#the contrast of his elegance and a beautiful weapon

[xamaxenta]

Petition to give Sabo a long elegantly embellished rapier that he uses in its scabbard as a bludgeoning tool instead of actually partaking in sword fighting

[r0-boat]

Whb AU where everything's the same but the Demons are dragons

Something something Bible quote something something dragons are the devil something something whatever cool ass lizards.

Satan

A white Wyvern with blood red markings, It's piercing red eyes, The same color that stains the ground and on the scales of his true form, burn with a fire ignited from wrath burning ever constant. Contrast to his white scales and ghostly tattered wings It's horn sit like a crown atop his head It's tips speckled with that same red color, his markings end at his tail which slithers on the ground does it approaches you.

The smallest of the seven, and hates it. Always snarling and huffing when he's angerly yelling at another king You can see his pupils go into pin pricks as you can see his throat glow a orangen yellow as smoke begins to seep out from his mouth.

Satan has fine scales and spines along his head neck all the way down to his tail which like to puff out like an angry cat when he's agitated making him look like a puffer fish with wings.

Satan prefers his human form when he's not fighting seriously, since it gives him an excuse to use his horde of fast vehicles and weapons. Hehe; He likes sharpie explody things. Despite being their king his dragon form is actually the smallest even among his subordinates.

When his scales are about to shed they turn black before falling off. His scales can be sharpened and used for many things. Including daggers and sometimes even bullets or the heads of arrows. The scales are sharp and light.

Mammon

The onyx mane of this lung dragon glitters like jewels working beautifully with the gold scales and horns That decorate this beast. Black markings adorn his face and down his body like tiger stripes. He is benevolent in his in his own way. His golden eyes shine with Greed. Anything that his eyes fancies is his. His metallic scales shimmer like gold, And they are worth more than their weight in gold.

Lung dragons are usually elegant elegant yes but delicate no. His scales are smooth and as hard as stone. He loves them very much So much so He always keeps his tail or at least part of his scales showing from his human disguise.

A shame he never got a painting done of his late father He was the most beautiful bronze you've ever seen if you thought his mane was beautiful before His father was wild and flowing. He could grow it out if you like.

When his scales fall he likes to keep them His favorite thing to do is contact his jeweler fasten his scales into jewelry so he can adorn his favorite subjects and other things he likes with them. It's a good way to staking his territory He's not the only dragon who does this.

His scales are not only great for jewelry but also armor However given how much Just one scale go for and you do need a lot for a single piece that covers your body It is extremely expensive. Mammon has two bedrooms, His normal human one and his dragon lair where it's just decked with shiny gold coins and other jewels have too many imperfections for his personal treasure museum.

Leviathan

Wyrms, large ugly serpents found tumbling through the earth or in the deep depths of the ocean. But this one, This one is different It's pearly smooth scales reflecting vibrant pinks and purples. If you look closely you could see Platinum underbelly. It's silver eyes glow and pierced through you unreadable unmoving watching your every move as its tail holds you in place. It's Envious heart itching to coil around anything it fancies hiding it from the rest of the world that isn't itself. At the same time wanting to squeeze until the potential threat's lights go out.

He hates His true form his everything. He doesn't even shed his scales like the other kings instead His scales all come off at once like a snake shedding his skin He itches like crazy. When this happens he spends most of his time in a hot bath his human disguise half faded his torso is still human but everywhere else is serpent.

He prefers his human form for very obvious reasons... Hands; legs. When he's not in the room His subordinates fond over briefly in the early years when he took his human form as he was not used to standing on two legs. Even now if you're very lucky you can catch him stumbling over and hopefully you'll live to tell the tale.

As a dragon, he is more called blooded than his relatives. Levi craves warmth. Craves it. His entire body is constantly cold, and as much as he hates to admit, human bodies are very warm. So once winter starts, congratulations, you are now his human heat rock by force. Take everything you touch that is his and warm it up right now! Even though he looks like he belongs in the water and can swim very well, Levi's sensitive to temperature Even if water temperature in particular doesn't harm him. Leviathan prefers warmer tropical water.

Leviathan's true form is actually the biggest, But you'll never know since he's always coiled up. Despite not having limbs in his true form He's perfected his magic to use long snaking appendages to grab and hold whatever he wants.

Beelzebub

The more food a dragon has access to, the bigger it gets. Even though these kings of lizards grow very slowly, there is only one exception. Despite Fae Dragons supposedly being miniature, the Gluttonous appetites of the inhabitants of Abyssos make these dragons grow and grow. Its insectoid velvety wings shimmer with greens, yellows, purples, and oranges with intricate patterns. It has one horn similar to a unicorn but it's head is crowned with a ribbon like antennae. Start the beast It's tale with flexible fins stir in the air like rudders on a boat as it flies in place looking at you with interest... Or perhaps hunger?

While the other kings roars shake the ground His is song like and rhythmatic sending chills down your spine as it echoes through the sky.

In his true form Beel Actually has two pairs of jaws You just can't see his other pair since it's attached giving it the illusion of his normal maw. He also has mandibles folded on both sides of his cheek. They blend into his face so well at first glance you could never notice until you look very close. This translates to his human form albeit more like lines on his face and an unhingable jaw.

He is the most insectoid of his class all other fae dragon are not only well smaller than him... They're also more butterfly like where he is more moth like. Very fluffy! And please don't freak out when in battle he loses a wing or two unlike insects that when their wing scales break they will never grow back His wings and limbs can constantly grow back forever. In fact the scales on his wings always shed like pollen. It's shimmers like glitter.

He also eats his clones a fact that he loves to tell you with a smile just to watch you squirm. You remember other facts about insects and if you ask him that if he eats his lovers he just silently stares at you his smile widening more.

Lucifer

You thought he was a Drake at first glance, but then you realize The feathering nubs on his back where his wings should be; he was a dragon, The Dragon. He is a perfect amalgamation of scales and feathers. Its feathers and scales were white as snow other than the bright red horns on his head, the red scar across his body, and, of course, hisbehold. It. His snout was narrow, raptor-like. Just like his White irises glowing through the black voids of What should be white and his sharp black curved claws. As he lays before you, his wings or what's left of them move to spread out like a prideful peacock. If he could still soar, what a sight it would behold.

Lucifer once was an angel turned into a beast as a punishment for his own pride. He is still used to this draconic power as he has not fully mastered transforming and staying in his human form. He occasionally preens what is left of his wings. And other feathers. Pin feathers are the bane of his existence, and he can't reach the ones on his wings. Tiny human hands are always a blessing to have around. He can't help but move his giant dragon snout, trying to preen or pick at your own. He knows humans do not have pin feathers, but it feels nice.

He could always heal himself just like any demon can but he refuses to Even when his scales grow back in places he doesn't want He purposely picks them off. When his scales are grinded into a fine powder they're curiously bitter to the taste but a very potent with magical and medicinal properties. Ingesting the powder and/or god forbid the scale is highly ill-advised without proper preparation at as it is very poisonous.

"This is my son little brother." The beast grumbles in his true form He disappears for a second only to come back with a young man dangling from the collar He is leaning lanky His clothes slightly overgrown as if the tailor had no idea how to make clothes for a human. What really got your attention was his blue hair with icy blue eyes. you can't tell if the hair has been dyed or natural You've seen crazier shit in hell So it wouldn't surprise you. Lucifer puts him down and exclaims "He is human just like you. He needs human friends, please get along." This man has A pendant around his neck radiating magic. Perhaps this is what he uses to slow the growth of his tiny kid.

His true form is the largest of the seven without his wings. Sometimes he forgets he doesn't have them It's kind of awkward when he's trying to fly before realizing he can't. An odd thing he's picked up, instead of running how you would expect a dragon to run He actually gallops like a horse. He will admitly deny no matter how wrong he is. Perhaps he picked this up from watching horses.

Belphegor

With its long serpentine body sprawled across its layer at first you thought the black serpent was another one of Leviathan's kind But that's when you noticed upon the snoring beast front limbs folded as its face smushed into the pillow. The Lindwurm moved suddenly spooking you the mountain of pillows and blankets fell off its face as you got a better look. It's jet black main usually slipped back messy. It turns out dragons also get bedhead. It rolled Sloth-like onto its stomach It's whole body rotating with it that's when you saw more of its fur it's serpentine body stretched out with its One pair of front limbs letting out a loud yawn It's sort of reminded you like a cat.

Leviathan hates his long serpentine body but Belphegor fucking loves it. His long body if it weren't for a size could fit anywhere. Well that won't be a problem anymore actually since one of his beloved and very smart and very hardworking subordinates is currently working on a chemical compound that could shrink dragons down to size... Just think of all the napping spots!

If it weren't for the fact he lacks hind legs he would look exactly like a lung dragon. Belphie does not care. Walking sucks ass, how could anyone humans or dragons in their human form put up with walking on two legs. It's so much easier to slither. In fact he hardly uses his front limbs for anything other than support when he wants to lay down in a different way.

If it weren't for humans being so fragile he would absolutely lay right on you. Lindworms being a weird mix of Lungs and serpents they are also more cold-blooded. Unlike Leviathan who dreadedly hates cold anything. Belphegor loves the cold It makes him feel nice and sleepy. He doesn't like having too much warmth The only warmth he wants is your body heat. Congratulations another cold reptile laying directly skin contact onto you.

His room is a lot larger with a fuck ton of pillows and blankets all in one corner That's how he likes it when he is sleeping that's when he has less control over his forms as he shifts freely in his dreams be careful when you're snuggling him. And if it wasn't for a very nice subordinate of his, he would lay his entire collection of anime manga and other otaku stuff in a pile right next to his giant nest.

Asmodeus

This Drake moves in a way that disturbs you as it stalks and circles you. Its wild eyes roamed your body with such lust that it made you shiver. This dragon has perfected his form so well that he has many forms. But he prefers his "natural" appearance, bland, unassuming, smooth, leathery skin as black as night. The only thing with a splash of color is the thorns, chains, and flowers he decorates with. And a single blood-red eye. His hatchlings His beloved babies steam to take all sorts of draconic elements, whether feathers, scales, or fur.

"have you ever laid with a dragon?" He says with a smile...."Do you want to?"He also has a half form like Levi, But it looks less clean and more werewolf-ish more monstrous. He almost always shifts when he's trying to mate with you.

His horde is the red prison, delicious little sexual freaks that he collects in all corners of hell. And he thinks you'll be the prettiest addition of them all. He will shower you with all his treasures; all of them.

Instead of a powerful flame like all the others, he breathes a neurotoxin. His saliva is also toxic. With sharp serpentine-like fangs, he can control the right dosage. Only four dragons of the seven have venom. Leviathan's venom paralyzes, Belphegor makes your body go numb and limp, Lucifer's saliva thins your blood; Asmodeus's venom is sweet to the tongue and heavily intoxicates. Making his victim nice and suggestible.

His lack of wings does not concern him in the slightest. Even if he could magically produce wings, he couldn't fly with them; it would only be for show. Who needs flying when you can have someone big and strong? Carry him... No King will ever volunteer.

Bonus lightning round with random demons :D

Sitri & Amy:

Lindwyrm and Drake They fight a lot sometimes they'll turn into their true form Sitri trying to strangle Amy. As he tries to bite and tear into his flesh. I see Amy as a Drake that will run at full speed before tackling full force into an enemy while Sitri rather wait for an ambush strike.

Beleth

Tatzelwurm It's like a snake lindworm cat, It's an Alpine folklore animal but it looks very yokai like. His venom but also have the same alcoholic properties as Asmodeus, His flame is very weak He only uses it to light his Cigarette.

Naberius

Hydra in his true form his emotions split into three heads.

Stolas

Cockatrice I love him, bird lizard with his little crown. *Adds Fluffed up cockatrice trying to look scary here*

Bael

Fae Dragon, in my head he has a butterfly dragon trying to mimic a moth! Insects in the animal kingdom love their mimicry!

Foras

amphiphere You can pry this headcannon out of my cold dead hands. He would just look like Leviathan but with feathers and wings, and with more Sakura pink color. His wings are very soft so he flies silently.

Barbatos

Salamanders are a combination of drakes and lungs with multiple limbs. They have lots of limbs, and they are said to have fire capabilities. But this one seems to never use those combustible flames, instead soaking in the sun in a field of beautiful red roses.

Zagan

Wyvern Zagan never uses his true form around you because he wants you to feel more comfortable with him. When he is in his true form he just stares at you like how a big dog stares at a little kitten before picking you up like- 'This small thing is mine now.'

Bimet

I'm so stuck between Lung and Kirin AAA. Lung fits him more but I have yet to use Kirin... Maybe that one horse character from the new chapter can be a Kirin.

Gamigin

Human because it's funny, Lucifer and his tiny human baby. Whether he is a full-grown adult or a child is up to you. I just thought It'd be cute for a scary dragon to haul a small toddler around on his back.

[earthlybeam]

Can you please write about elves with a huntress/hunter reader who lives deep in the forest, doesn't have many manners or anything fancy like the elves, and is not used to eating healthily or consuming less meat. The reader hunts for themselves, bringing hunted animals to the elves as trophies, thinking the elves will appreciate them. Include Thranduil, Elrond, Legolas, and Celeborn. Have a good day/night. Thanks for your beautiful writing. I very rarely see person who writes so thoughtfully and poetically and even more rarely I see writer who writes for Lotr elves.☕

Aww, thank you so much for your kind words! That really means a lot to me. I’m so glad you enjoy the writing, and it’s so wonderful to hear that you’re excited for a LotR story with the elves. I’d love to write something like this! It’d be so fun to explore the contrast between the elves’ elegant, peaceful way of life and her wild, free-spirited ways!

Thranduil, Elrond, Legolas, Celeborn version below.

🍷𝓣𝓱𝓻𝓪𝓷𝓭𝓾𝓲𝓵

The ancient trees loomed overhead, casting long shadows over the forest floor. The sound of footsteps was muffled by the thick carpet of leaves and moss, as you, a solitary hunter, moved through the woods with practiced ease. Your home was far from the opulent halls of the Elves, nestled deep within the heart of the forest in a humble, weathered hut. A place where the air was filled with the scent of earth, damp leaves, and the unmistakable musk of the animals you hunted.

You lived by the bow, your hands used to the rough texture of your weapon and the weight of your quiver. You were accustomed to taking life, a necessity in your world. Every day, you hunted to survive, bringing back the fruits of your labor: deer, boar, and the occasional stag. The larger the prey, the more satisfying the hunt. And every time you brought down one of Mirkwood’s majestic creatures, you carried it proudly to the elves, thinking they would appreciate your skills.

But your ways were far removed from theirs. The elves, particularly their King, Thranduil, with their ethereal grace and reverence for the land, were hunters too—but not in the same way. For them, nature was a delicate balance, something to be revered and preserved. The fruits of the forest—herbs, berries, and nuts—were their preferred sustenance. Meat, especially the meat of an animal as noble as the stag, was a rarity, an occasional indulgence, and only consumed on special occasions.

As you approached the palace, the soft hum of voices reached your ears, growing louder with each step. The grand, gleaming structures of the elf kingdom were unlike anything you’d ever seen. Towers crafted from living wood, leaves and branches intertwining in delicate patterns. Their halls sparkled with a natural light, the air fragrant with the scent of flowers and herbs. It was a stark contrast to your rough, simple existence.

You approached Thranduil’s court, carrying the large stag draped over your shoulders. Its massive antlers gleamed in the pale sunlight, a prize you had taken down after hours of tracking. It was an impressive kill, something that would have earned you admiration from any other hunter in the land—but here, in the realm of the elves, you felt a momentary twinge of uncertainty. You knew little about their customs, only that they were not like you. Still, you hoped your offering would be appreciated, even if it was an act foreign to their way of life.

Thranduil stood at the center of the hall, his long, platinum blonde hair flowing around his shoulders like a cascade of moonlight. His piercing eyes caught sight of you as you entered, and he raised an eyebrow, his gaze flickering to the stag you had placed before him. His lips pressed into a thin line. The room seemed to grow quiet as the tension between the two of you thickened. Thranduil’s expression was unreadable at first, but beneath the calm exterior, there was a flicker of something darker. A flash of disapproval. “You bring this to my halls?” Thranduil’s voice was low, cool, and dangerous. It was not a question, but an accusation.

You stood tall, your back straight, meeting his gaze with a defiant stare. “Yes, my king,” you replied, your voice unwavering. “It is the prize of my hunt. I thought you would find it worthy.” The elves around you exchanged uneasy glances, their faces pale, as though the sight of the stag made them uneasy, or worse, repulsed. They were not accustomed to such offerings, not when the creatures of the forest could be more than just food—they were sacred, revered, and treated with reverence.

Thranduil stepped forward, his long fingers brushing the surface of the stag’s fur. His face was unreadable, but his eyes betrayed a sharp edge of anger. “This creature is sacred to the forest,” he said softly, though his words carried the weight of authority. “You kill it as though it is nothing more than a trophy, a mere object to boast about.”

You flinched slightly at the accusation, though you didn’t let your face betray the hurt. To you, hunting was survival. You had learned the ways of the forest long ago. The act of taking down a majestic creature was an honor, a way to prove your skill, your connection to the wild. But here, before the elves, it felt like you were standing before a different world—a world where your ways were misunderstood, seen as crude, primitive. “I did not bring it to boast, Thranduil,” you said, your voice steady. “I brought it as a gift, as a show of respect. I thought you would appreciate it.”

Thranduil’s gaze hardened. “You do not understand,” he murmured, almost to himself. “Meat is a luxury, not a necessity. We do not kill for sport or to collect trophies.” The weight of his words hit you like a cold wind. You had never considered that. In your world, meat was survival. It was the blood and flesh of the forest, the very lifeblood of your existence. But to him, it was something entirely different—something sacred, something meant to be treated with reverence.

“You are wrong,” Thranduil continued, his voice colder now. “You think you understand the forest, but you only take from it without understanding its true essence. It is not for you to decide when to take its life.” A long silence stretched between you, filled only by the distant rustling of leaves outside. You stood your ground, but inside, there was a twinge of guilt, a sense of wrongness in the air. “You would do well to remember the balance,” Thranduil said finally, his voice softening just slightly. “We take only what we need. And even then, we offer thanks.”

You nodded stiffly, the weight of your misunderstanding sinking in. You had acted with pride, but now, in the face of Thranduil’s quiet but unyielding authority, you realized how little you knew of their ways. “Will you still accept it?” you asked, your voice barely a whisper. Thranduil’s gaze softened for a moment, and with a small sigh, he nodded. “We will take it, but not for the reasons you think. It will be given back to the forest in due time, as a gift, a reminder of the sacrifice that was made.”

You bowed your head, feeling a strange mix of embarrassment and understanding. This was not your world, not your way. You had hoped to show your strength, but instead, you had revealed your ignorance. The stag was not your trophy to keep. It was a gift, a gesture of respect to a land that gave life in its own way. A lesson, you thought, as Thranduil turned away to oversee the ceremony. A lesson that the true hunt, the real strength, came not from what you could take, but from what you could give back to the land that had nurtured you.

📜 𝓔𝓵𝓻𝓸𝓷𝓭

In the heart of the forest, where the trees whispered ancient secrets and the earth was as familiar to you as your own skin, you lived a life of solitude. Your hut, constructed from fallen branches and thick moss, nestled between towering oaks and pines. The scent of the woods—the rich, earthy aroma of damp soil and fresh leaves—was all you knew. It was a simple existence, far removed from the grand halls of the elves, their elegant cities, and their refined customs.

You were a hunter, and the forest was your home. Each day, you ventured deep into the wilds, tracking animals, listening for the quiet stirrings of life in the underbrush. The hunt was a ritual of survival, not sport. You didn’t adorn your weapons with ornaments, nor did you care for any formalities. The kill was necessary. The meat was sustenance, and that was all that mattered. There was no delicacy, no finesse—just you, the trees, and the game.

The offering you had prepared for Rivendell was one of your best. A wild boar, thick and heavy, its tusks sharp and gleaming in the fading sunlight, accompanied by a deer and several rabbits. You’d taken them down swiftly and cleanly, knowing the importance of not wasting a single part. The weight of the kills pressed on your shoulders as you trudged toward the gates of Rivendell, your heart steady in the way of those who walk alone in the wild.

You had done this before, bringing your trophies to the elves, convinced they would appreciate your skill and the quality of the game. You knew they were a proud people, wise in their ways, and surely they would recognize your strength and hunting prowess. They might even accept your offering in the same way you had seen in the few exchanges you’d had with their kind—silent nods, polite words—but no real connection. They lived differently, you knew that, but what did it matter? The hunt was sacred to you, and you were proud to share it with them.

As you neared the gates, Elrond stood waiting, his long, graceful form silhouetted against the shimmering light of Rivendell’s halls. His piercing gaze studied you, the hunter—you, with your rough-hewn clothes and the scent of blood and the wilds clinging to your skin. To him, you were both a mystery and a reminder of a world far removed from the delicacy and reverence of elvish life.

You didn’t acknowledge the way his eyes lingered on you, nor the subtle tension in the air that always followed your arrivals. You didn’t care for the elves’ highborn ways, the long meals full of laughter and elegant conversation that felt foreign and strange to you. You dropped the boar and the deer at his feet without ceremony, your shoulders straight and proud. “I’ve brought you game,” you said simply, your voice rough, shaped by years of isolation.

Elrond, ever the picture of grace, gave a slight bow of his head but did not immediately reach for the animals. He let the silence stretch between you, studying the offerings with a quiet, thoughtful gaze. His eyes flicked from the boar to the deer and then to you. There was no anger, no judgment, but a certain sadness that lingered behind his usually calm demeanor.

“Your skill is evident, hunter,” Elrond spoke at last, his voice rich with centuries of knowledge. “But I must admit, I wonder if you understand what you offer.” You blinked, a twinge of confusion tugging at your brow. “I offer what I know best. The hunt. The land provides—does it not?” Elrond sighed, a sound full of ancient weariness. He could see the pride in your eyes, the simple belief that this was the way of things. “The land provides, yes. But the elves of Rivendell… we do not take what we do not need. Our ways are not like yours.”

You frowned, your confusion deepening. “I bring this because I thought you would appreciate it,” you said, your voice hardening a little. “I thought this was what you wanted. It’s a strong kill, a good offering.” Elrond’s gaze softened, though his face remained solemn. “You misunderstand. What we take from the land, we take with reverence. We do not live in the same way as you, hunter. Our bond with the land is one of balance, not conquest. We forage the fruits of the earth, gather herbs, and celebrate the cycles of life. Meat, to us, is rare—only taken when necessary, and even then, it is with the utmost respect for the creature that gave its life.”

His words sank into your chest like a stone, the weight of them pressing down on your hardened heart. You didn’t know how to respond. The idea of restraint, of living without the constant hunt for survival, felt alien to you. You had always lived by the rhythm of the forest, where the strong survived and the weak fell. The concept of eating without bloodshed felt like a betrayal of the land itself. How could you understand this way of life?

“But…” you started, your voice catching, “I live by the hunt. The game provides. Without it, I cannot survive.” Elrond nodded slowly, his eyes not filled with judgment, but with understanding. “I do not question your way of life, hunter. You are a product of your surroundings. But here, we live differently, and we ask for understanding of that. You do not need to offer these gifts of blood to prove your strength. You are more than that.”

You stood silently, unsure of what to say. The weight of the meat at your feet seemed heavier now, the sight of it almost shameful in the quiet, peaceful world of Rivendell. You had never known anything else, and yet here, in this foreign place, you realized how little you understood about the delicate dance between life and death that the elves lived by.

“I did not mean to offend,” you said at last, your voice quieter now, a crack in your usual boldness. “I thought you would appreciate it. I thought it was the right thing to do.” Elrond’s gaze softened even more. “You did what you thought was right. There is no shame in that. But you must understand, hunter, there is more than one way to live, and in time, perhaps you will see the beauty in the balance that sustains us all.”

You didn’t know if you would ever truly understand, but something about the way Elrond spoke—the calm authority in his voice—made you feel like you had taken the first step toward something new. It wasn’t the hunter’s path you had always known, but it was something worth considering.

🍃𝓛𝓮𝓰𝓸𝓵𝓪𝓼

You live deep in the heart of the forest, away from the shining halls of the elves and their highborn customs. Your home is a humble hut, tucked away in a glade surrounded by ancient trees, their gnarled roots and thick canopies offering both shelter and solitude. The world outside is one of dirt and sweat, where each day is spent tracking, hunting, and surviving. It’s not an easy life, but it’s one you know well. Your skills with the bow are honed through necessity, not ceremony. When you hunt, it’s for sustenance, and the meat you bring back feeds you through the long nights and hard winters.

To you, the forests and creatures are just another part of the world, as much a part of your survival as the air you breathe. Each animal you hunt is treated with a hunter’s respect, and the trophies you bring back — antlers, pelts, and sometimes the rawness of the kill itself — are meant to be admired for their strength and beauty. You don’t see any reason to hide the rough edges of your life. After all, it is life. It’s survival.

But the elves… they live by different rules, different standards. Legolas is a prince, raised among the elegance of Mirkwood’s halls. His world is one of grace, where nature is admired with reverence and balance is key. The elves are skilled hunters, but their methods are soft — they don’t take more than they need, and they rarely, if ever, hunt for meat unless necessary. Instead, they gather the gifts of the forest: fruits, nuts, and herbs that sustain them without bloodshed.

You bring the carcass of a deer to them, its sleek body slung over your shoulders, the weight of your kill familiar, even if the task of bringing it to the elves feels a little out of place. You’ve been told that your offerings might be appreciated — that it’s a gesture of respect to bring something back to their realm. But there’s something in the way they look at you, something… off, as if they aren’t sure how to respond to the offering of something so primal, so rough.

Legolas stands with the other elves, watching as you approach with the dead animal. His face, ever serene, betrays little of his thoughts, but there’s a flicker of surprise in his eyes when he sees what you’ve brought. He’s seen hunters before, of course, but this is different. This is the raw, unpolished reality of hunting that belongs to someone who lives outside the order of elvish civilization.

You set the deer down before him with a grunt, brushing your hands on your rough trousers. You expect the usual admiration, the quiet nods of respect for a good kill — you’re skilled after all. You’ve been doing this longer than you care to admit. But Legolas does not step forward immediately, his brow furrowing ever so slightly as he takes in the sight of the animal. “This is…” His voice trails off, as if unsure how to proceed. He shifts his weight, the movement fluid and graceful, an unspoken tension in his posture. “A fine creature, but… why did you bring it here?”

You glance at him, not quite understanding the question. “To share,” you answer bluntly. “A hunter’s tribute to the elves. The forest provides for me, I return the favor.” The elves do not hunt for meat as you do. You know that now, but it doesn’t seem like something they would admit openly. Legolas watches the deer, his eyes studying the carcass with an unreadable expression. He steps closer, crouching down to inspect it with the care of someone who might handle something fragile, something precious. But there’s no admiration in the gesture, only a quiet unease.

“This… this is not how we honor the forest,” he says gently, though there’s an edge of confusion in his voice. “We take only what is needed and offer thanks, not trophies. We do not kill for sport. The animals give themselves to us, but we do not take their lives lightly.” You raise an eyebrow. It’s not the first time you’ve heard the elves speak of balance, of offering thanks to the earth. You’ve never understood it. To you, hunting is survival — there’s no need for excessive reverence when it’s the only way to feed yourself. But you can’t exactly fault them for their beliefs.

“I didn’t think…” you trail off, unsure of what to say. You know their way is different, but it’s hard to understand. “I thought it might be appreciated. To show I respect your lands, your way.” Legolas looks up at you then, his eyes soft but serious. “We do appreciate your efforts,” he says, his voice almost like a whisper, as if trying to ease the tension between your worlds. “But you must understand that we do not take life lightly. There are other ways to offer respect — ways that don’t bring harm. The forest gifts us with so much more than just its creatures.”

You nod slowly, your gaze shifting down to the deer. It’s strange, the way he speaks of life and nature, as though everything must be done with such care. But maybe you’re missing something. Maybe there’s more to their way of life than just survival. “I see,” you say, your voice softening as you try to understand. “I don’t know that I can offer much else, but I’ll… I’ll keep that in mind next time.” You’re not sure what else to say, and the silence between you stretches awkwardly.

Legolas offers a slight smile, though it’s more of a gentle curve to his lips than anything overtly joyful. “It is appreciated. Perhaps next time, you will bring the fruits of the forest. There is much to be found here, and it is a gift that will nourish you in ways you cannot yet understand.” You glance at the other elves, who are still observing you with quiet curiosity, their eyes lingering on the deer with something akin to quiet concern. You wonder how they’ll handle the offering, if they’ll just bury it or leave it to rot in the woods.

“I’ll consider it,” you say after a long pause, nodding your agreement to something you’re not entirely sure you’ll follow through on. You’re a hunter, it’s who you are, but… maybe there’s something to their way. Legolas steps back, his hand brushing against the tree beside him, almost as though he’s speaking to it without words. “You honor us in your own way. But let us find balance together. We can teach you how to see the forest differently, and perhaps you can teach us to appreciate the raw beauty of the hunt.” He looks at you with a twinkle of something both mischief and sincerity. “In time.”

You grin despite yourself. There’s something about him, about his calm, that makes you feel less like a misfit in their world. Maybe, just maybe, you could learn to see things through his eyes. For now, the silence lingers, but it doesn’t feel as heavy as it once did. You’ve made your offering, and Legolas has made his. There’s a bridge, however small, between your worlds now. Maybe you’ll never quite understand each other’s ways completely, but for once, it feels like that’s okay.

🩵𝓒𝓮𝓵𝓮𝓫𝓸𝓻𝓷

You move through the dense forest, the familiar crunch of fallen leaves beneath your boots. The sun barely pierces through the canopy, casting faint light that dances on the undergrowth. Your home is hidden deep in this wilderness—far from the glimmering, structured lives of the elves, who seem to live on a plane so distant it could almost be a different world. Here, you’ve carved out your own existence, simple and necessary. You hunt, you survive. There is nothing grand or complicated about your life.

As a hunter, you are accustomed to the solitude, the quiet of the woods, broken only by the sound of your bowstring, the call of a deer, or the snap of twigs underfoot. Meat, fresh from the forest, is your sustenance. It’s not delicate, not adorned with herbs and spices like the elves would prepare it, but it keeps you alive, and that’s enough. The idea of eating like the elves—light, airy meals of fruits, nuts, and berries—is foreign to you. It would not fill your stomach; it would not satisfy the hunger that gnaws at you from the inside.

Yet, something in you compels you to bring the fruits of your labor to them, to the elves of Lothlórien, those strange, ethereal beings who live in the glimmering light of their sacred woods. Maybe you hope they’ll appreciate the skill it took to bring down the stag or the wild boar. Maybe you long for some recognition for the life you’ve carved in this untamed wilderness.

You walk for hours, your game draped over your shoulders, the weight a reminder of your efforts. The faint whisper of leaves in the wind is the only sound in the forest now. When you reach the borders of Lothlórien, the sight of the silver trees fills you with a strange sense of awe. You’re so far removed from their world, and yet, you are bringing them something.

Celeborn watches you from a distance as you approach the heart of Lothlórien. His eyes are calm, measuring, assessing. He has seen many things in his long life, but a solitary hunter—drenched in the sweat of his labor, the scent of the wild still clinging to him—is a curiosity. His people are not like you. Their lives are defined by a different kind of grace, one that values balance, subtlety, and harmony with the land. His people forage and cultivate, nurturing the land that they hold dear. The act of hunting for sport or necessity, especially in the raw, primal way you do it, is not something they find familiar or comforting.

As you draw closer, Celeborn steps forward, his presence a quiet command, and yet there is a softness in his gaze. “What brings you here, hunter of the woods?” His voice is calm, soothing, like the rustle of the leaves above. “You carry the spoils of your hunt, I see.” You lower your prize, the weight of the boar now on the ground between you. “I thought you would appreciate these,” you say, a touch of uncertainty in your voice. “A fine boar, taken down with skill.” You step back, letting the smell of the wild waft into the air.

Celeborn observes the carcass silently for a moment. His expression is unreadable, the serene calm of someone who has seen many things in his long life. To him, this offering is strange. His people do not hunt for necessity like you. Their connection to the land is different—a partnership, not a conquest. And yet, he is not one to judge, not without understanding.

“We are not strangers to the hunt,” Celeborn says gently, his eyes meeting yours with a quiet respect. “But in our realm, hunting is a rare occurrence, reserved for times when the balance of the forest is disrupted, or when we gather in celebration. What you bring… it is not without its merit. But our ways, they differ.”

You feel a sense of discomfort stir inside you, an unfamiliar feeling. You had hoped for more of an acknowledgment, a greater appreciation for what you’ve done. You’ve lived for so long in the solitude of your hunt that the notion of how others might view it is almost alien to you. “I understand,” you reply, your voice rough from the journey. “It’s not what you are used to. But it’s the way of the wild, of the forest. The cycle of life. I thought… perhaps, it would help.”

Celeborn’s gaze softens, a glimmer of understanding in his eyes. He steps closer, the elegance of his movements matching the grace of the ancient woods around him. “We do not shy away from the realities of life. The forest is not only filled with beauty, but with struggles as well. But we, the Elves of Lothlórien, seek to live in harmony with nature, rather than to take from it in excess.” He pauses, contemplating his words. “The forest, like the heart of a wise ruler, must remain in balance. Your hunt, your offering, is… not without merit. It shows skill, certainly. And it is a part of your world. But here, the balance is what we value above all.”

You are silent for a moment, the weight of his words sinking in. You had always thought of hunting as a simple necessity, but to Celeborn and his people, it seems to be so much more than that. They do not take from nature, they live with it, drawing only what is needed, never more. “I didn’t mean to overstep,” you say after a pause, feeling something like shame wash over you. “I thought you might need it.”

Celeborn regards you with a quiet sympathy, his eyes softening. “You need not apologize, hunter. Your offering, while not aligned with our ways, is a gesture that shows you understand the forest’s gifts. And for that, we are grateful. Perhaps… you would allow me to show you the ways of our people? There is more to living with nature than taking from it. There is peace to be found in understanding its rhythms.”

The weight of your hunt still lingers on your shoulders, but his words stir something in you—a curiosity, a desire to understand what it means to live in harmony with the world rather than simply taking from it. Celeborn’s offer is gentle, not one of judgment, but of invitation. An invitation to learn, to see the forest in a different way.

You nod, slowly, uncertain but willing. “I would like that,” you say. Celeborn gives a small, approving nod. “Then come. There is much to show you.” And as you follow him deeper into the heart of Lothlórien, you feel a strange sense of peace settle within you, as if the forest itself is welcoming you, not as a hunter, but as a part of its cycle.

[icrypop]

Hey so I learned now that I LOVE the yandere sbg cast and I need to spill this out because I love your writing style a lot!

Reader that's like a swan and the moon beautiful elegent but so mysterious at the same time and when fighting uses ballerina moves and basically is like blood in snow having this strange arura that just lures you in at the same time!

Shadowed blood

The gang x Swan-like! GN! Reader

This was rly pretty 🥺 I actually had fun writing this and also asked a friend about what ballet was like since she did lots of classes when she was younger. Very talented, she helped me write it whbqgagshdjg

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The moonlight spilled through the cracks of the abandoned building, illuminating your figure. You stood at the center of the room, a hauntingly beautiful silhouette amidst the shadows. Your head tilted slightly, a serene expression gracing your face, as if you hadn’t noticed the gang of phantoms encircling you.

But they knew.

Even if they didn’t understand what it was, the phantoms could feel it—the magnetic pull of your presence, the elegance of your movements, the quiet promise of destruction hidden behind the beauty.

With a delicate step, you moved forward, your posture straight, your arms graceful, as if you were on a stage instead of a battlefield. The phantoms hesitated, unsure whether to attack or admire, but the moment passed swiftly as you twirled, your twin blades flashing like silver ribbons in the dim light.

Blood painted the floor like crimson snowflakes, a grotesque yet mesmerizing contrast to your movements. Each pirouette was a slash, each leap a fatal blow, your strikes landing with precision that seemed almost supernatural. You danced through the chaos, untouchable, your serene expression never faltering.

The Gang stood frozen near the doorway, watching in stunned silence. None of them had seen you like this before—not in your full glory.

“Holy crap,” Taylor whispered, her usual bubbly demeanor replaced by awe. “She’s... terrifying,” Tyler muttered, his eyes wide.

“Terrifying?” Aiden shot back, unable to tear his gaze away. “She’s beautiful.”

---

When the last phantom fell, you stopped in the middle of the carnage, surrounded by bodies and blood. Your chest rose and fell steadily, the only sign of exertion, and your blades hung loosely at your sides. Slowly, you turned toward the group, your head tilting ever so slightly in that strange, swan-like way you had.

"Oh...Hello” you spoke softly, your voice carrying an otherworldly calm.

The calm broke the spell.

Ashlynn stepped forward first, her usual tense demeanor cracked by the flicker of emotion in her eyes. “You didn’t need our help,” she said, her voice quiet. “No,” you replied, offering a faint smile. “But I’m glad you’re here.”

---

Later, as the group walked back together, they couldn’t stop stealing glances at you. Even now, with your weapons sheathed and your movements subdued, you carried that same air of mystery and grace. It was as if the moonlight itself had taken human form, luminous and untouchable.

“You’re like a fucking swan,” Tyler blurted out, breaking the silence. You raised an eyebrow, amused. “A swan?”

Logan nodded, "Yeah. All elegant and graceful, but deadly if you get too close.”

The others nodded in agreement, and for once, there was no teasing or banter. They couldn’t deny it. You weren’t just a part of their group—you were something else entirely. Something they couldn’t fully understand but couldn’t look away from, either.

And none of them could shake the feeling that they’d been drawn into your orbit for a reason.

[pursuitseternal]

Introducing “Our Blood is Thicker:” Enemies to Lovers Astarion x Tav (OC female)

Astarion x Tav (female OC) | E | 4.8 K Chapter

Summary: He can’t remember anything, but she does. The betrothed she believed dead, the source of all her centuries of grief and heartache now in the middle of her path after the Nautiloid crash. He might look mostly the same as the one who stole her heart, but something is different about him. Dark. Changed. Something hidden. But her own centuries of becoming battle-hardened haven taught her wisdom and insight beyond her own elvish abilities. He is a monster she can tame, a challenge she will have to face. No matter the heartache.

CW: angst, heartbreak, enemies, sexual tension you can cut with a dagger, vampire trauma-induced memory loss, calculating manipulation (Astarion), Spoilers for the gameplay

A/N: Prompt fill, 3rd Person POV, female Tav OC, headcanon Astarion as Star elf ✨, our Little Star

Read on AO3 if you prefer

Chapter 1: Wondering

💞🗡️💞🗡️💞🗡️💞🗡️💞🗡️💞🗡️💞🗡️💞🗡️💞

“Shh shh shh shh,” that sweetened, mellifluous voice whispered in her ear so softly. Lips nearly pressing against her sensitive, pointed ear. Something about it reached into the dark recesses of her memory. Jarring almost more than the danger he posed.

It was a sharp contrast. So caressing in tone. Strange, compared to the way he used every bit of his wiry, lean, overwhelming strength to push that dagger towards her neck.

“Not another sound… not if you want to keep that… darling… neck of yours….”

Shivers, colder than ice, colder than death ran down her spine at his words. Recognition shot right through her. It was a voice that once haunted her thoughts, one she once craved. But that craving had turned sour, that longing had long ago twisted into spite.

That silver hair, those piercing eyes and dangerous smile.

Even the way his arm cradled around her back, bracing her into him as he tried to threaten and destroy her.

But she had been here before.

Destroyed by him once.

Over a hundred years of loathing, resentment, anger, it all came rushing up, pouring out from her. Her hands swift and strong, she grabbed his body where she could, smashing her head right into the bridge of his beautiful, aquiline nose.

His howl of pain as he rolled away made her heart sing.

Her companions watched, mouths open as they stood in a line, some in surprise, some in delight. Karlach’s laughter was especially reassuring to her ear. Making her go just a hint faster as she scrambled for her own elegant blade.

But it was a struggle to keep her stance, to keep up. Maybe that fucking parasite is making me slow, she cursed inwardly, or maybe he’s just become quicker. Faster. But equally mean and threatening as before.

A ghost from her past, just as much of a… threat… as he once was.

Already at his feet, he clutched his dagger in hand, lips pressed in suspicion and cold, calculating spite. “I saw you on the ship…” he hissed.

She squared her shoulders, spinning her own blade expertly in hand. “That doesn’t give you the right to touch me, Astarion Ancunín,” she hissed back.

She saw it, giving her a sublime dark and twisted joy. His shock and doubt the moment she gave his name. A flicker over his face as his concentration, his intense charm and swagger, shattered. He eased on his toes, weapon lowering. Looking for answers, maybe for peaceful conversation. But it was too late for her, swallowing down the bile that had risen to speak his name again.

No backing down now, she sneered. And besides, she wasn’t alone this time. Her party stood behind her, their anxiety palpable as they watched. Waiting for her to choose: attack or speak.

And for every scar on her heart that bastard made, she longed to attack, but her own, ancient elvish sensibilities prevented her.

She couldn’t just kill one of her own. Not when there were already so few Star Elves to begin with.

“I take it, we’ve met before,” he replied. Cold, so cold in his tone. And cautious, as if he weighed every word before he let it out from those sneering lips. Same old Astarion. “At least before you crawled around the Mindflayer’s ship doing gods know what…”

That was it. She snapped inwardly. It was hard to control it, her need to pummel his pale face. “Don’t remember?” She forced a charming smile, narrowing her sharp, silver eyes at him. “Of course not, over a century of chasing your own ambitions and leaving your people behind…” She swallowed the need to mention herself… how he left you behind, her mind hissed at her with all the venom she had tried to bury.

He said nothing, but she could see how his mind was racing, scanning her up and down and all over with those… crimson… eyes.

She paused. Where were those deep violet ones? The ones she would once lose herself in, deep like the night sky she had stared into, abandoning all reason, forgetting her own self in, during those long and lonely years, wishing she wasn’t alone in her bed at night….

Rapidly, she shook her head.

It pulled him back into the tension, the pale elf hardened his form again, back on the offense, a second dagger in his fist now. “Tell me what you know about these parasites, or I’ll decorate the ground with your innards, darling…”

That’s when something pulsed in her mind, the parasite swimming, throbbing as their minds smashed together.

She saw through foreign eyes… crouching in the darkness, the tang of old blood… locked behind walls away from the stars, the sky, forsaking the sun… her stomach burned with a hunger she had never known. And slowly her mind raced, trying to cling to the memories of faces and names and the feeling of grass under her feet and wind on her face.

She wished she had chosen death as the blood on her back began to dry, as the pain of his knife still cut your senses and deadened her mind. She tried to remember anything, but it all faded into the dark…

Her eyes shot open, the glaring sun a relief to her heart as she gasped. As if she had been suffocated by that dank dark prison herself.

Astarion glared at her, so intense and angry as those crimson pools narrowed. “They took you too, I saw it during… whatever that was,” he scowled at her. Confusion, mistrust, wrinkling his porcelain brow. “It seems we have a common goal, darling, even though I could feel your hatred for me clear as… day.”

“Another gift from the Ilithids, it seems,” she scoffed, “glad I didn’t have to waste my breath telling you.” Her lithe fingers resheathed her dagger, turning on her heel to face her new found companions. But they didn’t budge even as she approached with all the confidence of a seasoned commander.

“That's it?” The elf called, voice sharp as he followed in her steps. “You’re going to just… leave me? Even though I am stuck with the same fate as all of you?” He sounded desperate, an edge of true fear flickering in his mellifluous voice.

She scoffed, tossing her shining red hair over her shoulder with a glare. “I seem to remember you always preferred to go your own way,” she jeered over your shoulder, feeling the tips of her own pointed ears growing hot with rage.

“Look, if I remembered anything, I’m sure I would have centuries to apologize for, but as it is…” he cleared his throat. She turned fully at the noise of discomfort, reassured by the closeness of the others beside her. She watched as he put on a well-practiced smile, making his arms soften as he flexed them at his sides. “I… I don’t, I can’t remember much other than my name, and little of my past.” His eyes scanned your company: wizard, cleric, tiefling… begging and pleading with their wide wetness in every way that matched his supplicant tone. “Please, I know you’re trying to find an expert, a solution…” he placed a hand on his heart, smile softening, forcing sincerity, “I’d like to, too.”

The wizard shifted beside her, leaning closer so his voice reached her ear. “It would be.. most extreme to just… ignore someone thrown into our path and bound to the same fate,” Gale’s calm and soothing lilt seemed to only aggravate her.

“We know nothing about him,” she snapped between gritted teeth. Hissing, her mind corrected those furious words: you know nothing about him.

“Do you know anything about any of us?” Shadowheart added, eyes so soft and sparkling, tone so damnably calm too.

Her nostrils flared, her temper beating in her head. Made things difficult to think past all feelings that swirled in her stomach and befuddled her mind. But she forced herself to take a breath, closing her eyes as she turned to face that unsought phantom from her past. “Fine,” she gave a relenting hiss, “for the good of the group, I will allow you to come.”

His brow quirked. Too attractively, too seductively for her own good. “Thank you,” he crooned in reply, catching her fist where it balled at her side and pressing his lips on her fingers.

His mouth was cold, but so was the air, she shook the observations from her head. Trying to keep everything he did at a distance. Hard to do as he smirked down at her, as rakish and roguish as once plagued her dreams. “I always enjoy being allowed to come,” he purred, quietly enough for her ears alone.

“Don’t,” she rasped through her tightly clenching jaw. “Don’t make me regret this spike of altruism on your behalf…” Finally ripping her hand from his chilled hold upon her. “Not that you would know the word at any rate.”

He stiffened, caught off guard again as she mentioned his past… who he was. “For as much as you think I should know you, darling, I don’t…” he squared his frame, rigid and defensive. “And for as much as you think you may know me, of what I once was, I assure you…” he seemed to sneer bitterly, his teeth flashing in the sun, “…you do not.”

Provoking him was fun, she decided. Maybe, making him pay would be a pleasant distraction from the fear of these damned parasites. She made her lips smile, giving her fiery, burnished red hair a toss. Cool and collected. “Then it seems we will have much time to get to know one another, Astarion.”

There it was again, that outward show of being polite, his feral nature just simmering beneath. “Of course,” he bowed his head, closing in so close, she had to push past him.

But the moment she cleared ahead, he was right there again, and this time, she couldn’t fight the aggravated sigh in her throat as he fell in step behind her. His body so close, she could feel the brush of his sleeve—richly colored, decadentally embroidered—with every fucking step. That’s when his sultry voice leaned too close to her ear so as to fill it. “So, since you’re so cunning and sneaky and beautiful, I’m sure you know about these parasites…”

“Certainly,” she threw him her most annoyed and caustic look. “I know enough to tell you they’ll turn you into a Mindflayer,” she snapped her reply. Quick and to the point.

“A…” he stopped frozen in his tracks, shaking his head as he scoffed with bitter laughter. “Of course,” he sneered with disdain, “it’ll turn me into a monster. What did I expect?” he commented, quietly, under that icy breath, almost to himself.

She sniffed, her own irascible, twitching grimace on her smooth face, letting out all the barbs that had piled up as he looked at her, that aloof veneer just… pissing her off. “You were always a bit of a monster, Astarion,” she teased, malice in her words. “Shouldn’t be much of a change for you.”

That did it. That broke into his ice-cold defenses. He roared, hands clawing into her upper arms, his massive strength shoving her little, flexible frame against the closest tree. He’s so close. His breath chilling. His teeth bared in her face, but all she could see was the feral, unchecked wilderness in the shocking red of his eyes. “Look,” he growled, voice barely more than a rumble as he pinned her into that unyielding tree. “I don’t know what you remember, or who you remember. But I don’t know you… I don’t recall your name, your face, your annoying, rash, irritating presence…”

“Funny,” she kept her face relaxed, pleasantly smiling softly, strangely calm as all the bile began to draw from the dark recesses of her soul. At last, her mouth spewed the words that had tightened in her chest since she recognized him. “I can recall everything. An elf’s memory is their curse, you know. I remember the depth of colors in your violet eyes, I remember the way your giggle would turn every head to give you the attention you longed for, even as a youth.”

His pinning frame eased, but he kept them on her body. Still heavy and strong as he pressed over every inch.

She wished he wouldn’t.

But it only kept the poison flowing. “I remember the taste of your tongue in my mouth, the heat of your hands as you caressed me through my gowns… I remember the way your voice cracked with feeling when you gave me your word we would be wed, my betrothed for every age… every lifetime…”

Now it was her silky voice that cracked. And she watched the shadows draw over his pale face. The lines around his eyes crinkling as he winced, as if her words were sucking a venom from sealed wounds.

“I remember that same untamable need for power, for ambition, the same that made you leave your people under the stars, in the woods, to go to Baldur’s Gate for your studies. For you to find a way to take power from society, exploiting the law… becoming a Magistrate so you could discover true power and freedom…”

Those dark red eyes shut completely. His lips drawing slowly in a pained sneer. But now the words just couldn’t stop. Not now.

She inhaled, shakily and deeply. The pain almost overwhelmed her. “I recall every second of waiting during those years, waiting for your letters… for your return to me… to make me your bride but…”

He gave a rattling breath from his chest. “But I never did…” his hands swept down her arms, lingering for a moment before he released her completely. “I couldn’t return…”

She gave a derisive huff, a laugh of pure ire and disbelief. “I know. Well, I thought I did. I went looking for you, Astarion. I found your… grave.” She almost shouted the last word. The full extent of her pain, her betrayal coating her voice, coloring her vision in pure, red rage. “I sought after how you died. Murdered in the streets. Like the traitor you were to me.” Her breath was rough and ragged. “I let you go from that moment, Astarion. So forgive me if stumbling upon you very much… not dead… is a bit painful.”

“I assure you,” he spoke through his perfectly white, gritted teeth, “it might not be as painful as the truth.”

“Well,” she sniffed in scorn, “once you deign to share it, then I’ll stop assuming you faked your own death, just to get away from me. What a sense of humor the gods must have to throw you back in my path now.”

“The gods have nothing to do with it,” he twisted his head, and she could see every muscle in his neck clenching and throbbing. “You’ll learn the truth, I’m sure. Maybe it’ll even come to you in the night…”

Brows furrowed, making her face screw in contempt, too irritated to be confused. “Maybe,” she snipped, “might be faster than waiting on you to do anything.”

He grinned, brows canting, those eyes gazed at her with that same amused stare that once made her thighs wet with need. And dammit, if she didn’t start to feel it again. Especially as that smirk started to twist more rakishly. Her heart skipped a beat. The wind in his hair, tousling those same silver locks, the scent of his skin, citrus and spice, she hated the way it still tugged at her body.

“Fuck,” she cursed, jutting her chin up at him, trying to look composed and undeterred. And unaroused. “I just hope you’re as good of a fighter as you once were,” she taunted, eyes scanning the daggers at each side of his narrow waist. “Seems your body remembers that even if you don’t remember anything important.”

“I would dare to say, darling, I’m even more dangerous now than I ever was,” he preened. Proud. Insufferable. “If you ever felt yourself in danger around me before, perhaps you may wish to watch your back… and your neck.” His eyes raked down her body, that same ancient heat in his eyes even if he didn’t remember it from… from before.

That was enough. She huffed and stalked on up the trail, trying to put as much distance and as many other bodies between her and him.

That’s when she saw it… where the rest of her party had already gathered. Something about the rocks ahead, the massive door in the wall, something inside her wanted to see what’s inside… and without another thought, she shoved on the big, wood planks.

“Locked,” she proclaimed, looking at her sweet Wizard, giving him a soft, pleading look for any help he and his magic could offer.

“Well, I do suppose…” Gale smiled, “anything to help our fearless leader, even if it’s just the gentlemanly thing of holding a door open…”

“Done!” Astarion crowed, his lockpick in one hand, the other gesticulating dramatically as he bowed. The thick door did, in fact, groan on its hinges as it opened into the mountain. “Who needs magic when you have a fine tool to shove in tiny holes, hmm?”

His eyes fixated right on her. Gods, her mind raced at the way he looked at her as if she was bared to the sun. Is he remembering?

“Well, Astarion,” the cleric taunted as she drew closer, “no one is accusing you of gentlemanly behavior.”

“I should certainly hope not,” his eyes shifted that heated, flirtatious stare on Shadowheart. “Gentlemen aren’t known for having as much fun as I tend to… enjoy.”

“Ugh,” that groan came from her, through, totally unplanned. She pushed between them to enter into the dark. But what she tried to ignore, try to distract herself from, was how her stomach knotted, how her blood boiled at the image that was now burned in her mind. Of how he was just… smirking at her…the cleric… undressing with his eyes… throwing those honeyed barbs…. And all he has for you is just anger and blades and pain, her thoughts scratched at those old, heartsick wounds.

As she entered into the dark adventure ahead, she didn’t know what was worse. The enemies in her path, or the traitorous ghost that haunted her with envy within her heart.

With a sigh, she could only hope he was as brutal a fighter as he seemed to think he was. External enemies he could slay, but she doubted he would help, could help, that bitterness and jealousy that had taken root inside her.

___________________

Hells below, she moaned, she made it to the night. Alive and in one piece. And… as she surveyed her companions that fate had shoved into her path, it was thanks to all of them. Even… she groaned inwardly… Astarion. He was indeed vicious. Worse than she remembered. He loved the bloodshed. He thrived in the chaos of battle. He became one with the shadows to sneak up on the enemy.

It was…. Gods forbid… impressive.

She mindlessly sorted through the food that everyone had pilfered on the journey today, every companion busied now piecing together sleeping places. Some of the more ambitious, entitled, conceited companions had begun to construct tents.

Like Astarion.

A heavy sigh, she tried to ignore how he was bouncing on his toes, fairly giddy to make a little abode under the night sky. Rolling her eyes painfully far back in her skull, she settled for a comfy, if austere, bedroll that she settled by the fire.

She looked at her hands as she fluffed her pillow, shifting the thick blanket to cover the leather of its back. So dry, so scarred. Calluses on both her fingers from holding sword and dagger. Seeing Astarion… it made it hard not to remember the days before. The days when pricking her fingers with a needle and thread were the worst she could do… days when she touched the finest silks, softer than starlight, that shimmered just as brightly and just as…

“Shame you can’t fashion yourself a little retreat away for yourself… a little place for privacy, secrecy,” that irritating and silken voice snapped her from her sweet memories, thrusting her right back into the agony of his presence. The reminder of all she lost. And he towered over her, looming above where she crouched.

Turning a look of pure spite up at him, she glared from over her shoulder, unable to miss how his legs stood so close to her rear. Nearly touching her with his body.

“What need would I have of secrecy, Astarion?” She taunted as she stood, carefully putting more room between them as she did so.

“Given how little I do recall about you, I’m sure I have no idea,” he purred, crossing his arms.

Exasperation. It had been a long day, ending it with more of him wasn’t ideal. She needed to… put something to rest. Anything.

“Okay, I get it,” she huffed, crossing her arms too, jutting her chin up as she met his sultry stare of indifference, “I remember much more than you. For whatever reason, I don’t know. And I know after all this time, I doubt I deserve any form of explanation. But my memory is all I have….”

She swallowed, the words you were all I had burning a hole in her throat as she fought them back down.

“But what I do know is that… someday… I would like to know what happened,” she blinked her sharp silver eyes, turning away hurriedly to hide the harsh sting of tears that began to burn. “When you’re ready… if you even remember enough to share that.”

Breathless, she waited for some snarky reply. For some witty rejoinder. But it never came. She turned. He was just… standing there. The light of the setting sun seemed to glow around him, almost making those soft, silver curls on his head incandescent.

Gods, she knew how it was she fell in love with him so easily, so long ago. A lifetime ago. Shadows darkened his eyes, and she saw it then, how he had let his guard down for a split second. Nothing but purest pain on his face.

“Astarion,” she breathed, those long forgotten feelings creeping back up. Timeless affection, boundless attachment, undying devotion.

“I will tell you… but,” he swallowed, giving a heavy, saddened sigh. “Gods, I wish I remembered more, remembered… you.” He looked at her then, really and truly. No squinting or leering or smirking. “You seem so, nice… when you want to be. You sound like you really, truly cared for me.”

“I did,” came her reply. I do, her heart screamed through the cage of spite that she had built.

“I am… sorry,” he kept his eyes fixed on her, so wide and soft. “I… must have cared for you too, I… I can almost feel it too.”

Her lungs burn. No, no. She was past this, for almost two centuries, she had buried herself in serving her people, defending them from enemies, seeking victories on the battlefield. Alone. Prowess with the blade. Feats few of her race have ever attained. No marriage or love to soften her.

And yet…except for his eyes, this was her love… her… gods, she swallowed the words… her betrothed.

“It’s alright, Astarion,” she shrugged, shoving down all that saccharine sentiment, “even if you did feel the same way as you did once, there is still the pain of losing you for such a long time.” Her head hung down, her eyes looking down the front of her well-worn linen shirt, as if she couldn’t examine the creases in her sleeves hard enough.

Then she felt him drawing closer.

“I… didn't fake anything,” he whispered. Standing right before her. Not touching, but staring back in the fading light. “I didn’t fake my death.”

She let out a quiet scoff. “So what, then if you didn’t fake it, you really died?” She couldn’t help the slight mocking edge to her voice as he dragged up all that pain she fought to still keep locked up tight.

He gave a single, loud, bitter laugh in return. Then, his face instantly lost all that softness, becoming all slanted angles, clenching muscles, and spiteful glare. “I was captured,” he hissed, “kept as a slave to a… monster.”

“Astarion,” his name was a sob in her voice, her body unable to stop her hand from reaching out to rest on his arm as it clenched at his side.

“No, I don’t want pity,” he snapped his teeth in rage, “I don’t want your pity. What I want is revenge. Freedom. These tadpoles have obviously affected us, in more ways than I think anyone can simply observe. There is a power here.” He trembled under her featherlight touch, but he hadn’t shaken it off. “And I would like to use it to its benefit for me, for once.”

“Sounds like even with… everything you endured, you haven’t changed all that much,” she tried to smile. Despite his pain and rage on his beautiful face. Despite her heavy heart.

“You have no idea what you are speaking of,” his voice was exacting, enraged, and sharp.

Her head nodded, the soft red waves of her hair falling gently as she did. “No, no I don’t. You’re right.”

And instantly something shifted in his frame. His gaze felt… different on her face. Even though she didn’t look up. Not yet.

“And I would want those things for you too, even once upon a time,” she added, “Freedom. Revenge.” She trained her eyes on the ground between them, feeling his stare’s intensity more than seeing it.

And still, he allowed her hand to rest on his arm.

“When we… once were… together, I would never have said such a thing. But I have changed in these centuries too. Fought enough battles, looted enough corpses to lose the softness of my hand and the gentility of my voice.” She struggled to breathe again. Something around her heart releasing at last. “Maybe it’s best that you don’t remember me.” She gave the hard sinews of his arm a gentle squeeze. “Maybe we just get to know each other as we are now?”

“I kind of like the sound of that,” he hummed. Then he cast that well-practiced smile, the only warning before his other hand came to cover hers arresting it from his body in his soft fingers.

His touch was still so… cold.

“I do still wish I could remember more of you,” his voice dipped low, soft and sweet and tickling in her ear as he seemed to draw closer. “Maybe you can think of some things to… trigger my memory?”

“I could certainly try,” she managed to reply, and as he began to crowd her.

“I’d be open to some ideas of yours, darling,” his hand raised her to his lips, placing a polite kiss on her twitching fingertips. “I also have some… suggestions that you might find… intriguing.” His eyes flashed as she looked into his face, as she felt his breath on her hand where he kept it pressed close to his mouth. “Especially since you say we were betrothed…”

Nope. She gave him a disapproving frown, a bitter chuckle. “If you can’t remember if we have coupled yet, then I am not about to tell you either way, Astarion,” she smirked at him. “If we are getting to know one another again, it seems only fair you should earn such a privilege again as well.”

He shrugged those strapping, broad shoulders. “Can’t blame a man for trying,” he purred. “Not with how… delectable… you smell.”

Her breath burned in her lungs, his hand turning hers slowly, running a thumb over that sensitive skin inside her wrist just once. Pressing it against his nose. Smelling her flesh. Even more painstakingly slowly, his lips caressed it, trailing a few more over those tingling nerves he was igniting on fire now. Then he released her just as quickly as he had stolen her hand to press to his lips.

Similar, but so, so much more daring. Devious. Desirous. Gods, kissing her fingers was one thing, but this. Oh, she felt molten inside, barely noticing just how cold he still was to the touch. Finally he released her. “You should rest, my dear. Tell the others, I will take the first watch to show you all I’m on my best behavior.”

She watched him turn and take two steps towards his tent.

Then he stoped, casting a smirk over his shoulder. Catching her in the glint of his crimson eye. “Sweet dreams… Cordehlia.”

Hells… her name. Her gut stabbed in on itself. Her legs gave out slightly, as she hoped he wouldn't notice.

No one had said it… her name… not within his hearing. How… did he…?

As he crept his way to the treeline, Cordehlia watched him as he stalked away. Wondering just how much he might remember.

Wondering at how much he had changed…

Wondering… why was he so cold, and why were his eyes so red…

💞🗡️💞🗡️💞🗡️💞🗡️💞🗡️💞🗡️💞🗡️💞🗡️💞

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[darkintothedawn]

DARK DEVOTION || Void Stiles 'Teen Wolf'

Pairing — Void Stiles x gender neutral reader

Summary — A love story written in blood and whispers. Void courts you in his own twisted way and you like it.

Memo —I am currently half awake and I refuse to go to sleep so boredom prompted me to write this.

Word Count —1050

Warnings — You're arguably as insane as Void. Dark Themes, Blood/Gore, Possessiveness/Obsessive Behaviour, Murder/Death (implied killings), Mild Body Horror (descriptions of blood and injuries), Stalking/Watching.

I. The First Gift

The first time it happens, you don’t think much of it.

You step outside one morning, the world still wrapped in the quiet hush of dawn. The air is crisp, the sky painted with the soft hues of early sunrise. Then, your eyes fall to the ground.

A gift.

A crow, its throat slit cleanly, feathers still damp with fresh blood. Its wings are splayed open, and nestled between them is a single white flower—delicate, untouched by the violence surrounding it.

Something in your chest tightens. Not in fear. Not in disgust. But in something else.

You kneel, fingertips grazing the petals. The stark contrast between death and beauty is... intentional. A deliberate display.

A courtship.

And there’s only one creature twisted enough to offer it to you.

You should be terrified. You should scream, recoil, run. But instead, you pluck the flower from the corpse and twirl it between your fingers.

When you glance up, you aren’t surprised to see him watching from the treeline.

Void.

The thing wearing Stiles’ face.

He smirks when your eyes meet. A sharp, knowing thing. His head tilts, dark eyes gleaming with satisfaction.

You say nothing. Neither does he. But in that silence, something shifts.

And the game begins.

II. The Second Gift

The next offering comes two nights later.

You return home late, the weight of exhaustion pressing against your shoulders. But when you step inside, you freeze.

A velvet box rests on your kitchen counter. No note, no explanation.

You know better than to open it. You do.

And yet, your fingers move before your mind can stop them.

The lid lifts with an eerie sort of grace, revealing a heart inside—dark, wet, and still warm.

Your stomach doesn’t churn. Your hands don’t tremble. You stare for a long moment before exhaling a slow breath.

"This is getting dramatic," you murmur.

A chuckle ghosts over your shoulder. You don’t jump.

"Did you think I’d be subtle?" Void’s voice is a velvet whisper, coiling around you like smoke. "I am trying to woo you, after all."

You close the box and turn to face him. He leans lazily against the doorway, all sharp smirks and dark amusement.

"Woo me," you repeat, deadpan. "With body parts?"

Void pushes off the frame, stepping closer. "They weren’t yours," he points out. "Shouldn’t that count for something?"

You hold his gaze, unflinching. His eyes are endless, drowning pools of black.

Slowly, you place the flower he gave you the other day behind your ear.

His smirk falters. Just for a fraction of a second. But you see it.

Then, his grin returns, sharper than before.

"Oh," he breathes. "You do understand."

III. The Third Gift

After that, the gifts escalate.

You wake to whispers in the night, cold fingers brushing over your skin before vanishing like mist. A shadow lingers just beyond your vision, moving when you move, watching when you sleep.

A blade, elegant and wickedly sharp, appears on your pillow one morning. Its hilt is carved with symbols you don’t recognize, its edge stained faintly with something dark.

"I made it for you," Void hums when you confront him later that night.

"You made me a weapon?"

"You deserve something beautiful," he replies smoothly. "Something deadly."

His fingers brush your wrist, and the room tilts for half a second. Not physically. Not really. But there’s a pull—something unnatural, something his.

"Do you like it?" he asks, voice soft but dangerous.

You turn the blade in your grip, watching how the light catches on the metal.

And then you smile.

Void inhales sharply. His pupils blow wide.

"You’re enjoying this," he realizes.

You lift a brow. "And you’re not?"

His answering grin is feral.

IV. The Fourth Gift

You don’t find the next offering. It finds you.

One evening, as you step out of your usual coffee shop, someone stumbles in front of you. A man, pale and shaking, his shirt stained with blood.

"H–help me," he rasps.

Your eyes flicker down. A deep gash runs along his abdomen, fresh and brutal.

Your pulse remains steady.

A dark chuckle echoes nearby, and Void emerges from the alley, hands in his pockets.

"He hurt you once, didn’t he?" he muses, tilting his head at the man. "Called you a slur. Pushed you at a bar. Thought I forgot?"

The man trembles violently, eyes darting between you and the monster in Stiles’ skin.

You exhale through your nose, tilting your head. "This is a bit much, even for you."

Void pouts. "You wound me."

Your gaze shifts to the man, who is on the verge of collapse. You don’t feel sorry for him, not really.

But you do feel something.

Something close to intrigue.

You step forward, slow and deliberate, and crouch in front of the bleeding man. He flinches.

Then, ever so gently, you press your fingers to his wound.

He whimpers in pain.

Void lets out a breath that sounds like a growl.

"You’re insane," the man chokes out.

You smile at him. Then glance back at Void.

"You didn’t kill him yet," you muse. "Why?"

Void crouches beside you, resting his chin on your shoulder. His breath ghosts against your ear.

"Because I wanted to share."

You don’t move for a long moment.

Then, slowly, you stand.

Void follows your lead, dark eyes never leaving yours.

And without another word, you step aside.

An invitation.

Void’s smirk is wicked. His fingers graze your wrist as he passes, a silent thank you.

The man screams.

And you don’t look away.

V. The Claiming

Void presses you against the wall that night, his hands caging you in. His touch is cool, unnatural, but you don’t pull away.

"Say something," he murmurs, voice sharp with frustration. "Tell me to stop. Tell me you hate this."

You meet his gaze, unflinching. "I won’t."

His fingers tighten on your jaw, nails biting into your skin. "Why not?"

You smirk, tilting your head just enough to brush your lips against his.

"Because I like it."

Void stills. Then, his lips curl into something almost hungry.

"Oh," he breathes, amusement laced with something far darker. "I knew I picked the right one."

And when he kisses you, it’s possessive. A promise.

You’re his now.

You always were.

[hidden-behind-the-fourth-wall]

The guard till the end

Pairing: Oberyn Martell x F!OC

Words: 7 543

Tags/Warnings: 18+ only! angst, hurt/comfort, themes of grief/death/mourning, some blood/gore, fighting, swearing, a bit of fluff if you squint

Summary: Talia, an ex-assasin, and Oberyn Martell were sent on a mission together. A mission to the past for the girl.

A/N: This little piece is for the amazing @almostfoxglove and her #almostfoxgloveangstchallenge. This is the first time writing for Oberyn, so I hope it worked out. I am actually proud of this so I hope you all will like it.

The beautiful moodboard is also made by @almostfoxglove <3

The sun-kissed strands of her blonde hair swirled in the seaside breeze, moving in rhythm with the ocean's undulating waves. Her actions seemed to echo the water's rhythm, and in spite of her strenuous efforts, her breath stayed regular. Her gaze was locked onto something unseen, a spectre only apparent to her. Her hands, firmly yet flexibly clutching her weapon, were primed for any sudden change in combat dynamics. Her footfalls were soft yet assured, making her deadly battle routine appear like an elegant ballet to an untrained eye. 

A man observed her from a distance, a tender smile gracing his lips. She was his sword and his shield, a creature of terror to some, a vision of beauty to others. He was privileged to witness these intimate performances whenever he chose to visit her training grounds.

He was a beast in his own right, but his first encounter with her had instilled in him an unprecedented fear. He had been sure, for the first time in his life, that he would meet his end. Her lethal combat skill was as bewitching as it was horrifying, especially when the cold steel of her blade brushed against his throat.

And yet, here he stood, still among the living, watching the same formidable assassin execute her lethal dance. He remembered the change in her gaze when their eyes had first met. His dark orbs contrasted sharply against her gentle blue ones.

He'd asked her numerous times about what had transpired in that single moment when their gazes had locked. She always cleverly dodged the question, promising to unveil the truth when the time was right. However, that moment still hadn't arrived.

"Do you not have more pressing matters to attend to, my Prince?" Her voice softly interrupted his thoughts. Of course, she had sensed his presence. Nothing ever slipped past her. That was why she was the only guard he truly trusted, the only one he regarded as his equal.

"How many times must I request you to address me as Oberyn, my dear?" He watched as she turned to glare at him. She had never been one for sweet nothings. Yet, he derived immense pleasure from pushing her buttons, from eliciting a response.

"And how many times have I informed you that I would honor your request the moment you best me in combat?" His scoff was met with a soft chuckle from her. Talia, sheathing her weapons, approached him. Despite her petite frame, she held herself with an air of dignity, never allowing anyone to belittle her. "My Prince," she added, provoking a growl of mock irritation from him, which only elicited another chuckle. "I'm surprised to find you awake at this early hour. I presumed the men and women of the court would have kept you entertained till the wee hours."

"Are you envious, my rose?" His question was met with a hearty laughter. "I believe you are the only woman in all of Dorne who rejects me."

"I haven't rejected you, my Prince," she retorted, her gaze locked onto the ocean.

"Then honour me with your company tonight. I can make the necessary arrangements." He moved in closer, their faces mere inches apart. 

"I refuse to be another notch on your bedpost, my Prince." Her words made him recoil slightly, his gaze dropping to her lips. His attraction to her was no secret. "I'll consider your proposition when you make a genuine one," she added.

"I'm not the kind who settles down," he whispered, his lips perilously close to hers.

"And I'm not the kind of woman who indulges in frivolous dalliances." She shrugged and took a step back. "Not anymore, at least." His smile in response signified his acceptance of yet another defeat.

***

"You called for me, your Highness," she said, kneeling before the frail Prince. It was unusual for him to request her presence in his office. Their discussions usually took place in the gardens or his private chambers, where he felt most comfortable. As such, today's summons was likely a matter of business rather than personal.

"Stand, and please have a seat." He was a kind ruler, deserving of the utmost respect. After years of spy work and assassin training, she valued a place where power wasn't the only measure of a person. "How is my brother faring?"

"He's living life in his own unique way," she replied. The Prince chuckled, and she joined him with a soft smile. "He mentioned something about travel."

"Naturally," she quirked an eyebrow and he shook his head, a smile playing on his lips. "You two are inseparable, sharing every secret."

"I am his weapon, his shield. His guard, the last line of defence against those who dare to harm him."

"Yet he refers to you as the strongest," she offered a warm smile at that. Oberyn Martell was renowned as one of the mightiest warriors in the Seven Kingdoms, yet he considered her his equal.

"He has never truly sparred with me, never unveiled his full power. I doubt I could withstand his spear." Doran nodded in agreement, taking a sip of his wine, and gestured for her to do the same with her cup, always ready for her when she visited.

Her life in Dorne had been full of first experiences. It was the first time she had disobeyed orders, the first time she had turned her back on her master. The first time she had shown her face to someone who didn't own her, and the first time she had tasted liquor. After a sip of Dornish wine, nothing else could compare.

"He entrusts his life to you as much as I do," Doran paused, gazing into the distance with a sigh. "We've discovered a small town violating our agreements." She furrowed her brow but said nothing. "We dispatched men, but none have returned. We suspect it might involve someone you know."

"Scorpion," she murmured, a chill running down her spine. The man who had forged her, imparted all her skills. The man who had sold her to a buyer who sought Oberyn's death.

"I need him gone." She met his eyes, understanding the significance of his decision. Doran Martell favoured peace over violence, resorting to the latter only when necessary. "You know him best. However, I can't send you alone. The kingdoms must know that we handle our own problems personally."

"So, Oberyn will accompany me?" She finally asked, to which he nodded.

"I see the way you look at him." Her head jerked up, but he stopped her before she could protest. The Prince of Dorne was more perceptive than most realised. "Personally, I would be thrilled to call you my sister, but we both know my impulsive younger brother." She looked away, swallowing hard. "I don't need to tell you, but please keep him safe. This might be the most perilous mission I've ever sent him on."

"Certainly, your Highness. I will ensure his safe return, even if it means my own life." That was his biggest concern. He had a sinking feeling that he might lose either his reckless brother or the woman he had come to consider a sister.

***

"I could use some wine." She fought back the urge to roll her eyes at his petulant complaint. They had been journeying for quite some time, both of them garbed in the traditional attire of the desert dwellers. Black robes that concealed everything but their eyes, a necessary shield against the harsh desert climate and a safeguard for their identities. It was safer to merge with the locals than to draw attention as foreign travellers. Besides, Oberyn was too well-known to go unnoticed. "And a comfortable bed with…"

"A willing partner to share it with," she completed his sentence, smirking as he arched an eyebrow at her. "You forget, my dear Prince, that I know you better than anyone else out there. Maybe even better than you know yourself." He laughed at that, unable to deny it. It was true. She had seen him in the most compromising, unflattering, and downright ridiculous situations. She had listened to his drunken babbling more times than she could count. If anyone on this planet knew him thoroughly, it was her.

However, the same couldn't be said about her. He knew only the basics. He was aware of her past - to some degree. He knew of her fighting style, her weapon preference, and the fact that she had never touched alcohol before coming to Dorne. He also knew of her strangely reverent faith in his older brother, as if he were some deity. He knew her waking and sleeping times - unless she was occupied taking care of him. He knew all this, but still felt like he knew nothing about her.

No, that wasn't accurate. He knew that her touch was the gentlest he'd ever experienced. Despite having claimed more lives than any of them could count, her touch when she cared for him was softer than the most exquisite silk in the palace. He had always thought her touch was as tender as a calming breeze that incessantly pacified his tumultuous inner storm. She was the only one who could quiet his restless spirit with nothing more than a caring touch and a gaze as soft as the morning dew, acting like a lullaby sending his fatigued soul to sleep. The concern in her starry eyes always dissolved his fears, giving any doubts he had a new perspective. Giving his life a new purpose.

But that wasn't sufficient for him. He selfishly wanted more. He wanted to know her dreams, her likes, and dislikes. It was truly pathetic. He was Oberyn Martell, for goodness' sake. He was a man whose heart roamed from one bed to another, seeking delight in temporary affairs, never really looking, never longing for any kind of consistency. Until she arrived.

Talia wasn't one for short-lived pleasures, she was a constant, the only constant in his desire-ridden life. She was a puzzle, a beautiful mystery shrouded in the brilliance of her devotion. A devotion he imposed on her. She guarded her heart just like her emotions, deeply within the armour of her resolve. She was like a fortress that was impregnable and firm, something so alien to the Prince of Dorne. He found himself attracted to her mystery. He wanted to understand. No. He ached to understand her, to decipher this puzzle, this mystery that she was. But she never let him. She kept him at a distance, her fortress standing tall and her armour still unyielding.

"I can see the town," he was jolted out of his daydream and looked up to see the first signs of the small town that bore the scars of its bloody past. It wasn't easy to reach. It was hidden from the world by a daunting, ominous desert that seemed to choke the last bit of fresh air that was still left untouched. The buildings were made of hard, cheap stone, grey and decrepit, arranged in gloomy, narrow streets. The windows were dark and vacant, much like the hollow eyes of the dead. 

This wasn't a place where people came to start anew, to find new hope. It was a place where hope came to die, dragging the unfortunate with it. Every corner echoed with the whispers of the dead and the murdered, and those unfortunate souls who were forgotten even by death itself. The people moved about like ghosts, their faces pale and haggard, their eyes lifeless and dull, filled with their own pain and despair. There was no laughter here, even the children seemed mournful, deprived of a life they never had the chance to live. The days rolled on, and the customary laughter in their lives was replaced by the bitter tears of those who became orphans.

"You grew up here?" He asked quietly, unable to tear his gaze away from the pitiful sight of the people and orphaned children who looked like they hadn't had a proper meal in their lives. He didn't even want to imagine her living like that, enduring that kind of life.

"It wasn't always like this," Talia answered, scanning the streets for someone desperate enough to offer them assistance. "Before Scorpion arrived, Villion was like any other town." She bit her lip as the townspeople started to take notice of them. Not what they wanted. They needed to blend in. Ditch the horses, discard their travelling attire. Become one with the locals here. "Let's go, we need to blend in." Oberyn nodded and followed her, his eyes still glued to the streets.

***

The "Crooked Paw" was tucked away in a secluded alleyway, its dilapidated structure jarring against the town's overall sombre ambience. It looked more like a ruin than a refuge. The thatched roof was a mishmash of patches, with prominent holes that would offer no protection against the elements. 

Windows, if they could be called that, were broken, their sharp edges coated with layers of grime and dust accumulated over the years. A massive, neglected oak door served as the entrance to the inn, its creaking, rusted hinges discouraging anyone who dared to enter. The entire building seemed to stand as a stark warning about the dangers that lurked within the town. 

The innkeeper, a bent old man with a missing eye and a malicious glint in the other one, sat at the bar, observing his patrons with a predatory look. As his gaze landed on the newcomers, his face contorted into a grotesque grin that silenced the room. 

"Who do we have here?" He paused, looking at Talia. She hoped she still had some allies in this forsaken town. "Some travellers who've lost their way, I reckon, if they've stumbled upon my humble Inn." She sighed with relief and smirked at the man, signalling to Oberyn that they should approach the bar. 

"I need a place to stay," she said, rolling her eyes at the innkeeper's raised eyebrow. "I'll pay." 

"You've got quite a bill to settle, girl," he muttered, his eyes darting to Oberyn, whose face was concealed by his desert mask. "I have a room with a bigger bed. But there's only one." 

"We'll take it," The Prince interjected before she could respond. "The smaller the bed, the better." 

"Do you know this bugger, or do you want me to handle him?" She chuckled and shook her head. 

"I'll pay the bill and give you twice as much for a room where we won't be disturbed." The innkeeper nodded, understanding her meaning. 

"He'll kill you when he finds out you're here," he growled, handing her the keys to the room. 

"Not before I find him," she murmured, pulling Oberyn by the sleeve and guiding him to the room she knew all too well.

***

"Quite the friendly bloke," Oberyn muttered, finally able to shed his stifling clothes. The traverse through the desert had been both tiring and filthy. "And this place is quite delightful. Where exactly are we?" 

"My home," she replied, halting in her actions to turn and regard him. "Before Scorpion took me under his wing and trained me, I was brought up here." She sighed, clearly reluctant about divulging this information. "I can't recollect how I ended up here. I was too small to remember. But Hilt was the only person I could think of as family. He was home, and this room was a haven for me. Even when I joined Scorpion." 

"So, that's where you get that sulky demeanour from," he said, his grin broadening at her reaction. 

"I am not sulky!" 

"Of course, you're not." He laughed and ambled towards the window. "So, what's our move?"

"We can't delay. He will know we're here. He will know I am here." Her brow furrowed, unease welling up inside her. She had hoped she would never have to return here. The town stirred a flood of memories, each corner of each street holding a fragment of her past. Each memory was more powerful and painful than the last. 

Her heart twisted as memories played in her mind. She could almost hear the echoing shouts of her trainer, feel the lash of the whip on her skin, see the harsh disappointment in his eyes each time she didn't meet his expectations. Those days had instilled nothing but insecurity in her, the terrible sensation of never being enough wrapping a vice-like grip around her young, solitary heart. 

That constant nagging in her head made her feel unvalued until when she completed her first successful mission. The hours of gruelling work and painful training faded into insignificance as she stepped into the role she was created for. She felt invincible. She felt like nothing could defeat her again. She learned to handle her emotions by suppressing them. She didn't need them. Her life became void of meaning, her eyes devoid of life, because it was easier that way. It was easier not to feel anything since it was easier to die that way. It was easier not to form attachments, easier not to lead a life worth living. 

However, that all came crumbling down when she met him. It was a mission like any other - a name, a face, a life to be snuffed out. But this time, it all felt different. She was prepared to slit his throat, ready to extinguish another life, until she looked into his eyes. They were so full of life, brimming with joy and passion, something she had never seen before in her hometown. It stirred something within her, a feeling she couldn't quite understand.

She had him at her mercy, and could have ended his life with a single stroke. But she hesitated, for the first time in her life. Her hand quivered on the hilt of her dagger. His eyes never left hers. They were so pure and full of life that they pierced through her heart, a heart she believed she no longer possessed. 

When he asked her to come with him, to stay in Dorne instead of killing her, she was astonished. The only reason she had a chance against him was because she had observed him for a long time and learned his every pattern. She had been diligent and it had always paid off. She did not expect him to ask her to become his bodyguard. A man like him didn’t need a guard. He was the Viper. She was an assassin, a spectre of death. But as she looked into his eyes and saw nothing but trust and respect, she found herself accepting his offer. She found herself wanting to protect him, to keep him safe.

For the first time in her wretched life, she felt something powerful, something she had never felt before. Happiness, a profound happiness of being needed. Of being desired. It made her feel lighter than she had ever felt and yet it terrified her because he was tearing down all of her fortified walls, the walls she had learned to build. 

She looked up, recoiling when she felt his hand on her shoulder. Her name sounded so soft coming from his lips. The concern in his eyes twisted her stomach in self-reproach. She was supposed to be strong for him. She was supposed to be his pillar and not the other way around. 

"Forgive me, my Prince," she said, stepping back and letting his hand drop from her shoulder. "We rest today, and act tomorrow."

"You're behaving oddly," he said, his voice filled with concern. He rarely spoke to her like that, rarely showed such seriousness. "Are you sure you…"

"Do you question my abilities, your Highness?" His eyes hardened at the formal title she used, which she knew he detested. "I am more than capable of carrying out the mission your brother entrusted me with." She held his gaze steadily. "Pardon me for not behaving like an entitled child when I am fully aware of the perils that await us." She had never been so direct with him before. She had corrected him when he acted spoiled, but she had never been so forthright. After all, he was a Prince of Dorne, one of the most feared men not just on the continent but across the globe.

Oberyn's facial expression mirrored his current state of mind - a blend of irritation and worry. His eyes, usually lively and playful, were now clouded with annoyance. The twinkle that typically danced in his eyes was replaced with a glint of unease, a clear sign of his displeasure. His eyebrows knitted together in a tight frown. The crease on his forehead deepened, symbolising his concern. His eyes, often warm and inviting, were now cold and distant, indicating his preoccupied thoughts.

His lips, quick to form a grin or a smirk, were now pressed firmly together. His jaw was clenched, the muscles taut. It seemed as though he was grinding his teeth together, forcing himself to remain silent, to keep his composure.

"Talk to me," she said, surprised by his unusual calmness. Despite his apparent frustration, there was a gentleness in his demeanour, a compassion that was hard to overlook. The way he looked at her made her realise the depth of his feelings. He was willing to move mountains if it meant easing her pain and the turmoil she was experiencing. It was this kindness, this readiness to assist, that gave her a glimmer of hope. It reassured her that she wasn't alone in her battles, that she had someone who was prepared to stand by her side. He held that power over her, a power that frightened her.

"He is ruthless," she began, tearing her eyes away from his as she tried to choose her words carefully. Attempting to alleviate his concerns for her, to demonstrate her resilience, despite the haunting memories and the looming future. "He doesn’t allow anyone to escape. He always finds them and ensures they pay, and I am no exception." As she met Oberyn's gaze again, her eyes were a maelstrom of emotions. Her eyes, usually so full of resolve, were now a stormy sea of fear and defiance. They held a chilling portrayal of her ordeal, a silent plea for understanding seeping through her gaze. Yet, despite everything, a spark of defiance still burned brightly in her eyes. It spoke of her determination to fight back, her refusal to let anything happen to him. And it was this spark, this indomitable spirit, that only increased Oberyn's respect for her.

"You’re not an easy target, darling," he smirked, his expression turning serious when she shook her head.

"For him, it would be too easy," she held his gaze, unwavering. "It’s not his style. Torture is his delight, but more than physical pain, he revels in mental torment. He... " Her voice wavered slightly, but she never looked away. "He finds the one thing, the one person you love the most, and destroys them before your eyes."

"Well, thankfully you don’t have anyone you love, so no worries, sweetheart." He chuckled, but his eyes widened when she didn't break her gaze. It was as if she was challenging him, daring him to look away, daring him to understand what she was implying and to flee.

She shook her head and retreated a step, when he whispered her name. So gently, so affectionately that she couldn’t bear to look at him any longer. She had lost again, this time in this emotional game.

"It doesn’t matter," she finally said, not allowing him to say anything else. "Tomorrow, we need to strike first. I will operate from the shadows, and I need you to gather information. Try not to draw too much attention. It wouldn't be wise to have all of Scorpion’s men on our..." But she didn't get a chance to finish, as he closed the gap between them in one swift stride. His hand reached out, gently cradling her cheek and tilting her face up to meet his gaze. His touch was warm and gentle, in stark contrast to his usual intensity.

"My Prince?" she started, her voice barely a whisper. But he silenced her, pressing his finger to her lips.

"Do you ever stop talking?" He smiled softly, before continuing. "I need you to grasp one very crucial fact." He murmured, his gaze still locked with hers. She had never seen him like this. His eyes were a pool of emotions - fear, determination, hope - all intertwined. The intensity of his gaze was almost overpowering, yet she couldn't turn away.

And then he leaned in, his breath wafting over her lips, just a moment before his own brushed against hers. It was a surprisingly gentle kiss, hesitant and tender at first, but it quickly gained intensity as he wrapped his other arm around her waist, pulling her dangerously close to him. His lips moved against hers with a passion that left her breathless, his kiss a clear testament to his feelings.

When they finally parted for air, she was panting slightly, her eyes wide with surprise and something else - something that mirrored the intensity in Oberyn's gaze. He looked at her, his gaze softening as he brushed a stray lock of hair from her face.

"I care for you," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. The words lingered in the air, their weight undeniable. As he looked at her, his gaze unwavering, she knew he meant every word. And before she could say anything else, she was kissing him back, slowly moving towards the bed behind them.

***

The room was dimly lit, the soft glow from a nearby candle casting long shadows against the stone walls. Oberyn found himself a world away from their troubles.

Lying on his back, Oberyn's gaze was fixed on the ceiling, his thoughts in turmoil. His chest rose and fell with each controlled breath, the rhythm a calming melody in the quiet room. The flickering flame reflected in his dark eyes, dancing in the depths of his gaze.

Beside him lay Talia, her head resting comfortably on his chest. Her body nestled against his side, drawing comfort from his warmth. Her fingers traced lazy patterns along his bare chest, a silent communication of her gratitude and love.

Turning his head to look at her, Oberyn's hand moved to gently brush a stray lock of hair from her face. His fingers lingered, tracing the curve of her cheek before tucking the strand behind her ear. His touch was gentle, conveying a tenderness that words couldn't express.

"Are you alright?" he asked, his voice barely a whisper. The concern was evident in his tone, his gaze never leaving her face.

She nodded, her eyes meeting his. The resilience in her gaze was inspiring, a testament to her strength. "I am," she replied, her voice soft yet firm.

They lay in comfortable silence for a while, each lost in their thoughts. The flickering candle, the rhythmic sound of their breathing, the warmth of their bodies against each other - everything seemed to blend together, creating a cocoon of tranquility around them. In that moment, they were just two people – two souls seeking comfort in each other's presence.

***

In the hushed stillness of the room, the only light came from a thin slice of moonlight filtering through the heavy drapes. Oberyn lay asleep, his breaths slow and even in the tranquility of slumber.

She knew she had to depart. There was a past she needed to face, a journey she had to undertake alone. The thought of endangering Oberyn was unthinkable. She couldn't bear to see him ensnared in the web of her past.

With careful movements, she eased out of the bed, ensuring not to disturb him. She dressed in the dim light, her fingers deftly manoeuvring the familiar straps and buckles of her leather gear. Her weapons found their usual spots at her side. Pausing for a moment, she cast a final look at Oberyn. His peaceful face tugged at her heartstrings.

He looked so serene in sleep, his features softened, devoid of the usual intensity. She longed to crawl back into the warmth of the bed, to lose herself in the comfort of his arms. But she knew she couldn't. Not when so much was at stake.

Tears threatened to blur her vision, but she wiped them away, bracing herself for the inevitable. She leaned over him, whispering a faint "I'm sorry, Oberyn. I can't let you get hurt because of me."

The weight of her choices hit her then, leaving her feeling surprisingly hollow. She wanted to confess her feelings to him. She wanted to let him know how much he meant to her. But she didn't. Love was a luxury she couldn't afford. It was a weakness she couldn't risk. So she lay with Oberyn until he drifted off, treasuring the feel of his touch.

"I love you, my dearest Prince," she confessed in a whisper.

With those words, she turned towards the door, her footsteps barely making a sound. As she stepped out into the frosty night, a pang of regret washed over her. But she knew she had made the right decision, for both her and Oberyn.

And so, she melted into the darkness, leaving behind the warmth of Oberyn's bed and a possible future they might not have a chance to explore. She had a mission to complete, a past to confront. But as she walked away, she held onto the hope that one day, she could return to the man who taught her the true meaning of love.

***

The morning sun seeped through the weather-beaten shutters, casting a warm glow across the room. Oberyn Martell, stirred from his sleep, his mind still foggy from the night before. His eyes fluttered open, the room coming into focus. His gaze fell on the empty space next to him, the bed cold and untouched. His brows furrowed in confusion, a sense of unease settling into his chest.

Her scent still lingered in the room, a sweet and intoxicating mix of wildflowers and the sea. The night before flashed before his eyes, a whirl of passion and laughter, secrets whispered in hushed tones and shared smiles. But the tranquillity of the memory was quickly shattered by the harsh reality of her absence.

His heart pounded in his chest as he saw the note perched on the bedside table. It was hastily written, the ink smeared in places. He scanned the words, her familiar handwriting causing a lump to form in his throat.

"I'm sorry. I had to. Don’t follow me."

His heart sank. He knew what she had gone to do. The man they were sent to kill, the man who had trained her, twisted her into a weapon. He was dangerous, a viper in the grass, not unlike Oberyn himself. But she had gone alone.

His fists clenched, the paper crumpling under his grip. Anger flared inside him, hot and unyielding. She was stubborn, reckless, and brave. Too brave. He admired her spirit, her strength. But this... this was folly.

"How could you?" He thought, frustration seething in his veins. “You can’t just touch my soul and leave!” His mind raced, formulating a plan, a way to find her before it was too late. 

But what then?

Would she welcome him with open arms? Or would she see it as a betrayal, an invasion of her trust? He didn't know. He didn't care. All he knew was that he couldn't let her face the man alone.

In a flurry of motion, Oberyn was on his feet, hastily dressing in his usual attire of black and gold, forgotten the desert clothing from the day before. His heart pounded in his chest, the anger giving way to fear, fear for her safety. But he pushed it down, steeling himself for the task ahead.

He had a girl to find, a man to kill, and a promise to keep.

***

"The prodigal daughter returns," he sneered, stepping into the faint moonlight to reveal a face marred by battles - the Scorpion.

He was a formidable figure, an entity that inspired fear and commanded the shadows of the underworld. As venomous as his namesake, he was a sinister whisper in the dark corners of the Seven Kingdoms.

His face was a testament to battles fought and won, etched with scars that indicated a life steeped in violence. One prominent scar, a vicious slash, ran diagonally across his face, distorting his features into a grotesque mask that instilled fear in the bravest hearts - including hers, even after all these years. His eyes, however, were his most terrifying feature. They were cold, cruel, and devoid of any humanity, reflecting the icy void where his soul should have been.

His physical strength was prodigious, honed by years of relentless training and ruthless combat. Every muscle in his body was a testament to his lethal prowess. He moved with the grace of a predator, his every motion a dance of death.

As an assassin, his skills were honed to perfection over the years. He was a master of the shadows, able to vanish and reappear at will. His fists were extensions of his arms, lethal and swift, pushing down his enemies with terrifying efficiency.

But his most dangerous weapon was his mind, as sharp and deadly as his blades. He was a strategist, a manipulator, a puppeteer who orchestrated events from the shadows. His cunning was as legendary as his ruthlessness, a combination that made him one of the most feared men in all of Westeros.

This was the man who had trained her, who had moulded her into the deadly weapon she was today. The Scorpion was a harsh mentor, pushing her to her limits, honing her skills until she became a mirror of his deadly efficiency. But she was more than just his protege - she was his greatest masterpiece, his most lethal creation. And now, she was his greatest threat.

“I doubt you came back because you missed me.” he mocked, revealing his yellowed teeth. His eyes roved over her form dangerously. 

“Reneging on deals with the Prince of Dorne isn’t your smartest move, Scorpion.” His grin widened, and he broke into a loud, sinister laugh that echoed around the training ground where he had once trained her. She knew he had been expecting her here. He had eyes and ears everywhere.

“Oh, of course, you work for him now.” Something in his gaze darkened. The air around him grew thick with tension. “Like a whore changing patrons. What did he give you that I didn’t?” His towering figure cast a menacing silhouette against the backdrop of the training ground, pulsating with raw anger. The air, heavy with the scent of sweat and steel, vibrated with tension, each passing second ticking by like a countdown to an inevitable clash. His icy blue eyes, typically cold and calculating, now blazed with chilling fury – a deadly storm brewing within his ruthless soul.

His protegee stood defiantly before him, her gaze unwavering. She had been his finest creation, moulded into a weapon of lethal beauty under his watchful eye. But now, she was a traitor, having left him for the Prince of Dorne and Oberyn. The bitterness of her betrayal was like a festering wound, gnawing at his insides, fueling his wrath.

“Respect. He doesn’t see me as just a weapon he can use.” She retorted, her hands slowly reaching back, searching for her knives. She knew he would attack any minute now. It was only a matter of time before his temper flared, as it always did.

“I didn’t raise a fool,” he sneered, irritation lacing his voice. “Pathetic, that you believe in that. I can take you back, you know,” a dangerous glint shone in his eyes. “Of course, I would have to punish you first, but it would be nothing you haven’t endured before.”

“I’d rather die!”

“That can be arranged!” His low growl echoed around them as he lunged at her, his movements a seamless blend of raw power and deadly precision. His fists, hardened by countless battles, were like iron battering rams, each strike aimed to incapacitate, to punish. His wrath was a tangible force, an unstoppable storm of violence and fury.

Yet, she stood her ground, her lithe figure dancing around his brutal onslaught. She was a wisp of a girl, nimble and swift, her movements a mesmerising spectacle of agility and grace. Her strikes were sharp, precise, aimed to hurt, not to kill. She was his creation, after all, shaped by his hand, and she would not be easily defeated.

Their battle was an electrifying exhibition of strength and skill, a deadly dance of fury and betrayal. The Scorpion, a hulking beast of raw strength and ruthless determination, clashed against a swift and agile force of defiance and resilience of hisprotégée.

With a swift, unexpected move, he swept her off her feet, sending her crashing to the floor with a bone-jarring thud. He towered over her, his icy eyes devoid of any mercy, his breath coming out in harsh, ragged pants. His scarred face was a mask of rage, the vicious slash across his cheek seeming even more grotesque in his fury.

Yet, even as she lay there, pinned under his merciless gaze, her spirit remained unbroken. Her eyes, defiant and proud, met his without flinching. He could see the resolve in her gaze, the determination that he himself had instilled in her. It was a testament to his training, a silent acknowledgment of his mastery.

But even as a hint of pride flickered in the depths of his icy eyes, the Scorpion’s fury remained unabated. He was a beast of wrath, a creature of retribution, and he would not be denied his vengeance. His roar echoed through the chamber, a chilling promise of the fury that was yet to come.

The Scorpion towered over the fallen girl, his colossal frame casting an ominous shadow over her. His breath, a harsh, ragged symphony of fury and betrayal, filled the air around them. His fists, hardened by countless battles, clenched and unclenched in anticipation, eager to deliver the crushing blow. His icy eyes, a chilling mirror of his ruthless soul, bore into her with a merciless intensity.

The room hummed with the anticipation of the kill, the tension so palpable that it was almost a physical entity. Talia sprawled on the cold, hard floor, defiant in the face of imminent death, met his gaze without flinching. Her eyes, a resolute blaze of defiance, mirrored his fury with her own determination. 

As the Scorpion drew back his fist, ready to end her life, a sudden whirlwind of movement caught his attention. Through the dim light, a figure moved with the grace and speed of a viper, intercepting his deadly blow.

Oberyn, the Prince of Dorne, stood between the Scorpion and his own private guard, his dark eyes blazing with fury and concern. His slim, agile form was a stark contrast to the Scorpion’s hulking figure. He brandished a slender spear, its tip gleaming menacingly in the low light.

His anger was palpable, not merely at the Scorpion, but also at the girl for leaving him and wandering into danger. Yet, his love for her was evident in his protective stance, in the way his eyes never left her even as he faced the Scorpion.

The Scorpion roared in fury, his wrath a palpable force in the room. However, Oberyn remained unflinching, his gaze steady, his stance ready for combat. With his love still alive behind him, he lunged forward, spear leading, his movements a blur of lethal precision.

Their battle was a breathtaking spectacle, a deadly dance of strength, speed, and skill. The Scorpion’s overwhelming raw power clashed with Oberyn’s swift agility, their weapons clashing and sparking under the strain. The room echoed with the sound of steel against steel, the harsh gasps of exertion, the grunts of pain.

Meanwhile, the woman, undeterred by her fall, rose to her feet, her eyes never leaving the brutal spectacle unfolding before her. She was battered, bruised, but not defeated. She was a warrior, trained by the best, and she would not stand idle.

With a sudden surge of adrenaline, she joined the fray, her movements a seamless blend of strength and grace. Together, they fought the Scorpion, their combined strength and skill a formidable force against his raw power. The training chamber, once a place of instruction and discipline, was now a battleground, echoing with the sounds of a furious struggle for survival.

She was a force to be reckoned with. Her every movement was a perfect blend of strength and grace, her strikes sharp and precise, her evasions a dance of agility and speed. Her eyes, alight with courage and determination, were fixed on the Scorpion, her spirit unbroken by the intense battle.

Their dance was a symphony of chaos, a ballet of death and survival. With Oberyn they moved as one, their actions a harmonious blend of speed and strength, their strikes and parries in perfect sync. Their eyes met in fleeting moments, silent exchanges of assurance and love amidst the brutal battle.

The Scorpion roared, a guttural bellow that echoed through the chamber, shaking the very walls with its intensity. The Scorpion, a monstrous beast of a man, lunged at Oberyn, his eyes gleaming with a lethal intent. Oberyn was ready, his spear poised to strike. But before he could move, the girl stepped in between, her weapon raised in defence. The Scorpion's fist descended upon her, a brutal blow that sent her crashing to the ground.

Oberyn roared, his heart clenching at the sight of his beloved falling. But she was not defeated. With a grunt of pain, she rose to her feet, her face a mask of determination. Her body was wracked with pain, her blood staining the cold stone floor. But her spirit was unbroken.

"Talia..." Oberyn's voice was a whisper, a plea. But she silenced him with a look. Her eyes blazed with resolve, her gaze steady and unwavering. "Finish this," she mouthed, her voice barely a whisper.

With a roar of fury, Oberyn lunged at the Scorpion. His spear was a blur of steel, each strike aimed with deadly precision. But the Scorpion was a formidable opponent, his movements a brutal dance of raw power.

Talia, despite her injuries, moved with a relentless resolve. She staggered towards the Scorpion, her weapon a gleaming promise of retribution. With a primal scream, she lunged, her weapon sinking into the Scorpion's back. The beast of a man roared, his body convulsing in pain.

The distraction was what Oberyn needed. With a swift, lethal move, he thrust his spear into the Scorpion's heart. The Scorpion staggered, his icy gaze meeting Oberyn's. A moment of surprise, a moment of realisation, and then he crumbled to the ground, defeated.

Silence fell upon the chamber, the brutal symphony of their struggle replaced by the harsh panting of the victors. Oberyn rushed to Talia, his hands cradling her face. Her eyes were dimmed with pain, but her spirit was as fierce as ever.

"We did it," she whispered, her voice barely a breath. She managed a weak smile, her hand reaching up to touch Oberyn's face. "We did it, Oberyn."

Oberyn nodded, smiling even as tears filled his eyes. "You finally called me by my name, you stubborn woman.”

“I did make a promise," she responded. He chuckled at that, his hand moving to stem the blood seeping from her stomach, the aftermath of Scorpion’s punch. “It was your eyes," she said, her voice quiet, just above a whisper. Her hand gently caressed his cheek. “I have never seen such beautiful eyes. Eyes that radiate the joy of life. Eyes so soft and gentle. How could I kill someone who loves life so much?” She pulled him closer and kissed him tenderly. “You defeated me completely, my love. I never thought I would be able to fall in love with someone. I never thought I had it in me, to care for someone as deeply as I care for you.”

“You really don’t know when to stop talking, do you?” She chuckled at that, wincing at the pain in her abdomen. “I have never and will never love anyone as much as I love you. If I defeated you, what does that make you? I’m ready to settle down, but only if it's with you.” Tears slipped down his cheeks, but a smile still played on his lips. “You turned the biggest bachelor in the Seven Kingdoms into a sentimental fool, my love.” 

“Will you take me home?” Her question brought a wry smile from him. “Will you still love me when we’re back?”

“Always my love.” 

As Talia's eyes fluttered shut, her breath slowing, Oberyn held her close, his tears a silent testament to their victory. They had triumphed, but the cost was heavy. Their love had been their strength, their bond unbroken by the storm of battle. But it was also their greatest vulnerability.

He stood, her body cradled in his arms, ready to return home. Back to Dorne. Together, no matter what.

[sundeathh]

Could you do demon!aizawa x fem!reader where the reader inherited a house and while just looking through she found a spell book and didn’t realise it but what she read actually magicked the demon and maybe the he “flirts” with the reader since the readers gets flustered easily? (U can add or takeaway whatever u want) thank youuu ❤️❤️

Demon!Aizawa

Fem!Reader | Words: 2,2k

Masterlist | CW: Suggestive but still SFW.

In the dimly lit room of the old house you inherited, dust danced in the air as you sifted through the forgotten relics of the past. 

Amongst the aged books and trinkets, you stumbled upon an ancient and ornamented tome, its pages worn with time.

You held it delicately, the cover gleaming in the moonlight and the gold lettering shining with a soft radiance, almost ethereal. You ran your thumb across the delicate script, admiring the intricate craftsmanship of the workmanship. It was beautiful.

Its yellowish hue seemed to glow even in the dark of the room. It had been left behind by some old former owner that you now held within your hand. 

Curiosity getting the best of you, you flipped through the pages randomly, stopping at one where a drawing caught your attention. It depicted a man, standing tall in what could only be described as a throne, surrounded by creatures whose appearance contrasted with his own.

His skin was pale, his hair dark. His features were slender and elegant, and it was appealing. On the other hand, the creatures at his feet looked disfigured, looking impassively as he stared down at them all. 

You glanced at the small text written on the page next to the drawing, reading it aloud in a soft voice. 

Unbeknownst to you, the words you began to read sparked a dormant magic, summoning a mischievous demon into existence.

As the incantations left your lips, a mysterious energy enveloped the room, and a chill breeze blew your hair softly.

Suddenly, you felt a presence behind you, which watched as you read the journal from a distance. The feeling of being watched made you turn around, only to meet a pair of red eyes staring intently back at you. 

The figure wore nothing but black robes, his crimson eyes glued on yours, and a sly smirk graced his lips. Unfazed, he spoke, "Well, well, what do we have here? A summoning, and by accident, no less."

His voice was deep and smooth, resonating in the room. Your heart pounded against your chest as you tried to maintain your composure. You weren't exactly sure who or what this stranger was, but he certainly intimidated you. 

He looked exactly like the drawing in the book, except instead of appearing malevolent and demonic, he just looked… odd. And very handsome, actually. With his long ebony locks that flowed down over his shoulders, and his intense gaze that appeared to see right through you…

You felt your cheeks heating up.

He smirked, seemingly amused by your lack of hostility towards him. He sauntered closer to you, taking advantage of the fact that you didn't have any weapons at your disposal, making you feel vulnerable. 

"You must be quite skilled to summon a demon without even trying," he remarked, his tone suggestive. 

You swallowed nervously, "What do you mean? Who are you?"

He hummed, taking another step closer and running a finger along your cheekbone, "You don't look like you've done much studying of demons before…" he trailed off, "but let's not get ahead of ourselves, shall we? I would have expected nothing less of a young woman such as yourself."

You gasped, pushing him away. "Back off" you growled, clenching your fists.

He chuckled, "Oh ho, so feisty aren't we? I like feisty women. I'll have to keep you around, then."

"No! What business is it of yours? How did you even get here?!" You demanded, your voice quivering. You had no idea why this strange, gorgeous creature was stalking you around.

The demon's smirk widened, and he continued to circle you as if assessing a precious gem. "You, my dear summoner, have quite the talent. Not everyone stumbles upon my services unintentionally."

You glared at him, a mixture of fear and annoyance. "I didn't summon you for any services. I was just reading this old book I found."

The demon scoffed, "I doubt that, my lady, but it seems fate has decided otherwise." The demon's gaze intensified, and he leaned in, his lips dangerously close to your ear. "Fate can be a fickle thing, my dear. It brought you to me, and I intend to make the most of it."

You could feel his warm breath against your skin, and an involuntary shiver ran down your spine. This was unreal; you were in your own home, yet a supernatural being was making you feel both nervous and strangely intrigued.

"I must say, I'm impressed," he continued, his tone teasing. "Not every human can summon a demon, especially an inexperienced one like yourself." 

"Hey!" You yelped, stepping back, glaring at the demon. "You're just trying to scare me."

"My darling little Summoner," he cooed, moving slowly toward you, his eyes flicked down to your lips, then up again. "I have no intention to resort to intimidation tactics with you…"

The atmosphere grew thicker as his eyes held a mischievous glint. "But, if you insist on keeping things interesting, I'm more than willing to adapt to your preferences."

Your cheeks burned at his suggestive words, and you took another step back, creating more space between you. "I don't have any preferences, especially not involving demons."

He chuckled, low and throaty, enjoying the effect he had on you. "You say that now, my dear, but you summoned me. There must be something you desire deep down."

Your eyes narrowed, and you crossed your arms defensively. "I'm not playing your games. Just leave."

The demon tilted his head, studying you with a thoughtful expression. "Playing games? Oh no, this is just the beginning. As for leaving, why would I when I'm having such a delightful conversation with you?"

You huffed in frustration. "This isn't a conversation. This is you invading my personal space and making inappropriate remarks."

He grinned, unapologetic. "Personal space is overrated, and as for the remarks, I'm just stating the obvious. You summoned a demon, after all."

Your agitation grew, but you couldn't deny the strange allure of the situation. "I didn't mean to summon anyone. This is a mistake."

The demon's eyes softened for a moment, a hint of genuine curiosity breaking through his playful facade. "A mistake, you say? Well, mistakes can be quite fascinating, dear. They lead to unexpected discoveries."

You sighed, feeling a strange mixture of irritation and intrigue. "What do you want from me?"

He stepped back, giving you some breathing room. "For now, just a little bit of your time. I promise to make it worth your while."

You started flipping through the book again, searching for anything that might help you solve the problem you'd encountered.

The demon smirked once more. "You know what, I think I'll sit down." He said, sitting at a chair by a desk and crossing his legs, resting his elbow on the armchair, his hand suspending his head.

He observed you, watching every move you made to try and figure out whether you could send him away with one more spell. His ruby orbs roamed around your surroundings, taking in the old furniture around you. "You seem like a smart girl," he told you, "but that's not good enough to send me on my way." 

You frowned in confusion, and he smiled knowingly, "you will need more than simple spells to get rid of me."

"Why should I believe you?" You inquired. "How do I know that I won't die because you're going to drain me dry before I even know what happened?"

The demon chuckled, shaking his head. He stood up, walking toward you again. Your eyes followed his movement, refusing to let your guard down. The demon stopped before you, gazing at you from head to toe. "You may trust me or not. But either way, you are stuck with me for a while longer, my dear." 

The tension in the room seemed to ebb and flow with the demon's every movement. His confident demeanor, combined with the uncertainty of the situation, left you feeling both uneasy and strangely captivated.

As he circled you, you couldn't help but feel the weight of his gaze, as if he was unraveling the secrets hidden in the depths of your soul. The book you clutched in your hands felt like both a shield and a potential weapon, though you doubted its effectiveness against a being like him.

The demon's eyes sparkled with a playful gleam, and he couldn't resist turning the conversation into a teasing game. "My dear summoner, you hold the secrets of this ancient place in your hands, yet here we are, bound by fate's curious whims. Don't you find it amusing?"

His tone took on a more lighthearted cadence, and he eyed you with a certain flair. "You see, summoning a demon is quite the bold move. A testament to your adventurous spirit, perhaps?" He paused, letting the words linger in the air.

You met his gaze, a mix of confusion and curiosity in your eyes. "Adventurous? I didn't summon you on purpose, and I certainly didn't expect this."

He grinned, a mischievous twinkle in his eyes. "Ah, but that's the beauty of it, dear. The unexpected can be thrilling. Now, let's not dwell on the details. Instead, allow me to appreciate the one who unintentionally brought me into this intriguing situation."

The demon leaned in slightly, his words a gentle caress. "Your courage, even in the face of the unknown, is truly captivating. I must say, it's an irresistible quality."

You felt a warmth spreading through your cheeks, caught off guard by the unexpected turn of his words. The demon seemed to take delight in unraveling the layers of your composure.

The demon's eyes gleamed with amusement, a pleased smile spreading on his lips as he noticed the subtle blush that adorned your cheeks. "Ah, there it is – a delightful shade of rose to decorate your cheeks. How charming," he mused, reveling in the small victory.

He continued to circle you, his presence exuding a magnetic charm. "It seems I've uncovered a hidden facet of your spirit, my dear. Who knew that the summoner of demons could be so enchantingly bashful?"

Your heart rate accelerated, and the warmth from earlier quickly spread throughout your entire body. You weren't sure whether your cheeks were flushed with embarrassment at being complimented by a stranger, or the sudden rush of attraction the demon stirred within you. 

The demon chuckled, clearly aware of the effect he was having on you. "Tell me, my dear, what is it that you desire? A kiss, perhaps? Perhaps a caress on those pink lips…?" His voice trailed off suggestively.

"Stop!" You exclaimed, your voice sounding louder than intended, much to the demon's enjoyment. The blush on your face intensified, and you dropped the book you were holding, hoping to put distance between yourself and the demon as quickly as possible.

The demon quirked a brow, amused by your reaction. "Don't you want a little fun, Summoner?" he asked playfully, a smirk tugging at his lips again, "If we continue this way, I fear you might actually enjoy my company." 

"I highly doubt that…" You retorted, trying to ignore the fact that your whole body felt warmer than usual. 

The demon laughed, enjoying the blush that covered your cheekbones. "Come now, my dear," he purred, approaching you again and placing a delicate hand on your cheek, lingering longer than necessary. "I'm sure it wouldn't hurt to indulge in this once or twice. After all, this is merely an innocent exchange of words. No harm in that, right?"

You swallowed thickly, unable to stop the shiver that ran down your spine at his touch. You tried pulling away, but the demon placed a finger on your lip, making you freeze. "No, no, let's not run away." He shook his head in disapproval. "Let us finish this business before we start avoiding each other, hmm?"

Your eyes widened at his unexpected change of behavior, and you pulled away with a gasp, glaring at the demon in anger. "What are you talking about?"

He shrugged his shoulders indifferently, his lips curling up in a playful manner, "you're just so adorable when you're flustered, and you're getting more beautiful by the minute. You're a very desirable female." His tone was smooth, and his stare never wavered.

A slight pout formed on your reddish features, your eyes narrowing dangerously. "And you're a big jerk, so keep away from me."

The demon raised a brow at your hostile attitude. "Oh really?" He mocked, tilting his head as he studied your expression with interest. "Then again, you did summon me to your home. There might be a reason, don't you think?" 

His expression softened considerably as he moved closer to you, cupping your jaw tenderly in his hands. He tilted your chin upward slowly, forcing you to look directly at his crimson eyes, which held a sort of mischief that you'd only seen before. 

You averted your gaze to avoid any kind of prolonged eye contact. "I don't know what you're talking about…" You mumbled.

He chuckled softly, brushing his thumb over your lips. "Don't go spoiling our little deal, now" he said quietly, turning your head to look at him. "After all," he continued with another seductive grin, "there's still more to come." The demon cooed.

With that, he leaned forward, pressing his lips against yours.

Likes, reblogs, and comments are appreciated!

[slugtranslation-hypmic]

I really liked reading your thoughts on hypmic and gender roles!! I would like to add some things about hypmic & female characters :]

I like the way Otome is meant to have a delicate (?) image, but it doesn't make her weak (I remember when her solo Just do it released and people talked about how before they had this idea that Otome was more like ruler who gives orders to her soldiers in the background, but after the song it was clear that Otome is actually in the front lines, leading her army)

And Ichijiku, who is sometimes cruel, with this strong image, this is framed not as a good thing, but a front she puts up to cope with her suffering (not that it's wrong for a woman to have traits usually associated with masculinity, but it's bad when you are doing it for the sake of looking "stronger", someone is not weaker for being feminine, as it seems to be something she internalized for herself/she doesn't seem to project that into others so it's just an unhealthy coping mechanism that hurts only herself), we can see from the drama tracks that before traumatic events her voice was much more high pitched (her natural one), and now she uses this lower, stronger tone, to not be perceived as weak (which I think kinda parallels Ramuda speaking in a higher pitch when his natural tone is lower). Basically a lot of the times when trying to write strong women, authors will take away their feminity from the idea that "you need to be masculine to be strong", that wouldn't apply to any of our female cast, even to Ichijiku who does put up a front to not be seem as weak, this is not a good thing & she still has hobbies/likes things usually associated with feminity (but as an exemple of masculine women also being treated well, we have Asunaro Bojo, she is a tomboy but that's not bad at all!!! Good for her, and there is also Iris from rhyme anima, that I could say is not particularly fem??? Also good for her and her cool motorbike)

And Honobono, I think it's really interesting that, in a society that demonizes feminity, she uses that on her favor, her feminity being her main weapon. Also I like her existence as a contraposition to Hypmic's main themes about bonds/relying on others, the power of words to resolve conflict as an alternative to violence / she wants to break bonds, uses her words as a way to do that, showing how powerful words can be when used for evil

As for them making bad decisions, I agree there were times when it was for the sake of plot moving, I also think some decisions are due to them being flawed characters, just like the rest of the cast is (Otome is impulsive and has a very "now or never" mindset, but so does Dice, Ichijiku blindly follows Otome even on her worst decisions, but that's because of her trauma and it's something she has to work on changing, etc)

And I do think a shifting is happening btw them being antagonistic side characters to them being integrated as part of the main cast in recent times!! That being said I'm very excited for the upcoming stage play focused on the girls only & with 2 new original women, I will love to see what they have ready for them

Thanks for reading and sharing your thoughts!

I totally agree with your opinion about Otome. Her "coldness" (like, personality-wise) is a good contrast to Ichijiku's hot temper, but neither are in any way weak or frail. And as you point out with Ichijku, this too seems like her way of pushing away her own feelings in order to process them better. (True gender equality is everyone failing to process emotions in a healthy way? lol)

I also get what you mean about Ichijiku and writing strong female characters. (I'm immediately reminded of this comic. In terms of concept art, Ichijiku could fit right in with them lol.) She's an interesting example of a trope I see a lot. In Japanese, it feels like "cute" (可愛い) and "beautiful" (綺麗) exist as two opposite ends of a spectrum, where the latter is associated with maturity and elegance and the former with youth and innocence. Fictional taller girls or girls with more developed bodies often lament that they're pushed into the "beautiful" role even when they identify more strongly with being "cute." On the flipside, shorter girls sometimes wish that they could be taken more seriously if they were closer to the "beautiful" side of the spectrum. Ichijiku is pretty firmly in the "beautiful" camp but seems to desire "cuteness" (see how she reacts to tea parties with Nemu, who is more stereotypically "cute", and cultivates a hairbow collection). Yet she reacts with embarrassment when anything "cute" is brought up, likely because she recognizes she won't be viewed with as much authority if she presents herself in a "cute" fashion. That ties into what you're talking about with the pitch of her voice and her desire to appear strong. It's funny how there are expected societal roles ("cute"/"beautiful") nested within larger expected societal roles (womanhood). If all the female characters were like Ichijku, I'd be a lot more "eh :/" about Hypmic, but as you say, there's a wide variety of presentations, none of which are presented as "weaker" or more invalid. Like Nemu--she's definitely a "cute" character but is written to have an enormous amount of emotional strength following her decision to join Chuuouku. This suggests, then, that Ichijiku is incorrect in thinking she can't be strong and "cute." Likewise, the female characters as a whole can be strong and feminine or strong and more masculine-presenting. It'd be fun to see more female characters who lean into the latter (I'm not going to pretend that Hypmic is bursting with canonical masc female characters) but that seems a bit more progressive than Hypmic is willing to go. If it's still at the stage of "femininity != bad"... I'll take what I can get, haha.

I love everything you said about Honobono!

And I also agree that some flawed decisions Otome and Ichijiku make are due to them being ordinary, flawed individuals. Which is a good, humanizing writing choice! When I said that in the original post, I was referring to the sort of decisions that exist purely to set up the main conceit of Hypmic. The "Hmm yes I think I shall spend our man!tax dollars on constructing a huge, expensive stadium as a trial run for a future government-sponsored sport. Let's kidnap two children in order to convince one of the trial participants to rap against his friend, which is the most effective way to prevent a coup" kind of decisions. Team Rocket-ass decisions. I'm not knocking this concept as a whole, because goofy villainy and contrived plots can be fun. Even in semi-serious works, there can still be a place for contrived plot nonsense; the audience is capable of suspending disbelief when the silliness is not the main object in focus. But when we're later asked to examine some of Otome's decisions and thought processes in a more realistic and sympathetic light, I have trouble reconciling the two concepts in my head. In my opinion, Otome can either be the shadowy figure behind the Team Rocket desk or a real person with complex thoughts and feelings, but asking her to be both is not a great writing choice.

Finally, I can't wait for the stage plays either. I hope I get a chance to check them out! The Hypstages are always super, super fun.

[danothan]

started reading robin 2021 and i wanted to take the time to appreciate two of the most beautiful spreads in issue #1. they captivated me with how gorgeous and momentous they felt, which must have been the point bc i ended up staring at them sm that the symbolism finally kicked in

SPREAD 1:

1) LOVE the red and green at play, it’s such a difficult color scheme to get right lest you end up making the whole piece feel like a christmas card, but gleb melnikov pulled it off. the environment is rich and elegant and well-contrasted; it rly brings out damian’s classic red/green robin combo, even tho he’s not actually wearing his robin suit here. the green of his clothing highlights the green of talia’s, as well as the assassin’s tattoos, and, when combined with the cool-toned background, makes the red just pop out at you. pretty palette aside, it’s a very calculated choice in colors.

2) speaking of red, melnikov rly wanted you to notice the blood in these two pages. from the emphasis of the words DEMON BLOOD to the reflection of damian in the blood puddle, it only draws attention to the fact that his blade is perfectly clean of it in the second panel. one can only assume that talia killed that guy so hard that damian’s sword was caught in the collateral (damn talia !). it frames damian as the one to land the killing blow, as though his doubts/restraint with killing mean nothing because he still has the blood on his hands, blood passed down from talia. that doesn’t necessarily make it true ofc, but it does give us a reflection of his mindset with the blood acting as a literal mirror.

now before we delve into the second spread, lemme preface this with some context: many characters will refer to damian as an actual bird (“what better way to take out a robin than with a hawke,” “i’ve fought little birds like you before,” etc.) which speaks to his reputation, but i think it’s most notable when coming from talia:

at first, it’s used condescendingly, as it usually is from most ppl, and she speaks in a possessive tone when she talks abt returning him to the nest. she even tells him that if he IS to be taken under her wing, she would not treat him as her son but as a weapon. however, we know that this contradicts her intentions as she later uses the same “baby bird” petname as a term of endearment, even to calling him her son—notably when he is out of earshot.

you get the sense that they have this unspoken code of conduct around each other—family dynamics tend to be rigid in that way—but there’s also this feeling of regret as well as unfamiliarity navigating it coming from talia. i mean, she said it herself: damian was just a baby bird. he flew out of the nest too early.*

*see read more

so why does she taunt him for running back to his mother? why is she pushing him away? and why does she monologue for so long that she lets her guard down and closes her eyes long enough for him to disappear…?

SPREAD 2:

BECAUSE DAMIAN IS JUMPING OUT OF THE HELICOPTER!!! BECAUSE TALIA IS PUSHING HIM OUT OF THE NEST !!!!

talia doubled down on her militaristic plans as an opening for damian to leave. with that sense of regret mentioned earlier, talia knows she raised damian under harsh conditions, but she doesn’t know to raise him differently either, so she urges him to find his own path. presenting “the way of the demon or the way of the bat” as the only 2 options to her already rebellious son was guaranteed sabotage. she pushed him too early when he was younger, but she knows that her baby bird is ready to fly now :”)

bonus: what a classic jason todd move to wear a mask underneath your mask btw. guess it just runs in the family! (but on a deeper, unironic level, damian switches out both his robin and his demon suit into this new one. this obviously symbolizes his forging a new path, but also reveals his intent/doubts abt the whole confrontation. a mask underneath his mask? he was never truly looking to rejoin the league. after running away from bruce, he runs to talia to test the waters and see if he would do better there. and when it ends in the same shadowing of an ambitious parent, he ditches the whole thing. the fact that he had a back-up plan meant that his heart wasn’t in it, just as talia’s heart wasn’t in keeping him caged. a confirmation bias given permission by a mother’s facade. god, the al ghul mindgames are truly smth to behold)

*so much can be said abt how talia’s approach to parenting parallels and contrasts bruce’s. they both have the same good intentions for their son, and they both realize that he’s too young to face what he had and what he’s abt to. but talia wants to start the healing process of her control in his upbringing, and bruce wants to prevent damian from having to face it alone knowing firsthand what suffering he “endured to become batman.” one is letting go, the other is desperate to bring him back.

it’s such a fascinating look into the push and pull of their fatal flaws and mistakes as parents, as well as making them feel human and reasonable within the limits of all they know and are capable of. OF COURSE they’re overcompensating for their regrets, that’s just so… them!

and the fact that you can see both parents’ traits and influence in damian as he searches for his own identity just makes the whole family feel well-rounded. robin 2021 is so good you guys, it’s too fucking good

[thymaddymoo]

CastinxCelica X Avatar

If there’s mistakes I apologise I don’t write stories often, if I do I get writers burnout real quick and I wrote this in 5 hours when I was supposed to be sleeping.

The story:

The Prisoners -

Commander Castin and his soldiers had been taken prisoner, their weapons confiscated, and their bodies bound by the strong ropes of the Empire. Castin could feel the weight of the sky pressing down from above as they were led through thick forest, their captors silent and watchful.

The air was thick with tension, and despite his military training, Castin couldn’t shake the feeling that he was stepping into something far beyond his understanding. His soldiers were exhausted, their faces set in grim lines as they followed behind him, their hands bound tightly behind their backs. The Empire’s soldiers were quiet, their movements as fluid as the waters they came from. The men and women of the Empire, though striking in their physiques—tall, elegant, and strong—had an unnerving presence. Their eyes were big and bright but sharp and cold. Despite that it was clear to Castin that these people, the Imperials , weren’t like the Intacians. There was something about them that made the air itself feel alive.

They arrived at a clearing, a village rising in front of them with stilted platforms and woven huts. The people of the village moved with an ease that spoke of a deep connection to the waters around them. Castin could see the familiar features of the people of the Empire—those striking blue green eyes and tails that curved behind them like a paddle.

The villagers watched them with cold, assessing eyes, their gazes hard as steel. Castin’s heart beat a little faster under their scrutiny. The Imperials were known for their resilience in the face of adversity, but Castin knew that resistance here could mean much more than mere imprisonment—it could mean his death.

The villagers glared at them, some whispering in their native tongue, a language Castin didn’t understand, though he could tell from the tones that it was laced with only feelings of contempt and loathing. They didn’t trust them. Why would they? After years of war, after years of bloodshed between Intacia and the Empire, why would they extend kindness to the people they had been fighting for years against?

A New Beginning -

Castin’s mind raced with thoughts of escape, but he couldn’t act. Not yet.

The warrior that had brought them in had been assigned the task of overseeing their “transition.” Castin’s heart sank when he saw her approach. Young, strikingly beautiful, and far too serene for someone who held such an important position, she had an air of command around her that Castin couldn’t ignore.

She stepped forward, her movements fluid, and with an almost ethereal grace. Her deep, ocean-colored eyes met his, sharp as the waves during a storm. She looked every bit the part of nobility—calm, controlled, powerful. Her presence was a stark contrast to the anxious energy radiating from Castin and his soldiers.

“You are in my care now.” Her voice was firm but not unkind.

Castin stood up straighter, finding his backbone as a leader once more. “I understand.”

Her eyes flicked over his soldiers for a moment, then back to him. “You will stay with me and you will learn our ways.”

Castin’s chest tightened. His mind screamed in rebellion. He was the man who commanded an entire army, he was not some child. But he kept his thoughts to himself, nodding silently in acceptance. He had no choice but to go along with this.

She glanced over at the guards, who seemed to linger, watching as she gestured for them to step back. She spoke to Castin in broken, yet understandable English, her voice softer this time. “You are here to learn.”

Castin was led into her mauri, a traditional home built on stilts near the water’s edge. The air smelled of salt and wood. Inside, the spaciousness was comforting, and yet, it only reminded him how different this place was from his home in Intacia.

The Changing -

Castin stood awkwardly inside the small, circular space. His hands were still bound, but the restraints had loosened a little. He felt the coolness of the air on his skin, and the weight of his situation settled like a stone in his stomach.

The warrior stood nearby, watching him with those sharp eyes that never seemed to blink.

“Before we proceed, we should introduce ourselves properly.” She spoke again, her tone purposeful. Her words rang in Castin’s ears, and for the first time, he realized they hadn’t yet exchanged names.

He cleared his throat, trying to maintain some of his dignity. “Commander Castin of Intacia.” His voice was firm, though it carried the unmistakable strain of a man who was far from home.

Her eyes softened slightly as she gave him a nod. “I am Aru’a, Baroness of the Empire and this is my village; Maui’na.” She spoke the title as if it were nothing more than a fact—simple and true, like the sea itself.

Castin felt an odd sense of humility at her words. He had expected hostility or a show of superiority, but her calmness unnerved him more than he wanted to admit.

“We will need to get you dressed properly.” Aru’a’s voice was matter-of-fact, as if it were simply the next task on her list. She moved toward a nearby chest and retrieved a large cloth.

Castin stiffened, realizing what was about to happen. His mind raced, but there was no avoiding it. Intacians did not wear loincloths, nor did they adhere to the same customs. Here, everything was different.

Aru’a stepped toward him and handed him the loincloth. Castin hesitated, his face flushing as he took it, uncertain of how to wear it.

“You’ll need to wear this. You are in the Empire now.” She made no attempt to hide the fact that she was speaking from a place of experience, as though this was nothing strange to her.

Castin made a futile attempt to tie the cloth around his waist, but his tail, wouldn’t cooperate. It wasn’t like the paddle tails of the Empire. His was thinner with a tuft of hair at the end, and was not easily maneuvered into a simple knot.

“It’s not fitting right,” Castin muttered, frustration creeping into his voice.

Aru’a stepped closer without hesitation, her calm presence unshaken. “You’re doing it wrong.” Her voice was sharp and firm, but not unkind. She took the cloth from his hands and began to rewrap it, adjusting it with a practiced ease. “You’re not used to this, I see. You need to stop being a baby. Let me help.”

Her words stung a little, but Castin bit his tongue, not wanting to argue. He had no room for pride in this situation.

Aru’a carefully adjusted the cloth around his waist, making sure it was secure. Her fingers brushed against his tail, and Castin stiffened, but she paid no mind. For the Imperials, it seemed natural. This was the way things were done here.

When she finished, she stepped back, her gaze assessing him. “There, now you are ready.” Her tone was almost approving, though it lacked the warmth he expected.

Castin stood silently, staring down at himself. The loincloth felt strange but not unbearable. He was now dressed according to their customs, and for the first time, he realized how much he had to learn.

A New World -

Over the next few weeks, Aru’a taught Castin the ways of the Empire. He learned their language, which she spoke with a heavy accent but a surprising fluidity. It was nothing like the language of Intacia, but with time, Castin picked up the patterns, the flow, the subtle differences.

She taught him how to breathe underwater, how to ride an ilu, how to hunt and gather from the ocean. Castin learned how to adapt, how to survive in this strange new world. He even learned how to ride a tsurak, though he often struggled with it at first.

The Baroness became more than just his captor. She was a guide, a teacher, and in time, something more—a silent, unspoken bond began to form between them.

By the time the Tulkun returned to the shores of Maui’na, Castin had come to understand this world in a way he never could have imagined. And when Aru’a led him to meet her spirit sister, he realized how deeply the people of the Empire were tied to the land, the sea, and the very essence of the Goddess herself.

But still, the war between Intacia and the Empire loomed over them. Would Castin ever return to his homeland? Would he ever truly be part of this world that had so much to offer—and yet so much to take?

[lattaeyongs]

the trojan horse (hrj): teaser

original gif

↳ pairing: huang renjun x reader

↳ teaser word count: 1.7k

↳ genre: royalty!au, historical (late 1700s)!au, heavy angst, fluff, smut (will go under major revisions before posting)

↳ summary: in which the boy you fall in love with isn’t who you think he is.

↳ teaser warnings: political unrest, may contain historical inaccuracies

1788

Today, you would be meeting the Prince of Neo, Huang Renjun. Neo is a small kingdom that neighbors your kingdom, and they are known for their ample craftsman class who commission some of the finest weapons and are the source of skilled fighters which could be of advantage if they have a suitable marriage alliance.

As much as you hated being auctioned off like an antique vase, it was something that couldn’t be helped as a royal woman, particularly the princess of the largest kingdom around, Ambrosia. You only hope that this Huang Renjun isn’t like the other suitors you have met, who are snooty and stuck up, ruthless as if they are miniature versions of your father. More importantly, you wish that they won’t cast you aside, using you as a pawn to get their hands on the better prize, the Kingdom of Ambrosia, the largest kingdom in the area.

There’s already tension in the air when you are escorted by your mother and lady’s maids into the drawing room where you first lay eyes on Huang Renjun.

His raven-colored hair is neatly gelled and combed, and his skin is pale in contrast. He stands up politely at your presence, and you get a good look at his clothing: rich, exactly what you expect for a royal from another kingdom. He wears red robes with delicate, intricate yellow designs, and you suspect the material is velvet. He has white frills at his neck, and milky white socks that compliment the black shoes at his feet, which have a gold flower at the center of the foot to match the gold designs on his robes. 

He is also observing you with the same tenacity as you do with him: You’re wearing a crown of pink flowers on your head, which matches the pink flowers on your sky-blue dress. Your skirt is large and trails at your behind, which shows your royal standing, and the sky-blue sleeves of your dress slowly become white lace as his eyes follow from your shoulders to your wrists. The sleeves of your dress are cone-like, and the edges are able to reach your knees. 

For a few seconds, you meet Renjun’s gaze. His eyes are a beautiful dark brown, and they offer you a friendly look, which puts your heart at slight ease. 

“Princess Y/N, this is Renjun, Prince of Neo,” your mother introduces in a voice that made it seem like she has known Prince Renjun for a long time (which she hasn’t).

“Pleasure to make your acquaintance, your Highness,” Renjun says. His voice is absolutely magnificent, song-like, and dreamy. He steps forward and bends down on one knee, taking your right hand and kissing the back of it. 

His lips feel warm against your skin. 

There are a few other men by Renjun’s side. There are his personal guards, who came with him on the five-hour carriage ride from his castle to yours, and another man in fine clothing, someone you failed to notice due to your observant study of Huang Renjun. 

“And this is the King of Neo,” your mother continues, gesturing. He bows down and takes the time to bend down and kiss your mother’s hand (which has her bubbling with pleasant, polite words) and your hand, which you give a curt greeting. His black robe shuffles as he steps back, and you study Renjun side-by-side with his father. 

“Pleased to meet you, Your Highnesses,” he says. 

A few maids come in bearing silver trays piled with bite-sized sandwiches, in the shape of a pyramid. You and your mother take one, while Renjun and his father take one each, all four of you being overly courteous to the help in an effort to keep appearances. 

“Your daughter looks like a lovely young lady, perfect for my Renjun,” the King of Neo comments, giving your mother a gracious smile. “So elegant and full of grace, she will make a fine queen and wife, Your Highness,” he addresses your mother. 

“Thank you for your kind words,” Your mother responds back, her eyes crinkling as a part of her practiced genuine smile. “May I escort you to the King? He has some matters that he would like to discuss with you.” 

“Of course, my good lady,” the King of Neo responds back courteously. Your mother leads the way out of the room, and a few maids look like they are going to follow her, to make sure that she is okay, but she only needs to give a flick of her wrist for them to disperse back into the drawing room. Now, you and Renjun are alone, except for the help, but they don’t count as ‘people.’ You’re grateful that your mother has left you both alone because you absolutely hate being chaperoned during meets with suitors – it makes you more nervous having that extra company. That just shows how important this alliance is for the Kingdom that your mother understands your weakness and tries to put you on the best possible foot to make a good performance for Huang Renjun.

“Please have a seat,” you say to Renjun, gesturing at the plush pink-and-green sofa that he abandoned when you entered the room. There is a small ottoman opposite of the sofa, and there is a glass table in between with the pyramid of sandwiches that the maid brought a few minutes ago. You’re ready to bring up something about the weather and other practiced lines you have prepared for occasions like this when something catches your eye on the table, a leather-bound book. It is a copy of The Oresteia by Aeschylus. You remember reading it back when you were still being taught by a governess. 

“Excellent choice,” you start off, gesturing to the volume on the table.

Renjun smiles at you, a pretty sight just as beautiful as his voice. 

“Thank you. You have a wonderful library, larger than the one I have at home,” he says in awe. The library room is in the next room, and it is dark and paneled with fine wood; it would not be a good choice to meet a suitor, for it is a major turn-off if a woman is too well-educated, enough that she would love books more than making an heir for the family.

Personally, the library room is your favorite room in the house.

“You don’t have Oresteia in your library?”

“No,” Renjun says sheepishly. “It’s been on my list of books to read for a long time, but I just haven’t had the chance to get a copy with all the suitors my father forc–” Renjun suddenly stops, realizing who he is talking to. His face turns into a bright beet red, thinking that he has messed up more than he ever thought he could.

Your face doesn’t shrivel with offense the way Renjun thought it would. He met a royal woman once who after he said he didn’t like blueberry scones, escorted him out of her castle. Instead, he is greeted by a smile. You experienced the same feeling.

“It’s okay,” you say lightly. “I wasn’t exactly that happy to meet you too.” You’re glad that your mother isn’t chaperoning, or anyone in your Court is either because hearing those words from your mouth would earn you a slap across your face. ‘A lady isn’t supposed to tell someone what she thinks,’ you can hear your mother’s and governess’ voices ringing in your ears (they practically had the same voice… all high-class women had a high pitch, sultry yet innocent voice). 

Renjun finds your words refreshing; this is the first time he’s met a royal who actually says what she thinks, and that sort of directness is what he craves in someone – he hates having to analyze every little word in a woman’s sentence in order to find out what she truly means.

“How far are you?” You ask. 

“Not very,” Renjun sighs. “I wished you came later so I would have had more time to read.” You titter a little, and Renjun is glad that he is able to see a real, genuine smile from you.

“But Clytemnestra’s lover has just killed King Agamemnon.” You nod, remembering how shocked you were when you read that part. You’re trying to think of something to say that will contribute to the conversation when Renjun’s voice becomes lower. 

“Do you think he deserved it?” 

Initially, you’re not sure if you should answer the question. On one hand, you do want to answer the question because you can’t believe that you have a suitor who wants to intelligently discuss literature with you, a complete dream that you can’t believe is happening in real life, but there is another part of you that wants to follow your mother’s advice she gave you a long time ago when it came to meeting suitors: to not let him know too much about your opinions too early. 

“I apologize,” Renjun says hesitantly. He just broke all rules when it comes to meeting suitors. He is also not supposed to ask questions like these. It was okay to ask, ‘What do you think the author meant by this event?’ but not what a woman thought about the event herself.

“You don’t have to,” you say more confidently. “I think I understand Clytemnestra’s fury. Imagine finding out that your daughter was sacrificed so that your husband can help his brother get his wife back. There’s a line that has to be drawn between your family and someone else’s family, and Agamemnon failed to do so. Menelaus had other allies from various kingdoms that could help him, and Agamemnon could help in other ways than sacrificing his eldest daughter to Artemis. But Iphigenia only had Agamemnon. She was his daughter. He was supposed to protect her. He wasn’t supposed to auction her off to her death. So he must pay with his life,” you explain rationally.

Renjun is pretty sure that you’re not only talking about Oresteia anymore. And he’s right. Maybe you feel a little like Iphigenia, but the free will that you are sacrificing is for the good of your kingdom and not someone else’s. 

The way you passionately discussed literature was endearing to Renjun. He didn’t want to be stuck with a bimbo for the rest of his life, who was only interested in parties and pleasure. You have substance. 

The two of you continue to discuss other Ancient Greek literature since much of the literature includes myths that are implicitly referenced in other works that people in those days would have understood. The conversation is entertaining, and you freely give your opinion and Renjun does the same, and you appreciate the candidness more than anything in the world.

“I’m glad for one thing,” you say during the conversation.

Renjun raises an eyebrow. 

“That the Greek Gods don’t meddle in our lives.” 

[starcunin]

@faebhaal sent: our  muses  having/sharing  a  blood  bath/shower  together.

The crimson bath is warm around him, thick with the blood of the men who dared to disrespect his spawn. His fingers, pale and elegant, lazily swirl through the surface, sending slow ripples through the dark liquid. Across from him, Ithaca reclines in the marble tub, her dusky orchid skin gleaming beneath the blood’s sheen, an intoxicating contrast that drives his desire deeper. Astarion’s gaze lingers on her, unblinking, a dark fire burning behind his crimson eyes as they trace the lines of her body, one he knows intimately now. His creation. His perfect work of art.

❛ Gods, ❜ he mutters, breathless with the dark rapture of it all. In his blood-soaked hand, he holds a golden goblet, brimming with the same lifeblood that surrounds them. But the goblet pales in comparison to the feast before his eyes——the way the blood clings to her, tracing her curves like a lover’s caress, painting her in the very essence of what they are. She is even more stunning than he had imagined as a vampire——more exquisite, more his. ❛ I could stare at you forever, you know? ❜

He shifts, moving closer through the bath of gore with a feline grace, his legs sliding alongside hers beneath the surface, trapping her in place with a possessive ease. ❛ I don’t think I could ever create a more perfect creature, ❜ he murmurs, his voice low, hushed as though the truth of his words is a sacred thing. Because it is. Ithaca, now fully his, with those stunning, blood-red eyes that mirror his own, is the pinnacle of everything he’s craved for so long——power, beauty, and most of all, loyalty.

He leans forward, offering her the goblet with a soft, almost indulgent gesture, like a king sharing his prize with his queen. ❛ Drink, ❜ he urges, his voice a silken purr. The blood within the cup and all around them belongs to those fools who had dared look at her, their desire bold and offensive. They hadn’t understood, of course. They hadn’t known that she belonged to him, only him, and now their blood would serve a higher purpose.

❛ How are you feeling this evening, my love? ❜ he asks, his voice deceptively soft, though there’s a glint in his eyes, a darkness beneath the surface. He’s curious, yes, but more than that, he wants to know. Wants to hear her say that this life—this eternity—is what she wants. That she’s thriving under his care. ❛ Still as overwhelming as yesterday? ❜ He tilts his head, almost feigning concern. He remembers his own turning well——the shock of heightened senses, the overwhelming lust for blood, the endless hunger that gnawed at him in those early days. Cazador had used it all as a weapon to control him, to mold him into the perfect servant. But Astarion? No, he would do better. He would give Ithaca everything, lavish her with luxuries, blood, adoration——all of it.

❛ I want this to be perfect for you, ❜ he says, his voice velvet, wrapping around the words like a lover’s embrace. ❛ No rats, no scraps——only the finest. You deserve the world, and I shall lay it at your feet. ❜ He moves even closer, his body now almost flush against hers, the blood making everything slippery and warm. His fingers brush her cheek, smearing a streak of red across her soft skin, his touch gentle, yet claiming.

[violent--whispers]

My Fav Thing About Each Jhin Splash

Base: The "camera" being at eye level serving to remind the viewer of Jhin's humanity while we look at the reflection through his own eyes. Notice how the smoke in the bottom right corner has butterflies in it while the reflection doesn't? Beautiful, terrifying.

High Noon: The intensity of the setting denoted by the tolling bell & disturbed dust particles contrasted by the elegance & focus in his posture — his expertise is on full display.

Blood Moon: The storytelling; specifically in how the smoke trail from Whisper indicates he'd just turned around & started disassembling after firing through the scenery.

PROJECT: The motion; A terrifying sense of resolve is present as he moves toward the "camera", presumably after taking down the vehicle to the left, all while twirling his gun in classic Jhin fashion.

Dark Cosmic: The eerie yet serene sense of confidence & wonder in his pose as he looks on at the planet crumbling within his grasp. It really conveys an undeniable sense of incomprehensible, otherworldly power.

Shan Hai Scrolls: The smoke & traps releasing from the painting in the background. Makes an already intense scene feel all the more terrifying as Jhin leaves his scroll.

Empyrean: The expressiveness of the pose being the focus even as eye-catching chaos consumes the background; he looks driven & enthusiastic — I'm so happy for him!

Soul Fighter: The way your eye is drawn to his mask despite Whisper being front & center. It serves as a wonderful representation of the weapon only being as powerful as its wielder, and he certainly does give off an irrefutable air of power here~

[dyxtd21]

Bludgmochi (Bludgeon) aesthetic moodboard!!

Bludgmochi is a hauntingly elegant warrior, his entire aesthetic inspired by the soft yet formidable texture of frozen mochi. His pastel-hued armor—soft yellow, delicate pink, and calming green—exudes an air of ethereal beauty, masking the deadly precision beneath. His body is adorned with perfectly spherical frozen mochi pieces, seamlessly integrated into his design as both decorative elements and functional weaponry. These pastel mochis, evenly spaced across his shoulders, forearms, and legs, give him an almost serene appearance, as though he’s a master sculpted from sweet frozen confections.

Bludgmochi’s head is shaped like a traditional samurai helmet, with a smooth, rounded top that mirrors the mochi’s iconic form. His glowing, icy blue optics are partially concealed by a faceplate that evokes a sense of mystique, with soft mochi-like curves offset by the sharpness of his gaze. His limbs are sleek yet sturdy, his armor subtly textured to mimic the powdery coating of mochi. When he moves, it’s with a fluid grace that belies his cold lethality, his pastel colors almost glowing in frosty environments.

As a member of the Frosties, Bludgmochi carries himself with a quiet dignity that sets him apart even among his icy comrades. He is a warrior-monk at heart, deeply committed to the Frosties’ ideals of discipline, precision, and control. He believes in the balance between beauty and power, and his fighting style reflects this philosophy. Bludgmochi is a master of both melee combat and frosty tactics, his every move a blend of artistry and efficiency. He speaks sparingly, his voice low and resonant, each word carrying a weight of contemplation and purpose.

Bludgmochi has a deep respect for Tarnstard, whom he views as the embodiment of Frosty ideals. The two share a bond forged through mutual admiration and an unspoken understanding of their shared vision. Bludgmochi often serves as Tarnstard’s advisor, offering insights that blend combat strategy with philosophical musings. With Cyclos’mores, Bludgmochi shares a more personal connection, finding camaraderie in their mutual pursuit of perfection and precision. Cyclos’mores’s icy intensity complements Bludgmochi’s serene discipline, making them a formidable pair on the battlefield.

Bludgmochi’s relationship with Scorponoshake is one of tempered respect. While he admires Scorponoshake’s strength and resilience, he finds the latter’s occasional bluntness at odds with his own refined demeanor. However, they work together effectively, their contrasting styles creating a balanced dynamic within the Frosties.

Bludgmochi maintains a cold, almost disdainful distance from the rest of the Decepticorns. He views Megatwix as an indulgent and short-sighted leader, whose caramel-coated theatrics are a distraction from the discipline needed for true power. Starcream’s flamboyance and self-serving schemes earn nothing but icy indifference from Bludgmochi, who dismisses him as a chaotic nuisance. With Soundwafer and Shockwerther, he shares a strained yet professional relationship, acknowledging their strengths while quietly disapproving of their methods.

In combat, Bludgmochi is a frost-laden whirlwind, wielding a katana-like weapon crafted from frozen mochi that combines razor-sharp edges with the resilience of icy confection. The blade glimmers in shades of pastel, its surface rippling with frosty energy that freezes anything it touches. His secondary weapon is a pair of throwing discs, shaped like flattened mochis, which he can hurl with deadly accuracy. These discs explode on impact, releasing bursts of freezing energy that immobilize foes and coat the battlefield in frost.

Bludgmochi’s most unique ability is his "Mochi Mirage," a defensive technique in which he releases a cloud of powdered frost from the mochis on his body, obscuring himself from view and confusing his enemies. The frost lingers in the air, reducing visibility and creating a freezing environment that slows his opponents while amplifying his own movements. He also uses the frozen mochis on his armor as projectiles, detaching them and launching them at enemies with explosive precision.

Bludgmochi’s fighting style is a blend of artistry and ruthlessness, his serene demeanour masking an unyielding resolve. On the battlefield, he is a vision of pastel beauty and icy terror, moving with the grace of a dancer and the precision of a warrior. Among the Frosties, Bludgmochi represents the fusion of elegance and power, a frozen mochi samurai whose commitment to the Frosty ideals is as unyielding as the ice he wields. His presence is both calming and chilling, a sweet yet formidable reminder of the Frosties’ cold, calculated strength.

(For anybody wondering, his mochi flavours are: Pink = Sweet strawberry, Yellow = Sour lemon and Green = Acidic apple)

[kaneshaandrews]

The Gifted One-A Babylon Five Fan-Fiction Tale

The Year: 2260 – Place: Earth

Sonja Ironheart, a P5 telepath, returned to her quarters after a long and grueling day. As she reached for the keypad to unlock the door, an odd sensation prickled at the edges of her awareness. She hesitated, scanning her surroundings, but nothing seemed out of place. Shaking off the unease, she stepped inside.

Once in her bedroom, Sonja removed her gloves and placed them neatly on the vanity. She caught her reflection in the mirror—a woman of striking beauty, with dark brown hair that brushed her shoulders but was always kept in a neat bun. Her brown eyes held a softness that contrasted with the discipline of her Psi-Corps training. Her toffee-and-cream complexion and shapely, curvy figure gave her an air of elegance she seldom acknowledged. With a sigh, she loosened her hair, letting it cascade free, and reached for her comb.

As she combed through the strands, her thoughts wandered. Restlessness had been gnawing at her for weeks, ever since the news of Babylon 5's secession from Earth Alliance. She couldn’t help but wonder what fate awaited those aboard the station—and their families still bound to Earth. Her cousin, Jason Ironheart, came unbidden to her mind.

Back in 2258, Jason had gone AWOL from Psi-Corps. When she had tried to investigate, she was stonewalled at every turn. Jason, whom she had affectionately called "Uncle Jason" due to his older, protective demeanor, had always been steady and reliable. His sudden disappearance never made sense. Deep down, she had always feared something terrible had happened, but her instincts warned her not to push too hard. In Psi-Corps, asking the wrong questions could lead to exile—or worse.

After brushing her hair, Sonja began to undress, preparing for a long, relaxing shower. Yet, as she reached the bathroom door, that strange sensation returned, stronger this time. Tension crept into her shoulders as she instinctively scanned her surroundings with her telepathic senses. Finding nothing, she exhaled, trying to dismiss the paranoia.

But then she heard it.

“Sonja.”

She froze mid-step, the voice reverberating through her thoughts. Turning quickly, she grabbed her PPG from the nightstand drawer. Weapon in hand, she edged toward the bedroom door. The lights in her quarters were still on, but the silence felt heavy. She cautiously checked the living room. Nothing.

Shaking her head, she muttered, “I’m working too hard. Time to put in for some leave.” She locked the PPG back in her drawer and headed for her shower.

Later that night, as Sonja slept, the dream came.

She was in the vastness of space, her breath stolen by the beauty surrounding her. Stars sparkled like scattered diamonds, nebulae shimmered in luminous hues, and planets turned gracefully on their axes. Awe washed over her.

“Sonja,” a voice called, gentle yet firm.

The voice was familiar, tugging at memories buried deep. She turned, searching the infinite void.

“Sonja,” it came again, closer now.

An ethereal figure emerged, shimmering with an otherworldly light. He looked almost human but radiated an aura of power and serenity. Sonja’s breath caught as recognition dawned.

“It is good to see you again, Clara Stella,” the figure said, his tone warm.

Her heart skipped a beat. “Clara Stella… Only one person called me that,” she murmured, narrowing her eyes.

“Yes,” the figure confirmed. “I did.”

Her voice rose with disbelief. “Uncle Jason?”

He smiled, a soft glow illuminating his features. “Yes, Sonja. It’s me.”

“What—how? What’s happening?” she asked, her thoughts a whirlwind.

Jason’s expression grew somber. “I have much to tell you, but time is short. Listen carefully.”

“Tell me what happened to you!” she demanded.

He sighed. “I volunteered for an experiment within Psi-Corps. The goal was to create stable telekinetics—an ability that has driven most recipients to insanity. I believed we could use this power to defend Earth. The experiment succeeded, and my abilities grew beyond anything they anticipated. But with that power came revelation. Psi-Corps didn’t intend to protect humanity. They wanted control.” His voice hardened. “I couldn’t allow that. I killed the lead researcher and fled.”

“Weren’t you tracked?” Sonja asked, her voice edged with concern.

“Yes. Psi-Corps followed me all the way to Babylon Five,” Jason replied, his tone steady. “It was there that I became... what I am. The experiments didn’t just unlock abilities in telepaths, Sonja. They revealed something deeper—latent potential that lies within every human being. Telepath or not, all humans are capable of achieving a higher state of consciousness. A form of evolution.” He paused, his expression darkening. “But I couldn’t let Psi-Corps discover that. They would have twisted it, corrupted it beyond repair.”

Sonja gestured toward him, her brow furrowed. “So, you became this?”

“Yes. And in time, others will too,” Jason said, his voice carrying a quiet certainty.

“This is why you contacted me?” she asked, her curiosity mingling with apprehension.

Jason nodded. “Yes, but also to warn you.”

“Warn me?” Sonja’s eyes narrowed, her unease growing.

“Being what I am,” Jason began, his gaze distant as though peering beyond the moment, “I can see the past, the present, and the future. Sonja… my dear Clara Stella… Psi-Corps will fall. It will be no more.”

Sonja’s eyes widened in shock. “What do you mean, ‘no more’?”

“Things are already in motion,” Jason said gravely. “The universe is shifting in ways no one could have predicted. Events are coming—events that will change everything. One of those is the inevitable fall of Psi-Corps. It’s not a question of if, but when. I’m urging you to leave now, before it’s too late.”

“But they’ll hunt me down,” Sonja said, fear flickering in her voice.

Jason’s expression softened. “Go to the Vargas Institute of Interdisciplinary Research. Ask for Marisol Vargas. She’ll explain everything and ensure you’re protected from Psi-Corps.”

Before Sonja could respond, the dream shattered like a mirror. She awoke abruptly, sitting up in bed, her heart pounding.

“Jason?” she whispered into the stillness, but the answer came not in words, but in a presence that lingered.

“I’ll be watching over you, Sonja. Do not be afraid.”

Sonja exhaled sharply, then smiled. “I guess that answers that question.”

Act II

Sonja arrived at the Vargas Institute of Interdisciplinary Research, her breath catching as she stepped inside. The interior was a stunning fusion of futuristic architecture and organic design, a testament to the Institute’s mission to integrate science, technology, and human potential seamlessly.

The main atrium on the ground floor was a soaring, light-filled space. At its center stood a towering bioluminescent sculpture that pulsed with subtle, rhythmic light, as though alive. Interactive displays lined the walls, showcasing breakthroughs in fields ranging from neuroscience to astrophysics. The atmosphere was serene, with soft, ambient lighting and a faint melody blending electronic harmonies with nature sounds. A grand staircase curved elegantly upward, connecting to the upper floors, while modern art installations and cozy seating areas added a welcoming touch.

Sonja was heading toward the information desk when a woman approached her. She was the same height as Sonja, with a deeper complexion, short dark brown hair, and warm brown eyes. Her attire—a white dress with a vintage, mid-20th-century nurse’s uniform aesthetic—was strikingly distinct.

“Are you Sonja Ironheart?” the woman asked.

“Yes,” Sonja replied cautiously.

“I’m Marisol Vargas. You’ve been expected.”

Breaking one of Psi-Corps’ strictest rules, Sonja instinctively scanned Marisol.

“Scanning me?” Marisol said with an amused smile.

Sonja froze, startled. “How did you know?”

Marisol tilted her head slightly. “Go ahead. Continue.”

Sonja hesitated, but then did as Marisol invited. Her scan revealed what she hadn’t expected—Marisol was a telepath.

“How?” Sonja began, but Marisol raised a hand gently to stop her.

“Come with me, and everything will be explained. But brace yourself—what Jason told you is only the beginning.”

Speechless, Sonja followed Marisol to the upper floor.

The first upper floor housed the Institute’s research labs, marvels of technological innovation. State-of-the-art imaging systems, genetic sequencers, and virtual reality pods filled the sleek, glass-enclosed spaces. Floor-to-ceiling windows offered panoramic views of the lush, landscaped grounds, creating an atmosphere that was both inspiring and calming.

Marisol led Sonja into a smaller lab that felt more like a tranquil meditation room crossed with a communal lounge.

“Welcome to the Lab of Inner Balance,” Marisol said, gesturing for Sonja to take a seat.

As Sonja sat, a sense of peace washed over her. “Thank you,” she said softly.

Marisol settled into a chair across from her, her posture relaxed. “This space encourages balance—of mind, body, and soul. Both patients and staff come here to reflect, to research within themselves.”

“Inner research?” Sonja asked, her brow furrowing slightly.

“Yes. We believe true healing and understanding begin by looking inward. By identifying what burdens the heart and soul—whether it’s physical or emotional pain—we can start to address the root causes,” Marisol explained. “We also use this space to guide others, to help them find the way, the truth, and the life.”

“John 14:6,” Sonja said quietly. “‘I am the way and the truth and the life. No one comes to the Father except through me.’ I’ve read the Scriptures. I imagine Psi-Corps would cringe if they knew one of their own believes in God—and prays daily.”

Marisol chuckled. “Yes, they would. And they’d be even more shocked if they understood the truth of how most of us came to be.”

“What do you mean?” Sonja asked, curiosity piqued.

Before Marisol could answer, the doors opened, and an older woman entered. She bore a striking resemblance to Marisol, though her graying hair and lab coat over a black top and burgundy skirt gave her an air of seasoned authority.

“Sonja, this is my mother, Dr. Sophia Collins-Vargas,” Marisol said with a warm smile.

“A pleasure to meet you, Dr. Collins-Vargas,” Sonja said, standing.

“The pleasure is mine,” Sophia replied as she took a seat.

“Have you explained why Sonja is here?” Sophia asked Marisol.

“I was just getting to that,” Marisol said. Then, glancing at Sonja with a playful smile, she added, “By the way, she’s scanning you.”

Sonja flushed with embarrassment. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”

Sophia waved a hand dismissively. “Don’t be. I have nothing to hide. And yes, as I’m sure you’ve realized, I’m a telepath. As is Marisol.”

Sonja nodded. “You’re both strong telepaths. How did you avoid Psi-Corps detection?”

“That’s what I was about to explain,” Marisol said. “There are many telepaths Psi-Corps doesn’t know about because they’re being hidden.”

“Hidden? By who?” Sonja asked, leaning forward.

“By God,” Sophia said with quiet conviction.

Sonja’s eyes widened. “God... is hiding telepaths?”

“Yes,” Sophia replied. “Because He has given them a mission—one He will not allow Psi-Corps to interfere with.”

“What mission?” Sonja asked, though deep down, she already suspected the answer.

“To bring the Good News,” Sophia said simply.

Sonja nodded slowly. “Of course. To share the Gospel.”

““There’s more,” Marisol said as she stood, extending her hand. “Take my hand, Sonja.”

Sonja hesitated briefly but rose to her feet, placing her hand in Marisol’s. Sophia stepped forward, taking Sonja’s other hand.

“Close your eyes,” Marisol instructed, her voice calm yet commanding. “Open your mind, your heart, and your soul. Stretch them upwards, toward the heavens.”

Sonja obeyed, allowing herself to let go of her doubts. For a moment, nothing happened. Then, a surge of energy enveloped her, and she felt her spirit soaring, transcending space and time.

Suddenly, she stood before a being of pure light, towering and radiant, its presence filling her with awe.

“Welcome, Sonja Ironheart,” the being said, its voice resonating through her very being.

“Are you... God?” Sonja whispered.

“I am called by many names—Yahweh, El Shaddai, Abba, Adonai, Elohim... all these and more. I answer to them all. Yes, Sonja, it is I. I am God.”

Overwhelmed, Sonja fell to her knees, tears streaming down her face. “Heavenly Father, I am but a small speck in Your vast creation.”

“No, Sonja,” God replied gently. “You are much more. You are one of Mine—one of the Gifted.”

“The Gifted?” she asked, lifting her gaze.

“Yes. Those whom I have blessed with special abilities, meant to unite creation and bring My message to the world. But others—those I created with free will—have chosen a darker path. They have sought to create their own ‘gifted’ beings, using them as weapons.”

Sonja frowned. “What do You mean?”

“Let Me show you.”

Visions flooded her mind—images of alien races, some she recognized from history and Psi-Corps' archives: the Minbari, the Narn, the Centauri, and the Vorlons. The focus lingered on the Vorlons, revealing something that shocked her to her core. She saw Jason, his journey now making perfect sense.

When the visions ceased, Sonja spoke, her voice trembling. “Heavenly Father, will humans ever learn what You’ve shown me?”

“In time. But there will be a premature revelation that will herald the fall of Psi-Corps,” God said.

Another image appeared—this time of a woman with fiery red hair.

“This is Lyta Alexander,” God said. “A telepath altered by the Vorlons. She will reveal the truth about how some of Earth’s telepaths came to be.”

“Some of them?” Sonja asked, her mind racing.

“Yes,” God confirmed. “The Gifted.”

Sonja’s eyes widened in understanding. “The telepaths You’ve been hiding.”

“Correct. And you, Sonja Ironheart, are also among the Gifted. Jason was as well. Psi-Corps’ experiments awakened the latent gift within him—gifts I intended to remain hidden until the right time. Jason understood instinctively that Psi-Corps could never discover these abilities, which is why he acted as he did.”

“He killed the head researcher and fled,” Sonja murmured.

“Yes,” God affirmed.

Sonja took a deep breath, her heart steadying. “Heavenly Father, I submit myself to You. I will leave Psi-Corps and do whatever You will have me do.”

God’s light seemed to shine brighter, filling her with warmth. “You are now hidden, Sonja, as one of My Gifted. Your mission is the same as the others: to bring the Good News to all. I will be with you, as will Jason, who remains by your side in spirit. You will also have a companion, a mate who will share this journey with you.”

Sonja’s heart leapt. “Is he hidden as well?”

“Yes,” God said. “He waits for the moment I bring him to you. Go back now. Leave Psi-Corps and do not look back.”

The light faded, and Sonja felt herself rushing back to Earth. Her eyes snapped open, and she gasped for air.

“It happens to us all,” Marisol said gently, smiling as Sonja steadied herself. “You’ll get used to it.”

“You mean I can...” Sonja began, her voice trailing off.

“You are one of the Gifted, Sonja,” Sophia said warmly. “Of course you can.”

Sonja smiled, her confidence renewed.

Act III

Sonja Ironheart had gone AWOL, and Alfred Bester, along with the Bloodhound unit of Psi-Corps, was determined to find her. His search led him to the home of Shannon Barnes, Sonja’s best friend.

Shannon, a telepath who had been “bought” out of Psi-Corps, now lived free of their authority. The only stipulation of her release was that she report any rogue telepaths she encountered—a stipulation she had little intention of honoring.

Shannon greeted Bester at her door with a cold stare, making no attempt to hide her disdain. She was a striking woman with shoulder-length wavy blonde hair, piercing green eyes, and a warm, fair complexion.

“Where is Sonja Ironheart?” Bester demanded, his tone sharp.

Shannon smirked, her expression mocking. “I don’t know,” she said coolly, “and I’m glad I don’t.”

“You two were best friends,” Bester pressed. “If she planned to run, I’d think you’d be the first person she’d contact.”

Shannon’s smile widened, her voice dripping with malice. “Thankfully, she didn’t. Saves me the trouble of having to turn her over.”

Bester’s lips curled into a tight smile, masking his irritation. “You were one of Psi-Corps’ most promising telepaths. But you threw it all away for a mundane husband and rejected everything the Corps taught you.” His words carried a mix of anger and disappointment.

Shannon folded her arms, her gaze unwavering. “Let’s be clear, Mr. Bester. Like my parents—whom the Corps booted out for daring to think independently—I never bought into the Corps’ garbage propaganda. Being a telepath doesn’t make me better than anyone else. Maybe you and the rest of Psi-Corps need that delusion to feel important, but I don’t.”

Bester’s expression darkened. “I’ve never appreciated your tone, Shannon.”

“And I couldn’t care less,” she snapped.

Bester’s jaw tightened as memories of Shannon’s parents, Margo and Gerald Barnes, surfaced. Both were P10 telepaths who had relentlessly challenged Psi-Corps’ authority, breaking rules until they were officially expelled. Yet the Corps had offered to keep them on unofficially—an offer the Barnes had openly mocked. Their defiance peaked when they embraced Christianity, a belief system that clashed fundamentally with Psi-Corps’ rigid ideology.

Shannon was following in their footsteps. Her husband, Troy, a member of a traveling ministry, had been instrumental in her release from the Corps.

As if on cue, the front door opened, and Troy entered the room. He towered over Shannon, his long black hair, hazel eyes, and bronze complexion reflecting his mixed heritage. His presence was imposing, and his disdain for Bester was evident.

Bester shifted uncomfortably, sensing Troy’s unspoken hostility.

“I’ll be leaving now,” Bester said, attempting to reclaim authority. “If you see Sonja Ironheart, report her.”

Troy’s voice was calm but firm as he replied, “You’d do well to remember that you’re just a man, Alfred. God created everything—this planet, the universe, all of it. He’s greater than any government, including Psi-Corps. One day, Psi-Corps will fall, and you will answer for your crimes.”

Bester hesitated, searching for a retort, but the tension in the room was too heavy. Without another word, he turned and left.

Once the door closed, Shannon exhaled. “You know what’s amazing?”

“What?” Troy asked, his gaze softening.

Shannon grinned. “I have been in touch with Sonja. She sent me a telepathic message, and Bester didn’t catch it while scanning me. Hypocritical bastard.”

“Where is she?” Troy asked, his interest piqued.

“Somewhere near the Mojave Desert,” Shannon replied. “She’s joined one of the traveling ministries. Sonja told me she’s a Gifted One.”

Troy smiled. “As are you, babe. God’s only letting Psi-Corps be aware of you to serve as a distraction.”

“I know,” Shannon said with a smirk. “By the way, when you told Bester that Psi-Corps would fall? Sonja said the same thing. She even showed me. Those self-righteous, power-hungry fools have no idea what’s coming.” Her expression turned serious. “But until then, I’ll gladly play the distraction while God keeps hiding the Gifted Ones.”

“And when that task is done,” Troy said, his voice filled with conviction, “we’ll join the others in spreading the Good News. The universe better get ready—Jesus is coming back.”

Shannon’s smile returned, her confidence unwavering. “Amen to that.”

Epilogue

In the Mojave Desert, a sprawling caravan moved steadily under the golden sun, voices lifted in harmonious praise to God. Among the travelers was Sonja Ironheart, her heart at peace for the first time in years. Beside her stood Damian Shaw, a fellow rogue telepath and a Gifted One.

Damian was striking, with sun-kissed blond hair, piercing blue eyes, and a warm beige complexion that seemed to radiate kindness. He was more than a companion; he was the one God had brought into her life after her escape from Psi-Corps.

“We will walk this path together, as one,” Damian said softly, his gaze fixed on Sonja with quiet devotion.

Sonja’s lips curved into a gentle smile. “With God, we walk as one,” she replied, her voice steady and filled with faith.

They exchanged a look, their connection rooted not just in shared trials but in a shared purpose, as they journeyed forward, united by love and guided by divine grace.