#or how the ancient one becomes one with the world when he dies

[nomsfaultau]

The Blood God and His Fledgling

An AU wherein Techno is a depressed ancient vampire and thinks Tommy is the reincarnation of Theseus. The first one is here. 

Part 2-The Bus Stop

The Blood God hadn’t left his room in centuries. The wolves were in a frenzy, instincts registering a predator-master-god in a way they couldn’t comprehend. The raucous noise approached a howl and- no, that wouldn’t do at all. That would register as danger to the mind of a prey animal like the human boy. But his complete mastery over his thralls made it a non issue. Dozens of blood-red eyes lit up in the darkened husk of his home, and silently the wolves streamed out into the overgrown wilderness of the manor grounds.

Only one monster remained. The Blood God hesitated at the threshold, suddenly forced to reckon with the beast he’d become. Would Theseus be horrified to see him? He truly didn’t know if this boy, this splitting image of his friend, actually was some sort of reincarnation, or revival, or miracle. And if he flinched, The Blood God might never learn. With a snarl of frustration, he realized his eagerness might just drive his once chance of happiness away.

He didn’t know how to be human anymore. It hadn’t mattered, before. It was easier to abandon the false mask, to sink into the beastial nature of his shapeshifting. 

The Blood God clenched his hand, forcing the stubborn claws to recede onto something tame. Next the tusks, fangs shrinking in his boarish snout. With no reflection to guide him, he clasped his face, touch his only guide as he tried to mold himself into the dull blur of mortal features. It was a face none on earth could remember, including The Blood God himself.

It was the face Theseus had loved. The Blood God had concerned himself so much with still being human, then. Ever so scared of being the monster. And Theseus was the only one who hadn’t cared, who saw him as a man.

He couldn’t remember why it seemed so important, now.  

The gnarled bloody bat wings sprawled uselessly, a permanent stain no matter how he tried to rip them from his form. At best he could fold them and sternly coerce the leathery patagium to mimic the drapings of a cloak, his bone white scruff merging into the guise of a mantel. It would have to suffice to conceal the inhuman nature of the rest of him, patience wearing thin. Perhaps it would be enough. Please let it be enough. Please let his friend remember him. The Blood God threw open the door-

-and realized it was midday. 

His snarl echoed like thunder, rumbling in the clouds overhead. They darkened with his frustration, nimbus whipped into a spiral of vicious winds slowly spilling out on the earth below. Theseus’ head jerked up at the first crack of thunder, vamperic hearing barely catching his distant groan. As the heavens split into a torrential downpour, he retreated under the awning of the bench, knees folded to his chest so his boots wouldn’t get soaked. 

The world surrounding was foreign, rivers of black and gleaming horseless carriages and blossoming sky shields protecting mortals from the downpours. He floundered momentarily in the dauntingly unrecognizable civilization. It mattered little before, aloft and indifferent as he watched humanity from above. But once suddenly necessary to navigate, he was far less certain. 

He latched immediately on the one island of familiarity in the sea of incomprehensible human machinations. In a blink, The Blood God stood at Theseus’ side. The awning was made of a strange not-fabric that deterred water, but was threadbare and pockmarked. And with the wild gusts of wind picking up with his heady excitement, the mortal was utterly drenched, lip and body curled in protest against his condition. 

It was Theseus. It's all he could think, so close. The Blood God soaked in his image, as perfect as the day he died. Theseus down to the way his cobalt eyes crinkled when he scowled, the slight deflection of his dark thick eyebrows betraying the vehemence he was trying to project with an undercurrent of shameful crestfallen truth. The soft duo nicks of scars across a square jaw, every part of him right down to the stray freckles on his skin. 

The hero breathed once more. 

Theseus didn’t notice him, obliviously sullen, until a crack of lightning had his gaze flicker to the heavens. On a double take his eyes widened upon The Blood God, scrambling back with a yelp of ‘BWAH!’

The Blood God flinched. 

“JESUS MAN DON'T SNEAK UP ON A BLOKE LIKE THAT!” he squawked incomprehensibly. Theseus let out a breath, scooping up drenched hair from where it’d flattened into his eyes to look at him. Not fear. No not fear, and the tension freezing the vampire eased in a slump. Only startled, and…annoyed. He didn’t recognize The Blood God even slightly, the fact immediately blatant and agonizing. Another glance to size him up, and Theseus pointedly pinned his eyes on a nearby post to avoid the awkwardness of staring at a stranger. 

It wasn’t fair to the child before him, the swelling betrayal choking him. Abandoned for a second time then, and he knew it wasn’t Theseus’ fault, could never have been, but it didn’t ease the fact his friend left him alone for thousands of years when he died. But Theseus was a hero. And heroes were destined for tragedy. And so the wound in his chest speared entirely through to lodge in The Blood God’s, too, and unlike the human he was not offered the relief of death from a mortal blow. 

A reincarnation, then. But why now? Had- had his friend being reincarnating over and over for the sake of reuniting, and he’d been sunk too deep in his grief to even notice? Or had he gone more than blood-mad? The splitting image of Theseus perhaps, but that meant nothing if the similarities were only skin deep. Yet attempting to reign in his long doused hope might have been pointless, soul soothed merely by soaking in the image before him. 

Theseus’ gaze flickered to him through periphery, but each time their gaze locked together it jolted away as if caught red-handed. He hunched into himself defensively, though that might’ve been to ward off the chill of the weather. The Blood God used to summon storms to tease him, the image of the hero laughing while drenched plastered into his mind. But now Theseus only looked miserable, like a little sopping wet raccoon. 

The Blood God’s wing stretched out to shelter him from the rain before he remembered it was meant to be a cloak. Belatedly he reached as if his hand held it in place. Theseus blinked, then looked up at him. It took a second to cough up a grateful grin in the midst of his stormy mood. “Oh, uh- thanks. You also forget an umbrella?” Theseus offered awkwardly. The Blood God froze, suddenly sharply aware he’d lost track of human tongue. Perhaps he could rely on a jumble of conversations he’d heard from passing conversations below? But- oh, Theseus was giving him an odd look for the hesitation. Too accustomed to introspection, The Blood God feared the breakneck pace of mortal lifespan was foreign to him now. “Talkative, arntcha slenderman? What’s your insta? …twitter?” The Blood God…couldn’t understand him. Theseus squinted at him. “Huh, coulda sworn by the silver mop,” he gestured vaguely at the wild tangle of The Blood God’s hair, “and everything you were a cosplayer? For some rizzless edgelord anime? Eh- no offense, since the cloak was definitely a W ‘cause of storm. Has to be drip given we’re both drenched!” Uncertain what was even being said, he cautiously shook his head. Certainly as chatty as Theseus, immediately brightening once he had someone to talk to. Perhaps that was just being sheltered from the rain, however. At least he seemed to catch The Blood God’s lost expression. “Boomer, then. What’s your name?” 

That at least was intelligible. “τέχνα.” He hadn’t used the name in millennium. That name -that man- had died with Theseus. But perhaps it could be reborn alongside him.  

“Techno? That’s a funny name.” It rolled strangely on his tongue, made unfamiliar in a way that hurt. To no avail, The Blood God tried to correct him. But maybe it couldn’t sound the same, no warm love shaping every syllable. He swallowed the distance bitterly. “Techno! Sick. That a nickname, is it?” 

“...’Tis not Nicholas, nay.” The Blood God was quite pleased with having deduced what a nickname was, and even more so with hearing Theseus laugh. 

“You must be a riot at parties.” Violence? Upon who? Whoever it was would be slaughtered if Theseus willed it. “Halloween ones, prolly. I’m Tommy.”

The Blood God jolted. “Are you certain?”

His nose crinkled up in bafflement the same way as Theseus. “Uh. Well, Thomas if I’m in trouble, but that’s just for my mum innit?” In these unenlightened days, he supposed children might not be named Theseus anymore. Tommy. He rolled the name around in his mouth, and then discarded it. 

“Was it fate that drew you here?” Why now? Why not centuries sooner? 

Theseus scowled. “Waiting for my friend to show up.”

“So am I.”

Brightening at their commissary, Theseus butted his arm with an elbow. “We can wait together then.” Yes. They had to. Eternity, if this really was Theseus. But reminded by his misfortune, Theseus darkened slightly. He swiped his nose angrily to get rid of the water dripping down it. “Mine was meant to show ages ago. Rotten useless ditcher. AND my phone died hours ago, so I dunno if he texted me about it before ghosting.” He gestured with a piece of black glass clutched protectively in his hands. “Maybe he cancelled or something, dunno. Might’ve checked the weather forecast, unlike me.” 

He understood at least one word in the plaintive cry! “The weather is a capricious god, tied to its whims and falling carelessly to dash mortal plans,” The Blood God lied awkwardly to cover up part of the Theseus’ misery was his own fault. He was pleased to discover he laughed the same as Theseus, too. He found he wanted to replay the sound over, and over. 

The chuckle trickled into a sigh. “I’ve been skipping buses out of- well, spite by now. But the last one dipped right before the storm.” What was a bus?? “Guess I’m stuck out here,” he grumbled glumly. 

Opportunities multiply as they were seized. “I offer my home as an aegis from the storm.” Theseus blinked, then seemed to catch what he meant. Hah, so the language barrier went both ways! 

“You’re not gonna kidnap me, are you?” Theseus joked. Like many words he wielded, The Blood God made little sense of ‘kidnapping’, but laughed along anyway. It seemed to ease the slight tension to his shoulders. “It’s prolly too far lol.” Another slight widening of his eyes as The Blood God gestured to the manor, and then a double take at the structure nestled between tall modern buildings. “Why am I surprised you own a castle? But really, I can handle a little rain, no skin off my nose…” it became an utter downpour at once, Theseus squeezing his eyes shut as the gales slammed into him. Making a disgruntled expression, he rose, water pooling at his feet. “...or not! Lead on then, Hannibal. You can’t be worse than drowning.” 

Next>

[wanderingmind867]

I think Doctor Strange is really interesting. He's a character with very philosophical underpinnings. The story of an arrogant man who lost it all and learned to see beyond the rampant greed and materialism he used to display. He has seen things that make money and fame meaningless to him. It seems like the world of mysticism is great for getting into mildly philosophical topics, because the two seem perfectly intertwined. The meditative, quiet life of a monk lends itself well to stories with philosophical underpinnings. I'm glad the stories don't get too philosophical, though. I don't need an existential crisis from a comic.

[helloilikepurple]

DC X DP - DeAged

The Nasty Burger explosion took a lot from Danny.

Stopping Dan meant nothing when Danny lost everything. His friends, his parents, his sister, his teacher - all gone. Danny, desperate to not become Dan, fled. He would not let Vlad destroy the only thing he had left; himself. He didn't turn human again if he could avoid it. Let Danny Fenton die with his family.

He did what he could, trying to keep it all together. Avoid Vlad. Catch havoc-wreaking ghosts. Try to not have a panic attack every time he saw his reflection. FentonWorks became out-of-bounds. No one was sure how to turn off the portal or any of the house's defence mechanisms so it was taped up instead.

Danny kept the GIW away. They wanted his parents' research, even if they had to bend the law to get it. Danny would not let them have it. Never.

But the GIW was persistent and Danny weak from nearly two months of being Phantom and nothing else. He was so tired. Tired from grieving, from fighting, from wandering around, completely lost and alone.

The GIW got a lucky shot in. Danny went down. He woke up, still ghost, somewhere white. He'd trained himself not to have to turn back. He was grateful he did.

The GIW studied him. Danny did not have the energy to fight back. The will to survive. Curled up in his cell, bloody and becoming less human with every passing day, Clockwork finally intervened.

He could not let the future High King wither away into nothing.

With Nocturn's help, he whisked him away. His world was dying anyway. With no one to maintain the portal, it would soon overload and explode. The radiation would kill all life on Earth, leaving nothing behind, and taking with it the potential for new life. One world among infinite realities meant nothing. But Danny, as High King, is a singularity. A unique existence, only found in one reality. Clockwork, for the sake of everything that lives and dies, could not let Danny fade away.

Danny slept at the Far Frozen, dreaming of his family, his friends, and the stars he would one day rule over. He healed, wounds knitting together into scars and fractured core slowly, ever so slowly, repairing itself. A future Ancient, bound to protect all that is and will be, was bound to be very badly hurt from such a loss.

Clockwork only wished he could have done more, but to remove Danny too early would have spelt disaster worse than the deaths of billions. This boy would someday be someone he'd proudly call his grandson. Seeing that future alone was enough to make his own core ache for the young one.

The Infinite Realms wept for its child, still but a babe yet having suffered so much. It embraced its future King, blessing him with its loyalty and adoration. The ghosts of the realms, spread far and wide over distant realities, timelines and worlds, felt the loss too.

Danny healed, unaware of how loved and precious he was to so many - how far he was from alone. The dead's sudden quiet unsettled many. Enemies froze in the silent mourning, animosity forgotten. Raging wars came to abrupt ends. So many, unable to bear the ever-reaching, unidentifiable pain in the air killed themselves. Good, kind people cried alone.

Magic users, like Constantine and Zatanna, hid, waiting out the Infinite Realm's despair for its child. No one spoke of it, for fear of disrespecting the dimension between dimensions. But they hid, and they waited, and they couldn't help but worry for themselves and everything and everyone else.

Danny got a lot of visitors. Ancients, regular ghosts, crowded around his bed, gifting him blessings and support. Danny slept, he healed, and his world died, taking with it all he'd known. He wouldn't remember or know of any of this when he woke  - even the memories of his pleasant dreams will have left him. He'll awaken and think himself entirely alone.

But he'll know, someday.

Clockwork will make sure of it.

---

Danny doesn't know where he is or who he is.

He has a vague idea. His name. His life and his death. But so much is so distant, like impressions on sand, washed away by the ocean. He knows he should be bigger. He knows this isn't home. He knows there is no home anymore.

He knows there are people he misses, but he doesn't know who they are or where they've gone. He knows so little yet so much. White walls and orange hair, green (toxic, writhing green) and hazmat suits, white and black and orange and blue. Expensive, Packers-branded cologne, burning flesh, the scream of an alarm and laughter and fear and hope and love and pain and loss. Disjointed flashes, snippets of another life.

And this isn't familiar - this city and these people. These crowded, filthy streets aren't home, but there's no home anymore so of course they aren't. And maybe Danny should be afraid. He doesn't know where he is, or how he got here. There are people, so tall, walking around him not sparing him a glance. It's loud and smelly and so much to process all at once.

But Danny doesn't care because he's so tired, and he wants nothing more than to curl up in bed and sleep the day away. But he doesn't have a home, so obviously he doesn't have a bed either. He looks around for somewhere else to sleep, rubbing at his chest subconsciously as he does.

There, a building, on the other side of the road. The windows are tinted, but the doors open and Danny, through the crowds and passing traffic, catches a glimpse of what has to be a couch. Maybe the people that own the building will let him sleep on their couch for a little bit.

So he crosses the street, sticking close to the legs of some lady with skinny heels that go tap-tap-tap so the cars don't go because they can't see him. The lady turns to go a different way after but it's okay because Danny is in front of the building now.

He pushes the door open and slips inside. It's quieter inside, and warmer. Danny wasn't cold outside but in here there's a nice heat that makes him feel even sleepier. He looks around at the fancy chairs and potted plants and lights, and is happy to see there are couches. Long couches, with lots of pillows and space for him to spread out.

He walks up to the desk. He's too short to see over it, and it makes him kind of angry because he's sure he's supposed to be taller. But he figures maybe he remembers wrong because people don't just shrink. Except, he's a halfa so maybe ghosts do?

"Hello?"

There's a lady here too, behind the desk, but unlike the one he followed across the street she has short, curly hair. Danny wonders if she's wearing skinny heels too. Leaning his head back, he can see her look up, glance around, and then look back down.

Danny pouts. Did she not see him?

"Hello?"

He waves an arm this time, reaching as high as he can to catch her attention. She finally sees him, eyes widening in surprise. "Oh, sorry! Hello." She has a nice voice.

"Your voice is pretty."

She smiles, and Danny decides her smile is nice too. "Why thank you. You have a pretty voice too. Is there something I can help you with?"

"Can I please sleep on your couch? Just for a little bit."

"Of course you can. Would you like a blanket? I could fetch one for you from the staff room."

Danny shakes his head. "I'm okay. Thank you."

"Alright. But if you change your mind, do tell me."

"You're very nice."

"Thank you, but it's really no problem. Not much to do today anyway."

"You should sleep too then. Sleep is good."

She giggles. "That is a very good idea. I just might take your advice." Danny nods. He has lots of good ideas. "Okay. I'm gonna' go nap now. Bye-bye."

"Sleep well."

There are a few couches, and for a bit Danny's not sure which one to sleep on. He chooses the one with the most pillows. It's very comfy, and the pillows are nice too. He puts one under his head and hugs another, curling up around it. He falls asleep in seconds.

-

When a toddler with black and blue eyes asked to sleep on one of the couches on in the reception hall of Wayne enterprises, May had assumed he was one of Bruce's boys. He certainly fit the type Gotham's favourite playboy liked to adopt, and it wasn't unusual for his wards to show up out of the blue.

Once she found Tim Drake passed out on the floor under her desk. Apparently, he'd been hiding from Dick who was visiting from Blüdhaven and forgot to bring his coffee with him, consequently falling asleep while he waited for her to arrive so he could ask her to go pick some up for him. That had been an interesting Thursday morning. 

On another memorable occasion, Cass, Bruce's only official daughter, and her girlfriend Steph had shown up, said hi, went upstairs, then came back down after about an hour, giggling as they ran out with a wave goodbye. Not even ten minutes later, Bruce himself stumbled out of the elevator, absolutely covered in purple glitter. May remembers raising an eyebrow and asking if Bruce wanted her to have another suit brought in.

He'd ended up collapsing on one of the couches with an exhausted sigh, and said he'd have Alfred pick him up instead. He left a sparkly trail behind him when he walked, and the couch he sat on had to be replaced because, even after numerous cleaning attempts, no one could get the glitter out. He had glitter in his hair for months afterwards.

So, May hadn't bat an eye when the little boy came in. Well aware Bruce had several meetings scheduled that day, she sent him an email saying one of his kids was taking a nap in the reception hall and resolved to look out for the boy herself. Throughout the day, she made sure to check on him often, making sure no one picked him up ran (this was Gotham after all).

He slept soundly for most of her work day, barely shifting. She ended up putting a blanket on him herself during her lunch break and leaving him a water bottle and little snack for when he woke up. She also made sure security kept an eye on him whenever she left for whatever reason.

It was well into the afternoon when Bruce finally replied to her email and asked if his kid was still sleeping downstairs. She said yes, and not long after he arrived on the ground level. He walked up to her desk and asked if his kid had caused her any trouble. She smiled and assured him no.

Then Bruce asked where Tim was.

"Sorry? Tim isn't here today."

Bruce frowned, looking just as confused as she felt. "My apologies. You said one of my wards was asleep here. I assumed it was Tim."

"Oh! No, no, it's not Tim. Well, I don't actually know his name but the little guy has been here since this morning." She gestured to the toddler in question.

Bruce turned around, saw him, and frowned. "He's not one of mine."

"He's not?"

"No. Are you sure he's not an employee's child?" He kept his eyes on the boy, eyes narrowed in thought.

"Yes, I am. Only three employees brought in their children today, and all of them are ten or above. He can't be older than five." She frowned now too, turning to her computer to double check. "I'll send out a company-wide email to be sure. I should have done this sooner. I'm sorry, I was just so sure he was under your care."

"It's alright, May. I'm not upset. I'm just worried about him. When about in the morning did he get here?"

She glanced up, but Bruce was still looking at the sleeping boy. "A little after nine."

"And he's been sleeping all that time?"

"Yes, as far as I'm aware."

"Alright. Thank you for looking after him. I'll take it from here."

"Of course, sir. I'll reach out to you if anyone identifies him."

He nodded appreciatively and walked over to the boy. She watched, frustrated with herself. She's worked as one of Wayne Enterprise's receptionists for over four years. She should have known better than to just assume some random, black haired blue eyed child was Bruce's kid. She should have at least reached out to make sure that was the case.

She sighed as Bruce knelt down by the couch and gently shook the little boy awake, resting her head in the palm of her hand. This poor child. His poor parents. They must be worried sick.

She has to make this right.

---

[long-live-astronerd-ghost-king]

DPXDC Prompt. Dead on main with priest Jason: Father Todd brings the Ghost King’s cult into the World of the Living.

So, when Jason dies and returns, the League of Assassins fails to hold him for long because spirits from Far Frozen pick him up after seeing teen through the Lazarus pit.

Jason quickly realizes that, well, they’re kinda obsessed with their cult of the Great One. And yeah the cult of the ruling Ghost King was very popular during the reign of the Pariah Dark but back then the rituals were carried out more out of fear. Now things are different. The population of the Ghost Zone has become interested in the activities of Frostbite and his loyal spirits because of an attempt to understand what kind of ghost the new ruler is and how best to thank and appease him. So Jason had no shortage of stories about the teenager's deeds.

~~~~

Jason to Frostbite: Well, you guys and your lil hobby are nice but I don't understand at all what's so cool about this guy, even if he defeated Pariah Dark and gets along with most of the Ancients…

Danny: *comes to visit Frostbite*, *slips and falls three times, sets the kitchen on fire in an attempt to make coffee then sheepishly smiles at Jason*.

Jason to Frostbite: ... Okay, Understandable, I Hope Danny Has a Nice Day and Some Sleep.

Tucker: Congratulations, you've acquired another Paulina. Great job. Danny: I'd rather he just asked me out instead of worshipping me. What the hell? I'm just a semi-ghost.

Tucker: Maybe things would be easier if you just gave him your phone number, you know? Danny: But he didn't ask. Tucker: Why didn't you ask? Danny: I couldn't! He's Robin himself, you know? Tucker: Well, good luck to you idiots to grow old alone near the altars of each other's name. Danny: Actually lil altar in his honor is not such a bad idea. Maybe this way he'll understand that I like him too.. Tucker: Danny, no!

~~~~

New in Gotham robbers break into Jason's place: Hey, father, God ordered you to share with your neighbors, so bring us some money or we.. Jason, who is talking on the phone with Danny: In fact, he just said that if you don't get out of here now, he will turn a blind eye to the fact that I will use my guns.

Danny*screams internally*: Oh Ancients, he's sooo cool!

Pandora: Honey, we're happy for you but stop flooding us with spam. You have already told 5 times during prayer how good his abs and chest look and how perfect Todd is when he reads aloud. We get it, okay? Clockwork: Well, I actually enjoy it. It's so much more interesting to watch while listening to the internal dialogue. Show must go on~ Danny: ...Get out of my mind! Nocturn: Thou shalt not take the name of the Lords in vain if you don't want to share with us, lil blob. So rude.

~~~Team Song: You Are My Religion · Firehouse~~~~

[muzansfangs]

Mojito + Douma & Kokushibo

Devotion.

Starring: Douma x f!reader; Kokushibo x f!reader; Douma x f!reader x Kokushibo; mention to Gyokko and Muzan;

Format: one-shot;

Warnings: nsfw, threesome, public sex, dom!Kokushibo, dom!Douma, sub!reader, vaginal sex, vaginal fingering, anal penetration, double penetration, bitemarks, hair pulling, reader is a demon, manhandling, blood drinking, violence in battle, consuming humans, dispicable use of blood as a cosmetic, kind of sacrilegious scenary (sex in the shrine area);

Plot: As one of Douma’s most loyal followers, you had some privileges. One of those was being turned into a demon and trained to climb the ranks of the Upper Moons. When Gyokko died, Muzan chose you to take his place. In the middle of a training session with the leader of the Eternal Paradise Cult and the Upper Moon One, you accidentally hit them with your blood demon technique: aphrodisiac blood. Pinned down by your comrades, you were demanded to show them your devotion.

Drink chosen: MOJITO (double!penetration, threesome, anal sex, vaginal sex, marking the partner);

MASTERLIST FOR THE EVENT | RULES FOR THE EVENT

﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏

The Moon glowed solitary in a starless dark sky. Under the pale light provided by the satellite, you were sitting on the cold stairs of an ancient shrine, forgotten by the neglectful humans who had built it centuries ago to probably appease the divine wrath of their god. Ivy and dirt blanketed the abandoned building, now deemed a pit of demons and curses by the local folklore. Pitiful. It was nothing but pitiful. You grimaced at the thought of the typical human inconsistency and stupidity.

Still, not long ago, you were a human too. Some memories from your past life still flashed in your mind. Who were you before you turned into a blood-thirsted creature? You were a devoted young girl, living in a Temple in which people disappeared mysteriously from their beds in the dead of the night. It was a ritual, or this is what the Leader of the Cult wanted his followers to believe. Those humans were doomed. Their naivety and faith were their downfall. However, while he deliberately manipulated the whining mass of people seeking protection and blessings from him, he had never tried to hide his identity, his nature, to you. Loyal to him, you had always stood by his side, not manifesting horrified expressions, when he devoured people in front of you. Your fingers were usually threading through his silky platinum blond hair, whilst he fed. Humming sweet melodies for him, helping him to bathe, you had gradually become his life companion, or something close to it. Along with the favors and attentions he required, he did not abstain from asking you to indulge into the bed with him.

Satisfying your Lord, though, did not feel unpleasant. There was something enthralling about the way he broke you down and built you up.

To show you his gratitude, Douma had therefore turned you into a demon to preserve your beauty. It was amusing how you had inheridated some of his characteristic. Your nails, pointy and lilac, were among them. Your devotion intensified. By the time you had trained enough to be capable of not shaking in front of Muzan Kibutsuji, Douma had suggested him to make you one of the Twelve Kitsuki. You felt on top of the world, the glory of finally standing at the top ensnared your senses and you gladly complied to the King of demons’s order to show your loyalty to him.

Standing up now, you detected the subtle attack coming from your left. Dodging it was easy, the golden tessen aiming at your neck cut a mere strand of your hair. You smirked, kneeling a few feet away from your opponent. Pearly fangs shining under the moonlight, Douma waved his hand at you casually.

“Ah, you’ve become so agile, Y/N-chan!” Douma stated, as you casually approached him with a soft smile on your red-painted lips. He, only he or another demon could say what it was smeared over your mouth.

His hand gripping your hair and straining your neck made you wince. His tongue darted out of his mouth, lapping at the dried blood you used to decorate your lips. Your clawed hand gripped his cheek, nails digging onto the smooth flesh enough to pierce his flesh and draw blood. You had become so much rougher with each other since you had become the new Upper Rank Five. Your animalistic and savage nature had kicked in, surprising your carefree friend to some extents.

“And you are perpetually needy” you whispered, lips hovering over his, before you ungraciously shoved him off of you and caused him to tumble onto the ground.

Douma was fascinated, watching as you rested your bare foot on top of his broad chest and bit down onto your wrist. Oh, how much he loved feeding from you. The sight of your crimson blood dribbling down your skin and splattering onto his face made his cock throb into his pants. The need to be inside of you was unbearable. The Upper Moon Two diligently opened his mouth, tongue welcoming the drops of blood you were so generously letting drip from your wound. Once again, you were subservient, indulgent.

His hand slided up your naked calf, squeezing it suggestively, rainbow-colored eyes locking with yours as you sighed and decided to cruelly deprive him of your proximity, of your intoxicating blood.

Douma groaned, pushing himself up on his elbows as your skin regenerated quickly “Ah, come on, what did I say to piss you off now?” he asked you, but he did not receive an answer from you, because the air around the shrine suddenly became asphyxiating. Your eyes grew round, your knees almost buckling under the pressure, upon ascertaining the Upper Moon One had joined you two. You were expecting him to come; whenever Muzan gave orders, he was the only one who never failed his expectations.

Bowing your head respectfully at the highest rank of what remained of the Twelve Kizuki, you greeted him “Kokushibo-dono, it’s a joy to welcome you here. We were just waiting for you to begin” you cooed, breaking the eeare silence enveloping the area.

You knew nothing about him, beside his sense of honor and an incommensurable admiration for the progenitor of your specimen. A rational, taciturn man who hardly ever barged into the unimportant squabbles taking place among those below him. What mattered to that man was the impertubable balance of powers.

An high-pitched gasp from behind you, caught your attention and, in a blink of an eye, Douma was standing right next to you “Ah, Kokushibo-dono, it’s been so long! You have declined all of my invitations to visit my residence… It’s a shame, really! Recently, I’ve taken in a couple of lovely girls. I looked forward to share them with you” the Upper Moon Two ranted, that fake overjoyed smile curving the angles of his lips upwards, while he sneakily swung his arm around your waist, yanking you against his side.

You sighed, a pout on your lips, before you searched for Kokushibo’s gaze to begin your training session. While you were more than capable of taking down a Pillar on your own, you still had some troubles in controlling your blood demon technique and, with the incoming war, Muzan wanted you to be extremely proficient, impeccable. Letting you train along the two strongest demons alive was the best way to improve your skills.

The former Demon Slayer sized you up, hand resting onto the hilt of his katana out of habit “Y/N. — he greeted you, his six bloodshot eyes then darting on the tall man at your left — Hard times require total concentration. There is absolutely no time to slack off and indulge into sordid, deplorable activities. Get in position” he sternly said, causing the younger demon to sneer and plant a kiss on your cheek before distancing himself from you leisurely.

You had no idea of the specific schedule he had chosen for you, yet the moment your nose was pierced by the fragrance of human blood, and your ears heard heavy footsteps rapidly consuming the road leading from the woods to the shrine, you put the pieces together. You looked at Kokushibo, not surprised by his lack of an explanation. Slayers. Those humans running straight to their death were Slayers the Upper Moon One had purposefully conducted to you.

“Oh, is that food? Please, tell me pretty girls in black uniforms are coming for us…” Douma chimed, his smile broadening as he tried to take a step towards the dark forest.

Kokushibo’s gesture of the hand, though, was enough to stop him from doing anything more than watching the scene unfold before his dreamy eyes.

Being the center of the attention had never been more difficult than now. Your eyes scrutinized the area, your nails ready to rip to shreds whomever had the audacity to attempt to slice your head off of your shoulders. A few seconds passed by before you spotted the group of young Slayers running towards you. Ready for battle, glaring at you, they unsheathed their blades. Six humans, not exactly weaklings, craved your head. But before you could just charge at them, Kokushibo spoke out again.

“Use your technique. Focus solely on it”.

His deep voice, for some reason, sent shivers down your spine. Probably, you were just enthralled by the massacre about to take place in the holy territory underneath your feet. Or maybe you were already losing control. Nevertheless, you quickly switched your attention back on the youngs group of humans in front of you.

“Good evening” you cooed, smiling faintly at the now shaking people looking at you and your frightening friends in horror.

“Upper ranks… We’re dead. Tell the crows to send a Pillar” a female Slayer blurted out, sweat beading her forehead as she frantically looked at both her sides in search for possible ways out of this situation.

“A Pillar? Are you fucking blind? We need more than a Pillar here!” her comrade said, eyes not leaving your frame as you sighed and shook your head. It was pointless. What could three Pillars do anyway against three upper ranks? Nothing.

Your eyes glinted, your hand caressing the cheek of the female slayer who had suggested to call a Pillar. You heard them gasp, when they realized you were standing practically among them, not fearing their deadly blades at all. You were blatantly challenging them, awaiting for the right moment to devour them. You giggled, before you disappeared from the small circle around you, holding the young fighter in your arms before you speaking again. Back in your original spot, you were running your fingers through the silky black hair of the girl, her body writhing under your touch as you leaned your face down to your let your lips graze her earlobe. It was time to satisfy your whims and you did not hesitate to activate your technique.

“Blood demon art: the human puppet” you whispered, the white sclera of your eyes fading into black.

Before your victim could even register what was happening, blood threds connected to her joints and she naturally dropped to her knees in front of you. Adoration in her eyes, she hugged your legs, the effects of your aphrodisiac blood driving her nuts.

“What’s happening? What did she do to her?” the head of the group snapped, trying to assess your reactions to figure out what your power could do.

Honestly, you were having fun. There was no pressure of ending things quickly for once. You had all the time in world to enjoy your minutes of glory and you did. You smiled at the girl at your feet, clasping your hands together as you listened to her words.

“How can I serve you?” she meekly asked you, cheeks flushing up as you hummed and gestured at her friends at her back, hunger for blood making your mouth salivate, albeit you tried to get a grip of yourself.

“Those people have offended me. Why don’t you kill them for me?” you asked, watching in glee as she hastily picked her sword back up and sprinted towards them. Ready to defend themselves, the slayers cursed your name as the group had apparently decided to split. You watched in interest three of them charging at you, homicidal instinct in their eyes, while the rest of them sparred with their comrade.

All the while, you had felt Douma and Kokushibo’s eyes on you, studying your moves, contemplating your choices and strategies. They had not bothered helping you out and they did not seem interested in it anyway, at least, until a disaster happened. Trusting blindly in your abilities, you had waited too long before activating your technique. The moment you did, you were forced to block the slash of a slayer with your forearm. The impact was powerful enough to cause your blood to spill, accidentally splattering on your two colleagues faces, staining their lips and inhebriating them.

Faltering, you had no time to apologize that a katana sliced through your opponent’s head. The thud of his body colliding onto the ground was followed by the screams of terror and agony of the others. Soon enough, you were surroundered by bunch of dismembered corpses, no more sounds echoing in the calm forest, if not… Heavy breaths, grunts of frustration. Affected by your technique, the upper moon One and Two were staring right into your eyes, their fangs protruding from their gums, ferally hissing to fight the primal urges of dominating the weakest prey in front of them. It was your fault. The second form of your blood demon technique was literally called ‘primal lust of the hunter’.

Taking a few impish steps back, you tried to comfort them “I promise the side effects are going to wear off in a few—”.

“How long?” Kokushibo growled, planting his sword onto the ground. You had never seen him like that.

“Kokushibo-dono, I… I—”.

A sudden grip on your forearm, yanking you towards them, made you gasp in sheer embarrassment. That look in their eyes, that way of staring you down in hunger promised nothing less than a long night of submission ahead of you.

“How long?” the Upper moon One hissed on your face, his grip on your forearm intensifying, until you confessed the truth.

“Until you reach the peak of your ecstasy” you blurted out, earning an hysterical laughter from Douma, who grasped a fistful of your hair and encircled your waist with a hand. His abs glued to your back, he rotated his hips against your rear, the clothed bulge underneath the layers he wore poking at you with unbridled hunger.

You shuddered, closing your eyes “I can help you! I can help you both!” you fretted, body on fire as their hands began to undress you with urgency.

Probably, this was the biggest mistake of your life, but the famous thing that happened once ever in a lifetime too. Lips devoured yours instantly, the guttural groan escaping Kokushibo lips made your disclose your lips automatically to let his tongue invade your mouth. Your hands threaded your the former Slayer’s hair, tugging at his ponytail to squash his body against yours. Fangs sank onto the crook of your neck, your whimper swallowed by Koksuhibo, as Douma hand slipped underneath your ripped kimono and masterly cupped your sex.

How many times had he done that to you? So many nights, so many nights but not a single one of them could compare to what he was making you feel right now. Douma always took his sweet time in tearing you apart, but his thumb did not indulge much on your throbbing clitoris.

You whined in protest, only for him to take a step back and unbuckle the belt of his pants “Sorry, Y/N-chan, but I feel… Oh, my sweet gods, I feel like I could burst into my own pants, if I don’t fuck that pretty hole of yours. Not much prep today, okay?” he rasped out, sweat running down the valley of your breasts along with the blood still dribbling down your collarbone in irregular crimson lines from his harsh bite onto your neck.

When the Upper Moon One pulled away, his hands discarding his robes onto the ground, finally granting you the celestial sight of his chiseled body, you struggled to keep your composure: the body of a warrior, the body of a divinity. The body of a man who had trained for centuries, in the desperate chase to proclaim himself the strongest slayer alive.

“Her womb is mine” he declared firmly, causing your knees to buckle, when he grasped your hips and made you straddle him easily. Douma surprisingly did not retaliate, kneeling right behind you instead as his hand slipped down between your thighs to collect some of your juices.

He growled, the pads of his fingers collecting the result of your wanton before smearing them onto the entrance of your puckered hole. You writhed, glancing at him from above your shoulder, before pulling him into a sloppy kiss “You better worship the ground I walk on after this” you whispered, only for a pathetic whimper to leave your lips as Kokushibo’s calloused band grasped your jaw unceremoniously and turned your head towards him once again.

“He’s your superior, but I personally don’t see the number one etched in his eyes” the man darkly said, pushing his hips against yours and witnessing to the way you came to realize his hakama were now loosely hanging down his hips. His cock, standing as a ramrod, was probbing at your entrance with arrogance, his free hand angling your hips to favor the penetration.

“I apologize, Kokushibo-dono. — you breathed out, arching your back as he lined the bulbous tip on you clenching hole — Douma and I are familiar with this kind of entertainment” you explained, breath hitching in your throat when the blond man at your back began to slide a finger into your backside to stretch you out a little. He was seething in anger, frustration of not having the chance to paint the welcoming walls of your pussy in white, as he always did.

The Upper Moon Two smirked “That’s right! I think Kokushibo-dono will absolutely love to hear how much of a slut you are when you are stuffed so full of cum that you twitch like a fish dying on the shore” he remarked, your eyes screwed shut as you felt your tight walls swallowing his fingers into your most private parts.

Were you going to be able to walk after this? If they actually injured you, was your demonic regeneration going to heal your wounds?

“Enough talk” Kokushibo flatly said, unsympathetically pinching your right nipple to hear you squirm under his ministrations as well.

And, gosh, you did. What made him groan out in pleasure, his stolid mask slipping, was the way your pussy squeezed him up perfectly when he entered you. Hands planted onto your hipbones, Kokushibo guided you up and down onto his length. The girth had almost made you regret your choice of taking care of their impellent needs, but the way he occasionally let the head of his cock kiss your cervix made you cry out loudly, shamelessly, your head lolling back on Douma’s shoulder as he also began to slide into you.

You had no idea how you had managed to, how your body had adapted to that tempo, to the way they were manhandly you, but when Douma had filled you up to the brim, his pelvis slapping against your arses, you knew you had showed your devotion to them.

“Fuck! I— O my God… — you whimpered out, vision blurry as tears ran down your cheeks copiously — K-Koku, Koku, I can’t” you inhaled sharply, only for him to snort at your face, a powerful thrust causing your whole body to collapse against his.

“It’s Lord Kokushibo to you”.

His words, vivid in your mind, were the only thing you remembered hearing from him after they were done with you. Panting, a mass of sweat and fluids, you were sandwitched between them. Kokushibo came deep into you, arms almost possessively keeping you in place, his gestures so cold and methodical. You wondered, you wondered if a long time ago he had been married, if he had fucked her with the only intention of impregnating her because you were damned if he had not given you that impression.

Douma was breathing heavily, tongue lapping at the umpteenth wound he had left onto your neck, as he softened into you. He had not pulled out as well, you could feel his sperm oozing out from your abused hole as you barely had the energy to nuzzle your head into Kokushibo’s chest.

He did not caress you, neither said a word, but he allowed you to rest like that for a little while. Your training had just begun.

AUTHOR NOTE.

A big thank you to the anon who had submitted this request! I said it once and I’ll say it again: writing threesomes is amusing! Also… I might have a thing for Douma, that’s pretty evident by now. Thank you for your support and see you in the next work!

Likes, comments and re-posts are greatly appreciated!

x o x o

Dt: @doumadono @mrskokushibo my angels✨❤️

TAGS: @axesfordays @flakeygod @tomatoeshater @areyouflying @bakugosgirl01 @crystal-freak24 @the-nex @squ4respace @akazas-left-tatted-butt-cheek @wooyugta @ilubplants @the-faceless-bride

[linksqueerawakening]

Miscellaneous LU Headcanons

Four doesn't cast a shadow. when questioned, they flatly state "it died" and refuse to elaborate. if pushed on the matter, they become more and more irritated, while still refusing to elaborate

Time always knows what time it is. you could wake him up in the middle of the night and before he's even fully opened his eyes he could tell you the time without having to even think about it

Hyrule has the most magic, but Legend knows the most magical theory, followed closely by Time

Warriors, Legend, and Four are the only members of the chain who are actually legit monarchists. like the others are pretty much neutral on the concept (tho Wild doesn't like how flora was treated with all the expectations and lack of freedom, but that's another matter entirely than being of the opinion that monarchy is inherently bad), they're fine with monarchy. they just don't have strong opinions one way or another, so long as the current holder of power isn't corrupt. meanwhile Four Legend and Warriors would probably fight you if you insinuated that hyrule's monarchy should be abolished

Legend and Fable are twins but it's a secret. and also due to Fable getting kidnapped and transformed in various worlds in some of their adventures, they're no longer the same age; Legend is 19, she's 16 or 17. they still look very similar so they used the excuse that they're cousins on their father's side

Legend used to want to be a knight very very badly when he grew up, because his uncle who raised him was a knight. the knights who were controlled and attacked him during Link to the Past were pretty much all trusted adults that he knew and admired. he stopped wanting to be a knight after that

Wild may be the best cook when they have good ingredients, but when the chain is down to the wire and they need to make every little bit count? Hyrules horrible concoctions are actually the best option. he can't make it taste good but he can make it keep you alive when there are no other options

Wind is the best at navigating without a map or compass due to his experiences on ships - he would rather have the tools, but he's pretty damn good at managing without

Four has a habit of referring to themselves with "we/us" pronouns ever since they were split and then reformed with the four sword. the other heroes don't know why, but sort of shrugged and started using "they/them" pronouns bc it seemed polite. Four is mostly unaware that they do this - green picked up on it but hasn't pointed it out to the rest of four bc he knows it'll make them stress, and it clearly hasn't caused any issues

Twilight is disarmingly charismatic but only when he's not trying. if he's talking to someone casually or even somewhat irritably, they tend to be completely taken by him, but if he's actively trying to be smooth it just comes across as awkward

Sky is the most mild mannered person you've ever met until you cross certain lines, at which point it's like a switch flips and he's so pissed that even the other heroes hesitate to deal with him

Discounting the hundred years in which Wild was unconscious, Warriors had the longest single adventure, with the war of eras lasting about 7 years. Legend's six adventures altogether may have lasted longer, but they were split up into multiple parts, not one long quest

Wild takes pictures of pretty much everything they can to show Flora whenever they're back home, because they know how much she wants to learn about the ancient past, like their species, their societies, and their magic

[ozzgin]

Yandere! Monster x Reader [Werewolf]

In Romanian mythology, Pricolici is an evil spirit believed to be born after the death of wicked humans, able to transform into certain animals such as ferocious dogs and wolves. The etymology is unknown, although it's suspected to be of Dacian origin, thus going as far back in time as the 1st century BC. An ancient creature has set its predatory eyes on you.

Winner of the Folklore Monster Poll celebrating Romanian history!

TW: obsessive behavior, violence, death

[Horror Masterlist] [More Headcanons]

He can tell it's a dream. Nonetheless, it always feels unbearably real. He can smell the incense, hear the hurried trample of feet underneath him. He wants to open his mouth and demand they stop. No words ever come out, the throat is dry and flattened by heavy despair. It's a dream, after all. The priests march on, and the spears are lifted. For a moment, he's blinded by their powerful, sharp glisten. As he gazes at the sacred circle, it occurs to him just how uncomfortable the shackles are. He becomes somewhat distracted by this irritating friction, so much he doesn't register the instructions given by the mysterious men. 

Centuries later, he would stumble upon an old history book by Herodotus that detailed his misfortune:

"The Getae are the bravest of the Thracians and the most just. They believe they are immortal, forever living, in the following sense: they think they do not die and that the one who dies joins Zalmoxis, a divine being. Every four years, they send a messenger to Zalmoxis, who is chosen by chance. They ask him to tell Zalmoxis what they want on that occasion. The mission is performed in the following way: men standing there for that purpose hold three spears; other people take the one who is sent to Zalmoxis by his hands and feet and fling him in the air on the spears. If he dies pierced, they think that the divinity is going to help them; if he does not die, it is he who is accused and they declare that he is a bad person. And, after he has been charged, they send another one. The messenger is told the requests while he is still alive."

The foreign hands tighten around his limbs and he takes a deep breath in, ready for the plunge. Truth be told, he's not too anxious. The first time was terrifying, but one becomes accustomed to death if it repeats itself, night after night as the years pass and millennia settle over it, like a thick blanket of ash and bone and dust. He doesn't remember the pain anymore, only the bitterness. The wrath. He had no business playing God's messenger. He hadn't wished to be choking on his own blood, rippling violently at the corners of his mouth as his eyes dart over the excited masses. There are claps and cheers, and hope, and peace. Just not for him. 

No matter, if they long so dearly after eternity, he'll become their very proof. A tangible undead, a creature of eternity. Let them gaze at their ardent desire as it claws their bowels out for the birds to feed on. Let them sing praise before their God as their soft throats detangle under his fangs. Before he knows it, the corpses lay mangled at his feet and he notices his horrid reflection swaying in the puddles of fresh blood. 

He has become a beast. 

And just like that, the nightmare ends. It always ends here. He pats the sweat off his forehead with the monotonous vigor of habit. It's already noon and the narrow street flocks with curious tourists and natives on their stroll. Every now and then he will venture into the city, just to get a glimpse of the world. He twists the knob and opens a window, enjoying the breeze that cools his skin. His tired eyes wander around with no purpose. 

That's when he sees you. Your wide, carefree smile as you converse with your friend. You're drawing circles along the edge of your coffee cup, propped over the table, entranced by your discussion. Your gentle laugh rings unexpectedly loud against his ears. He finds himself frozen in place, unable to contract a single muscle. 

"Oh, this trail is supposed to have some really nice sights." Your friend is shuffling through unfolded maps, spread out onto the small café table. "We should leave pretty early though, otherwise it'll get dark before the return."

You groan at the idea. Your friend responds with a chuckle. 

"Remember, our tour guide joked about werewolves roaming the outskirts. Do you want to be eaten?" She inquires with a cheeky grin. 

"You know I have a thing for monsters." You answer with a wink. 

The jokes carry on until the bill arrives, and you eventually stand up and merrily make your way down the street. For a brief moment you feel a cold shiver running down your spine, so you peek back inquisitively. Nothing out of the ordinary. 

Ah. By the time his focus returns, the sun is setting, reflecting its crimson rays over the old cobblestone. You've been gone for a while, so he must've been staring into the nothingness for good hours. He clears his throat, mildly embarrassed by his absent-mindedness. He isn't hungry, so he has trouble explaining his sudden captivation with a random human.

Even more bizarre is the consequence of the accidental encounter. The following nights are devoid of the usual torment. Has he ever had a peaceful slumber before? He can't recall. And yet here he is, vacantly eyeing the ceiling without the labored breath or cold shivers, faintly reminiscing about your amused expression. He frowns slightly at the realization that his recollection seems to contain less details compared to yesterday. Your face is smudged by the intense light of the noon, titled at an angle that allows no shadows to discern the features. What will he do when it's entirely gone? A faceless memory, anchored in the depths of his heart as a reminder of what could've been. Is there some universal law that dictates only misery remains unforgotten, or is he just exceptionally unlucky? Infuriating. 

The overwhelming sensation creeps upon him again. A primordial vengefulness that hasn't yet released him from its cold, bony fingers. For once, can't he be granted fairness? His jaw clenches and he marches out of the room. 

Tonight shall be a feast.

The lights are still on in the little tavern inn, and through the small windows he can make out the lively movement of the people inside. He glances at the waning moon one final time. The world may change, and the years may pass, but one thing has never left him throughout the centuries. Always bearing the same pallid, melancholic countenance, his taciturn companion rises, indifferent to the Universe. 

His back arches outwards, the bones tear and twist, the joints dislocate and the skin is giving way to coarse, thick fur. His eyes now carry an amber glow as they rest on the modest building. Without further hesitation, he pounces on the door and it folds like cardboard under his inhuman strength. The room goes quiet and all heads turn to him. He recognizes that look. A fleeting second of fear and curiosity, before true panic settles in. But they rarely have the time to scream. Just as the vocal chords contract and vibrate, their chests are trashed and limbs are tattered. Splattered visceral remains and blood coat the ground under his feral attack.

You squeeze your eyes closed and force your hands over your mouth to ensure your stillness to the massacre. You were just returning from the bathroom when you heard the wails and the wet sounds of mutilated flesh. You'd ducked behind the wall and hid under an end table. What the hell is that creature? You initially thought a wild wolf had somehow made its way into the tavern, but no animal can be this large. There is a backdoor, but on the other side of this hall. You'd have to sprint across the archway that leads into the main room. Then again, if it's this busy ripping the others apart...

No need to ponder your options much. Silence falls behind you, which means the creature must have finished its horrid sport early. His snout picks up a particular scent and he tenses up, expectantly. Could it be? 

The wooden parquet tiles creak under the weight of foreign footsteps; a human approaching you. You look up from under the table. Has someone dealt with the beast? Although you immediately regret revealing yourself. You freeze in your spot, hands propped on the ground, like prey awaiting execution. 

The man is unnaturally tall, having to crouch under the ceiling, with wild black hair and rough features. His chiseled face is painted red, and his clothing is torn apart and soaked in blood. His large hands end in sharp claws, and amid his ruffled locks you can distinguish animal ears. 

There you are.

Well, quite the irony to meet you here of all times and places. From this distance, you look even prettier. He bends over slightly to examine the details that have faded since the first encounter. A surreal experience, really. Seeing you kneel right in front of him and not as a figment of his imagination. He extends his fingers over your face and presses his nails in, leaving a vague trail of swollen, red skin. What a frail being you are.

"Your friend is alive, by the way." His deep, dissonant voice pierces the silence.

"O-oh." You gasp. You were so anxious you barely understood the meaning of his words.

"You may check on her if you so desire, however..." 

He considers it. Normally, even after allowing his anger to seep into cadavers and ruins, all he's left with is disgust and emptiness. Yet your presence seems to fill him with unfamiliar comfort. If one is drowning, is it truly selfish to hold onto the first thing that keeps them afloat? The only people who'd condemn such beggar are the ones that have never been underwater. They don't know what it's like to have your lungs tighten and collapse under the heavy pressure, waving your arms towards a surface that's never reached. 

"...You'll be coming with me afterwards."

You can only stare.

"Don't worry, I won't kill you." He attempts to simulate a smile. "I suppose I'm not too convincing like this", he jokes as he gestures towards his body, "But you have my word I'll never harm you."

"Why, though?" You manage to stutter, frowning in confusion. 

He's taken aback by your inquiry. Perhaps his statement is indeed more threatening than anything else. On the other hand, he hasn't conversed with humans in...longer than he can remember. What might pose as convincing in this case? Drawing out a rose and confessing his undying love among the bodies he murdered feels rather ridiculous. Suddenly, a passage he's once read comes to mind. At the time, it depressed him greatly. Now it feels like the only fitting reasoning.

"Do you believe in destiny? That even the powers of time can be altered for a single purpose? That the luckiest man who walks on this earth is the one who finds… true love?"

"Isn't that from Stoker's Dracula? How is it-" 

You pause and search his eyes. Golden trenches of loneliness and gloom. Your heart is heavy and your mouth curls into a grimace the longer you stare into these pools swirling with agony. 

"I understand." Is all you can mutter as you stand up. 

Have you had a choice to begin with? Not even the frothing waves of a storming ocean can come between a dying man and his only raft. 

[physical-manifestation-of-spite]

I keep thinking about Arthur's regression at the end of Season 2 and then into Season 3. I keep thinking about how victims of trauma tend to get worse once they escape their traumatic situation. How their body and mind start to crack and shake under the weight of the horrors, now safe enough to escape the survivorship mindset but now forced to endure the fallout.

I keep thinking of how hard Faroe's death hit Arthur. How his guilt and grief were so intense that he wanted to kill himself, so low that he drank himself into a stupor for who knows how many years to just dull the pain. I keep imagining how hard it was to pull himself out of that, to work with Parker and find a new meaning in life, to walk away from his guilt of killing his daughter, and instead to help people.

(I keep thinking of how Arthur finds a vial of alcohol in the Dreamlands. How he sniffs it and recoils in disgust.)

I keep thinking of how long it took for Arthur to build himself back up from his lowest point, to tuck the guilt of Faroe in the deepest corner of his mind just so that he has enough room to breathe, to live, to be a better person. (And yet, Faroe is every facet of his life. It's his first memory in Season One, when he plays Faroe's Song, when he doesn't even remember his own name. It's the last name on his lips when he dies on that boat. It's his only memory when John is torn away from him.) I keep thinking about how Arthur is consciously repressing her every second of every day just so that he can keep going.

And then John pushes, and asks, and asks again. And finally, after almost dying twice with this entity, after surviving time and time again, he thinks he can trust him. He thinks he can share his deepest secret, to pull open the wound he keeps stitching over to protect himself. How he risks feeling the grief he's suppressed for years to trust someone. I keep thinking how John seizes it and, because he is ancient and young and inexperienced, childlike in his tantrums and his fears of responsibility and consequence, he uses it as a weapon the moment he's backed into a corner. I keep thinking of how not only the trust is torn away from Arthur, but how his wound is stretched and torn, and not only does his guilt and grief come back, but it's like a tidal wave that he cannot suppress this time. He's opened that wound and John has pried it wider, and now Arthur can't shut it. He survives in those pits, but she is all he thinks of. He escapes those pits, and ("Goodbye, Faroe.") she is all he thinks of. He slits his throat and she's all he thinks of.

He enters at icy cabin (a small gurgle, a bundle of blankets in his arm, a warm hum rumbling in his chest as he lulls his whole World to sleep) and he thinks of her to keep going.

And then Yellow enters, a blank slate, a John before he was John, and the pain is too fresh. This is the thing that tortured him. This is the thing that starved him. This is the thing who asked who his daughter was, and when he told him, the thing called him a killer. John and Yellow and the King are all the same in that moment, and Arthur's too fucked up and traumatized to separate them tangibly, as much as he insists that he can. His hatred grows and grows, all from himself, until it bleeds into Yellow, and he remakes this entity in his image, in his self-pitying hatred.

So when Yellow finally calls him a monster (and Arthur knows, he's called himself that the moment he saw the water spill from the bathtub onto the tile below), Arthur holds it close to his chest, and becomes it.

[bet-on-me-13]

Danny is The Doctor (Dr Who)

So! I've been on a Dr Who High for a little while now, and I thought this idea up.

Danny, as the apprentice to Clockwork, has the ability to traverse Time, and his can use his own Powers to traverse Space.

(He is not at the same level of Time Manipulation as Clockwork, but he is still very good at it. Less of a Time Master, and more of a Time Lord if you will)

So, after his family dies and he is left alone for his Immortal Life, he gets bored. Taking a Cue from Ellie and her whole Exploration Obsession, while also indulging in his own Space Obsession, Danny decides to explore Space and Time to his heart's content. (Maybe Ellie is his Companion?)

He travels the Universe, visiting different planets, witnessing historical events, and sometimes even Helping wherever he can. He is still a Protector Spirit after all.

He doesn't use his powers much these days, in fact he has mostly locked them away in favor of using his own custom built Inventions to get any task done. He is the son of Mad Scientists after all, and he likes to Own It.

Danny becomes known across the Universe in the same way that the Doctor is. To some he is a Savior, a Healer, a Wiseman. To others he is a Demon, a Trickster, a Warrior.

Danny becomes the Boogeyman of the Universe, so it's no surprise that one day someone tries to contain him, to keep him Locked Up so he can never interfere with the Universe again. To do so, they build a Device named, The Pandorica.

(Yup, I'm using that little thing in this)

Danny is trapped within the Pandorica, mulling over the Irony of being trapped by a Device named after one of his friends, for Eons. He is completely and utterly trapped.

Sealed Away, waiting for the day when someone will set him free.

...

Now imagine this.

The JLA has just confiscated an extremely Old and Extremely Magical Box from an Alien Cult, who were proclaiming that they would use the Pandorica Warrior to fell their greatest foe.

They call in Constantine to explain what it is, and just imagine the Doctors description of the Pandorica Scene coming him him.

"This is the Pandorica, an Ancient Magical Prison designed to hold the worst of all bad guys." Started Constantine.

"Why was it made?" Asked Superman.

"There was a Goblin, or a Trickster. Or a Warrior." Constantine explained as he paced a circle around the Box in front of them, "A nameless, terrible thing. Soaked in the blood of a Billion Galaxies. The most feared being in all the cosmos."

He took a closer look at the box and Continued. "And nothing could stop it, or hold it, or reason with it. One day it would just drop out of the sky and tear down your world."

He paused and took a deep breath, "Or at least that's how the Story goes, probably why those cultists wanted it so bad. The greatest Warrior in existence on their side? It would be an instant win button."

"Is it possible to open it?" Asked Batman.

"Easily, anybody can break into a Prison. I just want to know what we'll find first."

Zatanna interrupted, "Won't need to wait long, it's already opening. Layers and Layers of Magical Barriers are dispersing as we speak. That Cult knew what they were doing, it's going to open soon. Very soon."

The Box in front of them shuddered a little, and they tensed. They waited for a few moments to see if it would do anything, but eventually they realized it was probably just a side effect of the barriers falling.

"How soon can we expect it to open?" Asked Batman, still tense.

Constantine replied this time, "From what I can tell, maybe 2 hours at most. So you have that much time to prepare to meet the Universes most feared Individual."

...

Just thought of this while I was binging Dr Who videos on Tiktok and thought, "this would be cool as a dpxdc idea"

Here is the Video that inspired me, give it a watch

[chaedomi]

𝐋𝐈𝐓𝐓𝐋𝐄 𝐌𝐄𝐑𝐌𝐀𝐈𝐃 ✦ btvf

fem!child!reader x ariadne valentine (platonic!yan), violence, abuse, death, unhealthy relationships; unable to witness your death a second time, your sister desperately strives to change your fate, even if it meant ridding of others to prevent it. ꨄ — masterlist

HERE’S A fun fact. Did you know that if you were to encounter a Mermaid, the higher the chances are of encountering a Siren as well? In addition to the creatures viewing each other as family, because of a mermaid’s delicate nature, sirens are naturally possessive of them. They become drunk and hypnotized by a mermaid’s affection, and thus, diligently fulfill a mermaid’s desires to preserve the shine they thrive off of. It’s an interesting tale, to learn the charmers become the charmed. However… if The Mermaid were to ever fall, so will The Siren as their main source of warmth has died. They will descend into madness and become the hostile nature they are known for or even worse, willingly succumb to the hands of death.

In the past, both you and your half-sister, ARIA, led a pitiful life. Throughout your years, your stepmother would force your sister to consume a potion, rendering her speechless, whereas yours will gently hug you, encouraging you to always remain neutral. It was confusing and painful, as it seemed those were the only moments your mothers cared about you both. Your stepmother, quiet as a mouse, and your mother, apathetic as a heart of stone.

During those times, you and Aria were grateful for each other, more so Aria, as she would cling to your tiny body crying and trembling while you tenderly kissed her cheeks and wiped away her tears.

Eventually, the truth came to light when you were the age of five, and your sister, ten. Through the season of spring, your mother passed, inclusive of your stepmother, who apparently went mad and took her own life after hearing of your mother’s death. By eavesdropping on the maids, it was then you both learned of each other’s identities, Aria, a Siren, and you, a Mermaid.

Sirens, gaining the name of the ancient monster, that flowed through your stepmother’s blood, through their songs, they possessed people, treated them, controlled them, and shook their emotions. Mermaids, gaining the name of the mythical creature, that flowed through your mother’s blood, through their tears, they shed milky crystals that held the power to repel a siren’s song. With those tears too, they were capable of granting grand wishes whether great or small, destructive or creative. Despite how dangerous their power was, they were harmless and good-natured.

Twelve years ago, your father had kidnapped a Mermaid and a Siren, presenting them to the world as they were originally known as myth. That Mermaid was your mother, and The Siren, your stepmother.

Your mind was too young to understand the information told and realize how dire the situation was. So, it worried you to see your sister in a constant state of panic and tears every now and then. You had asked her several times for the reason for her grief, but she brushed your concerns off each time, snuggling closer to you. And your worries slowly diminished as well as you returned the hug. Till… it happened one night when your father was unbelievably drunk out of his mind.

It was sudden, you were telling a story to your sister while she clung to you before your father barged inside the room, a wave of hatred visible in his eyes. One thing led to another and your sister was dragged outside the room by the hair. Even though you couldn’t make sense of what was happening, the sword that was tightly grasped in his hand as he took your sister away, was enough for you to spring into action. A silly game of tug-of-war it was, you, screaming your lungs out while you pulled at the hem of your sister’s nightgown, and your father, effortlessly dragging you both, to where he pleased. What it took to stop him, was the perfectly sweet voice of your sister, and the solid gems that fell from your eyes as you wept. He resembled a total madman, reaching toward you both as he cackled about the materials he could possess. You could only cry harder as your sister hugged you, burying your head against her chest.

Your lives were horrific beyond that point. Living the lives of a Mermaid and a Siren, you both were forced to mature quickly, learning and hearing unspeakable things. Becoming caged animals, you were pressured to fulfill the greed of scum. And despite all the abuse you suffered, you continued to push smiling, even when the exhaustion taking a toll on your body became more visible with each passing day.

Such a selfless soul you were too, quick to jump to others' needs instead of yours. Whenever your sister silently wept after a song, you would rub her head in comfort, sweetly hushing her as she lay in your lap. Whenever she was angry, you would squeeze her hands, attempting to calm the brewing storm in her heart. Whenever she felt as though she couldn’t make it, you would kiss her cheek, saying that she has done so well.

She, of course, soaked up every affection you provided. Too occupied wallowing in her sorrows and the comfort she will receive afterward from you, she forgot that you were also affected, dealt with the same ill-treatment, as well as that you had your limitations. So when the day arrived when you had no tears left to cry, her heart shattered.

It was a pitiful sight to witness, your sister in a mess as she cried desperately to you, begging for you to stay. You wished that you could, but the longer your head rested on her lap, and her cold hands held your cheeks, you felt more of your life fade away. So you forced yourself to cry, to shed one more tear, and it fell.

With that tear, you wished, that perhaps in another lifetime, both you and your sister could enjoy your days in endless glee, like free birds soaring in the sky.

As you drew your last breath, your sister too accepted her death, willing to perish alongside you. You were her joy, her motive to continue her days. But, when you left, so did those things. And she sang her last song, calling to whoever could come and console her weeping soul. Even when her savior came and held her in his arms, your sister’s eyes never left your corpse as she continued to sing. Maybe, if she died, she’ll be reunited with you in the depths of hell, unknowing of the white glow that shone by your corpse as she closed her eyes…

…So it came as a great surprise when she reopened her eyes not to hell, but to a lovely floral scent wafting in the air… As it dawned on her that she reverted to her ten-year-old self her head immediately snapped to the spot beside her on the bed, a lump visible under the duvets. With a shaky hand, she slightly tugged it downward… revealing your adorable face.

She almost cried there on the spot, leaning forward to press a kiss against your temple. She remembered that wish you made on your deathbed… could this outcome be a result of your wish being granted? If so, she will not take it for granted. Your father… who ruined both of your lives, she will inflict vengeance on him. She will save you from your fate no matter what it takes.

“MY YOUNG Lady, you seem upset. Is everything alright?” Dana asked, chuckling lightly. Damn right, she’s upset. And no, she’s not alright. Can’t she tell? She was considered to be weak physically, but, god, the sight in front of her filled her with so much rage that she was capable of snapping the spoon in her hand in half.

The maid assigned to you was just doing what she ought to do, heeding your commands. If you tell her to bark like a loyal dog, she will do just that and obey your orders. So, naturally, if you had instructed her to spoon-feed you the food brought to the table, the maid would oblige.

Aria's teeth sunk further into her bottom lip, listening to how you squealed and laughed in glee when the maid gently wiped the crumbs off your face, chuckling along with you. Why were you acting so sweet and loving to someone you just met? She was there longer than that maid ever was, no? She was the only one there for you when you suffered, so rightfully, whatever abnormality or emotion you may feel, she is the only one allowed to witness it.

"What is it you don't like, My Young Lady?" Tearing her eyes off the sight that sickened her greatly, she stared blankly at her caretaker, who contrasted her expression with a beaming smile. She was so focused on the scene that she hadn't realized her body moved on its own, scribbling messily on the piece of paper she used to communicate.

She slowly wrote again. “You don’t like the maid, My Young Lady?” Dana tried to hide her amusement over the situation, albeit terribly, I may add, the fingers pressed against her quivering lips a dead giveaway. “So, that’s why you have that frown… Young Lady, are you perhaps jealous?”

Jealous? The feeling inside her body burns too hot for it to be deciphered as jealousy. What she felt was a pure unspoken rage that could tip over at any given moment. Such anger she felt… was similar to the night she confronted her drunken father after she awoke as a child. In short, she didn’t want this maid to just leave. She wanted her gone. Entirely.

“Hmmm…” Dana frowned at Aria’s discontent. Pinching her chin in thought, she glanced in your direction. “The Other Young Lady does not know how to use cutlery correctly, hence why she always seeks assistance. However… Ah!” Dana snapped her fingers as a thought popped up. “Why don’t you feed The Other Young Lady instead?”

The rate at which Aria immediately perked up was comical. Eyes sparkling like fine jewels, she was practically buzzing in her seat! Satisfied that she made her Young Lady smile, Dana quickly moved to update your maid on the change of plans.

You were very confused when your maid abruptly stood from her chair, big-doe eyes staring when she stood near the doorway with a large smile plastered on her lips. But when your sister approached you, taking the spot the maid sat on to feed you, all questions vanished. You were already glad to see your sister just… there, so, think of the wave of happiness that rushed over you when she wrote she wanted to feed you!

The food served became tastier now that your sister was the one feeding you. And with a full mouth of food and eyes that glimmered in admiration of your sister, you huffed out an ‘I love you’ as best as you could. It was a bit gross to see some bits of food fly out of your mouth, but the warmth that clenched her heart from your genuineness overpowered her disgust. Smiling fondly, she wiped your messy mouth before leaning over to press a loving kiss on your forehead.

Your happiness truly is the source of her own happiness. Keep smiling for her, she will do anything to preserve it and anything for you, her little mermaid.

©chaedomi. please do not modify, edit, copy or reproduce any of the works published.

[novaursa]

Legacy (of bloodline)

- 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: dragonstone

- Next part: castle black

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

- A/N: Merry Christmas! 🎄❤️

The sun was beginning its descent over the jagged peaks of Dragonstone, casting long shadows across the courtyard. The salty tang of the Narrow Sea lingered in the air, mingling with the faint scent of smoke from the distant forges. You sat on a stone bench beneath the arch of an ancient alcove, your gaze fixed on the rolling waves beyond the castle walls. Damon played nearby, toddling around with a carved wooden dragon in his chubby hands, his laughter ringing out like a melody against the stillness of the evening.

Standing a short distance away, Ser Barristan Selmy, clad in his gleaming white armor, observed you with the same vigilance he had honed over decades. His hand rested lightly on the hilt of his sword, though his demeanor was calm, almost contemplative.

"You’ve been awfully quiet, Ser Barristan," you said softly, not turning to look at him. "I’m used to you offering wisdom, not silence."

The old knight allowed a faint smile, though his eyes remained watchful. "It’s not often I find myself with nothing to say, my lady," he replied. "But watching over you and your son has reminded me of… other times."

You glanced at him, curiosity flickering in your violet eyes. "Other times? Do you mean my father?"

Ser Barristan hesitated for a moment, his brow furrowing slightly. "Your father, yes," he said finally. "But also your brother. And your house. I’ve served many Targaryens, my lady, each of you unique."

You nodded faintly, folding your hands in your lap. "And how do we compare to them?"

He chuckled softly, a rare sound. "It’s not a comparison, my lady. It’s a legacy. One that you carry with grace… and fire."

"Fire," you repeated, your voice tinged with a mixture of amusement and solemnity. "That seems to be all anyone sees in us. Fire and blood."

"That is your house’s motto," he said gently. "But it is also its truth. You wield both with wisdom, my lady. Not many can claim the same."

Your gaze drifted back to Damon, who was now crouched in the dirt, intently examining a line of ants. His innocence, his unbridled joy in the simplest of things, made your heart ache with both love and fear. "Sometimes, I wonder if that fire will consume us all," you said quietly.

Ser Barristan stepped closer, his tone firm but kind. "Fire, when tamed, can be a tool. A light in the darkness. It is only when it is left unchecked that it becomes destructive."

You met his gaze, searching for the wisdom behind his words. "Do you believe my fire can be tamed?"

He hesitated again, his expression thoughtful. "I believe it already has been," he said finally. "By your love for your son. And by the choices you make each day."

A soft smile touched your lips as you looked back at Damon, who was now holding up his wooden dragon as though it could truly fly. "He is my world," you admitted softly. "Everything I do is for him."

"As it should be," Ser Barristan said, his voice warm with approval. "You are a mother before anything else, my lady. That is a strength few can match."

You turned back to him, a question lingering in your eyes. "And yet, there are those who would see that as weakness. Who would take it and twist it against me."

Ser Barristan’s expression hardened slightly, his hand tightening on his sword hilt. "Let them try," he said simply. "They will find no weakness in you, only resolve."

You let out a quiet laugh, though it carried a note of gratitude. "You always know what to say, Ser Barristan."

"It is my duty to protect you, my lady," he said, bowing his head slightly. "Not just with my sword, but with my counsel."

The two of you sat in comfortable silence for a moment, the only sounds Damon’s laughter and the distant crash of waves against the cliffs. Finally, you spoke again, your voice quieter now.

"Do you ever wonder if my father saw any of this coming?" you asked. "The dragons returning, the battles for power, the… uncertainty of it all?"

Ser Barristan’s face grew somber, his gaze distant. "Your father… saw many things, my lady. Some of them real, others… the product of his mind’s decline. But I do believe he knew that the Targaryen fire would one day burn brightly again. Perhaps he saw it in you."

You nodded slowly, absorbing his words. "Perhaps," you murmured. "Or perhaps he simply wanted to believe it, even as the fire consumed him."

Ser Barristan said nothing, his silence a quiet acknowledgment of the truth in your words. But as the sun set lower, casting the courtyard in warm hues, you felt a flicker of hope amid the uncertainty.

For now, at least, you were not alone. And with Damon’s laughter filling the air and Ser Barristan’s steadfast presence by your side, you felt ready to face whatever the future held.

The courtyard of Dragonstone was filled with the sounds of clinking steel and the rhythmic stomp of boots as a few soldiers sparred near the barracks. The volcanic rock beneath their feet radiated a faint warmth even in the cool sea breeze, a constant reminder of the island’s fiery heart. The castle’s dark spires loomed overhead, their ancient stone stark against the pale sky.

Tywin Lannister stood at the edge of the courtyard, his posture rigid, hands clasped behind his back. His pale green eyes surveyed the activity below with his usual air of authority, though his expression betrayed no particular interest in the proceedings.

Beside him, Jaime Lannister, clad in his gilded armor, leaned against the stone parapet, a faint smirk playing on his lips. He tilted his head slightly, watching the men train as the sea wind ruffled his hair.

“Still feels strange,” Jaime said, breaking the silence.

Tywin’s gaze didn’t waver. “What does?”

“This,” Jaime replied, gesturing broadly to the castle around them. “A Lannister living here, ruling Dragonstone. If you’d told me a few years ago, I’d have laughed.”

Tywin turned his head slightly, fixing Jaime with a cool stare. “And yet, here we are. You’d do well to adjust.”

Jaime chuckled softly, shaking his head. “Oh, I’ve adjusted, Father. Believe me. It’s just surreal, that’s all. The House of the Lion, sitting comfortably in the lair of dragons.” He glanced at Tywin, his smirk widening. “You have to admit, it’s not exactly what anyone expected.”

Tywin’s lips tightened, though his tone remained measured. “The unexpected often proves the most valuable, provided one knows how to use it.”

Jaime turned back to the sparring men, his tone turning more reflective. “And what of Damon? One day, all of this will be his—Dragonstone, Casterly Rock. It’s a lot for a boy who hasn’t yet seen his second name day.”

Tywin’s gaze flickered toward the horizon, his expression unreadable. “He is my son. He will learn.”

Jaime raised a brow, his voice tinged with amusement. “You sound confident.”

“I am,” Tywin said simply. “Damon is young, but he carries the blood of two powerful houses. He has his mother’s intelligence, and he will have my discipline. He will be prepared.”

Jaime nodded thoughtfully, though his tone remained light. “And what if he doesn’t want all this? What if he grows up and decides he’d rather ride away from all this and live a simple life?”

Tywin’s gaze snapped to Jaime, his eyes sharp. “A Lannister does not have the luxury of simplicity. Damon will understand his duty, just as you were meant to.”

Jaime held up his golden hand in mock surrender, though his smirk didn’t falter. “Relax, Father. I’m not questioning your plans. I’m just… imagining.”

Tywin’s expression softened slightly—though only slightly—as he returned his gaze to the courtyard. “Damon’s future will not be left to imagination. He will have what is his by right, and he will rule it with strength.”

Jaime studied his father for a moment, his smirk fading. “You care for him, don’t you? I mean, really care for him.”

Tywin didn’t answer immediately, his eyes fixed on the sparring men below. “I care for my family. And Damon is the future of that family.”

Jaime nodded slowly, his tone quieter now. “He’s lucky, you know. To have you here.”

Tywin glanced at Jaime, his expression softening imperceptibly. “He will need more than luck, Jaime. The world is not kind to those who inherit power. It will test him, as it tests us all.”

Jaime said nothing for a moment, his gaze drifting to the distant sea. Finally, he let out a quiet chuckle. “Well, if nothing else, at least he’ll have the Rock and this… charming fortress of Y/N’s. A lion ruling a dragon’s lair. It has a certain poetry to it, doesn’t it?”

Tywin allowed himself the faintest of smiles, though it vanished as quickly as it appeared. “Poetry has no place in politics, Jaime. This is about legacy.”

“And Damon is that legacy,” Jaime said, his tone laced with a rare sincerity.

Tywin inclined his head slightly, his gaze returning to the courtyard below. “Indeed. And I will see that he is ready for it.”

The two men stood in silence for a moment, the weight of their conversation hanging in the air. The distant crash of waves against the cliffs echoed through the courtyard, a reminder of the unyielding strength of Dragonstone and the family now tied to its destiny.

The evening air on was heavy with the scent of salt and the faint metallic tang of volcanic rock. Outside, the sea crashed rhythmically against the cliffs, the sound both soothing and ominous in the quiet of the night.

You sat in a high-backed chair near the fire, your hands loosely clasped in your lap. The soft fabric of your gown pooled around your feet, and the golden glow of the flames danced across your silver hair. Tywin Lannister stood at the window, his silhouette sharp against the moonlight as he gazed out at the endless expanse of water. His presence filled the room as it always did, commanding even in stillness.

For a while, neither of you spoke. The silence between you was not uncomfortable, but weighted with the thoughts each of you carried. Finally, you broke the quiet, your voice steady but soft. “Tywin.”

He turned to look at you, his green eyes reflecting the firelight. “Yes?”

You hesitated for a moment, gathering your thoughts. “I’ve been thinking… about what we discussed last week.”

He raised a brow, his expression curious but guarded. “And?”

You shifted slightly in your seat, your fingers brushing the edge of the armrest. “About having another child,” you said quietly. “I’ve thought about it—truly—and I’ve decided… I’m willing.”

Tywin’s gaze sharpened, though he did not immediately respond. He stepped away from the window, crossing the room with measured steps until he stood before you. “You’ve made up your mind?” he asked, his tone calm but probing.

You nodded, meeting his gaze. “I have. Damon is a blessing, Tywin, and he deserves a sibling. Someone to share his duty with. And I… I want this.”

For a moment, Tywin said nothing, his expression unreadable as he studied you. Then, he reached out, his hand brushing lightly against your cheek before resting beneath your chin, tilting your face up to meet his. “You’re certain?” he asked, his voice quieter now.

“I am,” you replied firmly, your violet eyes unwavering. “It’s not just for Damon, or for the legacy. It’s for us.”

A flicker of something softer passed through Tywin’s eyes, though his composure remained steady. He nodded slowly, his hand lingering for a moment before he stepped back. “You’ve always understood the weight of what we carry,” he said, his tone laced with something resembling approval. “This is no small decision.”

“I know,” you said softly, standing to face him. “But it’s the right one. And it’s one I want to make with you.”

Tywin’s expression softened—just barely—as he reached for your hand, his thumb brushing against your knuckles. “You’ve always been strong, Y/N,” he said, his voice carrying an edge of rare affection. “Stronger than most realize. Perhaps stronger than I deserve.”

You smiled faintly, squeezing his hand. “You deserve more than you allow yourself to believe, Tywin. And you will be a father worthy of both our children.”

For a moment, the weight of the world seemed to lift, leaving only the quiet intimacy of the room and the connection between you. Tywin leaned forward, his lips brushing softly against your forehead before resting his hand at the small of your back.

“We’ll do this,” he said quietly, his voice steady. “For Damon. For our family.”

You rested your head against his chest, closing your eyes as the steady rhythm of his heartbeat filled the silence. In that moment, there was no fire, no blood, no legacy weighing you down—only the promise of the future and the strength you found in each other.

Ten moons later

The chambers within Dragonstone were low lit, the heavy drapes pulled to block out the rising storm outside. The air was thick with the mingled scents of burning herbs, seawater carried in by the howling winds, and the faint metallic tang of blood. The hearth blazed brightly, its warmth doing little to stave off the tension in the room.

You lay propped against a mound of pillows on a sturdy birthing bed, your silver hair damp and clinging to your flushed skin. The midwives bustled around you, their soft murmurs blending with the distant rumble of thunder. A damp cloth dabbed at your forehead, its coolness providing brief relief against the heat building within you.

Nearby, Tywin Lannister stood with his arms crossed, his expression unreadable but his gaze locked on you. He was a looming figure of composure, though the slight tightening of his jaw betrayed the concern he refused to voice.

“You’re certain you won’t allow the maester?” one of the midwives asked tentatively, her hands wringing a clean linen cloth. Her voice was calm but edged with worry.

Your gaze flickered toward her, and despite the pain gripping your body, your tone was firm. “I’ve told you already—no maesters. I trust you, not their potions and knives.”

The midwife bowed her head, murmuring, “Of course, my lady.”

Tywin’s gaze narrowed slightly as he stepped closer to the bedside. “You’ve always been stubborn,” he said, his voice low but carrying its usual authority. “But if this becomes difficult, you will reconsider.”

You turned your head slightly to look at him, a faint smile tugging at your lips despite the beads of sweat on your brow. “If I endured Damon’s birth without them, I can endure this.”

“This child may be different,” Tywin countered, his tone measured but edged with concern.

“Every birth is different,” one of the midwives interjected gently, glancing nervously between the two of you. “But Lady Y/N is strong, my lord. She’ll manage.”

“I always do,” you whispered, though your words were cut off by a sharp gasp as another wave of pain gripped your body.

Your fingers tightened around the edge of the sheets, but you refused to scream. The sound that escaped your lips was more of a muffled yelp, barely audible over the crackling of the fire. The midwives exchanged worried glances but continued their work, checking the progress of the birth with practiced hands.

Tywin’s jaw clenched as he watched you, his hands curling into fists at his sides. “You don’t need to swallow your pain,” he said quietly, his tone softer than usual. “There’s no shame in it.”

You shook your head weakly, your breath coming in shallow pants. “It’s not… shame,” you managed to say, your voice strained but determined. “It’s control. I won’t let this… defeat me.”

His gaze softened fractionally, though his face remained impassive. “Stubborn, as always.”

You let out a faint chuckle, though it turned into a sharp inhale as another contraction rolled through your body. One of the midwives stepped forward, adjusting the pillows behind you and murmuring soothing words you barely registered.

“How far along?” Tywin asked the head midwife, his voice calm but clipped.

“Still early, my lord,” she replied cautiously, wiping her hands on her apron. “It may take some time yet.”

Tywin nodded curtly, his gaze returning to you. “I’m staying,” he said, leaving no room for argument.

You glanced at him, your lips twitching into a faint smirk despite the pain. “I didn’t expect otherwise.”

The storm outside grew louder, the wind howling like a dragon’s roar as rain lashed against the windows. Inside the chamber, the anxiety was at a high, every movement and sound magnified by the weight of the moment.

You gritted your teeth as another contraction built, your hands gripping the edge of the bed. The midwives hovered nearby, their voices low but reassuring, as they prepared for what was to come.

The storm outside raged on, its fury mirrored in the intensity of the final moments of your labor. Thunder rolled across Dragonstone, shaking the ancient walls as rain lashed against the windows in unrelenting torrents. 

You gripped the edges of the birthing bed, your knuckles white with effort. The midwives hovered around you, their voices calm but firm, guiding you through each agonizing moment. Your breaths came in ragged gasps, your hair plastered to your forehead as the tension in the room built to a crescendo.

“Almost there, my lady,” the head midwife said, her tone both encouraging and resolute. “Just one more push.”

You nodded weakly, summoning the last reserves of your strength. With a guttural sound that was more force than scream, you bore down, your body trembling with the effort. The pain was blinding, searing through every nerve, but then, like the breaking of a storm, there was release.

A sharp cry pierced the air—a new life taking its first breath.

The midwives moved quickly, their hands gentle yet practiced as they swaddled the infant in clean linen. The head midwife turned to you with a wide smile, her face flushed with relief and joy. “It’s a boy, my lady.”

You let out a shaky breath, your body sinking back into the pillows as the weight of the moment washed over you. Your heart pounded in your chest, but a sense of overwhelming relief and love began to fill the void left by the pain.

Tywin, who had remained a steady presence by your side, stepped closer, his attention fixed on the squirming bundle in the midwife’s arms. His expression was unreadable, though his gaze softened as the midwife handed him the child.

“Here, my lord,” she said, bowing her head slightly as she placed the infant into Tywin’s arms.

For a moment, Tywin stood perfectly still, his strong hands cradling the newborn with a gentleness that seemed almost uncharacteristic. The child’s tiny fists waved in the air, his cries strong and fierce, as though already asserting himself in the world.

Tywin’s lips pressed into a thin line, his gaze unwavering as he studied his son. “He’s strong,” he said quietly, his voice carrying an edge of approval.

You watched the scene through half-lidded eyes, exhaustion pulling at you even as a faint smile graced your lips. “What will you name him?” you asked softly, your voice hoarse from the effort of labor.

Tywin’s gaze shifted to you, his expression briefly unreadable before he looked back down at the infant. He was silent for a long moment, the weight of his decision felt in the room.

“Maelor,” he said finally, his voice firm and deliberate. “Maelor Lannister.”

The name hung in the air, resonating with strength and tradition. It was a name that carried the weight of both Targaryen and Lannister heritage—another bridge between fire and gold.

The midwives exchanged glances, murmuring their approval as they began tidying the room. One of them approached to take the child from Tywin, but he held up a hand, his gaze fixed on his son.

“I’ll take him to his mother,” Tywin said, his tone brooking no argument.

The midwife hesitated, then stepped back with a nod. Tywin moved to your side, lowering himself onto the edge of the bed as he gently placed Maelor into your arms. The baby’s cries softened as he settled against you, his tiny face scrunching in curiosity as he opened his violet eyes for the first time.

You gazed down at him, tears welling in your eyes as you ran a finger gently over his cheek. “Maelor,” you whispered, tasting the name as though it were a gift.

Tywin’s hand rested on your shoulder, a rare gesture of affection that spoke volumes. “He will be strong,” he said quietly. “Like his mother.”

You glanced up at him, a faint smile tugging at your lips. “And cunning, like his father.”

For the first time in what felt like ages, Tywin allowed a small, almost imperceptible smile to cross his lips. “A good combination,” he said simply.

The storm outside began to subside, the thunder growing distant as the rain softened to a steady patter. Inside the chamber, the atmosphere shifted, the anxiety giving way to a quiet, shared sense of triumph.

The great hall of Dragonstone was alive with subdued activity, the ancient volcanic stone echoing with the murmurs of lords, knights, and attendants who had gathered to await word. Despite the flickering firelight from the massive hearth, a chill hung in the air—an notion born of expectation. Large banners, emblazoned with both the lion of House Lannister and the sigil of House Targaryen, adorned the walls, their contrasting colors a stark reminder of the union that had shaped the future of this hall.

At the far end of the chamber, Tywin Lannister appeared, his stride purposeful as he descended the steps from the private corridors that led to the birthing chambers. His crimson cloak, lined with gold, swept the floor behind him, and his eyes were sharp, commanding the attention of everyone present. The room quieted instantly, a silence falling like the weight of a drawn blade.

Tywin paused at the head of the hall, his gaze sweeping over the crowd with the precision of a general surveying his troops. Without preamble, his voice rang out, strong and steady.

“My wife has given birth to a son,” he declared, his words echoing through the vast space. “He is healthy and strong. His name is Maelor Lannister.”

A ripple of murmurs spread through the hall, the gathered lords and knights exchanging nods and whispers of approval. Tywin allowed the moment to settle before continuing, his tone brooking no dissent.

“Let the celebrations proceed,” he commanded. “But with restraint. The child’s health and my wife’s recovery take precedence. Keep your revelry within reason.”

The hall erupted in a wave of applause and cheers, though they were tempered, as if even the joy of the occasion bowed to Tywin’s authority. Goblets were raised, and servants scurried to ensure the wine flowed freely.

At the edge of the hall, Ser Barristan Selmy, ever vigilant, lingered near the entrance to the private chambers. His armor caught the flickering firelight as he stood with one hand resting lightly on the pommel of his sword. His watchful eyes scanned the crowd, noting every movement and face with the precision of a seasoned knight.

It was then that he spotted Varys, the spymaster’s unmistakable figure leaning casually against a column. Varys’s hands were folded neatly in front of him, his silken robes flowing as he inclined his head in greeting toward Ser Barristan. His smile was subtle, yet unmistakable—a smile that spoke of secrets known and yet to be revealed.

Ser Barristan frowned slightly, his expression hardening as he straightened. “You seem… pleased,” he said, his tone careful but edged with suspicion.

Varys’s smile widened faintly as he stepped closer, his soft footsteps barely audible against the stone. “It is always a joy to witness the continuation of a noble bloodline,” he said smoothly, his voice carrying the practiced calm of a man accustomed to intrigue. “And what a bloodline it is, Ser Barristan. Another son born of lion and dragon. A moment worthy of the histories.”

Barristan’s hand remained steady on his sword. “And what role do you imagine yourself playing in this history, Lord Varys?”

Varys chuckled softly, his gaze flitting briefly toward Tywin at the head of the hall. “Why, none at all. I am but an observer, Ser Barristan. A humble servant of the realm, as ever.”

The knight’s gaze didn’t waver. “Some would call your humility suspect.”

“Some would,” Varys admitted, his smile never faltering. “But we each have our roles to play, do we not?”

Before Barristan could respond, Jaime Lannister approached his father, he strode through the crowd with his characteristic ease. His golden hand rested casually at his side, his expression equal parts curious and amused.

“Father,” Jaime said, his voice cutting through the murmurs around them as he came to stand beside Tywin. “So, another lion to the den. You must be pleased.”

Tywin turned to face Jaime, his expression as impassive as ever. “I am,” he said simply. “Maelor will strengthen our family’s future.”

Jaime smirked faintly, tilting his head. “You’ve always been about the future. What about the present? Will we be allowed to see him, or is he to remain cloistered with his mother for the next year?”

Tywin’s gaze narrowed slightly, his tone sharp. “Your new brother is with his mother, where he belongs. You’ll see him in due time.”

Jaime raised a brow, his smirk widening. “Of course. Wouldn’t want to disrupt the carefully laid plans.”

Tywin didn’t rise to the bait, his focus returning to the hall. “This is not the time for your flippancy, Jaime. This is a moment for the family, and for the legacy we build.”

Jaime glanced toward the gathered lords and ladies, raising his golden hand in mock surrender. “Far be it from me to interrupt the legacy.”

Nearby, Varys’s gaze lingered on the Lannisters, his expression thoughtful as the celebration continued. Ser Barristan kept his eyes on the spymaster, his unease unspoken but palpable.

As the wine flowed and the hall buzzed with muted revelry, the weight of the evening hung heavy in the air. The birth of Maelor Lannister was not just a moment of joy—it was a statement, a promise, and a warning to all who dared to challenge the combined strength of lion and dragon.

And though the great hall was filled with warmth and light, shadows loomed at the edges, whispering of the challenges yet to come.

[weasleyreidstyles]

Serendipity

chapter four

summary: it was only meant to be a purely transactional relationship. he would help her strengthen her abilities in return for her getting his friends out of his father's nasty path. he didn't mean to fall for her, but loving her was the easiest thing in his dark world.

no use of y/n, but your general nickname is Meadow. All characters are aged up to be over 18.

pairings: mattheo riddle x fem!ravenclaw reader; platonic!slytherins x fem!reader; platonic!golden trio x fem!reader

warning(s): fainting, hospitals, talk of dark magic and curses

series masterlist; previous part; next part

Mattheo guided you to an empty carriage with his palm gently grazing the small of your back. If you were in your right state of mind, you'd shove his hand away. Probably.

But at that moment, he was the only person holding you upright. You had no idea what was wrong with you, what this overwhelming feeling was.

It's just the adrenaline, tesoro. It'll pass. Theo had barely spoken to you since school started, not including the few nights you'd been on patrol with him late at night or in Ancient Runes and Transfiguration. Everytime you interacted with Mattheo he seemed to become agitated, as though it wasn't his idea to have his best friend teach you control.

You sat in the far corner of the carriage silently as they deliberated what to do about the necklace that was floating between you all, and for some reason you felt an odd tingling, cold sensation wash over you as it came closer to you.

"Should we take it to Snape? Or straight to Dumbledore?" Zabini asked as he used his wand to rotate the antique, looking at it with distaste. Theo and Mattheo seemed to debate this as Enzo nodded in agreement immediately.

"No we take it to Madame Pomfrey." Pansy injects. "She's going to need to see what cursed Katie. So she knows how to heal her."

"She could've died." you say quietly into the warmth of your scarf. They all turn to stare at you. "The necklace is famously doused with a death curse. Over a few dozen muggles supposedly died instantly when they touched it with their bare hands. Had she not had her gloves on, she would have died."

They look stricken, as if this had not occurred to them at all. The air in the carriage went frigid, suddenly. And not because of the chill.

"All the more reason to get it to Dumbledore." Zabini insists, but you vehemently disagreed.

"No, Pans is right. Madame Pomfrey needs to see the necklace. I doubt she'll be able to treat Katie here, Hogwarts won't have the necessary resources for this sort of thing."

Zabini seemed to think on this and in the end you all agreed; when you reached the Hospital Wing where Katie Bell was writhing helplessly in a bed, you all but collapsed into Mattheo's awaiting arms.

~∞~

You've discovered that fainting is an odd sensation. One moment you felt fine, fine enough to function normally at least, then the next minute everything is a hazy void of nothing.

You wake up in a bed in the hospital wing, Hermione next to you, reading a muggle novel with a furrowed brow. She jolts up when she sees that you're conscious.

"You're awake. I'll get Madame Pomfrey, hold on." And she's off down the aisle of warded beds, back seconds later with the matron in tow.

Madame Pomfrey fusses over you for a moment, asking you all the generic questions, that you answer only with half-truths, before leaving you alone with Hermione once again when you answered sufficiently enough.

"How do you really feel?" your best friend asked, her face full of worry. "Harry and Ron wanted to be here, Ginny too, but they have Quidditch practice."

"I feel like I got hit over the head with a hammer." you say, your voice rough and hoarse. "What even happened? The last thing I remember is walking into the Hospital Wing."

"Nott said you passed out when you came to hand the necklace in. Riddle got you settled into bed and let Madame Pomfrey do her work. But she hasn't said what is implicitly wrong with you." she explained and you stared up at her incredulously.

"But I only fainted? It's not that serious, is it?" your anxiety spikes and, not intentionally, you blocked out Hermione's voice in order to get some answers.

I hear helped me into bed? I could've sworn you don't have a nice bone in your body, guess I was wrong.

You're awake. He sounds surprised...relieved.

Obviously or I wouldn't be communicating with you right now, would I?

Funny. His voice is filled with mirth at your sarcastic response. How do you feel, sweetheart?

Do you want the lie I told so that I could leave the Hospital Wing quicker, or the real answer?

I'd hope that all the time we've spent in each other's presence would warrant the truth, Meadow.

I feel like shit, Mattheo. I don't even know what caused it, I felt fine when we were in the carriage.

Did you? He doesn't believe you.

I mean– I think so, I– My arm doesn't hurt as much. Do you think that has something to do with it?

Maybe. Is Granger still with you?

Yes, why?

No reason.

Mattheo?

He doesn't give you a response.

Hermione is snapping her fingers in your face and calling your name as if she'd been doing it for a hot minute.

"Are you sure you're alright?" she asks, concern written all over your face.

"You know, I feel a little fatigued, I might try and sleep it off." you feel like the worst person in the world for lying to your best friend, but you want answers, and Mattheo seemed like the only person who would be brutally honest with you.

"Alright. I'll come back tomorrow with the others if you're still here after lessons are over." she smiles at you and guilt eats away at your chest.

"Thank you for staying with me, Mione." She squeezes your hand affectionately before she stands up and leaves you alone.

~∞~

Half an hour later it's not Mattheo who comes to visit like you secretly hoped for (but you were denying this to yourself vehemently). Instead Professor Dumbledore walks into the Wing with his usual grace and grandure.

"Good evening, Miss Meadows." he says cheerily as he stands before you bed. "May I sit?"

Bewildered, you nod your head silently.

"There's no need for the confusion," he says, clearly using Occlimency on you. "I see you have a good grasp on your mind. When did you learn to do this?"

"I like to learn new things." you say, brows furrowing at him as he gets comfortable in the plush seat beside your bed. He hums at your answer, rubbing his chin with the fingers of his good hand.

"I believe you experienced something rather....odd this afternoon." he began, his usually twinkling eyes holding an emotion that you could not place. "Can you describe it to me?"

"Um...I guess it started when we got closer to Katie and Leanne-" you start before cutting yourself off. "Actually, how is she? Katie? What happened to her?"

Dumbledore sighs as he answers.

"She was taken to St. Mungo's for treatment. They have far better equipped staff for dealing with dark curses. Poppy does not do that sort of healing."

"But she'll be okay?" you ask.

"She'll live, miraculously." he says before he focuses on you again. "Now back to you, Miss Meadow."

"Right. We were walking down the lanes, behind them and then I think they had stopped walking while they were arguing and it felt like an eery shift in the air. I don't know how else to describe it but then Katie touched the necklace and went up into the air. When she started screaming that's when Matt– Riddle– that's when Riddle and his friends turned up behind us. Enzo and Blaise went to find Hagrid and Ron, Theo and Riddle helped pull her down. I tried to help but when I touched her, my arm started to burn." you can fell the sting like a phantom now that you think about the pain.

"Interesting." he says as he pulls an old signet ring from his deep robe pocket, holding it out for you to take. "Can you tell me what you feel when you touch this, please?"

You do as he says and take the ring into your hands. Twisting it around your fingers, allowing your magic begins to swirl around it before it burns your fingers. You drop it in an instant. That same cold, tingling feeling you felt when Blaise rotated the necklace washed over you right afterward.

"It's cursed?" you asked, looking up at the Headmaster for confirmation, who is staring at you with knowing, inquisitive eyes.

"Something like that, yes." he says, his decaying hand twitches in response.

"Is that why your hand is like...that?" you ask, motioning to the appendage.

"Yes, rather nasty isn't it?" he says, tucking his hand away from your prying eyes. "I'm not sure what it is cursed by, but that is why I have asked Harry to befriend Professor Slughorn. I believe it has something to do with Lord Voldemort and Horis is the key to everything.

He ignores the way you instinctively flinch at the name. But thats when you notice that the ring that is still on your bed, holds the Riddle insignia. Mattheo's family crest.

"Sir, what's wrong with me?" you croak, as you turn the ring in your hands once again, letting your magic wash over it and dropping it into your lap when it zaps you with another stinging burn.

Professor Dumbledore removes the ring from your possession as he answers carefully.

"You're an incredibly smart witch, Miss Meadows." he states. "Professor Snape tells me of your incredible non-verbal abilities, and am I correct in assuming that you are also talented with wandless magic?"

You flush at this. "Yes sir."

"It is no surpise to me that your magic picks up on things that other witches and wizards may not." he says, tilting his head at you. "I believe you would make a good Unspeakable in the future, my dear. Or perhaps a curse breaker."

"What?" you ask, completely muddled by how cryptic he seemed to become. "Why do you say that? Shouldn't I be worried that I can somehow detect dark magic?"

"On the contrary...I believe it will be the most important skill you learn in this life."

With that note, he stands and with a simple goodbye leaves you lying alone in the bed with a thousand thoughts running through your head.

None of them bringing you any closer to a solid answer to the biggest questions you have:

Why the hell can you sense dark magic? Why did it cause your skin to burn? Why did it cause you to lose your grasp on consciousness?

~∞~

aaand the plot thickens...🤭🤭🤭

this was quite short but there will be more mattheo and meadow moments to come in the next one i promise xxx

comment to be added to the taglist!

taglist:

(striked out users are ones that i couldn't tag)

@camille-1019 @lovelyygirl8 @xluansstuff @babeylover @thejadeazalea @undercover-smutlover @adhxmoony @dreamingofonceuponatime @thepassionatereader @urmomsgayforme5 @aphroditeisamilf @devotedlycrookeddonut @purplegirls-posts @nofacenonamelikekira

[threepandas]

Bad End, Chosen: Part 5

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The first time around, I gave EVERYTHING. I drove myself into the ground, to be my Master's perfect Learner. To prove it had all been WORTH taking me on as a student. So that he would be proud. So he would love me. So that, like a father, he could look upon the child he raised and think "I did a good job, didn't I?"

Even then, I felt his uncertainty.

His fickle heart.

He was a weak man. One that let a mere child bully him into glorified fatherhood and then could not even commit to the choice he had made. As substantive as a cloud, drifting aimlessly across the endless sky. He abandoned me then. He'll abandon me again. I am, at best, something he feels he is "supposed" to do.

He does not love me. He never loved me.

But I love him.

And some days... I hate that I do.

I hate that I spent night after night, pouring over excruciating texts in tiny font. Ancient, dusty, tomes that talked endlessly in circles. I hate that I practiced and practiced, until I could appear effortless before him. The star pupil. The gem of the tower. Dispised and envied by my peers. And... and so utterly, utterly ALONE.

I died.

I died, desperately holding up the tower itself. The only one even vaguely prepared. When The Dark came. I saw tears and terror on the faces of children. Saw the ceiling crashing towards us. And chose to protect THEM instead of myself. It was, perhaps, the first and last time they ever saw me as something human. Fallible.

I was afraid.

But I did not let that terror hold me back.

They tried. Gods, they tried so, so hard to save me. Wept and screamed as the world seemed to END around us. As day turned to night and monster straight from the worst nightmares of man, crawled from the screaming vents, the WOUNDS upon reality itself. The last thing I saw? Was not my Master's face. But the tear stained faces of children pouring everything they could, into taking the impossible burden that even in those moments? Was killing me.

I cracked apart. Overloaded by the core of the Tower, which I had been desperately channeling. It... it was like becoming light.

And then the world rewound.

I did not learn my lesson. I was still young. Did not yet fully understand. Like all Reincarnators I thought I was here for a REASON. It took time to fully grasp how things worked. But that second life? Even now... even now I miss it.

Because back then...

I made friends.

I was so GRATEFUL. Could not unsee, that when the horrors came? They did not abandon me. They didn't even LIKE me. But... but I wanted them to. So I tried. I talked with them. Ate with them. Told jokes and went on trips. Was young. I grew to care so, so much about them. My dear and beloved friends.

Then?

I got to watch them DIE.

Gruesomely. Slowly. And without hope.

Perhaps that was when my love and compassion for the Protagonist died. When my struggle with hatred began. Because while those I loved suffered in mud stained hells, trenches and bile stenched infirmary, she frolicked in rose gardens. Dreaming of girlish love.

What of Duty? Of the death and suffering she IGNORED? How DARE she selfishly concern herself only with her OWN feelings and desires, as the world that NEEDS her dies in fear and agony! What SAINT is she? What GODS allow this?!

Thus was born my Rage.

And so, I refuse my Fate.

But I've made a mistake. A... a terrible mistake. And even now, he circles me like a bird of prey, correcting my stance with hands that linger. A man that looms. Standing too close. Forever patting my head, fingers carding possessively through my hair. Gripping the strands to make me look at him. Always gentle... but with just enough strength to hint that he could NOT be, if he chose.

He manhandles me like a doll. Physically. With magic. It is all the same. Looking forever delighted at the ease at which he can simply drag me into the air with a hover spell. Like a child sized balloon. To be carted around at his mercy.

I barely SEE my actual Master.

Alaric enables it. I... I refuse to call him Grandmaster in my head. He's already gotten to me once. I can endure. I survived once. I can do it again.

"Is my lesson so boring? That you must retreat into your head, child?" More like horrifying. The scent of blood is overwhelming. I keep my eyes locked on the far wall. "Ignoring my lectures will not let you escape them. You are merely force yourself to repeat them, you know. I am perfectly willing to repeat your lessons as many times as it takes."

"Academically" studying The Dark my ASS. Alaric Blight had, HAS, a fucking torture chamber. These are the worst sort of magics. I REFUSE to learn them. Will NOT use them. FUCK YOU.

I give the poor corpse before me what little dignity I can. By not seeing what they have been reduced too. They deserved better then this.

Alaric huffs a laugh. Gently putting down his ceremonial knife on a nearby table. He wipes the viscera from his hands with a rag as he strolls, calm as you please, over to my helplessly floating form.

"Ah~ that stubborn little glare. So FUSSY, Grandlearner." He laughs, the picture of indulgence. "I suppose I HAVE kept you here a touch too long, haven't I? We've missed several meals AND your nap. You are a growing child. No matter how fascinating the material, I can hardly expect you to concentrate under these conditions, now can I?"

He reaks of copper and a rich cologne I have grown to HATE. If only because it is his favorite. I am gathered from the air and pressed against his front, held like a child. I... I still can not move my limbs. He is no fool. For all I am pressed, lovingly almost, against him? I would tear his throat out with my TEETH.

He will not be giving me that chance.

I dispise him.

I DISPISE "naps".

Bad enough to be dragged around in his company for lessons. At least then, I can remember his evil. The cruelty and crimes. But NAPS? Insidious. We're it not for the immobility, they would have done terrible things to my head, long LONG ago.

They are exactly what they sound like. I am dragged off, to be cuddled like some stuffed animal, in some beautiful and soothing environment. For a nap. Bonding. Just me, him, and my head pressed against his chest. Against the hypnotic sound of his beating heart. Fighting the exhaustion in my bones. The desire to just... just let GO and know a moment's peace.

We never make it to the garden.

An explosion ROCKS the Magic Tower. Over a decade too soon to be The Dark. Alaric stops misstep, his personal barriers keeping even dust from touching us, as in the distance, Mage's scream. The Tower's barrier...goes up.

It...it NEVER goes up.

That is the seige barrier. For... for ATTACKS. Who would!?

"Ah. I knew I was forgetting something." Alaric says, as calmly as though musing on the weather outside instead of an attack upon an ancient, foundational institution. "It seems the temple dogs have finally decided to act upon all their barking. I imagine their little whore will make a wonderful figurehead. They always WERE on the look out for more puppets."

I stare up in confusion as he looks out as the barrier. His gaze flat, empty, and cold. Voice is distant as his muses, as though he long ago stopped caring. He catches my gaze upon him and the warmth floods back in.

"You see, little one. I normally kill them. They tend to make a pest of themselves. I have a list of things I must get done each cycle." He smiles fondly, utterly ignoring the alarms that have begun to sound. The calls for all Master's to defensive positions. "It is something you will learn, with time. A lesson I, of course, will be teaching you~"

"Now, since THIS building will likely become useless to us shortly. Let us go pack, hmm? The story progress. It's time to go home." He turns, and we begin to walk away.

"W-Wait!" I manage to choke out.

He pauses, looks down at me, patient even as people die. What, after all, does HE care, if they do? I try desperately to gather my thought. It is like scrambling after dropped beads across a smooth floor. I think, I HOPE, I get enough...

"I... G-Grandmaster I li..LIKE learning here. With you. It feels more familiar and has better places to... to nap. Could you... WOULD you, PLEASE, go save everyone?" I manage to rip from my throat, each word like pulling a tooth. I hate it. I HATE IT! But for them? Anything.

"Oh? Grandlearner~! Was that a REQUEST?" Croons the madman who holds me, his grip getting tighter for just a moment before relaxing back into it's gentle hold. Lips, almost burning with power, brush softly against my temple in a kiss. He makes a horrifyingly satisfied noise. "Of course MY child. Anything for MY Grandlearner, after all. You are my world, little light."

The world twists.

And suddenly? I am floating safely in the shade of a tree, far across the valley from the Tower. I can... I can feel the struggling Master's. Fighting to hold off the Temple's holy warriors. It is a blood soaked standstill. Until Alaric Blight steps up to the field.

Then?

EVERYTHING IS FIRE.

He is The Arch-Mage of Red. Not just for his hair, but for his terrifying master of fire and battle magics. What once, moments before, was a sea of green? Becomes ash and flame in an instant. So hot the fire burns the very air itself. Bordering on plasma. The ground itself molten in his wake.

None survive. How could any even dream?

It is like a nuke made man.

I shake. Tears slipping down my cheeks as I watch old growth vanish in the distance. Centuries of life. Gone in a moment of ugly destruction. They will praise him for this. Call him a hero. But I know what he is. What hides beneath that ugly, shining, mask of a charm and civility. And... and I am scared.

A chirp of starlight and tinkling glass, high and questioning, hovers just to my right.

Fairy-dragons. A full swarm. Creatures the size of a cat with the power of a god. All but one, staring furiously down at the destruction in the valley below. They radiates furious grief at the loss of so much life and forest. But the one looking at me... feels? Questioning? Somehow?

Can they project?

I can only assume. I KNOW they can understand spoken languages. All dragons can. And as powerful as dragons ARE...

"Please... please! Help me!" I choke out, finally letting my tears spill. Because if I can not cry in front of dragons, then where? "I'm not strong enough. He's a MONSTER. I know you can feel it! Please! Just until I recover. Until I can fight. PLEASE!"

More of the tiny creatures look at me. Glance at each other. Then back towards where Alaric continues his destruction. Their destain for him is obvious. Their eyes as they look upon me, hold no special love. Just ambivalence. But... they are what they are. And they DO hate the sort of creature Alaric Blight has become.

With a tearing WRENCH the spell holding me is SHREDDED.

Painfully, in dragon claws.

In the distance, Alaric stops. No doubt feeling that. Knowing someone not only freed me, but ATTACKED HIM. The dragon that was worried for me touches my shoulder. And before my Grandmaster can ever discover WHO stole me away?

I am Gone.

I do not see the city of Towervalley, the magic tower itself, BURN.

[transmasc-rose]

I'm thinking about the horror of the Doctor from the perspective of non-companions again, especially as it relates to people those companions know.

Rose? "Ran away" (not wrong) for "a year" (a week) with a "man" (alien) "twice her age" (approximately 50 times her age but yeah, he is Time Lord middle aged), and then gives absolutely no explanation for how or why that happened, except that she was "travelling".

Then when her mum does get an explanation (which, frankly, is only comforting because of the unfamiliarity of the alternative given. The devil you know.), Rose barely checks back in.

She almost dies for him. When she thinks he's dead, she's changed in a way her family doesn't know how to handle. Then she's gone for who knows how long and comes back with the Doctor wearing a new face.

When her original tenure as a companion ends, and Rose lives in Pete's World, she works for Torchwood/UNIT (they become the same organization). She volunteers for the Dimension Cannon. She explains to the alternate earth how to rig up a time machine.

She's changed in ways that no one else can really understand.

Amy? There's everything with River Song of course (though I'm still not there in my viewing), him running away with Amy the night before her and Rory's wedding, and also the connection between the Doctor and the Time Crack being the reason all of Amy's family's dead. Obvious stuff.

However he's also the strange man who broke into this child's house and made a mess of her life that she never got over, that promised to take her away from here, that she wrote about and drew and carved and made her friends dress up as.

And they sent her to psychiatrist after psychiatrist without any help. In their perspective, to work through what she imagined. In her perspective, to tell her that her reality wasn't real.

And then he comes back.

And to some extent, later, when he shows himself to everyone, isn't that more frightening? That the story your child told you, of the strange man she met as a child, of time travel, of nearly being stolen away, hadn't been a lie, or a misinterpretation, or an imagining?

And so he shows up at her wedding. And steals her away again.

Donna I feel like has the least horror until her final episode. I think exploring the in between section of her meeting the Doctor and finding him again would be interesting, but not exactly horror. More an exploration of how obsessive the companions can get about him, how it eats their whole lives with even one encounter, even as it makes them better people.

And then, obviously, the horror of having your mind altered and erased against your will by someone you trusted. For your own good, of course. Because he knows best. How could you know better than him? He's ancient. He's practically all knowing.

Shouldn't you be grateful?

(And he's forgiven.)

[m00nchildwrites]

Random headcanons I have of the LADS guys:

I hope you guys enjoy this little head cannon post that I have about the guys. I'm going to put it under a read more just because it's quite long. It is no triggering content or adult content. All fluff all feels.

Enjoy.

Sylus:

Keeps journals. He has bookcases upon bookcases, filled with journals. All of them are leatherbound, but none of them match. Varying sizes and thicknesses various dark colors from maroon to dark green to black to golden and everything in between. All handwritten, all cursive with expensive ink dipped pens.

He also writes poetry that tends to be more prosy. Each of the poems are about you in some way, whether it's a memory or something about you that he misses or fears about the memories of you fading.

When he meets you again, the poems become hopeful and longing and eventually evolve back into love poems

Kioso tens to write song lyrics and unfortunately has performed one or two for you.

Yes, it's the thought that counts, but the poor man can't carry a tune. Still, the words are so sweet that you end up tearing up anyways.

And no matter how poorly he sings, you will never turn down him reading one of his poems to you or yes, even singing one of the songs that he wrote.

Zayne:

I see Zayne also as someone who keeps journals. Although his are different than Sylas'.

All of Zane's journals are on a singular, large, wall-to-wall bookshelf in his Home Office. All are perfectly identical. Each is sleek, a leatherbound, and either black or dark gray. Think like a moleskin journal, and if you weren't him, you wouldn't know which one is which, but he knows exactly which one is which, for he keeps them in chronological order.

Each of the pages is handwritten by pen in his slightly slanted, messy but legible doctor's handwriting.

Each starting from the first one on the top shelf details, everything that he can remember about 1 of yours and his pass lives together.

And rather, morbidly an excruciating detail heed. He writes out exactly how you died in the events leading up to and afterwards.

You might wonder why in the world does he do this? It's because he is studying every instance that went wrong and trying to find a loophole in a way out of the the curse that Astra has places upon you both.

In these journals, your name is never mentioned, and they are written out like case notes from his patients. So whenever you do stumble upon them, write them off. As simply him keeping detailed case notes of patient's life and death, since all of the deaths have to do with something with the heart or heart trauma, our heart disease or our heart failure of some kind.

It is not until either you regain your memories or zayn. Finally tells you about your past lives and his that you also learn the true story about the journals. Until then, they are simply a collection of case studies in his home office.

Rafayel:

Rafael has no need for journals because his memories he brings to life through his paintings.

Let's be honest.He also doesn't have the patience to sit down and fill up a bunch of journals. Not because his hyperactive persona is true, but because if he allows himself to sit still long. Enough with his thoughts, he gets real dark, real quick. This man wears a mask for the world, but also for himself.

That said he does sing.

Shocker, right? He's a mermaid or a siren or both. However, I have the head cannon that he can switch the siren thing on and off. And so is fully capable of simply singing, however, for him, because he is Lemurian, his "simple singing" is etherealy gorgeous.

Because of this, he only does it in the privacy of his own home when no one is around, except for that short little stint, that he had as an opera singer. But of course, that was for darker purposes and not for enjoyment.

He sings songs that he has written about you. All of them are in ancient tongues, long since passed and faded away to time. And all of them from the different lifetimes that he met you in.

Some songs he sings when he's feeling especially heartbroken and caught up in memories of the past, or overwhelmed with his feelings for you, and those songs are sung in his native tongue- Lemurian.

At first, whenever he is painting or in the zone, doing something and drifting off into a daydream, he hums around you.

Eventually, however, as he allows himself to trust that you're not going anywhere this time and uh relaxes his guard. Enough to allow himself to fall for you again and let you in. Eventually, one night when it's just the 2 of you and the windows are open and the ocean breeze is billowing the sheer, white curtains of his livingroom, the tune He's humming to you, as you lean back against his chest slowly begins to have words.

You don't know the words that he sang, they feel ancient.

But you feel the emotion in the words and by the end of it, you have tears running down your face and the overwhelming urge to hold him tightly and never let him go

The second time he sings for you is less heartbreaking and more warmth and an overwhelming feeling of love.

On days when it's just the two of you, he will sing just for you.

Xavier:

Xavier does not keep journals. However, he did enjoy his captain logs on his ship. And so that is a habit that he has kept with him.

Every once in a while, he will go back to a ship and and enter a new captain's log. All of it has to do with information about you and him trying to find a way to save you from the eventual Fate that awaits in the future on planet Philos.

Periodically a poem will also make an appearance one that he read in a book that stood out to him and reminded him of you.

Sometimes, before you two get close, he'd go to the ship and listen to his pass logs. And remember the you he left behind on that dying planet.

Xavier also sings, and he actually sings quite well for a human. So well, in fact, that one time karaoke with the hunters association, an agency attempted to scout him. (I picture his voice like Keshi- soft spot. If you haven't heard it, listen to it.)

This hidden talent comes as surprise to you. The first time that you hear him, add that karaoke event.

Of course. You knew that he enjoyed music because you often caught him humming when he was doing things around the house or helping you chop vegetables whenever y'all cook together. There was also his record collection that was a dead giveaway. As well.

He doesn't write songs for you, but he will sing songs to you. That make him think of you at first, it's subtle and without him really letting you know, but that's what he's doing. Perhaps you think the 2 of you are just playing around and both of you are singing songs that come on the radio. But eventually, as you get closer, it becomes clear, but it's not by chance- the songs that he picks to sing.

Your favorite is when he sings to you softly. As you rock back-and-forth, slow dancing in your apartment or his or on the balcony, the location doesn't matter.

Somehow, some way swaying softly to the sound of his voice feels like coming home after a long, long journey.

He does also occasionally read to you a poem.

And sometimes you find out the poem, he said aloud to you was actually written by him, and eventually you learn that they were all about you.

[nosyp]

Crowned by Desire

Chapter 1

A/N = This was inspired by @kupidachillea, pls check out her work too🙏

Warning = dark, yandere, toxic stuff, read at ur own risk PLEASE

Pairings = Greek Gods x reader

Summary = Thrown into the realm of gods, you become the center of their dangerous intrigue. Some see you as a temptation, others as a threat... but what will you become in their immortal world?

Word count = 1.2k words

Story down below 👇 (READ AT UR OWN RISK PLEASEEEE)

You were beautiful. Your life was pretty much amazing. You had food, shelter and clothes, you pretty much had everything you needed. Oh how you wished you could go back…

It all changed when you found yourself trapped in the realm of the gods.

At first, you thought it was a dream. One minute, you were walking down the street, the sun shining on your face, a soft breeze ruffling your hair. The next, a wave of blinding light enveloped you, pulling you into a world far beyond your understanding. This place wasn’t like Earth. It was something ancient, untouchable, dark.

You took a step forward. And another, and another. One foot after the other, you gradually got closer. You could hear a cacophony of voices behind the door. And finally… using all your might, you pushed the door open… only to reveal a whole new area. 

And it was… the gods.

At first, you couldn't believe your eyes. The moment you stepped through the threshold, you were met with a huge palace, glowing with an ethereal light that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere at once. Columns of gold and marble stretched high into the heavens, and the air buzzed with an unnatural energy. It was one that made you feel small, insignificant. 

The gods were real. They weren’t just stories and myths from a book. They were here, in front of you, with… their eyes trained on you like a hungry pack of wolves waiting for their prey.

Apollo, the ever-so-radiant god of the sun, was the first to approach. His golden hair shimmered with every move of his very being, and his eyes, those eyes… saw right through you, as if he could read every thought and desire in your mind. He smiled at you, slow and deliberate, his gaze never leaving yours. "Ah, a new guest," he murmured, voice smooth like honey, but with an edge of something darker beneath. "How... quaint. Who might you be?"

You opened your mouth to say something, to demand an explanation, but the words died in your throat. Then the moment you tried to open your mouth, Zeus just had to make his presence known with a thunderous clap. The room seemed to shake as he stepped forward, his large, commanding figure overshadowing everyone around him. His gaze was both terrifying and enthralling as he took you in with an almost imperceptible smirk.

"You don't belong here," he rumbled, his voice a mixture of power and amusement. "You should go, while we still let you."

Before you could even respond, another God appeared from behind you. Hades. His eyes were like two burning embers, glowing with a strange intensity. He observed you with the same cool detachment he reserved for souls, but something in his gaze made your breath hitch.

“Wait! I think we should… keep them,” he says, with a peculiar tone.

What the? Why would they want to keep you? You were practically nothing compared to them.

Eros, the god of love, smirked as he walked past, brushing a finger along your cheek. A shiver ran down your spine. "Don’t you see? She’s special," he said with a chuckle, his voice smooth but edged with cruelty. "In a world of gods, she’s a rarity. The temptation, the ultimate prize." His lips twisted into something wicked, a stark contrast to the sweetness his domain implied.

The temptation? Your heart pounded as you silently questioned his words. What did he mean?

Before you could dwell on it, a sharp voice echoed through the grand hall, shaking you to your core.

“WHO IS THAT?”

All heads turned toward the staircase. Hera stood at the top, her figure illuminated by the divine glow of the palace. Her presence was intense, her piercing gaze like a blade.

Her finger pointed directly at you, her voice dripping with venom. "Who dares bring that... thing here?"

The room tensed. You swallowed hard, heat rising to your face as Hera's fury bore down on you.

“Woah, woah! Wait a second,” Hermes interjected, stepping forward with his usual carefree grin and a mock air of surrender. “Let’s not go burning the palace down just yet, Hera.”

His attempt at humor fell flat. Hera’s sharp gaze flicked to him, silencing whatever joke he was about to follow up with.

Your mouth acted before your brain could catch up. "Y-Yeah, Hera... maybe there’s been a misunderstanding?” You winced at how small your voice sounded, but what else could you do?

Her eyes snapped back to you, fiery and unrelenting. "Silence!"

The room was silent for a moment, the air crackling with unspoken energy. Hera’s piercing glare held steady, but it was clear the others were pondering what to do with you.

Zeus stepped forward, his imposing frame radiating authority. "Enough," he commanded, his thunderous voice cutting through the tension. "This mortal is here, whether by fate or folly. The question is… what shall we do with her?"

His words sparked a ripple of murmurs among the gods. Some exchanged curious glances, while others looked at you like a puzzle to be solved—or prey to be devoured.

"Send her back," Hera snapped, her tone sharp and unyielding. "She’s a nuisance at best, a danger at worst."

"Now, now," Dionysus chimed in with a sly grin, stepping closer to you. His gaze lingered in a way that made your skin crawl. "Why waste such… potential? What if we kept her?" He tilted his head, feigning innocence, though the glint in his eye betrayed darker intentions. "As a servant... or perhaps a plaything?"

Your heart dropped. Plaything? You took an instinctive step back, your hands trembling at your sides.

Hades, who had remained silent up until now, raised an eyebrow, his expression unreadable. "Interesting suggestion," he mused, his voice low and smooth. "But a mortal in our realm... as anything more than a servant? It’s unprecedented."

Apollo leaned casually against a nearby pillar, his golden aura shimmering faintly. "Unprecedented doesn’t mean impossible," he said, his voice laced with amusement. His gaze flickered to you, a smirk playing on his lips. "She could prove... entertaining."

"Entertaining?" Hera’s voice was practically a roar, her fury reigniting. "You would reduce our divine realm to a circus for a mortal?"

Hermes cut in, raising his hands in mock surrender once more. "Relax, Hera. We’re just brainstorming here. No one’s decided anything… yet."

"But I think we all agree on one thing," Zeus interjected, his booming voice silencing the growing bickering. His eyes locked onto you, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. "She’s not leaving. Not yet."

The room went still. Every gaze turned to you, their collective attention making your breath hitch.

"Let’s see," Zeus continued, his tone contemplative. "Perhaps she can prove her worth. If she’s to remain here, she’ll need to serve a purpose. A servant, a messenger... or something else entirely." His smile widened, but it wasn’t comforting. "Let’s see what fate has in store for our unexpected guest."

A/N = I'm probs js gonna short-short chapters for this series... PLS FEEDBACK IF U CAN