupted in a burst of chaotic energy. A deafening roar filled the chamber, echoing like the cry of a great beast, and a sudden force slammed into Melisandre, sending her sprawling to the floor. Her head struck the cold stone with a sickening crack, and the room spun as she struggled to regain her bearings.

The flames in the brazier had turned black, writhing and twisting as if alive, and from within the inferno, a shape began to emerge. It was dark and indistinct, but there was a sense of immense power emanating from it—something ancient and wild, something that defied her control.

The ruby at her throat burned like a brand, and she cried out, clutching at it as a searing pain shot through her body. Her connection to the flames, to her magic, was being turned against her, and she felt the power she had called forth recoil like a snake, striking at its master.

“No!” she gasped, her voice a mix of pain and desperation. “This cannot be!”

The shadowy form in the flames surged forward, and for a moment, Melisandre thought she saw the outline of a dragon—massive wings and a serpentine neck, its eyes glowing with an otherworldly light. The roar came again, shaking the very foundations of the chamber, and the flames exploded outward in a wave of force that extinguished the braziers and plunged the room into darkness.

Melisandre lay motionless on the floor, her breath coming in ragged gasps. The ruby at her throat had dimmed, its light flickering weakly, and the room was deathly silent except for the faint crackling of the dying fire. Her hands trembled as she pushed herself up, her vision swimming.

“What… what was that?” she whispered, her voice barely audible.

A faint whisper echoed in the darkness, a voice that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere at once. It was deep and resonant, carrying a weight that made her blood run cold.

"You meddle in powers beyond your understanding, priestess."

Her breath hitched, and she looked around wildly, but the chamber was empty. The fire in the brazier had gone out completely, leaving only smoldering ashes. The ruby at her throat gave one final, weak pulse of light before dimming entirely.

Shaken, Melisandre staggered to her feet, clutching the edge of the Painted Table for support. Her mind raced, trying to make sense of what had happened. She had sought to pierce the veil, to uncover the truth about the Targaryen woman who had eluded her visions, but instead, she had been struck by a force far greater than anything she had encountered before.

“She is protected,” Melisandre whispered, her voice trembling. “By what, I do not know, but she is not alone in this world.”

Her gaze turned to the darkened brazier, the lingering scent of burnt oils still heavy in the air. She felt a pang of unease, a rare crack in her unwavering confidence. Whatever power surrounded the Targaryen woman, it was beyond her control, and that realization sent a chill down her spine.

With unsteady steps, Melisandre left the chamber, her mind reeling. She would have to tread carefully now, for the game had become far more dangerous than she had anticipated.

The warm glow of the mid-morning sun streamed through the arched windows of the Red Keep as you walked with Ser Barristan at your side and two of Tywin’s personal guards trailing close behind. It had been one moon since the shadow had invaded your bedchamber, and the increased protection around you had become your constant reality. Every step you took was measured, every moment scrutinized, and yet, the weight of unseen threats lingered.

As you rounded a corner leading to the gardens, soft, muffled sobs reached your ears. Your steps faltered, and you exchanged a glance with Ser Barristan, who instinctively moved closer, his eyes scanning the area for potential threats. But it wasn’t danger that awaited you—just heartbreak.

There, beneath the shade of a tall ash tree, you saw Sansa Stark crumpled on a stone bench, her face buried in her hands. Her delicate shoulders shook as she wept, and beside her sat Margaery Tyrell, her arm wrapped around Sansa’s trembling form, whispering words of comfort.

Concerned, you quickened your pace, your gown trailing behind you as you approached. “Sansa?” you called softly, your voice filled with worry. “What’s happened?”

Both women looked up, Sansa’s tear-streaked face breaking your heart. Her blue eyes were swollen and red, her expression one of utter despair. Margaery, ever poised, gave you a faint smile of greeting, though her own eyes carried a shadow of frustration.

“My lady,” Margaery began, her voice smooth but tinged with sadness, “it seems the council has made a… decision this morning. One that has upset Sansa greatly.”

Your stomach tightened, dread pooling in your chest as you looked between them. “What decision?” you asked, your tone sharpening as your gaze fixed on Margaery.

Margaery sighed, brushing a strand of Sansa’s auburn hair away from her tear-streaked face. “They have decided that Sansa is to marry Lord Tyrion. The arrangement was finalized this morning.”

For a moment, the words didn’t register. When they did, your breath caught, a rush of disbelief and anger flooding through you. “Tyrion?” you repeated, your voice low but incredulous. “This was not the plan. The Tyrells promised she would marry Willas, did you not?”

Margaery’s smile faltered, replaced by a look of resigned frustration. “We did, my lady, but Lord Tywin is not a man to be countered easily. It seems he was… persuasive.”

Sansa let out a quiet sob, shaking her head as she clung to Margaery’s arm. “They’re using me,” she whispered, her voice breaking. “I have no choice. They’re… they’re taking everything from me.”

You knelt before her, gently taking her hands in yours. “Sansa,” you said softly, your tone firm yet filled with compassion, “look at me.”

Reluctantly, she raised her tear-filled eyes to meet yours.

“This is not fair, and it is not right,” you continued, your voice steady. “But you are stronger than you know. Tyrion is not like the others—he is not cruel. If this is to happen, you will not be alone in it.”

Sansa’s lips trembled, her voice barely above a whisper. “But I don’t love him. I barely even know him.”

Your heart ached for her, and you squeezed her hands gently. “Love is rarely a luxury afforded to those of us born into noble houses,” you said softly. “But you have survived worse, Sansa. You will survive this too.”

Margaery glanced at you, her expression thoughtful. “You speak with such certainty, my lady. Do you truly believe this will be a kinder fate for her?”

You met her gaze, your own eyes shadowed by the weight of your experiences. “I know Tyrion,” you replied quietly. “He is flawed, yes, but he is not heartless. He will not harm her.”

Margaery seemed to consider this, her lips pressing into a thin line before she nodded. “Then perhaps there is some hope,” she murmured, though her tone lacked conviction.

Sansa sniffled, her tears slowing slightly as she clung to your words. “What if… what if they change their minds again?” she asked, her voice trembling. “What if they decide something even worse?”

You shook your head firmly. “Then I will stand by you,” you said, your voice unwavering. “No matter what happens, you will not face it alone.”

Ser Barristan, who had remained a respectful distance away, stepped closer, his presence a quiet reminder of your own precarious position in the court. You rose to your feet, glancing back at him briefly before returning your focus to Sansa and Margaery.

“Stay with her,” you said to Margaery, your tone soft but commanding. “She needs someone who can keep her steady right now.”

Margaery nodded, her expression solemn. “Of course.”

You reached out, brushing a strand of Sansa’s hair away from her face. “Take the time you need to grieve this, Sansa,” you said gently. “But do not let it consume you. You are a wolf, and wolves endure.”

She nodded faintly, her tears slowing as a flicker of determination began to creep into her expression. It wasn’t much, but it was a start.

As you turned to leave, Barristan fell into step beside you, his hand resting lightly on the hilt of his sword. “You spoke well, my lady,” he said quietly. “But this court is filled with vipers. You cannot save everyone.”

You glanced at him, your expression hardening. “Perhaps not, Ser Barristan,” you replied, your voice low. “But I can try. And I will not let her be devoured by them.”

The weight of your words hung between you as you walked away, your mind racing with thoughts of how to protect Sansa in a world determined to break her.

The chamber where Tywin and Olenna Tyrell sat was austere. The Painted Table between them was littered with scrolls, maps, and the remnants of a freshly poured pot of tea. Tywin, ever composed, sat upright in his chair, his steely gaze fixed on Olenna, whose sharp wit and relaxed demeanor made the tension in the room almost seen.

"You do understand, Lady Olenna," Tywin said in his measured tone, "this arrangement is not up for negotiation. Sansa Stark will marry my son, Tyrion. It is the best way to secure both her claim to Winterfell and the loyalty of the North, should Roose Bolton’s efforts falter."

Olenna tilted her head, a sardonic smile playing on her lips as she sipped her tea. "Yes, yes, Lord Tywin, but you can’t possibly expect the girl to be overjoyed at this prospect. A Lannister wedding is hardly a maiden’s dream these days. You’ve quite the reputation, you know."

Before Tywin could reply, the door opened abruptly, and you stepped in, your gown trailing behind you as Ser Barristan lingered in the doorway. The room grew heavier as both Tywin and Olenna turned their gazes toward you, the latter looking more intrigued than perturbed by the interruption.

“Forgive me,” you said, though your tone carried little contrition. “But I need to speak with you, Lord Tywin.”

Tywin arched a brow, his hands folding neatly in front of him. “We are in the middle of a discussion, Lady Y/N,” he said, his tone cold but measured. “Surely it can wait.”

“It cannot,” you countered, stepping further into the room. Your gaze flickered briefly to Olenna, who watched with unabashed interest. “This is about Sansa Stark.”

Olenna’s brows rose slightly, and she leaned back in her chair, clearly pleased to witness the exchange.

“What about her?” Tywin asked, his voice edged with impatience.

You clasped your hands in front of you, your posture straight and unyielding. “I’ve just spoken with her. She’s devastated by this decision to marry her to Tyrion. She was promised to Willas Tyrell. You’ve taken her hope and replaced it with something she cannot understand. She is a child, Tywin.”

Tywin’s eyes narrowed, his composure hardening further. “She is a Stark, and she is a key to securing the North. Her feelings are irrelevant.”

You stepped closer, your voice rising slightly. “Irrelevant? You would sacrifice her peace of mind, her future, for your ambition?”

Tywin stood, his towering form casting a long shadow across the table. “Peace of mind?” he repeated, his tone cold. “You speak of peace as though it were a luxury afforded to those in power. It is not. Sansa Stark has a duty to her family and to the realm. Just as you do.”

Olenna smirked, sipping her tea as she watched the exchange unfold like a play meant for her amusement.

“Duty,” you snapped, your voice sharp now. “Always duty with you, Tywin. Did you ever once consider the weight of what you demand from others? Or is everything and everyone simply another puppet to be moved around when it suits you?”

The room fell silent, the air crackling between you. Olenna’s eyes darted between the two of you, her smirk growing wider.

“I fail to see why this concerns you so deeply,” Tywin said finally, his tone softer but no less commanding. “You’ve made your point, Lady Y/N. Now leave the matter to those who understand it.”

You crossed your arms, tilting your head slightly as you replied, “If you understood it so well, Tywin, you wouldn’t have to deal with me right now.”

For a moment, it seemed as though Tywin might argue further, but then a faint smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. He shook his head slightly, his expression shifting into something almost amused, though his voice remained firm. “Very well. I’ll speak with Sansa myself and ensure she understands her duty. You may go.”

You blinked, caught off guard by his sudden concession, but you refused to let it show. Nodding curtly, you turned on your heel and left the room, Ser Barristan falling into step beside you as the door closed behind you.

Olenna chuckled softly, setting her teacup down with a satisfied clink. “Well, that was entertaining,” she said, her sharp eyes glinting with mischief. “I must say, Tywin, I didn’t think you had it in you to yield so gracefully.”

Tywin exhaled slowly, lowering himself back into his chair. “It wasn’t yielding,” he replied, his tone clipped. “It was strategy.”

Olenna leaned forward slightly, her grin widening. “Oh, is that what you’re calling it now? Strategy? I’ve never seen you so…” She waved a hand, searching for the word. “Accommodating.”

Tywin shot her a warning look, but Olenna merely laughed, clearly enjoying herself. “I like her,” she said, nodding toward the door. “She has spirit. A dangerous thing to allow in your wife, but entertaining nonetheless.”

Tywin didn’t respond, instead turning his attention back to the maps before him, though the faintest flicker of amusement lingered in his eyes.

The echoes of your footsteps on the stone floor were accompanied by Ser Barristan’s steady presence behind you. The corridor felt colder as you moved toward your chambers, the weight of your conversation with Tywin still fresh in your mind. As you rounded a corner, a familiar figure appeared before you—Cersei, her golden locks framing her smug expression. Her arms were crossed, and the glint in her emerald eyes told you she had been waiting for this encounter.

“Well, if it isn’t the Lady Lannister herself,” Cersei drawled, her tone laced with condescension. “You’ve been busy, haven’t you?”

You stopped, your expression calm but guarded. “Cersei,” you greeted, your voice civil. “What brings you here?”

She took a step closer, her eyes flickering briefly to your midsection before returning to your face. “I was merely curious,” she said with a practiced smile. “How is the pregnancy progressing? My father must be… overjoyed.”

Your hand instinctively rested on your growing belly, though your face betrayed none of the irritation her words stirred. “It progresses well,” you replied evenly. “Better than Grand Maester Pycelle expected, though I doubt his predictions are ever worth much.”

Cersei let out a soft laugh, though there was no humor in it. “Yes, Pycelle has a way of overstating his usefulness. But how fascinating that you’re handling it so well. I wonder, is it because of your Valyrian blood? Or do you simply thrive on being the center of attention?”

You met her gaze steadily, refusing to rise to the bait. “It’s neither, Cersei. Perhaps I’m simply stronger than you give me credit for.”

Her smirk faltered briefly before she recovered, stepping even closer. “Strength is important,” she said, her tone softening, though her eyes remained calculating. “Especially when surrounded by people pretending to be something else. You should remember that.”

“I do,” you replied, your voice calm but firm. “And I’ve learned that strength comes not from tearing others down but from knowing when to rise above them.”

Cersei’s lips tightened, but she masked it quickly with another smile. “How noble of you,” she said archly. “I imagine you must be feeling quite sad about all of this.”

You tilted your head slightly, curious. “Sad? About what, exactly?”

Her smile widened, her tone turning syrupy. “About poor little Sansa, of course. Such a sweet girl, isn’t she? So naive. It must pain you to see her traded like a pawn in a game she doesn’t understand.”

You allowed a pause, studying her carefully before replying. “It does pain me,” you said softly. “But not for the reasons you think.”

Cersei arched an eyebrow, her amusement flickering with confusion. “Oh? Do enlighten me, then.”

You stepped closer, your gaze steady and unflinching as you lowered your voice. “It pains me, Cersei, because I see so much of you in her. A young girl, trapped in a world she cannot control, used and discarded by those around her. But where Sansa may still find hope, you…” You let the sentence hang, your tone laced with veiled courtesy. “You’ve lost yours.”

Her face hardened, the smugness draining away as she stared at you. “What nonsense is this?” she demanded, her voice low but sharp. “I’ve lost nothing.”

You offered a faint, almost pitying smile. “Haven’t you? You wear your crown of bitterness like armor, Cersei. But all it does is isolate you, even from those who should stand beside you.”

Her jaw tightened, her eyes narrowing. “Careful, Lady Lannister,” she said coldly. “You may be my father’s wife, but that does not grant you the right to lecture me.”

“I have no intention of lecturing,” you replied smoothly. “Only to remind you that strength comes in many forms. You may believe yourself untouchable, but even the tallest towers can crumble when their foundations are weak.”

Cersei’s gaze burned into yours, her hands clenched at her sides. For a moment, it seemed as though she might lash out, but instead, she forced a tight smile. “You think yourself so wise, don’t you?” she said, her voice dripping with venom. “But wisdom won’t save you from this game. You’ll see that soon enough.”

You inclined your head slightly, the gesture both respectful and dismissive. “Perhaps. But for now, I must prepare for the rest of the day. If you’ll excuse me, Cersei.”

You moved past her, your steps measured and composed, leaving her standing alone in the corridor. As you walked away, you felt her gaze burning into your back, but you did not look back. Ser Barristan fell into step beside you, his expression stoic but his presence reassuring.

“You were bold,” he murmured quietly. “She will not forget that.”

“She doesn’t need to forget,” you replied softly, your voice steady. “She only needs to think.”

Tywin sat at the head of the table, his posture as straight and imposing as ever, his hands steepled before him as he continued listening to Olenna Tyrell with a mixture of patience and calculation.

Olenna, for her part, seemed perfectly at ease, perched in her chair with an air of casual authority. Her sharp eyes danced with amusement as she studied Tywin, her teacup cradled delicately in her hands.

“Lord Tywin,” she began, her tone laced with a sly edge, “you and I have had many discussions about alliances, strategies, and, of course, the peculiarities of your family. But today, I thought we might delve into something a little more… personal.”

Tywin raised an eyebrow, though his expression remained stoic. “Personal, Lady Olenna? I was under the impression that our discussions were strictly political.”

“Oh, politics and personal matters are often one and the same,” Olenna replied breezily, taking a delicate sip of her tea. “Especially when it comes to you, Lord Tywin. You’ve built your house on both, haven’t you?”

Tywin’s gaze sharpened slightly, though his tone remained cool. “If you have a point, Lady Olenna, I suggest you make it.”

Olenna set her teacup down with a soft clink, leaning forward slightly as her expression grew more pointed. “Very well. I’ve recently had the pleasure of reconnecting with an old acquaintance—someone who, let’s say, remembers the court of King Aerys rather vividly.”

Tywin’s jaw tightened imperceptibly, but he said nothing, waiting for her to continue.

“This acquaintance of mine,” Olenna went on, her voice smooth and unhurried, “mentioned something quite interesting about you. Specifically, about your… ambitions during those years. A certain proposal you made to the Mad King regarding his youngest daughter.”

Tywin’s expression didn’t change, but there was a faint glint of something in his eyes—irritation, perhaps, or caution. “And what, pray, does this acquaintance claim to know?”

Olenna’s smile widened, the corners of her lips curling with satisfaction. “Oh, nothing too scandalous. Just that you were rather… eager to secure a match between yourself and the young princess. A match, it seems, that the Mad King outright rejected.”

Tywin’s gaze darkened, his voice low but measured. “That is old history, Lady Olenna. If your intent is to dredge up ancient slights, I suggest you focus on matters more relevant to the present.”

“Oh, but it is relevant,” Olenna countered, her tone sharp as a blade. “After all, here we are, decades later, and you’ve finally achieved what you wanted, haven’t you? A Targaryen bride, the union of fire and gold.”

Tywin’s jaw clenched slightly, though he refused to rise to her bait. “What happened in the past is of no consequence to the decisions I make now.”

“Isn’t it?” Olenna pressed, her eyes narrowing slightly. “I find it fascinating, really. You’ve always prided yourself on being a man of logic and control, yet here you are, married to the very woman whose family’s rejection you’ve surely never forgotten. One might wonder if this is about more than just strategy.”

Tywin leaned forward slightly, his voice dropping to a cold, measured tone. “You would do well to remember, Lady Olenna, that I do not allow sentiment to cloud my judgment. My marriage to Lady Y/N is a calculated move—one that ensures the stability and legacy of House Lannister.”

Olenna chuckled softly, shaking her head. “Oh, Tywin, you’re as predictable as ever. Always so quick to dismiss anything that might suggest you’re… human. But you forget, I’ve known men like you all my life. You can claim strategy all you like, but I see it for what it is. You wanted her. You’ve always wanted her.”

Tywin’s gaze bore into hers, his silence heavy and deliberate. For a moment, something unspoken was in the room, the air thick with unspoken truths.

Finally, Olenna broke the silence, leaning back in her chair with a satisfied sigh. “Well, whatever your reasons, I must admit, it’s all rather fascinating. The Mad King’s refusal, your patience—or perhaps obsession—and now this union. I do hope it works out for you, Tywin. It would be such a shame if history repeated itself.”

Tywin’s voice was as cold as steel when he finally spoke. “I appreciate your insights, Lady Olenna. But you would do well to remember that my choices are mine alone. If you wish to continue speculating on my motives, I suggest you do so elsewhere.”

Olenna smirked, rising from her seat with a regal grace. “Oh, don’t worry, Lord Tywin. I have no intention of causing trouble. But as I said, I find it all very… enlightening. Good day.”

With that, she turned and swept out of the room, leaving Tywin alone with his thoughts. For a moment, he sat in silence, his hands steepled before him once more. His face betrayed nothing, but his mind churned with the memories Olenna had dredged up—memories he had long since buried.

The memories unfolded in Tywin’s mind like pages from an old, worn book. The vivid colors and echoes of King’s Landing during the height of Aerys Targaryen’s reign came rushing back—though the stench of paranoia and decay that lingered in the Red Keep overshadowed its grandeur. It was the day Tywin had laid out his plans to the Mad King, the day he believed he would solidify the ultimate alliance between House Lannister and House Targaryen.

The throne room was alive with dread, its gilded splendor marred by the unsettling presence of Aerys on the Iron Throne. The Mad King, even then, exuded a sense of menace, his long, unkempt hair cascading over his gaunt face, his violet eyes burning with deranged delight as he listened to Tywin.

"You think," Aerys had said, his voice high-pitched and mocking, "that I would tie my daughter—the blood of Old Valyria, the dragon's line—to you, Tywin? To a lion? A beast of the field?"

Tywin had stood at the base of the Iron Throne, as unflinching as he had been when he first took up the position of Hand. He had chosen his words carefully, keeping his tone steady and devoid of the sharpness that often accompanied his temper. “Your Grace,” he began, “a union between House Lannister and House Targaryen would strengthen the realm immeasurably. My daughter, Cersei, is young and beautiful, a match fit for Prince Rhaegar. And I—”

“You,” Aerys interrupted with a cackle, leaning forward on the throne, his fingers twitching against the jagged edges of the swords that surrounded him. “You would take my daughter as your wife? A dragoness for a lion?”

Varys had been there, lingering in the shadows, his expression inscrutable as his keen eyes darted between Tywin and the Mad King. Several courtiers stood nearby, including Lord Chelsted and Lord Merryweather, their faces betraying thinly veiled discomfort at the volatile mood in the room.

“I would,” Tywin continued, ignoring the ripple of murmurs that spread through the chamber. “Lady Y/N is a princess of royal blood, but she is also young and unwed. A match between us would unify the crown and the wealthiest house in the realm. Such a bond—”

“Enough!” Aerys’s voice boomed, and he rose from the throne, his movements erratic. He descended the steps slowly, his robes trailing behind him like blackened fire. “You think to bind me with your gold, Tywin? To cage the dragons with your lions’ claws? No. Never.”

Tywin remained composed, though the heat of anger burned beneath his skin. “Your Grace, I seek only to serve the realm and secure the future of your house. A union with House Lannister—”

“Would be an insult!” Aerys snarled, his voice echoing off the walls. “The blood of the dragon is pure, untainted by the likes of you. Lions have no place among dragons. They belong in the dirt, clawing for scraps.”

Laughter erupted from Aerys, high and shrill, as he turned his back on Tywin and ascended the steps once more. “Perhaps your daughter can find herself a kennel,” Aerys continued, his voice dripping with malice. “And as for you, Tywin, you forget your place. You serve me. Do not presume to dictate terms to your king.”

A murmur of agreement rippled through the courtiers, though it was hesitant, wary. Varys stepped forward then, his movements as fluid as a shadow. “Your Grace,” the spymaster said, his voice silken and unassuming, “perhaps Lord Tywin’s offer was made out of his deep respect for your house. A rare moment of… misjudgment, surely.”

Aerys turned to Varys, his expression shifting from contempt to suspicion. “Misjudgment?” he repeated, narrowing his eyes. “Or treason?”

“Never treason, Your Grace,” Varys replied smoothly. “Lord Tywin’s loyalty is beyond question. But he is ambitious, and ambition often blinds even the most loyal servants.”

Tywin’s gaze flicked to Varys briefly, his jaw tightening. He knew the eunuch’s words were calculated, a subtle way of defusing the situation while also keeping Aerys’s ire focused elsewhere.

The Mad King waved his hand dismissively, his attention already waning. “Begone, Tywin,” he muttered, sinking back onto the Iron Throne. “And take your golden dreams with you. My bloodline will not be sullied by yours.”

Tywin bowed stiffly, his mind churning with barely restrained fury as he turned and left the chamber. The laughter of Aerys echoed behind him, a sound that would linger in his memory for years to come.

Back in the present, Tywin’s jaw tightened as he recalled that day, the humiliation of being so openly dismissed. Aerys’s madness had only grown after that, and the rift between them widened beyond repair. It was a lesson he never forgot: power was not given—it was taken, seized with unrelenting force.

And now, decades later, he had what Aerys had denied him. The Targaryen princess was his, bound by marriage and bearing his child. Tywin’s lips thinned into a faint smirk. Aerys had laughed at him, but the Mad King was long dead, his dragons reduced to ashes, while Tywin Lannister remained unbroken, building his legacy one calculated step at a time.