#obedient shape by ROAR

[w1ldf1r3s-0pl1z3-th3-sk13s]

completed piece

[dumbhero]

just found out the line is 'to bless distress' and not 'too blessed to stress' i feel like they put my ass in the manganese catalogue

[bumpscosity]

no i'm not done the way every song on knives for aries ends with that winding down kinda sound (like most of diamond destroyer) and then obedient shape (the last song on the album) ends with a normal fade out which is something that has literally never been in any other roar song

[dmitriene]

cw: poorly described virginity, simon likes staning pure things, kidnapping.

outlaw!simon riley meeting you as nothing but a pretty waitress at a saloon, standing out among the dimly lit vast room in that you did not look like anyone from the crowd, only an indiscriminate mess of men around you, drunken workers, alcoholics, loudly screaming lovers of starting a conflict, and just someone hiding with a cheap prostitute, cheating on his wife behind the walls of home abode.

simon sees it's like some cruel joke alive, you look like you've just just run away from your daddy's cozy, rich home, or from the convent boarding house like a typical good girl, too bloody clean for this place, and maybe that's why he's enveloped in incomprehensible emotions, clouding his mind with thick wisps of smoke as he moves through the roaring crowd to the farthest table, hiding not only behind the scarlet mask on his face, but also in the murkiness of an unlit corner.

you're not walking around the room, you're sliding, a long dress fluttering at your ankles, open by light shoes with a small heel tapping on the parquet, to the beat of softly played music on the piano nearby, allowing you to occasionally wag your rounded hips under the many skirts of your dress, not paying much attention to the visitors' gliding glances at your bouncing cleavage, but you feel a burning gaze on the back of your neck, until you free your hands from the freshly placed orders, and finally notice a new visitor.

simon catches your gaze on him, his pale eyelashes barely visible in the darkness that envelops him as if in a kinship embrace, so you don't see how his oppressive gaze focuses on the curves of your body, dark irises dilate to swallow the perilous blackness of his lazily hooded eyes, swirling deep with something unsettling, yet you are too pure to notice the clinging, engrained filth on his hands and the meaningfulness of his gaze, smiling greetably like a ray of morning sunshine, closing the distance between you and his table to take an order.

he orders a whiskey, cocks his head aside to lick his eyes up from your toes to your head, and you just pull on a bigger smile and nod obediently, not a word about his rough tone of voice, about the absence of a nice plea for you to bring him some, you go to the counter with your toes turned around and take one of the many brown bottles to fill a nice, clean faceted glass, pouring three fingers of alcohol that smells clearly of vanilla and spice, melting onto the leather and tobacco that penetrates simon's nose as soon as you come back and put the glass next to his gloved hand with a thud.

you peer cautiously through your wispy eyelashes when he hoists the black fabric with skull jaw up, bunching it beneath the edge of the crimson, as well skull shaped mask to take a sip from the glass, and you look at his thin chapped lips that he moistens with tart alcohol, the opened curve of his neck where the mask no longer touches the high collar of his dark shirt, adorned with a gold trinket engraved with a scorpion, and when his lips suddenly stretch in a toothy grin, creasing his eyes that now gleam with amber glows, you almost shriek and turn around, feeling your cheeks warm up.

and simon is not a good man at all, maybe as good as an outlaw can be, but it's nothing compared to your pureness, an innocent glint in your shyly running eyes, clean hands that easily wipe the dirt picked up from visitors on a small, light apron on your waist, and more than once he spoiled things that seemed beautiful to someone, just as he has long lost all shame and sympathy for such things, besides, looking at your reaction, he is quite sure that you yourself would not refuse to end dirtied up, by him.

with your curious glances, the fiddle of your fingers that tremble at contact with his own, not like with everyone else, as he brushes his whole palm against your hand on purpose while crooning about how unsuitable you look around there, and he can't blame himself for the longing want of bending you right here when you giggle, a little ringing sound that provokes him to squeeze his knees under the table because his empty glass is in your hand, and his suddenly aching cock makes his trousers too tight.

it's night behind the wide glass windows at the entrance when people begin to disperse, and the saloon seems to shrink when it's just the two of you, he's still at the rounded, wooden table, and you're knocking empty bottles behind the counter, putting them in a wooden box to return to the storage room, noticing simon's figure behind you not immediately, only when he runs his hand along the curve of your waist and to the dip of your hip, snuggling almost close to your ass, and you shudder barely perceptibly when he hoarsely offers to help.

you don't act surprised or either hard to get when he slaps the wooden door of storage room behind you two, twisting the key and sprawling two heavy hands at your hips, hurriedly turning you to face him before his lips descend against yours, lips open wide in knocked, whiny gasp, when he shoves his tongue in a wet, sloppy kiss between your slack lips, tugging you against him by snaking his hand behind you, pressing onto the small of your back, as he walks you towards the wall.

simon sees how you give him the reins, clumsily following the movement of his tongue in your mouth as he runs it over your teeth and curls the muscle around your own, ripping at his leather gloves that fly off towards the closer of the shelf, getting lost there when his bare, scarred arms bunch your skirts up and he hoists your body, making your legs loope around his waist, heels slipping off with a thud against the wooden floor, and when his touch rubs up your knees and swipes to your thighs, he almost howls at finding the pantaloons that are so uncomfortable to take off.

it's a loud rip of fabric that makes you gasp, sound swallowed by his hungry mouth, as his thick fingers find your puffy folds that drip off with saccharine wetness, making his digits tacky as he spreads your folds and toys at your peaking, neglected clit, as you kick your feet, head tilting back against the wall, making you retreat from the kiss with a shy, whiny moan, and simon smugly sure you have an virgin little hole that drips just for him, wetting the short curls of your pubic hair.

you sweat when he unzips his trousers and let's his fat cock bob out, the veiny girth of him, twitching with oozing, pearly precum that dribbles down his uncut, rudy length makes you throb, and he feels it, fingers already buried in your stretching cunny that is gooey with your glossy juices, coating his digits in glistening sheen as he thrusts them in you, fisting along his leaky dick with other hand, lining up with your pulsing entrance just as he starts to slip his fingers out.

he reinvents you for himself, stretching your thin, silken walls around the meaty girt of his cock, letting you feel every inch that pistons slowly in and out of you, careful, not nearly enough so you won't feel the sting, yet you still moan prettily, each wet glide making you tighten with rapid pulse of your tight walls, snug around every vein that rubs against your gooey insides, the hold of his fingers are bruising at your thighs, staining them with your slick that were clinging to his fingertips, as you moan with strained, whiny mewls.

simon fills you up when you get too tight, starting to arch off the approaching feeling, making his hands glide from your thighs towards your round, plush hips, gripping onto them to grind his cock inside of you, thick cockhead slamming against your spongy little spot with small, deep circles, his eyes boring into the sight of your eyes rolling back, sparks erupting behind your eyelids with each canting movement of his hips, and you wail when his cock jerks and spills ropes of cum against your cervix.

your whole body spasms, the thin walls of your pussy that milk his cock, your legs that tighten around his waist, the painfully arched spine, as your head tilts aside, eyes glassy with eyelids growing heavy, simon's hands moving to support you behind your back, cradling your slowly limping body against his sturdy, clothed chest, as the other finds purchase at the back of your head, pressing your face into his shoulder, letting you breathe into lulling scent of smoke and leather that clings to him like from a bottle of whiskey.

simon's cock still carved in you, your pussy spasming, dripping his milky cum down onto the wooden floor, and there's a satisfied growl rumbling in his chest, the one that makes you nuzzle closer, huffing at his scent and curling your body, and he's never been one to believe in the rules of being obligated to marry a girl with which you've been fornicate, but there's no way in the whole west that he's gonna leave you in this saloon for anyone to have, after being marked by his seed.

not that you have anywhere to run when you wake up at the dawn of a new day, uncomfortably wet between your legs, rocked up and down, fluttering your eyes only to be meet with silent, empty outskirts of the wild west, while cradled against simon's chest, one of his hands holding the horse's rains, making the animal ride slowly, as he holds you close with the other, feeling easily the way you shift, his gaze snapping down at you with a leery twinkle, a crooning purr of “good morning, darlin'„ slipping from under his mask.

main masterlist. quidelines.

[novaursa]

Legacy (strings of time)

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

- Paring: targ!reader/Tywin Lannister

- Rating: Mature 16+

- Previous part: dark wings

- Next part: long live the king

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

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

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

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

But then, something shifted.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You met her gaze steadily, refusing to rise to the bait. “It’s neither, Cersei. Perhaps I’m simply stronger than you give me credit for.”

Her smirk faltered briefly before she recovered, stepping even closer. “Strength is important,” she said, her tone softening, though her eyes remained calculating. “Especially when surrounded by people pretending to be something else. You should remember that.”

“I do,” you replied, your voice calm but firm. “And I’ve learned that strength comes not from tearing others down but from knowing when to rise above them.”

Cersei’s lips tightened, but she masked it quickly with another smile. “How noble of you,” she said archly. “I imagine you must be feeling quite sad about all of this.”

You tilted your head slightly, curious. “Sad? About what, exactly?”

Her smile widened, her tone turning syrupy. “About poor little Sansa, of course. Such a sweet girl, isn’t she? So naive. It must pain you to see her traded like a pawn in a game she doesn’t understand.”

You allowed a pause, studying her carefully before replying. “It does pain me,” you said softly. “But not for the reasons you think.”

Cersei arched an eyebrow, her amusement flickering with confusion. “Oh? Do enlighten me, then.”

You stepped closer, your gaze steady and unflinching as you lowered your voice. “It pains me, Cersei, because I see so much of you in her. A young girl, trapped in a world she cannot control, used and discarded by those around her. But where Sansa may still find hope, you…” You let the sentence hang, your tone laced with veiled courtesy. “You’ve lost yours.”

Her face hardened, the smugness draining away as she stared at you. “What nonsense is this?” she demanded, her voice low but sharp. “I’ve lost nothing.”

You offered a faint, almost pitying smile. “Haven’t you? You wear your crown of bitterness like armor, Cersei. But all it does is isolate you, even from those who should stand beside you.”

Her jaw tightened, her eyes narrowing. “Careful, Lady Lannister,” she said coldly. “You may be my father’s wife, but that does not grant you the right to lecture me.”

“I have no intention of lecturing,” you replied smoothly. “Only to remind you that strength comes in many forms. You may believe yourself untouchable, but even the tallest towers can crumble when their foundations are weak.”

Cersei’s gaze burned into yours, her hands clenched at her sides. For a moment, it seemed as though she might lash out, but instead, she forced a tight smile. “You think yourself so wise, don’t you?” she said, her voice dripping with venom. “But wisdom won’t save you from this game. You’ll see that soon enough.”

You inclined your head slightly, the gesture both respectful and dismissive. “Perhaps. But for now, I must prepare for the rest of the day. If you’ll excuse me, Cersei.”

You moved past her, your steps measured and composed, leaving her standing alone in the corridor. As you walked away, you felt her gaze burning into your back, but you did not look back. Ser Barristan fell into step beside you, his expression stoic but his presence reassuring.

“You were bold,” he murmured quietly. “She will not forget that.”

“She doesn’t need to forget,” you replied softly, your voice steady. “She only needs to think.”

Tywin sat at the head of the table, his posture as straight and imposing as ever, his hands steepled before him as he continued listening to Olenna Tyrell with a mixture of patience and calculation.

Olenna, for her part, seemed perfectly at ease, perched in her chair with an air of casual authority. Her sharp eyes danced with amusement as she studied Tywin, her teacup cradled delicately in her hands.

“Lord Tywin,” she began, her tone laced with a sly edge, “you and I have had many discussions about alliances, strategies, and, of course, the peculiarities of your family. But today, I thought we might delve into something a little more… personal.”

Tywin raised an eyebrow, though his expression remained stoic. “Personal, Lady Olenna? I was under the impression that our discussions were strictly political.”

“Oh, politics and personal matters are often one and the same,” Olenna replied breezily, taking a delicate sip of her tea. “Especially when it comes to you, Lord Tywin. You’ve built your house on both, haven’t you?”

Tywin’s gaze sharpened slightly, though his tone remained cool. “If you have a point, Lady Olenna, I suggest you make it.”

Olenna set her teacup down with a soft clink, leaning forward slightly as her expression grew more pointed. “Very well. I’ve recently had the pleasure of reconnecting with an old acquaintance—someone who, let’s say, remembers the court of King Aerys rather vividly.”

Tywin’s jaw tightened imperceptibly, but he said nothing, waiting for her to continue.

“This acquaintance of mine,” Olenna went on, her voice smooth and unhurried, “mentioned something quite interesting about you. Specifically, about your… ambitions during those years. A certain proposal you made to the Mad King regarding his youngest daughter.”

Tywin’s expression didn’t change, but there was a faint glint of something in his eyes—irritation, perhaps, or caution. “And what, pray, does this acquaintance claim to know?”

Olenna’s smile widened, the corners of her lips curling with satisfaction. “Oh, nothing too scandalous. Just that you were rather… eager to secure a match between yourself and the young princess. A match, it seems, that the Mad King outright rejected.”

Tywin’s gaze darkened, his voice low but measured. “That is old history, Lady Olenna. If your intent is to dredge up ancient slights, I suggest you focus on matters more relevant to the present.”

“Oh, but it is relevant,” Olenna countered, her tone sharp as a blade. “After all, here we are, decades later, and you’ve finally achieved what you wanted, haven’t you? A Targaryen bride, the union of fire and gold.”

Tywin’s jaw clenched slightly, though he refused to rise to her bait. “What happened in the past is of no consequence to the decisions I make now.”

“Isn’t it?” Olenna pressed, her eyes narrowing slightly. “I find it fascinating, really. You’ve always prided yourself on being a man of logic and control, yet here you are, married to the very woman whose family’s rejection you’ve surely never forgotten. One might wonder if this is about more than just strategy.”

Tywin leaned forward slightly, his voice dropping to a cold, measured tone. “You would do well to remember, Lady Olenna, that I do not allow sentiment to cloud my judgment. My marriage to Lady Y/N is a calculated move—one that ensures the stability and legacy of House Lannister.”

Olenna chuckled softly, shaking her head. “Oh, Tywin, you’re as predictable as ever. Always so quick to dismiss anything that might suggest you’re… human. But you forget, I’ve known men like you all my life. You can claim strategy all you like, but I see it for what it is. You wanted her. You’ve always wanted her.”

Tywin’s gaze bore into hers, his silence heavy and deliberate. For a moment, something unspoken was in the room, the air thick with unspoken truths.

Finally, Olenna broke the silence, leaning back in her chair with a satisfied sigh. “Well, whatever your reasons, I must admit, it’s all rather fascinating. The Mad King’s refusal, your patience—or perhaps obsession—and now this union. I do hope it works out for you, Tywin. It would be such a shame if history repeated itself.”

Tywin’s voice was as cold as steel when he finally spoke. “I appreciate your insights, Lady Olenna. But you would do well to remember that my choices are mine alone. If you wish to continue speculating on my motives, I suggest you do so elsewhere.”

Olenna smirked, rising from her seat with a regal grace. “Oh, don’t worry, Lord Tywin. I have no intention of causing trouble. But as I said, I find it all very… enlightening. Good day.”

With that, she turned and swept out of the room, leaving Tywin alone with his thoughts. For a moment, he sat in silence, his hands steepled before him once more. His face betrayed nothing, but his mind churned with the memories Olenna had dredged up—memories he had long since buried.

The memories unfolded in Tywin’s mind like pages from an old, worn book. The vivid colors and echoes of King’s Landing during the height of Aerys Targaryen’s reign came rushing back—though the stench of paranoia and decay that lingered in the Red Keep overshadowed its grandeur. It was the day Tywin had laid out his plans to the Mad King, the day he believed he would solidify the ultimate alliance between House Lannister and House Targaryen.

The throne room was alive with dread, its gilded splendor marred by the unsettling presence of Aerys on the Iron Throne. The Mad King, even then, exuded a sense of menace, his long, unkempt hair cascading over his gaunt face, his violet eyes burning with deranged delight as he listened to Tywin.

"You think," Aerys had said, his voice high-pitched and mocking, "that I would tie my daughter—the blood of Old Valyria, the dragon's line—to you, Tywin? To a lion? A beast of the field?"

Tywin had stood at the base of the Iron Throne, as unflinching as he had been when he first took up the position of Hand. He had chosen his words carefully, keeping his tone steady and devoid of the sharpness that often accompanied his temper. “Your Grace,” he began, “a union between House Lannister and House Targaryen would strengthen the realm immeasurably. My daughter, Cersei, is young and beautiful, a match fit for Prince Rhaegar. And I—”

“You,” Aerys interrupted with a cackle, leaning forward on the throne, his fingers twitching against the jagged edges of the swords that surrounded him. “You would take my daughter as your wife? A dragoness for a lion?”

Varys had been there, lingering in the shadows, his expression inscrutable as his keen eyes darted between Tywin and the Mad King. Several courtiers stood nearby, including Lord Chelsted and Lord Merryweather, their faces betraying thinly veiled discomfort at the volatile mood in the room.

“I would,” Tywin continued, ignoring the ripple of murmurs that spread through the chamber. “Lady Y/N is a princess of royal blood, but she is also young and unwed. A match between us would unify the crown and the wealthiest house in the realm. Such a bond—”

“Enough!” Aerys’s voice boomed, and he rose from the throne, his movements erratic. He descended the steps slowly, his robes trailing behind him like blackened fire. “You think to bind me with your gold, Tywin? To cage the dragons with your lions’ claws? No. Never.”

Tywin remained composed, though the heat of anger burned beneath his skin. “Your Grace, I seek only to serve the realm and secure the future of your house. A union with House Lannister—”

“Would be an insult!” Aerys snarled, his voice echoing off the walls. “The blood of the dragon is pure, untainted by the likes of you. Lions have no place among dragons. They belong in the dirt, clawing for scraps.”

Laughter erupted from Aerys, high and shrill, as he turned his back on Tywin and ascended the steps once more. “Perhaps your daughter can find herself a kennel,” Aerys continued, his voice dripping with malice. “And as for you, Tywin, you forget your place. You serve me. Do not presume to dictate terms to your king.”

A murmur of agreement rippled through the courtiers, though it was hesitant, wary. Varys stepped forward then, his movements as fluid as a shadow. “Your Grace,” the spymaster said, his voice silken and unassuming, “perhaps Lord Tywin’s offer was made out of his deep respect for your house. A rare moment of… misjudgment, surely.”

Aerys turned to Varys, his expression shifting from contempt to suspicion. “Misjudgment?” he repeated, narrowing his eyes. “Or treason?”

“Never treason, Your Grace,” Varys replied smoothly. “Lord Tywin’s loyalty is beyond question. But he is ambitious, and ambition often blinds even the most loyal servants.”

Tywin’s gaze flicked to Varys briefly, his jaw tightening. He knew the eunuch’s words were calculated, a subtle way of defusing the situation while also keeping Aerys’s ire focused elsewhere.

The Mad King waved his hand dismissively, his attention already waning. “Begone, Tywin,” he muttered, sinking back onto the Iron Throne. “And take your golden dreams with you. My bloodline will not be sullied by yours.”

Tywin bowed stiffly, his mind churning with barely restrained fury as he turned and left the chamber. The laughter of Aerys echoed behind him, a sound that would linger in his memory for years to come.

Back in the present, Tywin’s jaw tightened as he recalled that day, the humiliation of being so openly dismissed. Aerys’s madness had only grown after that, and the rift between them widened beyond repair. It was a lesson he never forgot: power was not given—it was taken, seized with unrelenting force.

And now, decades later, he had what Aerys had denied him. The Targaryen princess was his, bound by marriage and bearing his child. Tywin’s lips thinned into a faint smirk. Aerys had laughed at him, but the Mad King was long dead, his dragons reduced to ashes, while Tywin Lannister remained unbroken, building his legacy one calculated step at a time.

[tadpolesonalgae]

Amarantha x cryptid!reader x Rhysand: Big, Bad Wolf[*]

A/N: reader is kind of on the asexual spectrum, except they aren’t sex repulsed? Kind of fun but see you what you guys think. Also, this came about because I saw a comment mentioning this so here you go!

Summary: Rhysand and Amarantha attempt to whip you into obedience without getting any of their limbs snapped off.

Warnings: threesome fmf, pussy eating, rimjob, slight degradation, smut

——————————————————————————————————————————————

A thunderous snarl tears from your chest, shaking the ground of the dungeon.

They’d hunted you. You. A beast among beasts. And then they’d dared lock you up. A room with no lights, solely illuminated by the burning of flame, flame that flickered and slithered over the grim walls.

You take in the two figures as you rise to your haunches, keeping low to the ground, preparing to pounce on instinct, shrinking down to be underestimated. Your claws scrape against the hard stone of the large cell, your four paws could carry you across in seconds, tear them to pieces were it not for the chains shackling you.

“Seems it’s awake, my Queen,” the male purrs. He’s positioned casually against the far wall—a good choice, to be as far from you as possible—long legs crossed at the ankle, arms folded over a powerfully built chest. Jasmine and citrus. A lost hint of sea salt. Your nostrils flare as they take down information.

“Quiet.” Your attention snaps to the female. Stood front and centre, a strong, healthy figure. Well fed, good hunter. Cunning, or powerful? Sharp features, cultivated beauty for fae kind. Poised but laced with arrogance, arms folded. Defence. Your nostrils again flare. Metallic, sharp, the bitterness of poisoned fruit.

The female watches you carefully as you rise to your paws, shaking out your matted mane, clotted with dirt and blood. You lower to your haunches. And pounce. Springing against the constraints with a snarl. You make it a hair’s breadth from her, before you’re locked in place. She doesn’t flinch as her cold eyes pierce into your own.

Your jaws open over her, a roar ripping through the room, shaking the stones as it thunders back and forth. This time, she does retreat, before her hand flicks and magic crackles at her ears—protection. You snarl down at her. She’d make a good few mouthfuls. Drool slips from your lower lip at the thought of devouring her. Two gulps, if you didn’t stretch it out.

“It seems rather lively, considering the circumstances,” the male drawls, making the female narrow her eyes at him. “Give me the whip,” she snaps, “see if some pain lashes some sense into it.” He pushes from the wall with casual grace, limbs moving with lethal elegance toward her as he pulls an empty circle from thin air. Curled leather. Crack.

It snaps against your thick skin—you barely feel it. A light pinching, if anything. Still, you roar, back stretching at the effort as you bare the three rows of razor sharp teeth at her. You could shred her in a heartbeat. If only she was one step closer.

When the whip cracks again, your jaws snap around it, tugging sharply. The female stumbles forward with the force, into your range. You snarl as you surge forward, teeth aimed for the mouthful of her stomach. But then she vanishes. Your jaws snap around air, and you growl. She appears a few feet back, ire blazing in her gaze as she glares at you, lip curled.

“Perhaps it’s not agreeable to a whip,” the male drawls, amusement dancing in his eyes. So blue they’re violet. “I wouldn’t delight in it, no matter how beautiful the wielder.” The female doesn’t take her eyes off you as she gives a sharp order. “Shoot it. See how it likes faebane in its system.”

“Should you wish to strike the blow?” He mocks as he saunters to a rack. It holds a range of miscellaneous sharp metals, bent and wound into a variety of shapes. Your animal mind can’t make sense of them. The female does not remove her attention from you. Cunning. “Fetch the bow, before I send you into its jaws, Lordling.”

Your ears prick at the word.

A smirk slices her blood red mouth. “You can understand us.”

You snarl in response, making her laugh. The male hands her a bow and you puff out your chest, moving to intimidate. “I am your High Queen, beast. You feed, hunt, and fuck on my lands.” You snarl again and she grins. “That’s right, this territory is mine. No matter how many trees you’ve pissed on to uselessly mark your property, it’s still mine,” she snarls, baring her teeth in a fierce smile.

“Now.” Her hand grips the bow, “will you serve me, or do I have to bury this arrow in your chest?” Amusement sparks in your eye. No fae-made weapon could harm you. It would take something ancient, full of malice to pierce your hide. You growl your wordless taunt, and the maddening spark is reflected in the female’s eyes.

She pulls the bow taut, arrow aimed for your chest. “Last chance,” she taunts, grin slashing across her crimson painted lips. Your lips pull back from your teeth, mirroring the vicious smile. Behind her, the male has enough sense to stiffen, yet the female—the High Queen—matches you. She gives no further warnings as she looses the arrow, and you hear it sluice through the air.

And impale your skin.

You rear to your hind legs, jaws opening as a howl tears from your throat, followed by obsidian, iridescent blood. The liquid spills from your maw, wetting your fur as you shrink away from her. She’s still grinning with vindictive triumph. Your heart stutters. The arrow was laced with something—a curse. An old one, strong enough to split your enchanted leather.

Your paws give out as the spell threads around your bones, pumping through your blood as it floods your system. The High Queen grins viciously as you topple over, collapsing to the ground as ragged pants pull from your blackened maw. She walks forward, heels clicking on the stone tile as she lifts her foot, raising it as she sets it on your snout. Proprietary. A show of ownership. A conquered beast.

A weak snarl crawls from your throat, as you feel your power gushing from you. Her brow furrows as you begin to change. Behind her, the male stands straighter, watching with keen, sharp eyes. You feel the shrinking of your bones as they click into a different form, one that will conserve energy to maintain.

The High Queen steps back as your fur fades to skin, snout softens to a feminine mouth, paws shrinking to arms and legs. Her eyes widen at what lays before her. A female. Bare, without clothes, save for the natural hair to your hips, that dusts your legs—between them, too—your forearms and scalp. Her brow narrows, while the male behind her steps closer to view your shape shift.

“Huh,” he drawls, “looks as though it’s a female.” The High Queen ignores him, using her foot to roll you onto your back, your eyes shut. The arrow clatters to the floor with the transformation, but black blood still leaks from your chest. A lot of it. “Call for a healer,” she snaps to Rhys, realising the amount of blood lost in this form is much more detrimental. He nods lazily, and within seconds, the door to the dungeon is being opened.

You pounce.

You flip onto your front, springing from your hind legs, the chains now much too large to hold your wrists and ankles. The nails tipping your fingers sink into the muscle of the male’s broad shoulders. Your jaw drops open and you feel his dark power thrumming, beating beneath his skin but unable to hit your enchanted hide. Your teeth splay over his throat, poised to rip but a fist has tightened in your hair, tearing you away with an unexpected force. Your head is jerked back, though your nails still find purchase in the corded muscle of the male’s torso.

You should have gone for the female.

The next thing you know, a set of hands have landed on your back, where the tail end of the wound lies. The world fades to black as pain explodes in your vision.

————

When you wake, you’re lying in a fae bed.

Your hairs raise at the fabric clinging to your body. No they don’t. They’ve had the hair taken from your body, all but your scalp, and you snarl in anger. It’s uncomfortable. You’re bare in a way that’s dangerous. With a huff and a dull throb in your shoulder, the hair regrows from your skin, coating you in a thin layer of protective senses.

You start with a snarl, but wince at the pain in your shoulder. Fae bandages crisscross the skin, and you growl, nails tearing at the fabric of the fae clothes, removing the strangling material from your form until it lays shredded on the floor.

It’s been a long while since you’ve been in this form, and it’s odd, the layers of information your changed senses bring in. Like the taste of the air, the temperature against your skin. Your eyes are much sharper, scent dulled, while you hear near silence compared to the symphony of noises you would delight in as a beast. It’s so quiet.

You peer about the room, nosing at the sheets, beneath the pillows, through the wooden boxes that contain more ghastly fae clothes. With some difficulty, you move to the door, unaccustomed to the bi-pedal movement patterns of the fae. So unstable. So balanced, you correct. Balance would be fundamentally important to two footed creatures.

When you determine no exit from the large chamber—seemingly a nest of sorts—you return to the bed. It seems you would simply await the creatures arrival. You’ll hardly bother to waist precious energy with the throbbing in your shoulder over needless exertion. So you curl upon the bed, only to shift beneath the covers. How they survive without fur when the cold comes in baffles you. Still, you settle into sleep easily enough, nestling into the too-soft mattress.

A hushed click—familiar—echoes from outside the door, waking you, as they swing open, revealing the female from earlier. Her wretched clothes have changed, though the male still heeds her foot, as though tied to her through an invisible leash. You don’t bother to raise your head for them, even as you recognise the shift in your breathing pattern—one the fae would likely pick up.

“You’re a rather insolent beast, aren’t you?” The female speaks from your side. You huff, shifting so you’re facing her, cracking your eyes open. “Will you not even greet your High Queen?” You huff again, lethargically raising from the bed, sheets sliding back to reveal your naked form. Her icy eyes find placement on your arms, lips curling in sustain, “and after I had you so well looked after.”

“I don’t appreciate you tampering with my body, Lady.” Her eyes glint with surprise, stiffening ever so slightly as you raise to stand on two legs on her bed, towering over her. You set your hands over her shoulders, nails scraping with preternatural propriety. “How would you feel if someone skinned you while you were sleeping?”

The male stiffens as he watches the exchange, hands lifting from the deep pockets of his clothes. The High Queen’s lip curls, and a sudden wave of magic knocks you back, knees buckling as she grips your jaw in her hand, nails biting into the flesh of your cheek as you snarl. You’re still concerningly weakened from the poison coated arrow. “I’m not weak enough to allow that to happen,” she snarls down at you, baring her glinting canines.

She releases your jaw and you settle down onto the bed, rolling your jaw to ease the slight sting. It’s disconcerting, how sensitive your skin is in fae form. Your eyes pierce into her, hateful but curious. She waits for you to ask, making it clear you have to take the step. Your lip curls as you speak, “you said you wished for me to serve you… Surely you don’t expect me to do so from your bed and without my power.”

You don’t phrase it nicely, and you make it clear it’s not a question.

She arches a perfectly shaped brow, “maybe I do expect you to serve in my bed.”

“And what of my power.” You don’t even bat an eye at her statement. “You expect me to perform as I am?” You roll back onto the bed, legs spilling over the edge of the bed, arms propping up your torso. Distaste flashes through her eyes at your shameless nature. Bestial to the core.

She would have to break that out of you. Then again, it could be an advantage to have such an unhinged animal by her side.

“You think I’m foolish enough to return your power to you? Untested?” She enjoys the dissatisfaction that surfaces on your mouth in reply. “Untested?” You echo, raising a brow. You hadn’t expected her to so willingly offer you a solution to your lack of energy. Her lips slash into a vicious grin, one that she only wore when she was about to inflict damage upon something.

“Rhysand,” she purrs. You narrow your eyes on her as the male slinks forward, standing at her side, only looking at her. “Why don’t you give my little pet a demonstration of some of her duties?” A malevolent smile whispers across his mouth, “it would by my pleasure, my Queen.” His hand brushes across her stomach, resting at her waist as he pulls her tight against the powerful lines of his body. You watch, disinterested, as his lips find her neck, the female tipping her head back to indulge in the sensation.

You grow restless when his hand finds the shoulder of her dress, slipping over her arm while unzipping the back, allowing the material to pool at her feet as she keeps her eyes trained on you. “You want me to bathe you, is that it?” You snap, impatiently. You want your power back. It’s yours.

The High Queen’s icy laugh echoes through the room as the male steps back at the push of her hand. “Such a crude way of putting it,” she croons, nails glittering in the light. Your lips curl back. “Tell me what to do, my Queen,” you condescend. Her hand fists in your hair, tugging you back so she can see your throat. She steps forward, until she’s between your legs, yanking your face until it rests between the generous swell of her breasts.

“You’re going to drop the attitude very quickly, or I’ll get you so numb on faebane you won’t even be able to move while I use you.” Ire blazes in her eyes at the blatant disrespect, and she sees red when you grin up at her lazily. “So I get to lie back and do nothing? Sounds rather pleasant, my Queen.” A snarl tips from her throat and the male’s—Rhysand’s—pupils contract at the sound.

You simply grin. “You have to return my powers at some point, if you want me to serve with my strength.” Fury boils beneath her skin as you work her up, maddening her with rage.

“Insolent beast.”

She shoves you back onto the bed, stalking over you until she has one leg either side of your face. “I should have your tongue cut for that,” she snarls, nails raking over your scalp. You barely feel a thing, drops of power already accumulating within. “Then how would you enjoy my mouth?” You return, smug grin tipping your lips.

“There are a plethora a ways to use you while not having to listen to your insufferable tongue.” She growls, lip curling with venom. “Rhys,” she snarls, snatching at your hair, “whore for her.” You can practically hear the arrogance dripping from his voice as his hands drop to the ties confining him. “You wish for me to play a part in her torture, my Queen?” His hands land on your thighs, pushing them apart. “I’m honoured.”

You tense at the foreign feeling of his fingers between your legs. Intrusive. You open your mouth to snarl at him, but the female tugs at your hair, yanking you between her thighs as she settles on your face. At the same time, Rhysand pushes in, a strange heat pooling in your lower belly. “I think you should set to work, little pet,” the Queen taunts.

Right. Your power. She might return it if you follow her orders. You hope you remember the fae anatomy correctly as your tongue unfurls from your lips. You can sense that it takes her by surprise, not expecting you to comply so easily. Yet you seem to be dancing between her legs, nipping at her clit before pressing your wet muscle to her entrance.

‘Very eager,’ a voice drawls inside your mind, making you start. ‘Very eager indeed.’

‘Get out of my head,’ you snarl at him, all the while dragging your tongue over her clit repeatedly, suckling. He hums a dark laugh, drawing his hips back. ‘I don’t imagine you would have engaged in nefarious activities as a beast. Try not to get swept away.’ A growl rumbles in your chest, flexing your inner muscles around his cock in retaliation. He groans, fingers biting into your hips as he pounds into you. Reluctantly, your back arches and you hear the erotic whisper of his laugh in your mind.

‘Careful, or before you know it, I’ll have you kicked out of your rather comfortable position.’ A warning growl echoes from him in reply, and you tighten your thighs around his hips, pulling him flush against your cunt. In response, he slams his cock into your pussy, hands tugging you back against him. A feeling you’re fairly certain could be described as pleasure sparks through you.

‘Pretty confident for a beast,’ he drawls into your mind, ‘especially one who looses her head so easily.’ You realise what he’s talking about. Your eyes snap up to the female atop you who’s icy gaze is slicing into you with frozen ire. “Are you even trying? Or are you waiting for another dose of faebane so you can laze back and let me do as I please.”

You snarl down that mental bridge at Rhysand, who only chuckles, the sound coated with writhing darkness. Your leg curls up his hip, shoving him away violently as you grip the female’s hips, flipping her over until she’s on her back. Rhysand will not get in the way of regaining your power.

The High Queen snarls at the change in position, attempting to yank at your hair with her full strength but a growl thunders from your chest. Your nails dig into the creamy skin of her thighs as you push them open, tongue, teeth and mouth ravishing her. Soon enough, her grip shifts, instead tugging you tighter between her parted legs as she grinds her hips against you.

‘You’re going to pay for that stunt, pet,’ Rhysand growls into your mind. You howl across the bond as he settles behind you, mounting you as he slams his cock back inside. Something about the angle changes the sensations, more pleasure singing through your blood as you concentrate on the High Queen before you.

Her nails rake over your scalp, and you feel it vaguely in the back of your mind, where you’ve locked away all the feeling your fae skin is now so hypersensitive too. It’s your power on the line though, you need to be better. She needs to be gasping and writhing, thrashing and screaming from you to have a chance at returning the sacred energies.

A growl rumbles in your chest, resonating in your tongue as you roll it over her clit. The High Queen’s back arches in response, a snarl of pleasure dragging from her throat. Rhysand continues pounding into you, making it difficult to control your accuracy on the female. ‘Something bothering you, pet?’ He drawls, the silky caress of his voice making your body react, nipples hardening as his fingers bite into your hips.

You roar down the bond at his tone—the male arrogance. You move your rear leg to attempt to kick him away once again so you can focus on the High Queen. He isn’t fooled though, and his hand grips your ankle painfully. A ragged moan rips from your chest as he lifts your leg, and slams in, cock reaching deep inside of you, stimulating something you don’t have in beast form. His laugh echoes in your mind. ‘Act like a beast, and I’ll fuck you like one,’ he snarls, pounding into you, the snap of his hips loud throughout the room.

‘So desperate to remain her whore?’ You bite back, grip tightening around the female’s hips as you pull yourself deeper into her heat. You need to give her more. What can you do? Your nails are too long to push inside of her. You’re certain any chance of regaining your power will disintegrate before your eyes should you cause her pain.

Rhysand snarls down that bond at you, before his hand glides up the spine of your back, gripping your lower neck painfully, pushing you into her cunt. Perfect. You stop the movements of your mouth, ceasing all action. The High Queen growls, bucking her hips, piercing eyes snapping open. You squeeze your own together, imitating pain as you whimper. The Female snarls, nails slicing at Rhysand’s hand that she believes to be the cause of the halt in pleasure.

“You interfere again, unprompted, and I’ll have you flayed alive,” she grits out, fury blazing beneath her tone. ‘Have her whore flayed alive? How lovely.’ You mock to Rhys, feeling the sharp buck of his hips that makes you wince. “Forgive me, my Queen. She looked as though she was resting.” He replies, the erotic brush of his voice soothing the ire in the room.

With his hand removed from the base of your neck, you deliver and appreciative lap to her clit, eyes flicking up to hers with a pleased glint. Good. You seem to say. Her eyes narrow as she glares at you, baring her teeth as you smirk. Your mouth dips lower, hands pushing her thighs back, further apart. She hisses in a breath when your tongue swipes her rear entrance, growling. You shoot her a grin as the pad of your thumb presses over her clit, stimulating her upper half while your mouth takes the lower one.

The High Queen’s back arches at the change of tactic, a growl of pleasure resounding throughout the chamber. You can feel her fluttering against the pad of your thumb, dipping down to collect slick to ease the oscillations over her clit as she comes. ‘How’s that, whore?’ You snarl at him, taking vicious pleasure as he growls in response.

Her pants resound throughout the room as her body goes lax, and you pull away from her. “Both of you,” she growls, “stop.” Your brow narrows. You don’t want to stop. It feels good, like something’s about to break over you. But Rhysand—perfect whore, through and through—pulls out, despite how close he also was.

You snarl, spinning as you pounce on him, pushing him back on the too-soft bed as it’s your turn to mount him. You spread your thighs either side of him, and he snarls at the movement, hands flying to your hips in attempts to stop you. But you slam down on him before he has the chance. Startling, blinding pleasure seizes your body, lightening cracking in your veins as your head tips back, eyes rolling with it. Even Rhysand’s hands drop to his sides with the onslaught of pleasure that crackles and zaps between you.

An angry snarl rips you from the moment, claws tangling in your hair as you’re yanked off him, a creamy liquid decorating your cunt. You land at the High Queen’s side, who snarls her wrath at you, furious at your disobedience. “Did I not order you to stop?” She rages. You stare down at her, “I wanted release, Lady.” You can practically taste the ire rippling from her, and it pleases you. “More than you want your power?” She snarls, and you’re tugged back down from your high.

You bow your head, “no, my Queen.” You lower yourself by her side, moving as your tongue laps at one of her nipples, “not more that my power.” She watches wrathfully as you again settle between her thighs, but your eyes flick to hers. You raise your hand, retracting the claws so only the delicate pads of your fingertips are left.

Your hand snakes between her thighs while your mouth remains pleasuring her, “forgive me, my Queen.”

——————————————————————————————————————————————

Taglist: @myheartfollower

[kvntsugi]

forinthry

the music was revving up for a drop as the club music was banging. the familiar girl in front of me with her hands on her knees throwing it back like no tomorrow, no care in the world when she turned her head back. eyes locked onto mine with his tongue swiping against her lips in a seductive manner that pulled me in closer.

her skirt was so hiked up her thighs you could practically see up it from the floor below, everyone was just focused on their own things. body shaped like an hourglass, hips swaying from side to side with my cock practically against her. the girl with pigtails kept grinding against my lower halves without a care in the world. dropping lower and lower and letting that thing pop with how much friction there was between her and i.

what to do and what to grab. my hands surfaced against her ass and trying to find whatever to find a shelter for my palms. with each sound of the beat her ass pushed further back into me, unable to hold in much any longer and taking the next step to pull her skirt up and above her waist. seeing a full spectacle of her plump rear and admiring how her thong disappeared between her cheeks. practically only seeing the strings that kept them connected into one.

the music got louder and so did her movements, my cock growing harder by the second and fighting to break free from the sheathe of the slacks i wore. a few smacks came about and marking her pretty skin up, things only became intensified as the bpm picked up from the surround sound.

her hands going against the railing the stood between them and falling to the lower levels, grabbing whatever deemed to be in her way. i was admiring her all evening - unable to do much any longer (with the publics eye on me), it was time to make a move. an even larger one. something to remember this by.

aiding my dominant hand with it creeping up her spine and collecting both ends of her pig-tails together in one. tugging at the silky-sweaty hair to force the girl back up. staring at her orbs with such intensity, the sexual tension rising between myself and her grow longer than my cock.

from between my legs and her suggestive looks, her delicate arms going towards my clothed core and groping it to cope a feel. it was like 'you've had your fun - now its my turn' kind of deal.

pre-cum must have leaked out of my from everything that added up. a culmination between my legs that was about to erupt but i had to keep it in. just for a bit longer. a smidge more before it got rewarded after this long night.

her actions made me feel a tad lightheaded but i wasn't unhappy. my eyes went towards her finger that she raised up, wagging it over as if i were some animal -- and you know what? i wasn't going to complain about this. mimicking the look of a banana with the corner of my cheeks couldn't go much higher and trying to hide it to a smirk. eyes forming crescents with pupils dilating into fiery balls of lust.

step by step, her bubbly ass swayed with each step she took and following her like the obedient pet i became in that moment. getting to the nearest bathroom with how rachet and grotesque it was. no line though, so no complaints there as there was with the usual clubbing activities.

sweating, attractive. and clearly horny.

without a moments rest, the girl fell to her knees in front of me and unzipped my slacks. my raging manhood had a life of its own and sprung free from its confinement. she took me into her little mouth. eyes rolling to the back of my head, groaning in surprise and in pleasure. back leaned against the door and felt myself on cloud nine with how surreal everything was. the music was muffled but still roaring like it matched the beating of my heart and fighting the urge to close my eyes. i needed to see how ideal she was being. how gorgeous the girl on her knees truly was. holding back as i wanted this night to last for an eternity.

instinctively, blame the male hormones i shoved my cock down her throat and choking her. deep throating her mouth and pulling the girl's locks. in and out, back and forth. jamming my girthy length inside of her mouth and holding it in there.

her wet muscle on the underside of my cock made me groan out more, unable to see the girl on her knees anymore as my eyes became shut. darkness enveloped over me as she was making suffocating noises as if she needed to be freed. continuing to hold for a few more knowing she could probably take it.

"oh my god -- doi…" i croaked out before my hands let out and letting the girl gasp for air. eyes shut for a few more minutes to catch my breath and before i knew it - her top was off. exposing the large bosoms she covered her large chest. two fully endowed and beautifully developed breasts. whatever she was eating and god bless her soul for having something so gorgeous.

she pressed her titties forward until they were wrapped around my cock completely. soft and tender, like another home for my cock. it was safe and soft, like they were made just for me, as if her cleavage was specifically designed as a cuddle for my groin. with her hands she pushed her boobs closer together, making her cleavage even more lush and soft and then she started to move. as if this wasn't already bliss she just added more on top of it. she was fucking me all too well.

my mouth stayed agape. not having to do much and i just looked down at her cleavage. softly panting and letting out a moan with every ministration she did. she threw herself completely into this, it all felt so natural, so absolutely necessary. his cock needed this, her tits needed this.

she kept fucking me with her titties, she was definitely enjoying feeling my shaft as she kept moving her tits up and down with a wet spot of pre-cum slipping onto her skin as if it wasn't obvious enough. like a second-hand lube.

my breathing become more and more irregular, "fuck, yes…." i mumbled out, more explicatives and whatnot following suit with my body becoming a ticking time bomb.

small kitten-like licks being incorporated in with each bob my cock came up to her mouth. "yeah? you gonna cum for me, daddy?"

my breath stopped, letting out a loud moan as i came. my voice sounded like it roared in the bathroom and resonated louder than any edm or club music could ever be. her soft and relaxing voice letting me ooze out cum and having my body tighten up with pleasure. my cum spraying all over her boobs, warm wet spots all over doi's perfect skin

doi's long and frail finger scooped up some of the white gunk i just shot out, my eyes were a waning crescent after blowing my load. the wind knocked out of me and trying to catch any semblance of breath that i had prior with her before all of this.

i forgot about how sleazy everything was. coming from a nightclub, or cumming in one - i should say. truly stupendous but never being one to stop my horniness. i was expecting the girl to change her mind and stop, but the more i came to the more she was willing to do. the real rush hit me when the girl stood up after being on her knees for so long. showing her completely shaved pussy and her fat lips from underneath ate the thin line of string from her thong. she knew from experience with whomever else that i would go crazy all night thinking about that tight little body that was barely concealed from view. but for right now - it was all on display for me. all mine to use.

the girl turned around and held onto the ceramic material of the toilet. standing behind her as she was all prepped and ready for me. all ready for the taking and mimicing the same motions we had as if we were back on the dance floor. small sways from side to side, grinding against one another. my crotch back into her soft ass. she would push back against me and rub herself up and down against my cock. slyly slipping my hand down and back up to touch her smooth bare ass, or sliding my hand over between her breasts to get a feel of how large they truly were - and they didn't disappoint. it felt all the better and like i was in a dream.

my cock slid between her luscious thighs and feeling instant wetness begin to form and lather it up, as if her lips didn't do that enough already. her pussy had left a string of aroused juices and my cock was just the next target for it to latch onto.

"ah..ahh…ahh…" she breathed out quietly, her ass bounced off from the thigh job with her hips slowly pivoting. her head turned over to me with pleading doe-like eyes as if she were begging to get fucked.

"hurry…" she whispered.

"god, fuck, doi." speaking out with exasperation. with what this was - incredibly dangerous. not knowing how loud she could be, or if the banging sounds of music could drown out the sound. not faltering no longer and immediately moving in. her soaking wet pussy was waiting for me. pressing my tip against her pussy, as soon as the first few parts of my skin entered the entire thing began to slide in with one easy push.

"mm -- " her voice felt so divine. i was like a conductor leading an orchestra and before she knew it, she quieted her voice.

my knees grew weak despite using the majority of my strength to keep it upright. inch by inch, second by second more of it disappeared like a trick. the moist warmth of her pussy felt especially amazing on my cock, and at first, i just held it inside of her and enjoyed the sensation. if her tits were made for him - her insides definitely were. molded to perfection. she turned to look back at me, all her features aside from her eyes hidden by the sweaty mask of her hair covering up those puppy eyes. you could still see through the space between them. they were wide. begging for it. my lips were agape and i could only just nod in agreement. grabbing her hips and began to thrust into her pussy.

one of her hands went up to support her strength against the wall, the other went towards her mouth and trying to cover up whatever moans trickled out from her small mouth. small sounds illiciting from her orifice with my hand reaching out for her pigtails to help support her weight. nothing like giving it a tug as a faux leash as i kept slamming into her ass and hearing that all to reminiscent clapping sound.

as the night poured on my care for secrecy went lower and lower. if i had been going slow there may have been an excuse to give some guy waiting in line. but there was no mistake to what we were doing. ramming my hips into her fat ass at full speed. luckily, and thank god for it. the music absorbing the wet, slippery noises as my cock stretched out her pussy.

"yes daddy - yes, yes yes!" her voice followed suit. her voice overcoming the makeshift muffler she had once before as her eyes kept glaring at me. her hair waving back and forth into my eyes with each thrust i did onto her. the sheer act of her doing that was enough to develop myself more into it. making myself thrust harder and harder, yanking ont oher hair harder with some animalistic instinct. each thrust made my hips crash against hers. all the while her pussy gripped onto my cock so tightly and making it feel like my very last. and it was.

quietly groaning at the rougher-than-usual thrust, as i rolled my cock into her again and again, the sensation of what felt like tons of cum came pouring out and inside of her. spurts of hot white gunk escaping my system and into hers. the warm sensation of her pussy and my cock ran through my entire body, and even if i finished i didn't want it to end. i only pulled out when there was nothing left and the strength oozed out of my system. the girl stood up straight and eased into me.

"wow.." she spoke out as she patted away some of the sweat off of her forehead. straightening her outfit and making it seem less slutty than before was quite the task but she looked less scruffy than before, i guess? despite still being alone and 'somewhat' secured. the post-nut clarity of the two of us fucking in public hit me like a wrecking ball.

grimacing my teeth and tilting my head, making do of my pants and stuffing my cock back into them and covering myself up despite everything being so sticky and wet.

the girl said nothing, but all i saw was a girl. one that was satisfied and showcasing a toothy grin to show to me.

[a-minke-whales-tale]

A Burning Fire

TW: mentions of abuse

This situation with my work has lit within me a fire I have never before felt. It burns and rages, sometimes calm before roaring again into an inferno for days. I do not like it to be honest. It is very unpleasant and I wish the humans to be consumed by it. I do not like feeling this way. But where most of the time I just accept my fate of whatever is happening to me, this time I will not back down. And I am going to fight them. I have contacted legal representation through my trade union. There is no way they can reasonably justify their decision.

But they have made me angry, and I know this probably sounds cringey, but I have never experienced anger like this before. I feel utterly betrayed, manipulated, and exploited. I did as I was asked, I was obedient and useful and good and the humans were happy with me. I believed I had found a home, a place I would be useful forever. I believed that these were my humans and I belonged to this school. I feel like a dog suddenly kicked out of the car on the side of the road and left there.

I know the humans are in charge, but this time they made me so angry and I am going to fight them.

When the humans locked me away, I did not resist.

When the humans hit me and denied me food, I did not resist.

When the humans sedated and strapped me down, I did not resist.

When the humans forced me to take pills that twisted my body into this awful shape and cause me horrible pain now if I do not take them, I did not resist.

I may not have the strength in my body or the teeth to grab them and pull them down into the depths with me as others have done, but I will do everything I can to either keep my job and given what the humans promised me, or make getting rid of me a fucking nightmare for them.

[frightnightindustries]

When they cringed in fear

Semi-graphic murder under the cut.

(@indigo-flightly-falls it's Tony!)

Rescue whump, pet whumpee, serial killer caretaker!

It was the whimpers that stole Tony's attention away from his lesson. The pitiful, sorrowful cries for help that differed from the ones made by the pathetic creature at his feet.

The source of the whimpers had not known joy in a long, long time....Troubling.

He glanced around, looking for some shape in the darkness of this living room that would give him a sign. But no luck.

Fortunately, he had the occupant of the house at his feet, but he had to ask quickly before the thing expired.

Kneeling down, he took out his machete and tilted up the head of said occupant with it's blade.

"The noises. I hear cries. Do you know where they are?"

Twitching and in pain, the creature spoke. ".....basement.....please don't kill me...." Tony gave no verbal response to that, but began moving his machete away from the neck of the thing. He stood up, brushing a bit of dust of his knees, and began to walk towards the basement door, down the rickety steps.

The stairs smelled like bleach and despair. He wrinkled his nose as he walked down, years of practice keeping him from making a sound as he did so.

What he found was certainly a surprise. There was a person curled up in the corner of the basement. Shivering, shaking, and whimpering.

Tony took a couple steps closer, which was proven to be a mistake as the mystery person lunged forward, restricted by what looked like a chain, but that wasn't what caught Tony's eye. No, what caught his eye was a collar attached to the poor person's neck. Putting together the pieces of the puzzle....

This mystery person was a pet. Pity drowned out the rest of his emotions, and he began to speak to the poor person. Perhaps he could make his intentions clear.

"Hello. Do you have a name?" He spoke, trying to seem non-threatening. The person stopped cold in their tracks. Tony wondered if it was out of confusion as to why he had asked, or if it was unused to any kind of interaction with a human being other than it's owner. The thought enraged him.

"No.....sir." He responded, seeming much more like a man now that the poor man wasn't snarling and attempting to murder him. Quelling the rage circling his heart like a wolf on the hunt, he made himself look curious. Kind. Caring. Things that he had long since left behind to the young child he once was.

"Oh. Would you like one?" Tony asked. "Did your....master.....keep one from you?" He took a step closer. "Did he harm you?"

The poor man shook his head. "No. My master is kind. Discipline is....I deserve it." Then he straightened. "Discipline is a necessary and humane event ensuring the continued obedience and wellbeing of a pet."

"Discipline." Tony muttered, growing angry. "What is the discipline that your master applies?" The man in front of him didn't know that his master's death depended on how he responded.

And then came the words that sealed the fate of the captor above.

"Master believes that deprivation of food and water are effective measures."

That lit a roaring flame inside the mind of Tony. Snarling, he turned, stomping up the stairs and grabbing the horrid creature, who moronically hadn't even moved from the spot Tony had left him. A horrid creature who couldn't even learn a simple lesson on how to treat the ones you wish to be romantic with.

Tony dragged him down the stairs, succumbing to an impulsive thought of vengeance and bloodshed. A cry of distress from the poor man gave him pause once he reached the bottom, throwing the creature on the ground and kicking it in the ribs when it tried to move. This man. This man, who this creature had stolen from happiness, joy, even humanity....

This man cared. That wouldn't do.

"Master!" The man cried out, going as far as his chains would allow, but only spurning Tony on.

The creature sputtered, attempting to speak, but Tony cut him off before he began. "Do not speak unless I ask you. You monstrous beast. You treat others like objects, and now I discover you are a thief."

He pointed with his machete at the man in chains, who flinched as he did. Tony's heart ached at that, and he knew he would make sure that never happened again, that the man would see this as a tool to be used and not a cause for pain. "You stole so many things from this man. His joy, his humanity, even his mind. I see now that you are a worthless case. Goodbye."

And then he got to work. It was a bloody thing, as the ends of his lessons always were. By the time he was done the creature was long since dead, the man was shivering and crying in the corner, and Tony was....well, to say he was covered in blood was an understatement. He would have to burn his shoes afterwards, and probably the jeans as well. The shirt would be alright, after a few hours in the washer.

But he had bigger problems to deal with. Tony turned to the man, and stepped closer. "I have an offer for you."

The man looked up and tilted his head, eyes still red from crying. "Are....are you my new master?" He asked trepidatiously, and Tony could've wept from pity. He had heard the stories, of course. Accounts of horrific abuse, kidnappings, and other horrible things going on with these....human pets. But he had never truly had time to do research.

He hadn't imagined it would be this terrible.

"No." He responded. "But I do have two options. If you will not physically harm me, and accompany me back to my home, I will refrain from killing you, and you will have shelter for as long as you wish. If you refuse, I will kill you quickly. After all, you are a witness. You have seen my face. Do you accept my offer?"

The man nodded, though he flinched away as Tony walked over to him to unlatch it.

"I am going to unlatch the chain now. Please, do not run." Tony muttered, though close enough for the man to hear his words. Walking up the stairs once it was unlatched, he motioned for the man to follow, and the two walked up the stairs and out the door. Pointedly not looking at the bloodstains from the lesson that had been conducted upstairs.

The man shuddered as they reached the outside, nighttime had long since fallen upon the sleepy neighborhood. (And the man was wearing a tank top, how had he not noticed this before) Tony went to wrap a hand around the shoulder of the man, but realized that wrapping a still blood soaked hand around a probably traumatized man was probably unhelpful. So, the man shivered in silence during the minute long walk to the car.

Tony led the man around the car to the passenger door, watching as he shakily opened it and sat down inside. Once he had done so, Tony walked back around the car and sat in the drivers seat.

"Would you prefer the radio on, or off?" He asked to his new companion. The man froze like a deer in the headlights, and for the first time that night, Tony got a good look at him.

The man had grey eyes like a storm, and so many scars it disturbed even the well-practiced killer that Tony was. It was wrong to even think of the man next to him bleeding. People who hadn't done anything wrong shouldn't be bleeding.

A trembling voice snapped Tony back to reality before he could spiral down again. "....whatever you prefer, sir. I....I don't have opinions." That wouldn't do, but he couldn't help that now. Perhaps some music could help his friend (was that the right word for it?) clear his mind.

He started the car, then turned on the radio.

"MY EYES ARE STAPLED OPEN WIDE-"

That made both of them jump, and gave Tony a laugh. "I didn't realize...." Trailing off, he noticed that his friend had curled up into the seat again, shaking with fear. It had startled him.

"Apologies." Tony said. "I will turn down the volume." The man didn't respond, so Tony turned to do just that, then flipping through the channels to find a song that his friend would enjoy.

Ah, there it was.

"Round, like a circle in a spiral, like a wheel within a wheel...."

And then he started driving, humming along with the music as he drove past rows and rows of houses.

There was still much he had to do. Get home, burn and wash his clothes as he saw fit, make sure that the house was good enough for two instead of one, give his friend a name, tell him about the lessons....

But for now, it was alright.

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

So, first part in a possible series!

Important notes:

Tony is twenty five, our poor friend is twenty eight.

Tony saw both of his parents shot by robbers at a young age, and was sent to a group home which wasn't exactly watchful of the inhabitants. His actions are the result of trauma, unrestricted access to the internet, and most importantly, the fact that nobody cared or saw what was happening inside his head. The mental illnesses didn't cause him to kill.

He has very poor impulse control, a messed-up view of the world, episodes of mania, and overall a very poor mental state. If we are in his POV, the actions he takes will be portrayed as right, because he believes that he is in the right. This is a healing story for both of them. Tony just has no idea yet.

Now, for our other protagonist.....you'll have to wait and see. I'm excited to write him.

[sephirthoughts]

The Ghost of Shinra Manor

Chapter 2 of this

summary: It's been two years since the events of Dirge of Cerberus. Cloud visits his hometown, and investigates a rumor of a ghost, haunting Shinra Manor. If you're surprised by who it turns out to be, you are beyond my power to save, comrade.

tags: g-g-g-ghosts!!! sefikura, sephiroth x cloud, sane!sephiroth (sort of), post advent children, post dirge of cerberus, canon timeline, delusions, intermitten amnesia, low drama, enemies to…whatever the hell they have going on

warnings: references to death, PTSD, child abuse, etc. all of hojo's greatest hits, mention of animal death in the context of ethical subsistence hunting/fishing, canon-typical violence, technical nudity but i didn't describe anything so you'd have to imagine it yourself which is not on me, pervert

rating: teen and up [BE ADVISED: THIS RATING WILL CHANGE]

Part 2: Resurrection

“You!” Cloud roared, lunging forward at lightning speed, to strike a killing blow.

The arc of blue light, from his broad, silver blade passed harmlessly through the spectral neck and cut a long, deep gash in the stone wall, behind it. 

The ghost curled up in terror, hugging its head. “Please! Please, don’t!”

“Drop the fucking bullshit, Sephiroth!” Cloud said, readying another strike. “What kind of game are you playing, this time!”   

“You…know my name?”

“Fuck you!”

The next arc fanned out vertically, from floor to ceiling, cutting a deep furrow in both, and slammed into the wall, intersecting with the first gash, to make a shape like a crucifix. Dust and bits of masonry rained down around them. 

The ghost had thrown up an arm to shield himself from the strike, not that it mattered. His body was even more transparent, now, but that was all. He was otherwise unharmed.

Cloud, on the other hand, hadn’t fared as well. His face was ash grey and slick with cold sweat. The massive sword clattered loudly onto the floor, as he fell to his hands and knees, and coughed up a mouthful of blood. The pain in his chest had turned to piercing agony, that split his ribcage and ripped the breath from his lungs. 

“You’re hurt,” said the raspy and ethereal, but increasingly familiar voice.

“Shut...the fuck up,” Cloud panted, blood and drool running from between his lips, to spatter the stone floor with crimson.

The ghost kept its mouth obediently shut and only watched, with a look of anxiety, as he picked up the sword and used it to push himself to his feet. 

Wiping his mouth with the back of his gloved hand, Cloud raised his sword again, pointing the blade at the ghost. “What’s happening? What did you do to me!”

“N—nothing. I don’t—wait, stop!”

Cloud swung the sword again, cutting diagonally, with the same result as before. The arc of light passed through the ghost, and bisected the wall again. More dust and larger chunks of masonry crashed down from the ceiling, as Cloud fell to his knees and spit out another mouthful of blood, shaking and gasping for breath.

“You have to stop,” the ghost pleaded, in an indistinct and distorted voice, like a radio frequency cutting in and out. “You’re hurting yourself.”

Cloud struggled doggedly to his feet, again, leaning on the sword for support, as he glared down at the ghost. Something was seriously off, here. 

If Sephiroth had managed to resurrect himself, yet again, what would he be doing in the Shinra Manor basement, stark naked and barely corporeal? Shouldn’t he be concocting evil schemes to destroy the world, and popping over to make sure Cloud knew about it, every ten minutes? 

Speaking of which, he didn’t seem to recognize Cloud, at all. That could be a deception, but he’d never done anything like that. To be perfectly honest, Cloud found the idea of Sephiroth intentionally putting on this kind of humiliating display, even as a manipulation tactic, almost unthinkable. 

“Are you really Sephiroth?” he asked, at last.

The ghost nodded faintly. 

“Why are you here? How did you come back?”

“Professor Gast, brought me,” the ghost faltered, apparently confused by the question. “Did the other professor send you?”

“The other professor?”

“Hojo. He sends people, to…” he hesitated and lowered his head. “To train me.”

Cloud frowned. He remembered Aerith telling him, once, that ghosts don’t know they’re dead. They haunt a place they have an emotional attachment to, confused and disoriented, reliving scenes from their lives, while they gradually lose more and more of their memory, and go completely insane. 

So, what the hell was this? Was Sephiroth really a ghost? Had he been condemned to haunt Shinra Manor, in torment and misery, till his mind collapsed? Because he fucking deserved it.

“Sephiroth,” he said sharply. Sephiroth jolted and curled up, trembling all over. “Sephiroth. Look at me.”

After a long pause, the silver head slowly came up, and those otherworldly eyes peered out, through the stringy, disheveled hair. His face was gaunt and his eyes had dark circles under them. His perfect lips were pale and cracked. Gone was every trace of pride and entitlement, and bloodthirsty madness. All Cloud saw in those hollow eyes was fear, confusion, and pain.

“I’m so tired,” he said weakly, but he wasn’t talking to Cloud. He was looking straight through him, addressing someone who wasn’t there. “Please, don’t hurt me, anymore. Please…” 

Pain shot through Cloud’s chest, again. Different than before. This time, his heart ached with an inexplicable pang of pity for the fallen angel, lying in ruin, at his feet. This pathetic creature, that had been a hero, a god, the most powerful monster on the planet…now nothing but a hollow specter. 

Sephiroth had covered his head again, and continued whimpering. His snow-white body was even more diaphanous, now, like a specter made of silk gauze—especially his hands and bare feet. 

It occurred to Cloud that he’d never seen Sephiroth’s bare hands or feet, before. Or other parts of his body, for that matter. Without thinking, he took out his black, all-weather cloak and hung it around the wraithlike shoulders. 

Sephiroth’s whimpering went quiet. His trembling stilled. The white hand that reached out, to pull the garment tighter around him, appeared more solid than it had, only a second before.

Cloud didn’t notice any of it. He was deep in thought, debating with himself, about what to do. 

One way or another, he had to get to the bottom of why this son of a bitch was back, and in this state. He couldn’t put other lives at risk, by leaving him unsupervised, in the meantime, but he’d be damned if he hung around this fucking miserable place, while he was figuring out how to kill him for good. He sighed and shook his head. He’d just have to take him prisoner.

“Sephiroth,” he said, turning back to the huddled lump of cloak. “Can you walk?”

Sephiroth blinked slowly, then his eyes finally seemed to focus on Cloud’s face. “Walk?”

“Yes. Walk. We have to get out of here. Get up.”

Sephiroth just stared blankly at him, so Cloud grabbed his wrists and hauled him to his feet. He was startled to find that the man weighed practically nothing. Despite his outsized height and visible muscle mass, it was like pulling up a small child.

And in fact, Cloud suddenly found himself looking down into the face of a child, of no more than eight or nine. A pale and hollow-cheeked little boy, with Sephiroth’s cat eyes and silver hair, only just barely chin length. Cloud’s cloak, now much too big, covered his little body like a tent, and trailed all over the floor. Cloud leapt back, with an alarmed exclamation, but the boy had got hold of his wrist.

“Please, don’t leave me,” he said, as tears started in his huge, blue-green eyes. “I’ll be good, I promise! Please don’t let them hurt me!”

“What the fuck is going on? Why are you like this, now?” Cloud demanded, as he tried to shake the boy off (to no avail; despite his small size, his grip was like a steel clamp).

“Please, you have to help me! They’re coming!”

Cloud heard a noise and whipped around, to see that the room had changed completely. It was still one of these stone-walled basement labs, but it was well-lit and filled with glowing green mako tanks, medical equipment, and a big, steel exam table, in the center. 

He reeled, as reality spun sideways. It was that room. The room where they’d kept him and tortured him for all those years. The noise had been the door banging open, to admit two scientists in white coats, followed by a few lab techs, and a bunch of troopers, with assault rifles. One of them seemed to be carrying a heavy sledgehamer.

“Subject S is prone to tantrums. That fool Gast turned him into a spoiled brat, but we will correct his behavior, eventually,” Hojo’s grating, nasal voice said. “For now, if he’s uncooperative, he can be strapped down or sedated.”

Cloud staggered back a few steps and sat down hard against a mako tank, clutching his stomach, like he’d been shot. His face was grey and he’d broken into a cold sweat. The boy was sobbing and yanking his arm, trying to pull him back to his feet, when the troopers grabbed him.

“No! No!” he screamed, clinging desperately to Cloud. “Don’t let them hurt me! Help me! Help me!”

Cloud just stared, dazed and helpless, as they dragged him away. The boy howled and thrashed, but he was no match for all the big men, who threw away the cloak and held him down, strapping his arms and legs to the steel table. The same table Cloud had been strapped to, over and over again.

The boy’s wailing cut off in a muffled gurgling sound, as the lab techs shoved a bite-gag in his mouth, and buckled it tightly around his head. Another placed an IV needle in his arm, hooked up to a bag of clear fluid. Others stuck monitor leads all over his body.

Hojo was tapping a syringe, full of green sludge. “Of course, the subject must be kept conscious, for pain threshold assessment. I find that a solution of mako and epinephrine, in a glucose matrix, will keep him passably alert through most tests.”

The other lab-coated scientist observed and took notes, as he injected the eerily glowing liquid into the I.V. bag. The boy was still looking pleadingly at Cloud, tears streaming from his eyes, as they turned that radioactive mako-green. 

“Trooper, if you will,” Hojo said. 

The burly trooper who was lugging that sledgehammer, approached and stood at the foot of the exam table. Not a single person in the room objected, or even flinched, as he raised it above his head.

It came down on the boy’s shin, with a sickening crack. The boy thrashed and struggled, screaming into the gag, foaming at the mouth, while the heart monitor and other equipment went crazy, sounding a cacophony of alarms.

“As you can see, the subject has not lost consciousness. Ideal for self-reporting pain levels, as his healing factor is assessed, as well,” Hojo remarked blandly, as if he were teaching a class. “Trooper. The other leg.”

The man hoisted the hammer again.

“No… No! NO!!”

Dashing away the tears that had blurred his vision, Cloud leapt to his feet and charged, swinging his sword in a deadly arc, to cleave the trooper’s head in two. The blue light split the man cleanly down the center, as well as the exam table and even the lab itself.

The entire scene whirled away and dissipated, like fog in a gust of wind. 

Cloud blinked around in the suddenly much darker room. Everything was back to the way it had been, before, with his sword embedded upright in the floor, and the huge slashes he’d made, in the wall, floor, and ceiling. 

The boy was huddled on the rubble-strewn floor, approximately where he had been strapped to the table, trembling and whimpering. Cloud picked up the cloak and wrapped it back around his naked body, then took the weeping child in his arms. 

“It’s ok. It’s ok, now. I’ve got you,” he said hoarsely, as his own tears wetted the silver hair.

“What if they come back,” the boy sobbed. “They’ll take me away!”

“I won’t let them. I won’t let them hurt us, ever again.” 

He sniffled, looking timidly up at Cloud. “They hurt you, too?” 

“Yeah. But they’re all dead, now. They can’t hurt anyone, anymore.”

Cloud began to smooth the matted hair back from his forehead, then his hand froze. As if he’d only just realized what he was doing, he jerked away and stood abruptly, staring down at the ghost, which had resumed its adult form. 

This was Sephiroth, the man who murdered his mother and his friend. But his emotions were in utter chaos, at the moment, because Sephiroth was also that little boy in the lab, terrified and desperate and in pain. Just like Cloud had been, when he was held captive in this place.

How much of that had been real, though? Had Sephiroth really been tortured, as a child, in that same room, on that very same table? He knelt down again and lifted the hem of the cloak, but the leg that had been horrifically broken, a moment ago, was intact, without so much as a bruise. 

“It only hurts while I’m remembering,” Sephiroth said.

Cloud frowned. “What?”

“You were checking to see if my leg is broken, right? It only hurts while I’m remembering.”

“That thing that happened, was it real?”

He nodded. “Only, you weren’t there, before. But I’m glad you were, this time. You woke me up, before they hurt me more.”

“What usually happens?”

“They break both my legs, then my arms. The professor asks me questions to test how lucid I am. Then they put me in a mako tank to recover. I wake up from it, after that.”

Cloud could think of no way to respond to such a matter-of-fact recounting of hideous abuse, so he moved on. “How did you take me into the memory, with you?”

Sephiroth’s brow knit, in confusion. “I don’t know. I don’t know why any of this is happening.”

“Nevermind, just—don’t start crying again.”

The man dutifully blinked back his impending tears, like a chastised child. Now that Cloud thought about it, he lookedlike his adult self, but he was talking and behaving in an oddly childish manner, and didn’t seem to remember Cloud. Maybe he only appeared grown up, and had mentally regressed? 

Whatever the case, there was nothing but baseless speculation to go on, at the moment, so he decided to table the issue, and deal with the situation as it evolved.

For now, the plan hadn’t changed. He still had to keep Sephiroth under strict supervision, while he figured things out. If he really had regressed to childhood, that might actually work to Cloud’s advantage. A young, frightened Sephiroth had to be easier to deal with, than a fully matured, homicidal-lunatic Sephiroth. Right?

“We’re getting out of here,” he said, decisively. “Can you walk?”

Sephiroth nodded and staggered to his feet. 

Cloud pulled his sword out of the stone floor, where it was embedded several inches deep, and slapped it onto its holster. 

“Wait,” Sephiroth said, as Cloud made to exit the room. “You didn’t tell me your name.”

Cloud glanced back at him. “It’s Cloud.”

Sephiroth smiled, and despite his ghastly and bedraggled appearance, somehow managed to look like heaven’s gentlest angel. “Nice to meet you, Cloud.”

“Right,” Cloud snorted. “Let’s move.”

There was still no sign of monster activity, in the basement, and aside from the long and tedious climb up the ladder, they made it to the upper floor, without incident. The moment they stepped out of the room into the hallway, Sephiroth grabbed Cloud’s arm, with an icy-cold hand, to stop him.

“Be cautious,” he whispered. “The doors are all broken. The monsters must’ve got out.”

It hadn’t occurred to Cloud that it might’ve been Sephiroth, who had shut the fiends up in those rooms. He shook his hand off and moved away a step. “I broke the doors down and killed all the monsters. It was you, that trapped them in there? Why?”

“I’m not afraid of them. It's only that they’re always shrieking and throwing things at me. I watched them and learned that they can’t go through solid things, so I tricked them into chasing me into the rooms. All I had to do was hide behind the door, then slip out and shut them in.”

“Why didn’t you just kill them?”

Sephiroth lowered his eyes, almost looking ashamed. “I don’t…like killing things. When the professor locks me in the training room with monsters, I have to kill them, or I won't be allowed to come out. But I don’t like it.”

“What kind of monsters?”

“Experiments he wants to dispose of. Mostly mid-sized ones, like hellhounds, blood tastes, or makonoids. One time…there was a behemoth. But I was allowed to have a weapon for that fight, or it probably would’ve killed me.”

“You weren’t allowed have a weapon, when you fought the other monsters?”

“Only my brain and my bare hands.”

“What kind of sick shit is that?”

“The professor says it will teach me to be resourceful, and think on my feet.”

Cloud was too disgusted by that very Hojo-like reasoning to reply, and he wouldn’t know what to say, anyway. He just turned and hopped down off the landing, into the foyer. Sephiroth stepped into the air and vanished, reappearing beside him.

Cloud scowled. “How’d you take the cloak with you, when you did that?”

The man didn’t seem to hear him. He was gazing up at the half-collapsed ceiling, looking beleaguered. “What happened to the manor? When did it become like this?”

Cloud ignored him, in turn, and continued out the front door. When Sephiroth came to the doorway, however, he stopped dead in his tracks. His eyes went hazy and unfocused, and for a long moment, he stood gazing off into the middle-distance. 

“What are you doing? Come on,” Cloud prompted, impatiently. 

Sephiroth didn’t answer. He only lowered his head, looking despondent, not acknowledging or making eye contact with him. As if he couldn’t see or hear him, at all.

“For fuck’s sake.” Cloud went back, grabbed his wrist, and dragged him out the door. That seemed to snap him back out of whatever fugue he’d fallen into, just now. 

“Cloud,” he said, with a relieved smile.

Cloud’s jaw muscles twitched, to hear that voice speak his name, in that tone. But he had a theory as to why Sephiroth had been unable to pass through the door. “No more screwing around. Stop worrying about what you see, and just follow me.”

Outside, tiny, granular flakes of snow were being driven sideways in a dry, icy-cold wind. Sephiroth wrapped the cloak more securely around his naked body, so it wouldn't be blown open. He didn’t look around or ask any more questions, though. He just kept his head down and followed, as Cloud led him through the overgrown garden, toward the rusty gates. 

A little way down the dirt road, Cloud turned to cut through the woods, following his own trail homeward. He was as surefooted as a mountain goat, even on this rough, uneven terrain, in the darkness of the forest, but Sephiroth stumbled repeatedly.

Several times, he managed to fall into brambles, and every time he did, his long hair got tangled in the thorny branches, so Cloud had to pull him out again, and untangle him. Finally, he lost patience, picked him up, and slung him over his shoulder like a sack of rice.

“This is…humiliating,” Sephiroth said dejectedly, but he made no attempt to free himself. 

For the rest of the two-mile walk, neither said anything. Sephiroth just hung there, over Cloud’s shoulder, letting his long, silver hair trail in the dirt. 

It was a bit unsettling, because his body was cold, but the upside of the ghost business was, he was light as a feather. Even un-augmented, Cloud could’ve carried him easily. As a result, they made excellent time.

“Where are we?” Sephiroth asked, peering sluggishly about, when Cloud set him down, outside the cabin.

“My place.” Cloud unlocked and opened the door. “Go on.”

The six-foot seven-inch tall man had to stoop a little, to pass through the low doorway. Cloud shut the door behind them and switched on the electric lights, but Sephiroth flinched, throwing an arm up to shield his eyes, as if they were unbearably bright. Cloud sighed and turned them back off, lighting the gas lantern on the table, instead. 

“Better?” he inquired sarcastically.

“Yes, thank you,” Sephiroth answered, in earnest. “This is your home?”

“No. It’s a hunting cabin. You’re covered in dirt and shit, from falling into every fucking briar patch in the Nibel region. You bathe first.” 

So saying, Cloud opened the linen cabinet and tossed him a towel. It struck him in the chest and fell to the floor. He blinked down at it, then up at Cloud, who crossed his arms impatiently. Looking sheepish, Sephiroth bent down and picked up the towel. 

“Shower’s in there,” Cloud said, jerking his chin at the bathroom door. “Doubt I have any clothes that’ll fit you, but I’ll try to dig something up.”

Sephiroth’s hand, which had picked up the towel, just fine, passed directly through the bathroom doorknob, several times, before he managed to grasp and turn it.

Cloud felt a headache coming on. This was going to be a lot more like taking care of a kid than he’d bargained for, which was exactly what he came up here to avoid.

After his semi-spectral charge had vanished into the bathroom, he busied himself with building a fire, then rummaged around in the cabinet, till he found some baggy sweatpants, with the elastic waistband worn out, and an old t-shirt, that was a few sizes too big for him. 

Good enough. That was as much as Sephiroth should expect from him, as far as clothing. He was not a guest, he was a prisoner. Also, Cloud would be damned if he was giving the giant bastard any of his underwear to stretch out. 

At that point, it occurred to him that he still hadn’t heard the shower running. The bathroom door was open, so he went over and peered in. 

As he had suspected, Sephiroth was not bathing. He was curled up in the bathtub, apparently fast asleep, still wrapped up in Cloud’s cloak. His white face was smudged with dirt, and his silver hair was hanging over the side of the tub, onto the floor, with bits of brambles and dry leaves clinging to it.

He looked so ridiculously pitiful, that Cloud was tempted to laugh. He briefly debated just leaving him like that, but that would mean he’d have to forgo his own shower, and he wasn’t about to make that sacrifice, for this asshole.

“Sephiroth,” he said loudly. “What are you doing?”

The man jolted awake. “C—Cloud. I had trouble, turning on the water. I must’ve…fallen asleep.”

“How is your hair corporeal enough to collect dirt and leaves, but your hand can’t turn a shower knob?” Cloud groused, as he set the sweatpants and shirt on the closed lid of the toilet.

“I don’t know,” Sephiroth answered dismally. “I don’t know why I’m like this.”

Cloud pointed at the clothes. “Those are for you. Give me my cloak. I’ll turn the water on.”

Sephiroth seemed reluctant to give up the cloak, whether from modesty, or some other reason, but he shrugged it off and dutifully handed it over. Despite his semi-prurient curiosity, Cloud kept his eyes studiously above the neck, not even peeking at Sephiroth's naked body, while he turned the knob for the shower, to the middle setting. The water didn’t heat instantly, however, and came out ice-cold. Sephiroth had no reaction whatsoever, to being suddenly doused in frigid water.

“Don’t worry, it heats up fast,” Cloud explained, anyway. “When you’re done, go dry your hair by the fire. Nights get cold, up here. It’s not healthy to leave it wet.”

Without looking at him again, he left the bathroom, shutting the door behind him. Then he thought the better of that, and reopened it, halfway. 

Some time later, he heard the water shut off, so he guessed Sephiroth had figured out the knob, after all. When the man emerged, Cloud was stirring a pot of canned chicken-noodle soup, on the stove. He turned around, to say something, and failed to suppress a snort of laughter. 

That t-shirt was shrink-wrapped to his torso, and the faded Gold Saucer logo was stretched and distorted, across his massive chest. The hem just barely reached his belly-button, and would expose his whole abdomen, if he raised his arms. The sweatpants, which were long and baggy on Cloud, fit Sephiroth like a pair of calf-length joggers, except they were visibly too loose at the waist, and hung about his hips, with the drawstring cinched, to keep them from falling off.

“Wow,” Cloud said, eyeing him up and down. “You look…really stupid.”

Sephiroth only lowered his eyes and tugged self-consciously at the hem of the shirt, which annoyed Cloud more than if he’d had something snappy to say back.

“Your hair’s dripping all over the floor,” he scolded. “Go sit by the fire, till it’s dry.”

Going obediently to the fireplace, Sephiroth sat cross-legged on the woven rug. Cloud ostensibly returned his attention to stirring the soup, but he kept turning, to steal glances at the man. He couldn’t help it.

His erstwhile greatest enemy, who he had personally killed on multiple occasions, was sitting on his rug, wearing his old clothes, and carefully rubbing his long, silver hair with a pink-striped towel. It was a bizarre situation, to say the least.

When the soup began to bubble, Cloud ladled some into an enameled tin bowl, stuck a camp spoon in it, and set it on the floor, in front of Sephiroth. “Eat. I’m going to shower.”

There were little bits of leaves in the bottom of the bathtub, because of course there were. Cloud was feeling petty, and added it to his list of grievances against his captive. Then he turned the water on steaming hot, and stood gratefully under it, letting the cold and stiffness melt from his muscles, while he considered what to do next. 

He really wanted to just kill this bastard, but it’s not like he hadn’t tried that. Until he figured out why his attacks had backlashed on him, he had to be more careful. His body was still sore all over, from the internal injuries, and he had no intention of handicapping his combat efficiency, with Sephiroth around. 

The most logical option would be to turn him over to the authorities, except that with Shinra gone, there weren’t really any authorities to turn him over to. Aside from the WRO, that is, and Cloud wouldn’t get them involved unless he had no other choice. 

His captive seemed to be docile and disoriented at the moment, but this was Sephiroth. He was a nuclear bomb on a hair-trigger, that could become extremely dangerous, at any moment. Cloud didn’t want to put any more innocent people in harm’s way.

No, he decided. He would handle Sephiroth, himself. He knew very well that he was the link that kept the prick coming back, so it was only right that he should be the one to deal with him, when he did. It was his responsibility.

He would have preferred to do it that way, all along, it’s just that every time the man appeared, he made a huge fucking scene, so everyone else got involved. This time, no one knew he was back, but Cloud. If he could figure out how to get rid of him, on his own, all the better.

If worse came to worst, they could die together, and finally put an end to this cycle of madness, he thought grimly.

When he came out of the bathroom, after his lengthy shower, in his properly sized black t-shirt and sweatpants, Sephiroth was curled up on the rug, fast asleep again. Like a big dog. 

The bowl of soup was sitting exactly where Cloud left it, untouched and long gone cold. He took it back to the stove and dumped it in the pot, to reheat it, then sat at his camp table and ate the whole pot of soup himself, with some bread and farmer’s cheese, he’d bought in town. If Sephiroth didn’t want to eat, it wasn’t his problem. He wasn’t going to force his own food on this prick.

When he was done, he washed the dishes, brushed his teeth, and piled more wood on the fire. With the gas lantern switched off, the place was illuminated only by the orange-gold glow from the fireplace, Cloud noted, with an eerie chill, that the clothing Sephiroth was wearing cast a shadow, across the floor, but his body did not.

He began to climb into bed, then hesitated. It’d freeze, tonight, if it didn’t straight-up storm, and the cabin would be cold, after the fire died down. Especially on the floor.

Sephiroth was his prisoner and probably didn't feel the cold much, anyway, but all captives were entitled to be treated with basic human decency. Even the delusional ghosts of psychotic mass-murderers. 

Ugh. Stupid conscience. Grumbling inwardly, Cloud went and pulled another wool blanket from the cedar trunk, which he laid over Sephiroth. There. That was all he was obligated to do. 

Annoyed with himself for his softness, he climbed in under his own blankets, and prepared himself for a long night. He was never able to sleep with another person in the room, and this particular person was Sephiroth, the very cause of much of his persistent insomnia. He kind of wished he’d brought a book.

That was his last coherent thought, however, because he was fast asleep, almost the moment his head hit the pillow.

A little while after Cloud had drifted off, and his breathing became soft and regular, a pair of big, pale-blue eyes, with catlike pupils, opened and fixed their gaze on his sleeping face. They remained fixed on him, unblinking, for the next six hours and fourteen minutes.

When the young man began to stir, the eyes closed, a beat before his opened—just in time for him to miss it, entirely.

THE AUTHOR HAS SOMETHING TO SAY

cloud: fuck this bastard he deserves whatever hell he gets

cloud: welp, time to get him a hot shower and cook him dinner

[writing-and-rebloging]

WHB Lesser key: Gehenna

Did you wonder how much inspiration they drew from the descriptions of the different demons of the Ars Goetia to create their characters and what that could point towards in terms of personality and powers? I did. You can find each character with it's respective descriptions here, divided by their respective factions.

The main link is this helpful little list of the 72 with summarized descriptions, so it's not an exhaustive list, just an organized one.

Gehenna | Tartaros | Hades | Avisos | Abaddon | Paradise Lost | Niflheim

Sitri

Sitri (also spelled Bitru, Sytry) is a Great Prince of Hell, and reigns over sixty legions of demons. He causes men to love women and vice versa, and can make people bare themselves naked if desired. He is depicted with the face of a leopard and the wings of a griffin, but under the conjurer's request he changes into a very beautiful man.

This wiki article adds on that he's "dangerously charming", that he "reveals the most intimate secrets of women and gains power over them in doing so" and that he's "one of the darkest entities, and only the most experienced may summon Sitri to speak to him and inquire about the love of someone", and goes on to warn that "you should be careful when invoking the prince, for he likes concentration and is known not only to work with love and lust, but also the feelings of hatred" not sure about it's relevance but eh, interesting enough.

Leraye

Leraje (also Leraie, Leraikha, Leraye, Loray, Oray) is a mighty Great Marquis of Hell who has thirty legions of demons under his power. He causes great battles and disputes, and makes gangrene wounds caused by arrows. He is depicted as a gallant and handsome archer clad in green, carrying a bow and quiver

Paimon

Paimon (also Paimonia, Paymon) is one of the Kings of Hell, more obedient to Lucifer than other kings are, and has two hundred legions of demons under his rule. He has a great voice and roars as soon as he comes, speaking in this manner for a while until the conjurer compels him and then he answers clearly the questions he is asked. When a conjurer invokes this demon he must look towards the northwest, the direction of Paimon's house, and when Paimon appears he must be allowed to ask the conjurer what he wishes and be answered, in order to obtain the same from him.

Paimon teaches all arts, philosophies, and sciences, and secret things; he can reveal all mysteries of the Earth, wind, and water, what the mind is, and where it is, and everything the conjurer wants to know. He gives good familiars, dignities and confirms them, and binds men to the conjurer's will.

If Paimon is cited alone, buffering or sacrifice must be done, and he will accept it, though the precise nature of the gift is unclear; then two kings called Beball (Bebal or Labal) and Abalam (Abalim) will go to him together with other spirits, often twenty-five legions; but these other spirits do not always come unless the conjurer calls upon them.

Paimon is depicted as a man with an effeminate face, wearing a precious crown, and riding a dromedary. Before him often goes a host of demons with the shape of men, playing trumpets, cymbals, and any other sort of musical instrument

Boy had a lot of info there

Astaroth

Astaroth (also Ashtaroth, Astarot and Asteroth) is referred to in The Lesser Key of Solomon as a very powerful demon who commands 40 legions of demons. In art, in the Dictionnaire Infernal, Astaroth is depicted as a nude man with feathered wings, wearing a crown, holding a serpent in one hand, and riding a beast with dragon-like wings and a serpent-like tail. According to Sebastien Michaelis he is a demon of the First Hierarchy, who seduces by means of laziness, vanity, and rationalized philosophies. His adversary is St. Bartholomew, who can protect against him for he has resisted Astaroth's temptations. To others, he teaches mathematical sciences and handicrafts, can make men invisible and lead them to hidden treasures, and answers every question formulated to him. He was also said to give to mortal beings the power over serpents. His name is possibly taken from the goddess Asherah or Astarte.

Zagan

Zagan (also Zagam) is a Great King and President of Hell, commanding over thirty-three legions of demons. He makes men witty; he can also turn wine into water, water into wine, and blood into wine (according to Pseudomonarchia Daemonum blood into oil, oil into blood, and a fool into a wise man). Other of his powers is that of turning metals into coins that are made with that metal (i.e., gold into a gold coin, copper into a copper coin, etc.). Zagan is depicted as a griffin-winged bull that turns into a man after a while.

Belial

Belial (also Belhor, Baalial, Beliar, Beliall, Beliel) is listed as the sixty-eighth spirit of The Lesser Key of Solomon. He is a King of Hell with 80 legions of demons and 50 legions of spirits under his command. He was created as the first, after Lucifer. He has the power to distribute senatorships and gives excellent familiars. He must be presented with offerings, sacrifices, and gifts, or else he will not give true answers to demands.

The Spanish wiki provides that he's connected to true independence, self sufficiency, pride, and personal growth. Jhon Milton's Paradise Lost says: that he was worshipped in Sodom but had not effigies built in his honor and that hell hasn't since received someone as dissolute/corrupted, drunk or in love of vice for the sake of vice itself. But that his interior is beautiful, and he is filled with grace and dignity.

It also provides that his name might come from "he of corrupted gains". He's also referred to as: the disobedient, the rebel, lord of arrogance, lord of pride and the son of hell, and impious men are referred to as the children of Belial. Belial is also used as a synonym of Satan.

The English wiki, however, is a mess and I just couldn't understand a word, but Paradise Lost is mentioned.

[a-world-of-whimsy-5]

Tevildo: a series of traits

A/N:  This is a basic run down of Tevildo, Prince of Cats. He is mentioned in the Book of Lost Tales, part two. For his bestial fana, I drew inspiration from Lions, Tigers, and Cheetahs.

Mentions of kinks/ NSFW material towards the end of the post.

Minors DNI | 18+

Rules and taglist form here.

Life prior to swearing fealty to Melkor:

Tevildo is a Maia who served the Vala Oromë. When the Ainur sang the Great Music and Melkor weaved in some of his own thoughts and created discord, Tevildo secretly agreed with it, as he never fully agreed with many of the other Ainur and their plans for Arda. His mentor’s hounds never took to him, always snapping and growling at him, as if they could sense his true nature. Tevildo disliked them with equal feeling. He looked down on Oromë’s hounds, considering them too obedient for their own good. When Melkor called for loyal servants, Tevildo was one of the first to answer. 

Physical appearance: Bestial Fana

⍟ When in bestial form, Tevildo takes on the appearance of a large black cat that is four feet at the shoulders and approximately ten feet or more lengthwise.

⍟ Coat: Short, black, and soft, with prominent gold stripes.

⍟ Head: Round and broad, with thick whiskers that are as sharp as needles.

⍟ Eyes: The colour is a combination of red and green, with gold flecks. They’re round and positioned laterally on the head.

⍟ Ears: Elongated leaf-like ears that are similar to those of the Eldar.

⍟ Tail: Long and muscular, and somewhat flat in shape. It’s about two-thirds his body length and acts as a counterbalance when he takes sharp turns on sprints.

⍟ Teeth: Rounded and recurved upper outer incisors. The lower outer incisors are not as large. The upper canines are sharp and are only slightly longer than the lower ones.

⍟ Feet and claws: Large feet with hard foot pads. Claws are sharp, semi non-retractable claws.

Physical appearance: Non-bestial Fana

⍟  Height: 7’ 6" (2.31 m)

⍟ Body type: Lean but muscular in build.

⍟ Facial structure: Similar to that of the Eldar, but with a dusting of gold freckles along the cheekbones, the tip of his nose, and the outer edge of his ears.

⍟ Skin colour: Ivory

⍟ Hair colour: Black with gold streaks

⍟ Eyes, ears, and tail: Same as when he is in his bestial fana.  

⍟ Teeth, hands and feet: Similar to those of the Eldar.

⍟ Whiskers: None

Clothes:

Whether in bestial or non-bestial fana, Tevildo always insists on being well groomed. When in his non-bestial fana, Tevildo prefers fitted black robes of silk, velvet, and leather, with rich gold embroidery. His preference for these colours can be seen even in his armour and weapons, as they are all black with gold accents.

Tevildo loves luxury. This can be seen in the jewelry he wears. Gold rings, hooped earrings, and wrist or arm cuffs are his preferred choices. He also loves to smell good. Cinnamon oil is his favorite.

When in his bestial fana, Tevildo will wear a brilliant gold collar adorned with rubies and emeralds. 

Methods of communication:

Whether in bestial or non-bestial fana, Tevildo can speak all of the elven languages, black speech, and the words of the Edain. He has a tendency of rolling his R's while speaking. His purrs and growls are like loud drum rolls. His roar is deafening.

Personality:

Tevildo can be controlling, disloyal and insecure. He can also be brave, devoted, and charismatic when it suits him. He can be confident to the point of being blatantly arrogant. He has a temper and can be quite vengeful, but if treated well, he will eat right out of your hand.

 He is also sarcastic, cunning, and highly intelligent, and he doesn’t miss a thing. If Tevildo suspects something is amiss, he will play a mental game of cat and mouse until his foe inevitably slips up.

Hobbies:

Hunting, riding, or any activity that will keep him physically fit. Other times, he just likes to lounge around and read.

What is his attitude toward relationships?

Tevildo has little interest in monogamy. He prefers open and polyamorous relationships and has no preferred gender when it comes to partners. If he pursues someone, he will be upfront about it, giving them the choice to take it or leave it. If that person accepts and is loyal, then Tevildo will spoil them rotten and treat them well.

Any kinks?

Tevildo has a high libido and has more than one kink, with praise, consensual non-consent, and somnophilia being the strongest of them. The others are role play, dominance (with him being the dominant), impact play (spanking), orgasm denial, and sensation play (the use of silk, velvet, or incredibly soft animal pelts). He will ask for consent first and will pamper his partner with lots of aftercare once he is finished.

Others:

⍟ He hates clutter and prefers everything to be neat, clean, and orderly.

⍟ Tevildo loves to throw feasts. After learning about birthday parties, he was the first among the Ainur to throw one for himself.

⍟ His castle is tastefully decorated with the finest tapestries, furniture, and carpets. Very little light is allowed, as bright light hurts his eyes. Only the occasional candle can be found alight. Low fires are kept going in hearths all over the castle, as Tevildo likes it warm.

⍟ Speaking of warmth, Tevildo will hug his partner, or in their absence, pillows and quilts, if heat from the fireplace is not enough. If he is holding his partner, he will purr contentedly while resting.

⍟ His favourite food is roast meat, but he will happily eat fish dishes in a heartbeat.

⍟ He loves being pampered. Brushing out his hair and styling it is the ultimate way to make him feel loved. Besides that, Tevildo also likes massages. Lots and lots of massages. He will purr like crazy when the giver is particularly good.  

tags: @cilil @asianbutnotjapanese @fictionfordays​ @edensrose​ 

[snowglobe-system]

I am a wolf.

I am a wolf, and I've been trying my whole life to be a dog.

My mother and father are dogs. My brother is a dog. My friends are dogs.

They are tame. Loving. Obedient. Not like me.

I am wild. Sharp-tongued. Defiant. All of the things that dogs fear.

So I hunch in my shoulders to look smaller, I flatten my ears to make them look floppier, and I wag my tail to look friendlier. I try my best to hide what I really am. Sometimes it even works.

My family knows I'm a wolf. They try to make me into a dog. But as much as I try, my eyes still glean, yellow and feral, and my fangs are still sharp.

Sometimes I manage to fool my friends. They believe I'm a dog, at first, but I can't hide what I am forever.

My friends and family both call me dangerous as they leave bite marks all over my flesh. I try not to bare my teeth in defence. I wouldn't want to act like a wolf.

There are wolf packs outside. I've never seen another wolf before. They are sure-pawed, confident. They do not hunch their shoulders, and their ears stand erect. They are proud. Looking at them only makes me feel ashamed of myself. I'm no dog, but can I claim to be a wolf when I so throughly deny myself?

One of the wolves approaches me. She's beautiful, but not in the way dogs are. No, every single part of her is wolf, and it is precisely that which captivates me.

"Why do you hide yourself?" she asks, "You're so beautiful. Cant you see it?"

I couldn't. But I could see beauty in her, and she was just like me.

My ears prick up, slowly. We are both wolves, I remind myself. I have no need to pretend to be a dog.

When she shows me my reflection, I don't shy away.

I see myself for the first time.

I conclude that she's right. When I look at myself in my natural shape, I can see all of the wild beauty that dogs have tried to stamp out.

"Where do you all go, when you run?" I ask, almost desperately.

She smiles.

"We go anywhere we want to. That's the point!" she throws her head back and laughs.

I could never have contorted my body into a shape dogs would like. But my fellow wolves, they don't require me to contort myself at all. They like me as I am.

She turns and starts running, and the thrumming feeling in my paws becomes a roar. I take off after her.

We run, and we go wherever we want to go, and I am free.

[milatovar]

A Reflection on The Quiet Power of Gentle Change

There was a time when I believed that transformation had to be bold and immediate—like a storm sweeping across the landscape, tearing up everything in its path. I thought progress demanded dramatic gestures and relentless effort, that true change could only emerge from visible struggle. But life has a way of softening rigid perspectives, and I’ve come to see that lasting change often whispers rather than roars.

The wisdom of Hexagram 57, The Gentle (Penetrating), resonates deeply with me now. It teaches that transformation, whether internal or external, is not always achieved through force or dominance but through steady, almost imperceptible influence. Like the wind that carves mountains and bends trees over time, there’s an elegance in gradual, deliberate progress that avoids the destructive force of a tempest.

This philosophy has reshaped how I approach so many aspects of my life. Take habits, for example. I used to expect immediate results from new routines—a sprint toward a goal. But this only led to frustration and burnout. Now I’ve adopted what I think of as a “wind-like” approach. Each small, deliberate action becomes a gentle breeze, gradually reshaping the contours of my life.

In my workouts, I no longer focus on dramatic gains but on showing up daily with quiet consistency. Over time, my strength and endurance have grown naturally. Similarly, I’ve shifted my nutrition to something sustainable, building habits like preparing a large, nutrient-rich salad each day. It’s simple, unremarkable, but profoundly transformative over time.

This way of living isn’t just about physical habits—it extends to relationships, work, and even my internal dialogue. Rather than forcing connections or imposing expectations on others, I’ve started to embrace being present without attachment. I see my family and friends not as obligations but as an ecosystem of connections that thrives best when tended gently. It’s astonishing how much can flourish when you resist the impulse to control.

Nature, too, is full of these quiet lessons. The wind doesn’t demand obedience from the trees, nor does the river insist on carving its course in a day. They persist, unyielding yet unobtrusive, and over time, their influence shapes the world around them. This isn’t just poetic observation; it’s a fundamental truth about how change occurs.

What I find most liberating about this perspective is its patience. The pressure to force change, to sprint toward success, melts away when you realise the power of small, intentional steps. Hexagram 57 reminds me that true power lies in subtleties, in cultivating habits and rhythms that feel natural rather than imposed.

Through this lens, life feels less like a battle and more like a collaboration with time itself. The beauty of this approach is that it doesn’t rely on bursts of energy or fleeting motivation. Instead, it’s about creating a steady, unshakable current—one that quietly carries you forward without resistance.

It’s strange how something so gentle can be so transformative. But perhaps that’s the paradox of all meaningful change: it doesn’t arrive with fanfare. It sneaks up on you, shaped by the quiet habits you’ve nurtured and the winds of your own intention. I’ve come to see that this is how life becomes not just sustainable but profoundly joyful.

Every day, I remind myself to trust the process. To let the wind of my efforts flow steadily, shaping my path with patience and purpose. This is the lesson of The Gentle, and it’s one I’m grateful to embrace.

[thistleanddown]

Before he is anything else, Gabriel de Luna is a wolf. He is human in shape alone, and even that is only true some of the time.

In the day, despite the beaming sun and blue sky, there is always a flicker of the moon in his eyes. If you catch him early enough in the morning, when dawn is fresh and the colors deep, you will find the edges dark, as if still coated in shadow. Canine teeth that are just a little too long. Bared against the sunlight they are white and cold like the furthest stars. The corners of his mouth curve into a smile both gentle and challenging. Great, wide hands with absent claws and calloused fingertips from running in another form.

It will show in the turn of his head. Tracking with his ears first, he is still as the trees, and then slowly his head will follow. Smooth and calculated is the motion. It is rare that he only turns his eyes. It should be no less feared. Whether his head or his eyes alone move, it is still the gaze of a hunter that pins itself to you. Night or day, manshape or beast.

Other times his voice gives him away. Low and lilting. Gabriel’s voice rises from his stomach and spills over those too-sharp teeth like a distant roll of thunder. That voice, which comes from a human-seeming mouth, has sung on countless winds and bayed and barked. It shakes with a roar and a whisper tangled together.

There is wolfskin beneath his flesh. Ever-wild and writhing within his skin and bone and sinew. Not an ounce of tameness lives in him.

Oh, there is gentleness, to be sure. Softness. Kindness and a warmth not unlike that of the sun itself. The great, thrumming heart enthroned in his chest is not cold. Never was, never will be. Gabriel is a man of colossal love and tremendous passion. These things do not a bridled wolf make.

There is no such thing as a biddable storm or a pliant mountain or an obedient flow of lava. Just as there is no such thing as a tame werewolf. Gabriel de Luna is wild. First, last, and eternally.

[dc-said-bi-robin-rights]

TW: Implied mentions of Canonical Past SA, including (wrongful) assumption of CSA and incest!

There weren’t many things Julia Ortega wasn’t prepared to see each time she came home to her apartment, but a cuffed Sidestep laying on her bed was certainly one of them.

Years worth of instinct take over in the space it takes Ortega to blink. The bags drop to the floor, the groceries they’d contained spilling out beneath her feet. Lightning arcs between her fingertips, her generator pulsing to levels beyond its means as her eyes scan the room as quickly as they dare. Ambush, because what else could it be? The fact that Cyrus didn’t call out—the fact that he is here in the first place—is nothing more than an oddity to be followed up on later. They are under attack, her apartment has been targeted again, and if they’ve already overpowered Cyrus…

“It’s safe.” Cyrus’s voice is like engine coolant being poured over her racing heart, snuffing out her battle-focus as quickly as it had descended upon her. The lighting fizzles out, the roar of her generator slowly fading away back into imperceptibility. “You can put the sparkles down.”

Ortega’s shoulders loosen, before her mind steers back towards the bemusing situation and tense up again. Her brow twists into a frown as she looks down at the shape of her lover and longtime friend, splayed out on the bed in front of her, his hands cuffed to the headboard. In certain contexts, such a situation could be taken as alluring, but… well, this was too weird to be some abrupt booty call. Especially considering what he’s said last time, even with the clothes on.

Thank you for showing me this doesn’t have to be horrible.

A shiver runs through her. She still didn’t like thinking about the implication. “Cyrus… what is…?”

“There’s a key on the bedside table. By the lamp,” Cyrus says, so quietly and tonelessly Ortega instantly knew there was something wrong. Still, she knows a no-nonsense command when she hears one, so she obediently moves to the bedside table and picks up the key. When she moves to unlock Cyrus’ left wrist, though, all he does is shake his head. “Not so fast.”

Ortega draws back, frowning deeper. “Oh?”

“I need you to listen to me, Julia.” Julia. So it’s serious, then. “I’m giving you a choice here.”

Ortega stays silent, wordlessly urging him to go on. She knew better than to interrupt when he got like this.

“Right now, I’m not wearing anything under the blanket.” An exciting thought, if she’d heard it in any other time, but not now, for reasons she couldn’t describe. “Your first option is to unlock the cuffs, leave the room, and wait outside for me to get dressed. After that, we’ll pretend this never happened. Or…”

Ortega’s raised an eyebrow. She didn’t like the sound of this. “Or…?”

Cyrus takes a deep, shuddering breath, his unaffected mask for once cracking. “Or you can pull back the blanket and see for yourself what’s underneath.”

What? Ortega looks aghast. “Cyrus…”

“Don’t interrupt me,” he snaps, taking a steadying breath and continuing before she can do it again. “Every answer you’ve ever wanted from me is written on my skin. Every one. You could peel the blanket back, read what they say, and never have to wonder anything about me again. Okay? I want you to understand that.”

Ortega doubted that somehow. For one thing, she didn’t think there was enough marker space on Cyrus’ short, skinny frame to write down the answer to one of her questions, never mind all of them. And maybe that was a horrible thought, but she was a pretty horrible person all things considered, so it probably balanced out. And horrible she may be… but not horrible enough to consider this, not for one second.

Unless…

Ortega stares down own at Cyrus, licking her lips nervously. She had to pick her words with care, not putting pressure one way or another, because Cyrus had complained often enough about her pressuring him after he came back even in the best of times, and she refused to do that now, not when he looked so… fragile. “Are you… asking me to pull the blanket back?”

If there was even an inkling of hope in her voice, Ortega made sure to crush it. And then, to zap the puddling remains, just for good measure.

There’s a pause. Cyrus meets her gaze steadily. “No.”

Ortega swallows. Her voice is even more careful with the next question. “Do you want me to pull the blanket back?”

A shudder. Slight, but it’s there. “No.”

“Then I won’t,” Ortega says simply, viciously purging any and all hints of disappointment from her voice. She could get her answers another time, preferably when Cyrus willingly offered them to her. There was no hurry. He wasn’t going anywhere, after all—it’s not like he was going to die a second time. The universe wasn’t that cruel.

Right?

Cyrus takes another shuddering breath and says nothing, his eyes not leaving Ortega’s. Ortega feels awkward, naked under his intense gaze. Is he waiting for her to change her mind? To peel back the blanket, no matter what he wants?

Ortega wouldn’t do that. Ortega would die before doing that. He should know that. He used to.

Was it he who changed… or her? The thought is sobering. Maybe she should back off Cyrus for a little while. Give him some space. Just a little bit. Just enough for him not to ever think she valued her answers more than she valued him again.

She doesn’t do that, because she’s Julia Ortega. Instead, she walks back over to Cyrus—he stiffens—before slowly unlocking the handcuffs, making sure not to disturb the blanket enough to catch even a hint of bare wrist. It was more than a little silly, maybe, but… well, it was Cyrus. Cyrus deserved a little heartfelt silliness every now and then. That had been true from the beginning.

“Idiot,” he mutters fondly as she unlocks his last hand, rubbing it beneath the blanket.

“Only for you,” she grins, which is true also, even if he doesn’t know it.

He’s still looking at her, so Ortega backs away again, walking over to the light switch. “Can I?”

“Free country,” he shrugs, though she can tell she’s touched. “And it’s your apartment.”

The lights flick off a moment later, bathing the room in darkness. Ortega’s clothes drops to the floor one after another, leaving her in just her underwear as she crawls into bed with Cyrus and slowly wraps her arms around him, feeling him wordlessly nestle into her in turn. Despite what he’d claimed, his skin isn’t bare at all. She can feel the soft texture of some kind of thin, full-body fabric under her fingers. Which means he’d lied.

“This is nice,” she says, deciding not to bring it up:

“Mmmh.” He doesn’t acknowledge it either.

“Why the handcuffs?” She tries to make it sound like a joke. “Not that I’m complaining, but it seems like a bit of a jump.”

She chuckles when Cyrus drives his elbow into her stomach. “Ow.

“It wasn’t about that, old woman,” Cyrus mutters, rolling around and closing his eyes, his back to her. His voice is flat, unconcernedly drowsy… but it sounds fake, like he’s deliberately trying to make it sound that way.

“What was it about, then?” she asks, unable to stop herself. She feels like she’s being tested… and like she’s failing, somehow. Or passing. It’s hard to tell.

“You deserve to know,” he mutters. Somehow, she doesn’t think he’s telling the truth. “Even if I can’t tell you.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning it was about giving you the option.” A try at a laugh. “You know, so you’d shut up about me never sharing anything.”

“You’re lying.” She’s careful not to frame it like the accusation it is. “That doesn’t explain the handcuffs.”

Nor the whole… theatricality of writing information down on your skin, but she’s not about to voice that out loud.

“I’m used to being restrained.”

Ortega… wants to dig into that. She does. But she also recognizes it as the deflection it is. It’s a familiar Sidestepism, turning away a line of inquiry by offering another one until she got tired or backed off out of shame.

Dodging, in other words. It’s what he did best. In more ways than one.

“That doesn’t answer my question.”

“Maybe you should stop asking then.”

“I don’t want to argue with you, Cyrus.” She reaches for his hand.

It’s yanked away. “Then don’t.”

“That’s not fair. This feels like…” she trails off, ice cold water settling into her stomach. No. No way. Not with her. Right?

Cyrus chuckles bitterly. “A test? And what if it was?”

“Cariño,” she pleads, resisting the urge to reach out again, to turn him around, to make him look into her eyes as she promised him he would never… how could he even think…? The pet name is new, pulled out of her by sheer shock. “Mi amor. Mi cielo.”

“It wasn’t personal,” he mutters quietly. “I just… needed to know.”

“I…” Thank you for showing me this doesn’t have to be horrible. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, Cyrus. If I ever made you feel like…”

“You didn’t,” he interrupts, more forcefully this time. “This wasn’t because of anything you did. I just needed to make sure.”

Needed to make sure if she’d ignore his no. If she’d pull the blanket back. If she’d… if she’d go further.

Ortega’s mouth is dry. “Cyrus… I…”

“Don’t.” She still can’t see his face. “Don’t make a thing of it. It’s done. I know what I needed to know.”

“And what was that?” Ortega asks, even though she already knows.

“That if I was ever helpless around you, you wouldn’t…” he trails off with a frustrated sigh. “You know. Take advantage of it.”

Take advantage of it.

Thank you for showing me this doesn’t have to be horrible.

Someone had betrayed him, the first time. Someone close enough for it to scar him. A lover. Or a friend. Or maybe even a…

Ortega stops, vile crawling up her throat.

Hollow Ground.

Of course.

How could she not have seen it earlier? Who else could it have been if not him?

She tightens her grasp of Cyrus, feeling her thoughts run a mile a minute. It made so much sense. Why he’d been so hesitant to share his past with her in the early days. Why even the mention of it made him shiver. And, horribly, why his criminal older brother would pluck him from an ambulance after Heartbreak. He’d wanted his toy back.

And Ortega had just let him take it. Take him. Take Cyrus. She…

Cyrus’ drowsy murmur snapped her out of her train of thought. “You okay?”

I should be asking you that question, Ortega thinks but doesn’t say. “Never better,” she says instead, plastering a smile onto her face for fear Cyrus will hear the agitation in her tone if she doesn’t. It was was always easier to be convincing with a smile on her face, even if the other person couldn’t see it. “Just worried about you.”

“I’m fine.”

“Good.” She clutched him even tighter. “That’s good.”

Hundreds of innocents, Hood… and now Sidestep.

Hollow Ground was going down.