#see my fear is that if they were to use the mask it would summon the matron and then predathos would. you know. eat her

[barbieaemond]

Lykirī

PAIRING: Aemond Targaryen x wife!reader

WARNINGS: loss of virginity, fingering, oral sex (f and m receiving), handjob, we ride him bitches, dom/sub tones if you squint

WORD COUNT: 8.9k

Author's note: an early Christmas gift for those who celebrate!! For those who don't, just a regular smutty piece. This was based on a request where wife!reader rides Aemond. Merry Aemondmas :)

MASTERLIST

taglist: @zae5 @multyfangirl @arcielee

"You are to marry the King's second son. Prince Aemond Targaryen."

Those were your father's words. Your sister had looked at you almost with pity and a hint of relief since that fate had befallen you and not her. You had simply nodded, accepting the fate decided by your father, just as thousands of other daughters before and after you would have done.

Your mother had come to comb your hair before going to bed, and without much ado, she had told you what would happen after the wedding, after the banquet.

"All you have to do is try to relax your nerves, and I promise it will be less painful.”

The thought had stuck in your brain until the wedding day. And the aura emanating from the prince didn't help. He was stoic to the point of looking like a statue, his posture rigid as a spindle, and there was something unsettling about him that made the hairs on the back of your neck stand when he took your hand to recite the wedding vows. Fear, but also a foreign giddiness prickling your skin upon feeling his calloused fingers around yours.

The banquet had not helped either. Prince Aegon had behaved like a court jester, drinking to the point of wondering how he could stand upright, poking his brother with cruel jokes about his eye and a whore who had made Aemond a man many years before.

You didn’t know what kind of unpleasant memories your good-brother had just summoned in his brother’s mind. That woman and her cheap perfume, that way it had clung to his skin, to his thoughts for days after his only ever trip to Flea Bottom.

Then the elder Prince had approached you with his breath stinking of Dornish and it was then that Prince Aemond broke his icy silence, standing up abruptly and looking down at you. "Come, wife. It is time for us to retire."

Prince Aegon had clapped his hands as if in front of a hilarious show, saying "Finally some fun! The bedding!"

The entire crowd present at the banquet had escorted you to the prince's chambers. The servants had removed your dress, leaving you in your underskirts; you had unconsciously covered your chest, crossing your arms to hide from the greedy eyes of the men peering in the doorway, Prince Aegon in the front row with yet another cup of wine clutched between his fingers.

Master Mellos invited you to lie down on the bed, and you obeyed, swallowing, while a host of servants shielded you from view as the Maester made his humiliating inspection.

"All is in order, your Graces," the Master informed the Prince and Queen. And that was enough for Aemond to completely slip the iron mask off his face and go straight to the door. "The show is over. Get out."

"Oh, come on, little brother. Let me watch, at least. I could give you some tips."

Aemond had towered over his brother, and from your seat on the bed, you were able to see the eldest brother shrinking by the moment. "This is not some common whore you're speaking of.” Aemond seethed “She is my wife, and you will owe her the respect she deserves. One more lewd word from your mouth, and I will rip your tongue with my bare hands. Am I being clear?”

"Gods, brother, are you already so cunt-struck?"

He never got an answer, only the door being slammed right into his face.

You stood in the middle of the room, torturing your hands as he looked at you from the door. He seemed unsure of what to do, until he cleared his throat and took a few tentative steps in the room.

“You could have some wine, if you wish. It may…help you.” He said, but as he said this, he seemed to regret his own words, given how his mouth twitched as if he had just tasted something sour. Memories could come just like that, sudden and sour.

“You must relax, my prince. Have some wine, maybe? No need to worry, I will take care of you just as a prince deserves to.”

“I’d like to keep my mind clear, my Prince.” You said, keeping your gaze down, hearing his fast and deep sigh. “Fine.” he said, straightening his back as a soldier. After all, wasn’t this just another duty?

It wasn’t just that though. You were his wife now, the future mother of his children. It was his duty and his right to claim you as his own.

“Lay on the bed.”

With your heart pounding in your ears, you did as you were told but when the mattress dipped under his weight, you did not expect to see him with his clothes still on, the eyepatch firmly in its place. More so, you did not expect the harshness of his gestures as he held your waist to turn you around. The air hitched in your throat as your face met the mattress and a strange sorrow gripped your heart. Did he not want to look at you? Did he not like you?

“Try to stay still and it’ll be over shortly.” he said. He was trying to sound reassuring, but his voice came out cold and flat. His fingers latched on your underskirts, hiking them up, filling you with embarrassment as you grow completely exposed beneath him.

Aemond knew what to do. He may not have been as depraved as his brother, but he was still a man. And once in a while, when his hands would not suffice, some maid or servant girl would’ve had to bear, quite keenly on their part, his intimate attentions.

As his hands began to glide on your thighs, you shivered and said “Wait…”

Slowly your head turned to look at him, cheeks red and breath slow and anxious. “Am I not allowed to look at you?”

Your words seemed to stun him for a moment. The mere thought of you wanting to look at him made him realize how wrong he was behaving. You were his wife, not a common whore to bend over and have his moment of bliss. He had even told Aegon. That was not his intention, but there was a gap between how he felt and how he acted, a limb severed by years of pity looks and feelings trapped in his mouth and swallowed.

Almost gently, he made you turn but once you were facing him, he pinned your wrists on the mattress, unable to touch him even if you had gathered enough courage to do it. You tried to brace yourself for what your mother had told you. But she had not told you that he would touch you there, that all your senses would go numb except for that one brand new feeling between your legs. But he seemed enthralled by it just as you, his mouth parting to let out slow puffs of air as you grow wet and swollen against his fingers.

Your breath was labored, coming out in soft pants that made your cheeks purple. More so because he kept circling his deft fingers on your core while looking straight into your eyes, reveling in the way you were answering to his call, in the way he was shaping your need, your desire.

“You never touched yourself, did you?” he asked in a husky voice.

You barely shook your head and his eye glinted with something dark as he brought his face close to yours “Good. I shall be the only one inside you.”

He swallowed your shaky breath with this mouth, kissing you for the very first time, apart from the shy, almost prude peck exchanged after the wedding vows. Your lips moved shyly, trembling with the coiling pressure between your legs. And just when you thought this heat, this delicious aching couldn’t grow more unbearable, he sticked a finger inside you, spilling a loud moan right against his mouth.

One of your wrists twisted in his harsh hold, willing to touch him, to grip on something, but he didn’t let you. “Easy…” he blew on your lips “Relax. It’ll feel good, I promise…”

It surely felt good to him, to feel the tightness of your cunt squeezing his finger. He curled it and you squinted your eyes, choking a gasp that made him smirk proudly against your jaw. “Gods, you’re so tight…” he breathed as he kept rubbing slowly against your walls.

“It’s—it’s too much—“ you cried out with pain and pleasure running together, breathing his scent of ash, leather and a hint of something minty.

“How will you take my cock if you can’t even take my finger?” He whispered with benevolent cruelty, moving his finger faster and deeper.

Certainly your mother had not told you of the obscene wet sounds you would hear, of the uncontrollable moans coming out of your mouth, of his soft growling next to your ear when his breeches became too tight.

He had lined the tip of his hard manhood to your entrance, catching your breath away as tried to still your nerves, but the pain came altogether. You felt like he was cutting you from the inside. Tears filled your eyes, squinting for the painful stretching. You knew he was restraining himself; he didn’t want to hurt you more than he already was. And you almost felt affection for him, most men would not have bothered.

Then he had started to move, you felt that stranger body rubbing over and over against your walls, and finally the pain soothed, but not completely. You could tell he was enjoying it, his ragged breath and faint moans told you so, as well as the curses hissed through his teeth in a language you guessed was Valyrian. And then he had stilled completely, gripping your hips hard and firm while you felt a hot wave pulsing through your core.

The next morning, you could barely sit down for breakfast, and your aunt had looked at you with concern and a hint of amusement in her eyes. She was a veteran at court, a long-time widow, and quite happy to be so. It was her who suggested your betrothal to the Prince.

"How are you feeling, sweet niece?"

"Awful." you said promptly, shifting your weight on the seat.

"Well, this is the kind of anguish all women must go through."

"I thought that was giving birth to another human being."

"Oh Gods, no. That is the ugly part. This is the good one," she said with a sly smile "I suggest you enjoy it as much as you can."

At the time, you didn't really understand what she meant. The first night with the prince had gone...well, you thought. But he certainly enjoyed it more than you.

The second time was better. Your muscles were still sore, but the pain was but a faint discomfort compared to the pleasure you felt for the very first time in your life.

The third time he went down on you, bringing you so close to the edge only to deny your release, with cruel enjoyment on his part, making you whine with shame at the loss of his mouth and tongue on your folds.

The fourth time he bent you down on the breakfast table, all things falling in a mess of cutlery. He had pulled up your skirts and lowered his breeches just enough to thrust in, unraveling a special spot deep inside of you that had you mewling like some primitive beast.

The fifth time he had you writhing in bed, hair stuck to your head with sweat and hands clenching the sheets while he had you peak three times in a row.

It was then that you started to think your aunt was right.

That was indeed the good part.

“Are you afraid?” he asks, with a soft taunt on the tip of his tongue. You drag your eyes away from the gigantic beast before you and almost scoff. That is enough for him to laugh, quietly, but still not quietly enough for you to not notice and wonder at the view.

It’s been merely one moon since you’ve been married to Prince Aemond, and you could count on the fingers of your hand the times you have seen him laugh. It was eerie at first, you feared all the things you heard about the One Eyed Prince were true. That he was cold as stone and just as hard. And he was. But the more you spent time together, the more you were able to make cracks, and let light through.

“I’m equally afraid as any little mortal of right mind would be in front of the largest dragon in the known world, my dear husband.”

His lips stay quirked up, but his eye widens, as it always does when you call him that. He steps close to you, a few of his long strides are enough for him to tower over you, and the ground below your feet shifts.

“Come.” He says, taking your hand, “I promise she won’t eat you.” This time you deliberately glare at him, and he raises an eyebrow. “Do you need some other kind of persuasion to trust me? Perhaps like the one I used this morning?”

The early afternoon sun makes his face almost hurting to watch, or maybe it's just his bold gloating that makes his appearance so exhausting.

“That was not persuasion.” you remark, hiding the tinge of red on your cheeks “It was coercion.”

“Hmm. You didn’t seem so hostile when I made you come twice before breakfast.”

"I was hostile to the chance of the maid assisting with what we were doing."

"The maid should know better than to enter while my wife is undressing."

His eye roams over you just as he had done that morning, hunger clouding it, making your insides shrink. "Perhaps it's best if she knew. Someone must be aware of how cruel my husband is." there's a soft tease in your tone—something you are still learning, but true nonetheless.

He had ripped your nightgown with his bare hands when the maid entered to help you dress. She fled hastily, but you barely spared a glance at her, already lost to the fierce claim of his hand between your legs. He had taken you, twice, and then ordered you to dress, forcing you to have breakfast with the Queen and the Princess with your thighs still sticky with sex, sticky with him.

And he had been there, sitting just in front of you, with a piercing and delighted gaze.

He pulls your hand, and you follow, getting closer to that living relic that is Vhagar, Queen of All Dragons. She raises her monstrous head and looks straight at you with her amber eyes.

It is the first time you step so close to her, and even if you thought about it a lot, your heart is pounding fast, and your breath comes out slow and labored. She's a dreadful wonder.

She flares her nostrils and smells you, making a low rumble which results in a gust of hot wind that ruffles your hair and skirts.

“Lykirī, Vhagar.” Aemond says quietly “Issa ñuha ābrazȳrys. Kostā pāsagon zirȳla.”

You look at him questioningly, and he answers. “I told her you are my wife. And she can trust you.”

You cast a curious look at the dragon and then back at him “Is that all it takes? You tell dragons to trust you, and they resist the urge to turn you into their meal?”

Aemond curves his lips and makes you step closer, standing behind you and guiding your hand on the old green scales. “It takes much more than that.” he whispers in your ear “You have to surrender to them, completely. A dragon is no slave.”

You feel the heat beneath your palm, but it’s not that that makes you swallow; it’s the heat of his breath on your neck, right into your ear, scorching his way into your brain and inflaming every thought.

“What does Lykirī mean?” you ask, and you hate how your voice cracks on the edges.

He smirks because he knows, he always does. But he does not answer. Instead, he pulls your hand again, and you follow, circling the beast until stopping before the intricate ropes that lead to the saddle.

“Aemond, I don’t think—”

“You are my wife and you will ride with me on dragon back.” He said, commanding.

Truthfully, you gladly want to obey; there is just a slight difference between picturing riding a dragon and doing it.

Even the climbing to get in the saddle is a challenge on its own, but he helps you until you firmly seat yourself in it. Aemond sits behind you, and you look around with widened eyes, as if you are looking down from the highest tower ever built, except this is a living one, made of fire and breathing fire.

He leans over you to grab the reins, and you tense, waiting with bathed breath.

“Dohaeras, Vhagar. Soves!”

She lets out a loud screech that makes your ears hurt, but you have no time to even register it because she's already moving. You grip Aemond’s arms and brace yourself against his chest when Vhagar lurches onward and opens her huge wings to take flight.

She goes up and up, above the clouds, and your head is dizzy, with fear, with euphoria, until you are laughing like a child, like you never did in your entire life. Aemond lets go of the reins and laces his arms around you, angling his head to look at you, his silver hair violently ruffled by the wind. “How does it feel, my sweet wife?”

There are no common words to describe it. Now you know why they say Targaryens are closer to Gods than men. No man could claim a dragon or rule the skies.

“I feel like I’m close to the Gods.” you say, and he tightens the hold on you “Dragons do not answer to Gods.” he says, burying his nose in your hair “Where does this leave us?”

You turn your head to look at him, and you feel like you are looking at one of them. And yet he looks like he’s beyond any God.

“Above them. Above the Gods.”

“Hmm.” He croons, breathing your scent through his nose, and then his right hand grabs your skirt and dips underneath, until you feel his cold fingers grazing your skin. “I will make you feel like one.”

He cups your core through your small clothes, and you whimper, gripping his arm harder. He feels your heat through his palm, hotter than Vhagar’s own fire, and he sets the fabric aside to properly touch you. “My sweet wife.” he whispers, sliding a finger between your folds “Always so ready for me.”

“Aemond.” You say, holding your breath, trying to oppose but your voice cracks, and your body with it, already answering to his call. You see clouds before your eyes, but it’s all a blur, all your senses are enslaved by his touch, rubbing lazy circles on your bud. Too slow for your liking, for your need. Your hips arch and buck, chasing his hand for more friction, and he laughs, darkly. “What is it? What do you need, sweet girl? Tell me.”

He takes your chin with his free hand and forces you to turn your head and look at him. His hold is ruthless, but his tone is almost pleading. “Tell me.” he orders and you feel like he’s smothering you, sweeping away all the air from your lungs. “I-I need more…”

“More of what?” he asks, stopping altogether. “Show me.”

You look him in the eye and swallow, heat inflaming your cheeks, but there’s no place for shame, not here. It is just a faint ghost passing through you, and then it’s gone. Your hand pulls the gown up, and you place it on his, like a feather. “Here.” You breathe on his mouth “Inside.”

The howling wind does nothing to muffle his growl, and then he’s kissing you, harshly, teeth clashing and biting your lips as he accepts your plea, sliding a finger inside of you.

A strangled moan escapes you, and he swallows it, darting his tongue in every corner of your mouth. He releases your chin only to grab your leg to further open them and then he adds a second finger, moving them deftly until reaching that special spot. Your head falls back on his shoulder, gasping loudly, digging your nails into his hand.

Your breath is ragged and fast, and you uselessly try to stifle moan after moan even if there are only the skies to hear.

“Don’t.” he says grazing your lobe with his teeth “I want to hear you. I want you to scream for me.”

Your mind goes blank, as does all your restraint. You feel the tide coming to crash you, hips moving on their own accord, chasing and chasing. And then you’re drowning in it, mouth falling open and flesh and bones clenching and trembling.

He grunts softly when your nails scratch his skin and his fingers slip out, glistening; he raises them to his lips and tastes every drop of you. Still panting, he takes your chin once more with his sticky fingers and licks your lips, so you taste yourself on his tongue.

Your head is still dizzy when Vhagar lands in a clearing in the King’s Wood, but this has nothing to do with altitude. Your limbs are heavy when he helps you dismount, your legs buckle. There is a tautness knotting your bones, itching your fingertips.

You wish to touch him, because you have never, not as a wife would touch her husband, not as he has done with you.

It is only a moon and yet he has taken you almost every night and every day. He has touched you everywhere, he has molded you to his liking, and you let him do it with giddiness, undoing yourself like clay in his hands. He had put his mouth on you, and you have discovered he particularly enjoyed it, because he has done that at the most inopportune times, even in some dark corner of the corridors.

And you wondered if you could do the same with him—not because you have to, but because you want to. You want to claim him just as he claims you, relentlessly.

And he really is. He is relentless, he doesn't give you the time to wander with your hands, to discover, to touch. Fire burns him quickly and you are ashes before you realise you are burning with him.

“I didn’t know my wife had claws.” He says at one point, while you are going back to the Keep.

You wake from your thoughts and turn, watching him raise his hand to show the red marks on the back of his hand, and the sight makes you almost proud—proud to have left a mark of you on him. But you want more, and he wants more. You know it; it takes a brief look at his breeches to know that he wants more.

You dart your eyes around, but there's no one. So, you stop. Trying to gather all the boldness you never had, you step closer to him and take his hand in yours. Your eyes look up slowly, glinting with uncertainty and bravery. "Then let me soothe your pain, husband."

Aemond’s eye widens, and the air around you turn heavy, forcing you to open your mouth to breathe. You take one more step and bring the back of his hand to your lips, kissing it gently while your eyes stay fixed on his face. The other hand goes tentatively to his chest and then slides down, and for once, just once, he’s the one answering your call. His eye darkens and his lips part when your hands bashfully grab the laces of his breeches.

But you should have known better. Targaryens and their desires. Doomed to take whatever they want, whenever they want, answering neither Gods nor men.

You barely blink and he grabs you by the wrists and forces you to the ground. Cold grass and bushes stinging your back make you gasp, but Aemond is already on you, watching you like a century-long thirsted man who takes a glimpse of a water spring, as if you could evaporate from his sight at any moment.

“Aemond, please.” you beg “let me—“

But his tongue is in your mouth, hot and scorching you alive. Your eyes flutter shut, and he hikes your skirts up, taking hold of your hips. You feel his bulge against you, hard and ready, and you can do nothing else than wait, pinned down like prey, all bravery a distant memory.

Suddenly he lowers himself down, lifting your skirts with haste until you’re completely bare half down. “No—Aemond, please I want to—”

“You want what?” he asks with a wolfish grin “Deny me your sweet taste? Iksā ñuhon, ābrazȳrys.” He said that already, you know what it means. You are mine.

“You belong to me. And this…” he swears placing your legs on his shoulders while looking at your aching core as a man who found the greatest treasure in the world. “This belongs to me as well.”

He runs his tongue up and down your wet folds, humming with delight as he tastes you and sees you squirm, arching your back on the stingy bushes. You moan loudly when he slowly swirls his tongue, not able to keep track of your hips starting  to move on their own, thrusting into his mouth and the sight of you like this, makes him even wilder, pushing him to open his mouth and put it entirely on your cunt, sucking harshly until anything before your eyes becomes blurred.

Your legs on his shoulders begin to shake and curl, caging him further against you, but just when you are about to come straight into his mouth, he pulls back. A weak sob leaves your mouth as your hips keep bucking against nothing and he smirks at that, untangling your legs from his shoulders, running his tongue over his lips, to taste what's left of you on him. You look at him through dazed eyes and a tinge of annoyance for the denied release. “What?” he has the boldness to ask with a sly smirk “Did you not enjoy it?” he runs his thumb on his glistening chin and swiftly licks it. "Hmm. I most certainly did."

“Aemond, please.” you claw desperately at his shoulders and forearms, forcing him to lie on you, feel something that could soothe the aching between your legs. He seems keen to grant you this mercy, molding his crotch against you so you can feel how hard and desperate he is.

“Please.” you beg in a thin voice.

“Speak it plainly, my love. I want to hear it from your pretty mouth.”

You look at him straight in the eye and what you say next is not a request nor a plea. Your mother would be ashamed of you, but you can’t bring yourself to care.

You are not begging. You are demanding. “Fuck me.”

He doesn’t need more than a few moments to get his cock out of his breeches, and not a moment later he’s pushing inside of you, your back arching on the bushes and your throat fighting for breath. He groans and starts a relentless pace, lifting his weight from you just enough for him to look at his cock going in and out, the sight only pushing him to thrust harder and harder. “Look at you.” he croons, sweet and rough “You were born to take me, to be mine.”

Your face twists with pleasure, teeth biting your lower lip while he takes you higher and higher, higher than any sky a dragon could ever take you.

He soon becomes messy and sloppy, cursing under his breath, but you can barely hear him. Your mind is sluggish and everything comes muffled: him, the birds chirping on some tree, your wet flesh slapping against his in the lewdest and most blessed way.

He curses some more, and then he’s spilling inside you, his arched mouth opening and his eye closing like a man absolved.

And yet, he does not stop. He has not claimed enough.

“Māzis, dōna ābrazȳrys. Come for me.”

Your hand clutches something on the ground, something with thorns that pierces your skin with pain, but you can’t even feel that, because you are falling, legs trembling around him, and heart stopping for an endless moment of pure breathtaking bliss.

“Gevie.” he coos with his lips on yours, falling with his body on you, still clenching and pulsing around him. He stays right where he is, nesting inside of you, and now it is the only chance you have been granted to touch him. You put an arm around his shoulders, catching your breath, and look at the skies above, thinking you are indeed above them.

It was easy to explain the dirt and grass stains on your dress. It was a little less easy to explain the twigs in your ruffled hair when you and Aemond returned to the Keep only to meet the Queen Mother along one of the corridors. Alicent merely smiled at you with a tight smile and did not spare from giving a look full of daggers to her son.

"Seven Hells" you mutter when you go back to your rooms and catch a glimpse of the mess you are in the mirror.

Aemond stays on the threshold to close the door and grins, or rather, gloats.

You step out of your muddy shoes and start to pull the laces of your dress.

"What are you doing?" he asks, and you playfully glare at him. "Am I allowed to take a bath now? Or do you want me to go around all sullied? I fear there are no believable excuses for the state I’m in."

"You can tell them the truth." he says, walking to you and replacing your hands with his to help you pull the intricate laces.

You smile softly with your back turned before raising an eyebrow, asking "Which is?"

He keeps his eye focused on the dress, a slight furrow in his brow, and stoically serious, he says "That your husband fucked you in the King's Wood."

"I could tell the maid. I'm sure she won't be stunned after what she saw this morning."

He makes you turn so you can look at him, and the sight before you makes your heart sing. His eye roams on your face softly, a rare sight on him, always stoic, always sharp, like all the angles composing this beautiful sculpture of black glass.

You always thought of marriage as a strategic deal for men, and a way for women to prove their value to the world, giving those same men sons and daughters. But you care for him. And he cares for you. That look on his face is enough for you to know that he cares for you, not merely as a brood mare.

“Gevie.” he says, quietly, and he touches your cheek, softly, making you wonder how those same hands can be so delicate and yet so merciless at the same time.

“What does it mean?” you ask, even if you are sure he will not answer. You observed that when he speaks in High Valyrian he does it almost to himself, as if to protect something he does not wish the others to know.

But this time, he meets your eyes and lowers his hand. “Beautiful.”

You look at him with your heart pounding in your throat, and then you stand up on your toes, crashing your mouth against his, almost catching him by surprise. But he is all too deft at turning the game on his side, and a few seconds later, his hands are gripping your hips and his tongue is licking the roof of your mouth.

When the door suddenly opens, you pull back, spotting the same maid from that morning who, this time, can do nothing but suffer the Prince's wrath.

"Can't you just fuck off for once?!"

You hold back a laugh against his chest and the poor maid flees in a hurry. But when he pulls you to him, tilting his head to pick up where he left off, you step back and say, "I'm afraid the Queen has requested your presence. You should go, my dear husband. I promise that by tonight I will be completely clean."

"Tonight?" he asks, raising his eyebrow. "What is happening tonight?"

You shrug your shoulders and hold back a smile. "Innocence doesn't suit you, my Prince."

"Neither does you."

"I'm afraid this is your fault. You are sullying my soul as well as...everything else."

"You won't be of the same mind when you have my child growing in your womb," and he smirks, looking at you as if he's taking a sacred oath, and then walks away.

You finally manage to take a bath and change clothes, and then you go to visit your aunt. She spends most of her time alone, sipping tea in the gardens, partly because she can't stand the other court ladies, partly because the court ladies can't stand her. Truthfully, you cannot blame them, your aunt speaks plainly—too plainly at times.

You sit down with her for tea, which you end up swallowing like salt, because your aunt takes it with a whole squeezed lemon, and no sugar.

"I saw you with your husband earlier. I may be too old for new fashion but mud on your skirt and twigs in your hair seem a bit too brazen, even for me."

You stifle a smile, recalling what happened. If only she knew he was brazen enough to have you utterly undone on dragon back, thousands of feet up.

Your eyes go distant while you fumble with some tablecloth threads, but your Aunt stares at you piercely, and grabbing her cup of tea she says "I love that look on you."

"What?"

She sips the sour liquid and puts the cup down. "That look. The I'm in love look."

"I am not!" you counter, cheeks going red.

"Of course you are. I've watched you two. I dare say he's falling way faster than you."

You look at her puzzled. Many things have changed in a moon. And you are sure you are utterly infatuated with him. But you did not know what to think of what he actually feels for you, if he even feels something. You know he cares for you, you know he loves spending time with you. You know he's passionate, possessive, almost soft at rare times. But in love? That seems too soon to consider, or to hope for.

"It is too soon to talk about love."

"In fact, I did not, my sweet niece. Falling in love and love are beasts of different species. Why do you think we say "falling"? You can't stop from falling. To love a person is an entirely different matter. Love is a choice."

You let those words sink but you prefer not to question your heart right now. There is a reason you have come here to talk to your aunt, even if you don't know how to address the matter without melting from embarrassment.

But in the end, who could you ask for advice? Your squeamish maids? The Queen Mother? Definitely not.

"Listen, I...I wanted to ask you something..." you start "It is uhm...a matter of somewhat intimate nature."

"Ah, my favourites." your aunt says, beaming "I am all ears."

You shift uncomfortably in your chair and swallow another sip of that dreadful tea "My mother...she explained to me what would happen between husband and wife to...consummate the marriage. But she didn't tell me...well, everything else."

Your Aunt is quick to raise her eyebrow "I gathered that your marriage had been consummated by now. Thoroughly."

"Y-yes, of course. But I...discovered...that there are other ways for a husband to please his wife...and I was wondering if...if I could…do those same things to please him."

Your aunt looks utterly puzzled for a long moment, and then, almost stunned, she says "Oh Seven Hells, child. You are telling me you never sucked your husband off?"

A few court ladies walking near turned their heads, going white as sheets, while you, on the contrary, take a nice purple shade.

"Oh, don't look at me like that, prissies. We all did it eventually." she dismisses them, waving a lazy hand, and looks back at you. "You should do it, if you wish. Men love it. Your uncle used to ask—"

"I don't want to hear that, auntie, I'm begging you." you say squinting your eyes.

"Listen to me, child. Men love to think they rule everything, everywhere. But it is not always like that. And if you want to rule your husband's heart, you must rule in his bed first."

That evening, Aemond wanted nothing more than to lock himself in his room with his wife and forget all the hateful political talk he had had to endure at dinner.

You had not attended, and that had bothered him. Never would he have thought of marriage as anything more than a duty, yet there he was, wondering where you were, who you were with, and why you weren't in his rooms when he set foot in there.

"Where is my wife?" he asks the maid, and she keeps her eyes glued to the floor, saying "The princess spent the evening in the library, your Grace. She told me that she would be—"

"I am here," you say, appearing behind the young maid.

You see his chest sag as if a weight is leaving him, and he casts an icy glance at the poor maid "Out."

He is rarely kind to servants, but you can tell by his tense shoulders that something is wrong.

"Aemond, what is the matter?" you ask as soon as the door closes, walking up to him with a hand behind your back.

"Where were you? Why weren't you at dinner?"

"I was in the library."

"For four hours?"

"It was a tough read—"

He grabs your arm, gripping hour wrist harshly, and you flinch. "Aemond, I swear to you.” you say watching his eye on fire and a sneer twisting his mouth “You can ask Maester Mellos." 

Suddenly he lets you go, and looks down, closing his eye for a moment. But he doesn't apologize, he never does, and not because he is a Prince. It's just the way he is. He doesn't apologize, he doesn't say thank you, he doesn't say please.

"Aemond, what's going on?"

"I don't want to talk about it now. In fact, never. Not here."

You watch him carefully, and you nod as he moves to pour wine into a cup. You watch him gobble it up greedily, which is unlike him. So, you get close and move your hand from behind your back and say, "Anyway, I wasn't lying. I really spent four hours in the library...trying to decipher this."

You show him an old book, and the title catches his eye, cup held in midair. "Tales of the Dragonlords?" he asks frowning. "This is in High Valyrian."

"It is." you confirm as you move closer, and you steal his cup before saying, "Would you read it to me?" and you take a sip, of wine and courage.

He watches the liquid flow down your throat and then accepts the invitation, taking the book—the one he has read so many times he can recite it by heart. He opens it to the first page, but you say "No. Page 72."

There is a slight imperative tone in your tone of voice, and it thrills him, given how his eye glints under the candlelight. He drops it on the table, looking at you from head to toe, and says, "I'll read it to you later, sweet wife."

He steps closer but you back away saying, "Fine, then. I'll tell you what I understood so you can correct me or not." and at the same moment your own hands go up on your corset and you start pulling on the laces.

The gesture catches his eye like a moth to a flame and he stays silent as you pull all the laces and then slip off your dress, remaining in your underskirt. His gaze roams over you slowly, and with a soft smirk, he decides to play the game.

“Page 72, you said. How Dragonlords claimed Dragons.”

“Yes.”

"And why did it capture your interest? Do you wish to do it? Do you wish to claim a dragon?"

"I wish to conquer, not claim."

He comes closer and looks at you, breathing through his nose, restraining, always restraining, and then he's raising his hand to reach a lock of your hair falling on your shoulder, but you stop him, air as heavy as moss.

"The Valyrian sages say a dragonlord must surrender himself completely to the dragon. But it works both ways. The dragon must submit his will to their rider."

He looks at you without blinking, and you take his arms, guiding him closer until you turn and push him lightly on the bed. He sits and you slowly climb on his lap, knees caging his hips, heart is pounding in your throat like a hammer. You hear him taking a swift breath and pride pools in your bones because for once you have caught him off guard.

You can feel his crotch hardening by the moment, but the look on his face is not one of hunger or lust. It is pure and blessed devotion.

You wonder at the view, and your eyes roam on his face until...

"Can I take it off?"

There's no need to say what. His face goes hard as stone, eye looking away with discomfort, with shame.

"Please, Aemond." you whisper. "I want to see all of you. I want you to bare yourself to me as I did to you."

"It is not pleasant."

"I don't want pleasantness. I want you."

He stares at you for an eternal moment and then he caves.

A flash of sparkling blue catches you completely and you can do nothing but watch with lips parted, while he keeps his eye down.

You wrap an arm around his shoulders and lean your head against his to breathe one single word in his ear. "Gevie."

His arms are all around you, holding you so tight you might gasp for air. Instead you are smiling, breathing through his long silver hair. You are not sure if you aunt is right, if love is indeed a choice. You can't bring yourself to care because you are doing it already.

And then he's kissing you, seizing your tongue with his in a fierce consuming way. He slightly hikes up your hips, and his hand tries to slide between your legs, but you lace your fingers around his wrist, breaking the kiss with panted breath.

"No." you whisper, and he looks at you almost questioningly, mouth open and chest heaving.

"Lykirī."

His eye widens and you smile, secretly. "I know what it means now."

He smirks at this and does not miss the chance to be the ever diligent scholar. "But you said it wrong. The R is hard."

“Lykirī.” You say again, following his lesson, and in the same moment your hand leaves his wrist and goes down to his breeches. He dips his chin to look at it, at your hands unsure, and he too looks unsure.

“You don’t have to—“

“I want to.” You say, and your voice comes out firm and clear. “Please, Aemond. Let me…let me touch you.”

He realizes now that in all the times you have been lying together, you never managed to lay a hand on him. He likes to keep people at distance. Too many wrong hands have been on him. The Maesters’, inspecting, debating, healing without healing. That whore, taking what it was not hers to take, not yet.

But he wants you to touch him. He has dreamed of it, in any way a man could dream of a woman’s touch.

He looks at you for a moment, chest rising slowly, and then, without taking his eye off you, he pulls the laces of his breeches and guides your hand around his cock. You look down, exhaling a long breath at feeling his hard and hot flesh already pulsing.

He knows you don’t know how to do it, so his hands guide you at first, going slowly up and down, and the air comes out of his mouth slowly and labored. You look up at him, his eye is pitch black, lid growing heavy with pleasure, and your core clenches, desire pools in your belly and flows down.

He must hear the call of your body, because he releases your hand, still stroking him, and goes right between your legs. You gasp loudly, and he hums, delight dripping from his voice just as you are dripping on his fingers. He starts to pump his fingers and you can do nothing but moan, clutching his shoulders with your free hand, the other still around his cock, but the act is growing lazy, your mind can’t focus properly on what you are supposed to do.

“Listen.” he orders you, fingers moving faster and faster, and you do listen. Your soaked flesh coming undone at his scorching touch. “Who else has you like this?”

But this is a question he’s asking himself. Because no one else will ever have him bare like this.

“You. Just you.” you say hoarsely, eyes closing and hips rocking on their own accord.

“And who am I?” he whispers just as hoarsely, and yet his voice is like a whip on all your senses.

“My husband.” you cry, feeling the wave ready to drown you “Ñuha zaldrīzes.” My dragon.

You cannot care less about how you said it, because then your mouth falls open, nails digging into his shoulder while your trembling hips keep riding his fingers, clenching them like a vice.

Your head falls onward, leaning against his forehead, and you try to catch your breath. You watch his wet fingers go straight into his mouth while he looks at you, humming with pleasure. “You look so pretty like this.” he says with the ghost of a smile on his lips “I should fuck you in Throne Room with the whole court watching, so they know how pretty you are when you come for me.”

You laugh with your cheeks flushing, and he slides an arm around you, and you know he wants to pin you down on the bed and fuck you until you are muffling nonsense in the pillow. But this is not his game. This is yours, and even if you don’t know how to play, you will win.

“No.” you say, climbing down from his lap, and he looks at you with hunger and a tinge of thrilling curiosity. “It is my turn to claim.” You say with all the bravery you possess.

Not a moment later, you are going down on your knees.

Another small victory, because his eye widens as he had never done before, and you can see that this, the sight of you on your knees before him, is something he has been craving for, even dreamed of it.

His breathing is slow, and you are not even touching him.

You place yourself between his knees and you lean closer and closer, anxiety twisting your insides, but you want to do this. “Lykirī, nuha zaldrīzes. Surrender.” you take him into your hand, tugging slowly, and your lips linger on the tip, heart pounding in your ears and eyes fixed on him. “Lykirī.” You say one last time and then you are swallowing him.

He hisses loudly and his lips part, hands clutching the covers until his knuckles go white. He’s like burning metal inside your mouth—hot and hard. At first, you just taste him, running your tongue over the head, and he’s cursing under his breath. His hands twitch on the covers, restraining and restraining, but there’s no need. You take his hand while looking at him and you release it from your mouth to say “Teach me.”

It’s like you have just poured fire on more fire. His eye goes wild, he takes hold of your head and starts to guide you again, making your mouth engulf him once more and deep down to the base and then up to the tip again, filling the room with a wet gagging sound. You get the gist of what you’re supposed to do, so your head starts going up and down and up and down, and he actually moans for you, head falling back for just a moment before looking back, he can’t help but watch as you fiercely claim him.

You watch his chest heaving fast and your jaw is starting to hurt but you don't care, you are too absorbed by the view before you. You are too thrilled by the fact that, for once, you have made him speechless.

He's always so bold in the bedroom, so cruel in deciding when and how to give pleasure, and now he's utterly speechless. He can only curse without breath, and gasp and groan.

“Kelītīs.” he manages to say at one point, voice all husky and cracking. You don’t know that word, and you have no time to ask because in a blink, he’s slamming you onto the bed and he’s hiking up your skirt, but you get on your elbows pushing him on his back and climbing on him.

“I’m not done, valzȳrys.” you say feeling his hard length inflaming your core, so you lay your hips on it as firmly as possible. “I claimed, but I did not conquer.”

“You are fucking torturing me.” he points out, bucking against you.

“Conquests could last for centuries, dear husband. You above all should know that.”

“All I know now is that I need to fuck you.” he says placing both hands on the sheets to pull himself up.

“No, I will.” you promise, rocking your hips once more “This is my conquest, not yours.”

You keep rubbing your drenched core on his length until a sheen of sweat glistens on his forehead, and he's so hard he's leaking from the tip. "You are twisted, wife." he says with a dazed tone and you smile even if you can't take it anymore, but you rock some more, saying "I'm a quick study. And I'm learning from the best."

Finally, when you are so wet you are dripping on him, you raise just enough to slide his cock inside of you.

You gasp together and you brace on his shoulders to start moving. You both know you are not going to last long, so you start rocking your hips slowly, taking him to the hilt until you struggle for air.

“Move…” he orders but you just take the opposite road, slowing your hips in a delicious torturing way. “Do you know what else the Sages said? A rider must know their mount, feel their heat below them.”

But Aemond does not have a single drop of blood in his head right now to give you an answer, let alone play your game; he's just fire that burns and burns and burns and just like the Sages said, you can feel his heat, burning below and inside you. He grips your hips and starts to thrust inside you like the wild beast you are supposedly claiming, until you are moaning so loud your throat hurts.

“Yes—” he growls as you bounce on him “Just like that—you’re gripping me so well—fuck"

You both turn sloppy, a mess of sweaty limbs and teeth biting, clutching at each other with bruising grips, pulling at the roots of his hair when you’re about to fall from the highest sky.

"Come on, my sweet girl. Let go for me." he breathes into your mouth, forcing you to move even faster "Let go fro your dragon. Seal your conquest." And you do.

He follows right after, spilling inside while digging his teeth into your neck like fangs on a prey, muffling his loud groaning.

And you are smiling like a fool, a lovestruck fool, but most of all, a conqueror. 

Thank you so much for reading!! 💞💞

[melancholymetropolis]

“Stop pretending that you hate me,” Stack said with a smug grin.

“I’m not pretending.”

I let the words fall upon his ears like a cracked glass on the floor. His face dropped. The smile was long gone and a look of pain flashed across it. Stack looked as though I shot him in the chest. A shaky breath fell from his lips as he flicked the cigarette bud from his fingertips. He closed the distance between us in three long strides. My back was pressed against the brick wall of the shop before I could blink. The pain on his face morphed into anger so hot it made his skin burn. 

“You don’t mean that,” he spat, looking me dead in the eye.

 Stack tried to make himself bigger, more intimidating. A lackluster attempt to scare me, but it hadn’t worked. Not only were we a few inches shy of the same height, but I could see right through him. I knew Stack before he was Stack. 

When he was just Elias.

“Y/N,” his voice was a warning. Danger in his tone, but it didn’t phase me. “Tell me you don’t mean that.”

“Get out of my way, Stack,” I said, in a low tone. A desperate attempt to hide the pain in my voice. The stitches of an old wound was beginning to reopen. “I have work to do.”

His eyes poured into me just used to. Filling my head with stupid assumptions that only left me heartbroken in the end. I thought about how he set my dislocated shoulder in place; it must've meant he liked me. How he acted as my left hand for weeks until the pain went away; that must've meant he cared about me. The way he hunted down the man who did it and made him pay… must've meant he loved me. Only me.

But, that wasn't the whole truth.

“So that's why you never replied to my letters,” Stack replied, eyes still searching my face. “Still angry about Mary, huh?”

I dared to stare back at him. My gaze like cold rain to his heated gaze. I refused to slip the mask and embarrass myself in public like she did. He wasn't worth that. Not anymore. Not after seven years. 

I was better than that.

“Not really,” I said with an air of indifference. “I was a little preoccupied to hold a grudge.”

As if summoned, a squeaky little voice cut through the tension. Making Stack freeze on impact. Something he hardly does.

“Mommy?”

My sweet baby girl tilted her little head up at us to assess the situation. Her deep brown eyes searched the potentially dangerous stranger before flicking back over to me, in a caged position. A look of irritation, or disgust briefly graced her face. She narrowed her eyes at Stack and crossed her arms against her chest. Madeline was not afraid of anything. She was always the kind of child to look danger in the eye and laugh.

"Is that ugly man bothering you?" She said, staring directly at Stack. "Should I call daddy?"

An orchestra of emotion appeared on Stack's face. He seem to be both deep in thought and confused at the same time. Like he working out something profound. It took him several seconds before he came to.

"How old are you?" He asked Madeline, jumping right into the conversation.

"I don't talk to strangers," she tilted her in defiance, earning a smile from me.

Good Girl.

Stack, then, turned back to me. A desperate look in his eye; silently asking me the same question. Though he couldn't bring himself to the vocalize it. A look a true fear and hope on his face.

I used his trembling expression to my advantage and slipped from his arms. I took Maddie's hand and steered her away him.

His eyes drilled into my back, but he didn't dare move a muscle. He couldn't. He didn't to make a scene, or worse, alert everyone else of an open secret.

My baby survived, while my cousin's, Annie, didn't.

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

a/n: watched sinners and I had to whip something up. let me know if you would like a part two! drop a comment if you would like to be on the taglist, if this becomes a series.

@lov4gor3

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

Part II

[herrenxenoberg]

Fandorm Showcase #27 - Fantasia

The rest of the Season 3 showcase will be a bit slow since I have to redesign the previously made fandorms before I get to post them. But trust me, I will get them done with the amount of free time I can get from my working weeks.

Introducing the melodious and dramatic dorm inspired by Fantasia...

Umbralis (Umbra = Latin for Shadow; Choralis = Latin for choral or orchestral)

This dorm is considered one of the most sacred and forbidden dorms according to the school's system, due to the fact it is formed under the inspiration of the mighty abyssal tyrant who has conquered Bald Mountain and has struck fear into those who have heard the story. The dorm members who were sorted into this dorm are rumored to have souls as black as the night sky, morals as corrupted as a blackened heart similar to the abyssal tyrant in legend, or so the rumor goes...

In actuality, this dorm focuses on mostly musical prowess and grace, using magic to create melodious symphonies and rhythms that captivate the world, diving into the history of classical music. Although students in this dorm are magically powerful, they choose to experience life at its fullest without their intense aura ruining the sensation.

"A dorm founded on the Abyssal Tyrant's spirit of finesse. Students in this dorm are skilled in all matters of magic, but they are kind-hearted souls who only wanted the simpler things in life."

Requirements and Traits:

Knowledgeable in all matters of magic (even the forbidden ones)

Well-versed in classical music and symphonic melodies

Have a sense for theatrics as well as a sophisticated front

What I did with the housewarden fit is that the coat tails would be magically link to the neural system, making them a second pair of wings depending on the preference, since the housewarden is a devil/fae. The wings can also fold into itself to form a cloak of sorts for the aesthetics. They also are required to wear a mask over their eyes as a symbol of respecting other's "well-beings".

Character Roster:

Do not be afraid, grace the powerful and graceful housewarden of Umbralis...

Samael Morbidus (Twisted off Chernabog)

A looming figure of eerie elegance, Samael Morbidus commands an undeniable presence wherever he goes. His piercing gaze, shadowy aura, and ethereal wings make even the bravest shudder in his wake. Whispers of superstition follow him—some say he is a bringer of nightmares, others believe he can summon spirits with a mere thought. However, despite his unsettling appearance, Samael is not the embodiment of malice many assume him to be.

In truth, he is deeply insightful and possesses an endless curiosity about the world around him. He observes everything with an almost detached fascination, intrigued by emotions, human nature, and the mysteries of magic. Samael enjoys philosophical discussions and often contemplates the balance between light and darkness, life and death. Though he mostly speaks through telepathy, his words carry weight, revealing a sharp mind and a poetic soul.

While he does not intentionally try to frighten others, he has long accepted that his mere existence unsettles people. He sometimes uses this to his advantage, making dramatic entrances or staring in silence just to see how others react. However, those who take the time to understand him will find a surprisingly gentle yet enigmatic individual, one who values knowledge and seeks meaning beyond surface-level interactions.

Notable Members:

Yisreal Mystium (Sophomore) - A relic of an age long past, a spell given form, forever seeking purpose in a world that may no longer require him. Though his demeanor is usually calm and refined, Yisreal has moments of playful mischief, a remnant of the enchantments that once made him a mere accessory to magical performances. (Twisted off Yen Sid's The Sorcerer's Hat from The Sorcerer's Apprentice segment)

Heaos Clamor (Junior) - A being of passion and poise, a living storm wrapped in an elegant facade, forever striding between chaos and control. He despises being underestimated and takes any challenge to his pride seriously, his sharp wit capable of cutting just as deep as his actions. (Twisted off Zeus and the Centaurs from the Pastoral Symphony segment)

Cragg Impact (???) - A cosmic anomaly, an ancient force given form, forever existing between the past, present, and an unknowable future. Despite his bizarre nature, Cragg is not malicious. He does not seek to harm, but his sheer power makes him unpredictable. (Twisted off The Rite of Spring segment, the concept of extinction and a meteor)

Next Up: Winnie The Pooh

[marixrose]

𝐃𝐨𝐧’𝐭 𝐆𝐨 — 𝐌𝐚𝐦𝐦𝐨𝐧

𝜗𝜚 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬!! | angst

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 • After spending countless days together in the Devildom, MC is finally being summoned back to the human world. Mammon, the ever-prideful demon, is forced to confront the one thing he’s always feared—losing her.

─────────୨ৎ─────────

I wasn’t ready.

No matter how many times I told myself this day would come, no matter how much I tried to prepare for it… I wasn’t ready.

The suitcase in front of me felt heavier than it should. I knew it wasn’t because of the things inside—it was because of what it meant. Packing meant leaving. Leaving meant saying goodbye.

I didn’t want to say goodbye.

A presence loomed behind me, silent but unmistakable. I didn’t need to turn around to know he was there.

Mammon.

He hadn’t said much since I started packing. Just stood there, arms crossed, back pressed against the doorframe. Watching. Brooding.

Hurting.

“Tch. Ya don’t need all that junk, do ya?” His voice came out rougher than usual, forced and brittle.

I swallowed the lump in my throat and tried to keep my voice steady. “Lucifer said I should bring whatever reminds me of my time here.”

Mammon scoffed. “What a load of crap. Like ya need some dumb trinkets to remember this place.”

I paused, glancing over my shoulder at him.

He wasn’t looking at me. His head was turned slightly to the side, eyes hidden beneath the messy strands of white hair that had always felt so soft between my fingers. His hands were shoved deep into his jacket pockets, shoulders tense.

I knew that posture.

It was the same one he had whenever he was trying to act like something didn’t bother him. Like he wasn’t affected.

But I could see through him now.

He was breaking.

“You’re right,” I murmured. “I don’t need anything to remind me.”

Because I already knew I would never forget.

Something in his expression flickered, but he didn’t say anything.

The silence was suffocating.

I clenched my fists, my nails digging into my palms as my vision blurred. I tried to hold it in, tried to be strong, but the dam cracked before I could stop it.

A tear slipped down my cheek.

“Mammon,” I whispered.

His head snapped up. His eyes widened, and for the first time, the mask he had been holding onto shattered completely.

“Oi… why the hell are ya cryin’?” His voice cracked, and it hurt more than anything else.

I wiped at my face, but it was useless. The tears kept coming. “Because I don’t want to go.”

Mammon’s whole body tensed. His throat bobbed, and for a brief second, he looked almost hopeful.

But we both knew the truth.

It wasn’t up to me.

The exchange program was ending. The Devildom was letting me go.

I took a shaky step forward. “Mammon, I—”

I didn’t get to finish.

He moved first, closing the distance between us in an instant. His arms wrapped around me, pulling me flush against him.

My breath caught.

He was shaking.

I squeezed my eyes shut and clung to him, burying my face in his chest, memorizing the way he felt, the way he smelled—like leather and something faintly sweet, like the wind before a storm.

He held me so tightly it almost hurt, but I didn’t care. I never wanted him to let go.

“Damn it, MC,” he muttered against my hair. “This ain’t fair.”

“I know,” I whispered.

His grip tightened. “You’re my human.”

My chest ached at the raw, broken way he said it, like he was trying to carve the words into reality so the universe wouldn’t take me away.

I pulled back just enough to see his face. His golden eyes were glassy, his lips trembling.

I reached up, cradling his face between my hands, brushing away the tears he didn’t even realize had fallen.

“I’ll find a way back to you,” I promised.

He shook his head, laughing weakly, bitterly. “That’s a stupid promise, dumbass.”

I wanted to argue, wanted to tell him I meant it, but before I could, the air around us shifted.

A golden glow began to form beneath my feet.

My stomach dropped.

It was happening.

“Mammon—!”

Panic shot through his eyes as he lunged forward, grabbing my wrists. “No. Not yet. Not like this.”

My body started to flicker, fading in and out like a dying flame. I reached for him, but my hands passed right through his.

No. No, no, no—

“Mammon!” I screamed, fighting against the magic pulling me away.

He tried to grab me again, his fingers grasping at empty air. “MC—!”

And then—

I was gone.

The last thing I saw was Mammon falling to his knees, hands shaking, his mouth opening in a silent, shattered cry.

And the last thing I heard—

Was my own heart breaking.

[bwabys-scenarios]

Thinking about Yandere!Kurapika discovering a new friend has a bit of a crush on him and using that to his full advantage. He asks to borrow your spare time and abilities, has you do little errands for him, and all he has to do to keep you happy and compliant is pat your head and tell you how good you did.

At first he finds you to just be a useful pawn, someone he can exploit and get rid of if necessary, it’s when he catches himself giving you more affection that necessary and actually enjoying spending time with you that he pauses.

You just finished a job for him, and you come back a little injured. Usually, he’d give you your head pat and hand you some cash to see a healer, but this time he’s panicking. Seeing you injured invokes some primal urge in him to protect you, and instead of the little head pat and soft praise you usually get, he scolds you.

“How reckless can you be!? Do you think the job is worth your life? Don’t you know how devastated I would be if you-“

Oh FUCK.

You sniffle and cry at his scolding, not used to him yelling at you. Usually he’s very soft, knowing that’s the best way to keep you obedient and happy, but now his own emotional attachment to you is causing him to falter. The facade he usually puts up for everyone is starting to crack, and you get a look under the mask.

He looks terrified, looking over your injuries while summoning his Holy Chain to heal you and relieve your pain. Once he’s done, you’re given strict orders to stick by his side while you recover.

He doesn’t send you on any dangerous jobs after this, in fact you find yourself stuck in his apartment hearing him go over his plans nearly every day. You like spending time with him, of course, but eventually you feel like a puppy on a leash.

“Kurapika, why can’t I go with the Melody and Leorio? My ability would be of use in-“

“Because it’s dangerous!”

This was the second time he ever yelled at you, making you flinch and look away. You didn’t like when he raised his voice, the blonde usually being soft spoken with you. “(Name)…”

He sighs, setting his cup of coffee down. “I told you before, didn’t I? Your help is needed here, not in the field. I need you by my side.”

Kurapika felt a little bad using your feelings for him to his own advantage now that he truly cared for you, but the way you blushed and leaned into his gently touch was enough to stave off his guilt.

“I’m just keeping you safe, (Name). You know that, right? I would never do anything to hurt you…”

Eventually he has you in the palm of his hand, keeping you attached to his hip at all times. You don’t eat, sleep, drink, or shower without him. The blonde hadn’t made any advances on you, even when the two of you showered together. “It’s safer this way, what if you were attacked in the nude?”

The truth was that he was getting clingy, more needy and paranoid by the day. The fear of losing you was making his already paranoid mind sick with worry any time you were out of his sight. He had lost almost every other important person in his life, Kurapika couldn’t stand living without you.

Your affection, the way you smiled when you looked at him, your love and loyalty, he loved it all. And with a little more pushing, he was eventually able to convince you to move in with him, even slipping a ring on your finger while confessing his feelings. It came out of left field, but you were too flustered and in love with him to say no.

It didn’t take long for talks of children and moving far away from anyone you knew began, and before you knew it the two of you were married and in a different country, your belly swelling with his child.

You were stuck with him now, and he was never letting you go. Kurapika can’t lose another person, especially not you.

[beneathsakurashade]

why did my favorite game turn into a dating sim? twst x gen reader (crack fic) CH 1: Bro got half a braincell

Intro CH:2 CH: 3

You were bored, like really bored.     So now you were sitting on the mattress that you called a bed while reading fanfics that hadn’t been touched by their authors after almost five years.  Scrolling absentmindedly through A03 you stumbled upon a new fic that somehow escaped your search.  It was titled 𝕋𝕨𝕤𝕥: 𝕋𝕙𝕖 𝔻𝕒𝕥𝕚𝕟𝕘 𝕊𝕚𝕞, in that font, just published mere minutes ago.  “Well, there’s nothing else that I want to read” you shrug and tap to open your newest discovery.  You’re greeted by a page that is blank, completely barren of words, “Is my wifi bad?” You mutter and reload the page. The page remains blank, “Wait no summary? No chapter title? Nothing?” You stare confused at your screen Did someone forget to write anything and just press post? you think attempting to exit out of the fic.  You feel nothing but a sudden fear as you shut your eyes and feel a rush of cold air and cobblestone as you hit the ground.  "Ow...the hell?" you cry and step up "Ah, good you're here!"

     An unfamiliar voice calls out and you hear someone walking over to you.  You look up to face a man wearing a bird-like mask and dressed in rich attire.  “And you are?” You ask unamused.  “I am Dire Crowley, headmage of Night Raven College!” He smiles “All I heard was that I’m a stranger and I brought you here” you retort.  “That is correct! I brought you here from your world for a once in a lifetime opportunity!” Not convinced you continue “If that once in a lifetime opportunity doesn’t include free food and housing I don’t want it-” Crowley interrupts your comment “Trust me, your food and housing will be completely covered! For I am so gracious! Now follow me, for I shall tell you why I brought you here on the way to my office”.  I don’t suppose that I have much of a choice… you think to yourself “Alright bird man, let’s get going”.  You follow this Dire Crowley through what appears to be a school, there’s people your age walking around in uniforms of various colors.  Some are holding textbooks, some are discussing yesterday’s homework and some are using their movement time to nap on the benches. 

You both arrive at his office and he opens the door, you sit yourself down at the chair in front of his desk.  “Now explain why I’m here” You start and watch as he summons papers into his hand and places them on his desk.  “You are to be part of a special program here at Night Raven College, a program which includes teaching our students about the married life.  If they so desire to partake in it later in life” Crowley explains.  You nod and pause “Wait…so what does teaching your students about being married have to do with me?” inwardly you think Okay...this is definitely not the NRC I'm used to, there's no such thing as a marriage program.  He explains further “Well you see, I have contacted your siblings, and they say that this experiment would do good for you! So this is a win win situation for us yes?” nodding slowly you pause and mutter "Wait...why does this feel familiar?"  Stiffening you realize that you were summoned into the world of Twisted Wonderland, right in the middle of Night Raven College, a school full of cute guys...and a deadbeat principal...

    You gaze at the first page in the small stack that you were given, at the top there’s a section for your basic info.  Filling the first page out you flip over to the back, there are a few more basic questions, like what’s your best subject, your hobbies, and your likes and dislikes.  After filling out the first page you turn to the second, which has information about a young man named Riddle Rosehearts, there’s no photo set for either of you.  You knew a lot about Riddle, Twisted Wonderland was your current hyperfixation, so you knew damn well about everything for every character, you could probably be like Azul and blackmail everyone at school with the dirt you had on them.  Still, it was strange having their info presented to you on a sheet of paper, you usually used the wiki to get your info, wait...what if you get your own twst wiki page?  What if someone is studying your page like you studied your favorite boys'?  Shuddering at the thought you look through the what was written on the pages, Age 20...wait wasn't he seventeen in the original game? Is this an au or something? Birthday is August 24th, homeland is Queendom of Roses, man I wish my homeland was called that tbh... Best subject is practical magic…whatever that is.  He’s in the Equestrian club, righttt, I forgot that NRC is a rich kid school, ain't no way my school has the budget for horses.  Ughhh my sister was a horse girl, I do not wanna handle more seasons of Heartland.  Hobby is hedgehog tending? That sounds awfully cute, bro better share them hedgehog tending responsibilities.  Pet peeve is rulebreaking? I mean it depends I guess, like some rules are dumb, and some aren’t so… Favorite food is strawberry tarts, sounds yummy, least fave food is junk food, oop bro is gonna hate my fave foods.  Talent is being fast at solving crossword puzzles? Mine is probably being fast at Fruit Ninja-. 

Crowley snaps and breaks you out of your thoughts, “So what do you think of your first partner Mx. L/N?” you try to keep as calm as possible (as one can when they get the news that they're going to be marrying a character from their favorite game) and cough.  "He seems interesting, so when do I get to meet him?”     “Quite soon Mx. L/N, after school today you both will meet.  Then tomorrow you will both attend classes together, and share a dorm room”.  “You want me to share a room with a stranger?” “Fear not Mx. L/N, there will be separate beds, and our students are very respectful.  If anything arises please report to Mr. Crewel, he will deal with such things swiftly”.  "Sure whatever you say..." you mutter and ask what happens now, trying to meet Riddle as soon as possible.  You walk alongside Crowley as he leads you to an empty classroom with a single student inside.  Sitting down at a desk with his head buried deep within a book, the only thing that you can see is two strands of strawberry red hair.  Sits the familiar sight of a particular rule obsessed student.  “Uh, Riddle, right?” You peep up and he looks up at you “Oh hello, you must be the student that the Headmage told me about” you nod in response.  “Yea I am, so uh…what do we do now?” You look behind you and notice that Crowley is gone, “Did he just leave? Bruh, guys always do this…” you remark sighing.  "Shall we introduce each other properly?" Riddle suggests and you shrug.  He stands up from his seat "My name is Riddle Rosehearts, Housewarden of Heartslabyul, it is an honor to meet you.  I do hope that our partnership shall be enjoyable".  You smile "I'm Y/N L/N, uhhh, an average college student.  It's nice to meet you".  

A/N: guys this is a cringey I know lol, this is basically for me to practice my writing. also fun fact the chapter titles r from wattpad comments. ok I'll go now bye :>

[whereisyourstar]

Yes. Promise.

Part 3 of the Stand By, Hold Back, Be Patient series

Part 2, Part 4

Rating: SFW

Word Count: 4.4k

Warnings: Descriptions of blood, fear, mentions of past animal abuse/neglect, heavy handed dream imagery

(Take all ASL represented with a grain of salt, I'm the furthest thing from an expert)

He reacts as you'd expect, which is to say he doesn't. Just stands there between two trunks and stares. Like yesterday, when you left him in your rearview mirror, you see the details of him so clearly. At this distance, you wish you couldn't. He's dressed the same as before, the clothes rumpled from use and too few washings, and the mask is ever-present, but you can see the stains too easily. Old, dried blood on his gloves, and matching splashes of it on his sleeves, in spots around his stomach. What you can see of his pant legs tells the same story—these clothes have seen a lot of killing. There's also dirt and stains you don't dare give a name to, but the fact that he doesn't wash his murder outfit is less upsetting than the fact that he has one.

You'd closed your eyes when you washed your hands last night, scrubbing at whatever encrusted filth was left behind from the machete's grip until your skin was raw. That same grip catches your eye from its place on his belt, dark and obviously rusty brown even from this distance. So it was blood. You know that now. It doesn't help abate the overall sense of unease.

But you're not dead twice over now, hopefully three by the time you get to make good on your plan to scurry inside. And, though you're still paralyzed with fear, with that dread of anything can happen right now, your researcher brain is tired of having questions with no answers. Why are you not dead.

You're summoning the courage to just say it when Jason slowly lifts his arm, bends it at the elbow, and snaps his fingers at you. The actual snap is deadened by his glove, but the motion is unmistakably…a fucking snap. You just stare at him—is he trying to, what, set you on fire with his mind? Trying to beckon you to him? Because one is slightly more plausible than you would have thought a month ago, and the other is never going to happen. You stay exactly where you are and watch as he purposefully drops his arm, then lifts, levers the elbow, and snaps all over again.

Something in your brain stirs at the movement, forcing a connection between what's on the other side of the door and the man in front of you.

"Dog?" you ask, quiet even to your own ears.

He nods with that same deliberate slowness.

"Oh my god," you whisper and press the entirety of your back against the door, more for support than outright fear. That's ASL, that's language. From him. And obviously he understands speech, else he would have just killed you and Heracles on the porch that night, but you assumed the lack of communication was just…part of the silent, scary murderer shtick. If there's one sign, then there can be others, and while your sign isn't great—and out of date besides, you have no idea how much of the language is still kicking around in your brain from the singular class you took in high school—maybe there's something you can do with this. The chance is worth it when you lift your hands and haltingly sign while you say, "Yes or no, you're Jason Voorhees."

The mask tilts to the side and god he really is too close, just a dozen or so feet away, then he lifts his hand and signs yes.

Okay. Well. You'd already been pretty sure you were dealing with a Jason, but the confirmation doesn't hurt. And you've learned something, he either had yes and no in his sign arsenal already, or he's understanding the connection between what you're saying and what you're doing with your hands. Good information, solid information, and now…now you can have a conversation. "You're the one, um. Killing people? Around here?" Another yes, so drawn out that it borders on parody. You know how fast he can be, you've experienced that firsthand, so you don't understand this reticence today. Is this just how he acts when he's not immediately focused on murdering? "Are you the only one? Doing the—the killings, since the 80s?"

The question confuses him—you watch his shoulders heave around a breath. But he does, after thirty seconds that stretch for an eternity to you, eventually sign yes.

That means that the man in front of you is either well into his seventies, and you've certainly never known a retirement age man to feel that solid, or the ghost/undead/phantasm theory has more credit than you thought. If he's even telling the truth. It's not like he has any reason not to lie to you.

You're not breathing correctly and you realize your fingers are completely numb. If you didn't have the door to hold you up, you know you'd be a trembling pile by now. This is—it defies thorough explanation, because you're curious, and mystified, and a little grateful to have your questions answered in any capacity, but mostly you're just scared. This is real, this hell week has been real, and it's not going away. Your foot crinkles the plastic of one of the bags as it tries to hold your failing balance and you remember. A glance to the right, loath as you are to take your eyes off him for even a second, and you see your truck, left unlocked and open in your flight last night, now closed. Seemingly untouched otherwise, which is…

You crouch for a second, eyes forward once again, and scoop the bags off the gravel of your walkway. They feel just as heavy as they did last night. "This was you?" You indicate the bags and remember your wild swing with them too late. As ineffectual as that hit had been, what if he sees this as you arming yourself? He hasn't touched any of his weapons—not that he'd need them if he wanted to harm you, you have the bruises to prove that—and maybe that's the point of the slowness. To lull you into a false sense of security before he uses all that speed and mass to crush you? But then it comes back to you being laughably easy to kill, he doesn't need tricks. If you're certain of anything, it's that if he wanted you dead right now, you would be.

Immune to the panic in your mind, Jason just signs yes. You don't know who else would have done it—some helpful stranger in the night, which is improbable, but not as much as it was before this week started—but again, it's good to have confirmation. It's hard to bite down on your instinctive why, to demand an explanation. You remind yourself to stick to yes or no questions, this needs to be as simple as possible to be effective. You've been signing every question you ask verbally, going so far as to fingerspell Jason's name, but he doesn't appear to have picked up anything else.

"Thank you," you tell him, and saying it is so normal that you almost apologize for hitting him next. The trees past your walkway, technically still a "yard", look different in the golden daylight, but that machete gouge is still there in a nearby trunk. Then, the question you most immediately need an answer to: "Are you going to kill me?"

The risk is somewhat calculated. You're the one with the ability to put a door between you and this man-ghost-creature, and whatever else he's capable of, there's no way he's getting through the solid oak, so if he reacts badly to the question…you have a decent chance of getting away.

Yes, Jason signs, then no. Unhurried in every motion. He hasn't moved an inch this whole time.

Your mouth is suddenly very dry. "Maybe? Or…you don't know."

Yes. Then, blindingly fast after the sedate pace he's set, he signs again: Dog. He's clearly running out of patience with your questions, the sound of his breathing filling the space between the two of you. Considering his answer to the last one, his patience is something you don't want to run out of, so you have to acquiesce.

"Heracles." This is fingerspelled too—creating a sign name on the fly after years of absence from the language is not a task you're up to. "My dog, Heracles. Yes?" Jason nods for this one and, horribly, steps forward.

It's a single step, but your heart leaps to your throat and sticks there. Your flinch back knocks the bags against the door and you hear Heracles, who up to this point has been perfectly patient, bark on the other side of it.

"Wait," you instruct, and goddamn if it doesn't work a second time. You're more forceful with this one, less of a screech and more of an order, which feels like it could have broken very badly for you. Every decision you've made thus far feels like it's on a knife's edge—you've just been incredibly lucky to this point, but now you think you know what he's after. That makes a difference.

Jason obeys. He doesn't move at all, you don't even think he's breathing. You can use that. With your hand pressed to the doorknob, you say, "You can see him, I'll let him come out. But only if you promise me that you won't hurt him." And you make the sign for promise, finger to the lips, then down flat on your fist. Jason watches the movement closely, you catch his mask dip down a touch to better view your hands—which in turn makes you realize that he's been staring mostly at your face—before he slowly mimics it. Yes. Promise.

What's the promise of a murderer mean to you? What should it mean? Probably less than it actually does to you. Because he spared Heracles' life in that first encounter, then saved him from the forest—regardless of your intention—to bring back to you. And Heracles, brave, terrified Heracles, had been more or less fine with him at the end there.

So you open the door and take your eyes off Jason for a second time to beckon your boy outside. His too-small eyes in his over-large head are so full of trust when he looks up at you, tail wagging at both the sound of your voice and your nervous smile down to him. "Come on, baby, come outside. Good boy, good—oh!"

Heracles unceremoniously shoves past your legs and bounds over to Jason without a care in the world. His tail is high and wagging, ears pricked up, and some honest to god pep in his step. You're left to just stand there and watch while Jason folds himself down to one knee on the forest floor and runs an affectionate, filthy glove over Heracles' back.

It is, frankly, the strangest, most confusing, and nicest thing you've ever seen. Heracles has always been perfectly affectionate with you from the get go—you'd had his head in your lap within a minute of visiting him at the shelter, his bandaged tail steadily thumping. It had been a shock when this sweet dog lifted that heavy head to growl savagely at a male shelter worker who happened to pass by, even with the warning you'd had about his history. You knew he could like men, he'd stopped growling at one of your roommate's partners just before the two of you left the city for good, but you'd never seen him like this. Wriggling happily while this stranger who, you cannot stress this enough, has been seconds from killing you twice now thunks his sides with massive pats.

It feels stupid to think it, because Heracles is a dog and not a rational judge of character, but Jason can't be completely, senselessly evil if Heracles likes him this much.

"I've never seen him like this with a stranger before," you say. You've moved closer without realizing, now about half a foot away from your open door. Jason's mask tilts up when you speak and watches your hands. "Sorry, I'm trying to understand, but—he was terrified of you last night. What happened in the woods when you went after him?"

Jason doesn't answer you with sign, which gives you a better idea of how much he actually knows. Instead, with that same deliberateness he doesn't seem to need to use with Heracles, he takes the cuff of his leftmost glove and pulls it down to expose a pale wrist. He presents the wrist to Heracles, who sniffs with such abandon that it makes you laugh a little. The mask snaps back up and it takes all the nerve you have left not to jump.

"Well," you start, a little unsteadily, "the method clearly works."

You watch the two of them for a few minutes and, against your will, you start to feel…secure. Jason's downright playful with Heracles, constantly patting him and letting himself be subjected to a happy dog's lack of personal space. Even when Heracles plants his paws in the middle of Jason's chest and jams his nose against the mask, which makes you nervous, because the first rule of someone having a mask is to not touch the mask, all Jason does is hold very still for inspection. All's clear, apparently, because the final sniff is punctuated with a huge, goofy dog smile that makes your overtaxed heart thump in a nice way for once.

Eventually Heracles gets bored of Jason's scent and comes back to you. You drop to your knees for him, don't even think about it, because his presence is perpetually comforting and you could really use some comfort right now. There's definitely a smell to him now, the faintest stench of old blood and fresh air on his fur that isn't as terrible as it should be. You try not to think about it as you scratch your nails over that spot he likes and give him a peck between the eyes.

Heracles doesn't react to Jason moving with near-silent steps to follow, eyeing you the entire time like you're the dangerous one here, so you don't either. With Jason crouched behind Heracles, and you sitting on your knees before him, you're both in a kind of neutral territory. You're not about to tell Jason to leave, and he can't kill you—you hope—with your dog right here. "He is such a little mama's boy," you say by way of explanation. "But you can keep petting him, if you want."

It's heaven for a dog. Two people, four hands, and nearly uninterrupted attention. After barely a minute of silent, dutiful petting between the two of you, Heracles flops down onto his side and just basks.

"Greedy little thing, isn't he?" All affection in the way you say it, punctuated by his tongue lolling out into your lap while you rub his ear. "He deserves it, though. He's had a hard life." You catch the mask glancing your way in your upper peripheral and you rush to explain. "I don't know all the details, only what the people at the shelter back in the city could tell me, but he was…really badly abused before they picked him up. His last owner, or whoever, clearly neglected him…you might have seen it, he's missing some teeth. And his tail's a little crooked from where they snapped it. Right—yeah, right there." Jason's glove hovers above Heracles' tail and stops midway, where there will forever be a bump. It's strangely satisfying to see that giant hand curl into a fist when you confirm the spot. That's how you feel about it too. "He's nervous around strangers now—" no need to upset him by singling out men in particular, just in case "—which is partly why I brought him out here with me. No neighbors, present company excluded."

Before you can worry about that being taken the wrong wrong way, you look up and realize that Jason's already staring at you. He's hunched over to pet Heracles and even from this vantage he's just big. Big hands, big shoulders, big presence. This close, and with the unclouded sun up high, you're treated to a few snap observations. He's obviously bald where the mask can't hide and every inch of visible skin is suntanned, but not in the way you've known people who work outside to tan—there's a dullness to his skin that makes you think of death, some primal human pattern recognition in your subconscious noticing the wrongness of him. Nothing with skin like that should be moving, you're sure. More than that, there's something different about the actual shape of his skull itself that the mask's straps exacerbate, but that isn't what makes your breath catch in your throat.

You can see directly through the eyeholes of the mask and are struck by an alert, richly brown eye and its sagging, paler sibling. All the usual micromovements of the brown eye are not mirrored by the other and your brain supplies several unbidden theories—birth defect, blinded by a victim, price of living this long.

You know you've stared back at him for too long when his breathing starts to grow louder, the sound of it rattling out from behind the mask, and you barely have a moment to remember to be scared when he signs you.

Heracles makes a displeased whine at the lack of attention and flips all the way onto his back, hind legs kicking until Jason finally puts a giant palm on the offered belly and starts to rub. The sound of Heracles' tail thumping against his leg pulls you back to yourself. "Me?" He nods, doesn't look away. "What about me?"

Dog, yes, he signs. Then, a more forcefully pointed finger: You.

If you survive this day, you vow to teach him question words. Guessing, or just the stress of the last twenty minutes, is giving you a headache. Forcing connections again, you try, "You…want to know why I'm here? Living here?" Another nod, and he could at least look a little gratified that you're catching on to his thinking like this. You have to look away, back down to Heracles and his blissed out face in your lap, to answer. "Same reason, I guess. I'm not as good with people as I used to be, and it's…quiet here. The quiet's nice."

It's the right thing to say, you know as soon as Jason starts to nod, unprompted by a question for the first time. And oh if that doesn't give you an idea, and the idea is emboldened to action by the way Jason has been putting up with Heracles' tail surely thumping a bruise against his leg. "I want to ask you something," you start, sure of yourself for the first time all day. "You don't have to say yes or no right away, definitely take time to think on it, especially if you plan on, uh, letting me live through the night. But I have an opportunity that I don't think many people get when they come to this area. That is, I want to ask if you'll allow us to live here. Heracles and I." The lack of immediate reaction gives you a chance to push your case as far as it can be pushed. "All he wants is room to roam, and all I want is to be away from the world, which I think���is what you want too. You'd probably prefer not to have neighbors, but we'd be good ones. Promise. And," the clincher, the real point of it all, "Heracles really likes you. And I think you like him."

Your sweet, boxy dog chooses that moment to snore, alerting you both to the fact that you've pet him into complete contentment. This means you have a close, personal view of Jason's eye widening when he returns his attention to Heracles, his hand beyond gentle on the sleeping dog's belly.

Then Jason stands in one smooth movement and uses every inch of his height to loom over you. Fast, faster than you expected, catching you off guard despite having already been looking at him. His breaths fall heavy, heavier than they've been all day, and when he touches the handle of his machete you think, Oh, he's still going to kill me. How quickly you allowed yourself to feel safe with Heracles here, how quick you were to conflate Heracles' protection with your own.

He points like he's stabbing the air. First at you, then at Heracles, then at the house at your back. He nods. Lifts the machete an inch out of its sheath, enough for the steel to gleam, and points at you again. Signs no. Then, deliberately staring you down, signs yes-no. Maybe. The implication is clear—stay here, keep your promise, and he won't kill you. Whether that's a probationary decision or the way you just have to live your life now is unclear, but it's a hell of a lot more than you were expecting out of this day. As far as dealings with landlords go, you've had worse.

Then he's gone. Just turns on his heel and stalks back into the woods without a second glance. You're left with your mouth hanging open, completely struck.

You do, eventually, keep the plan and scurry back inside. It becomes clear Jason's not coming back when Heracles snorts himself awake, sniffs the air, and trots into the house of his own accord. So you follow him in, close the door gently behind you, turn the lock, and just…breathe. Long, uninterrupted inhales and exhales until they stop shuddering on the end.

"You're all right," you say to the silence of your home. Then, to Heracles: "I owe you one."

You owe him more than one, which is why you put chicken on your grocery list and underline it twice. Putting your bank account into the red to get your boy, who just saved your life for the foreseeable future with his ability to charm murderers, a treat is more than fair. Your paycheck will be hitting soon, signaling the end of the month and the oncoming loveliness of full spring, so the nasty email you'll get from the bank is worth it. As if you'd be scared of an email after the week you've had.

Vowing to do some work when you return, and after checking with the store in town that dogs are allowed—you can't bring yourself to hate that you're the kind of person that brings your dog everywhere now that your dog is a literal murder deterrent—you harness Heracles up and step outside. The two of you walk to the truck, and save for a moth that found its way inside when the door was open last night, you're uninterrupted as you coax the engine to life.

No figures in the rearview. No growling from Heracles while the trees steadily thin out until there's actual road, not just dirt, under your tires. And where town has always been more or less safe, if more crowded than you'd like after acclimating so naturally to isolation, the eyes of passerby feels heavier than before. Like they can see the deal you've struck with the beast that murders their friends, their neighbors, and you've been tainted for it. That's entirely in your head, you know, but it doesn't stop you from wanting to explain that you're not actually glad to have an understanding with a serial killer. It's still a relief to get back in your truck and know that you don't have to be back for at least a few days.

The forest accepts you back, and it feels different too. The trees press in just as much, scratch the side of your truck with their errant limbs, but there's no sinister edge to it. In the orangey afternoon light, the birches and oaks and trees too old for you to name, look golden.

You're back in the house, knife unstrapped and tucked away, and unpacking the groceries when you realize you're half-planning what cassettes you're going to get for the truck when the paycheck comes in. You like Joan Baez as much as the next person, and though one album over and over is getting old, that's not what stops you. It's the promise of having a tomorrow that does it—that you're planning for it, and the tomorrows after, in your own small way. It's how you realize that you believe Jason.

That night, when your eyes are too tired to squint at your computer screen any longer, you perform your usual lock checks. Your face gets washed, you change into whatever's comfortable and clean enough to sleep in, and you pull back the sheets on your bed. Heracles, ever your stalwart companion, spreads into the space with an appreciative sigh. After so long cramped onto the sofa with you, you suppose he's earned the right to take up more room on the king mattress than you do.

Sleep comes in waves over you. With heavy snores somewhere near your mid-back, and a light wind sighing through the trees outside your shaded and curtained window, you drift off without fear. When you dream, it is of turbulent water stretched far past the horizon, and a small boat in the middle of it. Angry waves crash in every direction except for where the boat touches, its simple, unpainted wood reflected in a circle of smooth water. A hand reaches lazily into the water and skims the surface, unafraid.

You scoff at yourself in the morning, rubbing sleep out of your eyes and replaying the dream in your head. You don't even like water, the ponds and creeks you grew up with held little except the promise of mosquitoes and alligators, so you're not sure what your subconscious is trying to tell you with this one. Still, it stays with you all through the morning routine, and as you sit down to get to work, you silently open a document and type out the scene as clearly as you remember it. Just to exorcise it from your brain, you tell yourself, but you save it to a new folder called Am I losing it. Just in case.

[xerith-42]

Another request (if that’s okay)!! Jeffory and Zane convo pre death 🫶

Send in as many as you like, I keep having fun writing them!!

This one is actually a Canon convo that we never saw but I think about a concerning about!

"You summoned me, Lord Zane?" Jeffory asked as he entered Zane’s library.

"I did. Come, take a seat," Zane ordered, gesturing to his desk at the window. Jeffory took his spot as Zane took his own, lowering his mask to take a sip of tea. "I have an assignment for you."

"W-With all due respect, I just returned from my last assignment and--" A quick icy glare from Zane shut him up. "R-Right. What's the assignment?"

"Katelyn the Fire Fist has fallen ill. She's currently resting in our guest rooms."

"Is she... going to be alright?"

"She should be fine. My mother is seeing to her health. Don't concern yourself with that."

"Of course. What's my assignment?"

"Your assignment is her assignment. She told me that she didn't trust anyone else enough to handle it." Jeffory tried to hide the way his hands became shaky at that admission. Katelyn trusted him. What a simple notion to make him so flustered his heart would skip a beat.

"I will gladly take on this mission."

"Good." Zane slid a paper across the table, but Jeffory knew how he operated. He didn't need to read its contents until Zane was done talking to him. "You're to report to Pikoro. Lord Burt of Brightport should already be there by the time you make it."

"What does Lord Burt have to do with it?"

"I have reason to suspect he and Lord Luke are conspiring against O'Khasis." Jeffory's hands tensed. "I want you to ensure that this isn't the case."

"Understood."

"And, if you do find that's what they're doing, I want you to take some... preventative measures."

"What measures?" Zane gestured to the paper in front of him.

"It's all detailed there. But if you must hear it, we can't have lords who are trying to usurp my power. If you find that's what they're doing, you are to take them to the catacombs beneath Pikoro and enact a ritual upon them." Jeffory hesitantly reached forward to grab the paper, too scared to ask aloud what ritual he would be doing. But he had his suspicions, and they were confirmed with two words he read. Shadow Knight.

"Lord Zane, forgive me if this is out of line, but isn't this a bit far for a punishment of conspiracy? Would a trial not be more fitting?" Zane raised an eyebrow, before folding his hands on the table and leaning forward.

"Unfortunately, the time for bureaucracy is behind us. Things are moving fast in the world, and I can't have my plans halted by something as trivial as that." He did a once over of Jeffory, seeing the tell tale look of fear in his eyes. "Need I remind you what's at stake if you fail to comply with my orders?" Instantly, Jeffory's posture straightened, and he got a hold of his shaky nerves.

"No, Lord Zane. I will do what I must."

"Good. You are dismissed."

[jumpywhumpywriter]

Villains and Vampires part 36

Warnings: mind control & forced obedience, forced self-harm

>Alex and Mallory<

Mallory was hyper-aware of his surroundings as he and Alex were marched out of the prison room. His trembling hands betrayed his fear, but he kept his face carefully blank, mimicking Alex's vacant expression to mime being fully under Superhero's control.

He squinted at the bright artificial light that scorched his eyes when he was brought into a well-lit room, coming face to face with--

By all the stars in the galaxy. Mallory cursed up a storm mentally -- because standing before him, were two dozen other vampires, all with the same absent look Alex had, some worse off than others, with varying degrees of cloudiness in their eyes.

But none of them were completely lucid -- that much was clear.

Mallory must have accidently let the horror slide into his expression, because in his peripheral vision he caught Superhero frowning at him.

He was quick to correct himself, forcing his features to relax again, and though Superhero still eyed him suspiciously, the mindbender soon turned his attention elsewhere, to his relief.

Mallory could see sweat beading on Superhero's clammy skin -- holding so many minds hostage at once must be taxing on his strength.

He made sure to note that sliver of information and tuck it safely away in his mind for later use in case he'd found a potential weakness to exploit.

He'd long since figured out that all of the vampires surrounding him were the exact rogue clan the vampire hunters had been trying to find and disband before they turned into a real threat. Superhero just found them first, apparently.

With a bored flick of Superhero's hand, one of the rogue vampires stepped forward, a slender man with raven-black hair and sharp jawline.

"Vesper," Superhero acknowledged, "status update?"

"The one you're having me track is at 'Cops and Coffee' on 34th street," the vampire answered flatly, his deep voice monotone and devoid of all emotion. It was creepy.

"And are the other two there as well?"

"Yes. Fire girl and shadow-guy."

Superhero's nostrils flared, eyes dark with murderous rage and bloodlust, before a mask of practiced calm slipped into place over it.

"I need to lure them out onto my own home turf," he muttered, talking to himself. "Pick a place suitable for ambush.” He began pacing, brows knitted thoughtfully. He eventually straightened, dawning realization and relief slackening his features. "I know the perfect place."

Superhero snapped his fingers in the air like a master summoning his dogs, and all the vampires moved in sync to follow him and he spun and stalked toward a door to his left.

Mallory shivered uneasily as he fell into step beside Alex, sticking close to him as the other vampires clustered around them in a crowded horde to file out. The whole way his head spun with a million questions and worried thoughts.

Because -- Anisa. Vesper had been tracking Anisa. How was that even possible?!? Superhero was five -- no, twenty steps ahead if he'd managed to send a spy after Anisa without her noticing.

He had a bad, bad feeling about what the near future held.

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

Superhero was strategic about moving the band of vampires through the city. It was dark out, so none of them would get burned, but he still made them stick close to the shadows for cover.

Mallory had no idea where he was being taken -- he focused on memorizing his surroundings and key details that might help him escape later.

Until he spotted a sign that read 'Cops and Coffee'.

His unbeating heart plummeted all the way to his feet. Vesper had said Anisa was there. She was so close -- and had no idea he was out here.

Mallory wanted to scream, to warn her of the coming danger, but he held his tongue. Superhero could kill him in an instant as soon as he realized his mind was free, unlike the other vampires he was controlling. It was a huge risk to reveal his secret right now. He had to play it smart, pick his moment to act very, very carefully.

He wasn't mentally ready when Superhero turned to him, pressing a – knife? – into his palm?!

“Cut your arm,” Superhero hissed quietly, and Mallory obeyed, opening a shallow slice into his skin and fighting back a wince as the night air stung the wound. But why was Superhero asking him to–

“Mark that wall with your blood.” Superhero jerked his chin to the brick wall of the alley they were all hiding in.

And then it finally clicked.

He was laying a baited scent trail for Anisa to pick up on and follow, inevitably bringing whoever the fire girl and shadow-guy Vesper had spoken of along with her – straight into a trap.

Anisa was smart, but she might genuinely fall for it – her worry for Alex and Mallory's safety could make her blind to the open danger awaiting her.

Mallory steeled his nerves, opening his mouth to scream and alert Anisa and whoever she was with to his presence–

–but no sound came out. He was voiceless, and Superhero was wearing a smug smirk. The sadistic prick wagged his finger like a parent scolding a child.

“Gutsy move, I'll give you that much,” Superhero chuckled low in his throat. “You didn't think I wouldn't notice you're more resistant to my influence than the others? You're terrible at hiding it.” He flashed Mallory a charming smile dripping with malicious venom, gesturing to the wall.

“Mark it. Right now.”

Mallory swallowed hard, pupils dilated with fear and helplessness as he brought his arm up to the brick and wiped a small smear of his blood on it, not of his own volition.

“Good boy,” Superhero cooed mockingly, spinning on his heel. “Follow.”

And Mallory had no choice but to listen as Superhero's control wrapped around his limbs and forced them into motion, dragging him further and further away from Anisa alongside the rest of the vampires.

He let out a defeated sigh, frustration building in his chest at his own failure. There would be another opportunity in the future, he hoped, to break free of the mind control. And he wouldn't hesitate to pounce on it.

And THEN… Superhero would suffer.

⏪️ Back Next ⏩️

Masterlist

@scoundrelwithboba @lumpofsand @isikedmyself878 @iamheretohurt @fleur-a-whump

@ay5ksal @otterfrost @sausages-things @togzy @whump-till-ya-jump

@cravesunconditionallove @whumpwritinglover222

@nevermore-ramblings @mj-or-say10

@morning-star-whump @f1sh-bone @everynameistakencarrots @snaillamp

[minirigby]

"The Final Voyage"

Tales from Turaga Ventax, Volume 2, “The Final Voyage”

Following the events of our last entry, after my assistant Kopeke returned home safely with the artifact I had sent him to retrieve, we quickly set to work examining the tablet, and recording as much of its contents as we could. After many weeks of transcribing and deciphering the notes and shorthand covering the stone tablet, I am pleased to write that finally, after being lost for more than a thousand years, the last written record of Kodan, Chronicler of Metru Nui, has been recovered.

It won't surprise most who were familiar with the Chronicler to know that the final topic of Kodan's research was in fact one of the Toa Mangai themselves, but I do at least hope that this record can provide some much needed closure for those of us who knew those featured in the account, and have spent the last millennium waiting for the answers enclosed within.

As you can imagine, the record begins in Metru Nui itself, after three of the Toa Mangai had been summoned for a seemingly mundane mission by the city's Turaga…

Kodan entered the room quietly, stone tablet in hand, so as not to disturb the conversation already in progress. Turaga Dume, leader of Metru Nui, sat behind his desk addressing the three Toa in front of him with the details of their latest mission.

"So why exactly are we closing the Sea Gates?" Valtruu, Toa of Ice, spoke up.

"I fear the Dark Hunters are growing bolder by the day" Dume said, getting up from his seat and walking out in front of his desk. "If something isn't done to fortify Metru Nui soon, they will doubtless take advantage and try to make the first move. We wouldn't want another war in our great city, now would we?" the Turaga said.

"I s'pose that makes sense, but why not just have the Vahki do it?" Valtruu countered.

Kanae, Toa of Plantlife, let out a scoff. "Those machines can't find their way to a charging port without methodical instruction" he said, before Dume raised his hand to interrupt the Toa.

"They already tried" he said, tossing a scrap of Vahki armor onto his desk for the room to see, "it seems they met some resistance".

Motara, the usually quiet and reserved Toa of Stone, spoke up for the first time since Kodan had entered the room. "Any chance you could tell us what to look out for, then?" he asked, unsatisfied with the Turaga's brevity.

"Feral Rahi, in all likelihood. Surely nothing for Toa to worry about" the Turaga said, brushing aside the Toa of Stone's concern before continuing. "You have your orders, now follow them. I have no time for further questions," Dume said dismissively, showing the three Toa to the door. "The safety of Metru Nui is my utmost priority, as it should be yours. If you have concerns, I shall hear them out after you've returned, when I have more time. For now, my attention is demanded elsewhere." he continued.

Valtruu shrugged, and followed his brothers out of the Turaga's office, with Kodan making sure to keep up behind them.

As the group exited the Coliseum, Kanae waved to the others and began heading off in the opposite direction. "I'm late for a thing in Ga-Metru, you guys can handle this one right?" he said in his usual nonchalant way, now that they were no longer in the presence of the Turaga.

"Yeah, shouldn't be a big deal" Valtruu replied, turning to speak to the Po-Matoran following close behind them. "You sure you've got time to join us, little dude?" he asked.

"A long, boring boat ride alone with the two of you? I wouldn't miss it for the universe," Kodan responded, smiling beneath his mask, as the trio set out to borrow a skiff for their mission…

The vessel skipped against the waves as it began making its way further from shore, while Kodan sat back to observe the two Toa making preparations for the mission ahead. Valtruu was standing towards the back of their skiff, steering the motor with his attention focused on the dome wall far off in the distance, while toward the front of the skiff sat Motara, checking over the stone-carving claws attached at his forearms.

Despite the two having known each other for many years at this point, Motara was the Mangai least familiar to Kodan, and to many others in the city as well. There were rumors of course, everyone in the city had their own theory about the background of this strangely colored Toa clad in striking silver armor, but rumors were all they were. What really sparked their interest wasn't just how foreign the yellow and black colored Toa looked, but the mask he wore.

Motara adorned himself with a sharp silver Great Mask of Power Scream, a mask whose power was normally considered immoral by the standards of Matoran society. In addition to the mask's long history of association with the brutal and fearsome Brotherhood of Makuta, the unholy shrieks it made when used were enough to unsettle even the sturdiest of individuals, leading to its almost unanimous rejection by Matoran society.

Despite this though, Kodan had never seen the Toa be anything less than upstanding in all his years of service to the city, which just made his choice in mask all the more perplexing. And now thanks to this mission, Kodan had the perfect opportunity to ask the Po-Toa all about it, without interruption…

After finally striking up a conversation with the Toa of Stone, Kodan soon found himself eagerly writing down everything he was hearing.

"It goes back many years ago, during the great war between the Brotherhood of Makuta and the League of Six Kingdoms" Motara began. "I lived in a small village back then, and had only just become a Toa in the months before the war started. We were able to keep our heads down and stay out of it at first, but once the League caught wind of our settlement they sent someone over to plant a flag down, and started telling us we belonged to them."

Motara reached his hand up to soothe an old scar on his shoulder, as if by reflex, before continuing. "I tried to fight them off, but they were too strong for just one Toa to handle. We'd almost given up hope of getting our freedom back, until one night, when a great warrior clad in silver showed up and ran the League's governor out of town with a legion of Rahkshi." He looked out over the side of the skiff, breaking eye contact.

"I know most don't think too highly of Rahkshi, and in truth I didn't either, but after that night we saw them as our saviors. Mostly though, we were grateful to their master, the silver warrior." Motara turned back toward Kodan, "I'm sure you can guess by the company he kept, but he was a Makuta, who went by the name Aruke." Motara touched his kanohi lightly before continuing.

"Unlike most of the Brotherhood who were occupied with grand military campaigns, or pursuits of glory on the front lines, Aruke and his troops made a point of seeking out settlements like ours, who were actually suffering under League occupation, and freeing as many of them as he could. I was so moved by the man's skill, grace, and honor that I pledged myself to his service right then and there."

"Lemme guess, he gave you that shiny armor to match his?" Valtruu chimed in from the back of the skiff.

"Eventually, yeah" Motara answered. "Makuta Aruke and I continued freeing League occupied settlements for the remainder of the war, and when it was all over and 'heroes' on the front got their accolades and fancy medals, nobody paid much attention to all the work we had done. Still though, Aruke was grateful for my help. He had this armor made special, so the two of us would match. Said it was a promise, not a reward. A promise that we would always be there to stand up for the forgotten and the oppressed, and a promise to each other, that we would never forget everything we had been through", Motara finished.

"So where is he now?" Kodan asked, "Why didn't you stay with your Makuta if you two were clearly so close?"

"I did, to an extent", Motara said, "we stayed in periodic contact for quite a while afterward."

The Po-Toa got up to stretch after sitting in the skiff for so long. "Then, after the Brotherhood took up the responsibilities left behind by the Barraki and were eventually assigned their own dominions, my home village fell within Aruke's new territory, and I was offered the position of his right-hand aide, which I humbly accepted." Motara said, sitting back down as the skiff passed over rougher waters.

"Things went well, until Aruke was summoned to a Convocation- a meeting of the Makuta. He was only gone for a few days, but when he returned, there was something… different about him." Motara reached up to touch his Kanohi before continuing.

"He was acting paranoid, doubling the guard at his fortress, checking rooms before entering… When I finally asked him what had happened at the meeting, he told me only two things: no one was to be trusted, and that things were changing in the universe."

"Well, that's not ominous at all!" Valtruu shouted over the wind and waves, still listening in from the back of the skiff.

Motara's expression soured, but he continued. "It was only a few days later, before I had gotten the opportunity to pry further, that Aruke vanished. For three days the fortress grounds were alive with search parties, all silent, hoping we might hear if he called out to us. Eventually though I was the one to find his body, sitting alone in his study- where it hadn't been just the night before."

Kodan spent a short while trying to find words. "I'm sorry," the Chronicler finally said. "Did you ever find out?" he continued, failing to fight back his curiosity, "What happened to him, I mean."

"No," Motara said, in a voice that was somehow both small yet louder than the crashing waves. "I figured his paranoia was right… The universe had changed, and that change, whatever it was, swallowed him up. Afterwards, everything Aruke had was transferred to another Makuta, as though he never even existed." Motara sighed. "Everything except for me…" he said, gingerly peeling the gleaming silver Kanohi from his face, taking a long look at it for himself, "And his mask…"

Motara's gaze was transfixed on the mask for some time. Kodan noted that, despite the maskless state of the Toa of Stone, there was a steely resolve in his eyes that failed to betray any weakness.

"I've been wearing it for myself ever since. Not just to honor what he stood for, but to remind myself of his last words to me" the Po-Toa said, before placing the mask back over his face.

"I spent the next few years moving around a lot, helping out wherever I could." Motara turned to the chronicler with a solemn look, before continuing. "Trying never to stay in the same place for too long, for fear that whoever killed Aruke would catch up with me too. That is, until I heard the Turaga's request for help, and came to this city." Motara said, looking back at the now tiny Metru Nui skyline behind them.

"For the first time in as long as I can remember, living in this place, being a part of this team… It's made me feel like I have a home again." He finished…

After Kodan had recorded Motara's story on his stone tablet, the trio sat in silence, reflecting on the Po-Toa's words, until they came in eye shot of the Sea Gate. As their skiff was slowing down on approach to the towering doorway, Motara noticed another vessel parked along the edge of the dome wall, and pointed it out to his comrades. Toa Valtruu, with his Great mask of Water Breathing, decided to dive beneath the sea of protodermis to get a closer look at the strange ship.

After a few minutes with no sign of the Ko-Toa, Motara was about to stand up and take a better look for himself. Before he could leap over the side of the skiff however, a towering monster of black and purple armor, with a grotesque face and four extra arms sticking up from behind its shoulders, stood up out of the water, igniting energy that crackled between its fingertips…

The record cuts off after that, though I think it safe to assume what happened next. As someone who lived in the city for many years, I've spent more time than I care to recall thinking on what I could have done differently to prevent the tragedies that occured, both to Metru Nui itself, and its honorable protectors. I often wonder, if I had stayed in the city rather than being convinced to set out on my travels by the false Turaga, if perhaps his deception could have been uncovered before it was too late.

Unfortunately though, I doubt we will ever know the answer to that question. And so we are left to take solace in the knowledge that, although it was a hard fought battle, good did eventually prevail in the end, and no others will ever again have to meet their fate at the hands of Makuta Teridax, or his minions, as these brave heroes did…

[gorgon-goddess-of-chaos]

Market

I don't think I write him as a bastard often enough, which is honestly a crime.

Necromancer (Mortimer) x GN!Reader, TW: skeletons Words: 703

Mortimer guides your two steeds down the mountain, making sure your horse stays close by to his. You have tried to tell him before that you don’t need him to lead you down, but he won’t have it. As he busies himself with the treacherous road ahead, you take in the views. Your cloak stays atop your head, protecting you from the dark swamp’s rainfall. He looks back at you, smiling when you seem alright.

You make your way into the city, and stalls line the sides of the road. The bone hooves clomp against the stone roads, rattling a little more compared to the softer mud and dirt. People give you weird looks as they always do, and you pull your cloak up over your head a little more to hide your face. Mortimer seems to pay them no mind, giving out the occasional middle finger to whomever tries to piss him off.

The horses are gone in a flash of lightning after you dismount, and he takes your hand. He notices you hiding your face, and adjusts your hood so he can see you.

“Dearest, they won’t even get close to touching you here. Not while I’m here. No need to hide.”

“I’m not sure I want these people to know what I look like, Mer…”

“If I thought that would become an issue, I would have given you a mask. But if that would still make you feel better, I can make one for you.”

You nod, and he stomps his staff on the rocks beneath your feet. A skeleton crawls out from under the ground, stopping at about the hips. He grabs the skull, using the end of his staff to shatter half of it, holding it up to the lower half of your face.

“This should work, one moment.”

Mortimer turns to a stall, snatching up a swatch of cloth and some ribbon. Using crude methods, he attaches the jaws to the cloth, and ties it around your face. It’s not entirely uncomfortable, but certainly weird wearing someone else’s face on your face. The rest of the skeleton disintegrates back into the ground, and Mortimer takes your hand while you hold a basket.

You’re here to gather ingredients that you’re low on up on the mountain. Where people once looked at you and sneered, their eyes now widen with shock and fear. Each transaction goes seamlessly, with glances continuing in your direction as they package up the produce and spices. The only one who didn’t even give you a second thought was the butcher, but he’s also easily the largest man in the city and is known for his knife-wielding skills. In no way would you even remotely be a threat to him. 

Once Mortimer realizes that you’re adjusting your grip on the basket a bit too much for his liking, he summons another skeleton and forces it into carrying it for you. The rattling right behind you is a little unnerving, but you know better than to fight him on this. After you collect the bunches of herbs that you needed, Mortimer scoops you up and takes you back to the edge of the city. 

“Mer, I can walk.”

“I’m glad your legs still work, sweetheart.”

“LEMME USE THEM-” “No, I’d rather not.”

Even at the farmer’s market you’re still not allowed to walk around on your own. You just stare over his shoulder at the skeleton still tailing you with your groceries. You’re pretty sure if it still had facial muscles, it would be looking at you uncomfortably. Whatever.

“Why can’t I walk on my own?”

“Because there’s several guards after us considering I did not pay for a few of these items-”

In a flash of lightning, a skeleton horse appears and the servant crumbles, with Mortimer narrowly catching the basket. You’re placed on the saddle in front of him as he cackles and rides away with you. You take the basket, putting your cloak over it so the groceries don’t spill out.”

“Were we running from the authorities the whole time!?”

“Mayhaps.”

You just roll your eyes, knowing it’s gonna be a hell of a lot more difficult the next time you run out.

[longitudinalwaveme]

Fictober 2024

Day 8: Are We Happy? 

Wally had been having a wonderful day at the hockey rink with Linda, watching the first big game of the season. While he wasn’t really that big of a hockey fan, Linda adored the Keystone City Combines, and if she was happy, he was happy. 

And then Dr. Alchemy had shown up. Because there was some sort of law which stated that a Flash’s nice night out must be interrupted by at least one creep in a mask. 

“Tremble in fear, Keystone City! For I, the nigh-omnipotent Dr. Alchemy, have returned to rule over you all!”

The rest of the people in the rink seemed even less impressed that Wally felt by the not-so-good doctor’s inconvenient arrival. 

“Boo! Get off the ice!” 

“Yeah, we paid good money for these tickets!” 

“Come on, team! Let’s get the creep!” the Combines’ team captain yelled. Almost as one, the team skated forward, hockey pucks raised. Dr. Alchemy cackled madly. 

“Fools! Let’s see how well you skate when I turn the ice into hydrochloric acid!” Just as Dr. Alchemy raised his Philosopher’s Stone, Wally changed into his Flash costume, darted out on the ice, and managed to spirit all twelve of the players who were currently on the ice to safety, mere milliseconds before the ice underneath them turned into a potent acid. 

“Why, if it isn’t Kid Flash! I see you’re as fast as ever—but are you fast enough to outrun a cloud of magnesium?” Suddenly, the air around Wally was ablaze; so hot that it was actually impairing his vision. But this wasn’t Wally’s first rodeo with Dr. Alchemy. He rotated his arms at super speed and was quickly able to extinguish the flames.

“Come on, doc! You didn’t really expect me to be taken out by that old chestnut, did you?” Wally asked—only to completely lose his footing and go careening uncontrollably across the ice. He finally came to a stop when he collided violently with a pole of one of the nets. 

“Amateur! You were so busy focusing on putting out the fire that you didn’t notice I was coating the ice with polytetrafluoroethylene—a material with one of the lowest friction coefficients known!” Wally tried to struggle to his feet, but found that his head didn’t want to stop spinning just yet. 

“Now, just to make sure you stay put—here’s some specialized acrylic adhesive to keep you running in place!” Suddenly, a sticky substance covered Wally, binding him to the pole he’d collided into. He used several vibratory tricks in the hopes of escaping, but quickly discovered that Dr. Alchemy had done his homework. Whatever this stuff was, he was stuck fast. 

“Now, where’s the real Flash? I didn’t make my grand comeback just to face the Twin Cities’ second-string hero!” If Wally had been a few years younger, comments like that would’ve caused his admittedly short temper to explode. Now that he was secure in his powers, though, it was just a mild annoyance. Really, he was a lot angrier about the fact that his nice night with Linda had been hijacked by the ego trip of a man wielding the world’s most powerful potato. 

“Isn’t that the real Flash?” someone in the audience asked.  

“It sure looks like him.” 

“Maybe it’s Impulse?”

“No way. Impulse has bigger feet than that. And a different costume.” 

“Could be the old Flash.” 

“The old Flash has a hat!”

“Perhaps I just need to provide the Flash with a little more…incentive. Once you’re all trapped in here after I turn the doors to solid titanium, he’ll be forced to come and rescue you—and that will be his doom!” And with a wave of the Philosopher’s Stone, all the exits were transformed into solid blocks of gleaming metal. If Uncle Barry had been on Earth, Wally knew that such a display would get him to come running—but he was off with Superman and Green Lantern in space, fighting off another wave of face-hugging starfish. It didn’t matter what Dr. Alchemy did; it wouldn’t summon the Flash that he wanted. 

“As for the rest of you—start handing over your valuables. The prodigious Dr. Alchemy demands tribute–-which he will accept in jewelry, cash, and all major credit cards.” Wally tried to vibrate loose again, but to no avail. This was so embarrassing…

Dr. Alchemy started collecting loot from the crowd, only to pause in front of a very pretty young woman. 

“Hello, there, you gorgeous doll. How’d you like for me to show you a whole new type of alchemy?” he leered as he caressed her cheek creepily. 

Aaand that cinched it. Wally had been pretty sure which Dr. Alchemy had crashed the hockey game from the start, but the really obnoxious pervert behavior meant that it was definitely Alvin. 

In response, the woman shrieked and grabbed the hand of the young man next to her, who was probably her boyfriend. 

“Get your filthy hands off my girlfriend!” the young man exclaimed. Alvin frowned. 

“You’re her boyfriend, eh? A minor setback—-but one that’s thoroughly surmountable for a man of my vast powers!” He waved the stone, and suddenly the young man was transmogrified into a solid jade statue. The young woman screamed.

“Andrew!” Alvin, seemingly oblivious to the young woman’s horror, gave her a big, creepy grin. 

“You’re single now, honey—and considerably richer, now that you have that nice jade statue. So, what do you say? You wanna go out with me now?” The woman understandably responded by slapping Alvin across the face. 

“You killed my boyfriend! Why would I ever want to go out with you?” Alvin didn’t seem deterred. 

“I can always turn him back if you really want me to, babe. Though I don’t know why you would. He’s much less annoying as a jade statue. So, what do you want for dinner?” 

“Dinner?” 

‘Yeah. I’m takin’ you out tonight—right after I kill the Flash, of course.” 

“Are you nuts? I wouldn’t date you if you were the last man on Earth!” To emphasize her point, the woman slapped him again. 

“Wrong answer, sweet cheeks.” Alvin waved his Philosopher’s Stone, and suddenly the woman was transformed into what looked like a ruby statue. 

“Ahem! Now that that little romantic interlude is out of the way—let’s get back to the issue of my tribute, shall we?” 

For the next twenty minutes, Alvin made his rounds through the crowd, collecting the money, cards, and jewelry in two large bags that he had materialized out of thin air. Once both bags were filled to the bursting point, he made his way back over to Wally, who was still struggling to free himself. 

“It’s a travesty, really. I go through all this time and effort to rob the entire stadium blind—and what do I get? Not only does the real Flash not bother to show up, but my romantic overtures are rejected, too! Why does no one respect me?” 

“Maybe because you’re a creepy sewer-dwelling gremlin?” Wally suggested. 

“How dare you! I’m the most powerful villain on the face of the Earth!”

“Funny. For someone who’s that powerful, you sure don’t seem very content being yourself. Are you really happy with your sad, creepy little life, Alvin?” 

“Am I happy? I’m overjoyed!” Then Alvin looked down at his Philosopher’s Stone. 

“Tell me, my precious: are we happy?” Amazingly, the stone actually seemed to respond; it started to glow more brightly and turned the walls of the stadium to solid gold. 

“That’s what I thought. We’re very happy together.” 

“Whatever you say, Gollum.” Alvin scowled. 

“I am not Gollum! I am Dr. Alchemy, and I am—-” Suddenly, one of the solid blocks of titanium that had once been a door hissed and turned into steam. 

“You are nothing but a pretender! A fraud, who decided to cash in on the identity I tried so hard to leave behind!”  Mr. Element exclaimed as he stepped through the new gap in the wall. A big grin spread across Alvin’s face, revealing some inhumanly sharp teeth. 

“Hello, brother Al! It’s been a long time!” 

“Not long enough.” 

“You wound me, brother Alvin—so I’ll just have to return the favor. Eat HClO4!” Alvin waved the Philosopher’s Stone, and a wave of acid went flying towards Mr. Element, who transmuted it into what looked like it might be orange juice seconds before it could make contact. 

“Alvin, I’m a reasonable man. I don’t want to have another element duel. I’m forty-five years old, the Mr. Element suit doesn’t really fit me properly anymore, and I’ve been trying to put this costumed nonsense behind me for the past twenty years of my life. Why don’t you just surrender quietly and save us both the trouble?” Dr. Alchemy laughed. 

“You’ve gone soft, brother Al! Maybe a hailstorm of diamonds will toughen you back up!” Dr. Alchemy waved his stone, and dozens of large diamonds started to fall out of the sky. Mr. Element responded by using his Element Gun to transmute the diamonds into feathers. 

“You want to do it the hard way? Fine. We can do it the hard way,” Mr. Element said as he continued to approach. As he came closer, he fired a beam from his Element Gun, which turned the floor around Dr. Alchemy into what looked like it might be quicksand.

“Nice try, brother Al—but your little tricks can’t stop me!” He waved the Philosopher’s Stone and was instantly freed from the quicksand, which transmuted into water. In response, Mr. Element fired a beam from the Element Gun past the gloating Dr. Alchemy. It hit the glue that Wally had been struggling against, and suddenly it didn’t seem quite so sticky. Wally grinned. 

“You missed! Clearly, you’ve been out of the game for too long!” Mr. Element gave a quiet chuckle. 

“I didn’t miss, Alvin. I was just distracting you.” Alvin’s eyes went wide, and he spun around in horror—just in time for Wally to vibrate out of the glue and sock him right in the nose. The momentum of the punch sent Alvin flying, and his bags of stolen loot flew out of his hands. He hit the side of the ice rink a few seconds later, and then one of the bags of loot clunked him right on his head. As Dr. Alchemy went limp, Mr. Element took off his silly-looking gas mask to reveal the care-worn face of Dr. Albert Desmond. 

“I’m sorry I wasn’t here sooner, but Alvin made a point of visiting Rita and me and trapping us in our bedroom yesterday. He was hoping that he would be able to frame me for the crime—again.” 

“Hey, no problem. You made it here in time to help me stop the bad guy. That’s all that matters,” Wally replied. 

“You have no idea how tired I am of dealing with him. Every time I think he has to be gone for good, he pops up again—and this time, he dumped beer cans and disgusting magazines all over our floor and ate everything in the fridge but the vegetables! It’s a good thing I can transmute things, because if not, it would take weeks for Rita and me to clean the place up,” Albert said wearily. 

“In speaking of transmutation, I need you to save a couple of people Alvin turned into statues.” Wally pointed in the direction of the young couple Alvin had transmuted earlier. 

“What happened to them?” Albert asked, sounding horrified. 

“Alvin was hitting on the woman, and wouldn’t take no for an answer.” Albert groaned. 

“Why am I not surprised?” Albert walked over to Alvin’s unconscious body, knelt down next to him, grabbed the Philosopher’s Stone out of his hand, and then walked over to the transmuted couple. He touched the stone to the woman, and then to the man, and a few seconds later both of them were once again flesh and blood. 

“Andrew! Are you all right?” 

“Yes, Sasha, I’m all right. I’m just glad you’re okay.” The two of them kissed, and then the woman turned to Albert. 

“Thank you so much!” she said. 

“It was the least I could do, really,” Albert replied quietly. 

“You saved our lives, man. We really owe you one,” the young man said. Albert ducked his head.

“Just pay it forward, and we’ll be more than even.” With that, Albert made his way back to Wally and looked at him hopefully. 

“Would you mind getting me back home? I have a wife who’s worried about me and a huge mess to clean up.” Wally grinned. 

“Sure, Dr. Desmond! Just give me a sec.” Wally grabbed the two bags of loot, distributed the contents back to their rightful owners, and was back at Albert’s side in less than ten seconds.

“All aboard the Flash express!” Two seconds later, Wally and Albert were at a cozy house in the suburbs of Central City, where they were promptly greeted by Rita Desmond. 

“Albert! You’re home! I was so worried about you!” 

“I’m sorry, Rita. For…for everything.” 

“What are you apologizing for? You’re not the one who locked me in a bedroom, emptied my kitchen, and ruined my floors! It’s that disgusting little gremlin who should be apologizing! I’m so tired of him showing up and upending our lives!” 

“You and me both, Rita—but I don’t know what to do. We send him to prison and he breaks out. We destroy the Philosopher’s Stone, and it just reconstitutes itself and finds its way back to him. I turn him to granite, and he pops up again in the flesh two months later like nothing happened. How do you stop something you can’t contain?” Suddenly, Rita glanced at Wally and grinned wickedly. 

“You’re friends with Hartley Rathaway, aren’t you?” she asked. 

“Piper? Of course! I just talked to him this morning.” 

“Well, it still might not be enough to get rid of Alvin for good, but I think the Pied Piper’s music might be just what I need to make sure he stays away from Albert and me for a long, long time.” Wally grinned as he realized what Rita had in mind.  

“Rita, you are an evil genius, and I love it.” 

************************************************************************

Two days later, Wally, Linda, Irey, Jai, Wade, Albert, Rita, and Hartley were enjoying a lovely backyard party at the Desmonds’ house. Jai and Irey were splashing in the heated above ground pool, Wade was crawling around on the grass under Wally’s watchful eye, Linda and Hartley were commiserating over the lousy season Central City’s baseball team had had this year, and Albert and Rita were holding hands and enjoying both their drinks and the state of their newly pristine house. 

“Alvin, would you mind filling my glass? I’m getting low on lemonade,” Rita said. Alvin scowled, but the small MP3 player that was clipped to his shirt and chirping out a merry little tune ensured that he would cooperate with her request. 

“Of course not,” he muttered glumly, as the Pied Piper’s hypnotic music forced him to pour her another drink from the bottle of lemonade that was resting on the tray he was holding. 

“Of course not what, Alvin?” Rita asked. 

“Of course not, ma’am,” Alvin ground out as he secured the lid back on the bottle. Wally snickered. He had to hand it to Rita—using Piper’s hypnotic music to force Alvin to pay off the rather considerable debt he owed to her and Albert by working as their servant was a surefire way to keep him from annoying the Desmonds for a long, long time. After all, there was nothing Alvin hated more than work. 

“That’s better. Now, why don’t you get started on cleaning out the junk in our basement? I’ve been wanting that mess sorted out for years, but we’ve just never had the time to get around to it,” Rita said. Alvin’s shoulders slumped. 

“Whatever you say, ma’am.” As Alvin wandered off towards the basement, Albert shook his head. 

“You know,  I almost feel sorry for him.” Rita took a sip of her lemonade. 

“I don’t. We’ve been putting up with his nonsense for what, ten years now? I think brother Alvin—as he insists on calling himself— owes us a few favors.” Wally laughed.

“You know, I’m really starting to wonder which of the two of you used to be the supervillain.” Rita smiled. 

“Well, you know what they say. Mr. Element hath no fury like a very frustrated astral sister-in-law.”

[starborn15]

Before the Dreamers:

*I had been curious about writing a story from an alternate perspective. Outside of the IC/main characters, from the perspective of an oppressed group — the Illyrians or the Court of Nightmares, I wrote this short Prologue for a young Illyrian named Valan who lives in a small steel clan. Disclosure: if I decide to continue this, I do plan on presenting Morrigan, Azriel, Cassian and Rhysand and they may not always been in a favorable light because this is a first person perspective narration and if you don’t like that, that’s okay.*

⚠️ TW: depictions of violence ⚠️

Prologue:

I wrapped my feet around a large pine tree that creaked and groaned with the gusts of the eastern winds. I could see so far from the top, nearly to the flatlands of the steeps shrouded in mist. I’d sometimes imagine soaring there, the sun glowing between my wings casting an irresidecent orange hue to the ground below. I’d imagine my mother dipping and twisting next to me as we sail across the sparkling sea, to the continent. I know it’s no better there, even here in my unnamed steel village clan we know of the horrors of the Queen of the Black lands, the suffrage of mortals. They are simply mortals, just as I am simply an Illyrian. We all have our place in this world and theirs is below ours, and ours is below that of the High Fae. I jump down, spreading my short wings letting the wind rush to my ears as they lighten my fall. The crunch of leaves sounds beneath my feet as colors of red, orange and yellow fly all around me. Living in the shadow of Ramiel is not so bad, it keeps the bitter winds at bay and masks our village from the deep and harsh winters like those suffered in Windhaven. Our clan is responsible for forging the steel used in battle, our females responsible for learning the arts of healing and when fully trained sent off to distant villages and clans to heal warriors.

My Father had been called to war, summoned by royal decree on word of the High Lord of the Night Court; Rheon. He’d gathered his leathers out of a small silver trunk tucked away into the corner of our one room home and pulled a long sword over his shoulder, it shimmered and sang in the sunlight. Walking through the forest back to the village I thought of his words as a tear ran down my cheek.

‘Valan, do not fear. We have the blood of Enalius, a great warrior. We were chosen by the Gods, it is a great honor to be chosen for war and battle, I’ll return.’ He’d never returned, that was six years ago.

All the males did not return, our entire village, our entire clan had been lost to the magic of the dark lands. I’d one day vowed to become the greatest Illyrian warrior, greater than Enalius himself and avenge my father, but my mother had wept and wept for days. My brother Avrid had begun his training with a group of young males and I had tended to mother and the home. Our village had suffered after the loss of the males, with the older young males training, small males such as myself took up the duties of forging the steel and caring for the females and their training of healing. The Lord who ruled among our small village, who had been chosen to stay and lead, had thankfully ruled with a soft hand in comparison to the majority of Illyria. My older brother Avrid had not been called into battles by the High Lord of the Night Court, our Lord in the Steel-Born Clan had stated the males needed to remain, else the entire clan would collapse. This facade lasted for sometime, and peace remained in our small shadow of Ramiel, until the stars shone and the moon glowed and the peace stopped, and winter came.

My hammer crashed down on the heated blade, I flipped it, and crashed down again sending sparks flaring into the small stone room where I worked. Sweat trickled down my neck and spine, it had to be near solstice and the temperature near freezing by the stone small building proved to be a near oven in even the deepest of winter.

“Valan!” A faint voice called. My hammer crashed again, curving the blade. A curved blade was better for battle, better for war.

“Valan!” The voice came again, louder this time. I set the blade down as it glistened against the flames before moving onto the next. As I raised the molten hammer a hand grabbed my wrist. Startled, I spun around wings flaring, heart beating rapidly.

“Woah!” Avrid said hands raised, my brother always surprised me with how large he’d grown. At six and ten he had nearly doubled his height since father left and doubled in width as well. His curled black hair was tied into a delicate braid between his shoulders and the fire gave his hazel eyes a burning orange tint to match his wings.

“You startled me.” I said, setting down my hammer. I was only ten and two, but strong. Working as a smith; a maker of steel had made my muscles hard and firm, but I was confined. I couldn’t remember the last pine I climbed, or the last sky I soared.

“Brother, you need fresh air, you’re ragged.” Avrid said, pulling at my clothes and giving my hair a good yank, loosening it from its tie. We shared our mothers dark curls, but our fathers hazel eyes and orange tinted wings, burning embers of the earth he’d once said. Whatever that meant.

“I am working,” I said, setting the hammer down and settling the flames, “the steel will not make itself and there is talk of war.”

A smile spread across Avrid’s face, “it is not talk brother, they speak true. I am called to Windhaven to begin my training and hope to join the bloodrite in four years' time.”

My mothers inconsolable sobbing filled my head as the thought of my brother joining the blood rite coursed through me.

“An honor that would be.” I untied my apron and hung it, Avrid slammed his hand around my shoulder and gave a loud and joyous laugh.

“Brother, one day we shall all be called to fight in the royal arms. The treachery of the Queen of the Black lands and the King of Hybern shall not go unpunished.”

My brow furrowed, was the High Lord truly meaning to gather arms against them? To fight alongside humans? The Night Court did not have human slaves to be sure, at least not in Illyria but he’d never known the High Lord to be a caring man, or a man who fought for freedom.

“Does the High Lord truly mean to fight on the side of the slaves? On the side of humans?”

Avrid blinked, “but of course! Lord Devlon has commanded it so! We may even get to see the warriors of Prince Drakon and his armies.”

I looked to the ground, the crunching snow beneath my feet, all of this talk of war, of violence, it was grand and an honor to be sure, but as I look ahead and up at the glistened onyx stone monolith of Ramiel, I cannot help but wonder what it truly is?

“Why are you thrilled if there is talk of war now? You’re not a soldier, you’re not a warrior.” Avrid had not even competed in the bloodrite, hundreds of Illyrians lost their lives every year, perhaps even more than were lost to battle. Seemed foolish, killing and slaughtering one another to prove that you’re the greatest warrior; a Carythian.

“War is a long way out, first the Lords, Kings and Queens will talk and discuss,” he grabbed a large turkey leg from the local stand flipping the male a silver coin and winking, biting into it and continuing with his mouth full, “we know how the Lords love to hear themselves talk brother. There is no worry, war will wait and I will train.”

I took the leg when he offered it and handed it back to him, watching as the children laughed before us playing with their sticks as if they were battle swords. The young females even joined in jumping from the trees and landing on the shoulders of the males; good idea. I thought to myself, chuckling.

“Brother,” Avrid said opening the door, a plain broth smell of turkey and carrots, celery hit us with a pinch of salt mother had rationed for winter, “The High Lord’s heir is everything the stories say; he’s lethal, frightening, those by his left and right even more so, one they say is a shadowsinger —.”

Their mother gasped, her breath catching in her throat as the wooden spoon splashed into the broth. She had her back turned but I could tell that she was cupping her hand to her mouth, tense.

“Mother?” I asked, standing I walked over placing a hand on her back, “is everything —,”

“Everything’s fine sweetheart,” she turned, smiling, “sit, dinner is ready.”

Pouring the steaming broth into wooden bowls their mother sat, her long limp dark hair curled pinned half up behind her ears, her hazel eyes did not look up from the bowl and I had never asked about the long scar that went from her hairline to her chin.

Avrid began scooping at his soup, slurping and ignoring the tension in the room, but not me. I lived here, caring for my mother and something had upset her.

“Mother, is everything alright?”

Her eyes met mine, so warm and bright like the sun peaking over the crest of the mountain. She smiled softly and brought her spoon to her lips.

“Yes.” She said simply.

‘Why are you lying?’ I thought, ‘why are you frightened?’

Dinner continued in silence, Mother collected our bowls and brought them out to the washing well in the center of the three homes that surrounded us. Avrid had dozed off after indulging in three bowls of soup letting his arm and wing hang over his small cot in the corner of the room, snoring so loudly there was no way sleep would find me tonight. I rubbed my hands together and opened the door, the small flames still hung around the homes casting a light against my mother’s wings as she set down the dishes in the snow. Unusual for her to clean the dishes at dusk; they’ll freeze and shatter! She’d yelled once when she caught me doing it, iron pots and cutlery was expensive, and yet here she was knelt down in the snow scrubbing dishes.

I kneel down beside her and lift the dishes into my lap, she quickly inhales through her nose and chuckles slightly.

“You’re so quiet for a young male,” her rough hands graze my cheek, “spending too much time with your soft footed mother.”

I smile at her and place her hand on my own, barely out of childhood myself. Her hands are small as I cup them, they’re freezing, but she doesn’t shiver.

“Mother…please,” I say, “what is it, what’s got you out here at night scrubbing the pots?”

Her eyes close as tears fall, her exhaled breath clouding in front of her. She pulls her hands away and wraps her arms around herself, “there are some stories that do not need to be heard my sweet.”

She gathered the dishes, some had frozen to the ground so I grabbed hold of them and pulled a solid piece of snow with the iron pot. I did not appreciate the answer I’d received from my mother, but I knew she had not always lived in this village, that she’d lived far away before, that she had been sent here as a healer, that was all Father had said.

‘If your mother wishes for you to know the rest she will tell you. It is not my story to tell.’ He’d told Avrid and I one night when mother had taken off to the skies, she hadn’t returned for several days, Father had paced around our small home, fists clenched, tapping his foot until she returned. She was covered in ash, and smelled of smoke and iron.

Setting the pots on the small pine table she kissed the top of my head brushing the strands of my hair from my eyes and went to her side of the room curling herself against the wall.

*****

Avrid and Mother were still sleeping when the orange light of morning caused my eyes to drift open. Stretching my arms, wings and legs I roll out of bed and head for the stone shop. Our small village is so beautiful in the early mornings, the orange, pink and yellow sky divided in two by Ramiel, the quiet except for the babbling stream several miles through the woods.

It has been weeks, months even since you took a proper flight. And the wind was singing, I could feel it as my simple parka drifted slowly as my hair blew behind my ears as my face smiled up at the sky.

War can wait.

With a burst of wind beneath my wings I bend my knees bursting myself into a mighty flight. The rattling of pots and rocking chairs in my wake makes me chuckle. The sun greets me as I rise and tears stream from my face. I should have woken Avrid or Mother, but perhaps this moment was a gift from The Mother just for me I think as I let myself fall before soaring back into the sky higher than before. The higher I fly the farther I see, the grass and misty cliffs of the steppes and the deep dark forest dividing the two regions. Twisting and gaining speed I know I should turn back, get to work making blades, axes, daggers and other weapons but is that truly what I am meant to do? I can’t help but think that as I soar beside the sun and look down at the earth, and yet I find my feet crunching back into the snow and I am still just a young male making weapons, weapons that one day I’ll hold.

Catching my breath from flying I don’t notice it at first, at least not from sight, instead I smell and hear it. The scent of smoke, and screaming. My wings flare, along with my nostrils and I charge towards the village. I am still just a young male, but I am an Illyrian.

Branches from trees slice through the thin flesh of my wings, but I don’t feel it not as my heart is pounding, not as the smoke darkens, not as the screams grow louder.

Snow flies in front of me as I rush out of the forest to see the females crawling to the feet of their Fathers, backs covered in blood, flesh hanging in strands from their wings. Clipping.

Their fathers do not respond to their pleading, not even if tears fill their eyes, not as blood drips onto their cloth shoes. My eyes widened , I’d heard of the practice, but our village had been spared, our Lord did not believe in the practice and did not enforce it. I had not understood, the maiming, the mutilation, my own wings ached in response as a tear fell down my right cheek.

I am still just a young male, but I am Illyrian.

My head jerks when familiar sobbing and screaming echoes through my ears as my mother is dragged forward. A tall male with two whispering shadows coiling around him like venomous snakes pulls her forward tossing her into the center to the feet of a pale light haired male.

He clicks his tongue in a distasteful way and jerks his chin to the Illyrian male controlling the shadows, more swarm to him like hornets returning to the hive as he tucks himself into the cover of the pine trees.

“This is a pity,” the male says, he’s dressed in a fine black suit while the males surrounding him wear the fighting leathers of warriors, survivors of the blood rite, “unfortunately there can be no loose ends, you understand don’t you darling?”

My eyes meet my mothers and she smiles, I step forward and the snow crunches slightly but it’s enough to draw the male's attention. He turns and then shadows coil around my ankles pulling me forward. Snow flies around me as I desperately clutch at the frozen ground for anything to grip.

“And who is this?” The male says, his violet eyes giving him away immediately. The High Lord of the Night Court brushes the snow from my face and I snap at him, which earns a chuckle even as the shadows tighten around my ankles causing me to cry out.

“Azriel,” The High Lord holds up a hand, “release the child.”

The shadows recoil back to the dark, and the High Lord grins a beautiful cruel smile as he extends a hand.

“Is this your son?” He asks my Mother who shakes her head.

“Yes my Lord.” I’ve never heard her sound so weak.

“Get up Mother.” I say rising from my back to my knees.

‘Where is Avrid?’ My eyes scan the crowd and my brother is nowhere to be found, the door to my home is burst, I look to my mother again desperate for anything.

“Your brother is dead,” The High Lord says, as if he’s read my thoughts, “too bad really, he would have made a valiant soldier, but he could not follow orders.”

I dig my hands into the earth, through the ice to the frozen ground beneath cracking my fingernails, as tears stream down my face.

“Now,” The High Lord says, turning back to my Mother, “as for you Petra darling, you know why I am here don't you?” He asks so kindly.

“Yes my Lord.”

My ears won’t stop ringing long enough to hear what is said, the smell of smoke is overwhelming, the females are still screaming although it’s turned into a more of a full groaning now.

“If one rebel survives then it can grow anywhere,” my eyes flicker to my mother.

Rebellion?

Without a word, without a blade, without so much as a flick of his wrist the High Lord of the Night Court snaps his fingers and my mothers neck snaps.

I don’t know when I started screaming, or when I lunged, or how I managed to drag a single fingernail across the High Lord's face drawing a drop of red blood.

The other Illyrians got to work setting the homes ablaze, taking off with the females who remained as I beat my fists against the cursed Illyrian; Azriel.

“Let me go, demon!” I scream, “let me go! Avrid!” I scream, not believing the High Lord, hoping, dreaming that he’s lied, that my brother will stumble out of our home and drive his blade into his spine and tear off Azriel’s wings and free me from this hell.

“Enough.” Azriel says.

“I’ll kill you!” I scream, I search for the High Lord, but he’s gone, like smoke.

“I’ll kill you all!” I scream as tears stream down my face as my Mothers body is left is the snow, left to the burning village.

Then the world disappears, time disappears and I have the feeling I’m falling. Even as thousands of voices whisper around me in the spinning darkness.

I am a young male, but I was still just an Illyrian.

[the-winters-prince]

That theory anon here again, thank you so much for your kind and supportive words everyone! So I don't personally subscribe to that theory anymore since as E Wein said herself it's up to the reader to decide, I can't believe Medraut is quite that messed up, and I have a tendency to overanalyze worst case scenarios. What got me ruminating was

How Medraut so easily slipped into being cruel from almost the get go after not seeing Lleu for years. As if it isn't the first time.

2. Medraut having mixed, confusing emotions for Lleu since the beginning and mentioning how beautiful he finds him.

3. That Medraut might have been SA'd from an early age, and so might have continued the cycle of abuse earlier too.

4. Lleu's great fear of being touched and falling asleep.

I'd love for these theories to be laid to rest though, I like my ships dark but not quite that dark. What do you people think?

Again, I apologize if I said anything offensive considering the dark topic, and I wish you all the best!

First of all thank you for your reply! I'm excited to chat with new readers. I still have your other ask, should I publish it too?

I actually went through a similar scenario in my head where Artos summoned Medraut to his court earlier and came to the conclusion that if Medraut had been bought home sooner he may have started to sexually abuse Lleu sooner, because unlike Medraut in twp this Medraut never spend a time outside the toxic influence of his parents where he could process his own csa trauma under the care of someone compassionate.

I personally don't subscribe to this theory because just as you said it would be too dark for Medraut to have sa'd Lleu when he was a preteen and it would be a crime too abominable to forgive. I also think that young Medraut may have been maladjusted because of various traumatic experiences, and exhibit signs of both physical and psychological damage that would not escape the keen sight of Ginerva and Artos. He has not perfected how to mask, blend in and appear normal to outsiders yet. Artos would see no use in keeping this Medraut alongside Lleu if he cannot assign a value to him. If Artos were to see Medraut displaying behavoural problems and decide he posed a threat to Lleu he would send him away immediately. I believe if you were to remove young Medraut from his mother and put him into a room with young Lleu right away without a familarization phrase where he could acclimate slowly to his family and become familiar with the way relatives are supposed to treat each other, he might lash out violently at him. He would punish Lleu how his mother punished him and his mother punished him for anything.

Lleu is so fragile and often ill, even a light shove or a sleeping with an open window could harm him. Lleu meeting Medraut who is used to a different level of violence and would misjudge how much roughousing his brother could take would have disastrous consequences. In an AU where Medraut grows up alongside Lleu, Ginerva would have to know about some of the abuse Medraut had endured and stand up for him if he hurt Lleu accidentally. She would feel too guilty to send Medraut away to live with that monster and would argue with Artos until he gives Medraut another chance. Medraut would learn how to hurt Lleu in ways that can't be detected by adults, but I don't know if he could get access to Lleu's room at night as guards are stationed everywhere and unlike the twins, the brothers wouldn't have been close enough that it would be acceptable for them to sleep in the same bed. Perhaps Medraut is considered so unimportant that he is basically invisible? Or people overestimate the power Artos gives him and don't say anything when he goes to restricted rooms of the castle with a serious face as if he had been given permission by the king?

I find that concept interesting in theory. I took Lleu's fear of being touched while unconscious as him subconsciously picking up on Medraut's true desire and fearing him, I've never entertained the idea before that this fear actually had a foundation and was the result of an earlier trauma which he cannot recall as he was too young and not even conscious when it happened to him. Medraut wouldn't mention it in his own narration because he doesn't consider anything sexual that isn't sex as abuse just like how he isn't aware that Morgause had groomed him when he was a child. ("Godmother, I don't understand why I am made to desire you so.")

I agree with you. The entire passage when Medraut meets a newborn Lleu for the first time striking. You don't describe a baby as attractive. Call me insane, I fully believe that Medraut fell in love with Lleu when he was a baby. Or something close to love. He imprinted on him. He became obsessed with him. I hc that had Medraut grown up alongside Lleu (after Morgause), their relationship would have developed at the same speed as Ignacio and Antonio's from the Carnivorous Lamb.

Now as you mention it, Medraut admitting he has always envied Lleu's beauty as he is obviously lusting for his sick body, makes his connection from past to present more unsettling. Like nothing has changed. It's as if these feelings, this lust just as this envy towards Lleu were always present no matter how old Lleu was.

When I think of an AU where Medraut and Lleu grow up together I think of the quote from the incest diary:

[cur3kuppa]

Well I may know next to nothing about my PMATGA OC Sydney’s childhood, and her being a idol/villain is a headcanon in and of itself.

So, based on the little I know, this is what I imagine her childhood to have been like:

1. Her Origins – The Pac-Walker Powers

Sydney was born in a remote, mystical part of PacTokyo, far from the bustling cities, to a powerful and enigmatic family that had ties to both the mystical and the primal. Her father, a warlord from an ancient family known for their wolf-like abilities, could summon the strength and ferocity of wolves and shapeshift under the moonlight. However, her father was cruel, dominating, and prone to fits of rage, using his powers to control and instill fear in those around him. Sydney inherited her father's wolf powers: enhanced senses, agility, strength, and the ability to transform into a half-wolf form. From a young age, she struggled with this duality of Pac-Person and beast. Her powers were a constant reminder of her father’s tyranny. Her PTSD began with a childhood steeped in fear, abuse, and abandonment. Her father, consumed with his own dark ambitions, was hardly ever home, leaving her with emotional scars. Sydney became a perfectionist in her own right, pushing herself to control her powers but never feeling truly in control of her life.

2. The Trauma from Her Father

Her father’s emotional abuse created a deep, lasting trauma. She was often forced to fight or fend for herself, learning to hide her fear beneath a mask of stoicism. Her father wanted her to be his successor, but instead, she saw the evil that ran through his veins, and every time he used her as a tool for his control, it chipped away at her soul. Eventually, Sydney tried to run away, seeking refuge in the streets of Pacopolis, but the scars from her father's cruelty were too deep to escape. The PTSD she developed was rooted in the gaslighting, manipulation, and physical torment she endured from him. She developed trust issues and a deep sense of self-doubt, convinced that no one would ever see her for who she truly was beyond the monster her father had tried to make her.

3. Her Mother's New Marriage – Pazma and Radian

When Sydney’s father disappeared, her mother Pazma remarried a man named Radian, an enigmatic figure with an aura of calm that seemed to contradict the chaos Sydney had grown up with. Radian was a well-meaning, noble figure, who saw past Sydney's hardened exterior. He was a pacifist and believed in the power of healing and unity. Under his guidance, Sydney began to open up emotionally, learning how to embrace her wolf side rather than fear it. He helped her control her transformations and taught her the value of inner peace. But Sydney could never shake the feeling of being abandoned by her real father. She loved Radian, but a part of her resented him for marrying her mother and ‘replacing’ her father. The contrast between her biological father’s violence and Radian’s peaceful nature created an inner conflict in Sydney, causing her to withdraw emotionally from both men in different ways.

4. Her Evolution into Evil

Despite her mother's peaceful nature and Radian’s influence, Sydney’s unresolved trauma made her vulnerable to darker influences. She met Betrayus during a period when she felt lost and powerless, struggling with her sense of identity. Betrayus, ever the manipulator of the Netherworld, saw potential in Sydney. He offered her to help him to defeat Pac-Man and rule over Pac-World. In Lord Betrayus, Sydney saw the strength and power she had always craved—someone who could take what they wanted without remorse. Under Betrayus’ influence, Sydney began to embrace her darker side, slowly succumbing to the allure of power. The promise of ruling and unleashing her wolf-like ferocity on those who had hurt her became too tempting. She became more cunning, using her talents in music and performance as a tool for manipulation to hypnotize all Pac-People or any beings. She entered the entertainment industry under the alias "Syd the Wild" and quickly rose to fame, using her music to control the minds of her fans and strengthen Betrayus' empire and the Netherworld Through her music, Sydney began to lure others into Betrayus’ schemes, initially out of a desire for acceptance and power, but eventually becoming addicted to the feeling of dominance. Her PTSD, combined with Betrayus’ promises of retribution, fueled her growing ruthlessness. She began to see herself not as the victim, but as the one who would control the game.

5. Her Duality – The Singer and the Villain

Sydney’s public persona as a famous singer contrasts sharply with her hidden life as a manipulative agent of Betrayus. On stage, she is charismatic, beautiful, and mesmerizing, using her voice to enchant and seduce. But beneath the glamorous façade lies a ruthless villainess who struggles with her inner demons, torn between the remnants of her old self—wanting peace, innocence, justice, and love—and the new, more cynical version of herself shaped by Betrayus’ teachings. Her music serves as both a weapon and a release. Each song she performs is a reflection of her internal battle: one moment seductive and alluring, the next dark and twisted, echoing the turmoil she feels inside. Her wolf powers, meanwhile, remain an ever-present reminder of the primal side of her nature, ready to unleash at any moment when her anger or pain boils over.

6. Her Relationship with Betrayus

Sydney's relationship with Betrayus is complicated. She’s both attracted to his power and repelled by his lack of empathy. Betrayus, knowing Sydney’s tragic history, uses her trauma to further manipulate her. However, in their twisted bond, Sydney finds someone who understands the depths of her pain and offers her something her father never could: the chance to make the world bend to her will. But Sydney, still haunted by her past, is never fully able to trust Betrayus, and there's always a lingering sense of unease about their connection. In time, she starts to wonder if her choice to ally with him is truly a path to redemption, or if she’s just perpetuating the same cycle of violence and abuse she grew up with.

7. Her Character Arc – Redemption or Damnation?

Syd’s story is one of a broken soul trying to find her way in a world that’s torn between love and hate. She struggles with her PTSD, the trauma from her biological father, and the powerful allure of Betrayus’ evil harem. Whether she ultimately redeems herself by Pac or succumbs to the darkness will depend on the choices she makes as her journey unfolds.

This backstory allows Sydney to be a tragic figure with a rich internal conflict. She’s a blend of victim and villain, and her struggle between her dark side and her more noble desires creates tension in her relationships with Betrayus, her mother, and father. By giving her wolf powers, PTSD, and complex relationships.

[greatideas-badwriter]

SasuSaku: Sacrificed To The Banished Prince Ch. 10

SURPRISE! EXTRA UPDATE!

Akuma surprised everyone by doing a fair job of mimicking Prince Sasuke's personality upon their return to the engagement party. 'It's simple to figure out who knows the royal family's secret just by looking at these ugly peoples' faces.'

The fear surrounding many of the guests satisfied the demon. He'd missed being respected like this, having been locked up in that damn manor all these years. It pained his pride to have to act civilized, but he'd rather have this little taste of freedom than be shackled to the wall each night like before.

"Akuma, will you excuse me for a moment? I'd like to step out onto the balcony to rest," Sakura politely asked.

The demon's eyes roamed over her attractive appearance. He'd taken advantage of the situation and had forced her to hold his hand all night. 'She's the only passable woman in this entire palace. None of these other whores compare.' He inwardly became angry with his own thoughts because there was no need to find her beautiful. Her standing out like a diamond amidst all these dull gems shouldn't matter at all.

"Lead the way," he said.

She released his hand, flexing her fingers as she turned to walk toward the massive open doors that led to the balcony. Only a couple of people were out there. Most of the party remained indoors, though the area was easily visible.

"Curse, may I have a word?"

Akuma's gaze left Sakura. He turned to glare at the king of the land, a sneer begging to meet his lips, "What is it? Be quick."

Madara chuckled as though he'd said a great joke, "Your disposition is as prickly as I remember."

"You're irritating me. I said to make this conversation quick, so make your point while you have the chance."

"Yes," the king's grin became less friendly, and he lowered his voice so those around them wouldn't overhear, "I don't suppose you'd tell me what your intentions are concerning my nephew and that girl?"

The bluntness fully pulled Akuma's attention from the pink-haired woman enjoying the moonlight outside. He eyed the ruler with disgust, "Having knowledge of my plans won't grant you the ability to prevent them."

"Then why not share them?"

"I don't answer to you. I have no master."

Madara's cheerful aura fell almost completely. His dark eyes narrowed, "Come, now, Demon. I may be lenient, but to blatantly lie to my face is insulting."

'...What is he trying to say?' His red-eyed glare hardened, but he said nothing, 'Does he have information that others do not?'

"You've two masters, yes? The demon lord, Satan, and the wizard Orochimaru." Akuma's eyes widened in surprise because that was a name he hadn't heard in a decade. The king seemed smug, "Or would it just be one now since Orochimaru was beheaded? I'm unsure of how permanent death is for you underworldly beings."

Seeing as that snake-like wizard had given Akuma a chance to live a human life, something he'd longed for, the demon would be grateful, but that wasn't the case. No, he'd been made a fool of just as strongly as the cowardly prince's parents. It'd been his understanding that he'd have full control of the body that'd host his soul. Obviously, that was not the case.

An earsplitting scream filled the air.

The demon's blood ran cold, 'Where is she?!'

He turned to see the room in chaos. Panicking men and women were running about as a handful of masked men dressed in black entered via the balcony with drawn swords. Ignoring the king, who'd begun summoning guards to fight the intruders, Akuma rushed into the fray, searching for just a glimpse of pink hair.

'She must be dead already because she was the nearest to where they arrived, but I must see it with my own eyes so I can use that rage to fuel the massacre I'll embark on once I own this body.'

He took down three men who attacked him on his way to the open area, careful not to kill them so as to not break the deal he made with the prince, only to freeze when the only proof that Sakura had even been there was a few drops of blood on the railing. Seething, seeing red, and ready to murder, the demon dipped his fingers into the substance before sniffing it. A growl shook his chest. 'It's hers, but she's not here.' There wasn't enough to judge the severity of whatever wound she'd suffered.

Sasuke shot upright the moment he gained consciousness, bursting out of the bedroom. It felt like his heart would pump right out of his chest. 'She's gone. They took her. If only I'd been able to stay with her. I wouldn't have let her wander alone like that!'

He hurried downstairs and into the ballroom, where butlers and maids were still cleaning up the broken dishes and blood from last night's battle. All he could see as he looked around with wide eyes was the charming blush on the pink-haired woman's face as she tried to console him during the change. No one had ever looked at him like that, much less put his comfort and well-being before theirs.

'And I repaid that kindness by allowing her to be kidnapped, maybe even killed.'

"Brother, come quick! A letter has arrived from someone claiming to have Lady Haruno!"

Itachi led a silent and focused Sasuke to the king's personal office, where Madara sat at his desk with a letter in front of him and a frown. The second prince became confused because something felt off about his uncle's demeanor. He couldn't say or do anything about that before the man in question began speaking, "According to this letter, Lady Sakura is injured. If we don't meet their demands within the day, she'll likely die."

Ice ran down Sasuke's spine at this news, 'What? Is she seriously hurt? There wasn't much blood, though!' "Is there a possibility this is a bluff to create a sense of urgency?" He managed to ask.

The king and first prince shared a look that he automatically recognized. He swallowed hard and reeled in his emotions, 'If they think that I'm attached to her, they might let her die to see if it'll get rid of the curse.' He had to feign indifference if Sakura stood a chance of being rescued.

"They're demanding a small fortune be delivered by the second prince alone," Madara explained with his gaze locked strongly on his nephew, "They're threatening to kill her if their instructions aren't followed to the exact."

"I'm sorry, Brother, but it's simply not possible," Itachi said with a sad expression.

Sasuke immediately argued, "So we should let this innocent woman die? I'm confident The Curse won't be destroyed at this point."

"Unfortunately, the life of an Uchiha is worth much more than the average lady's, Nephew. There is nothing we can do but pray that she doesn't suffer."

"What does it say of our family if we live with such an inflated mindset?" Sasuke was livid. Somehow, he didn't completely lose his composure and tried to make a logical argument, "If the royal family isn't ready to lay down their lives for their subjects, why would the kingdom's people have faith in them? I was under the impression the Uchiha family considered honor more important than riches and status."

"This is one woman, Sasuke," Itachi said, "As much as I hate to say it, the risk is much too high. It's almost definite that you'll both be killed upon your arrival regardless of if the demands are perfectly met."

"I refuse to-" "Silence," Madara cut off both of his nephews. They looked at him expectantly. He searched Sasuke's face for a silent moment before asking, "Are you certain this is what you want to do?"

The second prince recalled all the selfless gestures Sakura had offered since their first meeting. 'She's been willing to sacrifice everything to help a man she barely knows. If anyone deserves rescuing, it's her.' He nodded with a firm glare, daring his uncle to deny his request, 'This won't make up for all the suffering she's done or will continue to experience, but it's at least a start.'

Shorter chapter this time! The next one will be longer, so please be patient. Thanks for reading! :D