#the mist that cloaks the river

[aeralux]

"Spellbound" - Daemon Targaryen

Daemon Targaryen x Witch!Reader

Summary: A witch doesn't cower to anyone... except maybe a dragon. But that's not necessarily a bad thing. Harrenhal seems to be riddled with darkness and mysteries, after all.

Warnings: SMUT (18+); rough sex; oral (f!receiving); fingering; foul language; talks of magick and its use; technically infidelity on Daemon's part; loss of virginity; mention of blood

Words: 8.3k

Notes: No description of the reader, except for dark hair. Takes place in Harrenhal when Daemon is staying there. I tried to be as accurate to Westeros lore as I could, I literally spent hours on their wiki, so I hope it shows through :)

𐔌 . ⋮ aera .ᐟ ֹ ₊ ꒱

Harrenhal was a ghastly place. It had the biggest castle of all of Westeros. The castle had five dizzying towers, with equally monstrous curtain walls. The walls were incredibly thick, and its rooms were built on a scale that would be more comfortable for giants than humans—said to be haunted and eerie.

Perfect for sorceresses and sorcerers alike, the city had a coven of Witches who collectively went by the name "Wives of the Gods Eye." The name was an ode to Gods Eye, the largest lake of the Seven Kingdoms, located south of Harrenhal.

In the embrace of warm sunlight, the water of the Gods Eye shimmers in vibrant shades of blue and green, casting a magical glow. Yet, as winter blankets the land, its surface transforms into a steely grey, reminiscent of the coldest metal. Majestic black swans glide gracefully across the water. Just a short distance away, a winding lake road meanders near the storied Harrenhal, leading through a patchwork of rolling hills, sparkling streams, and golden sunlit fields. As one journeys further south, the landscape gives way to dense, shadowy forests, creating a clear contrast.

The lake, with its murky depths, bore a name of divine beings, yet here, amidst the towering pines and shivering mists, there existed no gods. Only monsters lurked in the shadows, and witches wove their secrets beneath the pale moonlight. As for you, you were a bastard of Pinkmaiden, an unwelcome child of a place that should have offered a home. At the young age of six, you were sent to Harrenhal, a castle steeped in blood and betrayal, to serve the lords and ladies of House Strong as one of the laundresses. The ancient stones watched over you with cold indifference, whispering the secrets of many who had come before.

Your raven-black hair flowed like a dark river down your back, framing your face and matching nicely with your unsettling eyes, which shimmered like a stormy sea. These features marked you as different, a reminder of your uncertain heritage. It was not long before the Lady of Harrenhal, with her porcelain skin and sharp gaze, grew wary of your presence. On the eve of your sixteenth birthday, she cast you out, her disdain cutting deeper than any blade.

Alone and bereft, you wandered the wilderness, uncertainty gnawing at your heart. But fortune smiled upon you when the coven of witches found you, their cloaks billowing like dark wings against the whispering wind. They took you in, offering a refuge far removed from the stone walls of Harrenhal. In their hidden glen, where wildflowers crowded beneath the trees, they made you feel cherished for the first time. 

Nowadays, for most, magic is a little-understood force in the world. It has been so long since magic was truly potent that most understanding now exists only in superstition and rituals of questionable validity. But with them, you understood, the doubts of others have no claim.

"You are special," they insisted, words dripping with ancient wisdom. "You possess something otherworldly." Their voices wrapped around you like a warm embrace. For the first time, you believed there was a purpose to your existence—a spark that set you apart from common folk, a thread woven from the fabric of something otherworldly.

Under their solemn guidance, you began to practice the mysterious arts. You learned to mix herbs and roots, crafting potions that glinted with promise and danger. Each incantation you whispered held power, resonating with the essence of the world around you. The witching nights became your solace, and as you delved deeper into their teachings, the women of the coven began to call you their newest daughter—their black swan. In that embrace, you found your wings, soaring above the harsh reality that had sought to bind you.

There, in the shadows of Harrenhal, you discovered your true calling and uncovered your hidden talent: Glamour magic. The few ladies of the coven from Asshai welcomed you into their fold. Asshai, a mysterious and ancient port city nestled in the far southeast of Essos, was unlike any place in Westeros, you gathered from their stories. There, the Ash River wound its way through the land, flowing into the vast expanse of the Jade Sea, where the waters sparkled under the sun like jewels.

As you sat among the flickering candles in their dimly lit chamber, they taught you ancient spells in their native tongue. Words danced on your lips like whispers in the wind, each incantation holding power and mystique. They guided you in prayer, teaching you how to bow your head before the Red God, channelling your intentions through sacred rituals. The air was thick with incense, and the flickering shadows brought to life the stories of ages past, filling your heart with a sense of wonder and purpose.

When the wise ladies of the coven, cloaked in shadows and steeped in ancient lore, deemed you ready to embrace your destiny, they presented you with a striking necklace carved from deep black obsidian. Its surface shimmered like a starless night sky, reflecting the flickering flames of the hearth where your journey began. Though the obsidian was traditionally used to forge weapons of war, the coven believed it resonated with your spirit, a perfect talisman for what lay ahead.  

As you clasped the necklace around your neck, it transformed into your glamor, an enchanting charm that bestowed upon you the power to weave illusions. With it, the magic could shift the perceptions of those around you, allowing you to appear as someone—or something—entirely different. While the shape of the necklace remained unchanged, the world could see whatever you wished it to see, bending reality to your will.  

The true strength of glamors lies in their connection to the wearer. Each illusion from the obsidian was ingrained with a piece of you, making them far more potent than mere tricks of light. As you wore the necklace, you felt it pulse gently against your skin, a current of magic entwining your fate with ancient spells. The coven’s trust in you burned bright like the embers of a dying fire.  

In the realm where shadows danced and whispers echoed, the obsidian necklace became more than just an accessory; it was an extension of your very being, a bridge between the world you knew and the numerous possibilities.

Through the fogs surrounding Harrenhal and its haunting towers, a figure emerged one day that would change the course of history. Daemon Targaryen, the rogue prince, found himself in the ancient fortress where magic lingered in the air, where witches snarled their secrets beneath the pale moonlight, and where even the strongest of men lost their minds to visions that tormented them.

The arrival of the Targaryen prince foreshadowed the beginning of the violent conflict known as the Dance of the Dragons, igniting the flames of war. The first target being Harrenhal. Daemon Targaryen, fierce and determined, led the charge to seize this shadowy castle for his wife, Rhaenyra. In his mind, it would become a stronghold for loyal supporters rising in the Riverlands.

Chaos erupted in the region, the air thick with tension and fear hanging heavily over the lords and common folk. Yet amidst this turmoil, you stood resolute, encouraged by the words of an elder from your coven, whose foresight promised their safety in these troubled times.

With unwavering determination, you journeyed to the godswood of Harrenhal, walking along the clear, winding stream that wandered gently through the emerald shrubberies. The ancient weirwood, with its deformed roots and an angry face carved into its bark, awaited you at the heart of the woods. Its pale leaves trembled softly in the breeze, whispering secrets of generations past.

Above you, birds flitted through the branches, their songs mingling with the rustling leaves, while bats emerged as shadows against the dusky sky, patrolling for their evening meal. A sly cat sneaked near the godswood's stone wall, its eyes glinting like lanterns in the twilight. In this serene moment, you felt a peculiar kinship with the creatures of the wood, convinced that you were not alone.

With reverence, you placed your offering between the twisted roots of the ancient tree, murmuring a quick prayer. You believed in many deities, each an important part of your life, hoping that at least one would consider your call. After all, in these dark times, hope was a precious thing.

Before your journey back, you felt a tug in your heart to pay a quick visit to Alys. The kind healer lady was one of the rare souls who did not cast disdainful glances at you during your time in the castle. Known by others as the “witch queen,” Alys saw past the uncanny aura that surrounded you. She had grown fond of you, despite the brooding darkness that seemed to dance in your eyes, and she understood that your best path was far from these stone walls. You stood out too much among the lords and ladies, a vision amidst the living.

Like a creeping shadow, you slipped through the secret passage, the cool air brushing against your skin as you navigated the hidden corridors. The echoes of your footsteps were muffled by the cold, damp stones, as you moved with practised ease to avoid the lurking guards. You knew better than to provoke their watchful eyes.

Upon entering Alys's chamber, you were greeted by a familiar sight—her collection of potions and drying herbs adorned the shelves, a simple yet charming chaos that spoke of her craft. The room held a soft scent of lavender and something earthy, an aroma that always brought you comfort. You wandered over to the table, intrigued by the array of glass bottles filled with vivid liquids.

But the serenity shattered in an instant, as a cold steel blade pressed against your throat, sending a chill cascading down your spine. A sharp gasp escaped your lips, mingling with the tension in the air. Your heart raced, pounding against your ribcage as panic surged. Who could it be, a figure lurking in the shadows, ready to end your life? The world around you faded into silence, but your senses heightened, honed by years of uncertainty. At that moment, you wondered if your last moments would be in the castle that had been both shelter and prison.

You couldn't see the face of your attacker, but you could feel the presence looming over you, the weight of their body pressing you forward. The blade dug into your skin, drawing a thin line of blood that trickled down your neck. You swallowed hard, fighting back the fear that threatened to overwhelm you.

"Who are you?" a low and menacing voice demanded. And what are you doing here?"

The voice was unfamiliar to you, but there was a certain authority in it that sent a chill down your spine. You knew that whoever this person was, they meant business.

You tried to turn your head, to catch a glimpse of your attacker, but the blade pressed harder against your throat, making you wince in pain. "Please," you managed to choke out, your voice barely above a whisper. "I mean no harm."

The figure behind you let out a harsh laugh, the sound echoing off the stone walls. "No harm? You sneak into the healer's chambers like a thief in the night, and you claim to mean no harm?"

You felt a tear slip down your cheek, mingling with the blood on your skin. "I'm not a thief," you said, your voice trembling. "I'm a friend of Alys. I came to see her, to...to say hello."

The blade pressed harder against your throat, making you gasp in pain. "Hello?" the voice repeated, a note of suspicion in it. "Somehow I doubt you, little witch."

You knew then that your attacker was well aware of your true nature, of the magic that coursed through your veins. You thought of the obsidian necklace around your neck, the glamor that disguised you as a simple servant girl. But you knew that even that powerful magic would be no match for the Valyrian steel pressed against your throat.

Your heart pounded against your ribs as you struggled to steady your breathing. The cold steel pressed harder against your throat, sending a jolt of pain through your body. You tried to swallow, but your mouth was dry, and your tongue stuck to the roof of your mouth.

"I swear, it's true," you managed to choke out, your voice trembling with fear. "I didn't know anyone would be here. I thought...I thought Alys would be alone."

You could feel your attacker's warm breath on the back of your neck, their presence looming over you like a dark shadow. You wanted to turn and face them, to see the face of the one who held your life in their hands, but the blade kept you still.

"Please," you whispered, tears stinging your eyes. "Don't hurt me. I'm not here to cause any trouble. I just...I just wanted to see her"

Your hands shook at your sides, the obsidian necklace hidden beneath your simple servant's gown a cold weight against your skin. You knew that your glamor was useless now, that your true nature had been discovered. But you couldn't let them know about the coven, about the power that you possessed.

You closed your eyes, bracing yourself for the pain that was sure to come. You had survived so much in your short life and had endured so much hardship and betrayal. But in that moment, faced with the cold steel of a stranger's blade, you felt more vulnerable than ever.

"I'm sorry," you whispered, your voice barely audible. "I didn't mean any harm."

You waited for the blade to slice through your skin, for the blood to pour from the wound. But it never came. Instead, you felt the pressure of the blade lessen, the cold steel sliding away from your throat.

Slowly, you turned your head, your eyes widening as you saw the face of the one who had held your life in their hands. It was a man, tall and broad-shouldered, with hair the colour of spun silver and eyes as violet as an iris. He looked like he had stepped straight out of a legend, a true son of Valyria.

Daemon's violet eyes narrowed as he studied the young woman before him, his gaze sharp and piercing. He could see the fear in your eyes, the way your body trembled beneath his touch, but he also sensed something else—a flicker of something dark and dangerous lurking just beneath the surface. He knew a witch when he saw one, and you were no ordinary servant.

"A friend of Alys's, you say?" he growled, his voice low and menacing. "And yet you seem to know your way around this castle better than most. Tell me, little witch, what exactly are you doing here?"

He kept the blade pressed against your throat, not enough to draw blood, but enough to keep you still. He could feel the heat of your skin beneath the cold steel and could see the way your pulse fluttered. He leaned in closer, his breath hot against your ear.

"I've dealt with your kind before," he whispered, his voice a low rumble. "I know the tricks you play, the illusions you weave. But trust me, little one, you'll find no mercy here."

Daemon's eyes flicked down to the necklace hidden beneath your gown, a flicker of recognition sparking in their depths. He had seen such trinkets before. But this one was different—there was a power to it that even he could sense, a dark and ancient magic that thrummed through the air like a heartbeat.

"What's this?" he demanded, his fingers brushing against the hidden amulet. "Some kind of charm, is it? A trinket to hide your true face from the world?"

He leaned in closer, his lips brushing against your ear as he spoke. "I can smell the magic on you, little witch. It clings to your skin like perfume. The same foul odour that clings to the healer."

Daemon's hand slid down from your throat to your collarbone, his fingers tracing the curve of your flesh beneath the thin fabric of your gown. He could feel the heat of your skin beneath his touch, could see the way your body trembled at his proximity.

You took a deep, shuddering breath, trying to steady the trembling of your hands as you met Daemon's piercing violet gaze. With a steady motion, you reached behind your neck and unclasped the necklace, letting the heavy amulet drop into your palm. There was no point in trying to hide your identity any longer. Your true face coming to light.

Daemon's lips curled into a wicked grin as you revealed the truth of your identity, his eyes glinting with a predatory hunger. He could see the fear in your eyes, but also the aggressiveness, the spark of something wild and untamed that called to him like a siren's song.

"I am a witch, yes," you admitted in a hushed whisper, your heart pounding so hard you feared he could hear it. "But I speak the truth, your grace. I did not know anyone would be here."

You couldn't help but notice his rugged handsomeness as you spoke, the strong lines of his jaw and the way his muscles rippled beneath the thin linen of his tunic. You quickly averted your gaze, not wanting him to see the effect he was having on you.

"I'm from the coven called the Wives of the Gods Eye," you continued, voice barely above a whisper. "We practice the old ways, the magic that was once forbidden. I simply came here seeking some herbs."

You met his eyes once more, defiance mingling with the apprehension. "I meant you no harm, my lord. I swear it on my life."

"A witch of the old ways, are you?" he purred, his hand sliding up from your collarbone to cup your chin, tilting your face towards his. "How very interesting. And here I thought Alys was the only one in this godforsaken castle who dabbled in the dark arts."

He leaned in closer, his lips brushing against your ear as he spoke. "You say you seek herbs, little witch, but what say you to a bargain? Your secrets for my protection."

Daemon's hand slid down to your neck, his fingers wrapping around your throat in a loose grip. He could feel your pulse fluttering beneath his touch, could see the way your body trembled at his proximity.

"I could use a witch of your talents in my service," he murmured, his voice low and seductive.

You stepped back, your hand brushing against the dagger beneath your skirts. "I am not some whore," you hissed, your voice low and dangerous. "I do not offer my services to any man, least of all one who would threaten me with a blade."

You met his gaze, your own eyes blazing with defiance. "You would be wise to let me leave at once, your grace. I have no quarrel with you, but I will not be cowed by threats or promises of power."

Turning on your heel, you strode to the shelves, your movements quick and precise. You grabbed a bottle of dried hemlock, the bitter scent filling your nostrils. You turned back to face him, the vial clutched in your hand like a weapon.

"I a daughter of the Gods Eye. I bow to no man, not even a prince of the realm."

You lifted your chin, your dark hair falling in waves around your face. "Now, I will ask you once more. Let me pass, or face the consequences of crossing a witch."

Your hand tightened on the hemlock, the glass cold against your skin. You could feel the rage thrumming through your veins.

"Choose wisely, your grace."

He had dealt with witches before and had watched as they danced and writhed beneath his touch. In pain and pleasure.

But this one was different. This one had a fire in her eyes that couldn't be tamed, a defiance that only fuelled his dark desires.

"A daughter of the Gods Eye, are you?" he growled, his hand tightening around the hilt of his dagger. "How very bold of you, little witch. To stand before a prince of the realm and threaten him with your petty magic."

He took a step forward, his eyes locked on the vial of hemlock clutched in your hand. "You think that trinket will save you? That your gods will protect you from the wrath of a dragon?"

Your breath hitched as Daemon closed the distance between you, his presence overwhelming your senses. The threats rolling off his tongue made your head spin, a dizzying combination of fear and thrill coursing through your veins. You had never met a man who could match the fire in your blood, his very existence seems to challenge you at every turn.

Daemon's lips curled into a cruel smile, his voice dropping to a low, seductive purr. "I have seen the faces of men and women as they begged for mercy, only to be denied. And I have drunk the blood of my enemies, their cries of agony echoing in my ears like a symphony."

"I could hurt you," he growled, his voice a low rumble. "I could crack you like this vial in my hand, leaving you a broken shell of the proud sorceress you once were."

"What do you want?" You gritted out through clenched teeth, hating the way your body reacted to his proximity. Your legs felt weak, your knees threatening to buckle as he loomed over you, his eyes burning into yours.

Daemon's lips curled into a wicked grin at the challenge in your voice, his eyes glinting with a predatory hunger that made your blood run cold. He could see the way your body trembled beneath his gaze, could feel the heat of your skin even from a distance.

Stop it, you scolded yourself. He's just a man. Don't let him get under your skin.

But even as you tried to regain your composure, you could feel the power emanating from him like a physical force. It was intoxicating and dangerous, and you knew that if you weren't careful, you could easily lose yourself in the reckless temptation.

"What do I want?" he purred, his voice low and seductive. "Why, I want what all men want, little witch. Power. Control. To bend others to my will."

He took a step closer, his hand reaching out to brush a stray lock of hair from your face. His fingers lingered on your cheek, his touch searing your skin like a brand.

"But with you, I want something more," he murmured, his breath hot against your ear. "I want to break you. To shatter that defiant spirit of yours and make you mine."

You could feel the heat of his skin against yours, could smell the musk of his scent, and for a moment, you were tempted to give in to the desire coursing through your veins.

But you were not some simpering maiden to be seduced by a pretty face and a silver tongue.

Daemon's hand slid down to your throat, his fingers wrapping around your neck in a loose grip.

"I could take you now," he growled, his lips brushing against your jawline. "I could pin you to the floor and claim you, make you scream my name until your voice is hoarse."

His other hand slid down your side, his fingers tracing the curve of your hip through the thin fabric of your gown. "But where's the fun in that? No, I'll take my time with you, little witch. I'll make you beg for my touch, for the sweet release only I can give you."

Daemon's eyes locked with yours, his gaze intense and unwavering. "So what will it be, my sweet? Will you submit to me willingly, or will I have to break you first?"

"You think you can break me?" You said, my voice steady and clear. "That you can tame my soul with your pretty words and your empty promises?"

You leaned in closer, your lips brushing against his ear. "I have faced far worse than you, Daemon Targaryen. I have stared into the abyss and emerged unscathed. Your threats mean nothing to me."

Your hand slid up his chest, your fingers curling around the chain of the dragon necklace that hung from his neck. You could feel the heat of the metal against your skin, looking at him with a scowl on your face.

"But if you truly want to test yourself against me, my lord," you teased, your voice low and enchanting. "If you think you have what it takes to claim me as your own... by all means, try."

Daemon's eyes flashed with a dangerous light at your challenge, a low growl rumbling in his chest. He could feel the heat of your body against his, could smell the scent of your skin, sweet and intoxicating.

"You play a dangerous game, little witch," he purred, his hand tightening around your throat. "To challenge a dragon is to invite its wrath."

His other hand slid down your back, his fingers digging into the soft flesh of your hips. He could feel the heat of your body, could sense the power that coursed through your veins.

"But I like a woman with spirit," he murmured, his lips brushing against your ear. "It makes the eventual submission all the sweeter."

Daemon's hand slid up your side, his fingers tracing the curve of your breast through the thin fabric of your gown. He could feel your nipple harden beneath his touch, could see the way your body responded to his ministrations.

"I will have you, little witch," he growled, his voice low and seductive. "I will claim you as my own, body and soul. And when I am done with you, you will beg for more."

You roll your eyes at Daemon's sweet words, his attempts at seduction falling flat. He thinks he can have you with just a few pretty lies? How naive.

"You tempt me, my prince," you say, your voice dripping with sarcasm. "But I'm no easy conquest. Besides, Alys will be back soon. I bet she won't be happy to see an old man taking advantage of her friend." You smirk cruelly, enjoying the way his eyes narrow at your words.

You try to pull away from him, but his grip on your throat tightens, forcing you to meet his gaze.

"I could seriously hurt you, you know," you snarl, your eyes flashing with a dangerous light. "Don't underestimate me."

Daemon's eyes flashed with a dangerous light at your words, a low growl rumbling in his chest. In one swift motion, he slammed you against the wall, his body pinning you in place.

"Enough of your games, little witch," he snarled, his hand tightening around your throat. "You think you can toy with me, challenge me, and walk away unscathed?"

His free hand slid down your body, his fingers tearing at the fabric of your gown with a sharp, ripping sound. Buttons scattered across the floor as he bared your skin to his hungry gaze.

Shock and fury flash through you as Daemon rips open your dress, baring your breasts to his hungry gaze. You stare at him, completely still as a statue from utter disbelief, your breath coming in heavy gasps that make your breasts heave with each inhale.

"I will have you," he growled, his voice low and menacing. "I will claim you as my own, body and soul."

Daemon's hand slid down your body, his fingers tracing the curve of your breast, teasing your nipple into a hardened peak. He could feel the heat of your skin, the way your body trembled beneath his touch.

"I can feel your desire, little witch," he purred, his lips brushing against your ear. "Your body betrays you, even as you try to resist. I will make you mine, in every way possible."

"W-wait," you try to say, but your voice comes out breathy and weak as his fingers roll your nipple, sending sparks of pleasure shooting through your body. Your eyes roll back and a soft moan escapes your parted lips.

What is happening? How did this get so out of control? You think to yourself, your mind spinning from the onslaught of sensation. You can't believe this is happening, that you are letting a man you barely know take such liberties with your body.

Daemon's lips curled into a wicked grin as he saw the effect his touch was having on you, your body arching into his hand like a cat in heat. He could feel the heat of your skin, the way your body trembled beneath his ministrations.

His hand slid down to your thigh, his fingers slipping beneath the hem of your ripped gown to caress the soft skin of your leg. He could feel the heat of your body.

"But first, I think I'll taste you," he growled, his hand sliding higher, higher until his fingers brushed against the slick, heated flesh of your core.

Even as you try to formulate a protest, your body betrays you, arching into his touch, craving more of the delicious pleasure he's igniting within you. No, I can't let this happen. I have to stop him.

But the words never leave your lips, lost in a moan as Daemon's hand slides lower, teasing you in places you have only touched in secret, in the dark of night. You are lost in a haze of sensation, your body responding to his touch despite your mind's protests.

"That's it, little witch," he purred, his fingers pinching and tugging at your nipple. "Give in to the pleasure. Let yourself feel the ecstasy only I can give you."

He could feel the wetness of your arousal, could smell the musky scent of your desire.

"You're already so wet for me," he growled, his fingers brushing against your slick folds. "Your body knows what it wants, even if your mind tries to deny it."

Daemon's fingers slid higher, teasing your entrance with a feather-light touch. Your walls clenched around his fingers, begging for more.

You couldn't think straight, your mind a whirl of conflicting emotions. It was wrong to crave a man you had just met, especially one who had threatened your life moments ago. But the way his fingers teased your most intimate places sent waves of pleasure through your body.

You had heard the other women of your coven speak of lovemaking, their descriptions painting it as a powerful form of magic. Perhaps you could harness this power, and use it to your advantage as Daemon desired to use you for his own pleasure.

Your hips rolled against his hand, seeking more friction. You bit your lip to stifle the moans that threatened to spill from your lips, determined to maintain some facade of control. But deep down, you knew you were in danger of losing yourself to the sensations he was eliciting.

Daemon's eyes glinted with triumph as he felt your hips roll against his hand, your body betraying your true desires. He could see the conflict in your eyes, the way you bit your lip to stifle your moans, and it only served to fuel his own dark lust.

"You can't hide from me, little witch," he growled, his fingers teasing your slick folds. "I can feel how much you want this, how much you crave my touch."

He pressed two fingers inside you, his thumb circling your clit with a maddening rhythm.

You let out a loud, uncontrollable moan as Daemon's fingers delved deep into your untouched walls, his touch igniting a fire within you. Your juices flowed freely, coating his hand as ecstasy consumed your entire being.

Your body writhed against the cold stone wall, your hips bucking shamelessly against his skilled fingers as he finger-fucked you with reckless abandon. Waves of pleasure crashed over you with each thrust, your breasts heaving as he groped and kneaded them roughly.

"Your body is mine now," Daemon snarled, plunging his fingers deeper into your slick heat. He curled them just right, stroking that sensitive spot within you that made your vision go white. "You'll scream my name until your throat is raw. You'll beg for my cock like a bitch in heat."

His other hand gripped your hip, holding you in place as he finger-fucked you with ruthless intensity. Your cries of pleasure echoed off the stone walls, mingling with the lewd squelching sounds of his fingers pounding into your drenched cunt.

"That's it, take it," Daemon growled, his lips latching onto a pert nipple. He sucked hard, grazing the bud with his teeth as his fingers ruthlessly stroked your g-spot. "Come for me, little witch. Let me feel you spasm on my fingers."

He could feel your walls fluttering around his digits, your body teetering on the brink of climax. With a final, brutal thrust, he sent you careening over the edge. Your scream of ecstasy filled the room as your pussy clenched down on his fingers, your release dripping down his fingers.

Daemon lapped at your neck, tasting the salt of your sweat. He continued pumping his fingers through your climax, prolonging your pleasure until you were boneless and mewling.

"Good girl," he purred, finally withdrawing his soaked fingers. He brought them to your lips, smearing your essence across them. "Clean them."

Your eyes fluttered open, glazed with post-orgasmic bliss. You hesitated only a moment before parting your lips, allowing him to push his fingers into your mouth. The musky taste of your arousal coated your tongue, and you couldn't help but moan around his digits.

He grins wickedly as you lap at his fingers provocatively, cleaning your essence from them. As his fingers are clean, he lowers himself to the floor, kneeling before you, as to worship you.

You gasp as Daemon sinks to his knees before you, his dark eyes fuming with raw desire. Your heart races, your pulse pounding in your ears as he settles between your trembling thighs. The heat of his breath on your most sensitive flesh sends electric shocks of pleasure straight to your core.

Dazed and off-balance, you instinctively reach out, fisting your hands in his hair for support. Your legs still feel like jelly from your earth-shattering climax moments before.

A bewildered expression crosses your face as he grins up at you, his tongue snaking out to drag along your dripping slit. You cry out, your head slamming back against the cold stone wall as ecstasy crashes over you in relentless waves.

"Mmmm, you taste divine," Daemon purrs, his hot breath fanning over your slick folds. He laps at your essence like a man starved, his tongue delving deep to drink from your most intimate well.

You can only moan brokenly, your head thrashing from side to side as he feasts upon your quivering flesh. His tongue is pure sin, licking and suckling at your clit with unholy skill.

"Good girl," he growls, the vibrations sending shockwaves of pleasure through your core. "Ride my face. Grind that pretty cunt against my tongue."

Lost to the all-consuming pleasure, you do as he commands, rolling your hips shamelessly against his mouth. Your thighs clench around his head, trapping him in place as you fuck his face with feral ease.

His lips close around your clit, suckling the sensitive bud as he thrusts two fingers into your dripping channel. They curl just right, stroking that secret spot within you that makes you see stars.

"Fuck, you're so tight," Daemon groans, pumping his fingers in and out of your fluttering walls.

You can only whimper in response, your body tensing as another climax builds at the base of your spine. It coils tighter and tighter, threatening to snap at any moment.

Daemon's tongue delved deep, lapping at your dripping essence with a hunger that bordered on feral. He groaned against your slick flesh, the vibrations sending shockwaves of pleasure racing through your body.

He focused his attention on your clit, the tip of his tongue flicking the sensitive bud with rapid, teasing strokes. His hands gripped your hips, holding you in place as he devoured you like a man starved.

Your fingers tightened in his hair. The public nature of your coupling only served to heighten the forbidden thrill, the rush of being taken in a place where anyone could stumble upon you.

His fingers dug into the soft flesh of your thighs as he pushed you closer and closer to the edge. He could feel your body tensing, your walls fluttering around his probing tongue as he brought you to the brink of climax once more.

With one final, hard suck, he sent you spiralling over the edge. Your scream of ecstasy echoed off the stone walls as your pussy clenched around his tongue, your release gushing into his eager mouth.

Daemon lapped at your spasming cunt, prolonging your pleasure as he drank down every last drop of your sweet nectar. He continued his ministrations until your body went limp, your cries turning to whimpers as the waves of pleasure subsided.

Finally, he pulled back, his lips and chin glistening with your juices. He stood, a wicked grin on his face as he towered over your prone form.

"You taste divine, little witch," he purred, his hand sliding up your body to cup your breast. He pinched your nipple, rolling the hardened peak between his fingers. "I could feast on your cunt for hours and never grow tired."

He leaned in, his lips brushing against your ear as he whispered, "But I'm not nearly done with you yet..."

Lifting you up with ease, Daemon tosses you onto the creaky bed, your body bouncing on the worn mattress. You cry out in surprise, your heart pounding as you take in his towering form looming over you. His eyes burn with a hunger that gives you chills.

"Daemon, please," you plead, your voice trembling. Your core aches, still throbbing from the intense climaxes he's wrought from your untouched body. You are no experienced harlot, but an untouched maiden, and you fear you are not ready for the sheer size of him.

Daemon's large hands grip your ankles, spreading your legs wide as he settles between your thighs.

Daemon's eyes raked over your trembling form, taking in the sight of you spread out before him like a feast. His cock throbbed with need, straining against the confines of his breeches as he drank in the sight of your swollen, glistening folds.

His hands moved with urgent purpose, his fingers making quick work of the laces of his breeches. He shoved the garment down his legs, kicking it aside with a careless motion. His cock sprang free, the thick shaft jutting out proudly from a nest of dark curls.

He rubbed his cock against your slick entrance, teasing you with the promise of his hard length. You could feel it throbbing against your sensitive flesh, hot and hard and ready to claim you utterly.

"Please," you whimpered, your body trembling with need. "I... I've never... I don't know if I can take you."

A cruel smile twisted Daemon's lips as he heard your plea.

"Please be gentle," you whisper, looking up at him with wide, vulnerable eyes.

Daemon's expression softens for a moment, a flicker of something akin to tenderness crossing his features. His hand reaches up to cup your cheek, thumb brushing over your trembling bottom lip.

"Shh, little witch," he murmurs, his voice surprisingly mild. "I'll make it good for you. I promise."

With that, he leans down, capturing your lips in a searing kiss. His tongue delves into your mouth, claiming you, staking his claim over you.

As he kisses you deeply, you feel the head of his cock nudging against your entrance. Slowly, incredibly slowly, he begins to push forward, stretching you open around his thick girth.

A sharp gasp escapes you, breaking the kiss as he breaches your barrier. Pain and pleasure mingle together, your untouched walls struggling to accommodate his size.

"Fuck, you're tight," he groans, his hips grinding against yours. He gives you a moment to adjust, his hands roaming your body possessively. "Such a perfect little cunt, made just for me."

He starts to move, pulling out slowly before slamming back in. The rhythm is brutal, each thrust hitting that spot deep inside you that makes stars explode behind your eyelids.

You cried out, your back arching off the bed as pain and pleasure crashed over you in equal measure. He stretched you wide, his thick length filling you in a way you never thought possible. Your walls stretched and clenched around him, your slick arousal easing the way as he claimed you over and over again.

"Fuck!" Daemon snarls, his eyes rolling back at the tight, wet heat of your virgin walls. 

Daemon sets a brutal pace, pounding into you with animalistic hunger. His hands grip your hips hard enough to bruise, holding you in place as he ruts into your willing body.

"Take it," he growls, his voice strained with pleasure, his hips snapping against yours with ruthless force.

The bed creaked beneath you, the sound mingling with your moans and his grunts as he took you, his cock sawing in and out of your dripping cunt. Your legs wrapped around his waist, your nails raking down his back, leaving red marks and bloody imprints.

Daemon's brutal thrusts tore through you, each one sending shockwaves of pain and pleasure coursing through your body. You screamed, your voice hoarse and ragged as he pounded into your virgin cunt. Tears streamed down your face, your nails raking down his back as you clung to him desperately.

He had taken something sacred from you, your maidenhead, and you knew your souls were now tied. The ritual of first blood, unplanned as it was, had sealed your fates together. And with a dragon as your first, the power you could now wield...

You threw your head back, your moans echoing off the stone walls as he fucked you with complete disregard. Your hips bucked to meet his thrusts, the pain giving way to a pleasure you had never known before. You were lost to the sensation, your body consumed by the feel of him inside you.

Daemon's eyes darkened at the sight of your tears, a predatory grin spreading across his face. He could feel your walls clenching around him, gripping his cock like a vice as he claimed you over and over again.

He angled his hips, hitting that sweet spot deep inside you with each brutal thrust. His hands roamed your body, groping and squeezing, leaving bruises in their wake.

"That's it," he growled, his voice rough with pleasure. "Take my cock like the little slut you are. Fucking mine now, aren't you? Your cunt belongs to me."

You met his thrusts with your own, your hips rising to meet him as he drove into you over and over again. The bed groaned beneath you, the frame creaking threateningly as he took you with unrestrained lust.

You felt your peak nearing, your entire body on fire as Daemon pounded into you with unrestrained fury. You brought his neck to your teeth, biting down hard enough to draw a few drops of blood. The copper taste flooded your mouth, bitter and metallic as you licked the crimson liquid from your lips.

"Now you have bled for me too," you whispered ominously, your voice thick with lust and dark magic.

But before you could reach your peak, you quickly reached for your enchanted necklace, clutching it in your hand. The ancient magics within pulsed to life, amplifying the power of this ritual tenfold.

Power surged through you, your cunt squeezing tight around Daemon's cock as you came. Your eyes rolled back, your body convulsing as wave after wave of ecstasy crashed over you. Dark energy swirled around you, the air crackling with stifled energy.

"Mine," you whispered, your voice echoing with unexpected dominance. "You are mine now, Daemon Targaryen. Entwined by blood and pleasure."

Daemon's eyes flew open in surprise, his mouth falling open as he felt the surge of dark witchcraft. But it was too late - the ritual was complete.

Daemon froze, his cock buried deep inside your still-spasming cunt. He stared down at you, his eyes wide with shock and a hint of fear.

He groaned, his hips stuttering as your cunt clenched around him like a vice. The dark magic amplified every sensation, every touch, every thrust. It was overwhelming and intoxicating, and he never wanted it to end.

"Fuck," he gasped, his voice strained with anger and pleasure. "What did you do?"

But even as he asked, he knew. You had bound him to you, claimed him in a way that went beyond the physical.

He thrust into you one last time, his cock erupting deep inside you as he came.

He tried to pull out, to break the connection, but your walls clenched around him, refusing to let him go. Panic flashed across his face as he realized the implications of what you'd done.

"You... you she-devil," he snarled, his hands tightening on your hips. "Did you plan this? To trick me, to bind me to you?"

You just grinned, a vicious, seductive curve of your lips. You could feel his fear, his anger, but beneath it all was a flicker of arousal. The power you now held over him was intoxicating.

"Shh," you cooed, your fingers trailing down his chest. "Don't fight it. We are one now."

You roll your hips, your walls clenching around his softening cock. He groans, his hips bucking unconsciously into yours.

You gasped as the obsidian stone of your necklace pulsed warmly against your throat. The maleficent force surged through your veins, your eyes rolling back in ecstasy. "Yes!" You cried out, the power exhilarating in your veins.

Your eyes, nearly black now, held his gaze as you sneered cruelly.

Daemon collapsed on top of you, his chest heaving as he struggled to catch his breath. His softening cock slipped from your abused cunt, a trickle of his seed leaking out to pool on the tattered sheets beneath you.

For a moment, neither of you moved, your bodies still intertwined as you both tried to process what had just happened. The energy that had swirled around you during your climax still lingered in the air, making the hairs on Daemon's arms stand on end.

Slowly, he lifted his head, his dark eyes searching your face. He looked confused as he took in your triumphant grin and the blackness of your eyes.

"What... what did you do to me?" he asked, his voice hoarse.

You smiled at him, your eyes gleaming with malice. "I didn't do anything to you. I had no desire to harm you, as I stated before," you answered truthfully. "Did you know that the moment when one reaches orgasm is the most intense and the most powerful experience a human can have in life? For in that moment, the soul suddenly opens to the divine realm and the breath of God is infused. I needed another to reach divinity."

You rose from the bed, slipping your ripped dress back on and throwing a cloak over yourself. "I simply used you... as you have done to many women in your life, I'm sure. Do not fret, my prince," you smirked.

Daemon stared up at you, his eyes wide with a mix of shock and a hint of grudging admiration. He pushed himself up to sit, his naked body on full display as he tried to make sense of what had just happened.

"Used me?" he repeated, his voice low and dangerous. "I've never been used like this before."

He stood, his cock already starting to harden again at the sight of you, despite his anger. He took a step towards you, his hand reaching out as if to grab you, but he stopped himself.

"What are you?" he demanded, his eyes raking over your form. "What kind of witch are you?"

He snatched up his discarded breeches, roughly pulling them on, his mind reeling from the events of the past hour.

"I should kill you for this," he growled, but there was no real heat behind his words. He knew he couldn't, not now. Not with the bond between you, however unexpected it may be.

"What do you want from me now?" He asked, rage clearly visible in his eyes.

You sauntered over to Daemon, your hips swaying seductively. The rip in your dress left little to the imagination, your full breasts on display for his hungry gaze. You could see the desire warring with the anger in his eyes as you approached.

"Nothing anymore, my prince," you purred, your voice like honey. "My powers have been amplified. I owe you a debt of gratitude for that."

You traced a finger along his jawline, feeling the prickle of his stubble. "Though I wouldn't mind having you take me again. I doubt I'll find another man as virile as you in all of Westeros."

You leaned in close, your lips brushing against his ear as you whispered, "You've awakened something in me, Daemon Targaryen. A hunger I never knew I could satisfy."

Your hand slid down his chest, your nails raking lightly over his skin. "I am yours. And I suspect you are mine as well."

You pulled back, your eyes locking with his. "What say you, my dragon?"

Daemon's breath hitched as you touched him, his body responding instantly to your proximity despite his anger. He grabbed your wrist, his grip tight enough to bruise as he glared down at you.

He pulled you closer, his other hand gripping your hip. "You want to be taken again?" he asked, his voice low and dangerous. "I'll fucking ruin you."

[keraawrites]

Your highness

Summary: Barbarian Bakugo, he was just that. A barbarian who didn't wait until someone told him he could have something; he took what was his, and if he had to fight to do it, then that was a bonus. So when you, the Princess of the Earth nymphs, makes an appearance at his name day, he has already taken with you, and it doesn't matter to him that you're already promised to someone else. ۶ৎ Bakugo x black fem reader ۶ৎ

Context: Virgin reader, chasing, possessive Bakugo, cunnilingus, missionary, unprotected sex, nipple play, outdoor sex,

Word count — 7.7K

The morning of his name day broke over the vast, untamed lands of the Dragon Lords, bathing the towering peaks and dense forests in molten gold. Mist curled around the jagged cliffs, rolling down into the valleys like the breath of sleeping giants. The scent of damp earth, pine, and lingering embers from the night’s fires filled the crisp air.

Katsuki Bakugo stood at the edge of the river, bare-chested, his muscles taut as he tightened his grip around the throat of the struggling beast in his grasp—a wild drake, its black scales slick with water, its teeth snapping inches from his face.

"Stupid fuckin’ lizard," he growled, his grip unyielding.

The drake thrashed, wings cutting through the air in desperate defiance, sending sprays of icy water over his already damp skin. Its talons scraped against the riverbed, searching for leverage, but there was none to be found. With a snarl, Katsuki twisted, using his full weight to slam the creature onto the riverbank, pinning it beneath his knee.

"Yield," he ordered, crimson eyes burning as they locked onto the beast’s own.

The drake let out a strangled hiss, struggling for another breath before its body sagged beneath his strength, wings folding in reluctant submission. A slow, victorious grin spread across Katsuki’s face as he ran a hand through his damp hair, pushing back the wild strands sticking to his forehead.

"You’re gonna make a fine war mount," he muttered before finally releasing the creature’s throat.

The drake remained still, its breathing ragged, its golden eyes locked onto his. For a moment, neither moved. Then, slowly, the beast lowered its head in silent acknowledgment of his dominance.

The sound of heavy footsteps crunching against damp earth drew his attention.

"Knew you’d be out here," Kirishima’s voice rumbled, laced with amusement.

Katsuki scoffed, rising to his feet. "Better shit to do than sit around waitin’ for a bunch of pompous pricks to show up."

Kirishima chuckled. "Those ‘pompous pricks’ are noble lords and highborn ladies, here to honor you." He tossed a thick fur cloak toward him, which Katsuki caught without looking. "You might want to clean up before heading back. Your mother’s already fuming about your absence."

Katsuki clicked his tongue, shaking off the excess water before throwing the cloak over his shoulders. "She can wait."

Kirishima smirked. "Maybe. But the guests won’t."

Katsuki ignored him, his strides long and powerful as he made his way back toward the towering stone fortress. The Black Keep loomed over the land like a beast carved from the mountain itself, its spires jagged and sharp, banners of black and gold snapping in the wind. Inside, the halls were alive with movement—servants rushing to prepare, warriors clad in ceremonial armor standing at attention, the scent of roasted meats and spiced wine thick in the air.

He strode through it all, ignoring the hushed whispers of admiration and fear that followed in his wake. He was used to it. The barbarian prince. The dragon-blooded warrior. A man feared and respected in equal measure.

And yet, none of it mattered. Not the feast, not the gifts, not the alliances his parents sought to strengthen in his name. He continued to ignore Kirishima and Kaminari's jokes as his eyes scanned the crowd lazily.

But then his sharp gaze landed on you.

You were not of his land. That much was clear.

The air itself seemed to hum around you as you stepped into the great hall, your presence like a whispered secret carried on the wind. Your skin was rich as dark earth, your deep curls woven with golden leaves that shimmered under the firelight. A gown of soft, flowing silks clung to your form, the colors shifting like dappled sunlight through the trees. Vines curled delicately around your arms, shifting with your every movement—alive, breathing, connected to your very soul.

An Earth nymph.

His fingers twitched at his sides, an unfamiliar heat curling in his gut. He had heard of nymphs before, but never had he seen one in the flesh. They were creatures of myth, tucked away in sacred forests, far from the bloodshed and steel that shaped his world. They did not mix with his kind. They did not belong in his halls.

So, why were you here?

Then his eyes flicked to the figure beside you.

The youngest Todoroki prince.

Katsuki’s body went rigid, the realisation hitting him like a blade to the gut.

His jaw clenched, something dark and possessive curling in his chest. The thought of you—his—belonging to someone else made his blood boil. He had conquered beasts, brought warriors to their knees, burned enemies from the sky with dragon fire. And yet, the idea of losing something that wasn’t even his yet was unbearable.

Before he even realised he was moving, he was already striding forward.

The crowd parted instinctively, sensing the shift in the air. Conversations hushed, whispers breaking out as he approached. But he didn’t care. His world had narrowed to the woman before him, the nymph who dared to enter his domain and steal his breath without a single word.

You turned, your gaze meeting his.

And for a moment, the hall itself seemed to still.

Katsuki didn’t stop. He didn’t hesitate. He stood before you, his towering presence casting a shadow over both you and the Todoroki prince at your side. His crimson eyes burned with intent as they raked over you, memorising every delicate curve, every shift of magic in the air around you.

"Who is she promised to?"

His voice was low, edged with a growl, meant for one person and one person alone.

The Todoroki prince lifted his chin, his pale face unreadable. "To me," he answered simply. "By sacred bond between the Nymph Kingdom and the Fire Court, our union—"

Katsuki barely let him finish. "Not anymore."

The words were a declaration, sharp as steel, final as death.

Gasps rippled through the hall.

Shoto’s brows lowered, his own magic crackling like embers. "You have no right—"

"I have every right," Katsuki interrupted, his gaze never leaving the nymph princess. His smirk was slow, dangerous, filled with nothing but raw intent. "I want her."

The weight of his words crashed through the room like a war horn. The tension was palpable, thick with unspoken threats.

Kirishima shifted behind him, the guards tensed, the nobles murmured. Your eyes widened ever so slightly, lips parting—whether in shock or something else, he didn’t know.

The Todoroki prince stood rigid beside you, his mismatched eyes narrowing with cold calculation. The fire in his veins did not burn recklessly like Katsuki’s—it was slow, controlled, waiting for the right moment to consume everything.

"You don’t understand what you’re doing," Shoto said, his voice even, unreadable.

Katsuki scoffed. "I understand just fine."

His gaze never left you. His princess.

You had not spoken yet, but he could feel the storm beneath your skin, the tension coiled tight in your frame. You were not the type to be taken lightly—he could see it in the way your jaw tightened, the way your hands clenched at your sides as if resisting the urge to let your vines lash out and strike him.

"Do you now?" You finally spoke, your voice smooth as flowing water yet sharp as a blade. "You would go to war over me, Barbarian?"

Katsuki’s smirk was slow, deliberate. "I’d burn the whole damn world down if it meant having what’s mine."

A flicker of something unreadable passed through your deep brown eyes. "You speak of me as if I am a prize to be claimed," you said, your tone dangerously quiet.

Katsuki tilted his head, studying you. "You stepped into my land looking like that, and you expect me to do nothing?" His voice lowered, rough and unapologetic. "You’re either blind or foolish."

Your nostrils flared, a whisper of magic curling in the air around you.

"Do not mistake your strength for the right to take what does not belong to you," you warned. "I am not some jewel to sit upon your hoard, dragon."

Katsuki’s grin only widened. Good. He had no interest in some wilting flower who would bow and tremble before him. He wanted this—your defiance, your challenge, the way you met his gaze like you were unafraid.

But he saw it, just beneath the surface.

The way your breath hitched when his eyes dragged over you.

The way your vines, wild and unpredictable, didn’t recoil from him.

Oh, you felt it too.

The thread of something inevitable weaving between you, tightening, unbreakable.

Shoto took a step forward, his voice colder than winter’s bite. "This union was forged in the name of peace. If you challenge it, you challenge more than just me. You challenge the Fire Court. You challenge the Nymph Kingdom."

Katsuki rolled his shoulders, unconcerned. "Then let ‘em come."

A murmur of shock rippled through the gathered nobles. Even his mother, the fierce and calculating Queen Mitsuki, sat forward on her throne, sharp eyes narrowing in scrutiny.

"Katsuki," she warned from the dais. "Do not be reckless."

Katsuki didn’t spare her a glance. "Too late."

"You are willing to bring war to the realm for a woman you just met?" Shoto asked, his tone clipped.

Katsuki finally dragged his gaze away from you, leveling the younger prince with a look that was pure fire and fury.

"Not just a woman," he said simply.

Shoto exhaled through his nose, gaze hardening. "You’re a fool."

Katsuki chuckled, low and dangerous. "Maybe." The blonde didn't know what losing was. He had the strength to command full-blooded dragons and a whole army. He had won countless battles, yet this was the one that had his blood burning.

The days passed in a blur of fire and steel, of shifting earth and dragon wings.

You couldn't quite fathom how quick everything escalated. The Prince wanted to wage a war over you, a war that he would indeed win that would end in endless bloodshed, and you didn't want that.

In the end, you and your parents had signed a treaty declaring your hand in marriage to the Barbarian Prince. It severed ties and made the relationship with your kingdom and the Fire court strained, but here you were, engaged to the dragon Prince, your wedding day on the horizon.

You found yourself navigating a world unlike anything you had ever known. The Dragon Kingdom was vast and untamed, its people as wild as the land they ruled. The air was thick with the scent of pine and ash, the mountains towering above them like ancient gods. The fortress of the Dragon Lords, carved into the very cliffs themselves, pulsed with life—warriors training in the courtyards, blacksmiths hammering away at weapons, the sky alive with the roar of dragons as they circled the peaks.

And you were to be their queen.

You should have hated it.

Hated him.

Instead, you found yourself adapting.

The barbarian way of life was crude, loud, and unruly—but it was also unapologetically alive. The people were fierce, loyal, and battle-hardened, but there was laughter in the streets, joy in their feasts, brotherhood among their warriors.

And you were not alone.

Despite being an outsider, despite being the nymph stolen by the dragon, you had found allies—friends.

It started with Mina.

The pink-skinned dragon shifter had no sense of boundaries. From the moment you met, Mina practically adopted you, dragging you into conversations, insisting that you sit beside her at meals, asking a thousand questions about the Nymph Kingdom.

"You have actual trees that move when you tell them to?" Mina had gasped one evening, eyes wide with wonder.

"Of course," you had replied, sipping your honeyed wine.

Mina had turned to Kirishima, smacking his arm. "Why don’t our trees move? That’s so unfair!"

Kirishima, who had long accepted Mina’s dramatics, only chuckled. "Because our kingdom doesn’t need them to.“

Sero and Denki had quickly inserted themselves into your life after that.

Sero was the calm one, his humor dry and his wit sharp, always watching, always amused.

Denki, on the other hand, was a menace.

"So," Denki had asked during a sparring session, "if I plant myself in your garden and ask nicely, do I get magical powers?"

You nearly smacked him with a vine.

Despite their antics, they had all become yours—a strange, chaotic family in a land you were still learning to call home.

But Katsuki?

Katsuki was the problem.

He was everywhere.

At feasts, grinning whenever you got into a heated debate with one of his lords.

In the halls, too close, too warm, his crimson gaze lingering whenever you passed.

You hated it.

Hated the way his presence unsettled you.

Hated the way your body reacted whenever he was near—heat curling in your stomach, skin prickling when his fingers brushed against yours, your breath hitching whenever his gaze dropped to your lips.

He never touched you, never crossed the fragile line between them.

But he made sure you wanted him to.

It was infuriating.

It didn’t help that the people of the Dragon Kingdom adored him.

You saw it in the way his warriors followed him without question. In a way, the common folk bowed their heads in respect but grinned like he was one of their own.

Katsuki was not a prince who ruled from above—he was a warrior who bled beside his people, who fought for them, who they would burn kingdoms for.

And despite everything, even though he had stolen you from your betrothed, even though he was reckless, arrogant, and completely insufferable—

You found yourself rallying for him. But it was a couple of days before the wedding that was the turning point for you.

The lake was your only refuge.

It wasn’t the same as the lakes of your homeland, where the water shimmered with the essence of life, where the trees whispered secrets only nymph ears could hear. But it was the closest you had here—a small piece of nature untouched by fire and steel.

You sat at the water’s edge, bare feet sinking into the cool, damp earth. The wind stirred the surface, rippling it like silk, the rustling leaves above offering a song that reminded her of home.

You missed it.

You missed the soft, green light filtering through the canopies of ancient trees. You missed the way the air smelled of wildflowers and rain-soaked earth. You missed the feeling of being surrounded by life that understood you, that responded to your presence.

Here, everything felt foreign.

And yet…

You were changing.

The Dragon Kingdom was working its way under your skin, into your bones. The people, the land, the warriors who had become your friends.

And him.

A low crunch of boots against soil made you tense. You didn’t need to turn to know who it was.

"You shouldn’t be out here alone." His voice was always like this at night—low, rough, like embers smoldering beneath the surface.

You sighed, fingers tracing idle patterns in the dirt. "I can take care of myself, Barbarian."

You heard him scoff as he approached, expecting him to stand behind you, towering and overbearing as he always did. Instead, he sank down beside you, his knee brushing against hers. It was warm.

He didn’t say anything at first. Just stared out at the water with you, the quiet stretching between you.

"You miss it."

You swallowed, the ache pressing against your ribs. "Of course, I do."

"I know what it’s like to have your life decided for you."

You turned to him then, surprised. Katsuki Bakugo was not a man who admitted weakness, nor did he often speak of things that weren’t wrapped in threats or challenges.

He didn’t meet your gaze, staring ahead instead, golden eyes dark with thought. "You think I asked for this?" He scoffed, shaking his head. "I was born into it. Had to fight for every scrap of respect, every goddamn breath. Always proving myself, always being the strongest, the smartest, the best. Because if I wasn’t, someone else would take it."

You watched him carefully, seeing something raw in his expression.

"It’s not the same," you said quietly, "but I understand."

His jaw tensed. "Then you should know—I don’t regret choosing you."

Your breathing stalled.

He turned then, finally meeting your eyes. The firelight from the torches in the distance flickered across his face, casting sharp shadows over his cheekbones, his strong jaw.

His gaze was hungry.

"I would have taken you no matter what," he said, voice rough. "Even if you weren’t promised to that bastard prince. Even if it meant burning every kingdom that stood in my way."

You should have been afraid. Should have recoiled from such reckless, consuming devotion.

But you weren't.

Because something in you wanted him just as badly.

The tension between you thickened, a storm pressing in. You could feel his breath, feel the way his body was so close, so unshakably present.

His movement was slow, as if waiting for you to stop him.

His lips brushed against yours, the softest graze of heat and longing. your fingers curled against the earth, heart pounding as he kissed you again—firmer this time, claiming, devouring.

You melted into it, into him, into the way his hands moved—one gripping the back of your neck, the other pressing against the small of your back. 

A small sound escaped you, and that was all it took for something in him to come alive.

He growled against your lips, pulling you closer, deepening the kiss until you were dizzy.

Gods…

Your fingers found his chest, nails dragging over his skin, feeling the solid muscle beneath. He was all heat and strength, all restrained power barely kept in check.

You had never been kissed like this before. Had never known you could feel this kind of need.

His hand tightened in your hair, and you gasped, arching slightly into him.

And just like that—he was gone.

Katsuki pulled back, his breathing ragged, his hands clenched into fists at his sides like he was physically forcing himself to stop.

His jaw was tight, his crimson eyes burning.

"God’s I want you." His voice was thick with hunger. "I want to take you right now and make you mine before the gods themselves."

Your chest rose and fell rapidly, your lips bruised from his kiss. You swallowed, unable to form words.

He exhaled harshly, wrestling with himself. 

His hand came up, fingers brushing over your swollen lips, the touch almost reverent.

"I’ll wait," he murmured, voice strained. "I’ll respect your ways."

His thumb traced your bottom lip.

"But make no mistake—"

He leaned in, his breath hot against your ear, "On our wedding night, I’m going to ruin you."

The day had arrived.

The sun hung heavy in the sky, a golden eye bearing witness to the union of two realms—fire and earth, dragon and nymph.

The entire kingdom had gathered for the occasion. The towering stone fortress had been transformed, its halls and courtyards adorned with rich greenery, golden banners, and intricate carvings of dragons and vines entwined—a symbol of the bond being forged today.

It was a spectacle of power.

The barbarian warriors of the Dragon Kingdom stood tall in their ceremonial armor, weapons strapped to their backs even in celebration. The nymphs, draped in flowing silks and woven flowers, moved like whispers of nature itself. The contrast was stark, yet somehow… fitting.

At the center of it all stood Katsuki Bakugo.

He was impatient.

Dressed in a deep red tunic embroidered with gold, his broad shoulders covered by a thick fur cloak, he looked every inch the warlord he was born to be. His crimson eyes burned with anticipation, his hands clenched at his sides.

He had waited for this day. 

The great doors opened, and the air itself seemed to still.

The sight of you nearly brought him to his knees.

You were divine.

Your gown was unlike anything in the Dragon Kingdom—woven from enchanted silks that shimmered between hues of deep green and gold, mimicking the shifting sunlight through ancient leaves. Vines curled along your arms and down your back, alive.

Your dark skin glowed beneath the sunlight, and your curls were adorned with golden leaves and tiny white blossoms—an Earth-born goddess walking toward him.

And you were his.

His fingers twitched. His throat went dry.

You lifted your gaze, meeting his, and the weight of everything passed between you.

Two weeks of tension. Two weeks of near fights and near kisses. Two weeks of stolen glances and bated breath. Two weeks of resisting the inevitable.

Today, there was no running.

Katsuki smirked.

As you stepped forward, the ceremony's music began—a deep, rhythmic drumbeat mixed with the soft, lilting chimes of nymph instruments. It was the blending of two cultures, just as they were about to be.

When you reached him, you did not look away.

The ceremony began.

The Nymph King and Queen stood solemnly to the side, their expressions unreadable. They had reluctantly agreed to this, for the sake of peace. But it was clear that, despite everything, they still weren’t sure if giving their daughter to a barbarian was wise.

Too late now.

A high priestess from the nymphs and an elder dragon shifter from Katsuki’s court conducted the binding rites.

Vows were spoken—not of love, but of power.

Of loyalty.

Of forever.

And then came the final part—the binding of hands.

A thick, golden rope, imbued with ancient magic, was wrapped around your wrists. The moment the final knot was secured, the magic surged—a deep hum of energy that sealed your union in the eyes of gods and mortals alike.

It was done.

"You may claim your bride," the elder intoned.

Katsuki’s lips twitched.

He turned to you, tilting his head slightly, giving you one last chance to pull away.

But you didn’t.

His smirk widened, he claimed you.

The kiss was not soft.

It was not hesitant.

It was everything.

It was fire meeting earth, molten heat against unyielding strength. It was the end of a battle neither of them had been willing to surrender to—until now.

You gasped, and he took the sound into his mouth, deepening the kiss until he could feel the way you trembled.

Your fingers curled into the fur of his cloak. His hand tightened around yours, your bound wrists keeping them locked together.

Mine.

The crowd roared.

The barbarian warriors stamped their feet, the nymphs let out melodic cheers. The kingdom rejoiced.

But Katsuki barely heard them.

His world had narrowed to the woman before him—his wife.

When he finally pulled away, his breath was heavy, his voice a rough whisper meant only for you.

"Two weeks," he murmured, brushing his thumb against your wrist, where the magic still thrummed between them. "I waited two godsdamn weeks for this."

You smirked—smirked—and leaned in, your voice just as low.

"And you'll wait until tonight for the rest."

Katsuki growled.

The gods help you both.

Tonight, he was going to ruin you.

The grand hall of the Dragon Kingdom roared with life.

The wedding feast was a spectacle unlike any other. Long tables stretched across the hall, overflowing with roasted meats, golden fruits, and goblets filled to the brim with dark wine and honeyed mead. Great fires blazed in the hearths, casting flickering shadows over the ancient stone walls, where banners of red and gold hung proudly alongside green and gold.

The air was thick with laughter, music, and the pounding of drums. The barbarian warriors celebrated as they always did—loudly—clashing their mugs together, breaking into drunken chants of victory. The nymphs, though more refined, had let the night pull them in, their voices rising in song, their bodies swaying with the music.

At the head of it all, sitting on the raised dais, was the newly bound couple.

You still felt the weight of the magic binding you, a soft thrum against your skin that reminded you of what they had just done. You stole a glance at Katsuki, who sat beside you, crimson eyes scanning the crowd, his fingers drumming against the wooden armrest of his seat.

He was restless.

You could feel it, the tension in his body, the heat that radiated off him despite the coolness of the hall.

You swallowed, gripping the goblet in your hands as Mina flopped into the seat beside you.

“Gods, I thought that ceremony was never going to end,” Mina groaned dramatically, pouring herself another drink before nudging your arm. “You looked stunning, though. And the way he looked at you—” She wiggled her brows. “Like a dragon ready to devour his offering.”

Your face warmed. “Mina—”

The pink-haired warrior grinned. “Tell me, are you excited for the chase?”

You frowned. “The… chase?”

Mina blinked, and for a brief moment, she looked genuinely surprised that you didn’t know. But before she could press further, Denki came up behind you, dragging Sero along.

“There you two are!” Denki slurred slightly, plopping into a seat. “We were just about to start placing bets on whether or not Kirishima would drink that entire barrel of ale.”

Mina smirked. “Oh, I’d put ten gold pieces on him making it at least three-fourths of the way.”

“I say he passes out before then,” Sero added, throwing an arm over the back of his chair.

You couldn’t help but smile at them. In the weeks you’d spent adjusting to your new life, they had welcomed you into their circle without hesitation.

“The Queen is coming,” Sero interrupted, tilting his chin toward the front of the hall.

You turned just as Mitsuki Bakugo stopped in front of you.

You had seen little of the Dragon Queen in the past weeks, but she had been impossible to miss. She was a force—sharp-eyed, quick-tongued, and utterly unafraid to put Katsuki in his place.

Now, she stood before you—her new daughter-in-law, arms crossed, assessing.

The hall grew quieter.

“Well,” she said, “I suppose there are worse women my son could’ve married.”

The tension broke as Mina snorted into her drink, and Denki choked on his mead.

To your absolute shock, the Queen leaned down and pressed a quick kiss to your forehead before stepping away and lifting a golden goblet.

Mitsuki turned to the crowd. “This marriage has bound two realms together in ways we could have never anticipated. And so, to honor this union, I officially recognise the treaty between the Dragon Kingdom and the Earth Nymph Kingdom. May it bring prosperity and power to us all.”

The room erupted in cheers. The Queen could barely hold in her smirk as she turned to you.

“But before we send the newlyweds off, there is still one tradition left to uphold.”

The rooars of approval were deafening, confusing at that because you weren't aware of this tradition, but Katsuki very much was. He stiffened, his body radiating restless energy, causing your stomach to drop

Mitsuki ran her fingers through your hair, and for the first time tonight, her grin was truly wicked.

“Daughter,” she said, “it is time for the chase.”

The hall erupted into cheers, the pounding of fists against wooden tables sending tremors through the floor. The warriors of the Dragon Kingdom roared their approval, while the nymphs exchanged curious glances, their court unfamiliar with this particular tradition.

You, however, sat frozen, your goblet held loosely in your grasp as your mind raced. Your stomach rippled with nerves, but before you could air out your confusion, Katsuki stood, you watched as he took his tunic off, as his muscles rippled against his tribal tattoos.

Your thighs clenched in anticipation. His aura was suffocating, and you still didn't know if that was a good thing or a bad thing.

“For generations, the chase has been a rite of passage for the royal bloodline of the Dragon Kingdom,” the Queen announced, her voice ringing out over the gathered crowd. “A test of strength, speed, and above all—claim.”

You swallowed, your pulse hammering as the older blonde focused back on you. “Daughter, as our customs dictate, you will be granted a head start. You will run into the woods, and my son will hunt you down.” Her lips curled. “If he catches you, the wedding night begins.”

The hall erupted again.

Your eyes widened, you turned to Katsuki, who simply smirked as if he relished the idea of chasing you through the dark woods, of catching you, of—

Oh.

“Oh.”

Now it made sense why Mina had asked if you were excited. Why Katsuki had looked so restless all night. He’d been waiting for this.

Waiting to hunt you.

Your breath came faster, excitement and unease tangling in your chest. This was a game to them, a tradition, but the way Katsuki watched you made it clear—this wasn’t a game to him.

This was real.

And he intended to win.

Mitsuki raised her hand again. “Bride, rise.”

You did, slowly, your fingers curling into the fabric of you gown.

“Go,” Mitsuki said. “Run.”

The room exploded with noise—cheers, whistles, pounding fists. The scent of mead and smoke filled your nose as you stepped away from the table, your heart slamming against your ribs.

Your eyes lock onto your husband’s, and the feral look in his gaze sends a rush of heat pooling low in your stomach. Every nerve in your body screams at you to run. To flee. To play the game he so desperately craves.

So you do.

You don’t think twice before turning on your heel, your bare feet barely making a sound as you bolt from the great hall and into the wild embrace of the woods.

The night air is crisp against your overheated skin, but it does little to cool the fire that rages within you. The thrill of the chase—of knowing he is coming for you—sends adrenaline surging through your veins, pushing you forward. You weave between the trees, ducking low-hanging branches, the hem of your tattered wedding gown catching on underbrush as you move. The earth hums beneath your feet, answering your silent call. Vines coil and twist in your wake, rising from the dirt, stretching toward the sky to slow your hunter.

But you know better.

Katsuki doesn’t dodge obstacles.

He destroys them.

A thunderous roar splits the air behind you, raw and primal. The sound alone makes your legs falter, your heart slamming against your ribs. The ground quakes beneath the weight of his power, and then—chaos.

Wood splinters. Branches snap like brittle bones. The earth itself trembles as he barrels through the barriers you’ve placed, shattering them with sheer, brute force.

You force yourself faster, muscles burning, lungs screaming as you sprint toward the lake. The trees begin to thin, and the moonlight spills over the water’s surface like liquid silver. But the moment you burst from the treeline, you know you’ve made a mistake.

Too open.

Too exposed.

If you run into the lake, he will catch you. If you try to double back, he will still find you.

Think.

The answer comes in a breath.

With a flick of your wrist, the mist thickens. It rises from the water, curling around the trees, swallowing the forest in a veil of dense, ghostly white. You disappear within its embrace, pressing your back against the rough bark of an ancient tree, forcing your breath to slow.

Silence.

The stillness unsettles you.

You listen, straining to hear beyond the hammering of your own heart.

Then—nothing.

No snapping branches. No shifting leaves. Just the eerie quiet of the mist.

And that’s when you realise.

He’s already here.

A sharp gasp tears from your lips as arms encircle your waist, dragging you back against an unyielding wall of muscle. A calloused hand claps over your mouth, muffling the sound, while his breath fans against the nape of your neck.

The deep rumble of his voice sends a delicious shiver down your spine.

"If I didn't know any better, little nymph, I'd say you wanted me to catch you."

Your breath hitches as sharp teeth graze the sensitive skin of your throat, nipping, teasing. His free hand roams lower, skimming the curve of your waist before slipping beneath the torn fabric of your gown. The remnants of the chase cling to your body, tattered and ruined—just like he wants you.

A guttural growl vibrates against your skin as his fingers ghost along the inside of your thigh, barely brushing against where you ache for him most. The sound you make is somewhere between a whimper and a moan, your hips instinctively shifting closer to his touch.

“Fuck, Princess,” he rasps, his voice rough with restraint, thick with hunger. “You’re not makin’ this easy.”

Your fingers dig into his arms, feeling the heat rolling off his skin, the raw strength coiled beneath the surface. “I don’t plan to.”

A low chuckle rumbles in his chest, dark and dangerous. His grip in your hair tightens, tugging just enough to make you gasp, exposing more of your throat to his waiting mouth.

His lips press against your pulse, his tongue flicking over the rapid thrum beneath your skin before he bites down—hard.

Your knees nearly give out.

A sharp, helpless moan escapes you as he soothes the sting with his tongue, his fingers pressing tighter against your thigh. He hasn’t even touched you properly yet, but your body is already betraying you, already drenched with want.

Then his hand finally slips between your thighs, fingers brushing against your slick folds.

He stills, his breath catches.

“Fuuuuck, baby,” he groans, forehead dropping to your shoulder. His fingers slide against your bare, dripping heat, and he curses again, voice rough with something close to agony. “You were like this all day?”

You hum, lips curving into a wicked smile as you trail your mouth along his jaw, the sharp stubble scraping against your soft skin. “Waiting for you,” you whisper.

Something in him must have snapped, because the next thing you knows, he’s pressing you harder against the tree, your leg hiked up over his hip, locking you against him. His hand moves with purpose now, fingers parting your folds, rubbing slow, torturous circles over your aching bud.

Your breath shudders, pleasure rolling through you in waves.

His lips brush against your ear, voice thick with a promise that has your core clenching around nothing.

“I am going to fucking ruin you.”

Your pulse pounds against your ribs. “Then do it.”

A sharp gasp shudders from your lips as Katsuki's fingers slide lower, pressing against your entrance but never quite giving you what you need. The heat between your thighs is unbearable, the ache unbearable, and yet he moves slow, teasing, savoring your frustration.

A growl rips from his chest, low and feral, before his mouth crashes into yours, claiming you with a desperation that sets your blood on fire. You don't remember how, but your body was now being pressed into the Earth as his fingers dug into your hips.

The last remnants of your dress are torn away with a sharp rip, the sound lost beneath the rustling of the trees. The night air is cool against your bare skin, but you barely register it.

He took his time, lips dragging down your neck, his teeth grazing your delicate skin before he bit down, leaving a mark—his mark. A deep shudder wracked through your body as he moved lower, his kisses slow, deliberate, like he wanted to memorise every inch of you with his tongue.

Your breath hitched when he reached your breasts, his mouth closing around one aching peak, his tongue swirling over the sensitive bud. You gasped, arching into him, fingers tangling in his hair as he lavished you with attention, sucking and teasing until you were trembling beneath him.

“You’re so fucking soft,” he murmured, voice thick with desire. “Like you were made for me.”

You were already dizzy, his mouth continued its descent, lips ghosting over your stomach, his hot breath sending goosebumps trailing over your skin.

You jolted when his fingers grazed the apex of your thighs, your body instinctively clenching as a wave of nervous anticipation washed over you. Katsuki paused, crimson eyes flicking up to yours.

He could feel it—your innocence, the tension in your muscles, the way you held your breath. Fuck. It made him feral; you were completely innocent, and he was going to ruin you.

His fingers dipped lower, a slight groan leaving his lips. "Fuckin' soaked," he mutters, dragging his fingers through your slick folds, spreading your arousal until you're squirming against his grip. "Drippin’ for me, Princess. You got no idea how fuckin’ crazy that makes me."

You whimper, a sound that has his grip tightening in your hair, forcing your head back so he can kiss you. It’s not gentle. It’s not sweet.

Your breath hitches when his lips leave yours, trailing down your throat. He lingers over the mark he sucked onto your skin earlier, his tongue flicking over the bruised flesh, as if he wants to remind you—remind the gods themselves—who you belong to.

His voice is a whisper of sin against your collarbone. “I can't wait. 'Till I have you screamin’ my name so loud the heavens fuckin’ shake.”

A shiver races down your spine.

You roll your hips, grinding down onto his hand, trying to take more. He groans into your mouth, the sound raw and guttural, but still—he holds back.

“Beg,” he orders, pulling away just enough to look into your eyes, his own blazing with restraint. “Tell me what you want, baby.”

You used to be very prideful; you were the Princess of the ancient Earth Nymphs. You did not beg for anything, but your mind was hazy, your curls nodded against your head as you mumbled your response, already drunk on him like he was honeymead.

"Katsuki," you breathe, reaching behind you, fingers sliding into his messy blond hair, tugging just hard enough to make him groan. "Please."

The word is barely out of your mouth before he’s gripping your hips, his fingers pressing bruises into your skin.

You cry out, your head falling against the grass as he curls two thick fingers inside you, stretching, teasing, coaxing pleasure from deep within your core. His other hand slides up your spine, keeping you pinned as he fucks you with his fingers, the obscene sound of your arousal filling the quiet night.

“Fuck,” he grits out, watching the way your body reacts to him, the way you tighten around his fingers. "You’re so fuckin’ tight. Gonna be even tighter around my cock, huh?"

You moaned, the sound sinfully deligtful to his ears, the most beautiful sound he's ever heard. His eyes were blazed over, he pulled your leg over his shoulder as his face became present with your cunt.

Your face flushed from the intimacy, "Kat-- you shouln't--"

"Eh!? Don't tell me I'm not allowed to eat my bride's pussy."

Your head fell back, your curls fanned out against the damp grass as you felt his lips suck violently on your clit as his fingers continued to work an orgams out of you.

A strangled cry tears from your lips, your body arching off the forest floor as his tongue moves against you with devastating precision. Heat coils low in your stomach, winding tighter and tighter as he devours you like a man starved.

"Katsuki—" His name is a breathless plea, your fingers tangling in his unruly blond hair, pulling him closer, needing more.

“Fuck,” he growled, pulling back just enough to smirk up at her. “You sound so pretty when you moan for me.”

He groans against your soaked folds, the vibration sending another wave of pleasure crashing through you. His fingers don’t slow—curling, pressing against that devastating spot inside you while his tongue flicks over your clit, sucking, licking, worshiping.

"Shit," he rasps, pulling away just long enough to look up at you, his chin glistening with your slick. His crimson eyes are wild, pupils blown wide. "Taste like fuckin’ honey, baby."

Then he's back on you, tongue and fingers working in perfect, merciless rhythm. Your thighs tremble around his head, and your grip in his hair tightens, body writhing, pleasure building unbearably high—

Your fingers tangled in his hair, thighs quivering as he sucked your swollen clit into his mouth, rolling his tongue over it with a pressure that had you gasping, writhing beneath him.

You felt something coil deep in your belly, tight and urgent, your body winding up like a bowstring about to snap.

“Katsuki— I can’t—”

He groaned against you, his tongue flicking faster, harder. “Yes, you can,” he growled. “Let go for me, Princess.”

"Katsuki—fuck, I'm—"

"Do it," he growls against your heat. "Come on my tongue. Let me feel it."

A sharp cry rips from your throat as you shatter, pleasure crashing over you like a tidal wave. Your body tenses, legs shaking as he coaxes every last tremor from you with slow, languid strokes of his tongue.

Katsuki pulled back, licking his lips, eyes dark with satisfaction. “So fucking sweet,” he muttered.

You barely register him moving, but suddenly, he's above you again, pressing his body against yours, caging you beneath him. Your eyes began to adjust, landing on his crimson gaze, his eyes uncharacteristically soft

He loved the contrast of your skin against his, the way your body flushed against him as you still tried to come down from your orgasm, but Katsuki wasn't a very patient man.

A soft groan left your lips, legs still shaking as you came down from your high. He hooked your leg over his waist, your eyes widened as you saw the size of his cock.

Fucking hell, how was that gonna fit? His chuckle filled your ears as he began coating himself in your wetness, your eyes rolling back softly as he continued to tease you.

"Don't worry, baby, it'll fit."

Katsuki drags the thick head of his cock through your slick folds, coating himself in your arousal. Every slow, teasing stroke against your swollen clit sends a fresh wave of pleasure rippling through you, making your body tremble beneath him. He smirks at your reaction, eyes dark with hunger, with need.

You whimper, rolling your hips against him, desperate for more. “Katsuki, please—”

He groans at your plea, gripping your thigh and hitching it higher against his waist, spreading you wider beneath him. His other hand slides up your body, fingers splaying across your stomach before trailing higher, his thumb brushing over your hardened nipple. He watches your reaction, the way you arch into his touch, the way your breath catches.

“Fuck, baby,” he murmurs, dragging his mouth down your throat, over the curve of your breast, before latching onto your sensitive peak. He sucks, slow and deep, his tongue flicking over the bud until you’re gasping.

You pull him away from your skin, your eyes meeting his as your lips ghost over his. "Fuck me,” you breathe, the words tumbling past your lips before you can stop them. “Take me, Katsuki.”

A guttural sound rips from his throat, and then—

He sinks into you.

Your mouth parts on a silent gasp, your back arching as he stretches you open, filling you inch by agonizing inch. The burn is sharp, but the pleasure? The pleasure is devastating.

“Shit—” Katsuki’s voice is strained, shaking as he fights to hold himself together. He stills, buried to the hilt inside you, his arms trembling from the effort of keeping himself in check. “You’re—fuck, baby, you’re so tight.”

You feel it too—the way he’s stretching you, the way your body struggles to accommodate his size. But the pain is already melting into something else entirely.

Katsuki groans, his grip bruising as he sets a rhythm that has you gasping, clinging to him, meeting every thrust with desperate, rolling hips. The sound of skin meeting skin echoes through the trees, mingling with the ragged moans that spill from your lips.

“You were fuckin’ made for me,” he growls against your throat, his teeth scraping against the delicate skin. “This pussy—fuck—this perfect, tight little pussy is mine.”

Yours.

The word echoes through your mind, through your very soul.

Yours. Yours. Yours.

Your hands tangle in his wild blond hair, your lips crashing against his in a kiss that’s all teeth and tongue, desperate and consuming. He drinks you in, swallows your moans, his hips slamming against yours in deep, punishing strokes.

He feels the way your walls flutter around him, the way you’re teetering on the edge, ready to fall apart in his arms.

His fingers drop between your bodies, finding your swollen clit, rubbing tight, merciless circles.

You don't even realise it before it's too late; you shatter, pleasure crashing over you in violent, breathtaking waves. Your vision goes white, your body clenching down on him, dragging him over the edge with you.

Katsuki groans, his rhythm faltering, his grip on your hips bruising as he thrusts deep one last time, burying himself inside you as he spills into you with a low, shuddering moan.

The world is silent except for the sound of your mingled breaths, the quiet hum of the forest around you. The night is still, the mist curling lazily over the lake, the moon bearing witness to the union that has sealed your fate.

Katsuki stays there, forehead pressed against yours, his breath ragged, his heart hammering against your own. His hand finds yours, fingers lacing together, grounding you both in the aftermath.

He presses a kiss to your temple, soft and lingering, "You were mine the momen't I laid eyes on you, but now, nothing can take you away from me."

Your lashes flutter against your skin as you stare up at him, the hum of your magic coursing through your body as you softly clenched around him.

Your lips caught between your teeth as you could feel the difance welling up in you. You knew you were his; you had fallen for him long before the wedding, but that didn't mean you would make it easy for him.

Your brows raised, your fingers running down his bicep, "You must not have done a very good job at claiming me then, Barbarian, because I still don't feel like yours."

You could feel the excitement and nervousness bubble in you as you watched his eyes completely darken, the sound of your giggles echoed through the forest as he roughly turned you over, your fingers dug into the Earth as he pulled your ass up.

"Yeah? Seems like I'm gonna have to claim you over and over again, your Highness."

𝘈𝘭𝘭 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘬 𝘪𝘴 𝘥𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘣𝘺 𝘮𝘦, 𝘳𝘦𝘣𝘭𝘰𝘨𝘴, 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘴 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦𝘴 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘢𝘭𝘸𝘢𝘺𝘴 𝘢𝘱𝘱𝘳𝘦𝘤𝘪𝘢𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘬𝘦𝘳𝘢𝘢𝘸𝘳𝘪𝘵𝘦𝘴 ©

[novaursa]

Hi Nova!

Oberyn Martell x Stark!reader x Ellaria Sand

Reader escape the Red wedding with her direwolf and she has a cut in her cheek. She take a ship without knowing it go to sunspear. The guards see them and take them to the Martell family. 🤍 You can choose how it ends!

I really love your stories and i was wondering if i could join your Oberyn Martell taglist? 👀

No One Left but Us

- Summary: After escaping the Red Wedding, your journey brings you to two people that have thirst for the same kind of vengeance you crave.

- Pairing: Oberyn Martell/stark!reader (x Ellaria Sand)

- Rating: Explicit 18+ (violence, blood, gore)

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @oxymakestheworldgoround @idenyimimdenial

- A/N: You will be added to the tag list for Oberyn. 🫶

The wind howled through the trees as if the gods themselves were wailing, a warning carried too late. You rode hard, your fingers white where they clenched the reins, the pounding of hooves beneath you nearly drowned by the thudding in your chest. Your cloak streamed behind you like a banner, dark as a raven’s wing, and your direwolf, Harrow, loped silently beside you—shadow and fang. You’d meant only to arrive late, to avoid the noise and spectacle of the feast at the Twins, to enter with quiet dignity after Robb’s bannermen had gorged themselves and settled. But the smell on the wind had turned your blood to ice long before the Twins came into view—smoke, iron, and blood. The stench of betrayal.

You crested the hill and saw it all at once. The red flames licking the night, screaming horses, the sounds of steel on steel, and worse—of flesh torn open, of children crying, of men dying with your family’s name on their lips. Stark. You could hardly breathe. The banners of House Frey flapped in the smoky air, joined by the golden lion of the Lannisters. Freys and Lannisters. Blood and ash. You knew then, with a clarity that shattered your heart into jagged pieces, that this was no battle. It was slaughter.

“No,” you whispered, too softly for anyone but Harrow to hear. He snarled, ears pinned back, his muzzle wet with the mist clinging to the riverbanks. “We’re too late…”

And then the first arrow hissed through the air.

You ducked instinctively, the shaft grazing your cheek and searing fire into your skin. Blood splattered your collar, warm and immediate. Harrow roared—yes, roared, not barked—and launched himself into the woods as more arrows thudded into trees and mud, some striking dangerously close. You kicked your horse’s flanks and bolted after him, your heart crashing like a war drum. A voice shouted behind you—"Stark! That one’s a Stark!"—but it was lost to the wind.

You didn’t know how long you rode. Minutes? Hours? Your limbs burned, your breath came in sobs. Harrow guided you more than you guided him. Eventually, the trees thinned and the shoreline opened before you, the river dark as pitch, wide and endless. A ship stood docked, sails unfurled, rocking gently. Lanterns swung from her bow. A voice called, rough and accented: “We set sail now! If you're not on, you're left behind!”

You didn’t think. There was no time to think. You spurred your horse forward and leapt from the saddle before the ship’s crew could turn you away, landing hard on the deck as Harrow bounded after you. The sailors reeled back at the sight of him—black-furred, eyes pale as ice, his mouth dripping froth and fury—but you rose to your feet and grabbed the nearest man by the sleeve.

“Please,” you rasped. Your voice cracked from smoke and screaming. “Please, just go. Don’t ask me why. Don’t ask my name. Just go.”

The man looked you over—saw your fine dress, now smeared with mud and ash, saw the cut on your cheek, still bleeding, saw the direwolf that stood pressed against your legs like a silent sentinel. Whatever he saw in your eyes, it made him nod.

“Aye, girl. You're not the first ghost to come aboard bleeding.” He gestured with two fingers. “Hoist anchor! Let the Twins burn.”

You collapsed against the railing as the ship lurched away from shore, the gentle splash of water against the hull a grim contrast to the chaos you’d left behind. The flames still burned in the distance, and you watched until they blurred, until you no longer knew if it was the fire that stung your eyes or the tears. Harrow pressed his nose to your hand and whined, low and soft. You buried your fingers in his thick fur, your body shaking.

“They’re gone,” you whispered. “Mother, Robb… even Grey Wind. They’re all gone.”

Your voice cracked on your brother’s name. Harrow whined again and laid his head on your lap. Somewhere behind you, a gull cried. The river widened, then became the sea. You didn’t know where the ship was headed, and you didn’t care. You only knew you couldn’t look back.

But still, you did.

And the fire still burned.

The voyage had been long, but the sea had offered you a strange kind of peace—cold, constant, and vast, like the grief that lived in your bones. The crew of The Sand Serpent had become your shield and solace in those drifting days, rough men and weather-worn women who had grown used to the silent girl cloaked in black, with hollow eyes and a direwolf that paced the deck like a guardian spirit. Harrow had terrified them at first. Now, they tossed him scraps from their meals and offered gruff greetings as they passed, always keeping a respectful distance. They never asked your name. They didn’t need to. They knew loss when they saw it. And you knew that even if you’d arrived on their deck bloodied and broken, you were safe among them.

The call of gulls and the scent of sun-warmed citrus greeted you as the ship glided into the harbor. Sunspear rose before you like a mirage—red sandstone towers rising in elegant coils from the bronze dunes, domed roofs glinting beneath the brutal Dornish sun. The breeze that swept across the port was dry but fragrant, carrying the smells of spiced wine, lavender oil, and roasted goat. It was nothing like the North, and the moment your boots touched the stone pier, the heat wrapped around you like a living thing, coaxing sweat from your skin beneath your heavy Northern furs.

“Gods, you’ll roast in that,” one of the sailors chuckled, nodding at your layered cloak. He hefted a barrel of olives onto his shoulder and winked at Harrow. “Though your beast don’t seem to mind.”

You glanced down. Harrow was already panting, tongue lolling from his mouth, but his tail twitched at your side as if he were trying not to look too impressed with the land of endless sun. You murmured, “We’ll find shade soon,” and scratched behind his ears, your voice quiet from disuse. He pressed against your legs in reply, watchful as ever.

The crew disembarked to unload their cargo, and you walked among the market stalls that clustered along the sun-baked streets near the docks. Everything shimmered in golds and reds, brilliant silks hanging from awnings like banners, the air thick with the perfume of crushed dates, mint, and exotic resins burning low in clay bowls. The vendors called out in a cacophony of tongues—Valyrian, the other various guttural tounges of Essos, and the singsong lilt of Dornish. You ran your fingers over baskets of ripe pomegranates, glazed amphorae, and blades curved like the crescent moon.

People stared at you, but not with cruelty. Your Northern face stood out among their tan skin and black curls, your pale cloak marking you as foreign as surely as your quiet posture did. Still, they didn’t look with suspicion—only curiosity. But one pair of eyes lingered longer than the rest.

“You walk like someone with ghosts at her heels,” came a voice—smooth as silk and sharp as a dagger. You turned, slowly, and found him standing beside a fig seller’s stall, leaning lazily against a pillar of sun-warmed stone.

Prince Oberyn Martell was unmistakable. He wore no armor, only a light, ochre tunic that left much of his chest bare, the fabric clinging to his lithe frame. His skin was sun-kissed, his lips curved into a knowing smile. A woman stood beside him, her arm looped easily through his. She was stunning in a way that left the air feeling too thick to breathe—long-limbed, wild-eyed, a vision in crimson silk with curls cascading down her back like a dark waterfall.

Ellaria Sand tilted her head, studying you. “You’re far from the snows of the North,” she said softly. Her gaze fell to Harrow, who stood rigid beside you, his fur bristling. “And not just a traveler. That beast… only one house raises wolves.”

You froze, every instinct screaming to flee. But your feet stayed rooted. You had nothing left to run to.

“I know you,” Oberyn murmured, stepping closer. “You were not at the feast, but your face—your eyes. You're a Stark.”

Your voice came out hoarse. “And if I am?”

“Then we mourn the same death,” Ellaria said. Her voice held sorrow, yes, but also fire. “The Red Wedding was not just your family's funeral. It was an insult to all who value honor. A dagger in the back of the world.”

Oberyn’s eyes narrowed, but not in suspicion. In understanding. “They butchered your kin at a feast. Slaughtered your brother beneath guest right, murdered your mother while she begged. And still you live. That is no accident.”

You blinked, mouth dry. “I was late.”

“Then perhaps the gods spared you for a reason,” he said. “Come with us.”

You shook your head instinctively. “I don’t even know where to go.”

Ellaria stepped forward, her fingers light as feathers when she touched your arm. “Stay with us. At the palace. You will have protection, comfort… and something more.”

You blinked. “More?”

“A chance to fight back,” Oberyn said. “A chance for justice. For vengeance. The Lannisters have touched my family with betrayal and blood before. They will do it again. But not if we burn them first.”

Ellaria smiled, slow and warm. “And you’re beautiful. Tragic. Fierce. Stay, and you won’t need to be alone with your sorrow. You can share our bed, our fight, our future.”

You opened your mouth, but the words caught. The market faded around you—the calls of merchants, the buzz of heat and sun—and all that remained were their eyes. His, bright with promise and passion. Hers, gentle and wild, like an oasis in the sand.

Harrow nudged your thigh and sat beside you. Silent approval.

And for the first time in what felt like an eternity, you let out a breath. Not quite trust. But something close to hope.

“…Take me with you,” you whispered.

[winxanity-ii]

⌜Godly Things | Chapter 15 Chapter 15 | veiled depths⌟

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You felt weightless yet grounded, like being suspended in a void where gravity had no say. The air, or lack thereof, pressed against your skin, cool and dense, as though it wanted to seep into your pores.

Your body felt untethered, disoriented, as if the world had folded itself inside out.

Everything was dark—so dark that you couldn't even see the outline of your own hand. There was no sound, no wind, no sensation of movement—only the overwhelming stillness that pressed in from every direction.

A low chuckle brushed past your ear, the sound warm and teasing. "It's safe to open your eyes, little musician..."

The voice jolted you, and for a moment, you hesitated, unsure if you wanted to see what lay beyond this suffocating darkness. Slowly, you creaked your eyes open, half expecting the void to remain.

At first, there was nothing but inky blackness, but gradually, faint shapes began to emerge. The outlines of towering, jagged stone arches loomed overhead, their surfaces shimmering faintly with an otherworldly glow.

The ground beneath your feet was cold and rough, uneven with patches of smooth obsidian-like rock that reflected dim light.

You inhaled sharply. The air tasted heavy, like iron and ash, and it clung to your throat, making it harder to breathe. A strange stillness blanketed the area, the kind that made every sound feel intrusive.

Hermes' voice broke the silence again, light and conversational as though he were simply giving a tour. "Welcome to the gate of the Underworld," he said, gesturing broadly with his arm. "Lovely, isn't it? Hades certainly has a flair for drama."

You turned to face him, your movements sluggish as if the air itself were resisting. He stood just a few steps ahead, his crimson cloak flowing unnaturally, untouched by any wind. His golden eyes gleamed in the dim light, his expression a mix of amusement and intrigue.

"Where...?" you began, your voice cracking as you took in your surroundings.

Hermes grinned, clearly enjoying your reaction. "We're right on the threshold between worlds. See that?" He turned you gently by the shoulders, pointing behind you.

You followed his gesture, your breath catching in your throat. A narrow tunnel stretched far into the distance, its rough, dark walls illuminated by a faint golden light at its end. The glow pulsed softly, like a heartbeat, steady and warm.

"That," Hermes said, his tone dropping into something almost reverent, "is the mortal realm. A cozy little exit for souls who've earned their place back among the living... or for visitors like us to remember where we came from."

Your gaze lingered on the light, the warmth of it stirring an ache deep in your chest. It felt distant, unreachable, and yet part of you longed to step toward it, to bask in its glow.

"But," Hermes continued, stepping in front of you and blocking your view, "we're not here to dwell on that, are we?" He gestured toward the opposite direction, where the tunnel opened into an expansive void. "There's much more to see."

As your eyes adjusted to the dimness, you noticed movement in the distance. A vast river stretched out before you, its surface dark and sluggish, like molten ink. Thick mist curled over the water, obscuring parts of it from view.

And then... you saw him.

A hunched figure stood atop a small, rickety ferry in the middle of the river. His silhouette was skeletal, his robe tattered and blending with the shadows. Even from a distance, you could see how still he was, his hooded head tilted in your direction.

It felt like he was staring at you.

A chill ran down your spine, and you took an involuntary step closer to Hermes. The ferryman's presence was oppressive, his stillness more unnerving than any movement could have been.

"Who... who is that?" you whispered, unable to tear your gaze away.

Hermes followed your line of sight, his golden eyes narrowing briefly before a smirk tugged at his lips. "Ah, Charon?" he said, his tone casual, as if speaking of an old acquaintance. "The ferryman of the dead. Bit of a grump, but reliable as they come. He's not much for conversation, but he gets the job done."

Your gaze lingered on the figure, still as stone, his shadowy form blending with the swirling mists over the river. The hollowed hood of his robe made it impossible to see his face, but you swore you felt his attention settle on you, sharp and unyielding. It felt like the chill of winter air slicing through your skin.

You shivered, clutching your arms instinctively. "Do we... have to use the boat?"

Hermes turned to you, his grin widening mischievously as he clasped his hands behind his back. "What? And miss the chance to see Charon in all his gloomy glory?" He chuckled, shaking his head. "Just kidding. Of course not. We have a VIP pass, remember?"

Your brows furrowed. "VIP pass? What's tha—"

Before you could finish, Hermes swooped down and picked you up, his arms curling securely under your legs and back. "Hold on tight, little musician!" he warned, his golden eyes sparkling with glee.

"Wait, what are you—AHH!" Your protest turned into a screech as Hermes kicked off the ground, the wings on his sandals beating furiously as you shot into the air.

Your screams echoed through the void as wind whipped past you, cold and sharp against your skin, while Hermes' laughter rang out like a bell.

You clung to him tighter, your heart pounding as you soared higher, the world beneath you shrinking into a dark, endless abyss. The river stretched below like a yawning chasm, its surface rippling with faint, ghostly lights.

The air was thick and cool, carrying faint echoes—mournful whispers that sent shivers racing down your spine.

You forced your gaze downward, the landscape shifting beneath you, dark and mythical. Jagged rocks jutted out like broken teeth, and faint, flickering spectral lights danced in the shadows, their movements slow and deliberate, like they were watching.

In the distance, you caught glimpses of strange, dreamlike objects—fragments of clocks, shattered mirrors, and what looked like broken chairs floating just above the river's surface. They swayed gently, as if tethered to invisible strings, their presence a haunting reminder of the lives left behind.

Hermes dipped lower, hovering just above the river. The mist curled around his feet and yours, tendrils of it reaching upward as if trying to pull you in. Shadows moved beneath the surface, amorphous and massive, their outlines distorted yet undeniably real.

"W-What... what's in the water?" you stammered, your voice barely audible over the sound of the rushing wind.

"Regrets," Hermes replied simply, his tone uncharacteristically sober. "Broken promises. Forgotten dreams. Everything people left unresolved in life."

You stared down at the dark waters, your breath hitching as one of the shadows slithered closer to the surface before disappearing again.

"Lovely, isn't it?" Hermes teased, though his voice held a faint edge.

"Not the word I'd use," you muttered, clutching him tighter.

With a laugh, Hermes straightened his course, carrying you past the mist and the river until solid ground reappeared beneath you. He landed lightly, setting you down as though the flight had been nothing more than a leisurely stroll.

You stumbled, your legs shaky, and glared at him. "Warn me next time!" you hissed, the words escaping without thought.

"But where's the fun in that?" Hermes shot back, his grin wide and unapologetic. "Now, come along. The tour's just begun."

You hesitated, glancing back toward the river, its surface still rippling with faint light and shadow. The figure of Charon remained in the distance, unmoving, as though waiting for his next passenger.

Hermes gestured ahead, his crimson cloak sweeping dramatically. "Welcome to the Underworld," he said, his voice dripping with theatrical flair. "Allow me to show you the highlights."

You followed him warily, your senses on high alert as the landscape unfolded around you. The darkness seemed to ebb and flow, shifting like a living thing, revealing glimpses of otherworldly sights that made your breath catch in your throat.

To your left, faint golden light shimmered through the murky air, illuminating a distant expanse of rolling fields.

They stretched endlessly, dotted with trees whose leaves sparkled as if dusted with starlight. Figures wandered through the fields, their movements slow and deliberate, their forms bathed in the gentle glow of the light.

Hermes stopped, gesturing grandly toward the scene. "Behold," he said, his tone lighter but tinged with something softer, "Elysium. The final reward for the virtuous, the brave, the wise. Heroes and poets, philosophers and dreamers... they all find their peace here."

You squinted, trying to make out the figures in the distance. Their faces were too far away to discern, but something about their serene movements tugged at your heart. The fields themselves seemed alive, the golden grass swaying as though in time with an unheard melody.

"It's beautiful."

Hermes nodded, his expression uncharacteristically calm. "It is," he said simply, his voice quieter.

You stared a moment longer, drawn to the sense of peace that radiated from the fields. But before you could ask more, Hermes suddenly grabbed your wrist. "C'mon. Let's check it out. I mean, when are you going to get a chance like this again?"

You hesitated, your wide eyes flitting toward the fields. "I-I don't think I—"

"No time for hesitation, little musician," Hermes interrupted, tugging you forward. His golden eyes sparkled with mischief as he added in a teasing tone, "Besides, you're with me. I've got pull."

You stumbled slightly as he led you closer, your heart pounding as the golden light grew brighter, wrapping around you like a warm embrace. The air in Elysium felt different—lighter, sweeter.

Each breath you took was tinged with a faint floral scent, and the gentle rustling of the grass seemed to hum with a quiet, melodic rhythm.

As you walked, your gaze was drawn to the figures in the distance. They moved gracefully, their forms glowing faintly under the golden light. Some sat beneath the sparkling trees, their heads bowed in quiet conversation, while others walked hand in hand, their expressions peaceful and content.

Your steps faltered as you caught sight of a small gathering near one of the larger trees. Among them was a figure that stood out—a tall man with a proud posture, his golden hair catching the light like a flame. His armor gleamed as though freshly polished, and the faintest smile played on his lips as he spoke with the others.

Your breath hitched, your voice trembling as you whispered, "Is... is that Achilles?"

Hermes chuckled softly, following your gaze. "The one and only," he said, a hint of pride in his voice. "Not a bad spot for a legendary hero to spend eternity, huh?"

You couldn't tear your eyes away, the weight of the moment pressing against your chest. The realization that you were standing in the same realm as figures who had lived and died in stories you'd only ever heard whispered around fires left you speechless.

"I can't believe it," you murmured, more to yourself than to Hermes.

"Believe it," he said, giving your wrist a gentle squeeze before tugging you forward again. "But don't stare too long. The last thing I need is for you to get starstruck and embarrass me in front of the legends."

A small laugh escaped you despite the overwhelming awe still coursing through your veins. "I thought gods didn't get embarrassed."

"Only when mortals make it impossible not to," he quipped, his smirk returning as he guided you further along the edge of the fields.

The golden light of Elysium began to fade behind you, replaced by the harsher tones of the Underworld's other regions. The smooth, glowing stones beneath your feet gave way to uneven, jagged terrain, and the air grew warmer, heavier, and thick with a faint, acrid smell that stung your nose.

Ahead, a deep chasm split the ground, its jagged edges glowing with an orange-red light that pulsed like the slow, rhythmic beat of a heart. From its depths came faint, echoing screams—high-pitched and mournful, carried on a hot, unnatural wind.

You stopped in your tracks, your stomach twisting at the sight. "What... what is that?" you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.

Hermes glanced back at you, his expression unreadable. Without a word, he stepped closer, his arm curling around your waist as he lifted you effortlessly into the air.

"Hold tight," he murmured, his tone softer now.

You clung to him instinctively as he hovered near the edge of the chasm. The heat rising from below was stifling, and the glow of the firelight cast eerie shadows on his face.

"That," Hermes said, his voice low, "is Tartarus. A place for the worst of the worst—traitors, tyrants, those who defied the gods. And, of course, the Titans." His golden eyes flicked down toward the chasm, his lips twitching into a smirk. "Think of it as the parallel to Elysium... but not the good kind."

You shuddered, staring into the depths. The screams grew louder, mingling with the crackle of unseen flames and the faint sound of chains rattling. Shadowy figures writhed far below, their forms indistinct but their agony palpable.

Hermes' expression softened, and he lowered you gently back to the ground, his arm lingering for a moment as though to steady you. "Not a place you'd want to visit," he added lightly, his smirk returning.

You turned to look at him, your voice hesitant. "Do you... go down there often?"

His gaze lingered on the chasm for a moment longer before he shrugged. "When I have to"" he said, his tone casual but with a weight beneath it. "Sometimes I'm the one escorting souls who've earned their place there. Other times..." He trailed off, his smirk faltering. "Let's just say... it's not my favorite part of the job."

You swallowed hard, your gaze drifting back to the chasm. "It's horrible," you murmured.

Hermes nodded as he began flying away, his expression solemn. "It is. But it's necessary."

As the chasm faded into the distance, the air around you seemed to shift again, growing lighter and cooler. Hermes' tone brightened, his playful grin returning as he gestured toward the winding paths ahead.

"Of course, my duties aren't all doom and gloom," he said, his voice taking on a mischievous lilt. "I'm not just a glorified escort, you know. I deliver messages between the gods and Hades, mediate the occasional argument among the dead, and keep this whole place running smoothly."

You raised an eyebrow, your curiosity piqued despite yourself. "Did you just say, 'argument among the dead' as in arguing souls?"

Hermes chuckled, his eyes glinting with amusement. "Oh, you'd be surprised. Some people don't let go of grudges, even in death. Sometimes it's a stolen goat. Other times, it's an epic feud spanning generations. Keeps things interesting down here."

You couldn't help but smile faintly, his lightheartedness cutting through the heaviness of the journey.

"Then there are the gods," he continued, rolling his eyes dramatically. "Hades can be a bit... particular, but he's nothing compared to some of the others. You should hear Demeter's complaints about Persephone being here half the year."

He chuckled to himself, his voice carrying through the still air like the faintest echo. "Honestly, if I had a drachma for every time she's accused Hades of keeping her daughter longer than he should... " He glanced over at you, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. "Well, let's just say I'd be richer than Apollo."

You smiled faintly, though your mind was still trying to process the enormity of everything around you. The shifting landscapes of the Underworld had left you in awe and unease, the weight of the souls and their endless journeys pressing down like an unseen force.

Hermes slowed his pace, his golden eyes scanning the horizon as the terrain began to shift again. The jagged rocks and harsh glow of Tartarus faded into the background, replaced by a muted grey expanse. The ground grew softer, coated in a fine layer of ash-like dust that swirled faintly with each step.

The air grew heavier, cool and damp; the faint sound of whispers brushing against your ears, though you couldn't make out any words.

"This," Hermes said, his voice softer now, "is the Asphodel Fields."

Your breath hitched as the scene unfolded before you. An endless plain stretched as far as your eyes could see,  its surface a monotone sea of grey and silver. Low-lying mists clung to the ground, weaving through the field like restless spirits.

The souls of the dead wandered aimlessly, their forms translucent and faintly glowing. They drifted through the haze, their movements slow and mechanical, like they were caught in a dream they could neither leave nor wake from.

Their faces were devoid of expressions, betraying no emotion—neither joy nor sorrow—only a blank, unending neutrality, their steps light as though they floated just above the ground.

"These are the ones who led ordinary lives," Hermes explained, his tone carrying a rare note of reverence. "Neither wicked enough for Tartarus nor virtuous enough for Elysium. They exist here in... well, let's call it neutral peace."

You stared, the weight of the sight pressing against your chest. The souls didn't seem to notice you or Hermes. They floated past like shadows, silent and disconnected, their figures blurring slightly as they moved through the thick, misty air; each lost in their own timeless wandering.

"It's seems kind of..." You searched for the right word, your voice trailing off as you watched a soul pause mid-step before resuming its slow journey. "Lonely."

Hermes nodded, his expression uncharacteristically somber. "It can be. But not everyone here sees it that way." He gestured toward a small cluster of souls in the distance, their movements slower, more deliberate.

Through the mist, you caught faint glimpses of them. They stood closer together than the others, their translucent forms almost touching. One figure reached out, its hand brushing against the faint outline of another. Though no words were spoken, their presence beside one another seemed less aimless, almost comforting.

"Some find solace in the stillness. For others... well, they just fade."

Your stomach churned at his words. "Fade?"

Hermes glanced at you, his lips twitching into a faint, sad smile. "When they forget themselves. Memories blur, identities unravel. Without purpose or remembrance, what's left to keep them tethered?"

A shiver ran down your spine as your eyes were drawn to a nearby soul drifting past within arm's reach. It was a woman, her movements slow and deliberate. Her face was faint, almost featureless, and her translucent form shimmered weakly, as though she were barely holding onto her shape.

She paused for a moment, her head tilting slightly, as if sensing your presence. A faint chill brushed against your skin, and you swore you heard the barest hint of a sigh before she continued on her way.

"Does she..." Your voice faltered as you glanced at Hermes. "Does she know we're here?"

"Maybe," he said with a shrug, though his gaze lingered on the soul. "Or maybe she's just remembering something that feels like us. Hard to tell in this place."

As you walked, Hermes occasionally gestured to things in the distance—an ancient tree with gnarled, leafless branches standing alone in the field, its roots half-buried in the ashen ground; a crumbled, forgotten structure with faint carvings etched into its stone, eroded by time.

"That used to be something important," Hermes mused as he pointed to the ruins. "A shrine, maybe. Hard to say now. Even here, traditions fade."

You nodded silently, your eyes tracing the outlines of the structure. The carvings were barely legible, but they seemed to tell a story—fragments of lives long gone.

At one point, Hermes stopped abruptly, his gaze fixed on a small patch of flowers growing near the base of a mound. The flowers were pale and delicate, their petals faintly luminescent, as if they glowed from within.

"Ghost blooms," Hermes said, crouching down to pluck one gently. He held it up, the petals trembling slightly in his grasp. "They only grow where a soul's memory was strong enough to leave something behind."

You reached out hesitantly, brushing your fingers against the flower. It was cool to the touch, its glow dimming slightly under your skin. "It's beautiful," you whispered.

Hermes nodded, standing and letting the flower drift to the ground. "A reminder," he said, his voice softer now. After a moment, he stepped forward, his cloak sweeping across the dusty ground as he strolled ahead.

You followed him hesitantly, your steps slow and uncertain. The field stretched on endlessly, the grey expanse blending seamlessly with the horizon. The air felt heavier here, the silence oppressive, broken only by the faint whispers of the wandering souls.

Hermes came to a stop in the middle of the field, his golden eyes softening as he turned to you. "This is where I leave you for a bit," he said, his voice quiet but firm.

You frowned, glancing around the empty expanse. "What do you mean?"

His lips curled into a faint smile, and he gestured gently ahead. "Walk," he said simply, his tone holding a strange mixture of encouragement and mystery.

You hesitated, your heart pounding as you looked at him questioningly. But his smile remained steady, and after a moment, you took a slow step forward.

The ground beneath your feet crunched softly, the ash-like dust stirring with every step. The air felt cooler now, the faint whispers growing quieter, almost expectant.

And then, you saw them.

Two figures emerged from the mist, their forms faint and glowing like the other souls. But as they drew closer, their features sharpened, becoming more defined, more familiar. Your breath caught in your throat, and you froze, your heart hammering in your chest.

The man stepped forward first, his broad shoulders and gentle smile exactly as you remembered. His blond hair, slightly disheveled, caught the faint glow of the mist, framing his strong yet kind face. His brown eyes, warm and full of love, locked onto yours, shimmering with a mixture of disbelief and joy.

Beside him, the woman followed, her movements graceful and full of purpose. Her dark hair was swept back in a familiar, simple style, the faintest glow catching the curve of her cheekbones. Her sepia skin radiated a warmth that felt like home, and her eyes—wide, filled with tears—were fixed on you as though you were the most precious thing in existence.

A sob tore from your throat before you could stop it. "Mother?... Father?"

Your mother gasped, her hands flying to her mouth as tears streamed freely down her face. "My sweet dove," she choked out, her voice trembling.

She rushed forward, her arms wrapping tightly around you, and for a moment, you couldn't breathe. Her touch, warm and firm, enveloped you like a shield against the weight of everything you'd endured.

"You're so beautiful," she whispered, her hands cupping your face as she pulled back just enough to look at you. Her thumbs brushed against your cheeks, wiping away tears you hadn't realized were falling.

Your father joined her, his strong arms pulling you into his chest. He buried his face into your hair, pressing kiss after kiss to the crown of your head. "My little one," he murmured, his voice breaking with every word. "You've grown so much. Look at you... so strong, so brave."

You clung to both of them, your fingers digging into their clothes, as though letting go might make them disappear. The sensation of their presence—the warmth, the familiarity—was overwhelming, and you couldn't stop the tears that fell freely now.

"How..." Your voice trembled, barely a whisper as you tried to make sense of the impossible. "How are you here? How is this real?"

They pulled back slightly, just enough to see your face, their hands never leaving your arms as if they too were afraid you might vanish.

Your mother's lips quivered as she gazed at you, her tears falling even as she smiled. "We've missed you so much," she said softly, her voice thick with emotion. "Every single day, we've thought of you, prayed for you."

Your father nodded, his own tears glistening as he cupped the back of your head. "We've watched over you, little one. And now... now, we can finally hold you again."

The weight of their words hit you like a tidal wave, and memories you had tried to bury came flooding back. The way they had laughed with you, taught you, held you in the moments when the world felt too big. And then, the sickness. The quiet moments by their bedside, the laurel wreath clutched tightly in your hands as you prayed for a miracle.

"B-But..." you stammered, your voice cracking as flashes of those final days pierced through the haze of joy. "You were... you were gone. I held the laurel, but I couldn't... I couldn't save you."

Your mother's expression softened, and she pulled you into another embrace, her arms wrapping around you tightly. "Shh, love," she murmured, her hand stroking your hair as she held you close. "It wasn't your fault. We were ready to let go, knowing you'd be safe."

Your father's hand rested gently on your back, his touch warm and steady, grounding you in the chaos of your swirling emotions. "We were never afraid for you," he said softly, his words laden with both sorrow and relief. "Not even at the end. We knew... we knew Apollo would protect you."

The mention of Apollo made you pull back slightly, your brows knitting together in confusion. "Apollo would protect me?" you repeated, your voice laced with uncertainty. "I don't understand. Why would Apollo protect me?"

Your parents exchanged a glance, their expressions shifting into something softer, almost hesitant.

Your mother spoke first, her voice barely above a whisper. "Love... don't you remember?"

You shook your head, the motion slow and uncertain. "Remember what?"

Her eyes searched yours, her lips parting as she whispered, "You're favored by Apollo."

A/N: and the plot thickens~ haha see! i been reading/listening to you guys, i didn't forget about mc coincidentally never bringing up/recalling her favor but let me hursh before i spoil/mess things up... also, ive seen/read your compliants on telemachus and all i can say is he better tighten up before hermes take over lolol, but seriously, i know it's going slow, but it won't feel right if i don't give the other love interests enough time to wiggle their way into mc's heart, 'ya know???

Tag List: thesimppotato11 alassal jackintheboxs-world uniquetravelerone

[bimbowshmimbow]

Hey, how about a story set in a reality inspired by fairy tales? I recently rewatched that series called Once Upon a Time, where all the characters from children's stories live in the same universe and I wanted to read something related to that. I think HBO's Joel would fit in with Snow White's Huntsman, or maybe something more innovative and obscure like a male character from Swan Lake or even The Dancing Princesses or Hansel and Gretel, in the latter case Ellie could be included as Gretel. The Joel from the games seems more like "Rambo feelings" to me, so Little Red Riding Hood would be interesting. But sorry if I'm asking too much, any fairy tale would be great.

Into The Dark Woods (short series)

stumble upon part 1

part 2

part 3

hunterwolf!joel miller x littleredridinghood! freader

MDNI (minors do not interact) — dark fairy tale elements, danger in the woods, implied violence (offscreen), minor age gap (reader is young adult, Joel is significantly older), protective Joel, slow burn relationship to come, heavy emotional themes (loneliness, survival), distrust of society.

They warned you, of course.

The whole village did — old women tugging their shawls tighter, muttering about curses and beasts, boys pointing at the gnarled woods and daring each other to go one step closer.

Stay on the path, they said.

Don’t stray after dark.

Don’t talk to the man with the wolf eyes.

You clutched the basket tighter against your chest, stepping carefully over the tangled roots and fallen branches. The thin red cloak around your shoulders offered no warmth against the cold breath of the woods.

The sun had already dipped low, bleeding gold and crimson between the trees, and you knew you were running out of time.

Then you heard it —

A crack.

A shift in the shadows.

Something moving just ahead.

You froze, heart hammering.

Another crack. Another soft grunt, low and rough.

When he stepped into view, you almost didn’t believe it.

He looked… human.

Mostly.

Tall, broad-shouldered, wrapped in worn leather and a battered cloak. Dark hair threaded with silver, scruff along a strong jaw. His hands were bare — large, rough — and a battered knife hung low on his belt.

But it was the eyes that gave him away.

Gold-flecked, wild.

Like a wolf that hadn’t decided yet if you were prey.

For a long, breathless moment, neither of you moved.

Then his gaze dropped to the basket in your arms, the cloak slipping off your shoulder, the way you trembled just a little.

“You lost, sweetheart?”

The voice was deep, rough, edged with something almost like amusement.

Or pity.

You opened your mouth — meant to say yes, or beg for help — but all that came out was a tiny, broken sound.

Joel — you knew his name, whispered behind doors — sighed.

Ran a hand down his tired face.

“Christ,” he muttered. “You’re just a kid.”

(You weren’t, not really. You’d been fending for yourself for a long time now. But you were small, and cold, and you guessed you didn’t look like much to a man like him.)

“Where you headed?” he asked gruffly.

You tried to speak again, voice cracking. “My grandmother’s house. Across the river.”

He glanced toward the thickening woods behind you — darker now, curling with mist.

His jaw tightened. “Ain’t gonna make it ‘fore full dark.”

You swallowed. “I have to.”

Another sigh. Deeper this time, like he was debating with himself.

Then Joel did something no one ever said he would.

He stepped closer.

Not fast, not threatening — careful, like approaching a wounded animal.

“You ain’t gonna make it alone,” he said, softer now. “Not with what’s out here.”

He stretched out one hand — big, warm, calloused — palm open.

“Come with me,” Joel said. “I’ll get you there. Safe.”

You hesitated.

Every story, every warning, clawed at the back of your mind.

Don’t trust him.

He’s dangerous.

He’s not like us.

But when you looked up into those battered, tired eyes — you didn’t see a monster.

You saw a man.

A man who had seen too much, lost too much, and still chose to offer a stranger his hand.

You placed your hand in his before you could lose your nerve.

His fingers closed around yours — firm, steady — and you shivered at the warmth.

“Atta girl,” Joel murmured, almost to himself.

Then he tugged you gently forward, guiding you off the narrow path, into the deeper woods.

And you realized, for the first time in a long time,

you weren’t scared anymore.

Not of him.

Not of the woods.

Not even of the night.

Because maybe — just maybe — the wolf was never meant to eat Little Red Riding Hood after all.

Maybe he was meant to save her.

wait i actually love this.. should I do a series? Or one big fic.. ~ bow

[corvidfeathers]

Mordred’s monologue - Grail Knight

This is from my thesis play, a grail quest story where Galahad is a trans girl and the world of Logres is slowly dying as a mirror of climate crisis. Me and a theater collective adapted into an immersive play in the summer of 2022, which is still one of the most amazing experiences I’ve ever had the privilege to have. This is one of my favorite pieces of the play, and one that I think can stand on its own.

Image transcript:

MORDRED

I travel three days with Sir Lancelot, which is time enough to remember why I seldom do that. Brave Sir Lancelot, honorable Sir Lancelot, obedient Sir Lancelot; the flower of chivalry, the king’s favorite knight. Arthur and Gwynefer may see no flaw in him, but I know otherwise. He keeps his mask of courtly courtesy, but I feel his eyes on me when he thinks I’m not looking. Waiting for me to show some sign of treachery. Maybe this is why he stayed at my side; every mile we go from Camelot is a mile between me and the king he so loves.

Or maybe he considers it some sort of kindness, to his former squire. Sir Lancelot thinks he will find the Grail with all haste, and return in all glory, and if I remain at his side, a little of it may be left for me.

Or maybe he was just trying to escape Sir Galahad.

On the fourth morning, I wake with a strange certainty ringing in my ears. It calls me to rise and dress as the mist creeps from up the grass and the night bleeds away; there’s something in the mist waiting for me. Lancelot tries to call me back, to warn me from leaving, but why should I pay him mind? We’re all equal on the quest, Sir Galahad said, and it’s not as if the flower of chivalry knows where he’s going. Let him chase after me for once.

Maybe this is the certainty Sir Galahad felt; maybe this is the Grail. The mist thickens as I go onward, until I reach a wide black river.

My mother always told me to mind my wits when I cross water; cross a river without heed, and you may find yourself farther than the other bank. Unlike some, she knew of what she spoke; she knew all the old magics of the land; she whispered of them to me every night, and when I left home she wove spells into my cloak, to keep her youngest son from harm. But that cloak is as tattered as my vows, so I don’t think of her advice when I am knee-deep in the black water, the rush of it all around me.

It sounds like a battle, like a cataclysm, like the crash of the sea against the isle of Orkney, it sounds like death and fate, a cold force that drives onward like the tide that sweeps a ship to the rocks, closer and closer and closer. The current pulls at my feet, at my chest, at my chin until I am like to drown.

Any death but this. Any death but this. A coward’s prayer.

I drag myself out onto the far bank, spitting water, and lie there and let my foolish certainty die. Let Sir Galahad have her quest. Let Sir Lancelot find the Grail- I’m fitted for one fate only, and it isn’t going to be found in this misty forest.

Cross a river without heed, my mother said, and you may find yourself in a kingdom of shadows and lies, a land of ghosts and fae. I don’t think of her advice when I lift my head, and for a moment I think I am back in Camelot; here is the round table, and here the king. A bone-white table, laid out beneath the mist-strung trees, and a king that is monstrous to look upon, a desiccated creature sitting alone at an empty table, with wounds that weep bubbling seafoam and eyes that burn like the bleeding sky, and a crown wrought of stone and oak.

His head hangs with the weight of it. I cannot tear my eyes away, and I know that it is this, this is the tide that pulled me here, not the grail, not the pull of glory or duty but the fate I cannot escape.

Cross a river without heed, my mother said, and you may find that you, yourself, are a shade. I don’t think of her advice when I draw my sword, and drive it into the creature’s chest.

[simpingforstardew]

250 feet below

pairing: sdv sebastian x reader

synopsis: you were sick of living in such a bleak city, living such a bleak life; so, too, was sebastian. a drabble based off a vivid dream i had recently.

warnings: angst. profane language. allusion to suicide / sucidial ideation. please stay safe. ♡

a/n: this occurs pre-canon. i liked the idea of the farmer having already met a villiager of pelican town during their life in Zuzu city... something something red string of fate.

word count: 1.3k

Zuzu isn’t a city where people live. Millions toil tirelessly, burdened by exorbitant rents and the weight of overpriced necessities. But in all your years of life, you can’t recall the last time you saw a denizen of Zuzu laugh, or create art, or spread kindness. In fact, you can confidently say that not one of the 8.3 million souls that surround you in this city is truly alive.

In your youth, you navigated the city’s labyrinthine alleys, searching for signs of life—a spontaneous burst of laughter, a splash of colour on a drab wall, a moment of genuine connection between strangers. All you found were weary faces, the heavy silence of resignation, and a pervasive sense of disillusionment. It’s as if the pulse of vitality has been suffocated by the corporate grind.

But now, you walk with intention as the cold chill of the night air settles deep into your bones. Night has descended like a heavy cloak, shrouding the landscape in a veil of darkness. Above, the moon rises like a sentinel amidst a sea of shimmering stars, their watchful gaze seeming to follow your every step through the dense forest on the edge of Zuzu. Amid this celestial spectacle, the forest comes alive with nocturnal symphonies—the hoots of owls echoing through the dense canopy, while the occasional rustle of leaves and snapping of twigs beneath your hiking boots punctuate the stillness. Each step forward is a battle against exhaustion and fatigue, blisters forming on your feet from hours of relentless trekking. Hunger gnaws at your stomach, a constant companion on this solitary journey through the darkness.

Your favourite hoodie drapes over your shoulders, a gift from an old friend whose name now eludes you. Your backpack, light and inconsequential, occasionally slips from your shoulder as you trudge forward. Ahead looms your final destination: a concrete suspension bridge, a vast monumental structure steeped in the history of your home town—a history you always wanted to learn. Too late now, you think.

As you make your way across the bridge, your gaze falls upon a figure perched on its rail, dwarfed by the towering cityscape beyond. The river below churns restlessly as they gaze pointedly into the water, the distant hum of passing cars blending with the rhythmic crash of waves 250 feet below.

“Don’t,” the stranger’s voice, firm and resolute, cuts through the night as you approach. They make no attempt to turn towards you; instead, he takes a final drag of his cigarette and drops the rest in the river beneath.

“…Don’t what?” you respond, pausing in your steps. The stranger chews his lips, his grip on the railing firm. The silence is unbearable.

“Get to know me, ask questions, stop me. Just... don’t bother trying anything.”

“Oh, I… wasn’t planning on it,” you reply, your tone casual as you shrug off your bag, letting it fall to the cold concrete below.

A shaky exhale escapes the stranger’s lips; you watch the mist rise into the cold air in the moonlight. Leaning back against the bridge’s railing, the stranger’s eyes meet yours, searching for something you can’t quite decipher. There’s a vulnerability in their gaze, a flicker of uncertainty that belies the firmness of their earlier words.

You sit in silence for a few minutes, and take the opportunity to ease the remaining tension out of your hands and arms, stretching your fingers until the joints no longer ache. The stranger seems content enough to let you have your quiet, though you catch him watching you from the corner of his eye occasionally.

“Want a snack?” you offer, pulling out a half-eaten family-pack of cookies from your bag.

The stranger’s eyebrows furrow in confusion, “Wh— No, I… Are you serious right now?”

“Extremely,” you say, biting into a cookie before extending the pack towards the stranger, “You’ve never thought about your last meal before? Always thought mine would be an actual meal… but cookies aren’t that bad, I guess.”

As you speak, you can’t help but notice the tension in the stranger’s posture. Their grip on the railing doesn’t loosen, although they do tentatively accept a cookie from the pack.

“Did my mom send you to get me or something?” he sniffs, breaking you out of your daze; his voice tired and hoarse. His suspicion should bother you, but at this point you’re far too tired to feel much of anything.

“No dude, I told you— I’m just waiting for my turn.” The motor traffic behind you continues to speed by, radios and horns blaring in a Dopplerian cacophony. Although their headlights silhouette your form, the man beside you is perfectly illuminated, his face stark against the darkness. Behind him, the full moon casts a halo around his face.

He is your age, if not a bit younger. His exhaustion is evident in bloodshot eyes, monolid and green; his sunken cheeks exaggerate the lifelessness of his pale skin.

You’re the first to break eye-contact, letting out a soft chuckle as you fetch your phone from your pockets, “Just a coincidence, I guess.”

He looks at you with a curious stare, like a cat studying a moving shadow. No one in this city has ever looked out for him the same way you are; It’s peculiar how alone one can be surrounded by as many people as Zuzu city contains.

Your earphones are now plugged in; and lost in your melody of favourite song, you can’t see the awe of his gaze. Moments pass in this newfound comfort— be it from mutual understanding, or a fear of disruption— before you turn to face the stranger once more.

“Did you wanna listen with me? Just for a song or two.” You look towards him as you sit down on the bridge, offering up your left earphone.

You aren’t naive, you recognize what you’re doing. Hell, you’ve been doing it your entire life. You’re stalling. Desperately finding excuses to delay what you fear will be the inevitable: one way or another, the stranger will leave. You’ll be alone again.

But right now you’re not alone, and that’s good enough.

The stranger finally swings his legs over the rail of the bridge, and plants his feet firmly on the concrete of the superstructure. He sits besides you, timidly puts an earphone in his left ear, and cries.

As the minutes stretch into hours, the initial tension between you and the stranger dissolves into a shared silence, punctuated only by the soft strains of music. The reasons for your presence on the bridge fade into obscurity, replaced by a sense of companionship born from the serendipity of the moment. With each passing song, the darkness of the night gradually gives way to the gentle hues of dawn.

Neither of you notice the transition, until your phone dies.

“I’m never going to see you again, am I?” The stranger’s voice wavers, a fragile whisper amidst the fading light. You turn to him, a smile softening your features, before rising with a languid stretch.

“Stranger things have happened. Why wouldn’t our paths cross again?” Your words carry a gentle reassurance as you gather your belongings, mentally preparing for another day at the JojaCo. office.

“Well, I mean… I’m moving soon, somewhere out of Zuzu— My mom is probably packing up all my shit right now so we can move in with her new boyfriend.” Weariness etches lines of exhaustion on the stranger’s face as he rubs sleep from his eyes.

“Still, we’ll see each other again one day,” you smile, shielding your eyes from the rising sunlight, “I just know it.”

[castlebyersafterdark]

like period drama movies that turn into actual porn, with all the costumes and setpieces.

Y'all love prince will being served by his knight, but give me canon-accurate poor will byers and miserable rich boy Mike. This has me thinking about mike wheeler as a viscount or duke of some kind in a billowing white silk chemise and brocade waistcoat. expensive af 1700s clothing. knee high black leather boots. breeches tight on his ass. sweeping off a horse, cloak flying. storming through a giant palace with a dark frown on his face. brooding, closed off, emotionally stunted Michael. He gambles, he drinks, he swirls ladies around the dance floor, feeling utterly hollow inside. His family expect him to carry on the family line and marry - his mother has a whole line of women for him to meet at every ball and dinner. He scowls his way through it, but somehow that only makes the young ladies want him more.

And then there's Will, lowly stable boy who has worked at the palace with his groundskeeper family since he was born. He's always known who Mike is - how could he not? They're the same age. Mike was in tiny flouncy coats while Will wore hand-me-down woollen jackets from his brother. His mother is an excellent seamstress, darning their clothes again and again when her duties in the palace are finished. Once, as children, they'd played together, before Mike knew any better than to go poking around behind the stables on one of his adventures. They'd had a little game where they would knock on the doors around the palace and trick the staff into opening them before running away.

Will works in the stable every day, shiring the horses and keeping them pristine, and if anyone looked closely enough, his longing stare could be seen gleaming above his dirty collar when Mike comes in to collect his stallion for an early morning ride. Will allows himself to gaze a little too long as Mike disappears into the morning mist, down the huge gravel path of the estate and out of the distant gates. Mike is so elegant, so refined, such a magnificent rider. Will watches the way his thighs straddle the horse, the way he commands it and controls it.

As Will heaves straw, he curses his vivid imagination that won't stop conjuring images of a lonely morning interrupted by Mike, sweating after his ride, clambering down off his horse, walking closer, letting their hands brush as he gives Will the reins, sweat dripping on his brow, so close that Will can smell the heat coming off him and see the dark intensity in his eyes...

Meanwhile Mike rides hard into the countryside, his burning anger getting the better of him again, pushing the horse to it's limits until his thighs are aching. Throwing himself off when he reaches the river, stripping down to nothing and letting the water flow over his hot skin. The sunlight plays behind his eyelids and he pictures Will, sat on the grassy riverbank, watching him glide naked through the water with dark, steady eyes. Mike's heart races, and he lets his head slip under.

On his way back to the house, he sees a distant carriage. More ladies dressed like easter eggs for him to woo. More balls. More curtseys. More more more, but not what he wants.

In the end, Mike wasn't sure that he'd come, but then he saw the lantern in the stable snuffed out, and turned away from the window with his heart in his throat. He almost closed the curtains, but decided he liked seeing the moon. An image of moonlight on the curves of Will's bare ass came unbidden into his mind, and he squeezed himself in anticipation just as there was a knock on the door. A certain knock, one that no one else would ever know. One from long ago. The familiarity of it struck Mike, and suddenly he needed nothing more than to feel Will's skin beneath his hands.

Will, totally naked after Mike strips his tired woollen clothes off. Squeaking as he is hoisted into the air, wrapping his legs around Mike's waist and gripping on for dear life. Mike, wearing nothing but his silk chemise shirt, throwing him on to the giant four poster bed. The room strewn with their clothes, boots, waistcoat and wool. Mike bending over Will and spreading his legs, his chemise long enough to cover his ass but Will unable take his eyes of the long, hard cock that pokes out from underneath as Mike climbs on top of him. Writhing bodies, sweating in the candlelight as Will moans against the silk pillows, his hands caressing Mike's shirt and trying to tear it off, but it's too late, he's already lost, gone somewhere else, unsure of the sounds he's making or how to stop himself, and Mike is gripping him around the waist so tight that he might snap in two - flipping them suddenly so that Will straddles him, bouncing so hard he almost falls off the bed, grabs one of the bedposts, the other hand tight in mike's hair. Mike making sounds Will has only imagined in his wildest daydreams, soiling the fine bedclothes as he comes hard all over Will, all over the sheets, again and again, touching each other until the sun starts to appear over the distant hills out of the window and Will's eyes droop against Mike's tacky chest, falling into a sound sleep with Mike's large hand gripping his waist, his ass, holding him close and planting sleepy kisses anywhere he can reach.

Soon enough they're meeting up all around the palace, Mike sneaking Will in, Will shy about his dirty boots on the fine carpets, so polite and barely talking, and motormouth Mike with his quick wit and cynicism, utterly disarmed by Will's wide eyes and his careful hesitation, that can be so easily dismantled if Mike touches him in just the right way, or says just the right thing... Mike makes it his mission to have Will in the stable, somewhere private but dangerously exposed, living for the thrill of being found out so that he can be disowned for good and run away, as foolish and selfish as he knows that is.

Wow, this got out of hand. But seriously - this kind of shit is what we need in visual form!

❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️

[areyoufuckingcrazy]

Hi! I’m not sure if you’ve heard of Epic the musical and the song “There are other ways” but I was thinking a Tech X Reader where he gets lost and comes across a sorceress and she seduces him and it’s very steamy? Lmk if this is ok, if not feel free to delete. Xx

“There Are Other Ways”

Tech x Reader

Tech had been separated from the squad before. Statistically speaking, given the volume of missions they undertook in unpredictable terrain, the odds were precisely 3.8% per assignment. He should have been more prepared for it—should have accounted for environmental disruptions, latent electromagnetic fields, or the possibility of the forest itself being… alive.

Still, none of that explained why his visor fritzed out the moment he crossed the river.

Or why the fog grew thicker when he tried to retrace his steps.

Or why the trees whispered his name like they knew him.

“Tech…”

He halted. The voice came from ahead—feminine, melodic. Not from his comm. And certainly not Omega playing a prank. She didn’t sound like a dream.

His grip tightened on his blaster. “Reveal yourself.”

And you did.

You stepped from the mist as if you belonged to it. Bare feet sinking into moss, the water licking around your ankles. The moon crowned you, making the fine threads of your cloak shimmer like woven starlight. Your gaze was ancient. Curious. Smiling.

“I’ve been waiting,” you said, voice like silk over steel.

Tech’s eyes narrowed behind his visor. “Statistically improbable, considering I had no intention of entering this region of the forest, nor becoming separated from my unit.”

“Perhaps I saw what you could not,” you said, tilting your head. “Or perhaps I called, and you listened.”

He ran a diagnostic scan. No lifeforms detected. No hostile readings. The air was too quiet.

“Are you… Force-sensitive?”

You laughed—a soft, knowing sound that made his stomach tighten.

“I’m something like that. Does it matter?”

“It very much does. If you are a threat, I am obligated to neutralize—”

But you were closer now. He hadn’t seen you move. Your fingers touched the edge of his armor with something like reverence.

“I’m not a threat unless you ask me to be.”

His breath hitched. Just once. Just enough for you to notice.

“You’re… a clone trooper. The mind of your little unit.” You circled him slowly. “Always calculating. Always thinking. Never letting go.”

“I find control to be preferable to chaos,” he said sharply.

“And yet,” you whispered, stepping behind him, your hand brushing the nape of his neck, “you walked into the chaos anyway.”

His fingers twitched. He should have stepped forward. Should have recalibrated his scanner. Should have moved—

But he didn’t.

Because something about your presence tugged at the part of him he kept locked away. The part he filed under unnecessary. Indulgent. Weak.

“Your body,” you murmured, lips brushing the shell of his ear, “wants what your mind won’t allow.”

He stiffened.

You smiled, warm and wicked, stepping in front of him again, your fingers now brushing the soft lining between his chest armor and undersuit. “You wear this like a wall. But you’re still a man beneath it.”

“I am not… easily manipulated,” he managed, though his voice had dropped, deeper than he liked.

“I’m not manipulating you, Tech.” You met his gaze. “I’m offering you a choice. You can walk away. Return to your mission. Your team. Your purpose.”

You stepped closer, and his breath caught as your hand slid beneath the edge of his cowl, your touch feather-light. “Or you can let go. Just for one night. Just this once.”

He shouldn’t. He knew he shouldn’t. He could list a hundred reasons why this was an anomaly. A deviation. A risk.

And yet—

His hand came up, slowly, almost shaking. Not to stop you. To touch you. To feel you. To confirm you were real.

You leaned in.

“I can show you other ways,” you whispered.

Then your lips brushed his—tentative at first, waiting. And when he didn’t pull away, you deepened the kiss, slow and exploratory, as if trying to map the mind he kept so tightly wound.

Tech’s world tilted.

Because for the first time in years, he wasn’t thinking.

He was feeling.

And when he let his blaster fall to the moss, when his hands found your waist and pulled you against him, when he kissed you back with a desperation he didn’t know he had—

He wasn’t the mind anymore.

He was a man.

His breath stuttered.

Tech wasn’t used to this—not the heat rising in his chest, nor the sensation of lips ghosting down his neck like a whisper meant only for the softest, most hidden parts of him.

Your eyes drank him in—not with hunger, but with reverence. His freckles, his sharp cheekbones, the slight twitch in his jaw that betrayed the storm behind his glasses.

“You’re beautiful,” you said softly.

Tech blinked. “That is… an illogical observation.”

You smiled. “Then your logic needs reprogramming.”

He made a noise—half protest, half breathless laugh—but it caught in his throat when your hands touched the bare skin of his collarbone. Your thumbs pressed lightly into the muscles of his neck. Tech didn’t realize how tense he always was until he felt himself melting beneath your touch.

“Tell me to stop,” you whispered.

“I…” His voice caught. “I cannot.”

You nodded, leaning in until your forehead touched his. “Then don’t.”

He didn’t.

Instead, he kissed you—desperately this time, hands curling at your waist as if anchoring himself to something real, something grounding in the swirling chaos of magic and sensation.

You pressed against him, warm and solid and devastatingly soft. One hand curled into his hair, the other sliding beneath the edge of his armor as you slowly coaxed it free. Piece by piece, you helped him shed it—not forcefully, never rushing. Like a ritual. Like he was something sacred.

When the last plate fell into the moss with a thud, he stood before you stripped of all defenses, chest rising and falling in quiet, stunned silence.

“You’re still thinking,” you said gently, brushing your nose against his.

“I—always think,” he breathed.

“Then let me think for you tonight.”

He didn’t protest when you led him backward into the moss, the magic of the forest warming the ground like a living bed. You straddled his lap, kissing him slow, deep, like you wanted to memorize every stifled sound he made.

Tech’s hands roamed—tentative, reverent, needy. He touched like a man learning to live in his own skin for the first time. Every sigh, every moan, every tremble you pulled from him was a tiny rebellion against the order he clung to.

And gods—how he clung to you instead.

Your magic hummed beneath your skin, wrapping around his ribs like silk. It didn’t control him. It didn’t bend his will. It simply amplified everything he was already feeling, pulling him deeper into you, into this—the illusion, the escape, the exquisite loss of control.

Your mouths met again and again. His glasses were somewhere in the moss. His hands splayed along the curve of your back. And when you whispered his name, over and over, like it was the only truth left in the galaxy—

He whispered yours back like a prayer.

Like he had always known it.

Like logic had never mattered at all.

[galway-girlatwork]

Of Death and Butterflies

Fandom: Game of Thrones-This is all AU.

Okay...It's here. It took a while because I wanted it just right. I played around with a lot of mythology on this. If this is not your shot of whisky, scroll on by. As a talented, wise woman has said, “I write for me and share with you.”

Rating: Mature-There is angst, angst, smut, teeny tiny fluff.

WARNING: Talk of death and blood.

Central Characters: Oberyn, Lilith and Death

Central Relationship: Oberyn and Lilith (Original Female Character)

Word Count: 7,979

AO3

Please do not copy my work. If you liked it, please re-blog and tag me. Please do not steal the mood board, it was a gift by the lovely Freya. Stealing is just WRONG. I do not give permission to copy, translate, or post my work to any other platform.

This is for Freya’s Let’s Get Angsty writing challenge.

Freya, I had such a gut-wrenching time writing this. Thank you for letting me partake. I utterly adore you.

Jana, Thank you for your encouragement and telling me you loved it when it was just a baby.

Bre, Ryan and Carole, thank you for the support.

Love you guys

Music Inspiration:

I Will Find You-The Phantoms

Love The Way You Lie-Rihanna

Rescue-Lauren Daigle

River-Bishop Briggs

Whispers In the Dark-Skillet

Summary:

Everyone’s heard the stories of Lilith. Of how she came to be. But are the stories true? Is she really a demon or something else? She was not born of angels but created by Death himself. To walk between the land of the living and dead. But what happens when The Fates intervene and present her soulmate? Countless lives and re-incarnations have been lived and lost. Will Oberyn remember before another life slips between their fingers like sand?

Standing at the doorway, tracing the infinity tattoo on her wrist, the bright yellow glow a sharp contrast to pale skin. Remembering her father telling her that it was a symbol of her refusal to let go of him, the deep ache settling in her chest as she watched the man who didn’t remember her.

Time stood still as she remembered her past, his always elusive. She’d been hidden in a small town, unlike anyone else, skin pale as moonlight, with eyes that saw both past and future, she had moved through her life with an unsettling grace. Rumors always swirled around her, like the mists at midnight. Whispers of how she was the daughter of death but those were merely tales, weren’t they? Surely, she had to have been adopted, a stray taken in by Death, out of pity perhaps or some twisted dark humor. Suspend reality for a moment, how could Death have a daughter?

Truth be told, she couldn’t remember any of her earlier years. All she knew was that Death himself had raised her, taught her to read from ancient books and walk silently across any surface. He had shown her kindnesses too, in his own dark way. On birthdays, there would be a single black rose waiting by her bedside. On difficult nights, he would wrap his cloak around her like the world’s heaviest blanket, dark but oddly comforting.

He never behaved like other parents. He was distant but watchful, a presence that filled rooms even when he stood outside them, his scythe never far, for he was both a guardian and a reminder of what she was, of what she could become. Until him. Until his soul called to her darkness, his vibrancy a contradiction to her darkness. Of course she made her decision known to her father, wanting to claim humanity for this man. Oh but there would be consequences to this.

“Some things,” he murmured, “are better left unknown, child.”

“What would they be Father?”

“Once you know, there’s no going back. Knowledge is a door; once you open it, you cannot close it.”

She felt a shiver creep down her spine but nodded, unwavering. “I know this.”

Death took a slow breath, though he didn’t need to breathe, as if gathering his thoughts.

“You are my own,” he finally said. “But if you choose this path to humanity, he will never remember you when he passes and is reborn. You will be destined to live with him and then without him until you find him again. Until he can fully remember, without any of your powers, this is how it will be.”

“What? Why would you give such conditions? That is torture Father, harsh, even for you.” 

“You were born from a fragment of my own essence, a piece of my soul given life. I carved you from the fabric of eternity itself. You are…my legacy, my beginning, and my end.”

His words filled her with awe and dread. She was not just Death’s child; she was a part of Death himself, as eternal and unyielding as he was. She was made from the very stuff that shaped the boundaries of life and death.

Death watched her closely, his gaze softer now, almost…human. “It will not be an easy existence, but it is yours. It’s my hope,” he added, “that one day, you will understand the power and the burden that comes with it and forget him.”

For the first time in her existence, she hated him. She understood her destiny but she desperately wanted to bend and create her own. Belonging to both the world of the living and the domain of the dead, a bridge between the realms, was a treacherous path, one she was unsure she could navigate. But then she looked up, seeing him step into the room, sharp features illuminated by golden light, spilling in from the high windows, devastatingly handsome as he had always been in every life before this that she could remember. His roguish smile, combined with a piercing gaze, she knew she had no choice. To him, she was a stranger, just another woman who had stepped into his world. A woman who’d been looking for years to find him.

“You’ve been watching me,” his voice smooth but edged with curiosity. A tilt to his head, a playful smirk tugging at his lips. “Do I know you?”

Her heart clenched, her father’s cruel conditions, leaving her stranded in this moment, faced with the impossible task of rekindling memories buried by the sands of time. She forced a smile, though it didn’t reach her eyes. “Not yet,” she replied, her voice soft but steady.

Stepping closer, movements deliberate, predatory. “Then tell me, why do you look at me as if we share a history?”

Because we do, she wanted to scream. Instead, fists were clenched, nails biting into her palms. The succubus living inside her soul surged within her, whispering of the easy path—seduce him, ensnare him, make him yours, but she couldn’t. Oberyn deserved more than manipulation; he deserved to remember on his own.

“Perhaps it’s just curiosity,” she said instead, voice laced with a false confidence she’d mastered over centuries.

“Curiosity can be dangerous,” he murmured, eyes narrowing. “Especially with someone like me.”

“And yet,” she said, stepping closer, “I find myself drawn to the danger.”

For a fleeting moment, she saw something in his gaze—a flicker of recognition, a shadow of the man he had been, but it vanished as quickly as it had come, leaving her with only the ghost of hope.

That night, sitting by the fire in her chambers, mind replaying every interaction she had with him that day. She had tried to spark something, anything, that might awaken his memories, but it was as if the thread of their past had been severed beyond repair. Her father’s voice echoed in her mind, his cryptic warning: He will not remember, and it is up to you to make him.

“Why?” she whispered into the silence. The infinity tattoo burned on her wrist, the pain a cruel reminder of her fate. She had been destined for greatness, her father had said, not to be tied to a man. But what was greatness without love? Without him? Without the other half of her soul?

A knock at the door pulled her from her thoughts, wiping her face, she moved to open it, finding him on the other side, his expression unreadable.

“You haunt me,” he said simply, his voice raw. “I do not know why, but I cannot stop thinking of you.” When they had parted ways earlier in the day, he assumed she would be like every other woman that crossed his path, a body to use, she refused him, someone that was just a passing desire but he found that her presence lingered in the recesses of his mind, causing him to seek her out.

“Perhaps it’s destiny,” she offered, voice trembling slightly.

“Destiny,” he echoed, stepping closer, a hand brushing hers, and for a moment, the yellow glow of her tattoo illuminated his face, eyes widening, a flicker of something deeper sparking within them. “What are you to me?”

Swallowing hard, resolve crumbling. “Everything.”

Brows furrowed as he looked at her, his usual confidence wavering. “Why does it feel like I’ve heard those words before? As if they’re a whisper in the back of my mind, something I cannot quite grasp.”

“Because they are,” stepping back, wrapping her arms around herself, voice barely audible. “You don’t remember me, but I remember you. I remember everything.”

“Then tell me,” He urged, tone more desperate now. “Tell me who you are, who I was to you.”

She wanted to tell him, wanted to spill every memory, every detail of the love they had shared, of every life before this but she knew it wouldn’t be enough. Words alone couldn’t reignite the fire that burned between them in every time before this.

“It doesn’t work that way,” she whispered. “You have to remember on your own.”

His frustration was palpable, reaching out, cupping her face in his hands. “Then help me. Show me. I can feel it—this pull toward you. It’s maddening, like I’ve lost something vital and you’re the key to finding it.”

She could feel tears welling in her eyes, delicate hands wrapping around his wrists. “It’s not fair, that I remember and you can’t” she said, voice shaking. “This task is mine alone. One day, in another lifetime, you will remember, I swear.”

His thumb brushed away a tear that slipped down her cheek, bringing it to his mouth, he could taste the salt in it but there was something more, something tugging at him, like his soul wanting his mind to remember. “Then let us make new memories,” he said softly. “If I cannot reclaim the past, then give me the present. Give me you.”

“You don’t understand. If you don’t remember, we’ll never truly be whole. I can’t… I can’t lose you again.”

“Again?” His gaze hardened with determination. “I do not understand but I will remember. Even if it takes a lifetime, I will find the pieces. But you must promise me one thing.”

“What?” she asked.

“Don’t leave,” he said. “Whatever it takes, stay here with me. Let me prove to you that I’m worth remembering.”

She hesitated, the weight of her father’s warning heavy on her shoulders but as she looked into his eyes, she saw a spark of the man she had loved, the man she still loved, would always love.

“I will stay,” she said at last, voice firm despite the turmoil in her heart. “But you have to promise me something too.”

“Anything butterfly,” he said.

She gasped as he called her by the pet name he’d given her two lifetimes ago. She’d found it humorous since anyone who came near her felt nothing but darkness. “Promise me you’ll fight. No matter how hard it gets, no matter how much it hurts.”

He took her hand, pressing a kiss to her wrist, where the infinity tattoo glowed brighter than ever. “Always.”

Days turned to weeks, Lilith staying by his side, trying to guide him through the labyrinth of forgotten memories. Some nights, he would wake in a cold sweat, fragments of their past flashing through his dreams. Other nights, they would sit under the stars, her voice weaving stories of the life they had shared but just as he would remember, they would slip through his fingers like sand. Then there were nights she was above and below him, the sex so incredible, he swore he saw colors but when dawn came, some fragments stayed, others vanishing like the stars but he knew she clung to hope, like a life line, praying he would remember not just who she was but what they were together.

“When the sun rises tomorrow,” he said, his voice thick with determination, “I will announce our union to the court.”

“Oberyn, they will not accept me. I am nothing to them.”

“But you are everything to me.”

A hand gently cupped his cheek, palm brushing against the prickly stubble of his beard, as strong arms enveloped her. “As you are to me, love. But tread carefully and remember your promise”

She knew what was going to happen before it did but she could not warn him, it would go against the rules just as the succubus within was demanding she claim him, forcing him to remember. It was primal, tearing at her, knowing when he died, they’d have to wait another lifetime to find him.

The next day, she awoke to chaos. Screams and shouts, piercing and echoing off stone walls, one of the maids bursting into their chambers, telling her to hurry. He had been found lifeless in the palace gardens and upon seeing his body, throat slit from ear to ear, it felt as if she was being flayed alive. Being the daughter of Death, revenge was swift and oh so sweet, finding those that would take him from her, their blood soaking her skin as the ferryman approached, hand outstretched for payment. “You will get no payment from me nor them. Let them wander the shores, I care not.”

Returning home, devastated once more, her path a wake of destruction, she found her father, sharpening his scythe, the click of his tongue against the roof of his mouth in disapproval.

“Father why has this happened, you need to fix this, now. It is the closest I’ve been to him remembering. I can’t take this constant crushing hurt. We were so close.”

“I cannot. You know this. All the lives you’ve led with him will end the same, until he remembers. My child, you wanted your humanity for this man, this is the price you must pay for it.”

He watched his child collapse on the cold stone floor, great sobs wrenched from her soul, hating to see her in this kind of pain. Enveloping her within the folds of his cloak, shielding her from prying eyes, trying to give comfort as best he could. “Lilith, I must ask, is this man worth what you have gone through? What you will continue to go through?”

“Always father.”

Centuries later, the hum of modern London filled her ears as she sat in her corner office, typing away, stopping mid-sentence to adjust the cuffs of the blazer she was wearing. Modern clothes were so restrictive and quite frankly hideous. She missed the days of wearing flowing gowns, of feeling a breeze tease the fabric against her legs. Now the only time she wore them was on weekends. She would never understand the modern world and all the rules but she followed them like a bitch in heat, strung at the end of a leash.

Finger tips absently running over the tattoo, the soft yellow glow vibrating with her pulse. She knew he was here, his company on the cusp of going public. Sighing, pinching the bridge of her nose, knowing that they would have to start all over in this life. So many lifetimes that she’d almost lost count. Almost. In everyone they always got close but then he would be taken and she’d have to start over. In all the centuries his soul had started over in, none had come as close as the fourth one, when he had remembered the nickname, he’d given her. The butterfly, wings of vibrant yellow and earthy browns, decorated her other wrist, her father displeased with the defiance.

The intercom buzzed. “Miss Scott, Mr. Martel is here to discuss the merger.”

“Send him in.”

She rose, smoothing the black skirt, walking around her desk, nerves making her edgy and temperamental. As the door opened, he entered, his presence still commanding and familiar. For a moment, neither spoke but the handshake they shared felt electric, a jolt that sent flashes of another life racing through their minds. She let the handshake linger for another second or two, seeing the flash of recognition before it was gone. Her succubus, recognizing his soul, roared to life, clawing at heart and lungs, wanting to consume him. Inhaling a deep breath, holding for a count of five before slowly releasing it, she motioned to the chair in front of her desk.

“Mr. Martel, please have a seat.”

He had no idea what had just happened, the whole thing throwing him off balance. When they shook hands, flashes of memories, seared themselves into his sub-conscious. He saw her in a simple gown, smile radiant beneath the sun. Of endless nights beneath the brightness of stars. Of limbs and tongues tangled together, whispered words of love and lust, vibrant colors exploding behind eyelids as she came, his cock buried deep within her body.

“Do I know you?” His voice unsteady.

“Not yet.”

He’d heard those words before. More than once. He was so sure of it but it couldn’t be, could it?

She wanted to scream, let lose all of the rage and frustration. She wanted to rip her father apart for the endless loop of her life. Of finding him only to lose him again. She swore his determination at this game was more of a test than anything. Sitting down, fists clenched in her lap, those nails biting into her palms, forcing herself to remain composed when she actually wanted to slaughter the world. The weight of lifetimes pressed against her heart as she looked down. “So, let’s discuss the merger of your company with the one you are looking to buy.”

She could see the confusion etched into his features, the slight furrow of his brow, the way his lips parted as if he was about to say something more. But the conversation never switched from business to personal. Two hours later, all papers were signed and documented. “Well Mr. Martel, now that everything is in order,” Sliding a business card across her desk, a single black nail tapping the paper, “Should you need anything else before next week, please let me know.” Standing, she rounded the corner of the barrier between them and went to open the door. Suddenly large warm hands, wrapped around her upper arms, pinning her to the wall.

“I cannot shake this feeling that I know you but I don’t. I’ve never met you before today…” The urge to kiss her, to bury himself within her depths was primal, almost animalistic, mind flooding with images from somewhere in his sub-conscious. Her name rolled off his lips before he kissed her, mind and body coming alive almost as if they had been reanimated, the heat between them so intense, it could scorch the earth.

She was the one who broke the kiss, despite the desperate screams of the succubus, needing to breath. He was always so consuming when passion flared between them. “Oberyn.” She could hear her father’s voice, echoing in her mind, a cruel reminder of their fate.  

“My name from you sounds as if you have said a thousand times before today.”

“Because I have.”

He tilted his head slightly, studying her with a mix of curiosity and wariness. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“Exactly what it sounds like,” she replied, taking a step back.

Before he could respond, she turned and walked back to her side of the desk, heart heavy with the knowledge of what lay ahead. She couldn’t stop the cycle, couldn’t break free of it—not without him. But the question that haunted her more than any other was simple: Would this time be different?

“Good day Mr. Martel.” She was dismissing him, as if the kiss had never happened, knowing it would only be a matter of time before he found her. He was nothing if not persistent. This time, it only took two days.

The heavy wooden door rattled under his fist as he pounded against it again. The narrow street, cloaked in twilight, leaving the small village bathed in shadow. His chest heaved with barely contained anger and confusion as he stared at the intricate carvings on the door—symbols he didn’t recognize but felt unnervingly familiar. When the door creaked open, she stood there, eyes widening slightly before narrowing in a mixture of sorrow and resignation, the flowing black robe clinging to her frame like shadows, tattoo glowing faintly against the dusky light.

“Oberyn,” she said, voice a careful balance of warmth and caution.

“You knew it was me, didn’t you?” he growled, stepping forward until he was close enough to see the faint pulse at her neck, noticing that she didn’t flinch. “I need answers. Why do I keep dreaming of you? Of us? I’ve seen things—a life I can’t remember but feel like I lived. Tell me the truth.”

She sighed, stepping aside, gesturing for him to enter. Her home was small, dimly lit, the air heavy with the scent of hydrangea’s and something darker, more ancient. Candles flickered on every available surface, their flames casting shadows across the walls. Here, in this place, she didn’t have to hide behind a façade, didn’t have to pretend to blend in with the modernness around her.

“You always were persistent,” she murmured, closing the door behind him, turning to face him, her expression softer now but tinged with a subtle anguish. “There are rules, Oberyn. Rules I cannot break.”

He stepped closer, dark eyes blazing. “Enough with the riddles. You’ve been in my head. Faces, places, emotions I can’t explain, you’re always there. Why?”

Lips pressed into a thin line as she turned away, walking to the small table in the corner, fingers tracing its edge. “Because you’re meant to remember, all I can tell you are stories of the lives we’ve shared, the love we had. The memories of them, the feelings behind them? It’s all inside you but you have to unlock it yourself. That was the deal.”

“What deal? With who?”

“My father.”

 “Your father? This makes no sense Lilith. You speak in such riddles.”

“Frustrating, isn’t it? I can tell you everything,” she said quietly, voice barely above a whisper. “But if I force the memories, the cycle will never end.”

He stared at her, the weight of her words crashing down on him. “The cycle?”

She nodded, expression grim. “We’ve been here before, Oberyn. Many, many times. Each life, I find you. Each life, you remember too late, or not at all. And then…” Hesitating, voice breaking. “Then we’re torn apart again.”

“And what happens if I do remember? If I break this… cycle?”

Her gaze bored into his, fierce and unyielding. “Then we’re free. You and I. Free of the cycle that binds us. But the risk is yours to take. I cannot guide you, Oberyn. I can only share and hope.”

Stepping closer, his hands balling into fists at his sides. “I don’t care about rules or deals or your father. I care about you when I know I shouldn’t. I’m not leaving until I understand everything.”

Lips curved into a sad smile. “You’ve always been so stubborn, persistent, demanding. Things I love most about you. But this path, it’s yours to walk.”

For a moment, they stood in silence, the air thick with unspoken words, before he reached out, fingers twinning with hers. “If you remember everything, then tell me one thing only I would know.”

Hesitating, before leaning closer, voice a soft murmur against his ear. “You once told me that the stars reminded you of me. Because no matter how far away they seemed, they were always there, lighting your way.”

His breath hitched as the memory, dim and distant, flickered to life in his mind. A warm night, a sea of stars, and her laughter blending with the wind. His grip on her hand tightened for just a second or two before he let her go.  

She saw it, the flicker of something in his eyes, pupils dilating, the pause in breath. “Do you know how hard it is to have hope after so many centuries? I want to believe, to have faith but I don’t know if I can.”

“Te amo, Lilith.” Those words escaping his lips, without hesitation, without pause. It felt as normal for him to say it as breathing.

“And I you.” Those words had been spoken so many times, in so many different languages, Spanish being the last one.

The blackout curtains in her room blurred the line between night and day, casting the space in a perpetual twilight that made time feel irrelevant. Leaning against the headboard, the cool wood grounding him as his gaze stayed fixed on her, her breath, soft and steady, he couldn’t help but replay every moment they had shared. The weight of what had unfolded between them settled deep in his chest, equal parts exhilaration and disbelief.

When their lips met, it was more than a kiss, it was a spark igniting something primal and consuming within them. The intensity of it coursed through his veins, a heady rush that felt like fire and ecstasy all at once. She wasn’t just a fleeting distraction; she was an addiction, a pull so strong he doubted he’d ever be free of it. Laying back down, he gently traced her features with his fingertips, memorizing every detail, as if she might disappear the moment he looked away. The soft glow of the infinity symbol on her wrist, mesmerizing.

“Hasn’t anyone told you it’s rude to stare?” Eyes blinking open, his face inches from hers.

“Is it staring or admiring beauty?”

“I swear you have the tongue of a viper.”

“I am not being deceitful; I am being truthful.”

Moving, body now covering his, bare breasts crushed against the warmth of his skin. “Such a way with words. Tis no wonder woman threw themselves at you.” There wasn’t any hint of jealousy in her voice when she spoke, knowing there had been so many before she found him.

“Let’s go.”

“Go where?”

“Anywhere, I care not where, just as long as it is you and I.”

“Oberyn we can’t just run away.” Although she was wondering why they couldn’t. The job she had? A façade because she knew he would be here, in this time and place.

“It is really running away or is it wanting to be together?”

“How can I argue with such logic?”

“You can’t but first.” Flipping her over so that she was now beneath him, hands spread thighs apart, lips tracing a path down her neck, over the skin of a shoulder, feeling her shiver as his mouth suckled at the skin just above her breast before they wrapped around a nipple, teeth pulling at it until he could feel the hardness against his tongue.

A loud moan bubbled out of her as her back arched off the bed, enjoying the sensations that coursed through her. The demon within roared to life with the promise of him, needing the high only his soul could give them. He always left her breathless, needing more. Reaching down between them, she wrapped fingers around the hardness of him, feeling the warmth of his cock, using long strokes to tease him, feeling the vibration of his groan against her skin, hips thrusting into her hand. With each stroke, she could feel him growing harder and more eager. Increasing the pace, using faster strokes to bring him closer to release and just when it seemed like he was about to explode, she slowed down, teasing him with gentle touches that left him gasping for breath.

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity of foreplay, he pushed inside her with one swift motion, filling her completely with hard thick flesh, holding himself still for a moment, feeling her cunt spasm around him. Strokes were slow at first, wanting to drag out the pleasure for both of them but the way she gripped him, limbs wrapped his body, his pace became deeper and harder until her cries of pleasure echoed in his head.

Their bodies moved together in perfect sync, each thrust pushing them closer to release. Sweat dripped from his brows onto the sheets below, hearts pounding to the same rhythm. In end it wasn't possible tell whose moans were louder, whose body shook more violently but didn't matter because both knew exactly what other needed. She could feel the pad of his thumb brush against her clit, the orgasm so intense it threatened to drown them both as it fed her succubus, who would never get enough of the man above her. Power seeped from her pores as he came, seed scalding her womb, walls clenching around his cock, as he covered her with his body, warmth and weight seeping into her skin.

He didn’t know how long they laid that way before he rolled off of her, gathering her close, lips at her ear. “Such passion butterfly.”

Sitting up, she looked down at him, eyes wide before she leaned in, brushing her lips along his, body curling around him.

“What is wrong?”

“The nickname…Butterfly. You’ve said it before.”

“There is still something about you I cannot place, something that feels…ancient. It is something that tickled at the back of my mind. Is that why you have the tattoo on your wrist?”

Nodding against his chest, unable to form words, eyes drifting shut, remembering the past times he’s uttered the name. She wasn’t sure how much more of this she could take, of losing him, finding him. How many more lifetimes would she put herself through this before she simply gave up and claimed her birthright, heart heavy with the weight of truths. Wouldn’t it just be easier to simply let him go? She was tired, so very tired of the crushing pain every time he was ripped away from her.

Fingers found the hollow of jawbone beneath her chin, tilting her head back, seeing cheeks wet, he kissed the tip of her nose. “Where did you go butterfly?”

Shaking her head, she got up, wrapping silk around her, belt knotted tightly at her waist. “It matters not. If you want to go somewhere then let’s go. Anywhere. Spain, Italy, France.” She could feel it, the darkness edging around them, letting her know his time was coming. It could be weeks, could be months but however long they had, she didn’t want it to be here.

They’d been together two weeks, racing across Europe, desperately trying to shove as many memories into this life time as they could. Standing at the edge of the cliff, sun setting on the horizon, the edge of darkness was closing in faster than she wanted, knowing there was nothing she could do. Her father would soon come for him, the details, something she didn’t want to know. Be it natural or taken by force, his death would be her undoing and she would bath in blood, letting it soak her skin as she grieved yet another lifetime. Again, she wondered how many lives she could go through, how many times would she mourn before she stopped, finally letting him go.

Feeling the warmth of him against her back, arms winding their way around her waist, a faint smile given despite the crushing weight of what was to come.

“Hello lil butterfly. Where is your mind?”

“Everywhere.” Turning within his embrace, a palm resting on his chest. “Oberyn perhaps it is time for me to stop. To stop chasing something I shouldn’t have. It’s not fair to you. To constantly have my presence in your life. If I just let go, perhaps your soul could find peace instead of being tormented.” She could feel muscles tense beneath her hand, the way his expression darkened, feeling the shift of power between them. She’d been selfish, thinking she could be what she was and have some type of humanity but watching him die, over and over, with the hint of what could be, wasn’t fair to him. “Fate could give you what I cannot.”

The arm encircling her waist tightened as fingers curled possessively against the small of her back, his free hand came up to cradle her chin, tilting her face up so her gaze could meet his. “Do you think fate holds sway over me, Lilith?” voice low and steady. “Do you really believe that anyone could offer me something greater than you? You speak as if I am the victim but you, giving up, I do believe that would be the cruelest twist of said fate.” Thumb brushed against her jaw as he stepped closer, bodies almost flush, lips curled into a faint smirk. “You’ve told yourself a thousand times, haven’t you? That you are unworthy of what we are? You want to speak of everywhere? That is where you are. In my thoughts, dreams, every heartbeat.”

She hesitated for a moment, warmth spreading from her touch. “I love you more than my existence. It’s why I need to let you go. Human life is so much shorter. You need to live a full life, one where you grow to be a hundred, to have babies, to have all the things that are always taken from you because of me.”

“Lilith, none of that matters if it is not with you. Why can you not you understand that? I would rather go through a thousand lifetimes with glimpses of you, than one in which I never feel the way I do right now. I love you more than my soul. I care not how much time I have in any life as long as you are in it.”

As he slept that night, she grew restless, slipping from the bed, trying not to wake him, she opened door of their room and stepped into another that was foreign to her. Shock rooted her to the spot, and when she turned to go back, the doorway was gone. True she walked the land of the dead and the living but ending up someplace else…Yea that was new. The room was impossibly quiet, the kind of silence that stole your breath and in front of her was a spinning loom, threads weaving images of lives long gone and those yet to come. An almost ethereal figure sat at the loom, she was neither young nor old, eyes shining with smile.

“Come closer child.”

“I think I am fine where I am thank you.”

“Do you know why you are here? It is because Death thought himself clever but even, he cannot rewrite the destiny of another without consequence.”

“You’re one of the fates, aren’t you? What do you mean by consequence?”

“Such a clever child.” Hands hovered over the loom, tugging at a golden thread that pulsed, tangled with one that was inky black. “His soul is tethered to yours, always has been. But your father, severed his memories to spare you the constant pain of loss when in reality, your pain cries out to the old gods when he is taken from you. It was not Death’s choice to make.”

“I don’t understand. Why would he do such a thing? Why take from me what is mine?”

“Because Oberyn’s love for you would bind you to the mortal realm and you have a destiny far greater than being his lover, his wife. You are meant to take your fathers place when the time comes.”

Stepping forward, voice laced with determination. “That is not my choice nor my path.”

The Fate, shook her head, a small smile tugged at the corner of her lips. “It has always been your path my child but we are not without mercy. There is a way to restore all to Oberyn, every life, every love, every moment shared with you but it comes with a price.”

“Doesn’t everything?”

“True. When Oberyn passes in this lifetime, you will have to be the one to guide him to the afterlife. Then you will take your father’s place as Death itself. You will become all that he is. The ferryman, the reaper, the shepherd of souls and you will no longer walk among the living. It is of course your choice to make. Just know that if you choose a different path, the cycle will never be broken. The bond between you both will weaken and eventually his soul will be lost to you forever.”

The weight of Fate’s words carved their way into her heart. “What if I just let it all go now, what would come to pass?”

“His soul would be taken, never to come back into a body. We are offering you this life, children to be born of the union. Children that were taken from you both, many lives ago. Human children that were destined for great things. Hence the knot of threads.”

She thought about every life they’d had together. How his was always cut so short because of her. How every time he passed, it destroyed a little piece of her. Now? They could have a full life. Together. They could chase every sunrise, exist under the stars and never have the fear of that darkness edging around their lives. Voice steady despite the storm raging inside her at what would come to pass after. "Do it. Give him his memories back. And when the time comes, I’ll take my father’s place."

The Fate nodded; her expression inscrutable. "So, mote it be."

She watched in awe as with a wave of her hand, the loom began to turn, the golden thread untangling and rejoining the black strands.

“When he awakens, he will remember all. Past and present. The mark on your wrist will fade by morning. That is when you must face Death. Love fierce and free my child.”

As Fate disappeared, the weight of her decision settled over her. The darkness that was edging around them now gone from her sight and on the morrow, they could begin anew.

She was jerked awake by the dream she’d had. It had to have been a dream, right? In all the years of her existence, she’d never met any of the Fates, remembering that there were those who believed they were even more powerful than the Gods themselves, at least that is what she’d been told. Shaking her head, cursing imagination gone wild, she got up, the robe wrapped around her, she stepped out onto the balcony that joined their room, watching oranges blend into blues as the sun rose over the ocean.

The dreams were relentless, like a montage of things from lives that belonged to him but didn’t. Chambers were bathed in soft orange light from a dawn so many lives ago, its vividness lingering like the scent of flowers after a storm. Silk sheets were pooled at his waist and he could see her, Lilith, eyes focused on him, her laugh soft but lethal, teasing the edges of his mind. Her touch was warm like the sun, setting his skin on fire when he touched her, always yearning for her. But the dreams weren’t what unnerved him the most, it was the memories that flooded him of them. He had been a Prince, she’d been nothing. She’d been a scholar, he’d been passing through the land, seeking shelter. He’d been a bloodied warrior; she’d been his bride. In every life, she’d found him, memories now cascading over him like an unrelenting tide but each one ended the same. Pain, loss, the ache of separation. Over and over, their fates intertwined, his memories, long buried under layers of mortal existence, came rushing back. Waking with a sharp inhale of breath, heart pounding like war drums echoing in his chest, he looked to the empty space next to him, panic causing him to scramble from bed, her name called out. “Lilith?”

Stepping back into the room, seeing him standing there, brows knitted together in fear. “I’m here,” she said quietly, voice a gentle balm against his panic. Walking towards him, she palmed his cheek, eyes searching his. “What’s wrong?”

“I remember.”

“What?”

“I remember. All of it. Spain. That was the last time before now. Every life, you find me. Every life you lose me. How could you endure it?” Wrapping his arms around her, he pulled her close. “Butterfly, I do not understand but I remember everything.”

Voice barely a whisper, knees almost giving out at the shock. “It was real. All of it. I thought it a dream.”

“What dream?”

Stepping out of his embrace, she sat on the edge of the bed and told him about the Fates, the loom, the yellow and black threads, the tangled mess they had weaved. How The Allotter had been angry for her father defying them, making his own destiny for her, that they would grant them mercy and allow him to remember. However, she left out the choice she’d made, that when this life was over, she would become what she was meant to be and he would, again, never remember her. She’d decided in that moment, to never let him know, that it would be her secret to keep. She watched as he came to his knees in front of her, arms wrapping around her waist. She didn’t realize she was shaking with the implications of what had actually happened. Heart pounding behind bone. Doubt, like vines, creeped through ribs, threatening to strangle. “Tell me something you remember.”

“A palace. A night beneath the stars. You told me stories of other lives before that one. A knight. A traveler. I was a Prince; you said you were nothing. Egypt. Italy. Spain. I remember all.” He held her close as he stood, nose rubbing against the skin below her ear, feeling the erratic pulse against her throat. “Do not question the how or the why, Butterfly. Just exist in this moment with me.” Lips dragged along the column of her throat, before teeth nipped at her earlobe. “I love you.”

The glow of the infinity tattoo had drawn Death himself to their moment of clarity, and as Oberyn and Lilith stood entwined, the air grew cold, shadows creeping around them until the room was plunged into darkness, words whispered against his lips before she turned, hand holding his. “Do not let go, no matter what.”

A figure emerged from the void—tall, imposing, and cloaked in an aura of eternal stillness.

Death’s presence was undeniable, commanding reverence and fear, yet she held her ground.

“Father,” she said, her voice steady despite the turmoil in her heart.

Death’s hollow eyes, void of emotion, turned to her. “You’ve defied me, Lilith.” His voice was like the rustling of ancient leaves, cold and unrelenting. “You’ve chosen to squander your destiny for a fleeting mortal love.”

Stepping forward, shielding Oberyn as if her defiance could protect them both. “It’s not fleeting, Father. You know this. Have known this. For hundreds of years. Oberyn was my destiny. You kept it from me.”

“Because you were meant for greater things,” Death replied, his tone sharp. “The daughter of Death is not meant to linger in humanity’s frailty. You are power, Lilith, eternal and untouchable. Yet you throw it away for him.” He cast an icy glance at Oberyn, who stood firm, unbowed, his gaze boring into Oberyn, as though weighing the mortal’s soul. “He cannot fathom it. I could unmake him with a thought.”

“The Fates will not allow it and you know this. How many children, human children were lost to us? Human children, Father. The Allotter told me everything. They were destined for great things but you took them from me. From us. You had no right.”

For a long moment, Death said nothing. The silence oppressive, heavy with the weight of millennia. Finally, he took his child’s hand. “You disappoint me,” he said quietly, though the words cut deeper than any shout. “You’ve chosen humanity, knowing it will strip you of what you are. You will age, weaken, and die, like all mortals. And yet, you stand here, unrepentant.”

Lifting her chin, tears brimming in her eyes, holding tight to both hands. One tethering her to her past, the other anchoring to her future.  “I choose this because he is the other half of my soul. The soul you gifted to me when you created me. You made me what I am, someone who could walk both worlds. It is my choice.”

Death’s form seemed to flicker, the edges of his presence blurring. For the first time, a glimmer of something softer passed through his eternal visage—regret, perhaps, or sorrow.

“So be it,” he said, his voice carrying the weight of finality. “From this day forward, you are no longer my daughter. You are mortal, bound to the same laws of time and death as the man you’ve chosen.”

The tattoo dimmed completely, fading into her skin until it was no more. She felt the shift instantly—her powers, the divine connection she’d always known, slipped away like sand through her fingers. “I will see you again, Father,” she said softly, watching as he simply vanished, leaving them alone, the heat of the rising sun bringing warmth and light back to the room. Turning to Oberyn, a now mortal heart racing in her chest, head tilted slightly, waiting for something, judgement perhaps, fear but his features showed none of it. Instead, he cupped her face, his lips pressing against her forehead. Eyes closed as she let out a shuddering breath before pressing herself to him, needing to feel, to have him close, wanting to climb into his skin and curl up beneath his heart, knowing they would only have this one last lifetime together. “I love you.”

“And I you Butterfly.”

Turning her, pressing his front to her back, lips finding the muscle of her shoulder, he pushed her forward, until she fell onto the bed, positioning himself on top of her. Fingers finding their way to her clit, gently pressing against it, already feeling her wetness, while a hand slipped around her throat, grip firm but not constricting, feeling her press against the raging hard on he had. “So beautiful.”

His weight was like the sun, warmth sinking into her skin, settling deep in the marrow of her bones. She could feel the orgasm already building, feeling his hardness against her folds, sent shivers down her spine, causing her to arc her back slightly, a silent plea for him to continue. His hand around her throat only added to the intensity of the moment, a gentle reminder that she was surrendering control to him. His movements were slow, deliberate, fingers teasing every ounce of pleasure from her, soft moans muffled by the pillow, his grip tightened slightly. She could feel herself getting closer and closer and when the orgasm ripped through her, he buried himself within her, cock twitching as she clenched around him.

“Beautiful butterfly, coming apart underneath me.” God she was so tight, her slick soaking the sheets as she rode out her orgasm around her. It took every ounce of strength he had to not come, as he kissed along her shoulder, feeling how supple she was, he pulled out just until the head of him was inside before he drove his hips forward. He could feel deep connection he had with her. This wasn’t just about the physical act, it was how trusting she was of him, of how she laid her self vulnerable to him. How her soul had claimed his. Movements became harder, faster, needing to feel her again, an edge of desperation seeping from him.

His name came from slightly parted lips as she came again, feeling the flutter of her walls as he drove into one more time before she felt the pulsing of his cock as he came, his heart pounding against her back, teeth finding her shoulder, the pressure of the hand around her throat, instantly slack, holding her to him. Despite the choice she made, knowing that when this life was over, she’d have to let him go, she knew she was exactly where she wanted to be-under him, surrounded by his strength, his love and his passion.

Rolling to his side, taking her with him, bodies still connected, tongue soothed the spot where he bit her, feeling the indentations of teeth marks. “Forgive me. Tis a sin to mare such beauty.” He groaned when she moved, feeling himself, somehow still semi-hard, leave the warmth of her body. Her lips were at the base of his throat, kissing and suckling at sweaty skin. “Marry me, Butterfly. Then we will go anywhere you choose. Just tell me where, where would you like to go?”

Slightly pulling back, head tilted up, eyes finding his. “Everywhere.”

@almostfoxglove @guiltyasdave @604to647 @morallyinept @tinyglamdramaqueen @pedgito @whocaresstillthelouvre @ease-out-the-clutch @littlemisspascal @jolapeno @kittyfox1107

Dividers by @saradika-graphics

[apoloadonisandnarcissus]

"The Demon" by Mikhail Lermontov, and parallels with Sauron x Galadriel

This idea was pitched to me by @leto97, and now I can't get it out of my head. Because the parallels are, indeed, mindblowing. And to a degree that might suggest the show writers actually took inspiration from this to write Galadriel and Sauron’s story in “Rings of Power”. Can this poem offer some predictions for Season 3, or Season 4?

This poem, "The Demon", is by a Russian poet and is considered a masterpiece of European Romantic poetry, tells of a Demon who falls in love with — and attempts to seduce — a Georgian princess, Tamara. Can he be redeemed by love? Will Heaven even allow it?

Full text here, or here.

1. The Repentant Demon

The somber Demon [Sauron], banished from the heights, Soared aimlessly above the sinful earth, And memories of better days gone by Kept crowding countlessly before his eyes — Those days when he, secure in light’s abode, Shone radiant, a cherub free from stain; When incandescent comets, shooting past, Would pause and lovingly reciprocate His hailing smile of fond benevolence; Those days when, through the timeless mists of space, Desiring knowledge, he would keenly track Nomadic caravans of shining stars Strewn out by God across the dark expanse; Those days when he believed — when he still loved! Divine Creation’s fortunate first-born! [Mairon, the Maia of Aulë] He knew no spiteful enmity, no doubt, Nor was his mind yet menaced by the thought Of barren ages in an endless train… So much, so much was his, that all of it He hadn’t strength enough to recollect!

Long since expelled from Heaven, he now roamed The desert of this world, without repose; One age after another passed for him Just as the minutes pass for humankind: In an unending and unchanging stream. And in dominion o’er this paltry earth, He sowed great evil — but without delight. [corrupted by Melkor/Morgoth] For nowhere did this artistry of his Meet with resistance in the hearts of men — And he grew tired of evil’s tedium.

2. First Meeting with the Princess

A great and lofty house, a sprawling court, [the raft] Did grizzled old Gudal decree be built. Much toil and many tears did that house cost [shipwreck] The long-enduring slaves who raised its walls. From dawn, its shadow creeps across the slopes Of mountains ’round the rock whereon it looms; And in that rock a staircase has been hewn, Descending from a turret to the stream; And down those stairs — a glimmer, now and then — A figure hurries, in a cloak of white: It is the princess — young Tamara [Galadriel] — who Descends to the Aragvi with her pail. [ship to Valinor]

Indeed: the Demon saw her. In a flash Some agitation inexplicable Arose within him, not to be denied; The silent desolation of his soul Was filled now by a glad, salvific sound — And once again he knew the sanctity Of love, of all that’s good and beautiful! Long, long did he now linger to admireThe precious spectacle — and long-dead dreamsOf his past glory, like an endless chain.Of star strung after star strung after starProcessed before his eyes as he looked on. And, shackled by some great but unseen force, He grew acquainted with a newfound pain: For sentiment began to speak within Him — in his long-abandoned native tongue. Were all these signs but preludes of rebirth? [redemption] His menaced heart sought refuge in his mind, And scoured it for shrewd and sneering words — But no! Forgetting was forbidden him By God. Indeed, he wished not to forget!

Down at the river raging far below — Here every step was fraught with threat of death! Great cliffs loomed to the left — and, to the right, The fatal torrent roared, tempestuous. [tempest at sea] It had grown late. Upon the snowy peak The blush burned out. An evening mist arose... And so the caravan picked up its pace.

3. The Dead Groom [Husband]

But on this day a great feast is at hand; The zurna sounds as wine begins to flow. Soon old Gudal [Finarfin] will see his daughter wed; He bade the whole clan gather for the feast. There, on the roof, with carpets rich bespread, The young bride sits among her friends, and laughs; With carefree games and songs her wedding eve Goes by. And evening falls: from distant peaks The half-disc of the sun still spills its rays; The revelers, now clapping rhythmically, Burst out in song, and watch the lovely bride Take up her tambourine and start to dance. Behold, how with her hand so delicate She twirls the tambourine above her head — One moment fluttering just like a bird, The next she sinks, alights — and, looking round, Her moist eyes glimmer softly from beneath [...] This was the last time she would ever dance. She well imagined what the future held — Alas! — for Gudal’s heir and only child [Galadriel is Finarfin's only daughter, and only surviving child], For one as used to freedom as was she: The woeful station of a wife enslaved; A homeland, new and as of yet unknown, And equally unknown [Doriath, Middle-earth] — her husband’s kin [Celeborn, prince of Doriath] So, now and then, a surreptitious doubt Obscured the smiling features of her face; And yet her every movement, as she danced, Was so full of expression and of grace, Of effortless and sweet simplicitiy,

Galadriel: Celeborn was his name. We met in a glade of flowers. I was dancing and he saw me there. Theo: You were dancing? Galadriel: The war seemed so very far away then. When he went to it, I chided him. His armor didn't fit properly. I called him a silver clam. I never saw him again after that. Rings of Power, "The Eye", 1x07

4. Demon In Love

In drops of water glistening like pearls, Upon a body beautiful as hers! Nor has the hand of any mortal man Been blessed to dance across a lover’s brow And unbraid hair as sumptuous as this. No! Never, since the loss of paradise — [the light of the lost Two Trees of Valinor shines on Galadriel's hair] I swear it! — had a flower such as she Spread wide its petals ’neath the southern sun.

For lo, the Demon, clever in deceit, Did rile his fancy with a guileful dream, And in his mind, concealed by darkest night, His lips caressed the lips of his new bride.

“Cry not, dear child, cry not — you cry in vain! Your precious tears will not, like living dew, Fall vivifying on that voiceless corpse: Their water will but blur your brilliant gaze, Their fire will but burn your virgin cheeks! Your groom is far away; he will not see The grief you bear, nor will he know its worth; The fleshless gaze of his transfigured eyes Is now caressed by Heaven’s blessed light; His ears now hear the songs of Paradise… What are the trifling dreams of earthly life, The moans, the tears of some unhappy girl, To one who knows undying happiness? No, no, my dear! A mortal being’s death — My earthbound angel, please believe my words! — Could never, ever be deserving of A single moment of your precious grief! [Sauron sees Galadriel's grief, and asks for her forgiveness]

5. The Demon Reveals Itself

Tamara - Who are you? Oh, how dire the words you speak! Did heaven send you to me, or did hell? What do you want?… The Demon - How beautiful you are! Tamara - No, tell me who you are! Give answer, now..!

The Demon: I am the one whose voice you heard before Amidst the silence of the midnight hour — The one whose thoughts were whispered to your soul, And whose unending sadness you discerned. I am the one whose form you saw in dreams; I am the one whose very gaze kills hope; I am that wretched one whom no one loves; I am the scourge of all my earthbound slaves; I am the king of knowledge — freedom, too; The enemy of heaven, nature’s bane. And now, behold — I fall upon your feet, And bring to you — you, whom I so admire — A quiet prayer of neverending love, I bring to you the first pain I have felt, The first tears I have shed upon this earth. Oh! Hear me — only out of pity! — For You must know: you could, with but a tender word, Restore me unto heaven, unto good; And, in the sacred mantle of your love Once clothed, I would in love arise anew, A newborn angel, newly radiant. Oh! Only hear me out, I pray you, please! — I am your slave — And now declare my love! The moment when I first set eyes on you, I first began to secretly despise My immortality, my evil might; Despite myself, I first came to desire The incomplete and earthly joys of men; It pained me not to live the life you know — And how I dreaded life apart from you! Thus in my bloodless heart a sudden ray Of light has broken forth, to shine, to live — While all my sorrow, deep in that old wound, Keeps stirring, like a serpent long asleep. What is eternity, without you there? What good, the boundlessness of my domain? They’re nothing, save for empty, ringing words, A sprawling church — with no divinity! Tamara: Begone, O clever spirit! Leave me be, And speak no more! I cannot trust you, friend! O Lord, Creator, hear me!… What is this? I cannot pray!… My poor deluded mind Is by some deadly venom overcome! Your words would doom me to the fires of Hell, Your words are fire and poison, nothing more... [Sauron reveals himself to Galadriel]

6. The Demon Temptation (he asks the Princess to help him achieve redemption)

There is an ocean vast, ethereal, Where without rudders, without masts or sails, Drift effortlessly, through eternal mists, The graceful choirs of luminaries bright; Across the boundlessness of heaven’s fields Roam sinuous and sheep-like flocks of clouds Intangible, and leaving not a trace; The hour of parting, or reunion’s hour Means neither joy nor misery to them; For they no longing for the future know, Nor do they feel regret about the past. You too, my dear, need only think of them On days of harrowing adversity; Be too, like them, without a single care, Without concern for any earthly thing! [Sauron tempt Galadriel into joining him]

7. The Demon torments the Princess

As soon as night, its somber shroud outspread, Obscures the towering Caucasian peaks, And the entire world below, bewitched By some enchanted word, falls still, And nothing moves, save for some withered grass Stirred by the wind that steals along a cliff And soon inspires a bird that shelters there To spread its wings and flutter in the dark, [Galadriel is tormented by visions of Sauron, via Nenya]

For surely you have noticed: day by day I’m wilting, victim of some poison vile! A clever spirit surely torments me With some dark dream that I cannot resist; I’m lost, my end is near — take pity, please! [Tamara tells her kin she's being tormented by a "clever spirit" and needs to escape it = Galadriel tells the same to Elrond]

8. The Demon visits the Princess

While far below, beneath the vineyard vines, Insatiably imbibing heaven’s dew, A flower spreads its petals in the night — As soon, I tell you, as the golden moon Ascends the sky in silence o’er the peaks, To steal a loving glance at you, my dear... It’s then that I’ll come flying to your side, And linger with you till the morning star, And waft delightful dreams of purest gold Upon the silken lashes of your eyes...” [Sauron comes for Galadriel, at last, in Season 2]

And then the wondrous voice withdrew from her, And, word by word, its music died away; Now startled, she jumps up and looks around... A painful longing, inexpressible, Now seized her breast; and nothing, next to this, Was any sadness, fear, or ecstasy: Her every passion seethed within her heart; It was as if her soul had burst its chains, And flames were coursing through her every vein — [Sauron stabs Galadriel with Morgoth's crown]

And that same voice, so gloriously new, Seemed still to resonate from ear to ear. Near morning, at long last, a longed-for sleep Sank down and shut her weary, reddened eyes; But sleep too stirred her disconcerted thoughts With some uncannily prophetic dream: A visitor had come from far away, And, radiant with rays of unseen suns,

He stood there, gently bowed above her bed; He stood there — and his loving gaze beheld Her with such sadness, with such tenderness — And with, it seemed, compassion most profound. This was no angel sent there from on high; No guardian ordained for her by God; No halo spun from iridescent rays Adorned the locks that ringed that handsome face. Nor yet was this some awful fiend of Hell, Enduring torment for his many sins — No, no! He looked like lucid evening — Not night, not day — not dark, not light!

8. The Princess choses "death" to resist the Demon

Give up your child, bereft of sanity, To the most holy convent’s certain care, Wherein our Lord and Savior all sustains; Before His Face I’ll pour my every tear. No smiles, no joys are left me in this world… Like relics shrouded in serenity, May I too find the shelter of a cell — As of a tomb — long, long before my time…” [Galadriel jumps to her death to escape Sauron]

9. The Princess is sent to a Sanctuary by her kin, to protect her from the Demon

So, to a monastery far away [future Rivendell]Her kinfolk [Elves] sorrowfully sent the girl,And there in modest clothes, from sackcloth sewn, She humbly wrapped her ever youthful breast.

9. In spite of her prayers, the Demon's temptation and her desire for him still endure on her heart

But still, beneath her nun’s attire — just as It had beneath a dress of patterned gold — That same illicit, sinful fantasy Kept beating in her heart, unfadingly. Before the altar, in the candlelight; Amidst her solemn, sacred songs of praise;

Amidst her prayers, the same familiar voice Would oft assail her ears with tempting words. Along the gloomy temple’s mighty vault, A shape she seemed to know would sometimes glide, Without a noise, with no trace left behind, Through clouds of incense rising weightlessly. He shone there, silent, like a star, and lured Her, called to her... Where would he have her go?

What happens next in the poem? Hypothetical predictions for Season 3?

1. The Demon lingers around the sanctuary

In the poem, the Demon goes to the monastery to claim the princess. At first, he hesitates and does not dare to enter, and “violate their blessed sanctity”: 

A shroud ethereal of evening mist In darkness clothes the sleeping Georgian hills. True to his custom, in the still of night, The Demon flew about the cloister walls. But for a long, long while he didn’t dare To violate their blessed sanctity. Indeed — if for a moment — he seemed poised To cast aside his merciless intent. There, lost in thought beside that lofty wall, He paced about — and where his footsteps fell, The leaves would tremble in the windless shade. Again he lifts his gaze: again he stares Into her window, where the lamp still shines: [the sun still shines?] Long has she waited, waited for someone! And then, amidst the all-embracing quiet, Some graceful fingers strum the chonguri, And suddenly a lovely song resounds; Its notes drift forth, and play without respite, As measuredly as tear falls after tear. So tender, so exquisite was the song That it might well have come here from on high, Composed in heaven for this sinful earth! How like an angel’s voice — an angel who Desired to see some long-lost friend below, And secretly descended from the clouds To sing to that dear friend of days gone by To lend some sweetness to their suffering... And thus love’s ache, love’s longing restlessness, First pierced the Demon’s heart — and, knowing now The fear that love entails, he wished to flee, To flee — and yet his wings refused to move! What miracle is this? A heavy tear Falls from his faded eyes — falls to the ground — And to this very day, outside that cell, Beneath that window, one can see a stone Burned straight through by a tear as hot as fire — By an infernal and inhuman tear!

2. The Demon's love for the Princess is too strong for him to stay away

Eventually, the Demon decides to enter the sanctuary, and confess his love for her: 

He enters now — his heart prepared to love, His soul no longer shutting out the good, Believing that a long-awaited life — A new life — a new day — was now to dawn. The vague anxiety of boundless hope, The fear that lurks in mute uncertainty — These unfamiliar feelings filled his soul, These feelings known to all who have known love. Alas, they did but augur things to come!

3. The Demon fights a God's messenger to get to the Princess (and wins)

When the Demon enters the sanctuary, he discovers a "agent of God" is there, protecting the princess’s soul against him:

He enters, looks — and looming there, beholds God’s messenger, the guardian angel who Stood watch above that sinner beautiful, His brow bathed in a pure celestial light, His smile impassive, and his shining wings Protecting her from her soul’s enemy; And suddenly a ray of Heaven’s light Shone forth and smote the Demon’s unclean eyes; Where words of love might have caressed his ears, An onerous reproach now thundered forth: “O restless spirit, full of wickedness, Who called you here in midnight’s tranquil dark? There are none in this place who worship you; Nor has the breath of evil breeched these walls. Dare not transgress, dare not in sin draw near To one I hold in love and sanctity. I bid you speak: who summoned you?” To this, The evil spirit glowered in reply, His gaze now burning red with jealousy; And in his demon’s soul again was stirred That age-old poison — hatred of the good. “She’s mine!” he bellowed, with abysmal might. “Abandon her, for I have laid my claim — While you, her guardian, have come too late, And you are not to judge her, or judge me. Upon her heart, replete with sinful pride, I have already set my awful seal; There’s nothing sacred here for you to save; Here, I am master now; here I now love!” The Angel, overcome, with eyes downcast, Looked one last time upon the wretched girl, And slowly, beating high his shining wings, He rose, and plunged into a sea of light.

4. The Demon confesses his eternal love for the Princess

Coming out victorious of his fight against this “Angel of Light”, the Demon eventually gets to the princess, and confesses his eternal love for her: 

Tamara - So why, why do you now profess your love? The Demon - Why do I love you, lovely girl? Alas, I do not know myself! I only know That, full of newfound life, from my vile brow I’ve finally removed my crown of thorns, And cast it — all that was — into the dust. My heaven and my hell are in your eyes; I love you with an otherworldly fire; I love you in a way you cannot love: With all the ecstasy, with all the force Of thoughts immortal, and immortal dreams. For since the world began, deep in my soul, Your captivating image was engraved; Long did that image drift, beyond my reach, Through the eternal ether’s wilderness; Long, long disquieting my every thought, The sweet name you now bear did sound to me; And in those days of bliss, in paradise, You were the only blessing that I lacked. Oh, if, poor girl, you could but understand What neverending anguish I have known! [...]

5. The Princess is conflicted: she loves the Demon but wants to be on God's side

The princess still resists the Demon, and accuses him for stealing her peace, and tormenting her, but she’s conflicted because she’s in love and wants the Demon in her heart:

Tamara - Hush, hush, someone might hear us! The Demon - We’re alone. Tamara - But God sees all! The Demon - He will not deign to look: He has eyes but for Heaven — not for earth! Tamara - And what of punishment? The fires of Hell? The Demon - What of them? You will share their flame with me! Tamara - Be who you may, my uninvited friend — You’ve robbed me of my peace forever... Yet — Poor sufferer! — I cannot help but hear Your tale of sorrow with a secret joy.  But what awaits me if your feeling’s feigned? Or what if you, concealing some deceit... Have mercy, please! What love do I deserve? Of what good is my wretched soul to you? Could I mean any more to God above Than all the girls who did not draw your eye? Alas, they too are good, and beautiful, Their chaste sheets too, like those on this nun’s bed, Were never crumpled by a mortal hand... No! You must swear a sacred oath to me... You must tell me — for you can see my tears; You can discern this sinful woman’s dreams! How could you help but strike fear in my soul? But still — you understand, you know all things, And surely you will show me charity! So, swear to me... That, from this moment forth, You do renounce all things acquired in vice — Or can it really be that there remain No oaths or promises you will not break?

6. The Demons promises to abandon his evil pursuits, if he can have the Princess' soul, for them to be together

Then, the Demon makes the ultimate love confession, in which he swears to abandon all of his evil pursuits for her, and take her to heaven, where they can be together:

The Demon - I swear to you now — by creation’s dawn, I swear to you now — by its final day, I swear by evil’s base ignominy, And by the triumph of eternal truth, And by the bitter torment of defeat, And by the short-lived dream of victory; And by the hope of seeing you again, By separation menacing anew. I swear to you now by the spirit hosts, And by the fate of demons in my thrall, And by the swords of angels passionless — Those ever-watchful enemies of mine; I swear to you by Heaven and by Hell, By all that’s holy on this earth — by you: I swear to you now by your final glance, And by the first tear that you ever shed, And by the breath of your unspiteful lips, By every ringlet of your silken locks; I swear to you by bliss, by suffering — And more than all of this: I swear by love. I now renounce my lust for cold revenge; I now renounce my every prideful thought; From this day forth, false words of flattery I will not pour, like poison, in men’s ears; My inmost wish is to be reconciled With God. I want to love, I want to pray, I want now to believe — believe in good. With this repentful tear, I’ll wipe away — Upon a brow now worthy of your love — The ashen traces left by Heaven’s fire; And may this world, in placid ignorance, Live on, and prosper — I’ll not interfere! Believe me, lovely girl! I am the first To understand you, and to know your worth. In choosing you as my most sacred prize, I choose to lay my power at your feet. But for an instant of your gift of love, I offer you all of eternity. Have faith, Tamara, in my constancy, My greatness both in evil and in love — For I, the ether’s freedom-loving son, Will transport you to realms above the stars, And you will be the empress of the sky, My sole companion, and my only love; And there — without regret, without concern — You’ll soon regard this earth for what it is: A place where no true joy is to be found, Nor any beauty that is long of life; A place of naught but sin and sin’s reward; A place where only petty passion dwells, A place that’s home to no one capable Of hating — or of loving — without fear. Or do you truly not know what it is — The momentary love of humankind? The youthful agitation of the blood? But as the days race by, the blood grows cold! Do lovers long endure when forced apart? Who can resist the lure of novelty? Who can withstand the boredom, the fatigue Of indefatigable fantasy? No! Not for you, my love, are all these things! Nor yet has cruel Fate ordained for you To waste away in these repressive walls, A slave to others’ jealous crudity, Amidst the meager-spirited and cold, Amidst false friends and outright enemies, Amidst your anxious fears and fruitless hopes, Amidst your empty and oppressive toil! No! Woefully, behind these lofty walls, You’ll not live on, your passion’s flame snuffed out, Amidst orisons, equally removed From the divine and from humanity. No, no, my lovely creature: You were meant For an entirely different kind of life; A different sort of suffering awaits, As do the depths of other, unknown joys. Abandon all your previous desires, And leave this wretched world unto its fate — And in exchange, I’ll open up for you Proud knowledge’s unplumbable abyss; A host of spirits, bound to me in thrall, I’ll cast before your feet, to serve your whim; To you, my beautiful, my love, I’ll give Maidservants magical and light as air; And for your head, from off an eastern star I’ll wrest a brilliant crown of purest gold; I’ll rob some flowers of their midnight dew, And set them in that crown like precious pearls; I’ll steal some crimson from the setting sun, And wrap it tenderly about your waist; I’ll saturate the very air you breathe With breath of flowers fragrant and pristine; And every minute I’ll caress your ears With wondrous notes of otherworldly strings; I’ll raise exquisite mansions; you will dwell In halls from turquoise and from amber wrought; I’ll swim down to the bottom of the sea, I’ll soar beyond the heavens’ highest clouds; I’ll give you all, all that the earth can give — Just love me!..

7. The Demon kisses the Princess, and takes her soul

The Demon kisses the princess and she dies.

And with that, he dared to touch His lips, aflame with an infernal fire, To hers, which trembled as they met his kiss. Her pious supplications had been met By words filled with the power to seduce; A mighty gaze now looked into her eyes, And scorched her. In the darkness of the night, He shone forth, looming high above her now, A deadly blade — yet irresistible. Alas! The evil spirit did prevail! The deadly venom of the Demon’s kiss In but an instant pierced her fragile breast. A terrible and torment-laded cry Now rent the silence of that tranquil night. That cry held everything: both love and pain, Both accusation and one final plea, A last farewell, pronounced in hopelessness — A farewell to her still-young earthly life

8. The God's messenger returns to fight the Demon for the Princess' soul.

The Demon has the princess's soul, now. But the "Angel of Light" returns to fight him. And the princess, seeing the Demon's true form, is now terrified of him, and sides with her guardian angel, instead.

Amidst a blue, ethereal expanse A holy angel sent by God above Flew onward, borne aloft by wings of gold, And bearing, in his merciful embrace, A sinful soul far from the world below. And with his mild and blessed words of hope He drove away the soul’s remaining doubts, And with his tears of love he washed from it All trace of misdeed, and of suffering. And from afar, the songs of paradise Already reached their ears — when suddenly, Abruptly cutting off the path ahead, A hellish spirit rose from the abyss, As savage as a roaring whirlwind’s rage, Yet shining like a bolt of lightning bright — And proudly, in his mad audacity, He bellowed at the angel: “She is mine!” And, holding back its terror with a prayer, Tamara’s sinful but repentant soul Pressed close against its guardian angel’s chest — For its eternal future was at stake. Again the Demon loomed before her — but, Dear God, could she have recognized him now? For how malicious had his eyes become! And how corrupted by the deathly blight Of enmity that never, ever ends! And how sepulchral was the blast of cold That issued from that dead, unmoving face! “Begone, O somber spirit of despair!” God’s mighty angel thundered in response. “You were allowed to triumph for a time, But now the time has come for God to judge, And in His judgment He is merciful; The days of tribulation now are past; As from her earthly robe of sinful flesh, She has at last been freed from evil’s chains. Know this: long have we here awaited her! For hers was one of those souls so designed To live a life that lasts but for a flash, A life of torment unendurable, A life of unattainable delight: From finest ether the Creator wove The living fabric of these precious souls; They were not fashioned for the world below, For was the world below devised for them! This weary soul has paid a cruel price For all the doubts it harbored while on earth... Above all, though, it suffered, and it loved — And Heaven’s gates stand open now — for love!” And with forbidding eyes the angel looked Once more upon the Demon come to tempt, And, with a joyous wingbeat rising high, He plunged into the radiance of heaven. The vanquished Demon could do naught but curse His dreams long-cherished  — his demented dreams! For once again he found himself alone — Alone, alone in all the universe — Without a hope — without a hope of love!

Could this, actually, play out in "Rings of Power"?

The answer is yes.

Sauron (in spiritual form or through visions, illusions or dreams) lingers around Rivendell (or Lindon), looming over Galadriel, calling for her (or something of that sort); 

The Elves would somehow realize this; and Gandalf comes into the picture to help (he’s a “Angel of Light” and a “agent of God”, literally, as Maia of Manwë); 

Eventually, Sauron arrives, in the flesh, to take the Three Elven rings of power and claim Galadriel as his; 

He fights with Gandalf (the guardian over Galadriel), and wins; 

He gets to Galadriel: he wants to take her to the Unseen world, where they can be together;

Galadriel succumbs to Sauron/darkness, at last, and he takes her spirit to the Unseen world, where she sees his true form (like Mirdania in 2x04), for the first time, and realises just how evil and corrupted he truly is (no chance of redemption);

Gandalf arrives to fight Sauron in the Unseen world (because he's also from that realm, and has the power to do this), and wins.

Galadriel realises her mistake, and terrified of Sauron's true form, sides with Gandalf/The Light.

By having Galadriel taken away from him, Sauron sinks into the depths of despair and suffering, and fully embraces pure evil as the new “Dark Lord” (forges the One ring?), and in Season 4, we would see him doing the most diabolical stuff yet, in Númenor (human sacrifices in worship of Morgoth to piss off the Valar).

[sassenach77yle]

||COUNTDOWN || SEASON 4 EPISODE 03 || THE FALSE BRIDE ||

#83daysofoutlander☆

We climbed a granite ledge, thick with moss and lichen, wet with the omnipresent flow of water, then followed the path of a descending freshet, brushing aside long grass that pulled at our legs, dodging the drooping branches of mountain laurel and the thick-leaved rhododendrons. Wonders sprang up by my feet, small orchids and brilliant fungi, trembling and shiny as jellies, shimmering red and black on fallen tree trunks. Dragonflies hung over the water, jewels immobile in the air, vanishing in mist. I felt dazed with abundance, ravished by beauty. Jamie’s face bore the dream-stunned look of a man who knows himself sleeping, but does not wish to wake. Paradoxically, the better I felt, the worse I felt, too; desperately happy—and desperately afraid. This was his place, and surely he felt it as well as I. In early afternoon we stopped to rest and drink from a small spring at the edge of a natural clearing. The ground beneath the maple trees was covered with a thick carpet of dark green leaves, among which I caught a sudden telltale flash of red. “Wild strawberries!” I said with delight. The berries were dark red and tiny, about the size of my thumb joint. By the standards of modern horticulture, they would have been too tart, nearly bitter, but eaten with a meal consisting of half-cooked cold bear meat and rock-hard corn dodgers, they were delicious—fresh explosions of flavor in my mouth; pinpricks of sweetness on my tongue. I gathered handfuls in my cloak, not caring for stains—what was a little strawberry juice among the stains of pine pitch, soot, leaf smudges and simple dirt? By the time I had finished, my fingers were sticky and pungent with juice, my stomach was comfortably full, and the inside of my mouth felt as though it had been sandpapered, from the tartly acid taste of the berries. Still, I couldn’t resist reaching for just one more. Jamie leaned his back against a sycamore, eyelids half lowered against the dazzle of afternoon sun. The little clearing held light like a cup, still and limpid.

“What d’ye think of this place, Sassenach?” he asked. “I think it’s beautiful. Don’t you?”

He nodded, looking down between the trees, where a gentle slope full of wild hay and timothy fell away and rose again in a line of willows that fringed the distant river. “I am thinking,” Jamie said, a little awkwardly. “There is the spring here in the wood. That meadow below—” He waved a hand toward the scrim of alders that screened the ridge from the grassy slope. “It would do for a few beasts at first, and then the land nearer the river might be cleared and put in crops. The rise of the land here is good for drainage. And here, see …” Caught by visions, he rose to his feet, pointing. I looked carefully; to me, the place seemed little different from any of the steep wooded slopes and grassy coves through which we had wandered for the last couple of days. But to Jamie, with his farmer’s eye, houses and stock pens and fields sprang up like fairy mushrooms in the shadows of the trees. Happiness was sticking out all over him, like porcupine quills. My heart felt like lead in my chest. “You’re thinking we might settle here, then? Take the Governor’s offer?” He looked at me, stopping abruptly in his speculations. “We might,” he said. “If—” He broke off and looked sideways at me. Sun-reddened as he was, I couldn’t tell whether he was flushed with sun or shyness.

“D’ye believe in signs at all, Sassenach?”

“What sorts of signs?” I asked guardedly. In answer, he bent, plucked a sprig from the ground, and dropped it into my hand—the dark green leaves like small round Chinese fans, a pure white flower on a slender stem, and on another a half-ripe berry, its shoulders pale with shade, blushing crimson at the tip.

“This. It’s ours, d’ye see?” he said. “Ours?” “The Frasers’, I mean,” he explained. One large, blunt finger gently prodded the berry. “Strawberries ha’ always been the emblem of the clan—it’s what the name meant, to start with, when a Monsieur Fréselière came across from France wi’ King William that was—and took hold of land in the Scottish mountains for his trouble.”

King William that was. William the Conqueror, that was. Perhaps not the oldest of the Highland clans, the Frasers had still a distinguished heritage. “Warriors from the start, were you?” “And farmers, too.” The doubt in his eyes was fading into a smile. I didn’t say what I was thinking, but I knew well enough that the thought must lie in his mind as well. There was no more of clan Fraser save scattered fragments, those who had survived by flight, by stratagem or luck. The clans had been smashed at Culloden, their chieftains slaughtered in battle or murdered by law. Yet here he stood, tall and straight in his plaid, the dark steel of a Highland dirk by his side. Warrior and farmer both. And if the soil beneath his feet was not that of Scotland, it was free air that he breathed—and a mountain wind that stirred his hair, lifting copper strands to the summer sun. I smiled up at him, fighting back my growing dismay.

“Fréselière, eh? Mr. Strawberry?

He grew them, did he, or was he only fond of eating them?” “Either or both,” he said dryly, “or it was maybe only that he was redheided, aye?” I laughed, and he hunkered down beside me, unpinning his plaid.

“It’s a rare plant,” he said, touching the sprig in my open hand. “Flowers, fruit and leaves all together at the one time. The white flowers are for honor, and red fruit for courage—and the green leaves are for constancy.”

My throat felt tight as I looked at him. “They got that one right,” I said. He caught my hand in his own, squeezing my fingers around the tiny stem.

“And the fruit is the shape of a heart,” he said softly, and bent to kiss me.

The tears were near the surface; at least I had a good excuse for the one that oozed free. He dabbed it away, then stood up and pulled his belt loose, letting the plaid fall in folds around his feet. Then he stripped off shirt and breeks and smiled down at me, naked. “There’s no one here,” he said. “No one but us.” I would have said this seemed no reason, but I felt what it was he meant. We had been for days surrounded by vastness and threat, the wilderness no farther away than the pale circle of our fire. Yet here, we were alone together, part and parcel of the place, with no need in broad daylight to hold the wilderness at bay. “In the old days, men would do this, to give fertility to the fields,” he said, giving me a hand to rise. “I don’t see any fields.” And wasn’t sure whether to hope I never would. Nonetheless, I skimmed off my buckskin shirt, and pulled loose the knot of my makeshift brassiere. He eyed me with appreciation. “Well, no doubt I shall have to cut down a few trees first, but that can wait, aye?”

We made a bed of plaid and cloaks, and lay down upon it naked, skin to skin among the yellow grasses and the scent of balsam and wild strawberries. We touched each other for what might have been a very long time or no time at all, together in the garden of earthly delight. I forced away the thoughts that had plagued me up the mountain, determined only to share his joy for as long as it lasted. I grasped him tight and he breathed in deep and pressed himself hard into my hand. “And what would Eden be without a serpent?” I murmured, fingers stroking. His eyes creased into blue triangles, so close I could see the black of his pupils. “And will ye eat wi’ me, then, mo chridhe? Of the fruit of the tree of the knowledge of Good and Evil?” I put out the tip of my tongue and drew it along his lower lip in answer. He shivered under my fingers, though the air was warm and sweet. “Je suis prest,” I said. “Monsieur Fréselière.” His head bent and his mouth fastened on my nipple, swollen as one of the tiny ripe berries. “Madame Fréselière,” he whispered back. “Je suis à votre service.” And then we shared the fruit and flowers, and the green leaves covering all.

16 THE FIRST LAW OF THERMODYNAMICS

[azrielstherapist]

No One Like You [Ch.3]

𝙎𝙮𝙣𝙤𝙥𝙨𝙞𝙨: He saved the world. But the cost? A part of himself that he can never get back.

Rhysand returned to Velaris as the hero of Prythian, but the shadows of his past cling to him, leaving him distant, haunted. The world has moved on, but he hasn't.

You, an apothecary in Velaris, isn’t interested in saving anyone—least of all him. You have your own secrets and scars to carry. When your paths cross, something shifts. Something neither of you is ready for.

No one warned you that some connections are inevitable, no matter how much you resist.

In a city where the past is never truly gone, both of you may have more in common than you realize—whether you’re ready to face it or not.

Inspired by: "A Girl Like You" by Edwyn Collins

Pairing: Rhysand x Y/N

Note: So here's the third chapter, honestly not fond of it. I didn't know how to make a great conversation between Rhys and Y/N. This feels more like a filler chapter.

Nonetheless, I hope you enjoy it, and if you do, pls let me know. <3

I'll update this in a few days. Dividers by @sweetmelodygraphics

Chapter 1, Chapter 2

It had been days since I’d last seen him.

Rhys. Just Rhys.

The name curled in my mind like mist, uninvited but not entirely unwelcome. I wasn’t someone easily caught off guard — not by flattery, not by charm, and certainly not by strangers with well-tailored cloaks and a voice like velvet spun in shadow. 

And yet…

He lingered, like the smell of smoke long after the flame had vanished.

He lingered in the spaces between things. In the silence of dawn before I opened the shop. In the way my eyes always drifted toward the river, half-expecting someone to be standing there. In the dreams I wasn’t supposed to have anymore — where I didn’t quite see his face, but felt that same pull. That same hush.

He reminded me of something I didn’t know I’d forgotten — something just out of reach, just at the edge of memory. Or maybe it was the way he looked at me. Like he saw through it — through me.

And maybe that’s what unsettled me most.

Because I knew how to hold people at a distance. I was good at it.

Polite smile. Clever words. A well-placed question turned into a deflection.

But Rhys hadn’t pushed. He hadn’t tried to barge his way in — he simply… arrived. Like fog rolling in over still water, inevitable in its quiet persistence.

And it should’ve meant nothing — a stranger at the edge of the woods, a brief encounter, a curious face.

But his voice kept echoing.

Splash.

Cold water dripped down my temples, trailing the curve of my neck before soaking into the collar of my shirt. I stood at the washbasin in the back of the Apothecary, hands braced on either side of the chipped porcelain, eyes locked on my reflection in the small, clouded mirror above it.

“Get a hold of yourself,” I muttered.

The woman in the mirror raised a brow, unimpressed.

It was ridiculous. Absolutely ridiculous to be thinking about him this much. I’d met him once. He’d said a few pretty things, wore mystery like a cloak, and smiled like he knew far more than he was letting on.

And apparently, that was all it took to completely short-circuit my common sense.

I shook my head, letting the cool water do what it could to calm whatever this was that had started clawing its way to the surface. Fascination. Curiosity. Stupidity. Pick your poison.

With a long breath, I reached for a towel, patting my face dry and rolling my shoulders back. There were things to be done. Shelves to restock. Deliveries to check. Customers to serve.

I’d kept busy. Customers came and went — a mother with her coughing child, an elderly male in need of a balm for aching joints, a pair of young lovers asking for something “sweetly dangerous.” I gave them licorice with ginseng root and a wink.

The doorbell chimed, soft and familiar. I didn’t look up right away.

“Back so soon?” I called absently, expecting Mrs. Telna, who came in twice a week for lemon balm and a bit of gossip.

But it wasn’t her.

“Not quite,” came a voice far too smooth, too amused.

I turned, and there she stood — Maris, a regular. Towering, fiery red hair pulled into a loose braid, and a knowing smirk already on her face. She stomped the rain off her boots dramatically.

“Did you miss me?” she asked.

“I missed your money,” I replied sweetly.

She laughed. “Fair. I need something to help with headaches — my mate’s family is visiting.”

“Ah, the real dark magic.” I moved behind the counter, pulling down a small tin of feverfew. “Take a pinch in hot water. Twice a day, or once if you want to stay mildly miserable.”

“I like a little misery,” she winked, passing over a few coins. “Keeps things interesting.”

“Then you’ll love the next customer. I have a feeling they’ll ask for something ridiculous.”

She laughed again, then swept out in a rustle of cloak and sass.

A few more customers came and went — a quiet scholar with ink-stained fingers looking for concentration tea, a teenage fae boy with many freckles and not enough tact who asked if I sold anything to make someone “fall in love, but like, for real.” I handed him mint and told him to brush his teeth first.

By midafternoon, the rain had lightened. I had just finished prepping a bitterroot tonic when the bell rang again. But this time, something in me stilled.

Not the way it did when someone shady walked in. Not the way it did when a storm brewed.

This was… softer. A tug. Like someone had gently hooked a string behind my ribs and pulled.

I turned.

There he was. Standing in the doorway like he belonged nowhere and everywhere at once.

His eyes found mine immediately, and that grin curled at the corner of his mouth — the kind that said he’d expected to find me here, and was somehow still pleased to have done so.

"I was in the neighborhood," he said. "You mentioned a shop near the river… and I thought I’d see if that was true.."

I crossed my arms, biting back the smile that threatened. “And if it wasn’t?”

He shrugged. “I’d have wandered until I found you anyway.”

Mother Above. He really is dangerous.

I scoffed, turning back to my vials. “Flattery. Dangerous thing, especially around certain brews.”

“Then it’s a good thing I came here for something safer,” he replied, voice smooth as velvet.

I glanced over my shoulder. “And what exactly do you need?”

He leaned casually on the counter, fingers tapping the wood. “A remedy.”

“You’ll have to be more specific. Love potion? Curse antidote? Elixir of eternal charm?”

“No, Neither and don’t need the last one” he said brushing off his cloak.

“Sleep,” he confessed, simply. “Or rather, the lack of it.”

That made me pause. The grin was gone. His voice still held its lightness, but I heard it — the weight beneath. Something old and tired.

“You’ve tried everything?” I asked, already turning to the shelf where I kept the stronger tinctures.

“Everything,” he said. “Even the cabin.”

“Not even that helped?”

He shook his head once. “Quiet doesn’t always mean peace.”

I studied him — the faint lines at the corners of his mouth, the tiredness sitting just beneath his fine, sculpted features.

“I’ll make you something,” I said finally. “Stronger than the usual blends. But it won’t taste like honey and lavender.”

“Wouldn’t trust it if it did,” he murmured.

I turned back to the workbench, letting the familiar rhythm of motion take over — valerian root, crushed gentian, a thread of dreamshade. Behind me, the silence shifted, the kind that meant he was still watching.

“Is this your usual?” he asked. “Late-night brews for sleepless strangers?”

“I prefer to work with plants. They lie less.”

He chuckled. “That sounds like a story.”

“Most things do,” I said, not looking back.

He leaned in, watching me work, voice soft. “You always this generous with your brews?”

“Only for charming strangers with insomnia.”

“I’ll try not to let it go to my head.”

As I crushed the last of the ingredients, I noticed the way his eyes tracked every motion — not in suspicion, but interest. Like he was trying to memorize the rhythm of me.

“Try this,” I said, handing him a small corked bottle. “One spoonful before sleep. And don’t mix it with wine or reckless decisions.”

“No promises,” he murmured, brushing his fingers over mine as he took it.

Something electric zipped up my arm.

I cleared my throat. “That one’s stronger than usual. It might make you dream.”

His gaze lingered on my face, unreadable. “I haven’t dreamt in a long time.”

I held his stare, then finally said, “Maybe it’s time.”

He slipped the vial into his coat pocket. “You always this poetic?”

“Only when I’m trying to get rid of someone.”

A low laugh escaped him, and he stepped back. “I’ll let you get back to your brews. But I might stop by again. You know, in case I develop a need for… chamomile.”

I gave him a look. “If you come asking for chamomile, I’ll know you’re lying.”

He grinned. “Then I’ll have to be creative.”

A pause. 

“How much do I owe you?” he asked, glancing up through his lashes.

I leaned against the counter, arms crossed. “Nothing.”

He lifted a brow. “Nothing?”

“You gave me tea,” I said, tilting my head slightly. “And company. Consider it a fair trade.”

He chuckled — a soft, low sound that settled somewhere in my chest. “Dangerous logic. You’ll go out of business if you keep giving away remedies for conversation.”

“I don’t give them to just anyone,” I replied, and he smiled again — that quiet, crooked thing he did that always felt like he was on the verge of saying something else entirely.

“Well, in that case,” he said, stepping back, “I’ll do my best to come up with more ailments. Just to keep the economy alive.”

“Selfless of you.”

He gave a small bow of the head — half-mocking, half-sincere — and left, the shop bell tinkling softly in his wake.

I exhaled, the quiet after his departure pressing gently against the shelves and walls.

Then I turned.

And froze.

There, on the counter where the bottle had been moments ago, lay seven gleaming gold coins. Real ones. The kind stamped with the Night Court’s crest. The kind that could cover my rent for the better part of a year — with enough left for firewood and fresh herbs, too.

I stared at them for a moment, unmoving. Then sighed, brushing my fingers lightly over the closest one.

“You really are dangerous,” I murmured.

The bell above the door chimed again as a new customer entered, and I straightened, slipping the coins into the drawer below with a quiet clink.

Back to work.

But his name lingered in my mind like a half-forgotten melody.

Rhys.

Just Rhys.

And yet — something told me nothing about him was simple.

[gardezamour]

part three of this - moses!viktor au - part 1 - part 2

prepare for a BIG time jump from the other two (lol). i’m still contemplating a title. leaning towards “Bitter Water Made Sweet” though. feel free to leave a suggestion! :)

The streets of The Lanes smelled of tar and sulfur dioxide. Viktor’s staff made fragmented sparks erupt each time it hit the cobble of the empty street.

It was very early morning. But, not early enough to stop the three or so families and four or so dwellers from peeking out their windows and doors to watch him as he slowly waded through the slightly flooded road. The saturated bottom hem of his viridian cloak stuck to his ankles with each new step.

He caught the eye of a little girl, her hair the color of the small gophers that he’d occasionally catch building by the river. Her eyes were bright like wheat in the sunlight. She stood all alone. He paused.

She smiled, and she sprung to life under his pointed attention, sprinting as fast as her short legs could carry her. Her hands clenched around fistfuls of the cotton fabric draped over his shoulders. She did not speak.

“What is your name?” he asked her, holding out a hand.

She stared at his palm and wrist, taking in the lapis lazuli, mauve, and gold that spun through his veins and tendons. Her mouth opened in awe, delicately taking his hand in order to inspect it further. She was mystified, and just for a moment, all his panicked worries melted away. She giggled, looking back up to meet his fond gaze.

“Isha.” The name had appeared his head with such a sudden intensity, that he was not surprised in the least when she nodded in amazement. He bent down, using his staff to balance his weight. “Do you believe in the land of milk and honey?”Isha’s chopped hair flipped up and down like flimsy spikes as she nodded. She nearly buzzed with energy. Like a battery in an engine. Or a wind up toy. He hummed, nodding as well. “Very well, follow me.”

She hid inside of his cloak, hiding herself from the sprinkling raindrops. She shivered, her bare arms full of goosebumps.

His smile faltered, and they continued on with her glued to his hip. Her hand stuck to his own, occasionally tugging the limb up to her eyes to further admire the shimmering details of magic through his skin.

It was easy to tell that she was an orphan. Especially under his own scrutiny. She was thinner than the other children, and unkempt in a way no Zaunite mother would have allowed. Her hair was slightly grown out and braided. But, the plaits were frizzy and loose from passing time. She wore patchy pants and a fraying shirt barely holding onto its seems.

When they arrived to the boarded up bar, Isha made a short noise of protest, tugging on his tunic. It draped to his calves, an ivory white like bare bone. Her fingerprints left dark spots from the soot. He ruffled her hair, the texture like straw from the dust of Zaun’s alleyways.

“Don’t you trust me?” he asked her. She looked apprehensive, but she did not leave his side. Her loyalty was strong. Her curiosity even stronger.

The dark clouds hiding what lay beyond the doors only grew darker when they drew nearer. They resembled storm clouds, and one would almost believe that they’d send out bolts of lightening if you drew too close. Mel was distressed.

He bowed for Isha to go ahead of him, his fingertips innocently brushing the dense mist. It was pleasantly toasty, a comfort away from the freezing temperature outside.

Isha steeled herself, sending her shoulders back in stern determination that brought amusement to his own chest. She stomped her way right through the splintering arch of the doorway.

He took one final glance at the sign still hung on its lonely chain, and found himself mildly surprised at the symbol painted in glinting silver over where a business title would be.

A silvery serpent twisted in a vertical, curvy zig-zag pattern, hissing at the onlooker. He also took note, upon further inspection, that there were wings on either side, meager but strong in the way they curled. Its eyes shun green when he looked away, humming in pleasure at the familiar embrace of Mel’s magic gracing his skin.

He supposed he should have been offended at the lack of confusion she confronted him with. Instead, he joined her in the center of the room, sliding down to the blood red carpet she sat on.

Her dress was modest, no patterns or showy cuts. But, it was a deep amber. If he were vain, he’d say it was the color of his eyes. But, he didn’t have to admit vanity to believe that she looked radiant. Her knuckles showcased pink scars that matched his own, etched symbols of an ancient language.

Isha had dramatically fallen into the mountain of pillows that Mel and Viktor used as a resting spot when exhaustion finally grew too intense to bare. Or, the despair.

Her hand linked with his own, “Any news?”

“He is in Piltover.” He did not address Mel’s crestfallen expression at such a statement. And he stated the rest even though he knew he didn’t have to. “He seems to think that you are behind the Black Rose’s schemes. He doesn’t act like himself.”

He stood back up, dragging himself away from her waves of emotion. She was angry, something that tended to soak into his own skin and burn.

He unclasped the iron wings over his jugular notch. His fingers shook slightly as he bent down and draped the dry side of the cloth over the child. She was almost asleep, her eyes already closed and face smoothed out by the time he was standing straight again.

“We need to intervene.” Mel beckoned him back, holding a hand out for him to take. He obeyed, being careful of his askew leg as he joined her once again.

As they sat in considering silence, he wished to make a spot for himself in the cushions as well. His body did not feel the urge to rest, but his heart pulled him in too many directions at once, and he felt it most prominent in this turmoil.

“It will be necessary,” he admitted, “His influence is beginning to strain the faith of the Trenches as well.”

Mel’s lips twisted in a grimace, “Perhaps he was always too weak.” Viktor surveyed her in quiet, his own lips pursed in slow comprehension. “We should continue on without him. I will sever the connection entirely.” She sat straighter, not once glancing up to acknowledge any of Viktor’s shock or disbelief. He took her other hands back as she closed her eyes in order to focus. They flew open.

The pads of his thumbs flattened out the strain of her clenched fists. He sighed at the same time she did.

“Have mercy on him. He does not know better.”

“We trusted better from him,” she argued.

He battled with himself. The faith that had been mentioned previously, the belief they had gained from most of Zaun, was torturing him. Because he was selfish. He was not simply loyal to the cause anymore. It all boiled down to his Mel and his Jayce. The world be damned. The Black Rose be damned. He would rather burn at the stake, or rot in the basement of Stillwater, or drown in the Goddamned Pilt, than give up on either of them.

“He is just a man. A man who acts on instinct, no matter how flawed it might be. He deserves another chance. He has never let us down before.”

He’d grovel at Mel’s feet to give Jayce a second chance. He’d plea and debate until he ran out of breath. He’d comfort them both through the betrayal of it. Mourn the unfairness in his own solitude.

She crossed her arms, looking him all over. Her eyes traveled from the curls of gold and copper wire around strands of his overgrown hair to the rusty iron anklets that jingled around his ankles when he moved.

“And why is that?” Her chin was tilted up, her brows furrowed. She looked a little wild. Her hair stuck up around the crown of her head, like static caused during a storm. Her tunic draped off of one shoulder, showing the soft skin of her clavicle. Her stockings had holes from where she had poked holes while stewing in her stress. He realized with a slight start, that he had been away for three days on his trek to Topside.

Her eyes burned like gas that which met flame. She was filled with an abundance of wrath and disappointment towards the third link to their souls. He felt a strange sense of pity.

“You are not strong enough to rush the plan, Anděl.” He caresses her cheek, tucking one of the braids behind her ear when it slipped into her eyes. He noted that he’d have to retouch them.

“The Rose is the least of my worries,” she waved his concern off.

“I would not be so sure of that,” he warned.

“They are cowards using Jayce as a pawn. And he is just as bad while allowing them to.”

“I do not think—“

“—And how does he believe for a second that they could be me? I would not carry on without you Viktor, what makes him think—.”

“—He is under the assumption that we are dead. As far as I could tell, he’s just happy to have someone.” He brought her face closer, nose to nose as the realization dawned on her.

After a long time, she spoke to him in a broken whisper.

“Go to him, Viktor, my presence will be with you.”

[winxanity-ii]

⌜Godly Things | Chapter 18 Chapter 18 | cerberus' song⌟

╰ ⌞🇨‌🇭‌🇦‌🇵‌🇹‌🇪‌🇷‌ 🇮‌🇳‌🇩‌🇪‌🇽‌⌝

❘ prev. chapter ❘༻✦༺❘ next chapter ❘

The world twisted and folded around you, a disorienting rush of cold air and weightlessness pulling at your senses. Falling and floating all at once, your body felt unmoored, your thoughts scrambled and scattered.

You shut your eyes tightly, clutching the lyre like a lifeline as the sensation overwhelmed you.

When the ground finally met your feet, it wasn't with a thud but a soft, disjointed sway, as if the space itself were still settling. You stumbled, legs weak and unsteady, as your surroundings began to sharpen into focus.

The air was heavy, dense with the faint metallic tang of iron and the distant echo of something shifting—stone, water, or maybe both. As you blinked to clear your vision, jagged stone arches emerged from the darkness above, their surfaces shimmering faintly as if carved from obsidian.

A chill crept up your spine, and you instinctively hugged the lyre closer, its warmth grounding you.

Behind you, the faint glow of the mortal world shimmered through a small tunnel of golden light. The sight made your chest tighten. It was both comforting and distant, a fragile reminder of what you had left behind—and what you might not return to if things went wrong.

"Okay, ____," you murmured, your voice trembling as you tried to steady your nerves. "You're here. That's the first step."

The words sounded hollow in the vastness around you, but saying them aloud gave you something to hold onto. Taking a shaky breath, you forced your legs to move, each step unsteady as you followed the narrow path ahead.

The ground beneath your feet was uneven, cold. Polished stone patches gave way to jagged edges that forced your steps to be cautious. Silence pressed against your ears, broken only by the occasional whisper of air or the faint hum of resonance that emanated from the lyre.

You focused on your movements—the sensation of your steps, the weight of the lyre—anything to keep your thoughts steady.

The path curved downward, opening gradually to reveal the river. The familiar, sluggish expanse of dark water shimmered faintly under ethereal light. Mist curled along its surface, twisting and rising like ghostly fingers, adding to the unsettling stillness of the scene.

You stopped, breath catching as the memory of Hermes' words resurfaced. "Regrets. Broken promises. Forgotten dreams. Everything people left unresolved in life."

The slow-moving shadows beneath the river's surface rippled, as though sensing your presence. One slithered closer before vanishing again, and you instinctively stepped back, your pulse quickening.

Ahead, the rickety pier came into view, its weathered structure jutting into the murky water. Your chest tightened at the sight—this was where you had seen Charon before. The silent ferryman had unnerved you last time, and now, without Hermes' playful banter to guide or distract you, the weight of the Underworld felt heavier.

Each step toward the pier was deliberate, the lyre's faint hum your only comfort against the oppressive silence pressing in from all sides. Mist swirled as you approached, rippling like it anticipated your arrival.

Whatever lay ahead, you reminded yourself, you had chosen this. The reasons might not yet be clear, but turning back wasn't an option.

Then, almost as if he had sensed your thoughts, a figure emerged from the fog.

The sound of water lapping against a wooden hull drew your gaze, and your breath hitched as a boat glided forward. A lantern at its prow swung gently, casting an eerie green glow that danced across the river's surface. Shadows pulsed in rhythm with the light, deepening the atmosphere of unease.

Your stomach dropped as the ferryman came into view. His cloaked figure was imposing, wrapped in tattered black layers that fluttered as if caught in a wind that you couldn't feel. His very presence seemed to chill the air, drawing it tighter around you.

The lantern's glow illuminated his gaunt, skeletal hands—more bone than flesh—as they gripped a weathered oar. Beneath his wide-brimmed hat, the faint glow of ghostly green eyes burned through the shadows, locking onto you with an unrelenting gaze.

You froze, your limbs stiff as stone, as the boat drew closer. The boat itself looked ancient, its wood warped and cracked, yet it glided effortlessly across the water. When it stopped in front of you, the lantern swung again, its creaking hinge breaking the oppressive silence.

One of Charon's four skeletal hands extended toward you, slow and deliberate. His voice, deep and gravelly, reverberated through the mist like the groan of collapsing stone. "...Fare..."

The single word vibrated through your very bones, sending a shiver down your spine. You stared at his outstretched hand, breath caught in your throat. Every detail of him felt surreal—the void beneath his hat, the eerie fluidity of his movements, the way his presence seemed to drain the light from the air.

The silence stretched unnervingly, and for a moment, it felt as though the Underworld itself had paused to watch.

You snapped out of your stupor, your hands fumbling for the small pouch tied to your side. Used for paying the palace seamstress, it now held the only thing standing between you and the ferryman's silent judgment. The coins inside clinked softly as you pulled the pouch free.

Your fingers trembled as you untied it, the motion painfully slow under the weight of his piercing gaze. Those pale, glowing eyes seemed to bore into you, unyielding and inescapable. With a shaky breath, you reached inside and withdrew a single coin, holding it up for him to see.

For what felt like an eternity, the ferryman remained motionless. The sharp angles of his shadowed frame loomed against the faint green glow of the lantern. His sunken face, half-hidden beneath the wide-brimmed hat, seemed carved from the very darkness around him. The eerie glow of his eyes cut through the mist, pinning you in place as though daring you to falter.

Finally, his bony fingers moved, reaching for the coin with a deliberate, unhurried grace. The sound of metal scraping against bone echoed unnaturally in the still air, sharp and grating, making you flinch.

A shiver raced down your spine as he plucked the coin from your trembling hand, his touch impossibly cold, as if he carried the chill of the river itself.

Without a word, he turned, his tattered cloak billowing slightly as he moved, fluid as smoke and just as intangible. The lantern's faint glow swung with him, casting warped reflections across the rippling waters.

One skeletal hand rested on the oar as he glanced back at you, his hollow gaze unwavering. His other hand rose, gesturing toward the boat with an unmistakable command: Come.

You glanced over your shoulder, toward the fading tunnel of golden light that marked the mortal realm. Doubt clawed at your chest, but the ferryman's expectant presence left no room for hesitation.

Swallowing hard, you squared your shoulders. You had made your choice. Whatever lay ahead, there was no turning back now.

Taking a tentative step forward, you placed a trembling foot onto the boat. It creaked under your weight, the sound reverberating through the stillness like a warning. The aged wood was damp beneath your sandals, the faint scent of decay mingling with the mist.

You lowered yourself onto one of the worn benches, your hands gripping the edge tightly, as though it might anchor you against the unsteady currents of fear swirling within.

Charon took his place at the stern, his skeletal fingers wrapping around the oar with a practiced ease. The lantern swung again, its ghostly green light casting fleeting shadows across the water—shadows that seemed to shift and pulse with a life of their own.

With a single, measured push of the oar, the boat began to glide forward.

The river's dark waters parted silently, the mist curling and thickening as the boat slipped further from the shore. Behind you, the faint glimmer of the mortal world was swallowed by shadows, leaving only the rhythmic splash of the oar and the lantern's eerie glow.

You sat rigidly on the bench, your heart pounding in your chest. The silence pressed in, broken only by the occasional sound of the oar cutting through the water. The ferryman stood at the helm, his cloaked form a dark sentinel, his movements precise and unhurried, as though he had made this journey countless times.

The further you traveled, the more the mist seemed to close in around you, muffling even your own breathing. The air was thick with anticipation, the shadows pressing closer with every moment.

A cold realization settled over you as you clutched the bench tighter. You could only follow the ferryman's lead now, trusting that the shadows would reveal what you sought—when they were ready.

☆ ✩ ☆

Time stretched and blurred as the ferry glided through the unending mists. The soft splash of the oar against the dark water became a hypnotic rhythm, lulling you into a heavy stillness.

You didn't dare speak, nor did the Charon seem inclined to break the silence. The faint green glow of his lantern was your only guide, its ethereal light carving fleeting patterns into the murky depths. Though your grip on the bench had loosened, your fingers still twitched occasionally, betraying the restless churn of your thoughts.

When the boat finally slowed, the change startled you. You nearly jolted upright, your muscles stiff from sitting so long in tense silence. The ferry's hull scraped lightly against an unseen shore, the jarring sound echoing sharply through the oppressive quiet.

You turned to Charon, who stood motionless at the stern, his gaze fixed on the horizon—or perhaps something beyond mortal sight. Slowly, he raised a bony hand, gesturing for you to disembark.

The ground beneath your feet was uneven and ancient, the chill of the stone seeping through your sandals. It felt firm but unwelcoming, a stark reminder that this was not a place meant for the living.

You hesitated, glancing back at Charon, but he had already turned away. His lantern swayed gently as he prepared for another journey, its light casting warped shadows over the dark water. Without a word or farewell, the ferry slipped back into the mist, its silhouette fading until it was gone, leaving you utterly alone.

Your breath puffed softly in the chill air, the faint mist curling around you like restless tendrils. You scanned the unfamiliar terrain, trying to orient yourself, but everything felt vast and disorienting, the darkness stretching infinitely in every direction.

Fragments of memory stirred—recollections of the path Hermes had taken during your chaotic journey here before. His quick pace, light-hearted commentary, and seemingly effortless navigation of this otherworldly realm had once been your anchor. Now, you clung desperately to those fragments, hoping they would guide you again.

Taking a deep breath, you started forward, each step cautious and deliberate. The air felt heavier with each movement, thick and harsh, as though the realm itself resisted your presence.

You retraced what landmarks you could remember: jagged rock formations that rose like skeletal hands from the ground, faintly glowing pools of water scattered across the barren landscape, and ghostly trees whose pale branches hummed with an unnatural energy.

You passed a cluster of those trees now, their twisted forms reaching overhead like skeletal fingers. The faint hum they emitted seemed to brush against the edges of your consciousness, sending an involuntary shiver through you.

Fixing your gaze forward, you resisted the urge to look back over your shoulder, the weight of unseen eyes pressing against your senses like the realm itself was watching.

It wasn't long before the path began to shift as you moved. The jagged rocks smoothed out, the glowing pools became sparser, and the oppressive silence gave way to faint whispers carried on the still air.

Ahead, a pale light began to glow, muted and distant, like dawn struggling through heavy clouds. Relief and unease mingled in your chest as recognition dawned.

The Asphodel Fields stretched out before you, an endless expanse of muted silver and grey. The mist clinging to the ground thickened here, swirling around your ankles as you took hesitant steps forward.

The ghostly forms of souls drifted aimlessly through the field, their movements slow and unhurried. Some gathered in small clusters, their translucent figures flickering like dying embers, while others wandered alone, their forms barely distinguishable from the mist.

You swallowed hard, your throat dry as you gazed over the field, its muted whispers and flickering souls a stark reminder of your isolation that came with being alive in a place meant for the dead.

The weight of your task pressed heavily on your shoulders. You scanned the misty expanse, your heartbeat loud in your ears. Somewhere out there, among the countless wandering souls, Cleo was waiting.

The thought rooted you in place and spurred you forward all at once, the tangle of emotions tightening in your chest.

Inhaling deeply, you steadied your nerves. "Alright," you whispered, your voice barely audible over the faint hum of the field. "Let's find her."

With that, you began to move, your steps careful but purposeful as you delved deeper into the endless grey expanse.

.☆.       .✩.             .☆.

Each step through the Asphodel Fields felt heavier than the last, your resolve thinning with every stretch of indistinguishable terrain. The pale mist swirled lazily around your feet, its persistent presence adding to the disorienting monotony of your surroundings. Ghostly figures drifted silently, their movements aimless in the muted glow of the Fields.

But no matter how closely you looked, none of them were her.

Your thoughts drifted as you walked, memories you'd tried to bury rising unbidden. At one point, your pace faltered, and you hesitated, glancing around the endless mist. A flicker of a thought whispered in your mind—what if, instead of Cleo, I went to look for my parents? The idea caught you off guard, tightening your chest with its fragile promise of seeing them again.

You shook the thought away forcefully, the weight of your task grounding you. You couldn't afford to get distracted. Not now. Cleo was the reason you were here. Your parents would remain locked in memory, waiting for another time—if such a time ever came.

You pressed on, your feet aching with every step. The silence around you was broken only by the faint whispers of the souls that drifted nearby, their movements occasionally drawing your attention. Yet, every flicker of hope dissolved into disappointment.

Doubt began to creep into your mind, clawing at the edges of your determination. What if you couldn't find her? What if she was lost among the countless wandering souls, unreachable in this endless expanse?

What if—

"____."

Your heart stilled, then surged as your body went rigid. You turned sharply, your eyes scanning the misty expanse behind you. For a moment, there was nothing but the familiar swirl of fog, its muted glow barely illuminating the surroundings. Then, like a figure stepping out of a half-remembered dream, you saw her.

Cleo.

She stood across from you, her form pale and translucent but unmistakably hers. Mist curled around her ankles, and the dim light of the Fields clung to her like a fragile halo. Her blonde hair, now dull and lifeless, still fell in loose waves over her shoulders. Her green eyes, once alight with mischief, now held a haunting stillness that made your breath catch.

Neither of you moved. The distance between you felt insurmountable, though it couldn't have been more than a few paces. You didn't know what to say, what to feel. Emotions swirled in a chaotic storm—anger, sadness, relief—leaving you rooted in place.

Finally, you took a hesitant step forward, your voice shaky. "Cleo... is it really you?"

Her lips parted slightly, her green eyes meeting yours and for a fleeting moment, she looked just as she had in life—your friend, your confidant, the one who had laughed with you under the moonlight and shared whispered secrets.

You thought she might smile, or speak, or even reach for you like she had so many times before in life. But then, her expression crumpled, and she collapsed to the ashen ground, her knees buckling as if the weight of this place had finally crushed her.

"Please," she whimpered, her voice raw and broken. Her trembling hands reached toward you, her spectral form shaking with desperation. "Please, ____, get me out of here. I don't belong here."

The plea cut through you like a blade. You stared at her, frozen, your breath catching in your throat. "Cleo... I-I don't understand," you whispered. "What do you mean? How can I—?"

Her head snapped up, her expression twisting into something sharp, angry. "You don't understand?" she spat, her voice rising with venom. "Of course, you don't. You've never understood. You don't know what it's like to be trapped, to be forgotten, to wander endlessly in this... this nothingness!"

Her sudden anger made you step back, the force of her words leaving you stunned. "Cleo, I—" you tried, but she cut you off, lashing out with venomous intensity.

"You don't deserve the life you have," she hissed, her translucent form flickering with fury. "You have everything, ____. The favor of a prince, the favor of a god. Do you even realize how selfish you are? How unfair it is that you stand here, alive and whole, while I'm stuck in this wretched place?"

Her words struck like a whip, each one leaving you reeling. "Cleo, that's not my fault—" you began, but she surged forward, her form closing the distance in an instant.

"It was supposed to be you, down here," she snarled, her face inches from yours now. Her voice cracked with the weight of her anger and grief. "It's supposed to be you reduced to nothing! But instead, gods themselves bend over backwards to change your fate."

The accusation left you breathless, your mind reeling as her words twisted the air around you. The endless grey of the Fields pressed in closer, amplifying the suffocating weight of her fury. Your lips parted, but no sound escaped, your throat dry and tight.

You wanted to deny her claims, to say something, anything, that could bridge the ever-widening chasm between you. But before the moment could spiral further, a figure emerged from the mist behind you.

"Enough," a familiar voice commanded, firm but quiet.

You turned to see Polites stepping forward, his weathered face set in a grim expression. His piercing gaze flicked between you and Cleo as he approached, the tension in the air palpable. He placed a steadying hand on your shoulder, his grip firm but not unkind.

"You need to go," he said softly, his tone leaving no room for argument.

You hesitated, glancing back at Cleo. Her form flickered, her green eyes burning with a mixture of anger and anguish. She didn't speak again, her hands curling into fists at her sides as Polites guided you away.

Each step away from her felt heavier, her words echoing in your mind. The mist swirled and shifted around you, a silent witness to the turmoil churning in your chest.

"Polites," you finally murmured, your voice shaky as you glanced up at him. "What did she mean? What did Cleo mean when she said... it was supposed to be me down here?"

Polites' steps faltered slightly, his jaw tightening as a flicker of guilt crossed his features. He didn't meet your eyes. Instead, he let out a quiet sigh.

"Maybe... you should ask Hermes," he said after a long pause.

Your heart sank at his evasive answer, but you didn't press further.

The silence between you was heavy as Polites left you standing at the edge of the Fields. His retreating footsteps faded into the mist, leaving you alone with your racing thoughts and the weight of the unspoken truths hanging in the air.

You ran a trembling hand down your face, exhaling shakily as you tried to make sense of it all. Twice now, you'd heard of this supposed favor from a god—first from your parents, and now from Cleo.

What were you missing? What had they seen or known that you didn't? The question gnawed at you, a seed of doubt taking root deep in your chest.

Shaking your head, you muttered to yourself, "Alright. One thing at a time." Maybe it was best to return home, to think in familiar surroundings. You needed space to figure out your next move.

Just as you turned to leave, a deep, guttural growl rumbled through the mist. You froze, every muscle in your body locking at the sound.

Slowly, you turned, your breath hitching as a massive shape emerged from the haze.

It was huge—easily towering over you—and as it stepped closer, the details sharpened, each more horrifying than the last.

Three massive heads loomed above, their glowing eyes burning like embers. Coarse black fur covered its hulking form, and its massive paws left deep impressions in the ashen ground with each step. Saliva dripped from its snarling jaws, and the hot, foul stench of its breath made you want to gag.

Your lips parted in disbelief. There was no mistaking it.

"Cerberus," you whispered, the name trembling on your lips as you stood frozen in place, the monstrous guardian of the Underworld looming before you.

All three heads turned toward you in unison, their fiery eyes locking onto you with unnerving precision. Low, guttural growls rumbled through the air, vibrating in your chest.

Panic seized you, your thoughts spiraling. What am I doing here? Why did I think this was a good idea? You stumbled back, the lyre slipping slightly in your sweaty hands. I should have waited for Hermes to come back. I should have asked more questions. I never should have come down here alone.

Cerberus took a deliberate step forward, the crunch of its paw against the ground snapping you out of your spiraling thoughts. You sucked in a shaky breath. Think. ____! Think! you urged yourself, but your mind was a chaotic mess, your fear making it impossible to focus.

Then, a flicker of a story crept into the back of your mind—something you'd read long ago. Orpheus. Your breath caught as the memory took hold, fragments of the myth piecing themselves together. Orpheus had journeyed to the Underworld to retrieve his beloved Eurydice. And how had he passed Cerberus? He'd used music. His lyre.

Your gaze flicked down to the instrument in your hands. It wasn't much, and you certainly weren't Orpheus, but it was all you had.

If the myth held any truth, it might work. And if not... well, the alternative stared you down with six glowing eyes and razor-sharp teeth that could tear you apart in an instant.

You licked your dry lips, fingers fumbling clumsily over the strings. The lyre felt heavy in your hands, almost alien, despite the countless hours you'd spent practicing. Swallowing hard, you steadied your breath as best as you could and strummed a soft, trembling chord.

The growls faltered, quieting slightly.

Encouraged, you adjusted your grip and strummed again, the sound ringing out through the silence. This time, you began to hum, the melody unfurling unbidden, as though it had been waiting for this moment.

"Rest now, guardian of the gate,

Droop your weary heads, abate.

The night is calm, the shadows deep,

And the calm shall bring you plenty sleep..."

Your voice wavered at first, the words faltering as fear gripped you. But as the melody unfolded, you found a rhythm. The lilting tune floated through the air, gentle and soothing. The fiery glow in Cerberus' eyes dimmed slightly, its heads tilting as though listening.

"You'll dream of rivers, dark and still,

Of gentle winds on shadowed hill.

Allow the world fade far away,

And greet the dawn another day..."

The great beast's posture relaxed. Its massive heads lowered, ears flicking forward as the melody wound through the air. You played on, your fingers gliding over the strings with newfound confidence, your voice steadying with each note.

The lullaby wrapped around Cerberus like a soft blanket. Its breathing slowed and the tension in its massive frame eased as the melody worked its magic.

The last note hung in the air, fading into the stillness of the Underworld, and for a moment, everything was utterly silent.

Then, the guardian let out a low, plaintive whine. It shifted its massive weight, shimmying forward on its colossal paws, sending a ripple through the ground beneath you.

You froze, gripping your lyre tightly as Cerberus closed the distance. One of its heads crept closer, its glowing eyes half-lidded, tongue lolling like an oversized, lazy hound. The sight was so absurd that it sent an involuntary laugh bubbling up from your chest.

The sound seemed to embolden the creature, its middle head nudging forward. The damp, cold nose bumped into your torso with a force that nearly sent you sprawling backward. You stumbled, catching yourself with one hand as the other clutched the lyre tightly.

"Alright, there, there," you murmured, half to yourself, half to beast. "You're just... a dog, aren't you?"

At your words, all three heads perked up, tongues lolling and tails wagging in unison. The sight of the Underworld's fearsome guardian behaving like an overexcited puppy was almost too much to process.

Hesitantly, you reached out. Your fingers brushed against the soft fur on its maw. The enormous body lowered to the ground, all three heads leaning in, their eyes closing in bliss as you scratched gently. Each head let out a contented rumble, the sound vibrating through the ground beneath you.

"Of course. The Underworld's greatest guardian... is just a giant dog."

Cerberus' middle head licked your arm in response, the force of it knocking you back. You couldn't help but laugh this time, the tension in your chest loosening as you regained your balance and kept scratching its face.

For a brief moment, everything felt oddly normal—peaceful, even.

But then, without warning—"Cerberus!"

The voice boomed through the Underworld, deep and commanding, shaking the very air around you like thunder. Cerberus' contented rumbling stopped abruptly. All three heads perked up, ears swiveling toward the sound.

Before you could process what was happening, the beast moved. The middle head dipped low, jaws opening wide enough to engulf you.

A startled yelp escaped you as the ground disappeared beneath your feet, the sensation of wet fur and sharp teeth surrounding you—but not hurting you. It wasn't trying to harm you; it was protecting you.

The next thing you knew, the guardian surged forward, its massive paws pounding against the ashen ground. The shadows of the Underworld blurred around you as Cerberus carried you deeper into the unknown.

You clung to the lyre, your thoughts a chaotic tangle of fear and disbelief. The Underworld raced past in a whirlwind of darkness, and all you could do was hold on.

.☆.       .✩.             .☆.

The mist of the Underworld blurred past as Cerberus carried you, his paws thundering against the ashen ground. The rhythm echoed in your chest, leaving you feeling small and fragile in comparison to the sheer power of the beast. Shadows and faint glimmers of light pulsed around you, the surreal expanse of the realm disorienting in its vastness.

Finally, the pounding slowed, then stopped altogether.

Cerberus lowered his middle head with surprising care, depositing you onto a cold, smooth surface. You stumbled as you landed, your palms bracing against the polished marble beneath you. You blinked, disoriented, before lifting your head to take in your surroundings.

The room was otherworldly, its ceilings stretching into darkness.

Pale grey light filtered in from unseen sources, illuminating a floor of black marble so polished it seemed to drink in the faint glow. Massive pillars lined the space, their surfaces carved with intricate, haunting designs—twisting vines, sorrowful faces, and scenes of life and death immortalized in stone.

At the far end of the room, a grand dais loomed. Two thrones stood upon it, each a study in stark contrast.

The first was dark and foreboding, carved from black obsidian that seemed to absorb the faint light rather than reflect it. The seat itself was simple yet commanding, its edges sharp and unyielding, exuding an air of finality that sent a chill down your spine. Seated upon it was Hades, the ruler of this realm.

His pale skin appeared almost translucent, stark against the jet-black hair that framed his sharp features. His dark eyes, fathomless and piercing, bore into you with an intensity that left you rooted to the spot. Though weariness hung about him like a heavy cloak, it did nothing to diminish the quiet strength that radiated from him.

Beside him, on a throne of shimmering alabaster, sat Persephone. Where Hades exuded darkness, she seemed to glow with a soft, ethereal light.

Golden waves framed her face, and her gown shimmered in hues of green and gold, like a garden in bloom. But her face, though youthful and radiant, was devoid of the brightness you might have expected from such a being. Her expression was distant, her gaze fixed somewhere far beyond the room, as though she was physically present but emotionally elsewhere.

The air grew colder as a low, gravelly voice echoed through the room, snapping your attention back to the dais.

"Why do you travel to the Underworld, mortal?" the voice rumbled, the sound filling the space like distant thunder. "You do not belong here."

You swallowed hard, your breath catching as you realized the voice came from Hades himself. The weight of his words pressed down on you, your heart pounding as his piercing gaze seemed to strip you bare. The meaning of his stare left no room for doubt—he demanded answers.

Persephone, meanwhile, remained silent, her delicate hands resting on the arms of her throne, her gaze flickering to you only briefly before she returned to her faraway thoughts.

You opened your mouth to speak, but no words came. The silence stretched, heavy and oppressive as you glanced between the two thrones. Every nerve in your body screamed at you to say something, anything, to justify your presence.

Finally, Hades' gaze shifted to Cerberus, who stood at your side. "Why did you bring her here?" His tone sharpened, cold and commanding. "Have you forgotten your purpose, beast? Incapable of doing your job?"

Cerberus let out a low whine, his three heads dipping low in unison, ears flattening against their skulls. His massive frame seemed to shrink under his master's displeasure, his paws scraping at the marble floor in a gesture that looked almost contrite.

The sight stirred something in you—a pang of guilt for the creature that had, in its own way, tried to protect you.

Summoning every ounce of courage, you stepped forward and bowed deeply. "M-My lord," you began, your voice trembling but steady. "Please don't blame him. He acted only to protect your realm. I am the one at fault." You glanced briefly at Cerberus, whose heads perked up slightly at your words. "I—I mean no harm, I swear it. I only... I only found myself lost."

As you spoke, you clutched your lyre tightly against your chest, the smooth metal cool beneath your trembling fingers. Unbeknownst to you, a faint glow began to seep from the instrument, its soft light catching Hades' attention. His dark eyes narrowed as they flickered to the lyre, though he said nothing.

Persephone's voice cut through the tension like a blade, soft yet piercing. "What is it you hold in your hands?" Her gaze, sharp and curious, locked onto the instrument cradled against you.

You blinked, her question catching you off guard. "I... it's a lyre," you stammered. "A gift I was given." Your words faltered, and then, as though compelled by some invisible force, you added, "From the god Hermes."

The room fell into a charged silence, the weight of your words pressing down like a tangible force. Hades' expression darkened, his jaw tightening as he exchanged a glance with Persephone. She tilted her head slightly, her golden hair catching the dim light as her gaze returned to you.

"Play me a song," she said simply, her voice carrying a quiet insistence.

Your heart leapt into your throat. "I—I beg your pardon?" you stuttered, uncertain you had heard her correctly.

"Play," she repeated, her tone softer now, almost wistful. "If Hermes gave it to you, then surely you must be worth hearing. It has been... so long since I heard music."

You glanced at Hades, hoping for some reprieve, but his gaze remained steady, unreadable as though daring you to deny his queen's request. Refusal was not an option. Swallowing hard, you bowed your head. "As you wish."

Your trembling fingers brushed the strings of the lyre as you positioned it carefully. Your mind raced as you searched for the right song, something that might please the queen but also calm the heavy tension that hung in the room. And then, almost instinctively, your thoughts turned to Penelope. The song you had often played for her came to mind, its melody soft and bittersweet—a reflection of longing and resilience.

You began to strum the strings gently, the first notes echoing softly through the vast throne room. The melody filled the cold, empty space, weaving its way through the shadows and carving out a moment of warmth amidst the gloom.

As the melody grew, so did your confidence. You began to sing, your voice trembling at first but finding strength as you continued.

"I weep for you, my lost love, across the endless sea, and still my heart will find you, where the wild winds are free.

Though night may fall, and stars may fade, I'll search till break of day.

Where moonlight bathes the restless waves, my love will find its way."

Persephone's expression shifted as she listened, her gaze growing softer, her hands clutching the arms of her throne. Even Hades seemed to relax, the sharp lines of his face easing ever so slightly.

When the final note faded into silence, you let out a shaky breath, lowering the lyre as your hands trembled.

A soft sniffle broke the stillness. You turned toward Persephone, whose delicate hand rose to wipe at her eyes. She blinked rapidly, as though trying to hold back tears, but it was no use. "Your voice," she murmured, her tone trembling. "It reminds me of Orpheus. He sang with the same yearning, the same pain. It's... haunting." Her words hung in the air, heavy with emotion.

Your lips parted, unsure of how to respond to such a vulnerable admission. The Queen of the Underworld, so poised and otherworldly, now sat before you with tears in her eyes, stirred by your song. A lump formed in your throat, but you couldn't bring yourself to speak. What could you possibly say to that?

Hades cleared his throat, his deep voice slicing through the moment, though it lacked its earlier edge. "Why are you here?" he asked again, this time softer, more curious than accusatory. The shift in his tone caught you off guard, and you hesitated, clutching your lyre a little tighter.

You thought about giving the same answer as before—that you didn't know, that you were lost. But something about the way he looked at you, expectant yet patient, made you pause.

Finally, you sighed and bowed your head. "I'm chasing something," you admitted. "Answers. Closure. I don't fully know what I'm looking for, but I can't leave it unresolved." You lifted your gaze to meet his. "I don't know how I got here, not entirely. But this is my second time in the Underworld."

Hades' brow arched. "Second time?"

You nodded. "Hermes brought me once before," you said quietly.

A low, humorless chuckle escaped Hades as he shook his head. "That meddlesome trickster."

Persephone glanced at him, her brows furrowing slightly, but she said nothing. Hades turned his attention back to you, his gaze lingering on the glowing lyre still cradled in your arms. He studied you for a long moment, as though weighing his next words carefully.

Finally, he straightened in his throne, his voice firm but not unkind. "Cerberus will escort you to the gates," he said, gesturing toward the massive beast that still lingered near the edge of the room. "You do not belong here, and it would be unwise for you to linger any longer."

Relief washed over you, and you bowed deeply. "Thank you, my lord," you said earnestly. Cerberus let out a low rumble, his middle head nudging you gently as though urging you forward.

As you followed Cerberus out of the throne room, Persephone's voice lingered in the air behind you, soft but unmistakable.

"That lyre... doesn't it look familiar? Doesn't Apollo have one just like it?"

The doors closed with a resounding echo, leaving her words to settle heavily in your mind.

A/N: ilolol i didnt want to split this into another chapter so surprise, 7k words lolol, sorry if everythigns too hectice im not tryna waste anymore time lol;  also charon is based on hymnoeides's fanart on tumblr, plz check them out (idk yall i might have to make a lil short fic for him lolol i mean 4 hands!?!)

Tag List nerds4life246 ace-spades-1 uniquetravelerone alassal thesimppotato11 jackintheboxs-world

[meadowlarkx]

sea stories

Ficlet for @sindarweek day 2: Folklore | AO3

They say that Elwing and her husband never returned to Middle-earth, but some know better. The first sea-bird sailors see once the ship is underway sometimes shimmers a little too brightly to be an ordinary skimmer. A sign of a good catch to come, a joyous return homewards. If they are lucky, she will greet them again when they seek the shore, white-winged harbinger of safe harbor. A Númenorean navigator once said he feared no voyage, however distant and deadly, for the same gull always met him without fail three days before land was sighted. With such a guide as Star-spray he could not waver. And of course the star sailed with him.

The fair folk know voices carry in water. Like a child, she laughs in the hidden valley’s falls, so like those for which she was named at her birth. Like a woman, she moans in the sea-caves of the Havens, sings and sobs in each tumbling wave. They hear her and feel a longing for far-off lands, for grey mists and birds’ shrieking, for love once lost thought never to be regained.

When storms blow in and cover the sky in the fishing villages, women weaving nets have heard her calling for her sons. She never finds them. But they temper their fear for their own babes, because children caught by the tide speak of being led home by such a voice, by a ray of pale light, by a hopping sandpiper.

On some summer nights without wind the sea lulls smooth as glass. Light bridges the dark water from the evening star’s ship to the grasses at the river’s mouth. You can see him alight then, despite the gods’ doom. She embraces him, cloaked in white feathers, a jewel at her throat and on his brow. At times she surges up from the reeds’ hidden nests; others, she floats down beside him like a wisp of cloud. On the banks of the undrowned world, they walk together. They meet there still.