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henry-fox-biggest-stan · 8 months ago

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Some more obscure and / or underrated lesbian literature : An incomplete list made by a lesbian in hopes of making other sapphics happy

(I haven’t read all of them)

Sorted by years (this rapidly became a history lesson of lesbian literature sorry I’m a nerd)

Ancient times

(A good article about lesbians in ancient greece / rome)

Queen Zhuang Jiang 庄姜 (???- BC 690) / We know about Sappho and Enheduanna, but what about her? She wrote poems some of which were, uh, pretty gay. I learnt about her here. It is said than her poems are in The Book of Songs (which is a collection of ancient Chinese poetry). I couldn’t find a lot about her but I found enough to believe than (hopefully) she was a real person and the internet isn't lying to me.

Dialogues of the courtesans - Lucian of Samosata (somewhere in the second century BC) / Basically Dialogues of the courtesans is a collection of dialogues between well, courtesans (prostitutes). Either between themselves or between clients. One of the dialogues is called “The Lesbians”. Link to read (somehow finding a pdf of Dialogues of the courtesans is pretty hard but reading it chapter by chapter online it’s not??)

The Babyloniaka - Iamblichus (somewhere in the second century AC) / Lost novel, so all you need to know is here

Of course we can’t forget this Pompeii poem

1200s

Bieiris de Romans (somewhere in the first half of the 1200s) / Bieiris was a French poet, and we only have one of her poems with us because the others have been lost. We don’t know much (anything) about her, except that she was a woman, French, and who wrote about a woman called Maria. Some say that this mysterious Maria referred to the Virgin Mary, others than Maria was her gf, and others than she was writing in the perspective of a man (because obviously a woman writing about other women in a not so platonic way is unthinkable). Anyway, feel free to get your own conclusions, here’s the poem (translated)

1500s

The Sword and the Pen: Women, Politics, and Poetry in Sixteenth-Century Siena - Konrad Eisenbichler / So while this is a modern book, it is the only one I’ve been able to find than includes Laudomia Forteguerri’s poems (1515-1555). Some historians considered her to be the earliest Italian lesbian writer. “Although only six of her sonnets have survived, all are testaments to the love she bore for other women, and five are specifically dedicated to Margaret of Austria.”

The Maitland Quarto / Manuscript (1586) / So, this is a collection of 95 scot poems, and poem 49 is pretty sapphic. It’s technically anonymous, but it has been attributed to Marie Maitland (who transcripted the manuscript and is thought to have added her own poems there). The last lines mean “'There is more constancy in our sex / Than ever among men has been”, I haven’t been able to translate the rest of it. The poem.

Galatea - John Lyly (1592) / “Galatea (or Gallathea) and Phillida who are dressed up in male clothes by their fathers so that they can avoid the requirement of the god Neptune that every year "the fairest and chastest virgin in all the country" be sacrificed to a sea-monster. Hiding together in the forest, the two maidens fall in love, each supposing the other to be a young man.”

1600s

The Flower's Shadow Behind the Curtain - Ko Lien Hua Ying (somewhere in the 1600s) / It is said this book was written towards the end of the Ming dynasty (1368 to 1644). It’s a erotic book, and chapter 22 includes an erotic story between two 16 year old girls. I found it in Sex in China: Studies in Sexology in Chinese Culture by Fang Fu Ruan (believe it or not, I don’t just randomly know all this books, I did research)

Aphra Behn (1640-1689) / English writer, one of the first female writers to live through her writing. She was also a spy. She wrote a lot about women. “Homoeroticism is standard in Behn's verse, either in descriptions such as these of male to male relationships or in depictions of her own attractions to women. Behn was married and widowed early, and as a mature woman her primary publicly acknowledged relationship was with a gay male, John Hoyle, himself the subject of much scandal.” (here). She wrote a lesbian love poem (in the link before, it also makes an analysis of it). The poem: To The Fair Clarinda

Poems, Protest, and a Dream: Selected Writings - Juana Inés De la Cruz (1648-1695) / So the thing about Juana is than every single spanish-speaking lesbian knows her (and loves her), but hardly anyone who doesn’t speak spanish has ever heard of her, which is a shame, because she’s an absolute icon. She was a Mexican nun who was also incredibly gay. You know how Sappho is called the tenth muse? Juana is also called the (mexican) tenth muse. She’s also called the phoenix of America, which is incredibly badass. She learnt how to read at 3 years old, at 8, she asked her mother to send her to college dressed as a man (her mother refused). She learnt and studied by her own, because she wanted to learn. She studied by cutting her hair (if she got something wrong or forgot something, she cut a strand of her hair as a punishment) because she said that “a head adorned with hair is worthless if it’s a head naked of ideas”. When she was sixteen (important to note than she already spoke Latin fluently at 12, having mastered it in just a few lessons) the archbishop Payo Enríquez de Rivera heard of her, and decided to ask her to be the company lady of his wife (his wife and her eventually would have a relationship) and decided to test her intelligence. He got 40 (!!!) university profesor of all subjects, and they all asked her questions related to maths, literature, philosophy, etc. She answered all of them right. At around 21, she decided to become a nun (not out of faith, but because it was either becoming a nun and being able to continue her education, or marrying a man and stop studying. To her, the choice was clear). Also it is said she owned around 4000 books in her personal library. So yeah, an educated, extremely intelligent gal, who wrote lesbian love poems to her gf, and who was definitely not afraid to stand up for herself.

1700s

The Game of Flats - Nicholas Rowe? (1715) / Poem, “game of flats” was an 18th century slang for lesbian sex. Link to read <- that website includes lots of 18th century queer history and poems like this one

The Sappho-an - Anonymous (1735 or 1749) / When I first heard of this I couldn’t believe it. It sounds like an AO3 fanfic, or some modern erotic book (one of those than have a real person in the cover), or maybe a forgotten 1970s lesbian book. It’s none of that. It’s an anonymous poem written in the 1700s. The plot? The goddesses of Olympus are sexually unsatisfied because the gods keep on going after mortals (except Ares, he’s just too busy with war) instead of paying attention to them. The gods keep going after woman and male mortals, so Hera just says yknow what if they can sleep with men then we can sleep with each other. Sappho also appears. Link to read.

Fanny Hill, Memoirs of a Woman of Pleasure - John Cleland (1742) / Ok fine, this one is not sapphic but the main character (female) does have sex with a woman at one point. This is basically an erotic novel. Very dirty (specially for the time period) and very banned in lots of places. The main character is Fanny, a prostitute. It includes lots of straight sex, some gay (mlm) sex, and two pages where Fanny describes in detail having sex with Phoebe, bisexual prostitute. Not sapphic, but thought it was worth mentioning.

1810s

Christabel - Samuel Taylor Coleridge (1816) / So, have you heard of Carmilla (1872)? If you’re reading this post, you probably have, if you haven’t, it’s a classic (vampire) book than is said to have inspired Bram Stoker to write Dracula. It’s also incredibly gay. Well, some say it was Christabel than was the inspiration for Carmilla. Of course we don’t know this for sure, but the similarities definitely are there. Review from a reader: “what if we were the protagonist and villain of a never-completed sensual gothic poem (and we were both girls) / alternately: when you meet a wickedhot girl only she's SPOOKY but that's SEXY and turns out your dad and her dad were also gay back in the day before having a sexy gay falling-out and she's like 'babe let's get naked and hold each other close' and you're like '—wait fuck I mean uhhhh I PRETEND I DO NOT SEE IT!'” I haven’t read this one, however for what it seems Christabel is not explicitly a vampire. Since the poem is unfinished we don’t know the end, and we just think she’s a vampire because so many things used in here were also reused for vampires characterization (like not being able to enter a house unless invited)

1830s

Mademoiselle de Maupin - Théophile Gautier (1835) / “A woman uses her incredible beauty to captivate both d'Albert, a young poet, and disguised as a man, his mistress, Rosette. In this shocking tale of sexual deception, Gautier draws readers into the bedrooms and boudoirs of a French château in a compelling exploration of desire and sexual intrigue, and gives voice to a longing which is larger in scope, namely, the wish for completeness in oneself.”

1840s

Netochka Nezvanova - Fyodor Dostoyevsky (1849) / Incomplete because the author was exiled. Tells the story of Netochka Nezvanova, her childhood and adolescence, and the many many bad things that happen to her. She falls in love with a girl as well.

1870s

Mademoiselle Giraud, My Wife - Adolphe Belot (1870) / “The sensational Mademoiselle Giraud, My Wife tells of the suffering of a naive young man whose new bride will not agree to consummate the marriage. Eventually he learns from an acquaintance, to his amazement, that their wives are lovers.” In reviews it says than this is a homophobic novel (who’s surprised) but “Christopher Rivers argues in his introduction that the protagonist's homophobic attitude toward lesbianism is ironically linked to his intimate homosocial bonds with men”

1880s

Jill - Amy Dillwyn (1884) / “Jill is the story of an unconventional heroine—a gentlewoman who disguises herself as a maid and runs away to London in search of adventure after her mother dies and her father is pursued by a Victorian gold-digger. Once in London she uses her position as lady's maid to become close to her mistress. Her life above and below stairs is portrayed with irreverent wit in this fast-paced story, but at the centre of the novel is Jill's unfolding love for the woman she works for. On the surface a feminist manifesto, Jill is a poignant story of same-sex desire and unrequited love. A new introduction tells the autobiographical story on which the novel is based —the author's own passionate attachment to a woman she called her wife, but who she couldn't have.”

Mephistophela - Catulle Mendès (1889) / “Telling the story of Baronne Sophor d'Hermelinge, a woman as thoroughly martyrized by her creator as any other heroine in the history of fiction, in spite of the enormous competition for that title established by countless writers, male and female, it is one of the archetypal novels of the Decadent Movement, and one of the most striking, precisely because is it such a discomfiting piece of writing, the deliberately controversial nature of which has been further enhanced as its surrounding social context has changed over time. Highly influential, especially on the works of such writers as Jean Lorrain and Renée Vivien, Mephistophela, in placing lesbian amour in the foreground of the story, deals forthrightly and intensively with a literary theme that had previously only been treated with delicacy and indecision, mostly in poetry. It is essentially a horror story about demonic possession, about contrived and cruel damnation, devoid even of a Faustian pact, which merely employs obsessive lesbian desire as an instrument of damnation.” Goodreads review: “As a story it is quite straightforward. Girl has same-sex desires and the novel follows her various affairs up to about the age of thirty. […] More controversially, Stableford (and the books blurb) suggests that it is a novel of demonic possession. Now Brian has probably forgotten more than I will ever learn about the period but a few of the episodes show distinct Charcotian traits (an early childhood 'illness', two doctors in conversation etc) and a (really great) fantasy/visionary episode in the book seems to show, to me, the influence of Michelets book on witchcraft. If anything, the book seems even more subversive that Stableford suggests, as Sophie seems largely 'out and proud' and the author often says that she is 'is as she is' suggesting to me that it is 'natural' rather than demonic. I wonder whether the publisher asked Mendes to add some suggestion of the demonic to 'tone down' the idea that people were actually like 'that'.”

1890s

Avant la nuit / Before the dark - Marcel Proust (1893) / Short story (seriously, less than 10 pages). I read it the other day before bed and it’s pretty good. Talks about Françoise, a woman, revealing her homosexuality to her friend Leslie.

A Sunless Heart - Edith Johnstone (1894) / “Its first third focuses on Gasparine O'Neill, who shares an intense connection with her sickly twin brother, Gaspar. Living in poverty, the two struggle to live decently until Gaspar dies. Here gritty naturalism gives way to fantasy, as Gasparine is rescued from despair by the brilliant Lotus Grace, a much-admired teacher at the local Ladies' College. Sexually exploited from the age of twelve by her sister's fiancé, Lotus cannot love anyone, not even her illegitimate child. Gasparine devotes herself to Lotus, but Lotus finds her final brief happiness with a woman student, Mona Lefcadio, a passionate Trinidadian heiress. Exploring issues of race, sexuality, and class in compelling prose, A Sunless Heart is a startling re-discovery from the late- Victorian era. The appendices to this Broadview edition provide contemporary documents that illuminate the tension between romantic friendship and lesbian consciousness in the novel and address other debates in which the novel the nature of Creole identity, the education of women, and the dangers of childhood sexual exploitation.”

The Songs of Bilitis - Pierre Louÿs (1894) / Poetry. However, believe it or not, these were not written by a woman but by a man. Why add it then, well, the story is quite original. The author (Pierre Louÿs) published this verses as written in Ancient Greece by a “disciple of sappho” named Bilitis. He created this whole character, she was a woman, she was a poet, she was a sappho disciple, her work has been lost until now, and she was a huge lesbian. Of course, this is not true, but still, it’s an interesting read. “Between their open celebration of lesbian love and the eventual revelation of their true authorship—the verses actually were written by French novelist and poet Pierre Louÿs—they became a succès de scandale. Although debunked as a work of antiquity, The Songs of Bilitis remains a classic of erotic literature.”

1900s

A Woman's Affair - Liane de Pougy (1901) / "Despite her beauty and her riches, Annhine de Lys, one of the most notorious courtesans of 1890s Paris, is bored and restless. Into her life bursts Flossie, a young American woman, and everything changes. The love she offers Annhine is dangerous, perverse and hard to resist. Ignoring the warnings of her best friend, Annhine encourages the affair."

I Await the Devil's Coming - Mary MacLane (1902) / “Mary MacLane's I Await the Devil's Coming is a shocking, brave and intelectually challenging diary of a 19-year-old girl living in Butte, Montana in 1902. Written in potent, raw prose that propelled the author to celebrity upon publication, the book has become almost completely forgotten. In the early 20th century, MacLane's name was synonymous with sexuality; she is widely hailed as being one of the earliest American feminist authors, and critics at the time praised her work for its daringly open and confesional style. In its first month of publication, the book sold 100,000 copies--a remarkable number for a debut author, and one that illustrates MacLane's broad appeal.” She’s pretty sapphic and claims her (female) lit teacher is her true love. Also an excerpt from a Goodreads review: “She awaits the Devil to come and marry her and bring happiness if only for three days, meanwhile rehearsing suicide. She prays to the Devil to deliver her from “unripe bananas; from bathless people; from a waist-line that slopes up in the front" but offers sensuous instructions on how to eat an olive, and enjoys porterhouse steaks and fudge she makes with brown sugar. It's quite a ride. Many recent reviewers pigeonhole her as an ahead-of-her-time Goth or emo, simply transcribing an eternal and universal teen angst.”

Q.E.D. - Gertrude Stein (1903) - Autobiographical short story about a love triangle between three women; Adele (Stein), Mabel, manipulative and wealthy, and Helen, who seduces Adele.

A Woman Appeared To Me - Renée Vivien (1904) / I have no idea how to explain this book other than it's all I ever wanted and it has an absolutely breathtaking prose. Think of The Picture of Dorian Gray, Oscar Wilde’s writing style and descriptions, the character's philosophy, and the queer toxic relationships in the book. Now make it lesbian and even more explicitly queer. Also I'm pretty sure the main characters want to fuck Sappho. On the second chapter the main characters + some side characters (all women + one guy) are having a discussion (a symposium of sorts) about how much they love sappho and how believing she married a man is stupid and how they don’t hate men, just really dislike them, and the guy says: "Mademoiselle, you are trying to hide from the irresistible seduction of the male. You will certainly finish your love-life in the arms of a man." And our main character being an icon finished the chapter answering him this: "That would be a crime against nature, sir. I have too much respect for our friend to believe her capable of an abnormal passion!". It’s so good. I have seen mixed opinions on this one, but I’m just gonna say: the girls than get it, get it. Everything by Renée Vivien is so good, but this is her only full novel I think (she also wrote poems and short stories). If you have to read only one book out of all the books in this post, let it be this one.

Zezé - Ángeles Vicente (1909) / Not translated (I think) but it’s the first lesbian novel written in Spanish which is pretty cool (even cooler than it was written by a woman who, in 1909 (or around it) divorced her husband and lived through her writing). The plot is basically, the narrator (the author) is on a ship and shares the cabin where she’s staying with another woman, Zezé, a cuplé singer, who tells her about her life (her childhood in a religious school, where she discovered her sexuality with had a relationship with another (female) student, her life in Madrid as an adult and living life as a woman, etc)

1910s

Despised & Rejected - Rose Allatini (1918) / A gay man and a lesbian are friends during WWI, which they are against (an anti-war novel). I think the book is in the perspective of the gay man, but his friend is also a main character.

The Scorpion - Anna Elisabet Weirauch (1919) / A review by a reader: “This book felt more like historical fiction than a novel actually written in 1919-1932, considering the explicitly lesbian relationships and coming of age and coming out style narrative. The story follows the life of Metta, a lesbian who grew up with a controlling family in Berlin. The narrative follows her from her first crush on her manipulative governess, to her first love the older and intelectual Olga, and her foray into the gay scene in Munich and beyond. The story isn't without suffering and it isn't just a love story despite how much you might want it to be. Definite trigger warnings for suicide (not Metta), poor mental health, homophobia and general cringe comments due to the time of writing. But the point of the book is for Metta to find a way to be, a way to live her life comfortably and happily, essentially to find herself.”

1920s

The Bacheloress - Victor Marqueritte (1922) / “Monique is an emancipated French woman who leaves home to escape a marriage of convenience to a man whom her parents have forced on her. She then succumbs to all sorts of carnal temptations including a lesbian love affair with a singer. The scandal provoked by Victor Margueritte's La Garçonne, here translated as The Bacheloress, led to its author having his legion d'honneur revoked, which only propelled this novel about a brazenly independent "new woman" to best-seller status. What was shocking then was not so much the reckless behavior of its heroine, who is depicted as the victim of psychological torment, but the portrait of the corrupt post-WWI society in which she lives. Authentic as Monique is, the types of love she encounters, set against the hostile and contemptuous portrayal of her peers, only amplifies her struggle.”

Yellow Rose - Nobuko Yoshiva (1923) / This is the only book than has been translated by this author, she was a lesbian who wrote Class-S romance (a Japanese book genre of the time, which focused on lesbian / homoerotic relationships between women [so-called romantic friendships], than usually take place in an all-girls boarding school). This specific story talks about a teacher-student relationship. She has other books, one called Yaneura no nishojo (two virgins in the attic) (1919) which isn’t translated, but sounds good, the story “is thought to be semi-autobiographical, and describes a female-female love experience with her dormmate. In the last scene, the two girls decide to live together as a couple. This work, in attacking male-oriented society, and showing two women as a couple after they have finished secondary education presents a strong feminist attitude, and also reveals Yoshiya's own lesbian sexual orientation”.

Freundinnen: ein Roman unter Frauen / Girlfriends: a Novel among Women - Maximiliane Ackers (1923) / Only in German, not translated. Review from an English reader: “This novel—which went through several editions in the 20s before being banned by the Nazis—is uncompromisingly, heartbreakingly queer. The novel tells the story of the love between two actresses in Wiemar Germany, Ruth and Erika. Both women struggle to support themselves on the stage, to live independently, and to come to terms with their love for each other and how they might live and express themselves and their desire.”

Surplus - Sylvia Stevenson (1924) / Review from a reader: “This book should be included in lists of seminal lesbian fiction. Published in 1924, Surplus is the story of Sally Wraith's young adult adventures after the end of WWI, during which period she served as an ambulance driver. The novel is not explicit and dos not detail a physical relationship between Sally and her romantic friend Averil but Sally refers to Averil as her "dream girl" with whom she wants to spend the rest of her life. This novel was published before Radclyffe Hall's Well of Loneliness , which is often hailed for its early negative portrayal of homophobia. But I find it compelling that Sally's love for Averil is not treated as deviant. It's just tragic for any babydyke to fall in love with a straight girl!”

The Captive - Eduard Bourdet (1926) / Theatre, “Irène is a lesbian tortured by her love for Madame d'Aiguines, but pretending engagement to Jacques (man). Though Irène attempts to leave Madame d'Aiguines and marry Jacques, she returns to the relationship, saying that it is "a prison to which I must return captive, despite myself". Madame d'Aiguines is not seen in the play, but leaves behind nosegays of violets for Irène, as a symbol of her love.” Read here

Women Lovers, or The Third Woman - Natalie Clifford Barney (1926) / “This long-lost novel recounts a passionate triangle of love and loss among three of the most daring women of belle époque Paris. In this barely disguised roman à clef, the legendary American heiress, writer, and arts patron Natalie Clifford Barney, the dashing Italian baroness Mimi Franchetti, and the beautiful French courtesan Liane de Pougy share erotic liaisons that break all taboos and end in devastation as one unexpectedly becomes the "third woman."

HERmione - H.D (1927) / “This autobiographical novel, an interior self-portrait of the poet H. D. (1886-1961) is what can best be described as a find, “a posthumous treasure”. In writing HERmione, H.D. returned to a year in her life that was peculiarly blighted. She was in her early twenties—a disappointment to her father, an odd duckling to her mother, an importunate, overgrown, unincarnated entity that had no place... Waves to fight against, to fight against alone... “I am Hermione Gart, a failure” —she cried in her dementia, “I am Her, Her, Her.” She had failed at Bryn Mawr, she felt hemmed in by her family, she did not yet know what she was going to do with her life. The return from Europe of the wild-haired George Lowndes (Ezra Pound) expanded her horizons but threatened her sense of self. An intense new friendship with Fayne Rabb (Frances Josepha Gregg), an odd girl who was, if not lesbian, then certainly of bisexual bent, brought an atmosphere that made her hold on everyday reality more tenuous. This stormy course led to mental breakdown, then to a turning point and a new beginning as her own true self, as Her"

Lucia Sánchez Saornil (1895 - 1970) / Spanish poet, putting her here because she’s part of generation ‘27. Read her Wikipedia page because she’s literally iconic (I can’t put the link here for some reason). I love her so much. She was an anarchist and very revolutionary. She wrote under a pen name to be able to explicitly write about women and lived with her partner (América Barroso) until she died. I haven’t been able to find an English translation of her writing, but I do have found a French one, so better than nothing

Dusty Answer - Rosamond Lehmann (1927) / Coming of age story of Judith Earle, sensitive, lonely, who grew up as an only child, but with 4 neighbors (all cousins) to make her company (and eventually harbor romantic feelings for). Then she moves to college, where she meets Jennifer and enters a relationship with her. Although the relationship is not explicitly romantic.

Ladies Almanack - Djuna Barnes (1928) / “Written as a medieval calendar, Ladies Almanack is a clever parody of the crazy sapphic circle of Natalie Barney and her Académie des Femmes. Sharp, biting, witty and transgressive, it is also a modern and pioneer in his vision of lesbianism and the issues surrounding relationships between women. The emotional endogamy, transvestism, motherhood, marriage or differences between sex and gender are already presented in the book with a charge of irony and acidity that is rare in the treatment of the topic. And it is also a breath of fresh air, an essential reference to know the world of lesbian women in all its breadth and diversity.”

1930s

The Angel and the Perverts - Lucie Delarue-Mardrus (around 1930) / "Set in the lesbian and gay circles of Paris in the 1920s, The Angel and the Perverts tells the story of a hermaphrodite born to upper class parents in Normandy and ignorant of his/her physical difference. As an adult, s/he lives a double life as Marion/Mario, passing undetected as a lesbian in the literary salons of the times, and as a gay man in the cocaine dens made famous by Colette." Technically not lesbian, but it’s “set in the lesbian cercles of Paris”

Broderie Anglaise - Violet Trefusis (1935) / Technically not a lesbian novel, but by a sapphic author. Do you know about Virginia Woolf and Vita Sackville-West? Of course you do, everyone does. However, do you know than Violet Trefusis used to be Vita’s lover? They dated as teens and again as adults. There’s this whole gay toxic romantic circle between Violet, Vita, and Virginia. Violet wrote this book where she’s basically adding Vita, Virginia, and herself into the characters and dissing them. The plot centers on an encounter between Alexa, a celebrated English writer (Virginia), and her rival, Anne (Violet), and their discussion about their mutual lover, Lord Shorne (Vita).

Summer Will Show - Sylvia Townsend Warner (1936) / Sophia Willoughby's husband has a mistress who he cheats on her with. So she grabs him and packs him up to Paris with his mistress. She'll raise their children and he can have his mistress all day long if he wants, what she wants is to not see him. Sadly, her children die, and she goes to Paris, where she'll find her husband's mistress, and the two of them start an affair with eachother.

Diana: A Strange Autobiography - Diana Frederics (1939) / “«This is the unusual and compelling story of Diana, a tantalizingly beautiful woman who sought love in the strange by-paths of Lesbos. Fearless and outspoken, it dares to reveal that hidden world where perfumed caresses and half-whispered endearments constitute the forbidden fruits in a Garden of Eden where men are never accepted». This is how A Strange Autobiography was described when it was published in paperback in 1952. The original 1939 hardcover edition carried with it a Publisher's This is the autobiography of a woman who tried to be normal. In the book, Diana is presented as the unexceptional daughter of an unexceptional plutocratic family. During adolescence, she finds herself drawn with mysterious intensity to a girl friend. The narrative follows Diana's progress through college; a trial marriage that proves she is incapable of heterosexuality; intelectual and sexual education in Europe; and a series of lesbian relationships culminating in a final tormented triangular struggle with two other women for the individual salvation to be found in a happy couple.”

1940s

Hidden Path - Elena Fortún (somewhere around the 1940s) / Maria Luisa grows up on 1910s/1920s Spain. She is a peculiar girl, one who despises wearing dresses and wants to dress as a sailor, who could spend all day reading, who loves painting, and who swears she will never marry. Oh, and she's also a lesbian. Based on the author's life Maria Luisa is kind of the author's alter ego, and it follows her from childhood to adulthood while dealing with a world not created with people like her in mind. (Not published until 2016)

El Pensionado de Santa Casilda / The Boarding School of Saint Casilda - Elena Fortún (somewhere around the 1940s) / This book is not translated, but if you know spanish I recommend to pick it up. A group of 14/15 year old girls who go to the same spanish all-girls boarding school, and they are all in love with each other. It follows them into adulthood and how they navigate their lives being women and lesbians in the past (Not published until 2022). Messy lesbians at its finest. Like, seriously. Lesbians still in love with their ex and not over their first love, dating their friends and their ex friend, and the ex of their friend, and having sugar mommies, etc etc

1960s

Winter Love - Han Suyin (1962) / “As a college student in London during the bitterly cold winter of 1944, Red falls in love with her married classmate Mara. Their affair unleashes a physical passion, a jealousy, and a sense of self-doubt that sweep all her previous experiences aside and will leave her changed forever. Set against the rubble of the bombed city, in a time of gray austerity and deprivation, Winter Love recalls a life at its most vivid.”

The Chinese Garden - Rosemary Manning (1962) / “A "very intelligent, sensitive, and compelling" novel of adolescent rebellion and sexual awakening at a girls' boarding school (Anthony Burgess). Set in a repressive British girls' boarding school in the late 1920s—where not only sexuality but femininity is squashed—the novel is the coming-of-age story of sixteen-year-old Rachel, a sensitive, bright, and innocent student. Rachel finds refuge from the Spartan conditions, strict regime, fierce discipline, and formidable headmistress at Bampfield in a secret garden. She also finds friendship there, with a rebellious girl named Margaret. As Margaret has her mind expanded by a scandalous tome entitled The Well of Loneliness, she engages in a bold, forbidden act—the ultimate transgression at Bampfield—and Rachel is drawn into the turmoil. Confronted with the persecution of her friend and troubled by a growing awareness of her own sensuality, Rachel faces an imposible choice that drives her to desperate measures.”

The Microcosm - Maureen Duffy (1966) / “At the House of Shades, Matt, a bar-room philosopher, tries to make sense of the disparate lives which cross here -- of Judy who saves herself and her finery for a Saturday night lover, of Steve the gym teacher who dreads a chance encounter with a pupil in this twilight environment, and of Matt herself, who needs these vicarious exchanges despite the security of her relationship with Rae and her sense that this lesbian sanctuary is a prison too, enforcing the guilt and estrangement of the city streets beyond. Elsewhere there are women such as Marie, trapped within an unwanted marriage and unable to admit her sexuality, and Cathy, for whom the discovery that she is not 'the only one in the world' is an affirmation of her existence. With its innovative structure and style, perfectly mirroring the voices and experiences of women forced by society to live on the margins, The Microcosm remains as powerful today as when originally published in 1966.”

A Place For Us / Patience & Sarah - Isabel Miller (1969) / First named A Place For Us, then changed to Patience & Sarah. Not necessarily obscure, but no one ever talks about it. Based on a real life story, “In the early nineteenth century, in a puritanical New England town, two women fall in love. With no one to guide or support them, Patience and Sarah try to follow their hearts. Defying society and history, they buy a farm and discover they can live together, away from the world that had sought to limit them and their love…”

1970s

Beginning with O - Olga Broumas (1977) / A poetry collection by a lesbian, greek writer.

The Same Sea as Every Summer - Esther Tusquets (1978) / A stream-of-consciousness type book, by an author who has been compared to Virginia Woolf. “Poetic and erotic, El mismo mar de todos los veranos ( The Same Sea As Every Summer ) was originally published in Spain in 1978, three years after the death of Franco and in the same year that government censorship was abolished. But even in a new era that fostered more liberal attitudes toward divorce, homosexuality, and women's rights, this novel by Esther Tusquets was controversial. Its feminine view of sexuality (in particular, its depiction of a lesbian relationship) was unprecedented in Spanish fiction. The disillusioned narrator of The Same Sea As Every Summer is a middle-aged woman whose unhappy life prompts a journey into she past to rediscover a more authentic self. However, events force her to realize that love or trust will inevitably be repaid by betrayal. This pattern assumes various forms in a story that moves forward as well as backward, playing out in Barcelona among the haute bourgeoisie. Richly textured with allusion, The Same Sea As Every Summer is also a commentary on post-Civil War Spanish society by an author who grew up during the repressive Franco regime.”

Así es: Mi vida 3 - Victorina Durán (somewhere in the late 1970s) / So, not translated but has great historical value. Basically, this is the third book out of Victorina’s memories that she wrote in the 70s. Victorina (1899 - 1993) was so cool. She was an icon. She was a sceneographer, a painter, a costume designer, writer (aside from her memories, she has some theatre plays), etc. She actually wanted to be an actress. She was part of the Círculo Sáfico de Madrid (the sapphic club of Madrid, a club made out of her and her friends, who were sapphic) among others. She never hid her sexuality. She was friends with almost all the importante well known people in 1920s / 1930s Spain. This book is the third one out of her memories, and it’s focused explicitly on her relationships (all with women). She said she wanted to focus on them and give them a book of their own, so this is of great historical value, giving insights into the queer spaces, lesbian scene, wlw relationships and being gay at that time. I need to read it so bad if someone has a pdf please tell me I’ll send them my fanfic wips

1980s

On Strike against God - Joanna Russ (1980) / “A lost feminist masterwork by feminist and speculative fiction icon, Joanna Russ, about a young lesbian's coming-to-consciousness during the social upheaval of the 1970s. When Esther, a recently divorced professor, has her first lesbian love affair, the fallout brings her everyday miseries into focus and precipitates a personal crisis. She flees her small, upstate New York college town, grapples with gender confusion and the ghosts of therapists past, and fumbles her way through comedic sexual self-discovery, oscillating all the while between visionary confidence and debilitating self-doubt. Confronted with the homophobia of straight feminists and the misogyny of gay men, Esther is left to forge a language for her feminism and her burgeoning lesbian desire. On Strike Against God is quintessentially experimental but accesible, alternately wry and earnest, poignantly didactic, playful, and emotionally charged.” From a review: “For anyone like me who's unfamiliar with the quote which inspired the title: A judge was sentencing a picketer from the early twentieth century shirtwaist-makers strike (the first large scale strike by women), and he told her, "You are striking against God and Nature, whose law is that man shall earn his bread by the sweat of his brow. You are on strike against God!"

Faultline - Sheila Ortiz Taylor (1982) / “An outrageous, zesty, funny Lesbian novel; the adventures of a Lesbian mother with six children, three hundred rabbits, and very relaxed attitude."

The Swashbuckler - Lee Lynch (1985) / "Frenchy Tonneau leaves her closeted home in the Bronx for the bars of New York City, the freedom of Provincetown, and the liberation of Greenwich Village in the 1960s and 1970s. Her hangouts, her women, her small yet universal world tell the stories of the times - and the stories of lesbians today. A timeless journey and a riveting read, The Swashbuckler is heart-wrenching, heartwarming, and unforgettable." Butch main character, lesbian life in the 60s/70s, lesbian-feminism, butchfemme, etc.

Fried Green Tomatoes at the Whistle Stop Café - Fannie Flagg (1987) / listen, LISTEN, I know this book is not obscure, absolutely not given it even has a movie adaptation, but people do not give this book the love it deserves. I'm constantly thinking about Idgie and Ruth, they are one of my favorite fictional couples ever, and also my favorite lesbian fictional couple. They are such interesting characters with such an interesting dynamic and I just love them so so much. A femmebutch couple in 1920s Alabama, who go through many hardships but still find eachother, still end together, and even have a restaurant, live together, and raise a kid. And not only them, but the book is made out of 4 main characters (or 3 depends on if you see Ninny as a main character or not), Idgie, Ruth, and Ninny and Evelyn. Evelyn, an 80s depressed housewife in her 40s finds solace and a true friend in Ninny, a 90 year old woman staying at a nursing home (not ‘cause she needs it, but to keep a friend company). Ninny tells her the story of Idgie (her, kind of, sister) and Ruth, her best friend and lover. Evelyn finds feminism and hope through the memories, getting inspired by Idgie and Ruth's story and becoming happier in her life. It has several points of views and it jumps between years (first 1980s, then 1920s, then 1940s, then 1980s again, etc) and it also talks a lot about racism in 1920s Alabama, and i'll just stop because I love this book so much and i could go on forever. Oh, and also they murder a man and feed him to a police officer.

Lovers' choice - Becky Birtha (1987) / A collection of eleven short stories about lesbian women.

1990s

Out Of Time - Paula Martinac (1990) / Susan finds an old photograph album with pictures from the 1920s, all pictures being of a group of women (four in total). She's told it's not for sale, but she steals it anyway. After some digging, she finds out than two of the girls from the photos were lovers! And not only is Susan trying to navigate the details of her life and of her relationship with her own girlfriend, but she obsesses over the women in the picture, and eventually, the spirits of the girls start to haunt her.

The Gilda Stories - Jewele Gomez (1991) / Gilda escaped from slavery in the 1850s, until she's taken by a vampire who (consensually) turns her into a vampire too. Gilda moves through the decades finding community and connections and helping people, and slowly builds a place for herself in time. (Fine, not actually obscure since I’ve seen it all around the internet, but it just sounds so good)

Annabel and I - Chris Anne Wolfe (1996) / Plot summed up by a reader: “Half-orphaned Jenny-Wren spends her summers at her uncle Jake's fishing lodge on Lake Chautauqua. One summer day when she's twelve years old while boating with her uncle, she finds a girl on the end of a dock reaching futilely for her escaped model boat. Jenny swims over and rescues the boat, meeting the orphaned Annabel, spending her summers at her grandmother's summer estate. This begins a friendship that endures and grows for years as the two girls spent each summer together, only to be separated at the end of summer. As the two grow older, they realize a magic is at work that keeps bringing them together, despite the near century between them. As the summers come and go, the two young women discover their love for each other, and the realization that their love is imposible. Can their love persist beyond those fleeting summers and flourish, in the face of time?”. Review from a reader: “The foreword says this book is for all wlw, and that, "Because there are as many different ways to love a woman as there are women who love women; it's the loving, not the label, that really matters." That really captured the core of what this book does, it treasures the love we create with our bare hands for and with another woman.” A time travel romance (Jenny is from the 1980s, Annabel from 1890s)

Ain't Gonna Be the Same Fool Twice - April Sinclair (1996) / Bisexual mc. “Jean "Stevie" Stevenson, the indomitable heroine of "Coffee Will Make You Black," is back—somewhat older and wiser, with some experience and a college degree -- diving headfirst into the hot tub, free love, yoga, and vegetarian lifestyle of 1970s San Francisco. In this liberating new world of raised consciousness, mind-expanding, and disco-dancing, a soul sister with passion and daring has room to experiment with life and love to find out who she "really" is.”

Beyond the Pale - Elana Dykewomon (1997) / “The story of two Jewish women living through times of darkness and inhumanity in the early 20th century, capturing their undaunted love and courage in luminous and moving prose. The richly textured novel details Gutke Gurvich's odyssey from her apprenticeship as a midwife in a Russian shtetl to her work in the suffrage movement in New York. Interwoven with her tale is that Chava Meyer, who was attended by Gurvich at her birth and grew up to survive the pogrom that took the lives of her parents. Throughout the book, historical background plays a large part: Jewish faith and traditions, the practice of midwifery, the horrific conditions in prerevolutionary Russia and New York sweatshops, and the determined work of labor unionists and suffragists." While it is a romance, it's also more than that, it's about the life of Jewish women in the 20th century.

Crystal Diary - Frankie Hucklenbroich (1997) / “Frankie Hucklenbroich's razor-edged, compelling, often wryly humorous story hustles us from the blood-and-beer-drenched corners of her St. Louis meat-packing district '50s youth, through the sex-soaked Hollywood alleys of her '60s baby butch years, into the druggy metropolis of '70s San Francisco. Moving relentlessly from one woman to another until faces and bodies blur, scamming her existence, learning what the street has to how to make a buck, how to make it with a woman, how to court the dangers of crystal meth, how to survive.”

Hers 3 - Terry Wolverton (1999) / Short stories

2000s

Valencia - Michelle Tea (2000) / "Valencia is the fast-paced account of one girl's search for love and high times in the drama-filled dyke world of San Francisco's Mission District. Through a string of narrative moments, Tea records a year lived in a world of girls: there's knife-wielding Marta, who introduces Michelle to a new world of radical sex; Willa, Michelle's tormented poet-girlfriend; Iris, the beautiful boy-dyke who ran away from the South in a dust cloud of drama; and Iris's ex, Magdalena Squalor, to whom Michelle turns when Iris breaks her heart."

Naked in the Promised Land: A Memoir - Lillian Faderman (2003) / “Born in 1940, Lillian Faderman is the only child of an uneducated and unmarried Jewish woman who left Latvia to seek a better life in America. Lillian grew up in poverty, but fantasised about becoming an actress. When her dreams led to the dangerous, seductive world of the sex trade and sham-marriages in Hollywood of the fifties, she realised she was attracted to women, and that show-biz is as cruel as they say. Desperately seeking to make her life meaningful, she studied at Berkeley; paying her way by working as a pin-up model and burlesque dancer, hiding her lesbian affairs from the outside world. At last she became a brilliant student and the woman who becomes a loving partner, a devoted mother, an acclaimed writer and ground-breaking pioneer of gay and lesbian scholarship. Told with wrenching immediacy and great power, Naked in the Promised Land is the story of an exceptional woman and her remarkable, unorthodox life.”

Her Naked Skin - Rebecca Lenkiewicz (2008) / Theatre. “Militancy in the Suffragette Movement is at its height. Thousands of women of all classes serve time in Holloway Prison in their fight to gain the vote. Amongst them is Lady Celia Cain who feels trapped by both the policies of the day and the shackles of a frustrating marriage. Inside, she meets a young seamstress, Eve Douglas, and her life spirals into an erotic but dangerous chaos. London 1913. A crucial moment when, with emancipation almost in sight, women refuse to let the establishment stand in their way.”

The Rain Before it Falls - Jonathan Coe (2008) / “A story of three generations of women whose destinies reach from the English countryside in World War Il to London, Toronto, and southern France at the turn of the new century. Evacuated to Shropshire during the Blitz, eight-year-old Rosamond forged a bond with her cousin Beatrix that augured the most treasured and devastating moments of her life. She recorded these memories sixty years later, just before her death, on cassettes she bequeathed to a woman she hadn't seen in decades. When her beloved niece, Gill, plays the tapes in hopes of locating this unwitting heir, she instead hears a family saga swathed in promise and the story of how Beatrix, starved of her mother's affection, conceived a fraught bloodline that culminated in heart-stopping tragedy—its chief victim being her own granddaughter. And as Rosamond explores the ties that bound these generations together and shaped her experience all along, Gill grows increasingly haunted by how profoundly her own recollections--not to mention the love she feels for her grown daughters, listening alongside her-- are linked to generations of women she never knew. A stirring, masterful portrait of motherhood and family secrets, "The Rain Before It Falls" is also a meditation on the tapestries we weave out of the past, whether transcendent or horrific.”

2010s

When We Were Outlaws - Jeanne Cordova (2011) / "A sweeping memoir, a raw and intimate chronicle of a young activist torn between conflicting personal longings and political goals. When We Were Outlaws offers a rare view of the life of a radical lesbian during the early cultural struggle for gay rights, Women's Liberation, and the New Left of the 1970s. Brash and ambitious, activist Jeanne Cordova is living with one woman and falling in love with another, but her passionate beliefs tell her that her first duty is "to the revolution".—to change the world and end discrimination against gays and lesbians."

Call Me Esteban - Leila Kalamuié (2015) / “With unapologetic vividness, Lejla Kalamujic depicts pre- and post-war Sarajevo by charting a daughter coping with losing her mother, but discovering herself. From imagined conversations with Franz Kafka to cozy apartments, psychiatric wards, and cemeteries, Call Me Esteban is a piercing meditation on a woman grasping at memories in the name of claiming her identity.”

Lancelot: Her Story - Carol Anne Douglas (2015) / Arthurian legend retelling! "A young girl sees a man rape and murder her mother. She grabs a stick and puts out his eye. Her father raises her as a boy so she will be safe from men's attacks. She practices and practices until she becomes a great fighter - Lancelot. She wants to protect women—and she does. Lancelot hears about King Arthur, a just king across the sea, and journeys to earn a place at Camelot. She vows to serve him. but fears that Arthur and his men will discover that she is a woman and send her away. Lancelot is shocked to realize that she is falling in love with the king's wife, Guinevere. Guinevere is a strong woman who would have preferred to be queen in her own right, not through marriage. Saxons attack Arthur's kingdom, and Lancelot finds out that fighting a war is far different from saving women in single combat. The savagery of war devastates her, she is living a lie, but she is also deeply in love…”

Jigsaw Youth - Tiffany Scandal (2015) / “Lose your best friend because you finally Came Out. Spend days driving aimlessly because there's nothing to do. Serve your rapist breakfast because you need your job. Fall asleep to gunshots and sirens because that's the only sense of home you've ever known. Hold hands with ghosts. Your life is in pieces, but you can't be broken. Wipe off the blood. Tired of being told who to be, what to wear, how to act and who to fuck. Break the rules and learn fast how to never get caught. All you need is nothing, but you're happy with your car, guitar and camera. Throwing around polaroids of tits like they're money, you swap stories about adventures and realize that we're all running away from something.”

Creatures of Will & Temper - Molly Tanzer (2017) / Recommended as a sapphic picture of dorian gray retelling, it tells the story of Dorina (hedonistic, art lover, and woman-kisser), her older sister Evadne (fencer and responsable), Lady Henrietta (suit-wearing, cigar-smoking lesbian who is a horrible influence), and Basil, Dorina and Evadne's uncle, and who's character has not changed much. They also summon demons.

The Adventures of China Iron - Gabriela Cabezón Cámara (2017) / “1872. The pampas of Argentina. China is a young woman eking out an existence in a remote gaucho encampment. After her no-good husband is conscripted into the army, China bolts for freedom, setting off on a wagon journey through the pampas in the company of her new-found friend Liz, a settler from Scotland. While Liz provides China with a sentimental education and schools her in the nefarious ways of the British Empire, their eyes are opened to the wonders of Argentina's richly diverse flora and fauna, cultures and languages, as well as to the ruthless violence involved in nation-building. This subversive retelling of Argentina's foundational gaucho epic Martín Fierro is a celebration of the colour and movement of the living world, the open road, love and sex, and the dream of lasting freedom. With humour and sophistication, Gabriela Cabezón Cámara has created a joyful, hallucinatory novel that is also an incisive critique of national myths.”

2020s

Thirst - Marina Yuszczuk (2020) / “Across two different time periods, two women confront fear, loneliness, mortality, and a haunting yearning that will not let them rest. It is the twilight of Europe's bloody bacchanals, of murder and feasting without end. In the nineteenth century, a vampire arrives from Europe to the coast of Buenos Aires and, for the second time in her life, watches as villages transform into a cosmopolitan city, one that will soon be ravaged by yellow fever. She must adapt, intermingle with humans, and be discreet. In present-day Buenos Aires, a woman finds herself at an impasse as she grapples with her mother's terminal illness and her own relationship with motherhood. When she first encounters the vampire in a cemetery, something ignites within the two women-and they cross a threshold from which there's no turning back. With echoes of Mary Shelley's Frankenstein and written in the vein of feminist Gothic writers like Shirley Jackson, Daphne du Maurier, and Carmen Maria Machado, Thirst plays with the boundaries of genre while exploring the limits of female agency, the consuming power of desire, and the fragile vitality of even the most immortal of creatures.” Lesbian vampires!

The Lives We Left Behind - Olivia Bratherton-Wilson (2021) / I read this one so long ago and I don’t remember everything with detail, just than I really liked it. “1943. Seventeen-year-old Dorotea Miller is given the responsibility of managing the family farm when her father and brother are conscripted, leaving her with only her distant mother and the unfamiliar Land Girls for company. Angeline Carter and her four younger brothers are evacuated to the Welsh countryside to escape the bombings; the Miller farm is nothing like they've seen before and certainly more than Angeline bargained for when she meets the surly, unwelcoming farmer's daughter. Despite their rocky start, misunderstandings and tragedies, Dorothea and Angeline realise that their friendship may run deeper than either of them had prepared for.” There is also a sequel! That one I haven’t read tho.

Agatha of Little Neon - Claire Luchette (2021) / "Agatha has lived every day of the last nine years with her sisters (the other nuns) : they work together, laugh together, pray together. Their world is contained within the little house they share. The four of them are devoted to Mother Roberta and to their quiet, purposeful life. But when the parish goes broke, the sisters are forced to move. They land in Woonsocket, a formermill town now dotted with wind turbines. […] Agatha is forced to venture out into the world alone, to teach math at a local all-girls high school, where for the first time in years she will have to reckon with what she sees and feels all on her own. Who will she be if she isn't with her sisters? These women, the church, have been her home--or has she just been hiding? […] It is a novel about female friendship and devotion, the roles made available to us, and how we become ourselves." Lesbian nuns

Burning Butch - R/B Mertz (2022) / A butch lesbian memoir of their life growing up catholic and surviving in the world, while dealing with faith and what it shape it takes to them.

London on My Mind - Clara Alves (2022) / So, the English translation just came out! Funny thing is, I started this in 2022 even tho I don’t know Portuguese (translating paragraph by paragraph with google translate) and it was pretty good. I haven’t finished it (translating a whole book with google translate is definitely work) but I’m so ready to read it now that it’s translated. Dayana (seventeen, black, plus size, and Brazilian) is forced to move to London with her father (who abandoned her mother and her) and his new family after her mother died. She’s having a pretty horrible time, until, on a walk, finds a redhead girl… escaping Buckingham Palace?? So of course, she helps her escape. Who exactly is this girl? Why was she escaping?? The answer, her name is Diana and she’s sort of (super) the princess of Wales. Huh.

Helen House - Kayla Kumari Upadhyaya (2022) / “Right before meeting her girlfriend Amber's parents for the first time, the unnamed narrator of Helen House learns that she and her partner share a similar both of their sisters are dead. As the narrator wonders what else Amber has been hiding, she struggles with her own secret--using sex as a coping mechanism--as well as confusion and guilt over whether she really cares about Amber, or if she's only using her for sex. When they arrive at the parents' rural upstate home, a quaint but awkward first meeting unravels into a nightmare in which the narrator finds herself stranded in a family's decades-long mourning ritual. At turns terrifying and erotic, Helen House is a queer ghost story about trauma and grief.”

Promises in Pompeii - Violet Morley (2022) / Set in Ancient Rome, it tells the story of two girls, Octavia and Helvia, childhood friends, and their journey through life as women and through their feelings. In the author ig, she said it includes: adventure/survival, against the odds, brothels, butch/femme, coming of age, disguised as a man, first love, friends to lovers, opposites attract, etc. I’m currently reading it, and I really like it so far.

Nettleblack - Nat Reeve (2022) / “Subversive and playful, Nettleblack is a neo-Victorian queer farce that follows a runaway heir/ess and an organisation of crime-fighting misfits as they struggle with the misdeeds besieging a rural English town. The year is 1893. Having run away from her family home to escape an arranged marriage, Welsh heiress Henrietta “Henry” Nettleblack finds herself ambushed, robbed, and then saved by the mysterious Dallyangle Division - part detective agency, part neighbourhood watch. Desperate to hide from her older sisters, Henry disguises herself and enlists. But the Division soon finds itself under siege from a spate of crimes and must fight for its very survival. Assailed by strange feelings for her new colleague - the tomboyish, moody Septimus - Henry quickly sees that she's lost in a small rural town with surprisingly big problems. And to make things worse, sinister forces threaten to expose her as the missing Nettleblack sister. As the net starts to close around Henry, the new people in her life seem to offer her a way out, and a way forward. Is the world she's lost in also a place she can find herself? Told through journal entries and letters, Nettleblack is a picaresque ride through the perils and joys of finding your place in the world, challenging myths about queerness - particularly transness - as a modern phenomenon, while exploring the practicalities of articulating queer perspectives when you're struggling for words.”

Sunburn - Chloe Michelle (2023) / In Ireland, the early 1990s, Lucy feels out of place in her small town. She falls in love with her best friend and she has to find a way to find herself, make a meaning out of her feelings, and hide the truth from her conservative small town and religious peers.

Lucky Red - Claudia Cravens (2023) / "A vibrant and cinematic debut set in the American West about a scrappy orphan who finds friendship, romance, and her true calling as a revenge-seeking gunslinger." Lesbian cowboys

Neon Roses - Rachel Dawson (2023) / “Eluned Hughes is stuck. It's 1984 in a valley in south Wales: the miners' strike is ravaging her community; her sister's swanned off with a Thatcherite policeman; and her boyfriend Lloyd keeps bringing up marriage. And if they play '99 Red Balloons' on the radio one more time, she might just lose her mind. Then the fundraising group Lesbians and Gays Support the Miners comes down from London, and she meets June, a snaggle-toothed blonde in a too-big leather jacket. Suddenly, Eluned isn't stuck any more - she's in freefall. June's an artist and an activist, living in a squat in Camden. With June, Eluned can imagine a completely different - and exciting - life for herself. But as her family struggles with the strike, and her relationship with her sister deteriorates, should she really leave it all behind? From the Valleys to the nightclubs of Cardiff, London and Manchester, NEON ROSES is a heartwarming, funny and a little bit filthy queer coming-of-age story with a cracking '80s soundtrack.”

Tale of Three Ships - Darcia G. Laucerica (2023) / “In a world under the thumb of an empire, pirates sail away searching for a breath of freedom. But even the ocean is tainted by the powerful nation that has spread lies about women being bad luck at sea. Glenlivet has never cared about the fear-mongering. Her ship welcomes those who are rejected and need a home. For all the sailor' s superstitions and "codes" of piracy the captain mocks every day, not leaving the docks when it's dark is a personal boundary she swears by ever since acquiring The Outsider about eight years ago. She just might have to break her own rules to protect her crew, escape the claws of a king who wants her dead, and murder the man who raised her.” I’ve heard so many good things about this. Lesbian main character, with mlm and trans side characters. Author in social media said it includes: Chosen pirate family, sirens, indigenous and latine inspired characters, anti-colonialism, and people fighting injustice and abuse.

How to Breathe Ash - Alex Nonymous (2023) / “Eleanor Perrault doesn't know if there's a right way to handle being suddenly orphaned at sixteen, but it's definitely not the way that she's been coping with it. It's been two months since her parents died and despite her autism normally causing her to be even more emotionally volatile than most of her peers, she still hasn't even managed to cry over them yet. On top of trying to learn how to grieve properly, Eleanor's juggling starting a new semester in a new town with an aunt who seems eternally disappointed in her and a cousin who's randomly decided to start hating her. And a crush on the incredibly pretty president of her new school's QSA. How to Breathe Ash is a contemporary YA Cinderella retelling following Eleanor through elaborate dances, anonymous chat rooms, and learning the right way to not be alright.” Autistic mc! While I haven’t read anything from this author (yet) they have lots of wlw/nblw/nblnb books with autistic main characters.

War and Solace: A Tale from Norvegr - Edale Lane (2023) / “A battle-hardened shieldmaiden. A pacifist healer. Can the two find love amid the chaos of war? From Edale Lane, the award-winning, best-selling author of Sigrid & Elyn, comes a new Tale from Norgevr! Tyrdis is a stalwart warrior raised to value honor, courage, and military prowess. When a traumatic injury renders the powerful protector helpless, she depends on the lovely, tender-hearted Adelle to restore her from the brink of death. Is it merely gratitude or true love that draws Tyrdis to the healer? Defying cultural norms, Adelle despises violence and those who propagate it, but when her shieldmaiden patient saves the life of her beloved little girl, she must reexamine her values. Could Tyrdis be more than a stiff, efficient killer with an amazing body? In a kingdom steeped in conflict with their neighbors and internal strife, shocking secrets are revealed, and both women strive to ensure justice prevails. Can they overcome their differences to safeguard their friends, end the war, and fall in love, or will fate prove to be a cruel sovereign?” Historical fiction set during 643. The author also has another two sapphic books set in the same time period.

Maddalena and the Dark - Julia Fine (2023) / “A novel set in 18th-century Venice at a prestigious music school, about two girls drawn together by a dangerous wager Venice, 1717. Fifteen-year-old Luisa has only wanted one thing: to be the best at violin. As a student at the Ospedale della Pietà, she hopes to join the highest ranks of its illustrious girls' orchestra and become a protégé of the great Antonio Vivaldi. Luisa is good at violin, but she is not the best. She has peers, but she does not have friends. Until Maddalena. After a scandal threatens her noble family's reputation, Maddalena is sent to the Pietà to preserve her marriage prospects. When she meets Luisa, Maddalena feels the stirrings of a friendship unlike anything she has known. But Maddalena has a secret: she has hatched a dangerous plot to rescue her future her own way. When she invites Luisa into her plans, promising to make her dreams come true, Luisa doesn't hesitate. But every wager has its price, and as the girls are drawn into the decadent world outside the Pietà's walls, they must decide what it is they truly want—and what they will do to pay for it. Lush and heady, swirling with music and magic, Maddalena and the Dark is a Venetian fairytale about the friendship between two girls and the boundless desire that will set them free, if it doesn't consume them first.”

Greasepaint - Hannah Levene (2024) / “Set against a backdrop of 1950s New York, this experimental novel follows an ensemble cast of all-singing, all-dancing butch dykes and Yiddish anarchists through eternal Friday nights, around the table, and at the bar. In one of many bars, Frankie Gold sings while Sammy Silver plays piano after a day job at the anarchist newspaper. The Butch Piano Players Union meets in the corner next to the jukebox. Laur smokes on the back steps, sweaty thigh to thigh with Vic. Frankie's childhood sweetheart, Lily, turns up at yet another bar to see a second Sammy play every Friday night. And before all that, there's always dinner at Marg's. Fabulated out of oral histories, anthologies, as well as the fiction of the butch-femme bar scene and Yiddish anarchist tradition, Greasepaint is a rollicking whirlwind of music and politics- the currents of community embodied and held inside the bar.”

Perfume & Pain - Anna Dorn (2024) / “A controversial Los Angeles author attempts to revive her career and finally find true love in this hilarious nod to 1950s lesbian pulp fiction. Having recently moved both herself and her formidable perfume bottle collection into a tiny bungalow in Los Angeles, mid-list author Astrid Dahl finds herself back in the Zoom writer's group she cofounded, Sapphic Scribes, after an incident that leaves her and her career lightly canceled. But she temporarily forgets all that by throwing herself into a few sexy distractions—like Ivy, a grad student who smells like metallic orchids and is researching 1950s lesbian pulp, or her new neighbor, Penelope, who smells like patchouli. When Astrid receives an unexpected call from her agent with the news that actress and influencer Kat Gold wants to adapt her previous novel for TV, Astrid finally has a chance to resurrect her waning career. But the pressure causes Astrid's worst vice to rear its head—the Patricia Highsmith, a blend of Adderall, alcohol, and cigarettes-and results in blackouts and a disturbing series of events. Unapologetically feminine yet ribald, steamy yet hilarious, Anna Dorn has crafted an exquisite homage to the lesbian pulp of yore, reclaiming it for our internet—and celebrity-obsessed world”

How It Works Out - Myriam Lacroix (2024) / “Surreal, darkly comic and achingly tender, Myriam Lacroix's debut sees a queer love story play out in many alternate realities. What if you had the chance to rewrite the course of your relationship, again and again, in the hopes that it would work out? After Myriam and Allison fall in love at a show in run-down punk house, their relationship starts to unfold through a series of hypotheticals. What if they became mothers by finding a baby in an alley? What if the only cure for Myriam's depression was Allison's flesh? What if they were B-list celebrities, famous for writing a book about building healthy lesbian relationships? How much darker-or sexier-would their dynamic be if one were a power-hungry CEO, and the other her lowly employee? From the fantasies of early romance to the slow encroaching of violence that unravels the fantasy, each reality builds to complete a brilliant, painfully funny portrait of love's many promises and perils. Equal parts sexy and profane, unsentimental, and gut-wrenching, How It Works Out is a formally inventive, arresting, uncanny exploration of queerness, love, and our drive for connection, in any and all possible worlds.”

All the Painted Stars - Emma Denny (@a-kind-of-merry-war) (2024) / “Oxfordshire 1362. When Lily Barden discovers her best friend Johanna's hand in marriage is being awarded as the main prize at a tournament, she is determined to stop it. Disguised as a knight, she infiltrates the contest, preparing to fight for Jo's hand. But her conduct ruffles feathers, and when a dangerous incident escalates out of Lily's control, Jo must help her escape. Finding safety with a local brewster, Lily and Jo soon settle into their new freedom, and amongst blackberry bushes and lakeside walks an unexpected relationship blossoms. But when Jo's past caches up with her and Lily's reckless behaviour threatens their newfound happiness, both women realise that choices must always come at a cost. The question they need to ask is if the cost is worth the price of love…” The cover of the edition coming out in November is SO pretty and lately I’ve been looking for medieval sapphic books like crazy.

Gentlest of Wild Things - Sarah Underwood (2024 - out august 15th) / So this book is by the same author as Lies We Sing to the Sea, and I’m in no rush to read that book (a so-called odyssey retelling even tho the author has admitted to never actually reading the odyssey??) but this one looks compelling. “On the island of Zakynthos, nothing is more powerful than Desire-love itself, bottled and sold to the highest bidder by Leandros, a power-hungry descendent of the god Eros. Eirene and her beloved twin sister, Phoebe, have always managed to escape Desire's thrall. Until Leandros' wife dies mysteriously and he sets his sights on Phoebe. Determined to keep her sister safe, Eirene strikes a bargain with Leandros: if she can complete the four elaborate tasks he sets her, he will find another bride. But it soon becomes clear that the tasks are part of something bigger; something related to Desire and Lamia, the strange, neglected daughter Leandros keeps locked away. Lamia knows her father hides her for her own protection, though as she and Eirene grow closer, she finds herself longing for the outside world. But the price of freedom is high, and with something deadly-something hungry- stalking the night, that price must be paid in blood…” The author said that “Gentlest of Wild Things is a sapphic vampiric twist on the story of Eros and Psyche”

The End Crowns All - Bea Fitzgerald (2024 - out on July 18th) / “Princess. Priestess. The most beautiful girl in Troy. Casandra is used to being adored - and when her patron god, Apollo, offers her the power of prophecy, she sees an opportunity to rise even higher. But when she fails to uphold her end of the agreement, she discovers just how very far she has to fall. No one believes her visions. And they all seem to be of one girl - and the war she's going to bring to Troy's shores. Helen fled Sparta in pursuit of love, but it's soon clear Troy is a court like any other, with all its politics and backstabbing. And one princess seems particularly intent on driving her from the city before disaster can strike... But when war finally comes, it's more than the army at their walls they must contend with. Casandra and Helen might hold the key to reweaving fate itself - especially with the prophetic strands drawing them ever closer together. But how do you change your future when the gods themselves are dictating your demise?” Sapphic retelling of the iliad where Helen and Kassandra end up together

If asked, I’ll also do one with gay books

(No 1950s lesbians because I don’t like pulp fiction :( )

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remembrancer-of-heresy · 4 months ago

Text

Pygmalion

[Prologue]

Summary: young woman meets Perturabo and becomes a sculptor in the Iron Blood.

Perturabo/Galatea (OC)

Warnings: no for this part

Word count: 2902

Author's note: The story is alternative version of The desire to possess.

In the prologue we get to know Galatea more. In the following parts there will be more interactions with Perturabo. His POVs will be there as well. With each part the story will get darker and more warnings will appear.

Song: Rammstein - Seemann

Blessed Terra, the birthplace of all humanity and the abode of the Emperor himself. To be born here is a real luck and a gift of fate. To be part of the great Imperium and a resident of the capital. Galatea did not know if the inhabitants of other planets really thought so, but one had to give credit to the iterators. Their skills even made her believe in such truth.

But she was born on the lower levels of the hive and saw the other side of the coin. Dirt and soot, unbearable heat from which weakened serfs died. Galatea herself was born into a family of workers and fully felt the ugliness of such a life. Her parents died too early and she was raised by her grandparents, barely working in a factory. Although her home was closer to the middle levels and therefore she was not born with complications like other children on the lower levels.

Well, after her life changed for the better, there was no need to worry about this. As a child, the girl was often afraid to go to bed, thinking that she would wake up in her tiny, rusty house again. And every time she got up in the morning, she thanked fate for her luck. Even if the Imperial Truths denied such a concept, the little girl then could not come up with another explanation for her new situation.

Galatea had not yet managed to become a full-fledged worker at the factory (although she also made her contribution) due to her age and therefore often spent time outside. She collected stones and built “barricades from the enemies of humanity” and “beautiful palaces”. But most of all, she loved to carve these images in her head on stone. At first, she did not do it very well, but over time, her persistence bore fruit.

Soon she could carve entire pictures on stone. She was especially good at portraits. She even gave them to her grandparents, causing tears of joy and delight on their faces. At least that's what she thought then. But in reality, her dear grandfather and grandmother were saddened that Tea would never be able to reveal her talent because of her origin.

At least, that was the case until one of the best sculptors of Terra, Solomon Vlahos, came to their home. The man was walking around the area in search of inspiration (not for the sake of orphans and the disadvantaged, alas) since the upper levels of Terra had already ceased to bring pleasure. The whims of the rich, as Grandpa used to say. And having learned about Tea's talent, he immediately came to their home to see the child prodigy with his own eyes.

He was impressed. So much so that he offered the grandparents to take the girl to his school for sculptors. Vlahos was even ready to adopt her so that they would not be afraid for the life of their child. Tea remembered that she cried for a long time that day, but her grandma assured her that it would be better for her. They are giving her to the sculptor because they love her.

Galatea never saw them again after that day. The only thing she was able to take with her was an old gray rag. Specially twisted into a rope so that it resembled a person. For the girl, it was a knight, but when Solomon saw the toy, he called it an Iron Warrior. Although the Space Marines were an important part of the Imperium, but being a lower class, Tea knew little about the legions.

But with her new “father”, she not only entered the school of sculptors (named after Vlachos, who would doubt it), but was also able to learn to read. And even gain access to his limitless library. A luxury unheard of for many terranians! And Tea took full advantage of it, absorbing knowledge like a sponge (and this is not to mention the fairy tales that she read at the speed of light).

And of course, thanks to this, she was able to learn about the Legions, the main armies of the Imperium of Man, led by the finest warriors. The Primarchs, the sons of the Emperor himself, whom in ancient times people would call demigods. Tea loved to read about the Space Marines.

But most of all, she loved the Iron Warriors. True heroes who did not wear beautiful and sublime armor like the Emperor's Children or the Blood Angels. They did not just participate in battles. They participated in real sieges, waged grueling wars and were famous for their impeccable fortitude.

Tea could not understand why everyone preferred other Marines. The Imperial Fists were also on her list of favorite Legions for their fortress-building. But there was something about the Iron Warriors that caught the girl's eye. Perhaps it was their grey-yellow armour, reminiscent of a house or her first old rag doll that had fallen apart over the years (she had missed it for a long time).

But be that as it may, Galatea dreamed of one day exalting this Legion as it deserved. And showing the entire Imperium that they were heroes and worthy of recognition like other Space Marines. Even if they were previously called “Corpse Grinders” (the Imperium harshly punished anyone who mentioned the forgotten nickname), Tea understood that war was cruel. And the fact that everyone so conveniently ignored the terrible military actions of other Legions was unfair.

Yes, she dreamed about it a lot. But with each passing year, despite her growing skill, she also understood that not everything should come true. Perhaps Galatea Vlachos would become one of the best sculptors, of which there are as many on Terra and in the entire Imperium as dirt. Perhaps she would be able to create her own school someday. To visit her native land (her grandparents had already died of old age). But to go on a Crusade on the Iron Blood? Absurd.

Then why was she here?

Why was she in the halls of the Golden Palace of Terra? Why was she alone in a corridor with Perturabo himself? He paid no attention to her, looking at the gilded statues. And yet they were so close.

How did this happen?

***

“Rejoice, my dear students! Soon you will ascend to heights that most cannot even dream of!” - Solomon Vlahos, always calm and reasonable, excitedly rushed around the office like a wild animal while all the students looked at him in surprise.

“What happened, master?” - one of the young men casually asked a tormenting question. The son of wealthy aristocrats who decided to become a sculptor. He was a good student and received the appropriate education. Tea had to work hard to make up for her past.

“Something great has happened, my boy! My friend Peter Egon Momus, you all know him as the greatest architect of Terra, has not only secured me an invitation to the Emperor’s palace…”

Everyone sighed in surprise and almost awe. As talented as Master Solomon was, he was only one of many sculptors. Only a few could get into the Emperor’s palace and Vlahos, like many artists, aspired to this. Especially at the expense of others.

“And you, my dears, will not only be able to visit the palace with me, but also to show off your craftsmanship in all its glory. Your sculptures, your creations, will not only be displayed in the palace of our beloved ruler. The primarchs themselves will see them!”

***

Galatea had been toiling over her miniatures all week. Huge statues and busts were alien to her. A life of poverty had left too much of an imprint. It was much better to use a small amount of material, but wisely. The teacher was proud of her after all. How could it be otherwise, because she was the best at it.

So she dedicated one miniature to an ancient legend of Old Earth, several to the warships of the Primarchs. And Olympia. Tea was delighted with the picts of the magnificent planet annexed to the Imperium. It was on it that Perturabo grew up. Green hills, rivers and mountains, a world clean of polluted atmosphere. As the people of Old Earth would say, it was nothing short of paradise. Surely the Primarch adored his home world.

And Galatea wanted to capture this elegant and in some ways simple architecture. Beautiful landscapes and hardworking people with a herd of animals. Perhaps she sat over this miniature the longest. And it was worth it, seeing the tears of pride in the teacher.

Of course, no one except the teacher was allowed to meet the Primarchs. And yet the fact that they were allowed to visit the Imperial Palace was already intoxicating. Moreover, they were even allowed to wander through some of the corridors! The Emperor is gracious and generous, Tea never thought she would see such beauty.

Gilded walls and magnificent statues gathered from all corners of the Imperium. Frescoes depicting scenes from the legends of old Earth. Stained glass windows in every color of the rainbow. Images of the Crusade and the Emperor himself were everywhere. One corridor among many was a work of art in itself.

But all of this paled in comparison to those who lived here. All of this paled in comparison to HIM.

Galatea had seen picts and portraits of the Primarchs, and yet to see him with her own eyes was a different experience. The girl felt her heart flutter and her breath catch at the sight of the tall man dressed in Imperial military attire. His majestic appearance evoked only one association that the fanatics of the Imperial Truth would brand as foolishness. A demigod.

Perturabo.

How lucky she was! How unspeakably lucky to see the Primarch, whom she had admired since childhood, in person. Apparently the master had already shown the Emperor's sons their works and now Perturabo had decided to return to his business. But what luck it was to meet him in such a huge and intricate Palace.

Images from her childhood, when she played with her rag dolls, immediately appeared before her eyes. Oh, in Galatea's games, the Primarch was her savior. From the poor on Terra, from the rich students of the Master, who mocked her. From failures and bad thoughts, imaginary monsters. He built great impregnable fortresses in which he protected her from villains like a princess from fairy tales. Perturabo was always her hero.

The weakest of spirits could lose consciousness or even die of a heart attack just by looking at the Primarch. Galatea considered herself weak, but apparently she underestimated her spirit strength. As well as the power of her dreams, realizing that she was heading towards a man who was completely oblivious to the mortal girl.

“L-Lord P-Perturabo,” the girl greeted the man, but as soon as he turned his attention to her, she immediately stared at his chest. “I-I am Galatea Vlahos. My master brought m-my works to the palace. And the sculptures of other students.”

“Ah, yes. I never liked Solomon’s style. Too much gilding where it shouldn’t. It’s like he threw up on them.” The man spoke the words slowly, lowering his voice to a low octave. As if the girl who had approached him caused him nothing but contempt.

The girl pursed her lips, not knowing what to say to such a remark. In truth, she partly agreed with the primarch. The master sometimes overdid it with the gilding, leaving other parts of the sculpture untouched. And yet he had talent and experience that Tea respected. That Perturabo could criticize a sculptor so openly was disconcerting.

What if he had criticized her miniatures too?

No, she couldn't bear the thought of that. All her dreams were being destroyed in an instant. If... if this was fate, Tea had to accept it. She would never reach the level of a primarch. She would cherish this meeting for the rest of her life. And yet, she would rather die here in shame than remain silent for the rest of her life. She had to try. At least to say everything that was in her heart.

“L-Lord Perturabo… I have read every book written about you. The worlds you conquered, the worlds you brought into the Imperium. The tactics you used in sieges were admirable. And the fortresses and outposts you built were crafted with perfect precision to torment the enemy and protect the innocent. The Siege of Incaladion, Bernean and Morningstar Campaign…”

Galatea felt herself choking on the words, but she could not stop talking. She wanted so much for the Primarch to understand how much he meant to her. How he and the Iron Warriors on the edge of the galaxy had inspired faith and hope in the heart of a little girl from the lower levels of Terra.

“How beautiful and yet functional all the buildings you built. And I have always admired the way the Iron Warriors rose to any challenge. Please, allow me to board the Iron Blood. I will not interfere. I understand that this is a warship. I-I have money for maintenance. I just want to capture your exploits. So that the entire Imperium knows about the greatness of the Fourth Legion.”

Finally, having spoken enough, the girl took a deep breath, trying to stop trembling. She could not even imagine that she would be able to not only meet Perturabo, but also tell him everything she thought. It happened. But the consequences were much more terrible and unpredictable.

The man was silent. During the entire time Galatea spoke, he did not say a word. Tension was in the air. The girl thought that by giving in to her feelings, she insulted the primarch. It seemed that she had made the biggest mistake in her life.

“Yes” - the man's sharp voice broke the silence. - “You will serve my Legion. Pack your things. Tomorrow my servants will come for you. We are leaving Terra this week by order of the Emperor.”

Unable to believe what she heard, the girl looked up at the primarch. Even without his armor, Perturabo smelled of iron and gunpowder. He was the very embodiment of war and creation. But most of all, in the image of the man, his blue eyes caught the girl's attention. Galatea had never seen such cold eyes.

"Thank you." - she whispered quietly, hoping not to destroy the beautiful dream with her voice.

The man only chuckled and hurriedly left the hall, clenching his fists. Galatea should have been worried about such a reaction. Suddenly, she insulted the primarch or distracted him from important thoughts. But the happiness of the long-awaited meeting inspired her and she hurried to Master Solomon in the hope of sharing the latest news with him. He was just nearby, looking at one of the ancient paintings.

"Master, I have wonderful news for you." - the girl smiled broadly, wringing her fingers in impatience.

"Wait, wait, my dear. Now you will tell me everything, but do you not want to know how the Primarchs assessed my students?” - waiting for her nod, the man continued. - “They all appreciated your desire to comprehend art and talent for sculpture. Lord Fulgrim even declared that Octavian has a brilliant future.”

“And… what about me?” - Galatea licked her lips nervously. Surely Lord Perturabo appreciated her work to decide to take her into his service. Wonder what he said about the Olympic landscape.

“Oh, my dear Galatea, one of the Emperor’s sons will surely offer you work.” - seeing her enthusiastic smile, Solomon continued. - “Rogal Dorn highly praised your miniatures. He especially liked the way you depicted the Phalanx. Very accurately, as he told me. I almost thought about asking him to take you on his ship to capture his exploits. But I did not dare ask for such a thing. Although he was very impressed with your talent.”

For a moment, the girl felt as if the floor had been pulled out from under her feet.

“This is an honor for me.” - she really meant it. And yet, the recent event did not allow her to fully enjoy someone else's praise. - “And what about Lord Perturabo? Did he say anything? Especially about Olympia?”

“Oh, my dear, I know you always admired him.” - her foster father murmured sympathetically. - “The truth is, my dear, he liked almost no one. He criticized everyone. When it came to your turn, he did not say a word. And perhaps it was my imagination, but with each word Dorn said, he grew darker.”

“But he took me to the Iron Blood.” - the girl muttered in a trembling voice. - “I will become part of his Legion.”

“Really? Well, that means he did like it. Never mind, my dear, the Primarchs have so much to do. Surely he was thinking about a new campaign, and we distracted him from important matters. The main thing is that you have become a sculptor of the Iron Legion. You are going on a Crusade! Isn't this what you dreamed of?"

Yes. This is exactly it.

It was 999.M30. A new millennium was about to begin. It was a great era. When humanity made new discoveries and the Imperium expanded. To be born and to live in this time was the greatest blessing.

#primarch x oc #perturabo x oc #yandere primachs #oc: Galatea Vlahos #primarch x reader #warhammer x reader #warhammer 40k x reader

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rippersz · 2 years ago

Text

𝑨 𝑳𝒆𝒔𝒔𝒐𝒏 𝑾𝒆𝒍𝒍-𝑻𝒂𝒖𝒈𝒉𝒕:

̟ ˙ ̟ ˙ ˖ ̟ ˙ ˖ ˙̟ ˙ ̟ ˙ ˖ ̟ ˙ ˖ ˙̟ ˙ ̟ ˙ ˖ ̟ ˙ ˖ ˙̟ ˙ ̟ ˙ ˖ ̟ ˙ ˖ ˙

(A Dom!Larissa Weems x Sub!Reader one-shot; NSFW) (BDSM; powerplay; blindfolds; mirror sex; explicit language; body image; petplay; bondage; etc.) - 16 pages of pure smut. Around 7K words.

̟ ˙ ̟ ˙ ˖ ̟ ˙ ˖ ˙̟ ˙ ̟ ˙ ˖ ̟ ˙ ˖ ˙̟ ˙ ̟ ˙ ˖ ̟ ˙ ˖ ˙̟ ˙ ̟ ˙ ˖ ̟ ˙ ˖ ˙

“I’m starved, darling.”

Her voice was a mere whisper in your ear, like the snake that tempted Eve. Soft and succulent and utterly delicious. You could feel the sweet of it run down the side of your lip and dribble down your chin; a result of your obedience. As if she was holding the unholy apple above your mouth, coring it and watching with delight as its juice raced over the plane of your lolling tongue. That delighted her as well, watching the way it twitched - utterly uncontrollable. Done by the body’s functions alone. You could envision her smile behind the dark cloth covering your eyes; that smirk, all red lipped and evil while soaking in her control. Knowing she had it was something intoxicating to her - like a drug you slipped into her palm by merely existing. She said sit and you sat. She said put your hands behind your back and you did. She said jump and you asked how high. She said stick out your tongue and out your tongue went. Like a gift.

“Do you know what I’m craving, sweetheart?” The warmth of her breath was something handmade by the gods. It left you shuddering and shaking your head - sparked purely by the innate need to please.

“No? No idea? Not even an inkling?” Her tone was condescending. Wicked. Lilting and full of fake kindness. It had your heart running wild, jumping off of the edge of your ribcage like a swimmer with a diving board. Her eyes, for you could feel their burn, were tracing over every inch of your body; admiring what was hers. What was all hers. The only thing you could do (if you didn’t wish to break her rules) was shake your head again, insisting silently that you didn’t know what she craved but that you wanted to- you really wanted to- please- please she just needed to say-

“Dumb little thing… I’m hungry for you, pet.”

And strong cold hands wrapped around your shoulders, laying long fingers down- one… two… three… four… five… allowing them to clench with strength that hinted at something stronger. Bigger. From an outsider’s perspective, you probably looked like dragon’s prey. With the beast standing over you, weighing judgment for your sins, trapping you within its hold so you couldn’t get away. You made a brief mental note to share that metaphor with Larissa once the scene was done. She would surely enjoy the thought of adding you to her shiny horde. ‘My most precious bit of treasure,’ she’d murmur with warm delight…

Oh it would be such a far cry from the chill that ran through your bones then, biting into your knees as you sat there on the floor. Poised for her. Larissa’s very own Galatea… carved perfectly from soft skin instead of hard stone. Glowing with a light not from Aphrodite but from pleasure; absolutely ravished in the attention of a salacious woman. Of your salacious woman. With her sapphire eyes and carmine lips and sweetened breath and porcelain skin and platinum hair and strong legs and hands and arms… like someone plucked the forbidden fruit from Eve’s garden and morphed the apple into a woman. A woman so unreachable… so untouchable that not even you could move to brush the slightest bit of your fingertips across the smooth surface of her kitten heels. The same kitten heels that framed your kneeling body… ever so close to the quivering hands that were bound and resting against the small of your back.

You were sweating, you realized. Only lightly - but you felt as though a flame were burning you from the inside out. Making your body hot to the touch and creating a cool contrast as soon as Larissa’s palms settled. You reveled in the feeling. You reveled in your helplessness.

You reveled in your submission.

“Are you willing to give yourself up to me, little one?” Your lover’s voice was soft and cloying. Deceptively innocent and light. As if she didn’t know your answer - but she did. She always did.

And after a moment of silence, one where you felt suspended in time, hesitant to talk due to earlier commands, Larissa’s deep chuckle met your ears.

“Good girl… you may speak now, darling. Answer me.”

And so you did. Your tongue felt strange when you finally pulled it back into your mouth, but after a quick swallow and clearing of your throat, you croaked out a small “Yes.” She was quick to rectify your mistake.

“Yes, who?”

“Yes, Mistress.”

Both of you seemed to let out dual quiet sighs of relief as soon as the title passed over your lips. It was your safe haven. Your middle ground. The thing that tethered both of you to reality and kept you rooted within the moment; reminding you both of your trust. She was your Mistress. You were her puppy. Her darling. Her sweet girl. Her disgusting little whore. Her everything. She told you to jump and you did. She told you to speak and you did. She told you to hold out your hands for them to be bound behind your back and you did. ‘Stick out your tongue, pup. No speaking until I say so, understood?’ ‘Back straight, thighs together… there we go. Good girl~’ ‘So pretty for me… are you ready to begin?’ And sometimes the domination was far from sexual. Sometimes it was just her making sure you ate. Sometimes it was just her falling asleep with her arms around your body. Sometimes it was just her holding your hand in public and giving it two squeezes to discreetly ask if you were alright.

The push and pull, to put it simply, was marvelous.

And there were occasions, too, when Larissa wasn’t feeling it. When the world tipped one of her scales a bit too far and when the personalities of others became trying and finicky. During those times, during those sacred moments, you took over. And the beauty that stemmed from that was far more abstract - less concrete and more flowing. You were not Larissa’s Mistress, but she was your baby. Your Larissa. Your beautiful girl. And you cherished the moments in which she’d allow you to wind your arms around her thighs, tug her closer, and love on the heaven between her legs until she was shaking and gasping and pleading and pulling your hair and getting so close- so cl-close- so close close close closeclosecl- close!- only to let out a loud long whine when you reared back at the last second, taking her pleasure with you. Yes yes yes, such submission from your strong intelligent lover was an ego boost to the highest degree.

But with each indulgence came a price. And every time you felt yourself trip over your power, nearly righting yourself and grasping control, a cool strong hand pressed against the tender spot between your shoulder blades and pushed you over the metaphorical edge. Knocking you to your knees. Wrapping a fistful of your hair over her knuckles, letting it pool into her palm, just so she could pull your head back and remind you of your real place.

Beneath her. Always beneath her….

The most adorable little pet she’d ever had the pleasure of encountering.

“That’s what I like to hear,” Larissa’s voice interrupted your train of thought, emanating a strong sense of smug satisfaction.

You felt the need to squirm in place; to check your posture and reset your pose; to straighten your shoulders and flex your fingers; but your Mistress’s hands distracted you. They traced the bare skin of your arms, right down to each elbow, warming you even further with their soft touch. And as soon as you leaned back into the feeling, wishing to experience the softness of her legs pressed to your shoulder blades and spine, she was gone. Her warm touch disappeared - her heels click-clacked their way out of range - her fingertips skated along the side of your neck, down its slope, before falling away. Of course then it didn’t take long for you to frown, wishing she was still there, disliking the fact that she had walked off. But when Larissa next spoke, her voice came from directly in front of you.

“Now,” she whispered, low and calm, “tell me why you’re here, pup.”

You swallowed a whimper, feeling your core lurch with hot desire at the sound of that delicious little pet name slipping off of her velvet tongue. It was one of your favorites - one of the only ones that made you melt oh so quickly. And Larissa wielded it with an immense amount of wicked power. The call of it came like a siren’s tune, and you were slave to the warmth that washed into your abdomen when she used it to torture you. Just as she did then; knowing you’d have trouble focusing.

Yet still, you pushed on. After all, you were not there for fun and games. Oh no no no, it was a lesson - as your Mistress had said. And she rarely changed her mind.

“I did something bad,” you responded, meek and small.

“Mm,” your woman hummed shortly, most likely nodding as she contemplated her next words. Early on into your relationship you found that she typically enjoyed doing that - taking a moment to rifle through her vocabulary just so she could conjure the most heart-stoppingly sinful sentences known to man. And once you fell deeper into your play and into your role as her darling girl… well then you were never safe from her eloquence. And her next words proved it. “And tell me, my sweet pup, what did you do to upset me?” The evil innocent tone returned.

You hesitated. The words built up on your tongue. There was so much more behind your reason. Behind your action. You hadn’t meant to, really. Your mind just… tended to wander. And though your relationship was built on trust, finding it to be the most important pillar you stood on, you found yourself slipping into a rather negative mindset some hours ago. It started in the middle of the night while Larissa was sleeping. She’d turned over in bed, getting more comfortable to face the other way and relieve the ache in her shoulder. Sometimes sleeping was hard, so you’d admire her and think about your lover until Morpheus drew you away. Though on that night, last night, your eyes traced the outline of her body- from the curve of her calf to the gentle contoured muscles of her back to the tousled platinum hair that spilled across the pillow- and you found yourself growing sad. Weary. Hurt. Nothing had happened and yet you still laid there, wondering if maybe you would never be good enough for Larissa. She had been through so much in her life - overcome nearly every bit of diversity and every bit of bullying and every bit of stress - and came out on top in the end. A kindhearted, brilliant, intelligent, beautiful woman that ran her Academy with the grace and care of a true golden soul. You admired her so much that it was difficult to put into words. And you’d tried in the past, you had, but it was futile. No one compared to Larissa Weems. But you were sure- certain- many people compared to you. You, who didn’t graduate nearly top of her class. You, who didn’t have such a high-earning, well-known career. You, who didn’t have particularly enchanting features and whose voice sometimes squeaked at the most inopportune times. You, with curves a bit bigger than most. You, with a mind so busy and cluttered that you could barely wade through it without feeling as though you were drowning. Yes, there were many women who could compare to you. Who were better than you. Who would give up their livelihoods to share even a bit of romantic air with Larissa Weems. And those women were beautiful… and they didn’t need so much comfort… and they could go a day without feeling slight panic whenever spending more than 3 hours having not heard from their lover. And those women, some of them at least, had money. The funds to buy Larissa whatever she wanted; the coin needed to tend to their own cosmetic needs - to get their nails done and their hair styled and to purchase the best products available so that their skin was soft and smelled of roses whenever Larissa was around to worship it. You couldn’t do that. You didn’t have that type of money - not yet at least. And maybe you never would. But either way… either way…

“I- I was mean to myself,” you felt the need to explain, “but I didn’t mean to upset you, I just-”

“Hush… darling.” Larissa spoke quickly, cutting you off with kind intentions as her palms came up to frame your face. Her fingertips caressed the spaces beneath your ears, drawing slow circles that had you keening and shivering. “I understand, my love,” her words, chosen carefully again, worked to put your mind at ease, “and I know. I know you didn’t ‘mean to’ sweetheart - but I’m not upset. I’m not upset with you.” Her loving tone had you blinking back tears. “Here,” her fingers moved to the loose knot behind your head, “do you want me to remove this, love? So we can talk eye to eye?”

You knew she had the best intentions behind her offer, but you still found yourself worrying.

“I don’t want to stop the play Mistress please-”

“We won’t stop if you don’t want to, my sweetling. We’ll just pause. Does that sound okay?”

And it did. It sounded more than okay. So you nodded and just like that, the blindfold was taken off. Slowly and gently, peeled away from your face, revealing the breathtaking smile that glued itself to your lover’s painted lips. You blinked a few times, getting yourself familiar with the dim grey light that filtered into the room from the windows. The rain had been off and on for the past few days, painting the world in gloomy colors, but it was lovely that you and Larissa agreed that stormy weather was the best weather. And as soon as your vision became comfortable, you gave your lover a small reassuring smile - silently telling her that you were okay. The sight of it seemed to put her at ease nearly instantly as she slid the blindfold away and put her hands on your face again. Her expression was open, vulnerable in its compassion as she stared at you. There was no desire to hold herself back; she could admire if she wished to. And she did. Those sapphire eyes of hers were wicked in their warmth, reflecting her slight worry as her brows scrunched together and the lines in her face deepened with sincerity.

“Better?” She questioned, drawing your eyes to her lips.

“Mhm,” you hummed with a small nod.

“Mhm?” Came her high-toned teasing response, making you blush and shrink into yourself. She took that reaction as a ‘yes’ and let out a little chuckle at the sight of your bashfulness. “Okay darling… would you like to pick up where we left off? We can talk about it or continue.”

Her tone had changed, becoming more serious as the topic shifted. You appreciated it of course, but the lust that tugged at the back of your psyche hated the delay in your… activities and wanted something more. Something close. Wanted Larissa - which was not unusual. So you answered with a sweet middle ground.

“May I explain myself first?” Your eyes were shining with love when you next looked at her.

“You never have to ask me that, love. Yes, of course. I am listening,” and she really was. Her fingers continued their soothing circles beneath your ears as she knelt in front of you and paid close attention.

“Right, thank you,” you nodded and took a deep breath before staring into those blue eyes and pouring a bit more of your heart out onto the floor for her. “I just- um- overthinking, you know? It can become a bit overwhelming and… I’m just really sorry. For isolating and- and doubting your love for me.” Your lips turned down into a frown.

The self-isolation truly had been an accident; you didn’t even realize you were doing it until Larissa returned to your quarters and coaxed you out of bed. You were quiet and dim while she stopped in for a visit, keeping your eyes on the floor and your responses short. That alone was enough for the headmistress to cancel the rest of her plans for the day and stay with you. And after some much-needed cuddling and quiet time, a kiss led to two- then three- then things progressed… and you soon found yourself on the bedroom floor, kneeling in front of your full-body mirror, waiting for instruction. Larissa knew what your thought process was, she understood your struggle, and that’s why she triple-checked if you still wanted to go through with a scene before you started. It was a more taboo way of establishing comfort and reassurance, but you felt safe. Protected. And the lust kept the bad feelings at bay. Larissa knew to take all of that into account when she thought of her lesson - and she hoped above all else that it would stick. Just like her next words did as soon as her dulcet tones caressed your ears.

“Please Y/n, don’t apologize. I understand my darling. I know it’s hard. I know…” she cooed, gently bringing you closer until your foreheads were pressed together. Oh she smelled so good; of Gardenias and fresh laundry. If you could wrap yourself up in her forever, you would. “But it’s going to be okay. Tell me,” Larissa inhaled, moving back a little bit to look you in the eye. Her expression was serious but her eyes were lit from the inside - swirling with mirth and love and a million other beautiful things that made you feel like you were floating. “Do you trust me?”

You didn’t even think to hesitate.

“Of course.” You trusted her with everything. You trusted her with your life, with your heart, with every thought in your mind. You trusted her with your breath.

“Then trust me when I say that I have never loved anyone in the way I love you,” Larissa breathed, licking her dry lips, darting her gaze between your eyes. “And I don’t think- no, no I know- I’ll never want anyone else. Ever.” And the radiant smile that pulled at her beautiful mouth then - the fascinating way it sharpened at the edges and how endearing it was to see those perfectly imperfect pearly whites shining in the dim light of the afternoon… how it revealed every delightful thing she felt for you… well you simply couldn’t help yourself.

It probably would have been easier if your hands weren’t tied behind your back, but the beat of your heart enjoyed the thrill your body felt when falling forward, eager to catch Larissa in a kiss. And being the ever-observant, impossibly understanding woman she was, she met you halfway. Moving her hands from your face to your biceps, stabilizing you in your spot, letting out a long indulgent moan as soon as your lips connected - it all felt like divinity personified. And while you sat there languishing, moving your mouths in a slow aching tandem that had your lips tingling afterward, embracing the nearly sadistic way Larissa’s tongue caressed your own, the fire in your abdomen rose again. It clawed at you and begged for her. Sang for her.

“Thank you,” came your whiny breath, spoken against the soft skin of Larissa’s lips. “Thank you, thank you, I love you. So much.” And before she could respond, you kissed her again. And again. And again. And your lover’s hands were wicked as they danced along the expanse of your chest, down the delicate rolls of your tummy, right down to the velvet of your thighs. Those strong fingers of hers squeezed and pinched and tickled, driving you mad, making you shudder. And as soon as Larissa pulled away, quickly moving to press a warm palm against the center of your chest, a loud keening mewl escaped your throat. Once you opened your eyes, daring to fix her with a pout, admiring the way a string of spit kept your wanting lips tethered, you felt yourself falling back into the beautiful malleable headspace of being Larissa’s darling.

“Oh,” she breathed, looking at you with eyes that rivaled the blue-dark of dusk, “you’re feeling it again, aren’t you sweetheart?”

“Yes, Mistress,” you swallowed harshly, trying to relieve the sudden dryness of your throat.

Ever the most observant in the room, your lover caught your slight discomfort and tempered her smile - making it soft and small as she patted your thighs and stood up. You didn’t need to be a genius to figure what she was doing; the sound of her heels being kicked off and placed neatly by the bedroom door said enough. And a moment later, Larissa came padding back into the room with a glass of cool water in one hand and a damp cloth in the other. A quick mildly confused glance at the blue towel had her smirking.

“This won’t take long, pup,” were her words while she placed it on the floor and took a seat behind you, letting her legs frame your thighs. Leaning around, she placed the glass to your lips and watched intently as you took small sips. There was no prompting needed and there were no words said. Just the gentle tip and take, tip and take. You were thirsty and your Mistress provided. And the eye-contact you made, sharing your thanks and your appreciation and your knowledge of her love had her lighting up with the warmest little grin. “Is that enough?” She asked softly as she pulled the glass away one last time and ran the pad of her thumb along the corners of your lips.

“Yes, thank you,” your volume matched her whisper, quiet and reassuring.

A blonde eyebrow rose. You smiled shyly, amused by your own slip up.

“Yes, thank you Mistress.” And that seemed to be enough for her as she inclined her head and leaned back to sit up straight, correcting her posture and setting her shoulders and… oh…

When your eyes glanced up, locking onto the glass in front of you, you felt a river of desire burn hot within your body. Oh she was practically looming. So… so tall behind you… long legs spread… and you watched, utterly entranced, as she placed the glass down on the hardwood floor and then turned that pale graceful neck in one slow swoop, immediately fixing her gaze on yours through the reflection of the mirror. Oh your Mistress looked just as hungry as she said she was. Her expression practically screamed ‘Let me devour you’, but her actions were the thing that spoke to utter devastation.

“Adjust for me, pup,” her breath was sweet against your ear, making your hair move ever so slightly as she glided her hands down your sides and to your thighs, helping you maneuver yourself into a better position.

You winced at the ache behind your knees. There would most likely be bruises there tomorrow, but you never really minded that. It was just a trophy of sorts - a testament to your excellent skill of following directions. And once you were finally in the desired pose, stretching your legs out in front of you to quell the dull ache and relieve any pressure, Larissa took it upon herself to adjust you further. She let out a small huff of delight when you squeaked in surprise, taken aback by her speed once her legs moved and wound themselves around yours; using the strength of her calves and thighs to pull your legs apart, bend them so your feet were flat to the floor, and keep you spread open for her viewing pleasures. Instantly, you looked away; averting your eyes to the ceiling as embarrassment tugged at you. Air fled to the newly exposed skin and chilled the insides of your arousal-painted thighs, leaving you flushed and shivering in your Mistress’s grasp. The very same Mistress who had a mean streak for seeing you flustered and at a loss for words - making sure to maintain eye contact as long fingers wrapped around the front of your chin and jaw and tugged your head down.

“Look,” Larissa growled, her soft lips looking perfect despite the smudged lipstick. Her eyes were smoldering. Her body was poised to strike. “Look at yourself,” she repeated, softer, gentler, allowing you the time to obey.

And obey you did.

Sometimes it was hard to look in the mirror. You knew you were self-conscious and you were okay with telling people that, mainly because they usually felt the same. But ever since being with Larissa, that changed. The days in which you cringed at yourself became more and more rare - and only occasionally did you find yourself scrutinizing your body. You’d done it earlier that morning; staring into the same mirror; nearly falling apart at what you saw. But as you sat there then, in a completely different mood and light, you felt at least a little bit more empowered. And your eyes roamed helplessly, thinking only of pleasing Larissa.

From the slight line of your collarbone to the curve of your biceps, leading to the sides of your body as your forearms disappeared behind your back. From the chub of your tummy and the way it folded oh so naturally to the hills of your thighs, pressed outward and trembling with desire. From the crests of your knees to the blush of your chest to the dilated pupils in your eyes, going right down… down… down to the swollen wet heaven between your legs. Without even realizing it, your eyes darted away, spooked like an anxious bunny. But the wolf behind you noticed - and the wolf behind you was having none of it. The hand around your chin shook slightly. Your breath got caught in your throat.

“Don’t make me repeat myself, pup.”

And because her authority did unspeakable things to you, your gaze went sliding back to the main attraction. To the ambrosia Larissa desired. To the peak of your femininity. To the throbbing source of lust that sent warm lines of need through your veins.

“There we go…” Your Mistress’s hush had you shaking as her breath caressed the soft skin of your neck. “So pretty, aren’t you?” At your moment of silence, she pressed a kiss to the curve of your shoulder and kept her eyes burning into yours. “Aren’t you?” Her voice deepened.

Instantaneously, you nodded. It was hard to believe - it was - but if Larissa believed it… if Larissa believed it… then yes. Yes, absolutely. Yes yes yes. And your Mistress, thank heavens, let the lack of words slip for once and continued talking. Her fingers went lax around your chin and moved to caress your jaw, sending shivers down your spine.

“Yes, so pretty,” her cheek pressed lightly against yours, “so… so… beautiful… so brilliant, darling.”

You swallowed, taking in the sight of you all over again. Larissa’s legs keeping yours in place - Larissa’s hand on the side of your face - Larissa’s other hand inching along the softness of your inner thigh - Larissa’s gaze never wavering from where it’s poised over your shoulder - Larissa’s control wired through every tendon in her body - and Larissa’s lips pulled into the most sinful smirk as her fingers move faster than lightning and go to part the lips of your cunt. Leaving it bare and spread and cold. Leaving it wet and aching and open to her and only her. Your hips jumped, sparked by the touch, desperate for more. More more more.

“M-mistress-,” you whined, lips quivering.

“What?” Was her harsh reply as she used her middle and pointer finger to pull more - to stretch more - to leave the softness of your cunt on display. “What is it, puppy?”

You felt your brain fizzle into nothing. You felt your hands tighten into fists behind your back. Not a word was scrawled onto your tongue. Your lips parted helplessly. ‘Please,’ you wanted to say, ‘please please please. I need it. You. Anything. Everything you’re willing to give me. Please please please.’ But the only thing that came out was a small stuttering keen, flitting in and out of sound, making a raging storm of embarrassment boil within you. You didn’t often mean to make the sounds you made! Not always! It just… happened. Like your body had no control while your Mistress was present. Like it knew that she wanted a show and that it was the proper time to shine. To deliver. And with that, you bowed your head and averted your eyes.

That was strike one.

A quick wet ‘smack!’ rang out into the silence, breaking the erotic heaviness of your breath. At first, you were confused as to where the sound came from… but then the sting settled. And the impact snapped you back into yourself. And your hips jerked without control, startled by the suddenness of your Mistress’s cruelty. The columns of her fingers reprimanded you swiftly, landing firmly onto the lips of your cunt and the needy bud of your clit. Striking them only once but leaving your toes curling in a wicked mix of surprise, pleasure, and pain. You looked up into the mirror, eyes wide, taking in the way your skin began to turn red.

“Oh did I hurt you, pup? I’m sorry…” Larissa cooed, figuring that the only thing to make it better was to massage the pain away.

And in the very next moment, your body tensed. You watched, suspended in horror and anticipation, as one slim fingertip, dexterous and hellbent, dipped between the folds of your haven and began drawing slow… slow… slow circles around your clit.

“M- Miss- hah-” you tried mumbling her name, tried getting the title out to tell her yes yes yes feels so good, but all you could do was allow your lips to fall open and your head to fall back, resting against her shoulder as you gasped.

The pleasure she granted you was often indescribable - and it didn’t help that she could destroy you so easily. One long dark glance, one hand upon your arm, one word spoken against your ear - she wielded her seduction like a very carefully sharpened sword. And then she stabbed you with it until you were a mess on the bed. Or the couch. Or the floor. Or the countertop. And you reciprocated when you could- really, you often wanted to- but your Mistress quite enjoyed running through you so thoroughly. And her lesson in front of the mirror was no different.

“What’s wrong puppy?” Her tone spoke of fake sympathy. “Am I hurting you, darling?”

You picked your head up to plead with her- to tell her to go faster because your thighs were shaking and your cunt was aching and you felt so empty inside- but her touch was retreating as soon as you opened your mouth.

“No,” you whispered, gazing at her in the glass. “No no no,” your head was shaking back and forth; a testament to your desperation.

But your Mistress was not often shaken by things like that. Only the devil herself could withstand seeing her sinful little angel beg for pleasure; only the devil could step back and watch the poor thing drown in lust - and since that was the case, you figured Larissa was Satan in the flesh. She tore you apart and put you back together. She unraveled you and reclaimed your pieces. She pressed hot open kisses to your neck and let out little hums against your ear before running the flats of her palms over the skin of your thighs.

“I want you to tell me something,” she whispered, mindlessly splaying her fingers. Your eyes met in the mirror. Hers were dark and hooded. Yours were blown wide with suspenseful need. You nodded, lost for words. “I want you to tell me that I live lavishly.”

You frowned, momentarily confused. What did she mean? Yes- she did. She lived lavishly, sort of. No mansion and no riches, but definitely expensive clothing and trinkets and things of the sort. And she often treated you to pricey gifts and dinners and such. But why did she need-

“Just say it, pup.”

You licked your lips. “You- um- you live lav-lavishly Mistress.”

The pleased grin you got, shadowed by the column of your neck, had you smiling back nervously.

“Good.. good…,” Larissa hummed, pressing a small rewarding kiss to your shoulder. “And what does that mean, pup? What do I… surround myself with?”

And her hands went running along your thighs again, dipping closer and closer to your heaven each time before skittering away. She knew she was messing with your thoughts, but she didn’t particularly care. The cogs in your head were turning slowly, rusted with distracting lust. What did she surround herself with? You took a second to glance around the bedroom - at the mahogany furniture and four poster bed and sky-blue silk sheets and duvet and fluffy white pillows and the pretty patterned egg-shell carpet in the middle of the floor. You took in the high cathedral-style windows, the velvet curtains, Larissa’s ornate vanity, her perfume and makeups and hair-care products, her heels and walk-in closet. You thought about the salary she spent on garments and gloves and coats and how each of her outfits matched the seasons and the way her jewelry tended to sparkle in the light. Such luxuries were not things you could afford on your own. Such luxuries were glorious. Expensive. One could even say…

“Beautiful.”

It came out as an awed whisper. Larissa smiled sharply.

“What was that?”

Her fingers pitter-pattered along your skin. Closer… closer… closer…

“B-beautiful things,” you breathed.

“Mmm,” came her deep purr, spoken into your ear, caressing the inferno within you. “And what does that make you, puppy?”

You swallowed. That- well that made you… goodness, you couldn’t even think it. Your gaze returned to your body. Were you what she said? Were you truly? Were the discolored strikes of lightning across your stretched skin something to be admired? Were the veins of your feet enchanting? Was the hair that graced your upper-lip and sometimes your chin and the spots around your eyebrows all a thing of glory? Were your unkempt nail beds and regularly bowed posture and easily bruised skin all aspects of yourself to be adored?

Well… Larissa certainly thought so.

When you brought your attention away from the cellulite of your thighs and looked up, staring into those cool blue depths, you saw nothing but love. Nothing but desire. She knew you weren’t perfect and she loved you either way. She had you in her hands, leaning against her body, restrained and vulnerable and left open for her amusement. She had you keening and whining and wet beneath her touch. She wanted you. She needed you. She noticed you. And your Mistress lived up to that observation when she tutted lightly - ‘tut tut tut’ - three times with her tongue tapping against the roof of her mouth, spotting your hesitation.

“Say it for me,” her voice spoke devilishly, “say it. Just for me.”

“A-” you swallowed back a noise of anguished desire, “-a… b-beautiful thing…?”

“Is that a question?” She admonished immediately. You shook your head.

“No, Mistress. A beautiful-” you inhaled deeply and let the words out with your breath, “- a beautiful thing.”

Larissa smirked.

“Again.”

You let out a frustrated huff. You just wanted her to touch you. Her hands were so close - her fingertips were caressing the very edges of your heaven - she knew exactly what you wanted. But she wasn’t giving it to you. And your frustration was only another strike.

‘Smack!’ swift rectification was delivered to your cunt, forcing a husky gasp out of your open mouth while your upper body jerked forward- sparked by utter surprise. The sting settled again, red and tingly and sensitive, as you tried to regulate your breathing.

“Again,” your Mistress growled, teeth flashing behind red lips.

“A beautiful th-thing,” you sniffed, abdomen clenching when the pleasure from before slowly resumed - spurred on by Larissa’s gentle ministrations as one fingertip caressed circles around your clit.

“Mmmm there we go,” she drawled, “not so difficult, hm?” You shook your head instantly, not really knowing if it was a genuine question or not. It probably didn’t matter either way as your Mistress’s words continued - flowing like thick wine down the parched skin of your throat. “No, no… so precious…”

And the slow teasing circles became fast - switching to little back and forth swats right over the desperate nub of your clit, pressing light pressure and spreading the stickiness of your desperation over the needy bundle of nerves. You felt heat rise to the surface of your skin, making you sweat as your hips bucked into your Mistress’s hold. Little whines and moans, high-pitched and keening, slipped off of your tongue as wave after wave of lust flowed through your body. You felt your eyelids fall, draping you in darkness while your head went craning back to lean against your lover’s shoulder. Your hands, meanwhile, twitched like mad and clenched together - desperate to grasp at anything so you could ground yourself, but it was to no use. They were firmly tied, just set as a reminder for your obedience. For your submission.

“M-Mi-M-” her title teetered on the edge of your lips but never fell. You looked helpless - useless - pathetic. Whining beneath the dexterous touch of your Mistress; falling apart under the slightest bit of pressure. Drool pooled onto your tongue.

“What do I do with my beautiful things, pet?” She spoke quickly, cutting off your thoughts. You could barely understand what she was asking - but that wasn’t enough. It was a response or nothing. “What do I do with them?”

Your mind scrambled for something- anything- as you reveled in your pleasure. And finally, after what seemed like an eternity of searching for the correct response, you threw your head down and knocked your chin against your chest, eyes still scrunched and face twisted in pleasure.

“T-take care of- of them! Mistress!” You mewled brokenly, moving your hips to match the pace of her touch.

“Oh good girl!” She gasped, delighted by your good thinking, impressed by your cloudy intelligence. Yes yes- you were a good girl- such a good girl- so good for her so good so good so good- “Stick out your tongue.”

Your tongue, wet and quivering, lolled out of your mouth instantly and rested gently between your top row of teeth and your bottom lip, already slowly starting to drip with drool. You could feel her gaze burning into you through the mirror’s reflection. She was enjoying her little lesson oh so much.

“Good good.” You whimpered beneath her praise, feeling the muscles in your hips and legs start to burn with desperation. The very beginnings of your crescendo- your release- your wonderful little death- crested over the temple of your lust, hinting at oncoming pleasure. Larissa could feel the way your clit twitched from her touch, straining hopelessly with each pass of her finger. She loved it. She loved seeing you come undone. She loved seeing you admit to the truth.

“Repeat after me, slut. And don’t miss a beat,” she commanded. “I am beautiful.”

You began shaking your head, silently telling her no- it was too embarrassing- please don’t make me- but your Mistress didn’t care. It was just another strike in her book. Another wet aching ‘slap!’ that kissed against your cunt, making it raw and far more sensitive than it was before - forcing your defenses to crumble. Forcing you to submit wholeheartedly.

“I- I’m beautiful!” you cried, letting your tongue greet the heavy air once more.

“I am strong.”

“I’m- I’m- I am strong! Mis- Mistress, please!”

“I am capable.”

“‘M cap-capable- capable hnngg-”

“I am loved.”

“Y-yes! Loved- loved so much- yesyesyesyesplease-”

“Open your eyes.”

“Op- open-” you blinked as your mind caught up, letting the words fizzle into nothing within your mouth as you peered up at yourself through the mirror.

“There’s my needy girl,” your Mistress cooed, “look at you. Look at your pretty self. Look at your pretty cunt, puppy.”

And you did. You looked- no, admired- yourself. You admired your messy hair and the way little strands plastered themselves to the light sheen of sweat on your forehead. You admired your trembling body and the way the endearing cellulite and chub shook with each rock of your hips. You admired the flush across your skin and the heavy-lidded look of your eyes - and the way your eyebrows furrowed and your tongue trembled. You admired the closeness with your Mistress and how snug you were pressed against her body. Framed between her legs, held down and in place, controlled and loved. One hand working wonders between your legs, caressing your heaven, and one hand trailing along your body- from thigh to breast, feeling and wandering and loving all the same.

“This is just one thing I love about you, Y/n,” Larissa spoke, looking like an angel of desire sitting there behind you; hair askew and blue eyes darkened and red lips parted, silently affected by your longing.

You were shuddering in her hold, letting out a string of mindless sounds as the pleasure increased and increased and increased. The thread of rope in your abdomen was quickly unraveling, close to snapping, close to throwing you over the edge of a mind-blowing climax. And Larissa was relentless in her mission to push you into the depths.

“How good you are for me, how much control you give me,” she hissed, “how pretty you look panting like an eager little whore,” her accent embraced the words in a mind-dizzyingly beautiful hug. She sounded like the angels’ harps. “My needy darling- my pretty little pet- my baby- my Y/n. Mine mine mine. Say it.”

“Y-yours! Yoursyours yours-” you mumbled, eyes rolling back into your head as the wet sounds of your pleasure harmonized with your Mistress’s voice.

“Mineminemine, that’s it. That’s it, little puppy. Good- good.”

And that’s when you felt your mind go blank.

“M-M- ple-please- pleasepleaseplease gonna- gonna cu-cum- cum please- M-Miss-”

The heat was startling. You were shaking. You were crying. You were panting and whining and it felt so- so- sososososo-

“You want to cum, puppy? Is that what you’re trying to tell me? Hm? Beg, darling. Beg for me,” your Mistress demanded, voice as sharp as a knife’s edge.

“Yes, yes,” you gasped, nodding as you spoke and pleaded and begged begged begged- “Please please please I’m- I’m a good girl- good girl- yours- please lemme cum please Mistress- Mommy- Rissa- please- please Larissa PLEASE-!”

The rope snapped. The rocks beneath your feet slipped. The sun fell. The clouds disintegrated. The world clung onto the universe. The heat in your abdomen had you clenching- clenching- clenching-

And Larissa’s touch went away. Faded. Disappeared.

Your ears buzzed.

Your feet dangled off the edge.

The rope held itself together by the thinnest string.

“No.”

And your Mistress sealed your fate with one word alone.

̟ ˙ ̟ ˙ ˖ ̟ ˙ ˖ ˙̟ ˙ ̟ ˙ ˖ ̟ ˙ ˖ ˙̟ ˙ ̟ ˙ ˖ ̟ ˙ ˖ ˙̟ ˙ ̟ ˙ ˖ ̟ ˙ ˖ ˙

Did I do this instead of write more of my book, respond to some requests, and just generally pay attention to life outside of this? Yes. Yes, I did. I did also get a haircut though and I feel quite beautiful. So- anyway. Hope you enjoyed. - Ripley x

̟ ˙ ̟ ˙ ˖ ̟ ˙ ˖ ˙̟ ˙ ̟ ˙ ˖ ̟ ˙ ˖ ˙̟ ˙ ̟ ˙ ˖ ̟ ˙ ˖ ˙̟ ˙ ̟ ˙ ˖ ̟ ˙ ˖ ˙

#fanfic #larissa weems #larissa weems x reader #fanfiction #larissa weems x y/n #larissa weems x you #fanfictionwriter #wlw fanfic #rippersz #wednesday netflix #smut fic #smutty fanfic #principal larissa weems #larissa x reader #principal weems #principal weems x reader #wlw smut #wlw fic

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4eunoia · 23 hours ago

Text

Romantic Feelings? Ehh Cringe

Technoblade tries cheering you up in his own way

The cabin was quiet.

Not peaceful. Not comfortable. Just quiet.

You sat at the wooden table, hands wrapped around a half-finished cup of tea that had long since gone cold. You weren’t drinking it. You weren’t sure how long you’d been sitting here, staring at the knots in the wood grain, listening to the wind howl outside. It had been hours, probably. Maybe less. Maybe more.

It didn’t matter.

Somewhere behind you, Techno sat in his chair by the fire, pretending to read. You could feel his eyes on you—subtle, watchful. He wasn’t obvious about it, but you knew him well enough by now. He had noticed the way you barely spoke today, how you moved slower, how the usual sharpness in your eyes had dulled into something distant and hollow.

You took a slow breath, trying to push past the weight in your chest. It didn't work.

Your fingers trembled. You clenched them into fists. Your thoughts were spiraling and you knew they were. The war, you almost dying, all the good people who got hurt.

Then—before you could stop it—the first tear fell, hitting the table with a barely audible pat.

Shit.

You inhaled sharply, willing yourself to stop, to push it down, to not do this right now. But your body didn’t listen. Your breath hitched. Your shoulders tensed as another tear slipped free, then another.

Behind you, the sound of a page turning stopped.

Techno had noticed.

You squeezed your eyes shut, pressing the heel of your palm against them. You hated this. Hated crying like this—weak, quiet, with no control over it. You had been fine for so long. You needed to be fine.

You heard the chair creak as Techno shifted. Then, his voice—low, uncertain.

“You uhh…You want me to leave?”

You flinched slightly, shaking your head, voice hoarse.

“No—” A pause. Then, quieter, “No. Just… don’t say anything.”

A beat of silence.

“…Alright.”

And he didn’t.

For a while, there was nothing but the crackling of the fire, the muffled howl of wind against the windows, and the occasional sound of Techno shifting in his seat. He wasn’t reading anymore. Just there. Not saying anything. Not leaving, either.

You sniffled, rubbing at your eyes.

Then, out of nowhere—

“... Pygmalion and Galatea. Ever heard of them?”

Your brow furrowed. You blinked, wiping your sleeve over your red and puffy face as you turned slightly toward him. “…What?”

As if this were the most natural segue in the world. His tone was casual, unaffected. "Some sculptor guy from ancient Greece— I've forgotten where exactly. He was kinda a loner. Didn't wanna deal with real people, especially women— Guy spent ages on this one statue. Carving, supposedly, the perfect woman out of ivory. Like, obsessed over it. Chiseled every little detail, made her perfect in his eyes. And then, uh—he kinda just…fell in love with her." He paused, shifting slightly in his chair.

You blinked at him.

“It was like his life’s work or whatever…” He suddenly found it hard to look in your general direction. “Dude looked at real women and was like, ‘Nahhh, y’all suck, I’ll just make my own instead.’ So, yeah. He starts treating this statue like a real person. Talks to it, gives it gifts, probably took it on dates—I dunno, weird guy behavior. And then, get this—he begs Aphrodite to make her real.” Techno paused, shifting in his chair, gaze flickering away for half a second before he cleared his throat.

“She, uh…actually does it.”

You raised an eyebrow. “She what?”

“Yeah.” He scratched the back of his neck. “Aphrodite, for some reason, sees all this and goes, ‘Wow, that’s so romantic,’ and just—bam—brings the statue to life. No questions asked. No ‘bro, you good?’ Just—instant dream girl. And then in some versions they have a kid or something, I’ve forgotten.” He suddenly found it hard to look into your general direction.

A beat of silence. Then, in a flat voice, you muttered, “He chose a statue over a real person?” You paused again, “That’s… the most depressing shit i've ever heard.”

Techno huffed a quiet chuckle. “I know right? Isn't it great?” His smile quirked upwards a little as his arms crossed, nudging you with his elbow.

Despite yourself, despite the exhaustion and the weight of everything pressing down on you, a small, tired laugh slipped from your lips. You shook your head, rubbing at your eyes again. “That’s your idea of cheering me up?”

“I mean, it’s a good story.” Techno shrugged, leaning back in his chair, arms crossing over his chest. “Figured I’d tell it ‘cause… it kinda reminded me of uhh…” He trailed off, his voice tapering into silence. His gaze flickered away, almost like he had lost his train of thought. He suddenly found his book a whole lot more interesting.

You narrowed your eyes slightly. “Of…?”

If you didn’t know any better, you’d swear the color in his face deepened just a shade.

“...uhhh—” He cleared his throat, suddenly finding the fire very interesting. “I mean, y’know. It’s, uh… a classic tale! Dedication. Mastery in art. Real inspiring, all that.”

You stared at him. He was so full of shit.

“…Right.” You dragged out the word, tilting your head, a slow smirk creeping onto your lips. “That’s totally why you told it.”

His ears twitched, his jaw tightening. “Hey, don't make fun of me.”

That only made you grin harder. You exhaled through your nose, something almost like amusement breaking through the sadness. “You’re the worst.”

“And yet, you’re still here.”

Another pause. You took a breath, deeper this time. The lump in your throat was still there, but… lighter. A little easier to bear.

Then, to your surprise, Techno stood. You expected him to walk away, to give you space, but instead, he grabbed something from the back of his chair—his red cloak.

Before you could question it, he stepped over and draped it over your shoulders.

The fabric was warm, heavy, smelling like smoke and steel and something distinctly him. Even if it was just the cloak, it held the weight, smell and looked as if he were giving you a hug. Your fingers curled around the edges instinctively. You blinked up at him.

Techno just crossed his arms. “Try not to cry on it. It’s my only one.”

You scoffed lightly, a breathy, half-hearted sound. “No promises.”

He hummed, stepping back toward his chair. Before he sat, he hesitated—then, reaching out, he gave your shoulder a firm squeeze. Just once. Just enough to remind you that you weren’t alone.

Then he plopped back down, flipping open his book.

The fire crackled. The storm raged outside.

You tugged his cloak tighter around yourself, eyes dropping to your cold, untouched tea.

“…Thanks,” you murmured after a long pause.

Techno didn’t look up.

“Don’t mention it.”

#technoblade x reader #dsmp #technoblade #dream smp #dsmp techno #c!techno #mcyt #c!technoblade #c!techno x reader #technoblade fanfic #techno x reader

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molluskwritesfic · 2 years ago

Text

Galatea - Chapter One

Masterlist - Ao3

Summary: A cheap Arrakeen prostitute, chained to the city brothel by an unfair contract and desperate for freedom, is offered the chance of a lifetime.

A/N: Basically unedited. Not my best work. Tryna get out of a writing slump so you get what you get

Chapter Warnings: smut, a smidge of knife play, prostitution, mentions of rape, depression, anxiety

Rating: EXPLICIT 18+ ONLY

This part, Galatea was all too familiar with.

The groundcar waiting for her outside the brothel was nondescript. Grey metal and dark windows. The man that opened the door for her wore a black work uniform stripped of insignia. She knew the type. Spine rimrod straight. Eyes front. Trying just a little too hard not to seem like he was ogling the beautiful woman scantily dressed in fine silk.

Galatea shot him a wink. He blushed.

From there, though, things got a bit more complicated.

She slid gracefully onto the fine leather seats, trying not to think about how desperately she wanted tonight to succeed.

Chances of everything happening the way they needed to were exceedingly slim. She knew better than to get her hopes up. She wasn’t a dreamer, but she had been, once. Despite all she’d been through, it was a habit that just wouldn’t die.

Arrakeen was a city of many pains. And many pleasures. The House of Priapos was the largest purveyor of both. Women—and men—for all social classes. The brothel itself took up a city block, with the Trulls crammed into tiny stalls at the bottom, separated from the street by only threadbare curtains; while the wealthy enjoyed High Courtesans tucked away in luxurious penthouses that made up the highest floors.

Galatea operated somewhere in the middle.

Trapped by an unfair contract that she had signed years ago when she had been young and desperate, she could be dressed up as a courtesan, or down as a street whore, and had no room to argue either way.

Tonight, though, was unprecedented.

Galatea was to entertain the Duke of Caladan and Arrakis.

Although her hourly rate was much higher than the average Arrakeen man could afford, compared to the usual girls enjoyed by Imperium Nobility, she was trashy, at best.

It was a fluke, really.

Zoie, a High Courtesan who happened to be Galatea’s close friend, had recently taken the Atreides Warmaster as a client. He had been pleased with her, and after a few sessions, mentioned that the Duke was in need of a new lover, and asked if she had any recommendations.

Zoie owed Galatea quite a lot, and a recommendation whispered in the right ear went a long way.

The Arrakeen Palace was massive. For all the years she’d lived in Arrakis, it had been a looming mountain above the city, little more than an extension of the Shield Wall’s craggy peaks.

Galatea had certainly never been inside, but she knew a few women that had. She shifted nervously in her seat as the groundcar passed though the first security checkpoint at the outer gate, wondering at how they’d never thought to mention that the outer walls were at least fifteen feet thick. Or that armed guards bristled at every corner.

The groundcar skirted the main entrance and rolled to a stop at a smaller door just off of the courtyard, where a female guard waited. After scanning her for concealed weapons, the guard led the way inside.

She was guided on a long, winding route. Down cavernous corridors and up quite a few stairs. They encountered no one. It was planned, certainly. They were hardly going to advertise when a whore was being brought in for the Duke to fuck.

The guard’s footsteps echoed smartly through the silence, while Galatea’s delicate sandals whispered in afterthought. For a few long moments, Galatea could almost believe that they were the only souls in the entire palace. The utilitarian minimalism of the place did nothing to lessen the effect—the sandstone walls were smooth and bare. Like some suspiciously clean tomb lost deep in the desert.

The illusion was shattered when they rounded a final corner and were faced by two more guards. After being checked for weapons a second time. Her escort led her past them and down a hall that looked a bit more lived in. Still spotless, but a few paintings adorned the walls and a long crimson rug ran the length of the floor.

The guard stopped at a fairly nondescript door and turned to face her.

“The groundcar will be waiting for you at dawn,” she explained, her voice as clipped and measured as her gait. “You will be escorted out of the building. Do not wander. If you need to leave early, tell the guards. They will call for the groundcar. Do you understand?”

Galatea saw it now—the disgust hidden behind the guard’s professional mask. It wasn’t the sort of thing that she usually let faze her. People were disgusted by whores until they wanted to use one. But she was already feeling a bit out of her depth, and the blatant distaste turned the whispers in the back of Galatea’s mind into wailing sirens.

There’s a reason they use highborn ladies for this, she thought bitterly as the guard left her alone in the hall. Cheap is cheap and trash is trash.

But then the logic of Zoie—who was decidedly not cheap—rose out of the mix, accompanied by the trademark shrug of her lovely shoulders.

Who the fuck cares? A cock is a cock. Milk him and move on.

Galatea couldn’t argue with that. She lifted her hand and knocked.

The answering voice was low and soft. “Come in.”

The door opened smoothly on well oiled hinges, and Galatea was treated to the view of the room beyond.

The Duke’s suite was large and spacious, framed on one side by shelves laden with books and strange trinkets from his homeworld, and by the thin slip of a very wide but short window that was a standard Arrakis style on the other. The bed was tucked away at the far side of the room—large and neatly made underneath a beautiful bronze mural of a curling sandworm. A few steps from the bed was a doorway—presumably a bathroom—and a short distance from that, the closet. The room also sported a small breakfast table, a chaise lounge with matching chairs, and a writing desk.

The Duke himself sat at the desk, hunched over a stack of papers with a pen in hand. Galatea’s breath hitched in her throat—half from admiration, half from nerves.

Duke Leto Atreides was an extremely handsome man. Olive skin turned golden by the Arrakis sun and heightened under the warm glow of the glowglobes. He had a sharp, angular face softened by curly black hair and a beard to match, both shot through with elegant streaks of silver. Thick, heavy eyebrows sat above the eyes of a poet, pulling his expression into one of constant brooding.

There was no point in trying to pretend that she didn’t find him attractive. Doing nothing to hide the way her eyes flitted appreciatively around his body, Galatea dipped into a polite curtsy and flashed him her most winning smile.

“My Lord.”

He gave her the barest glance, then went back to writing.

“I’ll be with you in a minute. Make yourself comfortable.”

The disinterest gave her pause.

Galatea was not the first woman that had been hired for this job. Although the Courtesans that had come before her had been sworn into silence, Zoie was persistent. Through her usual persuasion tactics and ability to root out gossip from the most stubborn sources, the beautiful Courtesan was able to garner that, out of six High Courtesans, the Duke had sent them all away.

And if they hadn’t been able to please the Duke, what hope did Galatea have?

Well, he hasn’t dismissed me yet.

She turned to one of the bookshelves. Galatea ran her fingers down a few of the leather bound spines and read the titles. Paper books were incredibly rare on Arrakis. There were no trees; wood and paper had to be imported. She had a digital tablet, though. Reading was one of the few hobbies she could afford. There wasn’t much else to do to fill the time between clients, anyhow.

The Duke heaved a sigh. Out of the corner of her eye, Galatea watched him set aside his papers and stare off into space. He drummed his fingers on the desk. Lost in thought.

The decision was made. He stood. Strode purposefully around the desk.

“Alright. Come here.”

The command in his tone made Galatea shiver with anticipation. As much as she hated the brothel, the contract, the lack of choice, her masters—this part, especially when she liked the look of the client, could be a lot of fun.

She met him in the middle. The Duke’s arms wrapped around her, dragged her body against his, left no room for argument. Then his mouth was on hers. Hard. Demanding. Tongues and teeth. No preamble. Absolutely filthy.

Fuck, he was a good kisser. Of course he was. A man as beautiful as he was didn’t skate through life without getting a lot of practice.

Galatea’s knees went weak, and she grabbed onto his shoulders to keep upright. The Duke didn’t seem to notice, and instead used her loss of balance to steer her towards the chaise lounge.

Once he had her underneath him, he wasted no time in pulling the straps of her dress down her shoulders, loosening the silk enough to free her breasts. Then that wonderful mouth was on her neck. She gasped as his beard scraped along her collarbone. Eager to match his intensity, Galatea slipped a hand between their bodies to rub his cock through his trousers. She could feel the outline of him through the thick fabric—still soft, but of pleasing size.

Galatea hummed appreciatively. The Duke paused, his breath ghosting past her ear. She threaded her free hand through his hair and pulled him back in for another kiss.

He reciprocated, but something had shifted.

The Duke tolerated a few more moments of her touch, then he heaved a sigh and pulled away. Galatea was left draped on the lounge, tits out and baffled as he returned to his desk.

“Thank you for coming here tonight,” he said, settling back down in his chair and shuffling papers as he returned to his work. “You may go.”

Shocked, Galatea sat up and fixed her clothes. She opened her mouth. Closed it. Cheap whore or not, she knew she was attractive. It was usually the lead up when a client lost interest—when the knowledge of her unfashionable price and breeding was at the forefront. But once a man got his hands on her, he always followed through.

“My Lord… forgive me, but … have I done something wrong?”

He didn’t look at her. “No. You will be paid in full.”

Galatea could have cried. It wasn’t about the money. She saw so little of the money she made for the brothel that it didn’t have much meaning for her anymore, beyond the fact that she was cheap—which her handlers reminded her of at every opportunity. But the Duke was in need of a lover. Leto the Just, they called him. A good and fair man, one that had the authority and money to pay off her contract with the brothel and set her free, if he liked her enough. If he liked her more than enough, he might even bring her into his House. He could make her a concubine. And finally, after so many years, she could have the quiet, stable life that she’d always wanted.

No more beatings. No more scrounging. No more pleasuring the questionable men that the courtesans above her didn’t want. No more falling asleep to moans and screams. No more knowing that there were women several floors below her getting raped and being able to do nothing about it.

She could be free.

It was a pipe dream. She knew that. But having the hope crushed before it could even fully take root was devastating.

From the despair came indignation, and from that came anger. Anger always made her reckless.

She returned to the bookshelf. Figuring that the Duke wouldn’t leave sensitive information just out on a shelf, Galatea decided it was safe to help herself to one that sounded interesting.

This was an opportunity. Good things never happened to Galatea. She had hours left until the brothel expected her back, so she might as well make the most of the Duke’s luxuries.

And if he really wanted her to leave, he could make her.

Galatea settled down on the chaise lounge with her book and began to read.

It was the Duke’s turn to be shocked. He stared at her, heavy eyebrows low with a frown. “What are you doing?”

Galatea shrugged. “You’ve paid for my time already. How we spend it is entirely up to you. And if what you want is something pretty to brighten the room while you work, then that’s fine by me.”

The Duke blinked at that for a few moments. Utterly perplexed. Galatea wasn’t sure if that was good or bad.

“… As you please.”

They stayed like that for a while. The silence was soothing, full of nothing more than the occasional shuffle of papers and soft breaths. The world within the Arrakeen Palace was so far from the one she knew in the city—too far above for the bustle and chatter of people, groundcars, and animals to reach. Isolated. Alone in a bubble. Close enough to see the lights but too far away to touch.

Galatea wondered if the Duke was lonely.

She wasn’t really sure of the details. Zoie tended to not make a ton of sense when she was excited. Galatea mulled over what had gathered from the younger woman’s babbling.

The Duke’s concubine—his partner of fifteen years and the mother of his only son—had left him. She, along with their son, had gone into the desert to join the Fremen. The rest was speculation, but there seemed to be a consensus that the son, at least, had gone with the Duke’s blessing. The Fremen had been the reason that House Atreides managed to survive those harrowing first few months of their hold on Arrakis.

Galatea shivered at the memory. She remembered the night well. The sounds of roaring engines and lasguns had made the city tremble. Fire had lit the sky as ships rained down over the Shield Wall. The attack had been massive. The kind that no one was meant to survive.

But the Fremen had come out of the desert—Galatea wouldn’t pretend to understand why—and when dawn came, House Atreides still stood.

Loaning his heir out to learn the ways of the Fremen seemed a small price to pay for an alliance.

But it didn’t explain why Lady Jessica had gone as well.

Eventually, Galatea felt the Duke’s eyes on her again. She thought that he was searching for something to say, so she read aloud:

“Discovery is dangerous…but so is life. A man unwilling to take risks is doomed never to learn, never to grow, never to live.”

The Duke nodded. “That’s Pardot Kynes, the former planetologist. Dr. Liet Kynes gifted me a copy of some of her father’s writings.”

“I’ve heard of him, I think. He was supposed to be a very brilliant man.”

“It seems that way, yes.” The Duke leaned back in his chair, a bitter smile twisting at his lips. “Though sometimes I wonder if his experience was incomplete.”

“How do you mean, my Lord?”

“Perhaps one type of danger helps a man to grow. The experience makes him more of a leader. While others do the opposite. Less of a leader… less of a man.”

She tilted her head. Considered him. The faraway look. The grim smile. Tension pulled at his shoulders and exhaustion at his spine. The way he’d clutched at her reminded her of a man taking medicine—the action of doing something despite not really wanting to because it would make him feel better.

Less of a leader… less of a man.

Ah.

That was something she could work with.

The realization gave her direction, and direction gave her confidence. Galatea stood and crossed over to the desk. The Duke tilted his chin to look up at her, holding her gaze as her knees brushed his when she hopped up to sit on the desk.

Galatea cocked her head to the side as she considered him. She’d had this conversation before. Great care was needed. Proud men had the tendency to lash out, and the Duke of Caladan and Arrakis was certainly a proud man.

But at the same time, this was a man that had committed to one woman for over fifteen years. That, especially among Landsraad nobility, was extremely rare. He hadn’t been able to marry his concubine, but had also refused to marry anyone else. Unheard of.

What sort of a man was Leto Atreides?

Galatea was good at reading people. Getting a snap impression of someone, and then being able to act on it, was one of the most important skills a whore could have. Besides sucking cocks, of course, but that was a given.

Fifteen years. A son. Now he was alone. Responsible for far too many things, all of which seemed to be within a hair's breadth of falling apart. Under a great deal of stress.

This was the sort of man that wanted someone else to take control. Be taken care of. Just for a while. Being bossed around for a bit would definitely do him good.

“Leto,” Galatea began, making careful use of his first name, “when’s the last time you slept?”

Whatever he was expecting, that wasn’t it. Leto huffed a laugh. “My duties don’t exactly lend to a regular sleep schedule.”

“So in other words, you’ve been living on anti-fatigue pills?”

He shrugged.

“Leto.” He hadn’t corrected her for using his name, and she took it as a signal that she was allowed to keep doing so. She rolled her eyes and gave a disappointed shake of her head.

The Duke watched her, somehow much more interested than he had been when he’d had his mouth on her tits. She couldn’t be offended, though. The intensity of his undivided attention was far too distracting.

Galatea slipped off her sandals and rested her bare feet on his thighs. Rested her elbows on her knees and her hand on one hand. The action forced him to lean back in his seat, his legs nudged apart by the weight of her.

Leto arched an eyebrow. The look on his face was one Galatea had seen many times—the one that said, I’m in complete control of this situation, and I’m letting you do this because I think it’s amusing.

Galatea tipped her head to indicate his crotch. “And you don’t suspect a connection between the two?”

To his credit, he handled the entirely unsubtle reference to his manhood with more dignity than most refined men Galatea knew. A slight widening of the eyes. The subtle reddening of the ears.

She suppressed a smile.

“I… uh…” He cleared his throat. “I was assured that anti-fatigue pills have no…er… side effects…”

“Oh, Leto honey.” Galatea pressed her hand to his cheek. “Beautiful boy. I’m a whore. You can speak plainly about your cock with me. God knows I handle enough of them.”

Turns out, the direct approach yielded delightful results. Leto sputtered and tried to cover it with a cough. He didn’t really want to look her in the eye, so he lowered his gaze. After a moment, it occurred to him that he was looking at her breasts. His eyes shot back up to her face, then drifted off to the side. His blush deepened, creeping down his neck.

Fuck, he was pretty.

“I…uh… wouldn’t want to burden you.” He gave a nervous chuckle. “That’s not exactly something you talk about with a potential lover.”

“On the contrary, who better to ask? These things happen—it’s normal—and most everyone tries to solve it the same way you did.”

“Fair enough, I suppose.” He still wouldn’t look her in the eye, but the blush was fading. Galatea vowed to bring it back as soon as possible. “So it’s the pills?”

“Not exactly, but they certainly don’t help. How much sleep have you gotten in, say…the last two weeks?”

“I don’t know. Twelve? Maybe less.”

Galatea felt a wave of pity. No wonder the poor thing was having problems.

“Consider the mind and the body.” She held out both hands symbolically. “They work together, but they’re separate entities. The mind tells the body what to do, and the body does it. The heart needs to beat. Walk from your desk to the bookshelf. Move your hands to write a letter. But the body has opinions too. It tells the mind what it needs. I’m hungry. This hurts. I’m tired. I need to rest.”

She looked at him pointedly.

“I’m with you so far.”

“Good. So your body is telling the mind that it’s tired. You start yawning. Your brain gets fuzzy. You can’t keep your eyes open. But you’re a busy man. You have Duke things to do. So you take one of those helpful little pills, and you can keep going. But the pill isn’t making your body less tired, it’s just shutting up all the usual ways it lets you know that it needs a break. And that’s fine… for a while. But the longer you go without doing the things your body needs, the more desperate it gets. You aren’t listening to the usual signals, so it starts finding other ways to get your attention.”

Galatea gestured to his crotch again. “This is a very common one for men. Auditory hallucinations usually come next.”

Leto let out a breath. He wasn’t as shy now, which was a shame, but Galatea appreciated the glint of relief in his eyes. A small smile quirked at his lips.

“So what would you recommend, nurse?”

“It’s doctor, actually. Dr Whore. And for the long term, I prescribe sleep. No anti-fatigue pills for at least two weeks, unless absolutely necessary.”

He huffed, but was actually smiling now. “That’s a big ask, you know.”

“Make that three weeks, then. Also,” she took his chin between her index finger and thumb, “stop worrying about it. Your cock is fine. There’s nothing to be ashamed of. These things happen a lot more often than you think. And worrying makes it worse.”

“Alright, I get it.” He turned his face into her hand. His lips brushed her thumb. “And what about the short term, Dr Whore?”

“A massage, definitely,” was her immediate response. “While you were having a grope earlier, I felt your back. It’s all tied up in knots. A massage, and then a good night's sleep.” She paused, picked at a lock of his curly hair. It was still a little mussed from when she’d run her fingers through it, and now it was obvious how oily it was. “Scratch that. A bath. A nice warm bath. Massage. Then sleep. Lucky you, I’m good at all of those things. Bathroom’s through there, yeah?”

“A bath? On Arrakis? Isn’t that wasteful?” Leto protested as she slid off the desk and made her way towards the bathroom without waiting for an answer.

The bathroom, as the rest of Leto’s residence, was both spartan and beautiful. Decent sized, with a large tub taking up the center, a separate shower, toilet, and sink with a vanity all rounding the walls with accompanying shelves.

“How can it be wasteful?” Galatea countered, turning on the water. “You have a water reclamation system, right?”

Leto trailed into the room after her, looking a little lost. “Of course.”

“And filters in the cooling systems to collect the steam in the air?”

“Yeah, but…”

“But nothing. You’re the Duke. You deserve a nice bath from time to time. Call it a prerogative.” Satisfied with the water temperature, she straightened up and faced him, hands on her hips. “Now strip. I’m going to see if you have anything here we can actually use.”

With that, she started rummaging through his cabinets. Leto was a practical man, not prone to collecting frivolous things. But at his station, being well groomed was a necessity. Shampoo. Conditioner. Soap. Body wash. Beard oil. Lotion. All decent smelling. But next time… if there was a next time… she would bring some nicer things for him to use.

Galatea gathered up her finds and turned to see that Leto had done as she asked. He leaned over the edge of the tub, deliciously bare as he swished his hand through the water, brow furrowed in thought.

Heat pooled in her stomach. It wasn’t exactly uncommon for her to find clients attractive. But fuck, this just wasn’t fair.

Smooth golden skin stretched over an athletic build. Leto was sculpted as a statue—a beautiful amalgamation of well-toned muscles and soft flesh. A handful of scars smattered his upper body, and Galatea longed to trace them. Those, and the lovely curve of his arse.

Leto glanced up and saw her looking. His pensive expression turned smug.

Galatea laughed quietly and gave his face a light shove, telling him to hurry up and get in the bath. Leto did as he was told, a sigh of relief escaping him as he sank into the water.

“A Duke’s prerogative, you said?”

Galatea set down her things and stripped to the waist. “Prerogative. Absolutely.” She turned off the water and settled on her knees behind his head. “You work too hard. You deserve some things that make you feel good.”

Leto didn’t respond, just hummed absently as she added soap to the water and wet a fluffy washcloth. With it, she began to clean his chest and neck. His skin was hot under her hand, and she thought about what it would feel like to explore the same area with her mouth.

He sighed blissfully at her touch. Galatea imagined that it wouldn’t take much to make him moan.

Perhaps it was these thoughts that set the stage for her next one, or maybe she was riding the high of having made it farther than the other women that the brothel had sent before her. Either way, when she spotted the knife laying carelessly among Leto’s discarded clothing, Galatea got a very, very bad idea.

And GOD, it was such a bad idea. The kind where she wasn’t sure if it was so bad that it was good, or so good it was bad. The kind that, if it didn’t work, could absolutely get her killed. Hell, it might get her killed even if it did work. Fuck. No. It wasn’t worth the risk.

But as she continued to wash the Duke, her hands slowly dipping lower and lower down his abdomen, the idea niggled in the back of her mind.

Galatea knew that she had already set herself apart from the other whores the Duke had hired. No one else had made it past his dismissal. She should be satisfied with that. She should be thrilled by that.

But what about when the Duke’s problem passed? He wouldn’t need Galatea’s brusque attitude and world wisdom anymore. There were far more beautiful women for him to choose from that would be able to more than keep him satisfied.

The terrible idea took root.

Risk had gotten her this far. It seemed only fitting to let it take her all the way.

“Wet your hair for me, beautiful boy,” Galatea murmured in his ear.

Leto hummed acknowledgement and, while his head slipped down beneath the water, Galatea picked up the knife and tucked it safely in the waistband of her skirt.

Outwardly, Galatea calmly squirted shampoo into her hands. Inwardly, her heart hammered so wildly that she thought it might be trying to escape the rest of her body before it was too late.

Her fingers threaded through Leto’s hair. She worked the shampoo into a fine froth and used her nails to trace circles into his scalp. A head massage was one of the things that almost every man adored but never knew to ask for. She took her time with it. Although she was getting impatient, there was no need to rush.

Leto went boneless. His head lolled obediently with her touch. When she tilted his head back against her bare chest, he went willingly. One of her hands ghosted up his throat and scratched along his jaw, adding a little shampoo to his beard.

Galatea took her time rinsing him, too. She had him lean forward while she poured water from a pitcher over his head, careful not to get any into his eyes.

“Conditioner now,” Galatea told him. “Same idea.”

Leto leaned back against her and closed his eyes, so trusting and content.

Galatea reached down and, instead of the conditioner, picked up the knife. Before she could see reason and talk herself out of it, she had it against Leto’s throat.

The Duke inhaled sharply. His eyes snapped open, wide with shock. All of the relaxation she’d coaxed into him dissipated.

“What is this?” He demanded, his voice tight with anger. She thought of him as a coiled spring, ready to launch into motion. Ready to fight. But Galatea was in control. He was at her mercy. So he stayed perfectly still. Waiting for her to make a move.

Somehow, Galatea was able to hide how affected she was—practically trembling with arousal, fear, and adrenaline. Her free hand drifted down his body and wrapped around his pretty cock.

Leto gasped. This time, his body responded to her beautifully.

“Your body is trying to tell you something, Leto,” she whispered against his ear. “What’s it saying?”

She pumped him slowly. A low groan rumbled in his chest. His head pressed back against her sternum as he started to pant.

Galatea watched his face carefully. Checking for any sign of genuine distress. He was smart. By now, he understood what she was doing. The alarm was gone, but he remained guarded. His lovely poet eyes flickered from her face to where her hand worked between his legs.

He had to know by now that he wasn’t in any danger. What kind of assassin jerked off her victim first?

Leto shuddered against her as she increased her pace. With the blade still pressed tightly against his throat, he fought to keep still. The wariness gave way to pleasure. His eyes fluttered closed, and the quiet of the bathroom was filled with his quiet moans.

Desperate to hold something, but knowing better than to grab at her arms—as both hands were very busy—Leto clutched the edges of the tub so hard that his fingers turned white.

“My beautiful boy,” Galatea murmured, her lips touching his ear. “You needed this, didn’t you? You’re doing so well. Let go. I’ve got you.”

He didn’t last very long, but then, she hadn’t wanted him to. Leto’s body arched in the water. He gasped and cursed and shuddered. Galatea held him through it, whispering soft encouragement and praises until he slumped back against her, utterly spent.

Galatea lay the knife to the side, dizzy with relief and her own daring. She took Leto’s head in her hands, brushing his wet curls from his face and checking his neck.

To her horror, a single pearl of blood welled from a small cut across his throat. It was hardly more than a shaving cut, but it filled her with terror.

She had held a Duke at knifepoint. She’d made him bleed.

Galatea pressed her thumb against it, willing it to disappear. Leto winced slightly and opened one eye.

“I didn’t actually mean to cut you,” Galatea said weakly. “I’m sorry.”

Leto closed his eyes again and nuzzled against her arm.

“S’fine,” he mumbled. Adrenaline had given his system the kickstart that it needed, but it was fading fast. “Worth it.”

Relieved, Galatea kissed the top of his head. Then she went to work finishing his bath—applying and rinsing conditioner, washing his face, applying beard oil. She did it fairly quickly, knowing that the endorphins, combined with his exhaustion, were calling him to sleep. Galatea was stronger than she looked, but she couldn’t carry him to bed. Leaving him to sleep in the tub wasn’t exactly an option either.

When she guided him up to his feet, he went willingly. Leto stood while she dried him with a towel, meek and obedient as a child. By the time she grabbed the lotion she’d found and steered him out of the bathroom, Galatea thought he seemed half asleep already.

She pulled back the sheets of his bed. “Lay down on your stomach, beautiful boy. There you go.”

Leto all but sagged into bed. He buried his face into his pillow with a relieved sigh. Galatea joined him, kneeling by his hips and lathering her hands with lotion.

Within minutes, he was asleep. Galatea spent a good hour working out the knots in his back. She kneaded and pressed the tension in his tired muscles until they were jelly. Then she did the same to his legs, his feet, his buttocks.

He looked so good like this. If Galatea knew how to paint, she would have gladly spent the rest of the night capturing this image. Truely, it belonged with the ancient Renaissance artworks she’d seen in her holobooks. Exposed, vulnerable, beautiful.

When she was done, Galatea pulled the blankets over him. There was some time left before dawn, but she didn’t dare sleep. Instead, she fetched another book from the shelf and settled down on top of the covers beside the sleeping Duke.

She wiled away the hours, soothed by Leto’s soft snores and the silence of the Palace. She could get used to this. She begged every god in existence to let her get used to this.

Dawn came too soon. Galatea returned her books to their respective spots on the shelves. She had a few of the brothel’s business cards in her small clutch, one of which she retrieved along with her lipstick.

Galatea applied a fresh coat to her lips, then pressed them to the card. The shape of her kiss transferred perfectly just below the House of Priapos inscription. Below that, Galatea wrote her name in an elegant, looping hand.

She left the card on his desk and left, hoping that she would be seeing this place again very soon.

#duke leto atreides x reader #duke leto x reader #duke leto fanfiction #duke leto atreides #duke leto atreides x oc #dune fanfiction #oc #fanfiction #my art #fanfic #duke leto x oc #leto atreides x oc #leto atreides x reader

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plasterhound · 18 days ago

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you dont know galatea yet but she sucks ass. grown ass woman chasing oblivion only for it to last (checks wrist) 30 minutes and now apparently she needs to live like a normal person and get a job

#its pronouns are she her 😐

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monsterofwalls · 10 months ago

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Since I heard her name I couldn't get the similarities between Galicea (fantasy high) and Galatea (Greek mythology). The myth of Galatea is basically that an incredibly skilled sculptor was incredibly repulsed by the idea that women could speak and express themselves, but he still wanted a girlfriend so he made a marble statue and named her Galatea (Roughly translate to white as milk). But he soon realized that a less comfortable body pillow wasn’t the best option for a fulfilling relationship so he asked Aphrodite for help. The goddess then transformed Galatea into a real woman who, unfortunately, could talk and have emotions and opinions so their whole thing kind of fell apart. All this to say, I think this myth of Galatea where she is only accepted when she follows a very strict set of rules laid out for her by the person who is supposed to love her, has some very intriguing parallels to Galacea the “werewolf moon” goddess, being forced into just “moon” goddess she isn’t by her followers, who only accept her as a restricted version of herself that can’t express the werewolf aspect of her divinity.

I don’t know if this was intentional on Brennan's part, but considering there have been a lot of different parallels with characters with greek myth inspired/adjacent names i wouldnt put it past him. Either way I hope we get to see more interactions between Cassandra and Galicea because I wanna know what their sibling relationship was. Were they on good terms? Was it another Abernant situation? What did Galacea think of Ankarna? How did Galicea react when her sister became the nightmare king? Did she know? I need the rest of the season to drop tomorrow. I swear to god I wanna know everything KNOW!

#fhjy spoilers #galicaea #ankarna #cassandra #If you coment on my spelling on any of these names i'll be upset #or just my spelling/grammar in general #Non first language enligsh/dyslexia combo is rough #kristen applebees #I like greek mythology and the amount of refrences this season is everything to me #I also have some thoughts on Beardsly giving Cassandra the name of the greek myhtological figure WHO WAS LITERALY NEVER BELIVED #Intentional or not #Sure cassandra was cursed to be a prophet that nobody belived to tell the truth #But our Cassandra is a goddes who is having a really hard time making people belive (in) her #Also a goddess of mystery and doubt being named after mythological figure who was doubted #i'll stop with these tags now oml thats a lot

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chattercap · 1 month ago

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2024 Retrospective and 2025 Roadmap!

Hello everyone,

Happy 2025! I hope that you all had a wonderful holiday, and may the new year bring you lots of cheer and good fortune 😊 Since it's another new year, I thought that I would chat a bit about what I accomplished last year, and the games that I hope to make this year!

Last year, I released four games!

My first release of the year was the demo of The Deepwater Witch, a dystopian romance game where a mysterious girl teaches a cynical scavenger how to find beauty, even in a ruined world. This was my first release after swapping from Unity to Godot, but I was very happy with the change (if nothing else, Godot is much less bloated than Unity for my needs!) As a result, making the game was a lot of experimentation 😅 and the code was a bit rough around the edges. In terms of visuals, TDW also remains my favorite title to date (I'm not sure how I made some of those backgrounds... but I made them!)

My second release was Kanau, the prequel to Karamu and a direct follow-up to that game, about the first time Raku met Nelli. It was my first time working with such a stylized color palette; even though it was actually a lot easier working in black and white, Kanau has some of my favorite CGs that I made this year (that, alas, I couldn't post anywhere... because of spoilers...) It was also my first time writing a kinetic story, which ended up being a lot easier/faster to write 😂 A lot of people who played Karamu picked up Kanau too and seemed to enjoy it, which made me feel very warm inside 😭💦

My third release was MindMindMind, a psychological romance game about a mysterious man who has followed you since you were a child, who starts to interfere when you get close to a new boy at school. This was my first time participating in NanoRenO, the annual visual novel jam where you make a game in a month! It was a lot of fun making a game alongside so many talented developers. It was also my first time making a game so fast 😂 rather than hand-making the backgrounds, I used filtered photos, and I also kept the planned amount of CGs pretty slim, so I finished the game with plenty of time to spare. I... probably should have used that as a sign that I should "slim" down my games some so that I can release them faster, but alas, my overly ambitious side keeps adding CGs to the games that I make 😂 This game was pretty personal, as I based it on my experiences in middle/high school, and I was really touched to see the comments from people who said that they felt that it was relatable. It made me feel very happy (and fortunate) to be able to share my stories as a developer 😊

And lastly, my fourth release was The Perfect Woman, a short psychological horror title! In it, you play as an AI girlfriend trapped by your creator, who wants to carve you into his perfect woman. It's a somewhat "modern/sci-fi" reimagining of the myth of Pygmalion and Galatea. This was my most experimental game to date, both in terms of visuals and code. I typically write fairly straightforward visual novels, where points garnered over the course of the playthrough lead to a number of different endings. Here I incorporated a chatsim interface, completely full voice acting (including the narration), and a "game loop" mechanic as opposed to a mainly linear format. I think that in the end I could have done a bit more to make the loop more fun 😅 but overall I was very proud with how it turned out! It was also my first attempt at making Android builds again after swapping to Godot, and it seemed to go well, so I hope to make more Android builds in the future!

Overall, I wish I could have put out more games this year 😂 but looking back, I think that I grew a lot as a developer, and I received a lot of kind feedback! I would like to extend a special thank you to everyone who supported me this year: the talented voice actors that I worked with, the generous friends who beta read and beta tested my games, the fantastic artists that I commissioned, and everyone who very kindly reached into their wallets to help me fund development. I would also like, of course, to thank everyone who took the time to play my games, and especially to everyone who left a comment or a rating. When I released my first game a couple of years ago, I remember being fairly happy whenever a new person downloaded it 😂 so having so many people try out my recent titles is very mind-boggling to me! I'm very fortunate, and thank you for giving me the privilege of your time 🙇‍♀️

Every time I finish a game, another idea seems to pop up 😂 Like weeds! Currently, I have 6 projects on my docket for 2025.

First is The Deepwater Witch! I already had the script finished all the way back in 2023, and I really only had CGs left to finish. However, since releasing TDW’s demo, I did make quite a few changes to my code, so I’ll have to refactor it.

Second is, of course, Hanasu (the last part of the Karamu trilogy). After the events of Karamu, Nelli has been sucked back into a relationship with her ex-boyfriend… What will happen to her and this “monstrous” relationship? The script is finalized, and the voice acting is almost complete. I plan to actually release this as part of a bundled game that contains Karamu and Kanau as well, so everyone can play all three games in one place.

Third is “My Husband is a Stranger,” the project that I announced most recently! You're trapped on a remote island with your perfect, doting husband... who isn't the man that you married. This is a romance/mystery game with a little bit of thriller, a little bit of psychological horror, and a few twists and turns involving a truly nightmarish marriage. The demo script is complete and finalized at 24k words. I’ve also finished the sprites, and I’ve been hard at work on the CGs and BGs. Like MMM, this one will have a customizable protagonist.

Fourth is a project that I’ll affectionately refer to as Project R. Your loyal knight and trustworthy childhood friend has become your ruthless captor. You have seven days to escape. This is a dark fairytale/fantasy project with a hero-to-villain/friends-to-enemies twist… featuring my first female yandere! I also love a lady in a nice suit of armor 🤗 so I’m very excited for this one! The demo script is complete and finalized at 24k words, and I’ve also finished the character designs. Like MHIAS, this one will have a customizable protagonist akin to MMM.

Fifth is Actala: The Hero’s Shadow, my first game and my largest! It’s an expansive mystery/fantasy romance title that takes place after the end of the “hero’s journey,” when dangers emerge that threaten the life of the kingdom’s strongest man. I worked on it a bit for Otome Jam last year, but it ended up being too big to finish the demo in that time frame. It’s a huge project, and quite a bit needs to be redone, so I’ll be working on it gradually this year.

Sixth is a project that I will call Project Y! It’s a Karamu spinoff set in a period inspired by Edo-era Japan. After Nelli sees her best friend beaten half to death by her husband, she decides to do anything to save her… even if it means marrying a demon. This is my first planned NSFW project! I’m a bit nervous 😭 but hopefully it’s fun! Nelli and Raku are some of my fondest characters, and so I’m pretty happy to continue being able to write about them 🥹 The script is currently in progress, but at 29k words, I’d say it’s not even close to half done 😅

I won’t announce release dates for any of these projects, since, as you know, solo development inevitably hits snags. But with my current scheduling, I hope to release something every two months or so. My first priorities for the year will be demoes for “My Husband is a Stranger” and Project R, followed by Hanasu/the complete Karamu trilogy.

From a general "game development" perspective, I have a few things that I would like to focus on this year!

First... I would like to be a little more active on social media 😂 If you follow me there you can probably tell that I am notoriously bad at this... in addition to being more responsible about supporting my fellow developers 💪, I would also like to keep anyone interested in my games more up to date (and maybe do some more of this "marketing" thing that people talk about...)

Second, I'd like to add a bit more "flavor" to my games! This includes things like MC customization, more endings, more choices, etc. I'd also like to release games that are a bit longer in general, so you can really sink your teeth into them!

Third, I would like to experiment with monetization this year. While I'm primarily a solo developer, I understand that I am a jack-of-all-trades, master-of-none 😅 As a result, I have been commissioning out certain things, like logos and GUI, where I know I'm a particularly weak, in addition to hiring people such as editors and beta readers, so that there are a few more quality checkers than... just me 😂 And while there are many generous people in the community who will work on a volunteer basis, I would like to pay everyone at least a bit of money for their time (and preferably a decent amount). So far I've mainly been paying out of pocket (with some help from very kind people on my Ko-fi and Patreon), but I would like this to be a bit more sustainable, haha! However, at the same time, I understand that not everyone has the money to pay for games, and I'd like my games to be available to as many people as possible.

As a result, you'll be seeing me experiment a bit with monetization this year. Currently I plan to release a couple games that are primarily free (MHIAS and Project R), with bonus content and endings available as a paid DLC (similar to the Our Life DLCs). Hopefully this is a good compromise between giving everyone a satisfying free experience while also offering something worthwhile to people who choose to help me out. If it works out, I'd like to look into hiring artists for backgrounds and sprites/CGs! Hopefully this would help me release games faster (and also enable me to release games that have… art that is a bit nicer 😭 I think I’ve grown as an artist, but I have a long way to go…)

To anyone who’s still here, thank you for reading! 🥂 May we both have a happy and productive 2025!

Chattercap

#general-dev #general-news #general

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coffeeandmagicaltales · 3 months ago

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The Auror&The Devil part 25

AesopSharpXAdultMC

DISCLAIMER: ANGST, spicy vocabulary

Aesop slowly opened his eyes, and though his body seemed to need time to fully awaken and his muscles ached slightly from the evening's "activities," his mind felt exceptionally calm and refreshed. The flickering flames in the wood stove crackled pleasantly, blending with the cozy, gentle drumming of rain against the tent's fabric. A pleasant shiver ran through him as he burrowed into the blanket, leaving only the part of his head from his nose upward exposed. The material wrapped around him, and beneath it... hmm... There was a source of warmth he edged closer to, careful not to wake it. Reaching out, his hand found the disheveled, naked body of the deeply sleeping Morana. Somehow, his touch landed on her foot... She was lying in an odd position, as if she'd pressed her feet against his bare thighs during the night to warm them. He stroked them tenderly, then briefly extended his hand from under the blanket to grab his wand, casting a spell to conjure thick socks for her. Feeling them now, he was certain she wouldn’t be cold.

He closed his eyes again, letting his thoughts drift back to the previous night... Merlin... A shiver ran through him at the mere memory of how soft her skin had felt under his fingers, how her body arched under each of his kisses. And he felt... pride? It had been so long since he’d made love to anyone that he was certain he’d forgotten how. Even though it was their first time together and many things might not have been perfect... it was wonderful. Yes. He wanted to caress Morana and make her lose herself under his touch for the rest of his days, if only she would want it too.

What she had done to him in turn—how she had stirred his senses, how she ignited his body—Sweet Salazar... For that, he possessed her. Loved her. Worshiped her. Savored her. He had let her ride him, bite him, lick him, caress him... He was entirely hers.

Unconsciously, his fingers found a strand of her hair that tickled his hand, and he began to twirl it, wrapping it around his thumb. He sighed deeply at the thought that just a few days ago, he was lonely and unhappy, and now he had woken up beside the woman he loved—whom, secretly, in his heart, he already called his "future wife."

The thought that she had once been his student still irked him, like a fly buzzing in his ear. But she had only been his student briefly, and now she was a fully grown woman... Besides, if not for her kindness, rebellious courage, intelligence, empathy, and humor... he likely would have forgotten her existence right after the summer holidays, as he usually did with most students. Or she would have meant as little to him as Galatea Flint. Maybe it was fate? Perhaps if he had stayed an Auror and Morana remained at Hogwarts... Merlin, it dawned on him that they might never have met. Then again, would they? He wanted to believe they were meant for each other.

Morana murmured something under her breath and turned to her side, immediately nestling into his arms.

A blissful "O-oh..." escaped his lips as he suddenly felt her firm breasts pressed against his chest and her hips snug against his groin. He trembled, wrapping his arms around her, burying his face in the intoxicating, malty scent of her hair. His manhood stirred, like a kitten seeking attention—he shielded it with his hand, realizing that now wasn’t the best time—he was still utterly sore from yesterday, unaccustomed to... certain movements other than swimming. He knew that soon, with a bit of practice, he'd be back to normal, and it wouldn’t feel like such an effort anymore.

Morana murmured something again. He knew she was awake, only pretending and exaggerating. He stroked her head. “Silly Bird, time to get up…” he whispered, stifling a laugh as she hugged him tighter. “Yeah,” added Tertius, descending from a thread above their heads. “You copulated. Bite his head off.” Morana looked at the spider with pity, while Aesop snorted with laughter, quickly disguising it with a cough as he buried his face in her hair. “Tertius, maybe you’d like to go hunt something?” she suggested, suppressing a giggle. “Wet. I don’t like it.” He cut the thread. He wasn’t light, and both Aesop and Morana groaned as they felt several kilograms land on their bodies. The spider perched, staring expectantly at Aesop. The man furrowed his brows, recognizing that the creature had some business with him. “Ugh…” He rolled his eyes, displeased that he’d have to leave the bed. “Let me guess... bacon?” “GIVE”

Morana hid her head under the blanket so Tertius wouldn’t see her shaking with laughter. She patted Aesop’s thigh, her gesture clearly saying, “You brought this on yourself.” Sharp was slowly coming to the realization that this must be what having children is like.

Grumbling, he crawled out from under the blanket. He hissed at the cold as the chilly air nipped at his skin and hunched his shoulders as he moved toward the stove to light a fire.

Morana peeked out from under the covers, savoring the sight of his slender, naked body. Warmth crept onto her cheeks, her heart beat a little faster, and she wondered how long the sight of him would affect her like this… Would it ever grow ordinary? She sighed softly, a little saddened by the thought, hoping it wouldn’t.

His shapely buttocks tempted her to pinch or bite them, and his clumsy movements did nothing to detract from his beauty. She wanted to trace her hands over his body, kiss it, caress it, and give him pleasure—to hear every tiny sound that escaped his lips: the moans, groans, and sighs...

“This is a strange feeling…” he said, not turning toward her as he busied himself with breakfast preparations. “You watching me… I’m not used to it.”

Morana uncovered herself, looking at him apologetically, which he noticed from the corner of his eye. “Oh, don’t make that face. You’re not doing anything wrong… If I didn’t want you to, I’d have told you. I certainly wouldn’t be parading around naked in front of you.”

He turned around, waiting for the pan to heat, and leaned against the empty picture frame, gazing at the naked Morana lying there—a sight more beautiful than any work of art. Wonderfully imperfect, with dark circles under her eyes from lack of sleep, marked here and there with the occasional bruise from his playful bites, disheveled, her makeup smudged on her face—also his doing, the result of his greedy kisses and impatient hands exploring her body.

His gaze lingered on her body, pausing slightly longer around her hips, neck, and breasts. Enchanted and filled with love, he initially stood tense, arms crossed over his chest, unsure. But seeing the admiration in her eyes, he raised one arm to rest it casually on the frame (purely 'coincidentally' flexing his well-toned biceps) while the other rested on his hip.

It was an innocent contrapposto—one he’d seen in art books or sculpted statues during a mission in Greece. He wasn’t sure why it came to mind—maybe… Maybe he just wanted to feel attractive. Her eyes sparkled with appreciation, and the sight immediately gave him a jolt of satisfaction and confidence. Smiling as he admired her, he leaned his head on the frame and confessed softly: “I-I think I like it when you look at me like that.” “Like what?” she asked in a teasing, slightly provocative tone that made his heart race and his breath quicken. That sly smile on her lips… the melody of her voice stirred his stomach with love and arousal. And it showed, as Morana bit her lip, glancing toward his groin.

Snapping out of his daze, Aesop chuckled, trying to steady himself. “Lustfully… hmm… it excites me, which… you can probably see… ehhh… I’m just rambling nonsense now…”

Both of them flinched as the kettle began to whistle loudly, startling them. Aesop rushed to its rescue, pulling it off the fire. “Sweet Salazar, I used to have such a peaceful life…” he muttered dramatically under his breath as he placed toast in the pan. “Then you had to put this devil in my path—a devil who does whatever she pleases with me, who isn’t fazed by my sternest looks, and worst of all, thinks I—scarred, crippled me—am handsome and, heaven forbid, finds my jokes funny… because she knows perfectly well she’s wrapped me around her little finger, that I feel no shame around her, and that my old heart belongs only to her… tsk tsk tsk.”

Leaving some bacon for Tertius, he took breakfast to bed and sat beside Morana.

He loved watching her eat. At those moments, nothing else seemed to matter to her—not Dark Wizards, Ranrok, or even Merlin himself. It was all about the symphony of flavors on her plate. He adored the faraway look in her eyes and the blissful smile on her puffed cheeks, stuffed to the brim, and the sweet little murmurs of contentment.

He wiped the butter smudged on her lips with his thumb. She furrowed her brows, signaling for him not to bother her, which amused him instantly.

Taking a bite of his toast, he grabbed his wand and summoned a fresh bandage, herbs, and ointment from his pocket, beginning to tend to the wounds on his knee. They didn’t look good today… He frowned, concentrating on the task, under the watchful gaze of Mora. She put her food aside and knelt on the floor in front of him so abruptly that he startled, jumping slightly.

“What’s wrong?” he asked as she closely examined his scars, her gaze growing increasingly wide in silence and focus. “They often look like this; don’t worry, Bird…” he reassured her, stroking her head gently. She nodded quickly as if she hadn’t heard him at all.

“Isidora, are you there?” she asked, slightly tilting her head toward the blank canvas. A timid “Mhm” answered her, and Morganach appeared, covering her eyes with her hands. “Oh,” said Aesop and Mora in unison. Instantly, with a flick of his wand, clothing materialized on them.

“Good day, Professor Morganach…” Aesop greeted awkwardly, blushing as he tied his tie as tightly as possible, acutely aware that she must have heard a lot from the previous night. She merely waved a hand dismissively.

“Professor Sharp…” she greeted warmly with a bow.

Mora rolled up his pant leg, revealing the spot where the curse had struck, her brows knitting together in concern. “These… These are the same runes…” she whispered, tracing the scars with her finger.

Aesop didn’t fully grasp what she meant and glanced at the intertwining grooves marking his leg with curiosity. He didn’t see anything unusual—nothing that caught his eye or triggered his sixth sense for symbols or signs associated with dark magic artifacts, especially the ones Morana saw in her dreams. To him, they were just scars.

“Look,” Mora pointed to one mark, tracing it with her finger to form a symbol, then another, and another. Aesop’s eyes widened as, amidst the crisscrossed cuts on his skin, he began to see what the witch saw. The symbols were incredibly subtle—no wonder no one had noticed them for years. Anxiety bubbled in his chest, his heartbeat quickening. What did it all mean? He looked at her expectantly, waiting for any kind of explanation.

Gripping her staff, Mora tapped it lightly on the floor and drew a series of glyphs in the air, mirroring those she’d found among Aesop’s wounds.

A tense silence fell. Morana studied the glyphs with deep focus.

“Are these… are these what you saw?” Aesop asked. “Are you certain?” Isidora scrutinized them as well, and when Morana nodded, she shook her head. “That’s strange… But these—these are glyphs of ancient healing spells. Perhaps… Perhaps one of your healers used them?…”

Aesop shook his head, confused.

“The artifact used also bore these markings, and…” Mora trailed off. Her eyes widened in realization. “Merlin’s beard! Aesop, you were right—the line between potion and poison is barely a breath apart…”

Everything started falling into place.

"We know the artifact was used to extract the magical essence from creatures… So if it took it, it had to store it somewhere… or place it somewhere else." Morana’s breathing quickened as she nervously gripped her staff, her thoughts racing. She glanced at Aesop, whose wide, glassy eyes stared at her, lips slightly parted in astonishment. She could see the fear in his gaze—Ancient Magic went beyond his knowledge.

She gently stroked his cheek, and he immediately leaned into her touch, seeking comfort. “Aesop… will you let me use Ancient Magic to find out what we’re dealing with?” she asked hesitantly. He gave her immediate permission, but she frowned and quickly added, “It might hurt. I don’t know what will happen…”

“Do what you need to—I trust you,” he whispered, lying on his back and clasping his hands nervously over his chest, trying to focus on the sound of rain drumming against the tent roof. He trembled at the memory of old pain.

Morana took a deep breath and glanced at Isidora, who nodded in agreement with Aesop’s words. This was uncharted territory for her as well.

Morana tapped her staff against the floor.

The room filled with dark shadows, slithering like tendrils from Aesop’s scars. He writhed in agony, tears streaming down his cheeks, but the dark presence seemed to devour all sound. His screams were completely muffled. Stunned, Morana could hear only eerie noises—squeals, growls, inhuman sounds that no man could produce.

The cloud of magic surrounded her, enveloping her from all sides, swirling faintly. She could feel pain, sorrow… a scent she recognized all too well. But it wasn’t Aesop’s. These emotions were animalistic—simple, primal, driven by instinct and the will to survive.

The squeals morphed into whimpering, growing louder and louder until they became a piercing wail of despair, so agonizing and terrifying that Morana covered her ears and began to sob. Enough—it had to end. She had learned what she needed, and prolonging this would be cruelty.

She lifted the spell, and the darkness receded, leaving only Aesop’s hoarse voice crying out in pain. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry…” she whispered, immediately cradling him in her arms, trying to soothe him with kisses and holding him close to her chest.

“It hurts so much… Mo…” he repeated deliriously, clutching her forearms tightly as she offered him a Wiggenweld potion. She waited anxiously for it to take effect, embracing him and kissing his tear-streaked cheeks. To her relief, Aesop’s grip soon loosened, his breathing steadied, and his crying subsided.

He coughed and wiped his tears with the back of his hand. “Ugh… that was awful,” he muttered, still trembling. Sitting up with some effort, he leaned on his arm, the lingering discomfort in his leg—a terrible buzzing sensation—still gnawing at him. “Could you get me some tea, darling? … Thank you,” he said, taking the cup from her hands. After a sip, he exhaled deeply and licked his chapped lips before continuing. “What… what just happened?”

Morana sat beside him on the edge of the bed and exchanged a concerned glance with Isidora. “It’s not a curse—it’s a living being,” she said somberly, brushing her damp curls from her face and setting her staff aside. She picked up Aesop’s ointments and gently applied them to his wounds, wrapping them carefully in bandages.

“It’s bound to you forever. Ancient rituals used to require mutual consent—human and magical being coexisting symbiotically. I think I wrote to you about this in a letter once… In ancient times, this magic was used in cases like a sickly child being born. People would ask dragons, for example, to share a part of their strength—sometimes even a piece of their heart. Other times, a dying magical being might agree to merge with a dying human through magic. They would become one and live together many years in health, dependent on each other. I believe someone turned this magic into a weapon. Deliberately or not, they didn’t account for the lack of mutual consent. Without it, the magical essence of the creature becomes a parasite, a curse. The pain you feel—it’s not really yours. It’s creature's... And I think it could be anything—a vampire, a unicorn, even a Niffler—a wounded being suffering terribly because it’s bound to you forever against its will.”

Aesop listened attentively, nodding slowly, his eyes wide and seeking reassurance. “There’s no cure for this, is there?” he whispered, his voice trembling, filled with such sadness and hopelessness that Morana’s heart ached.

She cupped his cheek, kissed his lips tenderly, and looked deep into his eyes before admitting with a heavy heart, “I don’t know.”

“We were looking in the wrong places,” Isidora admitted, disappointed that they hadn’t figured it out sooner.

“There’s just one thing that puzzles me…” Aesop said softly, clearing his throat before continuing. “If this curse has been on me for years, why haven’t the ones who created it revealed themselves before now? It’s a powerful weapon… valuable…”

“Maybe because of the goblins?” Morana suggested. “They’ve been the main threat recently…”

“Well… yes, but one doesn’t exclude the other. If it’s something other than their magic, no dark wizard would take a break just because Ranrok was up to something. They’d have kept working—judging by the number of magical creatures killed—on perfecting these rituals, artifacts, Merlin knows what else…”

“Maybe they were afraid of the goblins? Since they were roaming the area searching for sources of Ancient Magic for their own purposes…” Morana continued.

“Goblins are magical creatures; they’d be a goldmine for someone like that. If anything, they’d lure them here and wipe them out—or him, or them… I still think one wizard isn't powerful enough to do it by himself...” Isidora interjected, settling comfortably on her conjured chair.

Aesop nodded in agreement, adding, “Following goblin's trail, they could’ve found the repository themselves and hoarded the magic. Then we’d have had a much bigger problem than Ranrok. None of this adds up… Either someone’s acting randomly (which I doubt), or they’re highly calculated and have a plan… one we haven’t uncovered yet. But I think we’re getting close.”

He stroked Morana’s face and gave her a faint smile. “I think you threw a wrench in their plan when you impersonated them and cut off the forest. One Forbidden Forest can’t hold two Devils. Now we wait for their next move, another clue. It might take some time… Would you like to trade this tent for my house in Aranshire? Or at least pitch it in my garden if you’re so fond of it? You really don’t need to camp out here, Mo. My home is yours—you know that.”

“NO, Miss Longbottom, leave that alone… NO, do not stir so vigorously, but slowly, in circular motions. MR. GOYLE, MINUS 10 POINTS!”

Aesop smirked, hearing the distant commotion—a sudden explosion followed by Mr. Weasley’s raised voice echoing off the stone walls of the corridor leading to the Potions classroom.

Sharp limped slowly, savoring the chaos the boy had stumbled into. He felt a twinge of pity for him but far more amusement, struggling to suppress the mischievous curl at the corners of his lips, trying and failing to adopt a serious expression. Finally, he leaned against the doorframe.

The familiar smells reached his nose, and the sight of the smoke-filled, dimly lit classroom, one he had left only a few days prior, was like a balm to his soul. He felt as if he’d returned home, to a place where he belonged, where he felt content. A tear of emotion welled up in his eye, which he quickly wiped away.

Mr. Weasley, oblivious to his presence, was engrossed in sketching out the steps for brewing a Sweet Sleep potion on the blackboard. He was explaining carefully, trying to prevent another explosion.

Aesop stifled a chuckle, silently applauding Garreth’s earnest effort while karma worked its magic. Watching the boy, he couldn’t help but acknowledge how well he was handling it.

Garreth wiped his sweaty brow with the back of his hand and pushed back his unruly red hair before announcing that the lesson was over. As the tired young man watched the line of students file out, his gaze landed on the figure standing in the doorway.

“P-Professor! Y-You’re back!” Garreth choked out, leaping from his place and practically sprinting toward Sharp.

“Good afternoon, Mr. We—” Aesop’s words were cut off as the boy threw himself into his arms with such force that the air was knocked from his lungs. Garreth clung to him, sobbing incoherently. From his rambling, Aesop managed to catch, “It’s so good to have you back!”

Awkwardly, Aesop patted his back. Once the boy let go, he adjusted his coat, cleared his throat, and donned a stern expression.

“Mr. Weasley, you’ve done an excellent job… Thank you.”

“R-Really?” Garreth’s eyes welled with tears again.

“I’ll write a commendation about you to the Ministry. With such a document, securing a teaching position will be much easier. What do you say to that?”

Garreth burst into tears again.

“I-I don’t think I want to be one… It’s… it’s a horrible job! The tests, the parents, the complaints, I… I don’t know how to manage a class!”

Aesop nodded in understanding, all while silently laughing inside. The boy spoke as though he had worked 30 years, not one week. “Poor thing, oh dear… burned out already.”

“There, there… Good references will serve you well, even if you change your mind in a few years.”

The two men shook hands, and Garreth gathered his belongings before leaving the classroom.

Aesop stood in the middle of his dungeon, arms crossed over his chest.

He took a deep breath, closing his eyes, feeling a lightness in his heart he hadn’t experienced in years.

A single drop of liquid fell onto his forehead, pulling him from his reverie.

Looking up, he spotted a cauldron lodged in the ceiling. That was it. He burst into laughter, a laugh so genuine, so cathartic, that it echoed through the classroom. The more he laughed, the funnier it became—he couldn’t remember laughing this hard in ages. Holding his aching stomach, he briefly wondered if a drop of Alihosty Draught had landed on him. No. The explanation was much simpler.

He loved this job.

Morana felt strange walking through the halls of Hogwarts again.

Students watched her with curiosity, slightly intimidated by her "ominous" appearance—disheveled hair, a long black dress, and a staff whose steady tapping echoed off the stone corridor walls. The sound silenced conversations, drawing eyes in her direction. Suppressed gasps reached her ears—clearly, the kids were scared of her.

She lowered her gaze, feeling uncomfortable, and trudged behind Professor Weasley, who was grinning from ear to ear.

"This is such a peculiar feeling," Weasley admitted after a moment of silence. "Just a few years ago, I was escorting you to your common room. And now… Merlin… To the Faculty Tower, as the new Professor."

She slowed her pace, falling into step with Morana, clearly concerned by her silence.

"Well… You’re not the girl I met back then. In fact… I didn’t even recognize you when Professor Black introduced you at the meeting today. I wasn’t the only one..."

Morana smirked at the memory.

Phineas Black had no idea who she was; even her name didn’t jog his memory. He hadn’t read her references and hired her on the spot, eager to avoid another year of teaching himself. Aside from Professor Sharp, who had nearly burst with pride listening to her discuss her work and plans (he was a hair’s breadth from shouting how brilliant, intelligent, and irreplaceable she was), the other teachers were stunned by the mysterious, tattooed woman leaning on a staff—a figure out of Muggle children’s dark fairy tales.

"Morana? That Morana?" they whispered, exchanging baffled looks before finally greeting her warmly.

"Professor Sharp knew, didn’t he?" Matilda suddenly asked pulling Morana out of her thoughts. Young woman flushed, clearing her throat as she confirmed it. She was wary now, certain Weasley was aware of her relationship with Aesop. She decided to get ahead of any questions, avoiding mistakes she’d made in the past—like with Professor Fig.

"Professor Weasley…"

"Matilda," Weasley corrected her warmly. "We’re colleagues now, Morana."

"Matilda…" Morana began hesitantly. "Professor Sharp… um… Aesop and I… well, we’re a couple. We can both assure you that we won’t let it affect our work or behave inappropriately."

"I know. I suspected as much a long time ago," Weasley replied with a reassuring smile. "It’s an unusual situation for me, but I trust Aesop completely as an educator. I know there was no grooming involved, and that his feelings for you are genuine. Likewise, I believe you—that this isn’t just a passing infatuation and that you won’t hurt my best friend."

She paused as they reached the Faculty Tower’s door, her hand resting on the handle as she hesitated.

"I’m happy you found love, even if it might not be easy. People love to gossip..."

"If Aesop faces any issues because of my presence here, I’ll leave," Morana replied firmly.

Weasley looked at her, startled.

"What? Don’t you dare. I won’t allow it." She grumbled. "I’d stir up the entire Ministry before letting you just walk away. You’re not getting off that easily. Merlin help me, you are now one of the Hogwarts' BEST and BRIGHTEST, period!" and suddenly she frowned adding: "Another Slytherin for the collection… ugh."

With that, she swung the door open and stepped inside.

"Your quarters are next to Mirabel’s," she gestured toward the door near Morana’s neatly stacked luggage. "Be warned—apparently, she snores, and it’s loud enough to hear through the walls. I suggest a Silencing Charm. Abraham sings in the bath, so aim to shower before 7am. Mudiwa and Satyavati usually argue whenever they pass each other—ignore the theatrical insults if they throw any your way. And Aesop…" she rolled her eyes. "Well, I was going to tell you to avoid him, but that’ll be impossible since he’s bound to follow you everywhere. Honestly, even if he’d never met you before, you’d have caught his eye anyway. He’s always had a soft spot for rebellious, intelligent women. You wouldn’t have stood a chance."

Her mischievous grin softened as she asked, "Do you have everything? Schedule, syllabus, duty list?"

"Yes, I do. Thank you," Morana replied warmly, placing a hand on Weasley’s arm.

Weasley opened her mouth to say goodbye but was interrupted by the familiar sound of footsteps descending the stairs. Aesop approached hesitantly, rubbing his hands together nervously.

"Good evening," he greeted them, his tone uncharacteristically shy.

"Aesop," Weasley said with a knowing smirk. "Help Morana with her room. It’s been unused for a while, so I’m not sure of its condition." Turning back to Morana, she explained, "Because of Peeves, the house-elves are afraid to clean our tower. He’s been hiding traps filled with paint and confetti—an absolute menace. Oh, and if you find a gift addressed to you among your things, don’t open it. Well, I must be off. Good night!"

Once Weasley was out of sight, Aesop placed a light kiss on Morana’s lips, which she returned, stroking his cheek.

"Are you sure about this?" he murmured, his concern evident.

"We’ve talked about this, Aesop. If teaching isn’t for me, I’ll find something else," she replied with a shrug before frowning. "Ah, Fig’s room..."

"Mhm," Aesop murmured, his mood darkening. "I haven’t set foot in it since years… back when we’d share a drink every Friday."

Morana pressed the handle, and the door creaked open. A stifling wave of musty air hit her, the smell of damp, stale perfume, spoiled food, and dust enveloping the room. Darkness shrouded most of it, except where the faint light from the hall revealed a clutter of forgotten objects buried under thick layers of dust.

"Dear Merlin…" Aesop coughed, his nose wrinkling at the mix of decay and cobwebs glittering in the faint light. Both of them were struck with an aching sense of loss.

"Do piči… Why didn’t anyone clean this up?" Morana muttered, slamming the door shut.

"You know, Fig was well-loved. I don’t think anyone had the heart to disturb his room after he passed. He had no family left except Miriam… Hey, wait, where are you going?" Aesop called after her as she turned and began walking briskly toward the exit.

"I’m going back to my tent. I’ll set it up in the Room of Requirement..."

"Wait, wait…" He caught her hand, gently pulling her back. Brushing a stray lock from her face, he shook his head with mock disapproval. "No need to get upset. Come on."

With a flick of his wand, her luggage vanished, and, holding her hand, he led her upstairs. Morana couldn’t help but smile, already guessing where he was taking her.

In the familiar red-wallpapered room, the crackling fireplace flickered cheerfully, its flames casting a warm, welcoming glow. The space was immaculately clean—no stray clothing on the floor, no stains marring its polished surfaces. It was as though Sharp had foreseen the predicament with Morana’s room and prepared accordingly. Smirking slyly, he blushed slightly as he flicked his wand to summon her luggage, which promptly arranged itself inside a new wardrobe—a recent addition to the decor.

"Perhaps you’d like to change into something more comfortable, darling?" he teased, noting how pleased she seemed as she surveyed the room, still dressed in her fitted gown. With a tap of his wand, he transformed his usual suit into striped satin pajamas, then conjured a steaming bathtub filled with fragrant oils in the middle of the bedroom. With a slight limp, he made his way to the adjoining living room, making it clear he wouldn’t intrude on her bath.

"I avoid the Prefects’ pool," he quipped over his shoulder. "The idea of splashing around where a gaggle of teenagers has been? No, thank you. I doubt any of the professors would willingly dip a toe in there." He chuckled, averting his gaze as she began undressing, though it amused her. He’d seen her naked several times before, yet his gallant modesty remained steadfast. So proper. So chivalrous. So... silly. Rolling her eyes, she sank into the warm, bubbly water with a contented sigh.

After scrubbing herself clean, she slipped into a soft, cloud-white silk nightgown and layered it with a floor-length floral robe. Fresh and relaxed, she followed Aesop into the living room.

He was standing by the fireplace, where a hidden passage to his workshop lay concealed. The flames painted his figure in golden hues, their light softening the deep lines etched into his cheeks.

"Would you like some tea?" he asked, his tone so sweet and gentle it made her knees feel weak.

The firelight danced across his face, emphasizing his slight stoop, the unruly strands of his hair, and—oh, Merlin—those eyes. His gaze, brimming with love and tenderness, was her undoing. She would give anything for that look.

She moved closer, her bare feet silent on the dark wooden floor. Each graceful sway of her hips caused her robe to flutter, accompanied by the soft chime of her gold jewelry. Aesop was sure she’d bewitched him again, Veela-like in her allure. She stopped just a breath away, their proximity electric.

Aesop murmured in satisfaction, a memory surfacing.

"I remember... the first time you came here. You brought Hranolka with you. I rarely had visitors, and then suddenly, there you were in my life." His fingers brushed against hers, sending a pleasant shiver through her as their hands intertwined. "I remember how you looked at me then, sitting by the fire—those big, blue eyes of yours, with the flames reflected in them. Ochres and umbers danced on your olive skin like painted strokes..." His brow furrowed, and his expression darkened slightly. "You were so troubled by your dreams, by what happened to the Thestrals. It broke my heart not knowing how to help you."

"But you did help," she reassured him. "You always helped. You’re so wise, so kind, so sweet..." Her grip tightened as she leaned into him. A soft "oh" escaped his lips as he wrapped her in his arms, his fingers threading through her hair. He gazed into her blue eyes, finding solace in their depths.

The room was quiet, save for the occasional gust of wind down the corridor or the sharper crack of a log in the fire. The tranquil atmosphere stirred memories of their earliest moments together—innocent touches and fleeting connections. All those "accidental" interactions, once brushed aside, now felt destined. Their bodies had known long before their hearts did. Smiling at the thought, Morana traced her fingers along the scar on his cheek.

"It’s beautiful, you know," she said softly. "I’ve always liked it. The first time we sat by the fire in your other room, I wanted to touch it, but I held back." Her light laugh made Sharp flush and avert his eyes, unaccustomed to such compliments. "It gives you... character. Honestly, you can be a bit intimidating when you frown and put on that stern look. But that time—when you held my face and looked at my scar... "she continued, a playful glint in her eye. "Merlin, your hands were so co—old, oh..."

Sharp leaned in, his hand finding her chin, as it had that day. Just as cold. Morana giggled, nuzzling her cheek into his palm, warming his icy fingers. His thumb grazed the intricate scars on her skin, and he bent closer, his breath shallow. She felt his warm exhale and caught the faintest scent of him.

"Your scar," he murmured, "looks like a charming, delectable shrimp." He barely managed the words, his voice thick with longing. Unable to resist, he pressed a wet, fervent kiss to the jagged marks on her cheek, his stubble tickling her skin. Morana squealed, giggling at the sensation but leaning into him all the same. Sharp wiped her cheek with the back of his hand, grinning broadly.

"I have no idea when exactly I fell in love with you," he admitted. "Back then, it was just camaraderie, a connection—a thread of understanding. You were always as radiant as a Veela and as wise as Merlin himself, but... it wasn’t that, not yet..." He paused, his thoughts deep. Even her kiss against his Adam’s apple couldn’t distract him.

"But it wasn’t long after that I started giving in," he continued. "And before I knew it... I couldn’t live without you."

His tongue teased her soft lips, pleading for entry into the sweetness of her mouth. He didn’t have to wait long—she wanted it just as much as he did, and the realization only heightened his satisfaction and desire.

“Mmm,” he moaned as their tongues intertwined, wrapping around one another, caressing and exploring with fervor. Their hands roamed each other's bodies, gripping hips and shoulders with increasing intensity.

“We’re at school, Aesop...” she managed to gasp, her body overwhelmed by the growing heat as his firmness pressed insistently against her through the fabric of her nightgown. Bending his knees slightly, he adjusted his posture so that his hips gently stimulated her intimate places. Mora trembled as he found a particularly sensitive spot, a rush of arousal clouding her mind and leaving her resistance faltering. She whispered his name softly, her voice igniting flames in his veins, a heat surging through him like boiling water.

He nipped at her neck and collarbone, trailing lower until his tongue slid between her breasts. Like a ravenous animal, he devoured her, savoring every moan, gasp, and shiver she gave in response.

“Aesop... we’re at school... hmm...” she tried one last time to regain control, a single rational thought flaring up in her mind. Yet she cursed herself inwardly for interrupting the ecstasy of the moment—especially when, with her eyes closed, she heard the faint click of her nightgown’s buttons coming undone. Aesop’s warm, wet mouth enveloped one of her nipples, sucking and nibbling with greedy intensity.

“Hmm?” he murmured, his voice dazed and incomprehensible, utterly intoxicated by her scent. It suddenly struck him that he had no idea when his hand had slipped beneath her nightgown, traveling up her soft thigh and delving between her legs. His fingers slid along her folds, teasing every sensitive spot with maddening precision. She was so warm, so wet, and her hips moved in circular motions, responding to his every touch, driving him to the brink of madness.

A proud smirk spread across his face as he reached for his waistband, loosening the strings of his pants. He yearned to enter her, to take her breath away, to see her eyes light up with a fiery glow. Yet every second of delay felt like an eternity—the stubborn strings tangled, and the fabric refused to cooperate.

“Shhh!” Mora suddenly hissed, freezing them both in place.

They sprang apart at the sound of noise in the corridor, hastily fixing their clothes, smoothing their hair, and wiping sweat from their faces in a frantic attempt to look as though "nothing had happened."

Aesop scowled, muttering a curse under his breath, furious at the interruption. Of course, such “activities” should have been reserved for the privacy of Aranshire. Alas, this was the reality of school life.

“Peeves?” Morana asked as they moved toward the door. Aesop pressed his ear against it, listening carefully before replying silently, “A student.”

Before he could stop her, Morana growled in frustration and burst out onto the landing like a storm.

“That had better not be a student I hear lurking about!” she roared.

Aesop, hobbling after her with his wand drawn, paused, stunned by her commanding tone.

“She really is the one,” he thought, dazed, as he flicked his wand, revealing a student skulking near the stairs.

“Well, well, well... Mr. Longbottom. I should have guessed. Sneaking up to the Faculty Tower, no doubt to prove your bravery to your friends... Gryffindor loses points.” Sharp’s tone was a low growl, but the boy seemed more startled than chastened.

Longbottom’s wide eyes darted between Sharp and Morana, his expression one of utter shock. It didn’t take long for the gears in his mind to click into place—his gaze flicked toward Sharp’s door, comprehension dawning.

“Bloody hell,” Sharp muttered, realizing the boy had deduced the presence of a woman in the unmarried professor’s quarters—a clear sign of a romantic entanglement. Rolling his eyes, Aesop raised his wand.

“Obliviate.”

The boy blinked, confused, before collapsing to the floor in a snoring heap.

“AESOP!” Morana scolded, aghast.

“He shouldn’t have been where he didn’t belong,” Aesop said with a shrug and levitated the unconscious Gryffindor up the staircase and toward Madam Blainey’s office.

Morana was barely visible behind the towering stacks of parchment that rose like the spires of San Gimignano on her desk. If not for the scratching of her quill and the muttered curses escaping her lips, one might think that the classroom—once belonging to Professor Fig and now empty save for a single student correcting a test in the corner—was entirely abandoned.

Aesop smirked to himself as he rounded the corner, limping slowly toward Morana. He leaned on his cane, less self-conscious about using it around her or the students and staff of the school—it had found a purpose in his life.

Stopping briefly, he glanced at his watch and noted the student should have finished their corrections five minutes ago. Without even looking at the boy, he began tapping the tip of his cane rhythmically against the stone floor, each tap punctuating another second ticking away. Patiently, he waited.

The student shifted nervously in his seat and scribbled furiously, trying to buy a few more moments to fix his errors—until his quill snapped.

Perfect, thought Aesop, and with a swift flick of his wand, he sent the Ravenclaw’s parchment flying to Morana’s desk. The student hastily gathered his belongings and scurried out of the room, nearly in tears.

Finally, Aesop smirked with satisfaction.

“You've traumatized my student… again,” Morana muttered, which only broadened his grin. Limping closer, he peered over the stacks of papers to find her.

“There you are…” he murmured, feigning surprise as he leaned his hip against the desk, easing the pressure off his left leg. “I couldn’t find you.” Her dark eyes glared at him from beneath a curtain of black curls. “What? Did you assign tests to every class at once?”

“Yes,” she replied with a tearful sniffle, glancing helplessly at the mountain of work awaiting her. Aesop didn’t hesitate. With one swift motion, he scooped her up from her seat, settled into her chair, and placed her on his lap, holding her tightly.

“Oh, Silly Bird, mistakes happen… You’ve only been teaching here for a month. I brought you something nice.” He pressed a neatly wrapped package smelling of blueberry muffins into her hands. “There now, don’t cry. You’re doing wonderfully.”

Morana calmed as the warm food filled her empty stomach, soothing her frayed nerves. Aesop, meanwhile, kept her nestled on his lap as he pulled out the latest Daily Prophet from his pocket, along with some unopened letters.

Frowning at the headline, he read aloud:

“SCANDAL! WIZARDS’ CONSPIRACY WITH GOBLINS: Several former Aurors, confessed during questioning that in retaliation for losing their positions they had collaborated with goblins on the dark magic artifacts they were creating. Responsible for chaos last month in the Forbidden Forest, they were executed three days ago in Azkaban by Dementor’s Kiss. Full story on page six...”

Aesop leaned his head against Morana’s shoulder, disheartened.

“So, either we dreamed what we witnessed, or this is a completely different case from what the Ministry is handling...”

“Fromm did say he wanted to sweep some things under the rug for the press... but did he really change everything?” Morana added softly, astonished at the extent of the fabrication.

Aesop’s response was a low growl of disgust.

“Vincent knows how to manipulate facts... He’s a wolf in sheep’s clothing; I’ve told you before,” Aesop muttered, his voice bitter and dark. “Oh, he planned this well. Witnesses gone in a flash, before they could spill anything more than what the Ministry wanted out—Aurors accepting bribes. And his interrogation methods…” He trailed off, voice laced with venom. “They’d make even the most innocent confess to heinous crimes, just to avoid another second under Fromm’s ‘methods.’”

Morana stroked the arm wrapped around her waist, torn between skepticism and unease. She couldn’t always tell if Aesop exaggerated when it came to Vincent, or if it was all true.

“I’m not defending Fromm…” she whispered into his ear. “But even so, they’d likely have faced the death penalty. The Ministry probably decided to spin this into a story about goblin conspiracies to avoid panic—goblins causing trouble is nothing new. They’ve likely calculated that it’s better to not introduce a new enemy while they still don’t understand what they’re dealing with…” She hesitated, voice dropping. “I think Fromm suspects it’s ancient magic… That’s probably why he’s letting me scour the Forbidden Forest—any lead I find would be a gold mine for him.”

“Heh,” Aesop huffed. “I told you—every word of his is calculated. There’s rarely any ‘goodwill’ behind his actions.” He shifted, his tone softening. “Still, since your little stir-up, things have been quieter… Maybe the increase in Auror patrols has made it harder to craft dark artifacts.”

As he opened the letters in his hand, he quickly skimmed through them: a few pleading notes from parents, nonsense from Professor Black requesting yet another boil cure, dull notices from Matilda about upcoming Halloween festivities, and—

A pink envelope. A familiar handwriting style.

He pulled it free and read aloud:

“Dear Aesop, Thankfully, I’ve managed to cover for a pregnant Auror and taken over her office duties. I’m mostly sorting case documents and filing them in the archives... By sheer chance, I came across the files from your last case. I thought it was resolved, but... the witnesses were never even interrogated, just sentenced straight to death in Azkaban. It’s unusual—normally the Wizengamot would decide their fate. I’m not sure who handled this or why the Minister approved it... To be honest, it’s a mess here. Chief Constable has been on leave for some time now, and I haven’t seen him...

I’ll keep digging while he’s away. I’m sure both you and Miss Dimm will be interested. Sending warm regards, Galatea Flint"

Morana felt a pang of jealousy at the mention of her name. For a brief moment, an image of Galatea—a striking woman in a ball gown adorned with enchanted butterflies—flashed through her mind. Even though she was the one sitting on Aesop’s lap, she couldn’t help but feel envious. Scolding herself internally, she kept quiet.

Aesop noticed the tension in her body and cleared his throat, brushing his hand over her arm.

“Galatea made her mistakes, and she wronged me… but I think she genuinely regrets it,” he said softly, knowing Morana didn’t like her. He breathed deeply upon hearing that she hadn’t commented on his words, probably a little sulking. "Morana, forgiving someone for the harm they've caused us is important. I know what it feels like to act like a jerk and regret it afterward… To end up alone without friends… Maybe you’d be willing to invite her for tea one day?" When she didn’t reply, he chuckled and kissed her neck playfully. “Hey, Silly Bird… People change. Some need a curse to the knee…” His voice dropped as his lips brushed her skin. “Others… need to be saved from an enraged werewolf by a naked, even wilder witch…”

His hand lightly gripped the soft curve of her waist.

“I’ll think about it,” Morana grumbled, rolling her eyes.

“If you’re not comfortable, that’s fine,” Aesop assured her, not wanting her to feel forced and uncomfortable. His attention returned to the remaining letters until he reached the last one—a pitch-black envelope sealed with a silver hourglass crest.

His heart skipped a beat. Black envelopes meant death notices. For a moment, fear gripped him—could it be his father? Or someone from family?

Morana noticed his reaction, her expression growing somber. Their eyes met as Aesop broke the seal with trembling hands and read aloud:

“Dear Professor Aesop Sharp, With deep sorrow, we inform you of the passing of our beloved wife and mother, Ingrid Isabella Sharp-Fromm. She passed away peacefully, surrounded by love and care, leaving an emptiness in our hearts.

Her farewell will take place this Saturday at 11:00 AM at our family village chapel (Floo Network details attached). Ingrid will join our ancestors in Helheim Realm, embraced by the loving arms of the goddess Hel.

With respect, The grieving family: Jörð, Sága, and Vincent Fromm.”

Aesop sighed heavily.

“I was sure she still had years left...” he admitted. “If I’d known how bad it was... maybe there was something I could’ve done...”

Morana nodded sadly. She now recalled Vincent’s reaction when she’d wished his wife good health and offered her help. He must have known then that her time was short. Feeling a pang of guilt, she stroked Aesop’s cheek and pressed a gentle kiss to it. It barely eased his sorrow as bitterness washed over him.

“I was a terrible cousin,” he murmured. “At least I can see her off on her final journey.”

Aesop felt strangely uneasy as he stepped into the chapel adorned with black roses, where the scrutinizing gazes of aunts, uncles, and cousins turned toward him. He hadn’t seen most of them since his time working at the Ministry. Practically the entire Sharp family had gathered, except for his father, who in recent times had despised everything and everyone, embroiled in countless feuds over the family fortune. A coldness had begun to permeate this family—almost as frigid as the Gaunts. Why? Well, their ambition had grown insatiable.

After Aesop’s "fall from grace"—once the rising star of the family—other Sharps suddenly felt emboldened, hoping the scales of fame and fortune might tip from Aesop and Aristotle’s side to theirs: the Irish Sharps, Sharps from Greenwitch, Sharps from France... Aesop, the sole heir to the fabulous wealth of the miserly Aristotle, ceased to be a threat the moment he stepped aboard a ship in Scarborough. Indeed, unofficially but decisively, they had erased him from the list of heirs. In their eyes, his branch of the family ended there. Period.

Imagine their shock—and indignation—when Aesop, limping heavily and leaning on a cane, dared to appear at the funeral accompanied by a stunning woman. Though they couldn’t place her name, they recognized her from the front page of The Prophet, which had featured her as the deputy headmistress of Durmstrang. That alone was enough to make their ears burn with jealousy and their blood boil. How?! A cripple?! He was supposed to live out his days alone, quietly teaching at Hogwarts, not courting a woman, and—heaven forbid—possibly fathering children with her in the future! The Sharps ground their teeth at the very thought, clinging to the hope that she was merely a mistress, dragged here reluctantly or for money.

Yet their delusions crumbled with every affectionate gesture from Morana: the gentle way she held his arm, the soft caresses she occasionally gave it, and the way she matched her pace to his. It defied all their expectations.

Yes, it was clear—Morana loved Aesop. It showed. And he, in turn, sealed their bond with every glance and small gesture. Their love was blossoming.

Vincent Fromm watched them discreetly. Morana caught sight of him among the mourners and noted his faint, warm smile, despite the sorrow that reddened his eyes. Odd. It was as though he saw something familiar, something close to his heart. Perhaps himself and Ingrid? Even though his own love had died with Mrs. Fromm, he seemed to recognize that same goodness taking root in Morana and his old friend.

The procession moved from the chapel toward the shore.

Morana marveled at the calmness outside, the pleasant atmosphere surrounding them. The blue-green waves, woven with strands of seaweed, glimmered in the gentle light of the sun, hanging high in a steel-gray sky scattered with fluffy clouds carried by the icy wind. The mourners’ soft, haunting hymn blended with the wind and the light tapping of heels on the rocky, pale shore. Morana and Aesop stayed toward the back of the procession, which was led by Vincent Fromm, flanked by his twin daughters clinging tightly to his hands.

Despite the considerable number of guests from both families and the Ministry, the Fromms seemed profoundly alone. It was as though only they had come to truly say goodbye to a beloved person, their intentions genuine. It was a truly somber sight. Morana couldn’t help but feel pity for Constable and the girls. Caring for an ailing loved one must have demanded so much strength and sacrifice—something most of their family could likely never understand.

“…Ingrid was like a plant…” floated to her ears, heightened by her Animagus senses and a drop of "Sharp Translating Oil." From another conversation, she caught: “…She was in such bad shape last time I visited. It’s good that it’s finally over…”

Morana hissed under her breath, outraged by the inappropriateness of such comments. She wanted to confront the speakers, but... what was the point? Why cause a scene with people incapable of understanding?

The procession reached the shoreline.

On the water’s surface, Fromm conjured a wooden boat adorned with intricate carvings and an inscription of eternal love written in Elder Futhark. Resting on a bed of thousands of flowers, Mrs. Fromm’s body lay dressed in white. The boat drifted slowly away, guided toward the open sea.

"Deyr fé, deyja frændr…" (“Cattle die, friends die”) Fromm began, his voice trembling. The twins joined him, their thin, tearful voices echoing: “…deyr sjálfr it sama; ek veit einn at aldri deyr: dómr um dauðan hvern.” (“and the same with you; but I know of something that never dies: the deeds of the departed.”)

From his raised wand, flaming sparks shot forth, striking the boat with precision. It caught fire instantly, consumed in a blaze that reduced it to ashes.

Aesop had no intention of staying for the wake at Fromm’s large red house. He knew it would involve intrusive and undoubtedly rude questions. He had overheard enough while tossing flowers into the sea and was thoroughly done with the volatile mix of Sharps, Fromms, and former Ministry colleagues.

“Funeral? What a joke. They’ve turned it into a Ministry chit-chat session, for Merlin’s sake—it’s sickening,” he muttered to Morana as he passed her, adding, “I’m off for a loo break. Let’s pay our respects and get out of here.” He disappeared into the crowd, pretending to be cross-eyed and deaf, ensuring no one could approach him.

Left alone under a barrage of curious stares, Morana slipped out of the house and into the nearby woods to collect herself, overwhelmed by the sheer number of people.

“…I’m so sorry for everything I’ve done…” a quiet voice reached her ears. Intrigued, she froze, straining to hear more. “…I know it’s not enough. I can’t turn back time or undo the foolish, selfish decisions I made when I was young and arrogant…”

Peeking through dense branches, she saw him—Vincent Fromm, speaking to no one in particular, gazing toward the sea, leaning against a metal bench. She felt a sharp pang in her chest, realizing this was likely a deeply personal monologue to Ingrid. Embarrassed to witness such an intimate farewell, she wanted to withdraw, but feared any movement might give her away. She decided to wait for the right moment to transform into a raven and slip away unnoticed.

“I’m not worthy of being a father or a husband…” his voice cracked, and he sobbed quietly—a heart-wrenching sound, full of pain. His shoulders hunched as if his chest were burning with grief. Though Morana didn’t know him well, the sight made her eyes sting with tears. He wasn’t a bad father, nor a bad husband—everyone, even Aesop, knew that. Could his self-esteem be as low as Aesop’s?

Taking a deep breath, his voice choking on his tears, he continued, “I wanted so badly for everything to end well, but… I failed. I don't know why some people lead simple and happy lives, while everything around me always has to fall apart, even though I do everything I can to fix it, to protect everyone… Maybe I am cursed, maybe I bring misfortune to others?… I'm sorry… I'm truly sorry, my dear… I did what I could… I-I couldn't do anything more, I couldn't think of anything smarter… What's the use of magic, if there's nothing left to fix?… I'm so pathetic…” He slumped onto the bench, burying his face in his hands, repeating the last sentence softly. He sat there, curled up and helpless, his quiet sobs occasionally carried toward Morana by the icy breeze.

She didn’t know what to do. She wanted to help, to comfort him, to tell him everything would be okay. But deep down, she knew this wasn’t the right moment. Silently, she stepped back and shifted into a raven, flying away.

"My dear… How can I make it up to you?…" The last words, spoken in a velvet tone, reached her, and she was already high above the grove.

Aesop, practically ready to leave, sat on a sofa in the foyer, far from the guests whose muffled conversations were just a hum through the door. On either side of him were the twins, nestled into his arms, soaking his sleeves with their tears. He cast a pleading look at Morana, silently begging for help. She smiled faintly, amused by how he was a magnet for children, destined for their company.

“How are you two feeling?” she asked gently, approaching them.

“Awful…” one of them confessed, bursting into sobs, which eased slightly when Aesop’s large hand stroked her golden hair.

“Mama said she’d leave soon, that it was her time, but…” the other choked, unable to finish.

“…You didn’t think it would happen so fast, did you?” Aesop added, wiping her tears. She nodded, and Morana caressed her cheek. "Why are you sitting here, all alone?" she asked. "I wanted to hide here with Jörð from Aunt Gudrid…" "…she looks after us when Dad's not around, but she's not nice. She often punishes us for no reason because she prefers us to stand in a corner or sit locked in a room rather than bother her…" Jörð grumbled, wiping her nose. "…She says that girls should be quiet and play with dolls, ridiculous… Mom thought differently, she argued with her about it, but… when she felt worse, she mostly slept, and Auntie ran the house…" Sága confessed, furrowing her brow. "Dad said we should handle things 'diplomatically' and talk to Auntie, not hide from her…" Jörð added. "Ah… so that's why you're sitting here?" Morana smiled. "We diplomatically withdrew, not finding Auntie on our level for a conversation…" Jörð shrugged. "Oh, my…" Aesop sighed, horrified by the girls' eloquence. He shuddered at the thought that their entire generation might be as articulate, and he dreaded the thought of what would happen when they flooded the Hogwarts classes. But then again, they were Auror's daughters, who was involved in politics, so what else could he expect… "Aunt Gudrid tries her best, but she doesn't always understand how Ingrid and I raised the children…" Morana and Aesop turned their heads toward Fromm, who had quietly appeared in the doorway.

He looked terrible. Gaunt, exhausted… In his tear-filled eyes, the flame of life seemed to have faded, leaving only a dark abyss full of pain and longing. He extended his hands, and the twins immediately jumped off the couch, grabbing his hands and clinging tightly to him. "Thank you for being here at the funeral…" he said very quietly, his voice weak but full of warmth and gratitude. He slightly bowed his head in farewell and led his daughters to the living room, now filled with guests. Aesop grew sad, still tormented by feelings of guilt from loosing his best friend, and froze in place, as if forgetting it was time to go home. Morana gently tugged at his sleeve. "When Fromm extended his hands... Did you notice the scars on his forearms?" she asked Aesop, curioused. "Hm? No... not really? Aurors usually have tons of scars..." "Yes, but those looked like... well... long ago he tried to cut his veins..."

Aesop didn't know what to say; he didn't remember Vincent ever trying to hurt himself, and Morana stopped thinking about it. "How about we stop by Sirona's?" she asked, also feeling an uncomfortable weight on her heart, and Sharp smiled widely. They both linked hands and disapparated.

End of part 25, thanks for reading

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