#the rose will bloom untouched by the fire

[paragon-arthur]

Been meaning to put this to words, but Draco is so good because she's so Nero.

She doesn't change herself to fit into Chaldea's structure, to become another chess piece. She got too much of that under her mother's thumb.

She says she will stay a Beast. Unlike Tiamat and the other playable Beasts, Draco does not compromise on her own self.

She acts as arrogant as Nero- perhaps more, even. She is clearly somewhat selfish and self centered as Nero, yet she does not apologize. Less 'UMU' and more of what made Nero so compelling in the first place.

She refuses to change herself for ANYONE. Instead, Draco makes it clear that instead of losing herself i.e. turning to an Alter Ego, she will remain a Beast.

Because to deny her Beasthood means to hide Draco's true self.

And what she really wants is to be free. Free to be HERSELF.

[beloveds-embrace]

(p4 of fae poly 141 x cursed human reader | cw: angst | masterlist)

A day came that none of them expected, even if they should have.

The day when the sky itself seemed to hold its breath, when the very walls of the castle leaned inward in aching dread and condensation dripped like tears over the aged stone.

You stood alone in the center of the courtyard, where the last warmth of the afternoon sun pooled around you like woven silk, threading through your hair and gilding your skin with a soft, fading glow. Behind you, the winter roses stretched in riotous, sorrowful bloom- petals like thousand tiny white fires blazing against the creeping gray of the castle stone. Their scent, sharp and sweet, filled the air so heavily it was almost suffocating, and yet you seemed untouched by it, adrift in a world slowly folding in on itself only in your eyes.

The fae and the creatures of the castle gathered without meaning to, summoned not by any spell but by the deep, instinctive pull of grief- small, winged sprites with trembling gossamer wings clinging to the columns, knot-spirits huddled in the ivy with their glowing eyes wide and mournful. Even the ancient dryads, so rarely seen, leaned from the twisted trees, their hair a veil of weeping vines, their mouths open in silent horror as they watched the terrible unmaking of something precious.

You turned in a slow, uncertain circle, the worn hem of your gown brushing softly across the stone, your bare feet tracing arcs in the thin dust. A frown pinched your brow, delicate and confused, and your fingers plucked mindlessly at the fabric gathered at your waist, the nervous gesture of a child lost in the woods. Your eyes, once so brilliant with laughter and cunning and love, were wide and glazed now, reflecting the world around you as if it were already slipping beyond your grasp- as if you were beyond your own grasp.

John was the first to move; his boots made almost no sound on the worn stones as he stepped forward, each step measured, careful, as though approaching a wounded animal who might bolt at the slightest wrong motion.

He smiled a smile so soft and broken it could have melted mountains, could have silenced the wars of old, had it been seen by any creature less consumed by confusion than you were. His arms opened, slow and steady, offering the only thing he had left to give you: his unwavering love- even if it was the chain binding you now.

"[]" he spoke, yet the words came out muddled to your ears, unpleasant and unwanted. The unshed grief in his tone, thus, escaped you. "There you are."

You blinked at him, once, twice, like trying to clear rain from your lashes, then tilted your head just slightly to the side, like a bird puzzled by its reflection in a mirror.

The frown deepened, and a tremor passed visibly through your frame, so fragile and uncertain that even the bravest of the castle's knights could not have borne the sight without flinching.

"...Are you speaking to me?" you asked. The words were soft, high and frightened- a butterfly trapped against glass. And the courtyard magic, already strained near to breaking, shivered under the weight of said words, rippling outward in a wave that left dreadful silence in its wake.

John’s heart thudded painfully once against his ribs, the force of it staggering him a half step forward, hands reaching out for you, always you.

Johnny gave a short, raw bark of laughter- too sharp, too desperate- as if clinging to hope that this was all some cruel jest, that any moment now you would laugh and scold him for being so easily fooled and pretty starpetals would bloom and everything would be fine.

But when your gaze swung to him, wide and unknowing, that flicker of hope died hard and fast and wretched in his chest, and he clamped a hand over his mouth to smother the wounded sound that escaped.

"You," You said again, voice cracking like thin ice. "You keep saying [], but… but I don't know if that's meant for me."

You stared down at your hands, as if they belonged to someone else, as if they might carry the answer hidden in their lifeline scars and soft, faded calluses. You wrung them together, desperate, helpless, a flickering figure of loss against the gathering dusk, and held your face in them. Your voice dropped then, so low, so broken, that the very stones seemed to lean closer to hear the death knell of hope:

"I… I don't even know what my name is anymore."

The courtyard magic buckled violently inward, like a ship struck fatally below the waterline, and the wind shrieked- a high, keening sound that rattled the stained glass windows in their ancient frames. The winter roses, once so proud, wilted black and sagged against their thorned vines, their life snuffed out as if by an unseen hand.

Because in the world of the fae, names are everything.

A name is the blood and the breath and the bone of existence; it is the song written into the fibers of the soul, the anchor to memory, to history, to self. The thread that weaves a soul into the tapestry of life. And without it, you were not merely lost.

You were unraveling.

The castle mourned deep within its foundations, stones weeping bitter, shimmering tears that ran in thin rivulets along the walls. Will-o-wisps, who had danced so joyfully once in your presence, fell from the air like extinguished stars, leaving behind only fading sparks that blinked out one by one- unable to withstand this tragedy. Even the sun, as if unable to bear witness to what was unfolding, slipped behind a mourning veil of silver clouds, casting the world into a dim, mournful twilight.

Thrain came forward then- mighty, ancient Thrain- and the ground trembled beneath his hooves, each step reverberating through the cracked bones of the courtyard. He lowered his vast, crowned head and pressed it gently, reverently to your frail shoulder, thick fur brushing against your skin; it was an offering, a lifeline, an ancient beast’s desperate attempt to anchor you to this world with the only strength he had left.

You barely noticed, your hands lifting only weakly to tangle in his fur, your eyes staring sightlessly beyond him.

Your men could only watch, helpless and hollowed out.

Johnny pressed his fists to his mouth, biting down so hard that the sharp tang of blood filled his mouth, but it wasn’t enough to ground him, wasn’t enough to stop the trembling.

Kyle, who had spent hours weaving a crown of meadowflowers to coax a smile from you, dropped it from numb fingers, the blossoms scattering at his feet like spilled blood.

Simon turned away from the sight of you, broad shoulders heaving once, a hand braced against the stone wall as if the weight of the moment had finally driven him to his knees.

But John stood very, very still; as though if he moved too fast, too wrong, you might vanish entirely.

He crossed the space between you with slow, reverent steps, falling to his knees before you in the dying light. The winter roses brushed against his shoulders, and where they touched him, their petals blackened and withered, unable to survive the depth of the sorrow bleeding from his soul.

"Listen to me." He begged, his voice rough, ragged, almost unrecognizable from the weight of his grief.

You turned your gaze to him then, confused, and John felt the last stronghold of his heart crumble to dust.

"You are you," he said fiercely, as if sheer force of will might weave your fraying soul back together. "You are ours. You are mine. You are not lost. I don't care what name you remember- your soul knows me. I swear it."

You lifted a hand, trembling, uncertain, and brushed your fingertips lightly through his beard, as though trying to remember what kindness felt like- and then you smiled.

A small, confused, heartbreakingly tender smile.

"I like you." You whispered, so simple.

It was the final blow; John the unshakable, the immovable, the king who had ended wars and torn down gods- folded forward, pressing his forehead to your lap, and wept, his shoulders breaking under the ache.

Not the quiet, dignified tears of mortal men. No, this was the weeping of ancient kings, of gods laid low. Ragged, broken, soul-deep sobs that tore free from him like the very earth breaking open, shaking him down to the marrow.

And all around you, the castle mourned with him: torches sputtered and went out; hearths dimmed to embers, and the very air turned heavy and thick, until even the wind could no longer bear to move. The creatures covered their eyes with their tiny, trembling hands, and the dryads wept openly, their tears falling like pearls onto the cracked stone.

And even Thrain bowed his great head lower still, his breath smoking in the chill air, his ancient heart breaking with yours.

That night, the castle was silent; no music drifted from the high towers, no dances lit the green halls and the stars themselves bent low over the ruined earth, their silver light dim and broken, as though mourning what was slipping away.

And only John lay curled around you in the vast, cold bed, the heavy silence broken only by his shattered voice whispering into your hair:

"I love you," he said, again and again, as if the words might build a bridge back to you even if he damn knew better. “I love you, even if you forget me. I love you, even if you forget yourself. I love you, even if the stars forget to rise. I will cure you, even if I must tear my own love apart and you’d hate me for the rest of eternity.”

And you, soft and small, lost and beloved- slept on, nameless and dreamless, but still, somehow, still wrapped safely in the arms of the man who would carry your memory when you no longer could.

Always.

p5

[galaxymacbeth]

Tea Time

cw: none, super fluff

Days pass after dinner. Once or twice, she leaves her room to wander the fortress. Soap and Gaz seem to have a knack for finding her whenever she’s out. Though they don’t linger long. Soap notably apologizes every time he sees her, despite her telling him she’s no longer upset about it.

She finds more tapestries in her wandering but could swear that new ones appear each day. One seems to depict a lamb being stalked by a wolf, though she’s not quite convinced the look in the wolf’s eye is that of hunger. Others are of war, the sound of clashing metal almost ringing in her ears before she has to turn and leave it. She doesn’t see them often after that.

Once, she stumbles into a kitchen. It is quiet and still, even with the fire roaring under a pot of the most delicious smelling (and tasting) stew she’d ever had. She watches it for a moment, ladle stirring itself. Magic tips a bowl towards her and the stew is her lunch.

One morning, as she’s sifting through fabric in her room, a knock comes. John smiles at her from the doorway.

“Sir—John,” she coos and pushes the fabric away.

“I...” His hand clenched into a fist before it flexed out. Her eyes watched it for another moment before flicking to his eyes. Can Gods be nervous? “I would be honoured if you’d join me for tea today.” His smile was sheepish and he smoothed a hand over his tunic. Gods could be nervous.

Pet opened her mouth but John continued.

“I do understand if you’re happy in your solitude. Please don’t feel—”

“I would love to.”

He swore he’d never seen a smile so bright. Pure. Innocent and trusting. Her eyes shined and cheeks rose to meet them. A faint look of wariness sat at the edge of them. It made him smile wider. Smart girl, his Pet.

“Wonderful. Meet me in the drawing room at noon, yes? The lights can show you the way,” he bowed his head. “I look forward to it.”

“As do I.” Pet curtsied at him. It was clumsy and unpracticed but warmed his heart all the same.

The royalty he’d had the misfortune of dealing with during his knighthood were pompous and cruel. Few gave him a second glance and even fewer showed him an ounce of the respect he’d earned. To have someone curtsy to him — to have his Pet curtsy to him — was a dream come true.

As he left her door, she glanced to her wardrobe. The four dresses stared back at her. Soap’s was pushed to the side, untouched since he’d cornered her. Pet took his apologies to heart and truly didn’t harbour ill will, but she was cautious to put it back on. The other three hung together, asking if she’d like to try again.

She was almost certain the darkest gown was Ghost’s—Simon’s. But that left the other two and her uncertainty of which was who’s. They weren’t similar by any means. Yet at that moment, her eyes were drawn towards the lightest gown.

It was crafted of silver silk, and cascaded as she moved it. There was gold thread sewn into a rose pattern all over the skirt. Some blooms were full. Some were barely buds. Thorns laid delicately between them.

The bodice was all gold, stiff with bones and had in gold appliqué all over. Pet went so far as to check the shelf above the dresses for a matching crown or tiara. It was a gown fit for royalty.

The exact kind of thing she could imagine John Price was familiar with as a knight. Oh, how she dreamed not to let him down.

She pinned her hair back, braiding one thick strand before twisting it into a crown high on her head. She only hoped it would be half as presentable as the queens and princesses John had known.

At noon, she followed the sconces to the drawing room. The door sat open and John need only look up to see her approach. His smile beamed as he stood, arms out, and invited her in.

“Gods above...” he swore to himself. Pet had to laugh — a God praying to the others at the mere sight of her. “You look marvelous. More beautiful than I ever could have imagined.”

John bundled her into his arms, breathing in her scent. Gentle, calming. Like something he used to dream of as a boy. Pet let out a squeak and he released her.

“I’m sorry, little one. I—when Johnny described it, he never—sit. I should explain.” He pulled a chair out. Gathering her skirts, she sat down and let him move her towards the table.

A full tea was set up in front of her. A steaming teapot sat in the center of the table. Two teacups were situated beside one another. Cakes were perched on wooden plates around the teapot. One plate held a large sweetroll. John sat in front of the other cup. Though he sat only a few feet from her, he yearned to touch her.

“This is...” she surveyed the cakes.

“You’ll have to forgive me. In my time as a knight, I enjoyed tea time the most. My—the king was a fool for sweets. It is...a lot.” His face warmed and John could not deduce if it was from her dress caressing her skin, embarrassment from his over the top tea, or simply being in her presence.

“Did they serve sweetrolls in your kingdom,” she giggled. And John felt his shoulders slump. It had been ages since joy found its way into their fortress. And there she sat. Giggling at a God of War.

“No. But I have it on good authority that you like them,” he pulled the plate towards him and tore a piece of the sweetroll off, “please, have some tea. It is black tea leaves. Simple but one of my favourites.”

Pet poured herself a cup, then filled John’s. They piled small plates with cake and sweetroll—she ignored the fact that the sweetroll never seemed smaller. Then, John studied her.

“We should have done more to explain things when you arrived but S—Ghost insisted on letting you be. We never should have handed you such powerful objects without explaining what they are.”

She nodded along, listening but filling her stomach with the most decadent cakes she’d ever had. As if she’d had many.

“They were made for you. Each one a representation of our protection. Our l—promise to you.” John set his cup down. “They were, however, made by a goddess. Farah. She imbued them with...us. Our beings.”

Her eyes widened, hands reaching towards the bodice but John caught them across the table.

“Nothin’ like that. We can feel them when you touch them, move them. Sometimes when you merely look at them. They call to us.”

“Soap said it like I’d hurt him,” she whispered, eyes dropping to her lap. A rose bud stared back, thorn sitting neatly beside it.

John chuckled, “imagine it did, pet. Imagine it felt like his soul was being pulled away from him just to follow you.” Releasing her hands, his fingers found the edge of her skirt, “just like I felt you smooth your hands over the silk.”

“I...I don’t want to hurt you. Any of you.”

“No, no, little one. You’ll never hurt us. Eat, drink, please,” John pushed her teacup towards her. Her hands were hesitant, cautious as she picked it up.

“Let us talk about something else, hm? Tell me about your home. If you will.” John sipped his tea and shoved a cake into his mouth.

She sat for a moment, looking at her teacup. It shared a rose pattern with her dress and—now that she looked closely—John’s tunic. He wore a jerkin over it but it, too, matched.

“I lived with my parents. Just me. Mother could never have another child after me but she always said she didn’t need more than we had.”

Memories flipped through her mind. Evenings watching her parents dance to the drums coming from the village square; making tribute bundles with her mother; digging up old, dead crops with her father. Some she wasn’t sure she could ever share with them.

“Mother never fit in with the other women in our village—I suppose I didn’t either.” She shrugged as she bit into a piece of sweetroll. John let his head fall to the side, soaking in her words.

No. he thought. No, you didn’t.

Few ever looked up at them without fear. Few could look at Ghost long enough to see the softness in his eyes. None had ever had the heart to forgive Soap’s explosive personality. Yet she had. On that day, she looked at them as if they would save her from her fellow man. Gods of War—sparing an innocent soul.

Yes, their Pet—Prize—looked at them like someone who’d truly spent her life praying to them. Like she knew they would not—could not—hurt her.

“She always told me that as long as I was pious, as long as I prayed, we would not see war.” Pet smiled and John almost loathed that it wasn’t for him. “I suppose she was right.”

Then she turned her faint smile at John.

“An’ your father?”

“A good man. Rather serious like Simon. But gentle.” John’s eyes flashed wide. He’d never imagined Simon would tell her his name so freely. Then again, the man had always had a soft spot for fragile lambs. “He did love my mother so. I think all his affection was reserved for her.”

“They sound lovely,” John breathed. He could see the smile on her face but the sadness in her eyes. She needn’t say out loud that she missed them dearly.

“John?” He hummed through a sip of tea, “can you…keep them safe from war?”

His heart skipped a beat. Blood froze in his veins.

“You can’t, can you?”

“We cannot interfere with mortal affairs. We…are not allowed to. I can watch them, see them. Send them omens. Maybe steer war away from them, but nothing more.” John reached for her hand but Pet pulled it away. “I wish I could, little one. I would swear to let them live forever with you if I could.”

“I…understand.” Her voice trembled. A fat tear dropped from her chin, onto her saucer. She brought her cup to her lips. “Will you tell me about the others?”

“Yes. The boys. My boys,” John poured more tea into her now empty cup, than his, “my...”

He felt a hint of shame at the smile on his face. There she sat, mourning her old life while he smiled like a fool over his boys.

“I love them. They are another part of me, just like my sword and dagger. Like my very breath.” John chanced a look at Pet. She was watching him, eyes glossy. “Mistake not, though. Kyle has drawn my ire on many occasions in battle.”

It was a simple attack that they knew would result in plenty of souls. Yet Kyle was not satiated.

“It was clean and simple but he just had to kill a retreating knight. And I banished him for three months.”

“You...fight in battles?”

“Pet, you must understand something. We cannot win a war for someone. We cannot turn the tide of battle. But we do collect tribute in the flesh. We can participate in battle and take souls with us. We appear as regular warriors, they would not know who we were unless we wanted them to.” John felt his hand heavy with his dagger. It had a habit of appearing when he least expected it. It had shown itself the very day they took her. It’s weight was unwelcome. He’d left it in Shepherd’s neck for a reason.

“Some might prefer to let their tribute come to them. We seek it. And mortals do not leave us wanting.”

Pet nodded. She shifted, fingers picking at cakes until they were just crumbs.

“Kyle has an affinity to start debates for fun. Usually about something he does not care about. Just to wind us up.”

“Who is Kyle?” Her hands twisted around her teacup handle. “A...and Johnny?”

John smiled at her, “Kyle is Gaz’s real name. Johnny is Soap.”

“John, Simon, Kyle, and Johnny, then?” Her eyes were brighter, less glossy.

“That’s it, Pet. And as I’m sure you know, Johnny has a tendency to act first and ask questions later.” It earned a startled laugh from her. “But the lad is good at heart. I’m also sure he hasn’t stopped apologizing. He wants your trust. Simon likes to call him a mutt—but I do see the resemblance.”

“I guess if Simon can’t ask for a dog...”

John howled, folding over the table. Pet bit her lip but joined his laughter.

“Johnny will be down right sour when I tell Simon that. I’m...thank you, Pet.” He slipped a cake into his mouth.

“And Simon?”

Nodding, John continued, “Simon is exactly as you see him. Of course, he can slip into the shadows sometimes.” Pet huffed out a laugh. “I do mean it. We all have some sort of gift of godhood. Simon’s is shadows. He can melt into them at will. Rather chilling at times.”

That perked her up. She sat straight and a smile grew on her face.

“What’s yours?”

“Weapons. For example,” John stood, showing her the starmetal dagger in his hand. Her mouth fell open. Then, he sheathed it and it disappeared. John reached to his other hip, where a rapier had materialized. He lifted his hand from it and it, too, vanished. “Any weapon I need or want will come to me.”

“How helpful,” she cocked a shoulder, “will you tell me Johnny and Kyle’s?”

“No. They will show you in time,” John sat back down. Pet’s lower lip stuck out and John felt his heart clench. “Are you pouting at me, Pet?”

“No.” She sucked it back in. “What about the other gods? You said you like...going to your tribute.”

John nodded, “yes. And there’s nothing wrong with letting tribute come to you. But some should not.”

She nodded, sipping on her tea.

“Laswell—you may know her as Watcher—she must wait. Wisdom and intelligence only comes to those who wait and have patience. If she were to interfere, seek it out, the wisdom would not be whole.” Pet tilted her head and he bit back a smile. “But those like Makarov—Konni to you—they should not wait like kings for their tribute. They should seek it, like us. There’s plenty of death to go around.”

“You must get along with him some,” she said through a piece of sweetroll, “Death and War.”

Price grips his teacup. The creaking of porcelain draws her eyes to his hands. She could swear she saw cracks in it.

“No. Makarov and I...we do not see eye to eye. He likes trouble, tormenting mortals. He wants them to bow to him when its the very mortals he looks down upon that make him who he is.”

John forces himself to set the cup down and shoves a cake into his mouth. Then another. With a third in his hand, he focuses on her.

“Pet, did you know Gods were mortal once?”

Her eyes widened and her head shook side to side.

“We all came from somewhere, something. I...I will tell you my story one day. But know that we all were human once. And there are those of us who would rather forget that fact.”

“Will I ever meet another God?”

John chuckled darkly, “not if we can help it.”

Pet nods. His brows pinch together, lips set in a deep line. The once calm blue eyes were now dark. Deadly. A knight sits in front of her; poised to strike. Ready to take a life.

“W—what is your favourite sweet?”

John looked to her. He can all but feel his eyes soften, the purse of his lips give way to a hint of a smile. What a smart little pet. Intelligence maybe even Laswell would envy.

“Biscuits. Of any kind.”

Pet smiles at him.

Their tea is decidedly sweeter after it. John regaled her with stories of the others. Pet told him of her childhood, yet never of the war she saw. It sat at the tip of her tongue, as if the stories themselves wanted the God to hear them. It tasted vile. She dug her teeth into her tongue to stop them.

By the time the sun had begun to set, their teapot stopped filling itself and the sweetroll had dwindled into her stomach.

“Would you like me to walk you back?” John stood, offering a hand. She smiled, taking it, but shook her head.

“N—no. Thank you.”

His chest lurched but John merely pursed his lips, “very well. Please know that you’re always welcome to join us for dinner.”

“Thank you, John.” He led her to the door. Behind him, porcelain clinked together as it cleaned itself. “This was lovely.”

“Yes. Best tea I’ve had in centuries.” Puzzled, John couldn’t help but scour every inch of their conversation. Had he said something? Done something? “I’d like to have tea with you more often, if you’d allow it.”

“Of course,” Pet squeezed his hand as much as she could. He held her in a death grip. “John?”

“Yes, yes.” He loosened his hold and brought it to his lips. With a chaste kiss, the god released her and Pet began down the hall. Behind her, sconces dim. As if she took the very light with her.

John found himself in the banquet hall, pulling out a chair, and sitting to look at the stained glass. Four were laid into the stone at the far end of the hall. His was a large, singular rose. The petals were black, stem gold. The three thorns on the stem were blood red. Yet, as he looked at it now, a fourth sat right under the bloom.

The doors opened and a conversation was cut off.

“Cap?” Kyle cocked his head at him. Johnny glanced towards the stained glass. His breath hitched and Johnny smacked Kyle’s chest.

All four had changed.

“Is that her?”

“Has to be,” John mumbled, “our girl. No question ‘bout it.”

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masterlist

[otkuhotgirl]

─── 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐊 𝐅𝐎𝐑 𝐈𝐓 .

# with donquixote doflamingo.

the man who conquered it all could not have predicted the boredom that came with settledness. yet, fucking you with an audience was entertaining enough.

⎰ & KINKTOBER, day thirteen. smut (mdni!). dacryphilia. humiliation kink. voyeurism. slapping. drugging. afab!reader. no y/n used.

WC: 2.5k

don quixote doflamingo was an untouchable man, for neither the government nor a commoner had enough power and influence to rival one beyond a celestial — a king. that who would grow into the commander of all, rather than the mere master of a meaningless kingdom; that whose future was trailed to conquest. comfort had been the most prominent gift offered by power, yet with it came boredom. those who dared defy him could not match the strength of the weakest members of his family, let alone a single one from his elite officers. arrogance could lead him so far before the settling of inevitable dullness. a warlord; a king; a dragon. despite the revolt born from the reminiscence of his past, being honest with himself, the age of pirate life, dangerous-filled, at least had a tinge of excitement to it. the settling down that came with the successful crafting of an empire was a disappointment that, although predicted, remained frustrating.

doflamingo was unused to the process of yearning, for his seizing of what was wanted was immediate. he had been a child famished for prestige and vengeance; a teen striving for riches; an adult who at last conquered it all, yet it was far from enough. not a thing in the world could quite affect him; how one could bother the man who had whatever his heart desired? he pondered on the perspective of conforming to the scenario at hand — until you showed up.

he claimed you as he did most things throughout his life — coercion with threatening innuendos and promises of violence. you were neither given a choice nor an escape route; he craved you, therefore he would have you. the fact that you were so willing to submit was but a treacherous, laid-out trap. you behaved as though an innocent rose — innocent, willing, made to be ravaged — and once doflamingo grew used to your presence, adoration overcoming lust; having you as the favorite doll on his shelf; you surprised him with the serpent hidden underneath the petals.

the carnal endeavors were not exclusive. doflamingo made it clear that he could have you and countless others, daring to command you to remain by the pool while he had women piled on his lap. you were unfazed — ever his obedient pet — until his passion bloomed, meaning you were no longer expendable: you were his lover; a member of his family. once you realized that, said viper fangs dug through flesh and injected its poison into his bloodline. so long as you existed, doflamingo could be affected; the downfall of a god. and you were far from unaware of that privilege — especially once he ditched other women, for they were not you.

the first time you had pulled that move was during a warlord reunion — boring, catastrophic. doflamingo had brought you along for the merest sake of flexing his lover, yet the brief lack of explicit affection altered the function of your character to those who observed without context.

to them, you were but a supposed crewmate; a subordinate meant to aid were things to go sour. as a consequence, within the merest blink of an eye, you were found not by his side — but rather entertaining crocodile’s advances. doflamingo was well-aware of the distaste the fellow warlord felt for him, and enough a smart individual not to underestimate said man’s intelligence. the crystalline flirting had been a mute, mutual decision to vex him; to force him into discomfort.

doflamingo half-expected the rage to consume every nerve at the sight of another’s hand on your body; to have a languid tongue of fire teasing the flesh of his heart. yet that had not been the case. the man was surprised at the realization of his own amusement at the sight, the treacherous trail of his thoughts, treading on the image of crocodile’s fingers on your flesh; fragments of sand blooming goosebumps on your arm. crocodile would never steal what was his; doflamingo would wrap strings around that neck without second-thought was he to dare claim you. a full-blown fight would be interesting, although with predictable results — doflamingo would emerge victorious, as per usual.

the man untouchable granted a weakness of ridiculous character. at the end of such a reunion, doflamingo ravished you on the ship throughout the entire return to dressrosa — and that had been the most exhilarating experience he had in ages.

doflamingo had no need to express said desire. you noted it through the manner with which his touch shifted — the applied pressure, the rough, erratic pace of his cock pistoling itself inside. you were given mute, explicit permission to misbehave, doflamingo wanted you to flirt and lure others into his web; drew pleasure from the desperation in their eyes upon the realization of who was the man you belonged to. whenever you were to leave, doflamingo had the servants paint your skin with black-ink in swirling patterns. he’d accompany you; hidden, amused. observing as those men’s fingers stained the texture of your flesh, digits indicating where you were touched. doflamingo did not care about those men whatsoever, murdering them as soon as they dared cross a line.

rather than wiping the ink, he’d throw your back against the pool of blood and claim you then and there — forcefully mingling black and red into your flesh, adding the white of his cum thereafter. oftentimes he’d have the men alive, forced to watch his cock entering your cunt; to hear your delicious moans. his strings would wrap itselves around their throats; slice their flesh. and then — only then — would doflamingo tear your clothes off, expose your nipples to his eyes. it was better when said individuals were commoners; low-lifers. self-proclaimed important men were arrogant enough to withstand the weight of his presence; stupid enough to dare touch covered inches of flesh where the ink had not reached. his excitement would be maculated by the rage, born from said display of impertinence, and if one was to be fair the enticement lost its appeal when he was forced to face such smugness. allowing you to participate in the diplomatic dinner with the marine forces had been an error, for vice-admirals were not quite as often moral as those who occupied a higher position in the hierarchy. the man was strong — drunk, too — and you had him wrapped around your finger, serving him wine; trailing your index down his chest. the man was served the most delicious meals; offered the most matured alcoholic beverages. and, unbeknownst to him, had the king of dressrosa’s lover in his lap.

doflamingo clutched his bottle, erection enclosed by the fabric of his underwear. the vice-admiral nudged your neck with his nose, and doflamingo smirked when your eyes trailed to his own, angling your head in order to give the officer a better access to your skin. he could not kill that man — too important; too risky — a fact you were well-aware of, forcing his hand without second thought, daring him to persevere. he clicked his tongue, spreading his legs under the table and not minding enough to suppress his delighted grunt when the tip of your heel reached his shaft. in order to do so, you moved your ass where you sat on the vice-admiral’s lap, and when his eyes filled with lust, doflamingo’s fingers twitched, a single string teasing your neck. he could not touch that man, but you — you belonged to him. doflamingo was allowed to treat you as he pleased.

he tied the string around your chest, forcing your cleavage to spill out. the vice-admiral’s eyes glued to it, whereas doflamingo’s glance tethered itself to your face. you grinned in pure delight, grinding against the drunk man’s cock on purpose — in such a bliss that he remained unaware of the cat-and-mouse game happening in front of him. he tightened the grip on your throat, drawing pleasure from your hooded eyes. doflamingo tugged at the string ever-so-slightly, forcing your chest forward into the table, aware that the vice-admiral’s tip would poke at your ass. he grunted at the thought, feeling the first drops of his pre-cum that all but stained the fabric of his underwear.

“how do you like the wine?” he inquired, drowning his throat with it, observing the vice-admiral’s vicious glance.

the man seemed to have been reminded of the character of his visit — to form a deal between the warlord and the government; not to get a hand wrapped around his cock. yet, he struggled to remain composed; to focus where it mattered.

“it’s delicious,” he answered, though his eyes were glued to your figure.

doflamingo snapped his fingers, calling a servant in. the woman brought yet another bottle, and with the vice-admiral’s attention elsewhere, it was easy to pour droplets of a strong somniferous into the wine. a flick of his fingers had the bottle sliding through the table into your seat, and you raised an eyebrow.

“doffy,” you complained. “we were having fun.”

“pour it,” doflamingo demanded, and you all but scoffed — an attitude he’d correct later-on.

rather than doing it so, you parted his lips open with your thumb, convincing him to open his mouth. you poured the beverage inside, forcing him to swallow. doflamingo’s cock twitched as a string of red wine dripped down the vice-admiral’s chin, and he all but relaxed, though quite awake still, as if stuck into a particularly odd dream. the second the other’s grip on you loosened, doflamingo tapped on the table’s surface, and you knelt upon it, driving yourself towards him as though a mischievous cat. he licked his lips, well-aware of the vice-admiral’s state of dazed consciousness. he kicked the table’s leg, forcing you to fall face-straight into his chest.

“fun,” he echoed, gripping your nape and thighs. “i doubt a marine would know the meaning of fun, little bird.”

you hummed, burying your nose in his neck. “should we teach him, doffy?”

doflamingo laughed, angling his chair in order to give the drugged vice-admiral the full sight of what was about to happen. he would not dare remove your shirt, for not another deserved to have your breasts etched into memory; more importantly, you hadn’t worked enough for your nipples to be worth the attention of his tongue. instead, he raised the hem of your dress and tugged at the waistband of your underwear, unable to contain the excitement.

“tear it off,” he teased, brushing his erection against your covered cunt. you mewled, starting to move as if to remove your panties. “stupid, little bird. i told you to tear it.”

his hand forced your chest to meet his, and his long tongue darted out from his mouth to lick your cheeks. doflamingo’s grip was but a cage, and your fingers struggled to rip those panties — an order he would have no problem in accomplishing were the roles reversed.

“can’t handle it yourself, little bird?” he teased, rutting his hips in order to tease your entrance. you whined, meeting his pace; grinding against his cock.

“doffy,” you mewled, ceasing the movement of your fingers for the sake of your brief pleasure.

“what, you think shoving those panties aside would be enough?” he mocked, resting his back on the chair. “i’m an important man.”

the glance you sent his way was anger-filled; frustrated. he ignored it, grunting at the sight of your struggling figure, all but laughing throughout the time demanded for your underwear to be ripped in half. doflamingo smirked, satisfied with your desperation. he refused to offer any sort of aid, comfortably resting while you were forced to remove the lower-half of his clothes — managing to lower it down only enough to free his cock from its confines.

“pathetic,” he spat, gripping your throat; forcing your glance to meet his. “that’s why you resort to low-lifers, is it not? you’re a whore at your core, little bird, unworthy of a king.”

his palm met your face; a powerful slap that had your head angled to the side with sudden violence. you moaned, leaning into his touch regardless of the strength dwelled upon it.

“were you turned on?” doflamingo inquired, gripping your chin. “when his cock poked at your entrance, were you dripping wet?”

“no, doffy,” you stated, tearing up due to the aggressiveness poured into the touch.

he laughed, moving his head with certain disappointment. doflamingo snapped his hips, forcing his erection to settle amidst your folds, the wetness that enveloped the sensitive flesh of his tip causing him to grunt with sheer desire, increasing the pressure applied on your chin.

“lying slut,” he accused, gripping your hips to guide the grinding of his cock. “look at how wet you are.”

��only because you were staring at me,” you countered through a shrieking shout. he laughed, despite the painful state of his erection.

“is that so?” doflamingo taunted. “a pathetic excuse of a creature aching for a god’s cock. how egotistical.”

“doffy—”.

“beg for it,” he snapped, teasing your lips open with the tip of his tongue.

“please, doffy,” you pleaded, rolling your hips with a moan and an arch of your back, failing to please yourself without further aid. “i need you, i need your cock.”

“to do what?”

“to fuck me! please, make me cum, doffy. only you can.”

“pitiful,” he continued, raising your hip ever-so-slightly to shove his cock inside. you gripped his shoulders, searching for equilibrium, and shouting as his girth split you open.

doflamingo was a man whose height surpassed that of the common average — as a consequence, the same could be applied to the length and width of his shaft. in order not to cause greater pain to his lover, certain particularities needed to be considered. a proper teasing beforehand to guarantee natural lubrication; gradual insertion to avoid sudden stretching. yet, he did not care about that in such an instance whatsoever, merely licking the tears that traveled through your cheeks, bruising your cervix with his tip.

without further ado, doflamingo forced you to move; to bounce on his cock. he raised your figure to pistol his erection from the base to the tip, tearing your walls; demolishing from the inside-out. you moaned, and doflamingo angled his head to meet the unfocused glance of the vice-admiral, grinning as the room filled with the sound of his balls meeting your ass. the increase of your pace; the way your fingers dug into the flesh of his shoulders. you were nearing your release, and doflamingo settled back, no longer thrusting into you.

“doffy!” you shouted, and he didn’t hesitate to slap your face as a reprimand.

“who do you think you are, whore?” doflamingo snapped. “if you want to cum, work for it.”

your legs trembled; constricted. his back met the chair, hands above his nape. your breasts matched the pace of your bouncing, restless and without proper rhythm. sweat emerged on your temples, leisure movements that did nothing to soothe the tide of crippling desire that had your essence coating his monstrous size. doflamingo clicked his tongue with nitid disappointment, gripping your throat. his erection retrieved from your walls the second he forced your back against the table, only to be yet again shoved inside without ceremonies, causing you to shout due to both pain and pleasure.

“how useless,” he noted, licking his lips at the sight of his cock, the poking tip ever-so-visible through your stomach. “can’t even get yourself off.”

“i am,” you sobbed, legs spreading open as your walls clenched around his erection. “need you, please, young master!”

doflamingo grunted, tilting your head up; angling your sight of vision to have you facing the vice-admiral. “if you dare stop to look at him once, you won’t get to cum.”

you moaned and nodded your head, tethering your glance to the man in question. doflamingo’s pace had the table scratching against the ground, your back arching once his thumb applied pressure on your clit. at each given thrust, he bruised your insides further; walls swallowing him whole; g-spot finding no reprieve whatsoever. doflamingo kept his eyes tethered to your face, grunting, for your attention was offered to another. his cock twitched; his expression contorted into one of sadistic pleasure. he did not bother to warn you of his nearing bliss, instead allowing his cum to smear your insides, thrusting himself with regained ruthlessness as he rode the epiphany of his orgasm.

once he was done, doflamingo sat back yet again, removing his shaft from your cunt without further thought. you gasped due to the extreme revolt, supporting your weight on your elbows.

“you told me i’d get to cum,” you complained, and doflamingo wrapped a string around your thighs, tugging you closer.

“if you worked for it,” he pointed out, grinning. “and you haven’t; not yet. what will you do, little bird?”

[speaknowgirl3184]

Visions Of Death

Anakin Skywalker x Y/n

Haunted by relentless visions of your death, Anakin Skywalker begins to unravel, growing distant in a desperate attempt to change the future the Force has shown him, no matter the cost.

Warnings: ANGST, mentions of death, killings, gore and more. (Let me know if there is anything else I did not mention).

Word Count: 2.7k

Masterlist

Anakin jolted awake with a strangled gasp, his heart hammering so violently it felt like it might tear through his ribs. The sheets clung to his sweat-drenched skin like shackles, his chest heaving as though air itself had become too heavy to breathe.

He lies in the bed in your shared quarters in the Temple, bathed in the pale glow of Coruscant’s skyline. Outside, speeders hum, indifferent to the war, the death, or his unraveling mind.

But Anakin heard none of it. All he could hear was your scream.

His hand shot up to his temple, trembling violently as he tried to steady himself. It had been more than a dream. It felt real, like he had lived through your death and was being forced to wake up in a world where it hadn't happened, yet.

He squeezed his eyes shut and saw it all again.

His hand trembles as he runs it through his hair. The way the ceiling buckled and collapsed in a roar of metal and flame. You, beneath it, too far away. Him, shouting your name until his voice broke, using the Force to tear beams aside like they were nothing. Reaching. Running.

But not fast enough.

You had looked at him just before the end, your eyes locking onto his. Wide. Glassy. Mouth slightly open, saying his name. 

He sat up sharply, dragging both hands down his face and into his hair, gripping fistfuls of it like it was the only thing keeping him grounded. Anakin swung his legs over the side of the bed, bare feet touching the cool floor. For a moment he remained still, trying to focus on his breath.

His eyes drifted to your side of the bed. You were still curled there, soft and warm beneath the sheets, your face turned slightly toward him in sleep. Peaceful. Innocent.

Untouched by what he had just seen.

He reached for you, instinctively, his hand hovering just above your shoulder, fingers shaking with the urge to wake you. To pull you close. To feel your heart beating against his. Alive. Alive.

But he stopped himself. You deserved your rest.

With slow, stuttering movements, he rose from the bed and crossed the room, pacing like a caged animal. The walls of the Temple felt tighter tonight. Every step he took echoed too loudly.

Every thought he had was of you. Broken. Gone. And him, kneeling in the wreckage, surrounded by fire, with nothing left to save.

He didn’t sit again until the horizon had begun to pale—Coruscant’s first hints of dawn brushing the clouds in shades of violet and rose. He sank to the floor beside the window, back against the wall, knees drawn to his chest like a child.

-----------

You feel it before you see it, the way he begins to pull away. At first, it’s little things. His greetings are rushed, distracted. He forgets your routines, your jokes. Conversations stall. Kisses are fewer, colder.

Anakin still looks at you the same way, sometimes. Like you’re his sun, his anchor. But those moments are fleeting now.

“You already ate?” you asked one evening after a mission, frowning at the untouched plate you’d left for him.

“Wasn’t hungry,” he replied flatly, not even looking up.

He was hungry. You knew him. You knew his tells. But he hadn’t lied to hurt you. He lied because the truth would’ve been worse.

He was slipping away.

Sometimes you caught him meditating alone in your quarters, legs folded in silence, shoulders rigid with tension. His brows were always furrowed, like he was bracing for impact only he could sense.

Once, you reached out to place a gentle hand on his back.

He flinched.

He flinched.

You never mentioned it. You only stepped away and sat beside him in silence, pretending not to notice the ache blooming in your chest.

One evening, the sun was setting over Coruscant, the Temple balcony bathed in hues of gold and fading rose. He stood there with his back to you, arms crossed, cloak fluttering gently in the breeze.

You sat beside him, close enough to touch but leaving a deliberate gap.

He didn’t look at you.

"You don't talk to me anymore," you say quietly.

Anakin didn’t respond right away. His jaw clenched. His breath hitched.

"I'm trying to keep you alive," he snaps, then catches himself, the words bitter on his tongue.

You turned to him fully, studying him, seeing everything he wouldn’t say in the furrow of his brow, the tremble in his jaw. "What does that mean?"

He opened his mouth, but nothing came out.

You reached for his hand, your touch hesitant, but firm. “Anakin…”

He pulled away.

“I can’t,” he said finally, his voice a low tremor. “I can’t talk about it.”

“Why not?”

He didn’t answer.

Instead, he walked away, his footsteps echoing against the marble floor, leaving you behind in the fading warmth of the sunset.

And for the first time, you felt truly alone.

-----------

You’ve waited, tried to be patient, tried to understand. But there’s only so much silence a heart can take before it breaks.

So when you find him alone in your quarters that night, sitting on the edge of the bed, hunched forward with his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands, you don’t hesitate.

“Anakin.”

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t even look up. But you see the way his shoulders tense at your voice, like the syllables physically hurt him.

“You can’t keep shutting me out,” you say, your voice trembling. “You’re scaring me.”

He lifts his head slowly, and your breath catches.

He looks like he’s been through war all over again. His cheeks are hollowed, eyes bloodshot and ringed with purple shadows. There’s stubble on his jaw that he hasn’t bothered to shave, and his tunic hangs looser than it used to. He looks thinner. Fractured.

He clenches his jaw, his voice a low rasp. “I can’t stop it.”

You blink. “Stop what?”

He exhales shakily. His hands tremble at his sides.

“I see it,” he says. “Every night. I see you die.”

“What… what do you mean?”

His gaze is intense now, burning with desperation, grief, and fear tangled together in a storm you can’t begin to unravel.

“In my arms,” he says. “You’re dying in my arms. And there’s nothing I can do. I try, I try so hard to reach you, to get to you in time. But I will never make it.”

You step closer, heart hammering. “Is it a dream?”

“No. A vision. From the Force. It’s real. It’s all real.” His eyes are wide, bloodshot. “And every time I try to change it—something else happens. A new death. A worse one. Always you.”

His eyes meet yours, bloodshot, too wide, filled with terror. “Every time I try to stop it, something else happens. Something worse. You fall. You burn. You drown. And every time, it’s you. It’s always you.”

You reach for him, your hand trembling. “Anakin—”

This time, he doesn’t flinch.

He lets your fingers close gently around his. His hand is cold, but he clings to yours like he’s drowning and you’re the only thing keeping him afloat.

“Let me help you,” you whisper, stepping closer. “We can face it, together.”

His face twists like something in him is breaking. You see it, the moment he lets his guard fall completely. His breath shudders out of him and he sways slightly, like the admission cost him everything he had left.

“I can’t lose you,” he breathes, barely audible.

Your free hand rises to cup his face, thumb brushing along his cheekbone.

“And I can’t lose you, Anakin.”

He pulls you into a kiss, sudden and consuming, his hands threading into your hair, arms pulling you in like he’s afraid you’ll vanish between one heartbeat and the next. It’s not soft. It’s not sweet. It’s desperate. Like he's trying to anchor himself to this moment, to your warmth, your heartbeat.

Like he’s saying goodbye without the words.

You kiss him back, fiercely, trying to pour all the love, all the defiance, all the life you have into him.

Neither of you says it, but the kiss tastes like a promise you both know you can’t keep.

Like a goodbye.

-----------

It happens after another vision. This one longer. Sharper. Clearer.

You’re surrounded by fire, crimson and gold licking at the edges of a collapsing structure, the heat so intense it warps the air around you. Smoke coils like a noose, choking the light. You’re on your knees, hand outstretched, reaching through the chaos.

You cry out his name.

Your voice pierces the roar of flames, raw and desperate, not with fear, not even for your life.

But for him.

And that’s what shatters him.

You’re not afraid of dying. You don’t scream for help. You scream because you know what this will do to him. You scream because you’re trying to reach him, to ground him, even in your final breath.

When Anakin jolts awake, his skin is drenched in sweat, his chest tight with a sob he doesn’t let out. The image of your hand, charred, reaching, burns behind his eyes.

He doesn’t hesitate.

He’s already halfway out the door before his mind fully catches up.

There’s only one person left who might know how to stop this. Only one voice whispering promises in the silence.

He finds Sidious that night.

-----------

He comes to you in the middle of the night, like a man possessed.

You wake to the sound of the door sliding open, too fast, too loud, and the rush of unsteady footsteps crossing the room. The air is still thick with sleep when your eyes flutter open.

Anakin stands at the foot of your bed, shrouded in shadow.

He’s breathing hard, chest rising and falling like he’s run through the entire Temple.

“Come with me,” he says. 

His voice is hoarse, low, and sharp around the edges.

You sit up slowly, heart already beginning to race.

“What?” you whisper. “Anakin, what—?”

“Come with me.” He takes a step forward, urgent now. “We have to leave. Now. I know how to save you.”

You swing your legs over the side of the bed, rising to your feet. “Anakin, what? What are you talking about?”

“I did it.” His voice is almost reverent, trembling with conviction. “I found the way. You don’t have to die. I can stop it.”

You study his face. He’s shaking, not from fear, but adrenaline. His pupils blown wide, his jaw tight with restraint. There’s something feral in the way he looks at you, like he’s cornered by his own desperation.

“What did you do?” you whisper.

He hesitates.

Just for a breath.

“I did what I had to,” he says finally.

But he doesn’t meet your eyes.

He tells you bits, too fast, too vague. You hear words like power, saving you, destiny. But none of it makes sense.

You see it now, the way his aura has shifted. The way his presence in the Force has grown colder, heavier. His voice used to carry warmth, even in his rage. Now it echoes with something else entirely.

“Anakin…” Your voice breaks. “You’ve changed.”

He shakes his head fiercely, stepping closer. “No, I’m finally strong enough. You won’t die. I won’t let you.”

You shake your head and step back instinctively, he freezes. “This isn’t you, Anakin.”

He reaches for you, and you let him—for one breathless moment, forehead against his, hands in his hair, his arms around you like he’s holding on for dear life.

He looks pained. Like your words are knives. He closes the distance between you in a heartbeat, and before you can stop him, his hands are in your hair, his arms wrapping around your waist like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he lets go.

His forehead presses against yours, and for one suspended second, you’re both still.

Your hands lift, one resting on his cheek, the other against the back of his neck.

You can feel him trembling.

And still, some part of you wants to hold on. Wants to believe this is still him. That he can come back.

“I’m doing this for you,” he whispers, his breath warm against your lips.

Your eyes burn. “I never asked you to.”

You feel his exhale shudder, as if the words have gutted him.

But he doesn’t let go.

-----------

You’re kept away from the Temple when it happens.

It’s a coincidence, maybe. Or the Force. Or fate, cruel and precise.

Or maybe… maybe it’s him.

Maybe some part of Anakin, some fractured, hidden sliver still clinging to who he was, found a way to send you elsewhere. Kept you just far enough away. Gave you just enough time.

You don’t know.

And you never get the chance to ask.

You hear whispers first.

Murmurs in the hangars. Half-formed rumors, impossible claims. A fire at the Jedi Temple. An uprising. A massacre. No one speaks with certainty, but the fear is there, tight and coiled in every voice.

You try to contact the Temple. Over and over.

No one answers.

And then you hear the truth.

The details come in fragments, like shattered glass. Each one cutting deeper than the last.

The Jedi are dead.

The clones turned on them.

He led it.

The Chosen One.

Anakin Skywalker.

The boy who burned with love and fury and stars in his eyes. The man who swore he would protect you. Who kissed you like you were his tether to the world.

He led it.

He walked through the Temple with a blade like death in his hand. And children, Force, children, fell at his feet.

You’re in a crowded refugee transport when the name Vader reaches your ears.

And you know.

It settles into your chest like cold iron. Your breath leaves you in one slow, silent exhale.

Anakin Skywalker is gone.

And what remains is not yours anymore.

But you also understand something else—something worse, something heavier than death.

He gave it all up trying to save you.

His soul. His name. The light inside him. The very thing that made him who he was.

He burned it to the ground, piece by piece, for a future you never asked him to make.

And somehow, you survived.

Because he wanted you to.

Because he made sure you did.

-----------

 Years Later: 

The galaxy has shifted, crumbled, rebuilt itself on the bones of what came before. Empires rise. Rebels bleed. Stars die, and still, time marches on.

And Vader stands alone.

The Force is quiet here.

There are no orders. No missions. No one to kill. No one left to serve. He doesn’t know why he came to this place, only that it pulled him, subtly, insistently. And he obeyed.

He stands at the edge of a canyon, motionless, a dark figure against a lightless horizon.

And he remembers.

He remembers you.

Not always clearly. Time and pain have blurred the edges. But there are moments, brief, blinding in their clarity, that return with unbearable sharpness.

The sound of your laugh echoing through temple halls.

The way you used to stand with the sunset behind you, golden light caught in your hair.

The warmth of your hands cupping his face after a nightmare, whispering, “I’m here. I’m always here.”

He feels you still.

In dreams, though he rarely sleeps. In the quiet just before waking, when the world hasn’t yet reassembled itself into metal and fire and pain.

In memories that strike without warning, like lightning to the chest.

In the ghost of your touch.

Sometimes he reaches for it. For you.

Anakin. Please. Come back.

But he cannot go back. He cannot undo what he did.

So he stands. And he waits.

Not for redemption. Not even for death. But for the end of all things, perhaps. For the moment when memory finally leaves him. When even your face will fade.

But it hasn’t yet.

And above all else, he remembers the last thing you said to him.

You’d whispered it like a vow. Like a truth deeper than the Force.

“I would’ve rather died with you… than lived without you.”

He does not speak.

But if he could, if there was anything left of his voice that still belonged to him, he might’ve said,

I’m sorry. I loved you. I still do.

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

This might be my new favorite. I hope you all enjoyed it as much as I did writing it! 💗

[kitty384]

Blood of a God

Summary: Y/N never meant to overhear it. The nobles didn’t see her as they spoke cruelly in the garden—mocking her unborn child, calling them a half-blood mistake, a shameful blend of mortal fragility and Jotun monstrosity. She tells no one. But Loki sees it in her eyes. And gods help anyone who would dare speak against the family he’s built with his own hands.

Content Warnings: emotional hurt, bigotry (challenged), pregnancy stress, crying, hurt/comfort, Loki rage/protectiveness, reader internalizing pain, soft ending

It happened in the garden.

Late morning. Quiet breeze. Blossoms in full bloom.

She hadn't meant to eavesdrop.

She was only out for a short walk—hand resting on the gentle swell of her six-month belly, silk robes brushing the polished stone path. The warmth of the sun was calming. Until she turned the corner behind a rose arch and heard the voices.

Three nobles.

Well-dressed. Well-bred. Cruel behind closed lips.

She stopped just short of the archway when she heard the first comment.

“It’s a shame, truly. That child won’t belong to any realm. Not really.”

“A bastard mix of Midgard softness and Frost Giant blood.”

“Imagine what sort of… creature it’ll be. Not Æsir. Not Jotun. Not anything worthy of royal blood.”

Y/N froze.

The world dropped out from under her.

“You’d think Loki might have better judgment than to pollute the line like that.”

“Love makes fools of gods, I suppose.”

They laughed.

The kind of laugh that cuts.

And then they walked on—never knowing she was there.

She stood very still behind the arch, heart pounding.

Hands clutching her robe too tight.

A part of her wanted to step out. Confront them. Burn the words back into their mouths.

But the rest of her—

The rest of her crumbled quietly.

She waited until she was alone again.

And then she turned back toward the palace.

Loki noticed it before she even reached their chambers.

She walked slower.

Her shoulders curled inward, protective over the bump.

Her voice was quiet when she answered his gentle "Good morning, my love."

She smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes.

He let her be—for a little while.

Gave her space as she curled on the lounge by the fire, tea untouched in her hands.

But the longer he watched her, the tighter his own chest became.

He crossed the room silently and knelt beside her, his fingers brushing her knee.

“You are not fine.”

She blinked. “What?”

“I can feel it. In your breath. In your posture. In the way the child stirred earlier and now sleeps unnaturally still.”

She said nothing.

Just stared into her cup.

He slid it from her hands and gently cupped her face.

“Tell me.”

Her lips trembled.

“I heard them.”

He stilled.

“Who?”

Her throat tightened.

“In the gardens. Nobles.” Her voice cracked on the word. “They were talking about the baby.”

Loki’s body went stone-still.

She swallowed. “They called them a half-blood mistake. Said they’d be nothing. That we tainted the royal line.”

The silence that followed was deafening.

Then—slowly—Loki stood.

His magic sparked at his fingertips, just barely contained.

He walked to the window.

Shoulders tight. Back rigid.

Breathing controlled but dangerous.

Y/N watched him, heart aching.

“I didn’t want to tell you,” she said softly. “I didn’t want to make it worse.”

He turned slowly.

There were tears in his eyes—but they did not fall.

“Worse?” His voice was sharp and quiet. “Worse than my wife walking through my home thinking she and our child are less?”

She looked down, voice breaking. “What if they’re right?”

His eyes widened.

“No.” He crossed the room in two steps, dropping to his knees in front of her, taking her hands with reverent care. “Do not say that. Do not ever believe that.”

She bit her lip, trying to hold back the sob rising in her throat.

Loki gently placed his hand over her belly.

“Do you know what I felt when you told me you were carrying our child?” he whispered. “I felt chosen. I felt redeemed. I felt the universe saying, ‘This is yours to love. Yours to protect. Yours to honor.’”

He looked up at her, gaze blazing.

“They are not a mistake. They are not shame. They are ours. And there is no greater power in this realm than that.”

Y/N burst into tears.

Loki cradled her to his chest, hand still protective over her bump, whispering in soft Asgardian against her skin.

“You are divine, my love. And the blood in your veins—the fire, the kindness, the strength—you are giving that to our child.”

“I just… I didn’t know it would hurt this much.”

“I will make it stop,” he said. “They will never speak that way again. I swear it to you.”

“You don’t have to start a war over this—”

He leaned back, brushing her tears with his thumbs.

“I don’t need war. I need truth. And the truth is this: anyone who cannot see the beauty in this family we’ve built is not fit to stand in its presence.”

She smiled through the ache. “Even if they’re Asgardian nobility?”

He smirked. “Especially then.”

Later that day, the nobles who’d spoken were summoned privately to the Allfather’s court.

They left pale and silent.

Nothing was ever said publicly.

But from that day on, none of them so much as looked Y/N in the eye.

And when she walked through the halls, bump prominent and shoulders high, they bowed.

Because they had been reminded who her husband was.

And who their child would be.

Masterlist

Request

[wonubby]

GOL PARI JOON ! - K. BAKUGO

chapter 00: esmet chie? (whats your name)

SYPONOSIS - at U.A, y/n is known as Gol Pari, the untouchable flower fairy. admired by all, wanted by many, but she rejects them all without hesitation. yet, the only one she desires is katsuki bakugo, the one guy who doesn’t care. and y/n isn’t used to being ignored.

STATUS - ongoing

TAGLIST - open

esmet chie means what's your name and i'd like to add that y/n's skin colour is not specified; she's just from an iranian background!

present - masterlist - next

Y/N L/N

hero name: gol pari (flower fairy)

quirk: bloombringer

y/n has a deep connection with nature, specifically flowers and fae-like energy. by touching the ground or any surface with organic material, they can instantly sprout vibrant flowers and plants. these aren’t just ordinary plants; they carry magical properties, influenced by the user’s emotions and intent.

Healing Blossoms: Soft blue flowers that release a soothing pollen, capable of closing minor wounds and easing pain.

Binding Vines: Thorny roses that rapidly grow and entangle opponents, tightening the more they struggle.

Fae’s Whisper: Delicate glowing petals that, when inhaled, cause hallucinations of eerie fae-like figures, unsettling enemies.

Withering Bloom: A rare ability where the user can make flowers rapidly decay, draining energy from whatever they touch.

the bloombringer quirk has some major downsides. if they overuse it, they start wilting, aka, getting weak, pale, and barely able to move. their plants react to their emotions, so if they freak out, things can go very wrong. it also drains their energy fast, so they can’t spam it. concrete cities are a nightmare since they can’t grow plants without carrying seeds or soil. fire is their worst enemy (because, duh, plants burn), cold slows everything down, and too much water can make their plants go crazy. their vines and flowers aren’t unbreakable either; someone strong enough can just rip through them. plus, some plants take time to grow, so they can’t always react instantly, and their pollen could easily hit the wrong people if the wind decides to be a jerk.

age: 17

height: 5'7

fun facts:

y/n was born in iran and lived there until she was five before moving to japan. she comes from a wealthy family with royal blood but prefers to keep it to herself. ethnically, she is iranian on her mother’s side and japanese on her father’s.

she grew up alongside katsuki and izuku, but they drifted apart when her family moved to a more exclusive area, right next to todoroki shoto’s house.

as a kid, y/n wasn’t particularly interested in becoming a hero, but after awakening her quirk and training with shoto, they both caught endeavor’s attention and earned a recommendation.

Katsuki Bakugo

hero name: great explosion murder god dynamight or dynamight for short

quirk: bakugo's quirk is explotion. he can create and control explosions from the sweat on his palms, which is made of a highly flammable substance. he uses these explosions for powerful attacks, mobility, and to enhance his strength. the more he sweats, the stronger the explosions can get, but using it too much tires him out.

age: 17

height: 6'1

fun facts:

bakugo grew up with y/n, and even though they drifted apart when her family moved to a wealthier area, he always admired her from afar. as kids, they were close, but his fiery personality and competitive nature made it hard for him to express it directly. he was always impressed by her strength and determination, especially as she trained with todoroki.

despite his tough exterior, bakugo has a soft spot for the people he cares about, especially his mom, even if he doesn't show it. growing up, he was always a perfectionist, which made him easily frustrated when things didn’t go as planned, but he never let that stop him from pushing himself and others to be the best.

his rivalry with izuku only made him more driven, but deep down, he respected the people around him; especially y/n, who always seemed to have a natural strength he couldn’t help but admire.

Mina Ashido

hero name: pinkie

quirk: mina ashido's quirk is acid. she can produce and control a corrosive liquid from her body, which she can use to attack, melt objects, or even create defensive barriers. the acid is strong enough to dissolve most substances, but she has complete control over its viscosity, allowing her to adjust its thickness and consistency. she can also coat her body with acid to increase her mobility or make her attacks more effective. while it’s powerful, it can also be dangerous if she loses control, and she needs to be careful with it in close combat.

age: 17

height: 5'3

fun facts:

mina loves dancing and has an energetic, upbeat personality that makes her one of the most outgoing people in class 1-a. she’s got a huge sweet tooth and is often snacking on candy or sweets.

she shares a close bond with kirishima, and they’re often seen hanging out and having a good time. her friendship with y/n is also really strong; they’ve been through a lot together, and mina always has y/n’s back, offering support and a bit of humor when things get tough. despite her bubbly nature, she’s always really considerate and protective of her friends, ready to step in whenever they need her.

Kirishima Eijiro

hero name: red riot

quirk: kirishima's quirk lets him harden his body to become as tough as rock, making him nearly invulnerable to physical attacks. the longer he stays hardened, the more stamina it drains, but he can use it for powerful offense and to take damage for his team. the harder he gets, the more durable he becomes, but he has to be careful not to overdo it and tire himself out.

age: 17

height: 5'9

fun facts:

kirishima is known for his super friendly and upbeat personality, always ready to encourage his friends and make them smile. he loves to make everyone feel included and is one of the most supportive people in class 1-a.

despite his tough exterior, he has a soft spot for his friends and is especially protective of y/n, who he’s been close with for a long time. his friendship with y/n is built on mutual respect, and he’s always there to cheer her on, even if she’s feeling down.

kirishima is also one of the people who secretly hopes that y/n and bakugo will get together, always trying to nudge them in the right direction, though he knows they’re both a bit too stubborn to admit it. he’s also a huge fan of protein shakes and loves to talk about them whenever he gets the chance.

Denki Kaminari

hero name: chargebolt

quirk: denki's quirk allows him to generate and release electricity from his body. he can use this to power up devices or unleash powerful electric shocks on opponents. however, if he overcharges himself, he can short-circuit his brain, causing him to become temporarily "zapped" and unable to think clearly or control his quirk.

age: 17

height: 5'9

fun facts:

denki is the life of the party in class 1-a, always cracking jokes and making everyone laugh. he’s super outgoing and loves to make friends with anyone, making him pretty popular among his classmates. he’s also really chill and doesn’t let things stress him out too much.

his friendship with y/n is solid, and even though she’s a bit more serious than him, denki always knows how to lighten the mood and make her smile. he’s also tight with the bakusquad, often hanging out with kirishima, bakugo, and mina, and he’s the one who’s always trying to get them to relax and have fun together.

denki loves teasing bakugo, but he knows how to back off when it counts. he’s the kind of guy who will always have your back, even if he’s got a mischievous grin on his face.

Kyoka Jiro

hero name: earsplitter

quirk: kyoka’s quirk allows her to create sound waves by plugging the jacks on her earlobes into various objects or surfaces. she can release these sound waves in the form of powerful sonic blasts, using them for both offensive attacks and to sense her surroundings. the sound can also be focused into a concentrated attack, like a piercing noise. while her quirk is incredibly versatile, she needs to be careful with how much sound she generates, as it can leave her ears ringing and potentially cause damage if overused.

age: 17

height: 5'2

fun facts:

kyoka jiro is known for her calm and laid-back personality, often acting as the voice of reason in class 1-a. she’s a bit of a music lover and has a passion for playing the guitar, which ties into her quirk. kyoka is also very independent and doesn’t like relying on others, but she has a strong bond with her friends, especially with people like y/n, who she’s always willing to back up when needed. she’s pretty quiet, but when she does speak up, it’s usually something sarcastic or witty. kyoka also loves her personal space and can sometimes come off as aloof, but she’s a loyal friend who’s always ready to support those she cares about. despite being one of the more serious students, she’s always up for a good laugh and can definitely hold her own in the bakusquad's banter.

Hanta Sero

hero name: cellophane

quirk: hanta’s quirk allows him to produce tape from his elbows, which he can use for a variety of purposes like binding enemies, swinging around like Spider-Man, or even creating barriers. the tape is pretty strong and flexible, but it has its limits depending on how much he uses at once. hanta can also control the direction of the tape, making it a great tool for both offense and defense.

age: 17

height: 5'8

fun facts:

hanta sero is known for his playful and chill vibe, always making jokes and lightening the mood with his sense of humor. he’s super laid-back but still takes his hero training seriously when needed.

hanta has a close friendship with y/n, and he’s one of the few people who can make her laugh in even the toughest situations. he’s always looking out for her, whether it’s cracking a joke to cheer her up or offering help when she’s in a bind.

while he’s not as serious as some of the other class 1-a students, he’s incredibly loyal and always there for his friends. hanta’s easygoing nature makes him a good balance for y/n, and they’ve built a strong bond through their shared experiences in training and battles.

SOCIAL MEDIAS

© 2025 wonubby— All rights reserved. Please don't post my work as your own on any other sites.

[lady-raidia]

I feel ashamed, truly!😭💕 I don't know what's wrong with me that I am unwillingly on a hiatus again after I dropped my next writings. I truly apologize to everyone who is waiting in my inbox, and I truly apologize to everyone who was waiting for a third part of my Gil-Galad series. I never intended to write a story with multiple parts but here we are! And I am happy about it, ngl! And before panic breaks out: The next and final part is also already written and will be published shortly after this one! 💕 For now, I can only hope and wish that you enjoy this part of the story as well! It might be a bit wonky, but I hope you still like it! Enjoy! 💕 PART I - PART II

HEAVY IS THE CROWN

Pairing: Gil-Galad x Reader

Summary: Part III of "Forest Heart" - The aftermath of your kiss with the High King. Is there regret? Or a new sense of longing?

Warnings: Perhaps a little angsty?

🌿���🌿

The morning sun spilled gently across the marble floors of your room, gilding the walls in soft gold. Outside your window, the birds sang as they always had — but today, their melody felt different. Sweeter, maybe. Or perhaps it was the ache blooming in your chest that made everything around you feel fragile and new.

You hadn’t slept. Not truly. Every time your eyes closed, you saw his face again. Gil-Galad, the High King of the Noldor, standing beneath the moonlight with your name on his lips and a kiss that still lingered on yours like morning dew on rose petals. The memory of it was enough to make your fingers tremble as you tried to get up from the bed, your arms slightly shaking.

What had you done?

What had he done?

And why—despite every logical thought clawing at your mind—did it feel right?

You shook your head, trying to get rid of these thoughts. Lingering on them won’t soothe your nerves. So, you slowly got up and wrapped yourself in a simple robe to step out onto the balcony. Below, the city of elves began to stir: servants running around with laundry or food in their hands, elven scholars exchanging scrolls in the courtyards, guards moving in quiet rhythm. Life moved forward, unchanged. As if the world didn’t know that your heart had unraveled beneath a tree the night before.

You clutched the railing, eyes drawn to the distant forests where silver light had wrapped around you both like fate’s quiet approval. Would he remember it as you did? Or would he wear the crown again today as though nothing had happened?

A soft knock interrupted your thoughts.

You turned. "Come in," you said, though your voice barely rose above the hush of morning.

The door opened, and Galadriel stepped inside, bathed in a calm that didn't quite hide the fire in her eyes.

“You look like you’ve spent the night arguing with your soul,” she said simply.

You smiled, tired. “What if I have?”

Galadriel walked to you, her steps light as shadows. “Then I hope it was honest.”

You opened your mouth to speak, to deny or explain—but she raised a hand.

“You do not owe me anything,” she said, her tone gentle but unyielding. “But I will say this, mellon: no one kisses the High King in moonlit gardens and walks away unchanged. Not him. Not you. Not the court.”

The weight of her words settled over you. “You knew?”

“I felt it,” she said. “In the trees. In the stars. The Valar are watching, and even they hold their breath for what comes next.”

You swallowed, heart pounding. “And what does come next?”

Galadriel’s gaze softened. “That, my dear, is entirely up to you. But I would not leave without saying this—love is a powerful thing. It can move kings. It can shape destiny. But it also demands courage.”

She reached out, brushing a thumb across your cheek like a sister might.

“Find your courage. Because he has not yet found his.”

With that, she turned and left, her robes trailing like moonlight behind her.

And you stood in the silence she left behind, heart pounding with a truth you could no longer ignore.

***

The crown rested on a pedestal beside him, untouched.

Gil-Galad sat at the edge of his bed, the morning light catching the fine edges of his unbound hair. He had not dressed for court yet—had not moved, truly, since the night had ended. His armor remained untouched in the corner, and the ceremonial cloak lay folded across a chair, waiting.

But he… he waited for nothing.

Last night, he had let himself forget. Under the hush of moonlight, under the trembling touch of your hand on his chest, he had surrendered. Not as a king. Not as the last high hope of the Noldor. But as a man.

And now… the morning had come.

He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, fingers laced together tightly. His thumb still brushed absentmindedly against his palm—where your hand had once been.

“I shouldn’t have,” he murmured to no one. But even now, the words sounded hollow.

The truth was, he had never known such peace. Not in centuries of bearing titles, not in decades of forging alliances. And certainly not in the throne room, where the air was always thick with expectations and the sound of footsteps on polished stone.

But in the garden… with you… there had been no crown. Only starlight. Only breath and trembling hands and your lips against his.

And now, the crown whispered to him again, like it always did.

He rose slowly and walked to the tall mirror near the window. The man who stared back was the one they all expected: poised, solemn, carved from marble and myth. But his eyes gave him away. Still soft. Still full of that same haunted wonder.

You had changed him. And he hadn’t even touched the rest of the world yet this morning, but already, he could feel the court’s breath at his neck. He could feel the glances that would come if they ever knew. You were half-elf, born of two worlds, belonging to neither in their eyes. In his, you were something else entirely: a bridge, a balm, a soul he could breathe beside.

But love, for a king, was never just love.

His hands clenched at his sides.

A knock came at the door—measured, too proper to be unexpected.

“Elrond,” Gil-Galad said, voice steady.

The herald entered with a bowed head. “My lord. The envoy from the Greenwood is preparing for council. They ask if you’ll receive them before midday.”

Gil-Galad nodded absently.

Elrond hesitated. “And… shall I arrange for the Lady Galadriel’s guest to be moved to a quieter part of the palace?”

The king’s eyes flicked up.

So it had begun already—the whispers, the suggestions masked as kindness.

“No,” he said quietly. “They stay where they are.”

A pause.

Elrond inclined his head, and though he said nothing more, there was a glimmer in his eyes. A knowing. A permission unspoken.

When the door closed behind him, Gil-Galad exhaled.

He turned to the window and looked toward the garden. He couldn’t see you from here, but he felt you still. Somewhere in the city, breathing the same air, perhaps wondering the same things. He longed to go to you. To say all the things he hadn’t. To ask you what came next.

But first, he had to decide something for himself.

He looked at the crown again—gleaming in the sunlight.

Then, slowly, deliberately, he walked away from it.

To be continued!

[scoutofmymind]

Was thinking about Hasan kissing Luigi’s necks and sucking his puffy nipples. Anyways, have a good day !

FUUUUUCK! You knew what you were doing!!! You knew I had to do it!!!

I know I’m supposed to be resting my brain, but writing this kind of content is genuinely so very natural to me. It hardly takes any effort anymore.

I am a very ridiculous little girl.

"You ever seen a boy in heat?" Luigi mumbles, his cheeks tinted with a fever-bright oxblood that blooms like crushed roses beneath his skin, his chest still heaving from trying to keep pace with Hasan and the rest of the team thundering ahead, his body barely recovered from this weekend's ruthless bender — it's his senior year, after all, and he's sworn not to let a single wild moment slip away.

While Hasan yapped at a computer on a livestream, Luigi blew his phone up with texts whilst he was in the bar bathroom.

Wyd?

Hellooooo

He exited his messages app, hopped onto Twitch to find Hasan deep in a rant on stream.

Sexytwerker69: Is that my shirt???

Sexytwerker69: U r so lucky ur hot

"Dunno," Hasan says, peeling his sweat-dampened kit over his head and stuffing it into the locker with casual indifference — Monday night soccer league had been his brainchild, and Luigi had tagged along, claiming he needed the exercise. "Is this an example?"

He pivots to face Luigi, who's already yanked his own jersey off, the fabric bunched strategically across his lap like a shield. Luigi's spine presses hard against the cold metal lockers, silently willing the chill to seep through his skin and calm the heat coursing through his veins.

Glassy eyed and luminous, his honey-gold skin gleams beneath the fluorescent lights, a constellation of freckles dancing across the bridge of his nose and scattered like stardust over his fever-flushed cheekbones — his chest still rises and falls with desperate intensity, droplets of sweat blazing molten trails from the dark curls clinging to the nape of his neck down over the rolling terrain of muscles that ripple and contract beneath the plane of his stomach.

He looked thoroughly wrecked, though cruelly untouched, his body screaming with the kind of desperate yearning that comes from a wanting without relief, every nerve ending raw and electric with need.

And yes, it was entirely by design.

This isn't the first time Hasan's mere existence has left Luigi burning alive from the inside out, nor will it be the last time his casual magnetism reduces Luigi to this raw, wanting creature.

The pattern is as familiar as it is maddening.

"Does it look like one?" Luigi huffs, dropping his chin but keeping his gaze locked on Hasan through a curtain of midnight lashes, the gesture both challenge and surrender — a practiced dance of submission that reveals more than it conceals.

Hasan remains rooted where he stands, though every muscle in his body screams to close the distance, to taste the salt on Luigi's skin, to drink him in like summer rain. "You been all bent out of shape lately," he murmurs, watching as his words send visible shivers down Luigi's spine, each observation landing like a physical touch. "At nothing."

Luigi's brows knit together in mock indignation, but the flush creeping down his neck betrays how much he craves this — the sweet sting of being seen, being called out. "Nothing would be an opinion," he fires back, each word sharp and precise, teeth flashing like pearls. "M'a growing boy."

Hasan steps forward finally, showing no hesitation when he cradles Luigi’s jaw in his hands to tilt his head upward, “I’m afraid you won’t be growing much more than this.” He smirks, but Luigi is already lost to his touch, body heat turning into static electricity.

The height difference had always been a point of playful contention between them — three inches if you asked Luigi, who'd stand a little taller at the mere mention; four if you asked Hasan, who'd emphasize it by resting his chin atop Luigi's head just to hear him curse; and five inches according to their last physical exams, a medical fact that Luigi refused to acknowledge even under oath.

"Can't be doing this to me here," Hasan growls, his voice dropping to that dangerous octave that makes Luigi's stomach flip, as he sinks to his knees before him. Luigi reaches out with trembling fingers, caught between raw need and the ghost of past consequences, his touch both greedy and hesitant. "You want to get us banned from another rec team because you can't seem to keep yourself in check?"

The surfing incident still haunts them both — Luigi trapped in that skin-tight wetsuit, his desire painfully obvious against the dark neoprene, with nowhere to hide from curious eyes and knowing smirks.

That day had ended with a strongly worded email from the beach club's management and Luigi's face burning brighter than the setting sun.

"It could be our thing.” Luigi grins, all false innocence wrapped in wicked intent, knowing full well that Hasan's resolve crumbles like wet sand when faced with that particular smile.

Hasan can't deny him — has never been able to deny him.

At least not for long.

Hasan's teeth graze the curve of the bicep curled around his neck, his fingers digging crescents into Luigi's hips as he leans in to paint kisses across the salt-slick canvas of his collarbone. "Won't be long before one of these fuckers gets on reddit and exposes me for my perverted friend," he mutters against heated skin, feeling the way Luigi practically purrs at the words, the vibration of that satisfied hum resonating through both their bodies like a struck chord. “Hasanabi one of two players banned from local rec soccer team for locker room violation.”

"Friend," Luigi echoes with a predatory purr, nuzzling against Hasan's temple like a great cat marking its territory, the line between hunter and hunted blurring with each shared breath.

The word drips with irony, with promise, with years of carefully constructed plausible deniability.

Hasan responds by forcing Luigi's head back with his own, His mouth blazing a trail of scorching kisses down the column of Luigi's throat, across his chest, tongue flattening against the firm swell of his pectorals — muscles that have transformed since junior year, despite his determined campaign to drink his way through senior semester.

The physical metamorphosis is Hasan's handiwork, really.

Countless hours of perfectly crafted workout plans, protein shake recipes, and personal training sessions that often ended exactly like this.

Though Luigi never quite manages a thank you.

His gratitude tends to manifest in other ways.

Hasan's mouth works in a devastating rhythm—licking, sucking, licking again — until Luigi is reduced to ragged breaths and desperate whimpers, his fingers tangled in Hasan's dark hair, pulling with just enough force to blur the line between pleasure and pain. His knees clamp against Hasan's ribs like a vice, as if afraid he might try to escape, might leave Luigi burning alive here on this locker room bench. "You think we look like more than friends to most?"

Hasan has a point — though Luigi's lovesick gazing is barely contained by designer sunglasses, and his tendency to orbit Hasan like a desperate satellite is obvious to anyone with functioning eyes.

To their social circle, they're just two activists who bonded at a rally, sharing megaphones and righteous anger. Not a soul would guess that these same voices now whisper tender confessions in pre-dawn hours, when Luigi lies spent and satisfied beside Hasan, accepting sips of water from that battle-scarred hydroflask — the one covered in faded protest stickers and climate action badges.

No one knows how Hasan's voice softens when it's just the two of them, how his fingers trace constellations on Luigi's skin.

That’s my good boy. That’s it, baby.

AH WHATEVER IM STOPPING HERE

IT PAINS ME EACH DAY OUR LASAN ARMY IS SO SMALL, YET WE ARE MIGHTY.

Btw I do know a more biblically accurate version would be them on a basketball team but Lu gives more of a soccer baby boy vibe than a hoops guy and Hasan can def kick some balls around so I went with soccer

I love them ☹️

[linkspooky]

wip wednesday

Updated WIP for my Azulaang fic.

The worst part was that Aang had found her beautiful. Aang was suddenly forced to bear witness to a naked truth. Azula was a girl. Not only was she a girl, she was a beautiful girl.  Until now, he’d believed Azula hard and made of steel like a machine of war with a fire burning inside her. Now he saw her soft flesh.What he'd thought was a blazing inferno that burned everything that touched her was a gentle warmth that permeated her skin. The girl that had always been hiding underneath the fire nation black and red armor. A beautiful girl. 

It was tradition in this household to cleanse one’s body before being let into the spiritual archives. Aang respected tradition, even if spiritualism in the fire nation was different from the air nomads. 

(He also needed a bath, running away from conflict worked up quite a sweat). Step by step, he followed the little footpath of smooth, colorful pebbles under the luxuriant canopy of flowering wisteria blossoms until he found the entrance to the bath. Inside the changing room a low shelf carved from the bluestone had been placed to hold the bather’s clothes. In his eagerness to get into the water on a cold winter day (by fire nation standards) he failed to notice two other tubs packed with clothing sitting on the shelf. Aang took off his clothing, it was easy to get undressed with the simple way airbenders dressed. Imagine how many layers Zuko had to take off to bathe, especially with those huge shoulde roads.  He left his clothes in a wooden washtub, and after lifting the thin hemp curtain with one hand strode inside. 

Stream drifted through the air, it gently unfurled out from the pool, drifting slowly, filling every corner and crevice blurring his vision.  With that and the dim moonlight it was difficult to see more than a few shuka in front of you. It gave the baths a spiritual aura, like he’d stepped in the river that separated this world from the far shore.Flowers bloomed along the borders of the pool, their shed petals floated on the surface, and there was a small waterfall at the end of the pond for rinsing. 

It was pleasantly warm. Aang couldn't help the soft sigh of content that escaped him. He felt like a kid again bathing in the air temple hot springs with the other children. He let loose for a moment, extending his slender limbs and swimming all the way to the waterfall with a splash. 

Just as he rose from the water and wiped his face, he noticed someone was already showering in the surging waterfall with their back turned.

Lio. Aang should have known better to watch Lio from someplace unseen like a total stalker creep weirdo, but he stopped to watch their back as if possessed by some kind of spell. 

Their back was held tall and straight, the contours sharp and defined. But with the stars illuminating the steam Aang could make out countless scars, burn scars, and what looked to be whip marks on the center of their back. A body full of wounds. A body full of scars. So many it was impossible to find a piece of untouched flesh. 

There was no need to mention how much those wounds should hurt. 

Water fell down from above almost as if to cool off those burns, cascading over their body, rivulets gathering into a stream down the wide expanse of their back, down the valleys and peaks of their intricately carved muscles and finally into the divet between their buttocks. The water seemed infatuated with their body, clinging to them in a light stream that was loath to part. 

Lio’s head turned halfway to meet Aang’s gaze, just as Aang jerked his head up to preserve some of Lio’s dignity, “Hey, Aangie have you come to do some naked male bonding?”

“My best features are my back and my butt? What do you think, Aangie?”

Lio said , strode out from under the waterfall and pressed his hands on the rock wall blocking everything behind his massive back from view. 

That back took up Aang’s entire view. Their hair had grown out and fell in black, wild tangles just past their shoulder. Those shoulder blades slid down the small of their back. Aang’s esys followed the downward curve of their spine, their full and firm buttocks, and eyes ficxed on those fair plump curves for a moment because his head jerked up again. . “I think you are uh, very attractive, and you are connvingly using your attractiveness to try to distract me from asking about how you got that scar on your back.”

“Oh, I was a naughty boy and I was whipped before I was banished. It’s nothing… compared to the trouble I caused Li and my family back then it was absolutely nothing.” .” 

“Your pain isn’t nothing.” “Haha, what pretty words. Did the airbenders teach you to talk that way, or are you just that cheesy naturally?” Lio noticed Aang’s wince at the mention of the airbenders, “I’m sorry, Aangie, baby. I’m a bad, rude man. I just don’t like you looking at me like I’m some poor dying animal you found on the side of the road.” 

Lio’ s shoulder’s rose and fell, as they heaved a sigh. They weren’t some broken thing, it was easy to see the lean strength in those lines. Those shoulder blades were strong and massive, moving beneath the scarred skin. 

At that moment all Aang could think of was how adult Lio looked, even though they were only two years older. It wasn’t just the enormous height, it was the comfort they displayed wearing their own body, it was enough to make Aang feel like a fucking child in comparison. 

Graceful Lio suddenly gracelessly lost their balance and fell a step back from the wall. Lio quickly turned around, still hiding something behind their back, “I’m sorry Aangie, can we continue this conversation later? I thought we could bond in our nakedness, but human relationships aren’t so simple.”

Aang caught sight of it then, a smaller, curvier figure trying to slip away into the steam just then. Oh. Li mentioned Lio wanted to get married. Aang walked in on both of them in the bath. Mix gender bathing was normal in the fire nation, he told himself. Completely normal.

He caught sight of a feminine figure through the steam turning to leave. He didn’t initially recognize her - because under normal circumstances, that girl would never do something as ungraceful as stumbling and falling face first into the pool, sending a spray of water into the air. 

“Lazuli, watch your step.” One hand around Azula’s arm, Lio supported her from behind. The difference in their heights was such that their breath puffed against Azula’s ear as they lowered their head to speak, “If you’re not careful you might just fall for me.” 

“Cough, cough.” Azula inadvertently swallowed a mouthful of water in her panic. Swallowing bathwater she became indignant and disgusted discarding all appearance of calm composure, scrambling and flailing as she tried to find her footing.

Aang saw Azula, it was the closest he’d ever seen her, she looked quite different than when she had appeared on the opposite side of a battlefield. Aang saw Azula, but his brain refused to process the image. He wanted to ask what she was doing here, but it got stuck in his throat. He suddenly felt pathetic and spineless. Silence only continued to fan the flames of the situation. 

Aula naked and exposed. When people shed their clothes and exposed themselves they usually exposed their inner ugliness, but Azula was different.

He couldn’t look away. Even though his brain registered she was naked. When people shed their clothes and exposed themselves they usually exposed their inner ugliness, but Azula was different. The horrfiyng part, of this situation wasn’t that he’d humiliated Azula completely by accident. No, the true horror had been something that should not have even been possible. Something that would make a clown like Lio laugh.  The unsettling horror of it all was that Aang had found her beautiful.

Aang was suddenly forced to bear witness to a naked truth. Azula was a girl. Not only was she a girl, she was a beautiful girl. 

Until now, he’d believed Azula hard and made of steel like a machine of war with a fire burning inside her. Now he saw her soft flesh. The girl that had always been hiding underneath the fire nation army. 

A beautiful girl. It wasn’t something as perverted as being attracted to her naked body, it was just seeing the naked truth finally in front of his eyes, that Azula was a girl not yet fully mature barely older than him. Though it was sacreligious to compare her to Katara, it was like the first time he woke up to Katara’s face. It was different from Katara though, because she was lacking many of the qualities one would typically ascribe to ‘beauty’. 

When she was fourteen years old she was certainly eye catching in a dangerous way. Now she’d lost a lot of her ‘beauty’ from when she was fourteen. He wouldn’t call her skin pale in a way that evoked purity, or compare it to porcelain, she looked almost physically ill. She wasn’t thin, or lithe, but emaciated. There were dark rings that eclipsed her sun-colored eyes. She was like a plucked flower withering away within a bell jar, and yet, there was something about her. Something so… 

“Why are you staring, avatar? Have you not gone any farther than hand holding with your little water tribe girlfriend?” Something so…“...Beautiful.” 

He should not have said it. He should not have acknowledged that feeling. These were feelings he wasn’t supposed to have because Azula was… well, Azula. 

“What is it…? Speak clearly, don’t mumble, and look into the eyes of the person you’re talking to.” “Err… beautiful…” “Is your mouth broken? Oh no, I believe I broke the avatar. Again.” He confessed again. “I’m staring because you’re beautiful.” “You’re right, I am beautiful. I guess your eyes aren’t broken.” She was… She was definitely still Azula. Whatever had happened in the three months since he last saw her hadn’t changed her fundamental “Azula-Ness.” Then his sight of Azula was cut off as Lio pulled Azula close to them, stepping in front of her to obscure most of Aang’s view. 

Aang had several questions, but the first one that jumped to mind when he saw the two of them acting so close was, “Why are you bathing with Lio?”

“Mixed bathing is normal, and besides I’d never stare at a girl to make her uncomfortable. I’m a beautiful girl myself, and you don’t know how many creeps have stared at me, ” Lio said. 

That’s right, mixed bathing was normal in fire nation culture Aang reminded himself for the thousandth time. 

Bathing under the stars. Girls and boys together. No tension there whatsoever. Nope, not at all. 

Azula looked at Aang, “There’s nothing untoward about bathing with my betrothed.” “...Your betrothed.” “Yes.” “You’re getting married?” “Yes.” “To who?” “To Lio.” “You’re getting married to Lio.” “Can you not hear me? I thought those big ears of yours would at least be good for listening.” 

“Are my ears too big? Why didn’t anyone tell me? Were they just trying to be nice?” He was suddenly, very self conscious about the size of his ears but that was besides the point. “Why are you getting married to Lio?” “I fail to see how it’s any business of yours.” That’s right it wasn’t any business of his. 

So, why did he care? 

[choccy-zefirka]

Lo! A second Rogue Trader to smooch Abelard while he's kneeling in front of her! (Thank you @leadflowers for letting me toss Plot Bunnies of Unusual Size at you)

The human mind is a fascinating thing. Especially the mind of a psyker.

Granted, Lumen has not always had this... proclivity for setting things on fire by staring at them. Not since childhood anyway. Throne, no; she's nothing like the poor little souls on the Black Ships.

Something shifted in her, something sharp and agonizing like exposed bone in a wound, when she was well into her adulthood (though a lady never tells her age). That odd, ever-hungry, ever-thrashing part of her likely never would have woken up at all, if her old smuggler crew hadn't messed with a xenos artefact that one time.

But psyker or not, she has always been quite brilliant, if she says so herself. Her mind has held fast through whatever the void decided to throw at her.

She’s always been able to think on her feet. She’s always had quick retort on her tongue, and a Plan B, Plan C, Plan D ceaselessly weaving itself at the back of her mind — just in case her bullets or her brand-new witchcraft ever failed her. And she has survived it all. Her men's betrayal. The vice grip of the Inquisition agents they'd ratted her out to. The searing whirlwind of lashings, mental and physical, before her sanctioning. The viper's den she was tossed in, when the blood samples the Inquisition had collected from her revealed she was a long-lost von Valancius. Heiress to a dynasty of cosmic proportions; bearer of a Warrant that, by will of the Emperor Himself, entrusted her with the fate of entire planets.

She’ll be the first to admit that it’s taken quite a bit of mental fortitude — deciding how to run colonies inhabited by billions of souls. She needs even more plans now — Plan E, Plan F, Plan G — because at a moment’s notice, at a drop of an Imperial officer’s hat, she might be asked to decide which lives to spare and which to sacrifice for the supposed greater good. And she’ll be expected to smile all the while. To remain ever graceful, ever charming, gliding among her adoring subjects with a gentle rustle of the finest shimmering, gilded fabric. Back straight as a rod, gaze unflinching, fingers folded in an elegant half-gesture over the steel-boned slope of her frock.

Abelard's etiquette lessons did not go to waste. She absorbed them all.

And in the process, she only allowed herself to be... a little distracted — oh, merely a couple of times — by how adorable he looked when he was reciting all those rules. Which, of course, he had to be informed of, in her sweetest, most playful tone. If there is one thing she cannot resist (aside from tiny pastries), it's being playful with her darling, deliciously prim Seneschal.

Still. The little giggle at the soft bloom of pink on his cheeks and throat was but a momentary diversion. Her mind remained hard at work all the while. Yes, even when she was making a flower arrangement in her new quarters and tapped a rose bud softly against Abelard's nose. She never stopped going over what he told her, in between the (rather weak) protestations of "Lord Captain!". She never stopped memorizing what a perfect Rogue Trader should be like.

Once a pallid, grubby child from a hive world's lowest sunless pits, she may not have enjoyed a noble upbringing, not like the other Cold Trade princess they have on board, the ever-delightful Jae Heydari — but she’s rectified that quickly. Her mind was her buoy in the murky waters of intergalactic politics and righteous Imperial service; and she emerged from every whirlpool on her path. Untouched — on the surface at least — by the muck at the whirlpool's bottom. Radiant, regal, a living statuette of gold.

She kept her wits about her even when the consequences of all her past choices loomed large over her — quite literally.

Oh, how her heart hammered for a moment, retreating into her ribcage's burrow like some trembling, twitchy thing that would scurry about among the refuse heaps on her childhood streets — when the first dance at her Magnae Accessio came to an end, and she had to switch partners.

Her first chosen companion was, of course, Abelard. She'd had him stand beside her at the preceding ceremony, and summoned him once more when the grand ball began. She'd researched the colors of House Werserian (Cassia helped; Lumen had never seen her so giddy) and, despite her usual preference for reds and golds, commissioned a dress in cooler shades. To match the liveries of the "upstart lowborns". Thus announcing, to anyone and everyone who paid attention to such things, that Abelard's kin — not quite former street rats like her, but still not good enough for the Mundus Valancius elite — had her favor. What are you going to do about it, Master Sauerback?

She did not get a good look at Abelard's face during her coronation, as she was too busy waving at the ecstatic masses and smiling the most impeccably measured smile in response to all the outraged glares from the "proper" aristocratic families. But she knew how much it meant to him. To be acknowledged for his service. To be brought forth before the whole planet, entrusted to guard her — not just amid roaring fires and screeching bullets and gurgling fountains of blood, but at a time of (relatively) peaceful celebration.

When she finally turned to meet his gaze, it was at the ball. As the master of ceremonies announced that the illustrious Lady Von Valancius was to lead the first dance, she chose her Seneschal again. With no hesitation, no pause in her ever-racing mind.

He looked more... lost than she had ever seen him, out of his armor, drowning in the honeyed glow of lumens — her little namesakes — that reflected off the polished marble floors. But one little shake of his head at her softly purred compliments ("Why, darling Seneschal, here I thought you couldn't get more handsome and distinguished!"), and he was back to his usual composed self. Hand on the small of her back. Feet moving to the rhythm of the music with an officer's resolve. Eyes tactfully averted from the rise and fall of Lumen's most flatteringly accentuated bosom.

This, too, was his duty, and when called to it, he did not fail to... perform. Yes, Lumen did make multiple jokes about that — until she didn't.

She sighs to herself, recollecting how her voice trailed off, and her very surroundings stood still, when she caught a glimpse of something most curious in her Seneschal's face. His features had softened — almost to the point of smiling.

"I do want you to enjoy yourself, Abelard," she said — chirped — to him. Meaning every word.

But before he could reply, the melody ended, and in the lull between the dances, another guest swooped in. A colossal shadow of flesh and metal, moving with the noiseless grace of a prowling predator. The consequences looming large indeed.

Lord Inquisitor Xavier Calcazar had arrived earlier than Lumen could have deduced from Heinrix's cryptic warnings. She'd imagined she'd find him lurking in her study once the festivities were over. Maybe even sitting at her desk like it was his. But there he was. Interrogating her about her travels through the Expanse, her so-called heretical inclinations — during a dance.

As he spoke, in an even, courteous voice that hid as many coiling wires as his augmented arm — he never stopped guiding her motions with his metal grip, twirling her in time with the music with even more precision than Abelard had... Until she stopped feeling like a person, and began to picture herself as a regicide piece that he was directing across the board. All part of an icy calculated strategy her mind had to strain to keep pace with.

But she did. Even as, internally, she was a hair's breadth from panicking, from dissolving into a screeching warpstorm of memories from her sanctioning — she did. She responded to all his questions with a cool politeness to match his own.

She survived her second brush with the Inquisition.

 And even if the Lord Inquisitor had rattled her, that could be easily masked by accepting Calligos Winterscale's late-night challenge to a friendly drinking contest. Which she, incidentally, won.

All part of the plan.

Her mind has served her well. As a street urchin, a smuggler, an awakened psyker, a Rogue Trader. And now, too, it is doing its best, turning its finest cogs, to keep her shielded; keep her safe.

Obviously, she is still in Commorragh, probably stretched out, till her ligaments are about to snap, on that many-armed xenos' lab table, a cold sticky pool of her own blood clinging to her bare back and quickly drying into a slimy crust.

Soon, the creature will be back again, every hand bristling with saws, pincers, little curving knives.

Her skin will be grated into red-soaked sawdust and regrown again.

Her bones will be broken and healed, broken and healed, crackling like driftwood under xenos fingertips.

Her stomach will be carved into an opening and closing flap, like it's a chest of drawers with a pulsing mass of organs inside, for the creature to rummage in as if it had lost a sock (see, even now, her mind supplants her with humor; to keep her alive; to keep her defiant).

Her hair — her glossy strands of Aquila gold, her pride and joy (and, if combed sufficiently tall, an excellent place to hide a small gun) — will be torn out in soggy clumps, not as much for any specific experiments as for humiliation.

And so it shall continue, for infinity.

She will, of course, keep searching for ways to escape; to assemble blood-splattered puzzle pieces into a Plan H, Plan I, Plan J, all the way to Plan X, Y, Z. Her mind will strain as much, burn as much, as her mutilated limbs.

But that is yet to come. For now, for just a few hours of indulgence, her hardworking brain has decided to grant her a little reprieve. It has conjured an illusion for her; a haven to gather her strength in, before her torment begins anew.

In her mind, she is already back home — in realspace. She has even given herself false memories: a whole grand adventure; a chase after a dancing, leering shade in a theater mask. An explosion, a tumble through the rippling, surreal maze of the Webway... And a reunion with her subjects on Janus, where the xenos dimensional gate is still standing.

Quite a backstory for the theater of her mind to play out!

Right now, the scene is set on one of the white Janusian beaches. She imagines herself laying back on the glinting boundary between the dry sand and the lapping waves, underneath the gently swaying jungle trees. Relaxed and carefree. Idly leafing through her old memories like they were pages of a book.

The review she'd leave on the little volume would be mostly mixed — but the chapters with Abelard in them are her favorites... Could use a few more paragraphs about his scars, though. Maybe also a mention of how Lumen's heart would flutter whenever he’d speak of his family, with such affection and pride; such warmth — quite rare to see in him, and all the more precious for it. Or would that be too serious, too private for a light beach read?

Suddenly embarrassed, Lumen forcibly shifts her focus back to the pict-perfect landscape in her vision.

She is wearing nothing but a nightgown, her mind tells her, and the warm waves are washing over her body, pushing gently against her, making her slide to and fro in the shallows. A drowsy, serene bit of flotsam basking in the light of a sun that's properly affixed to a completely normal, soothingly (deceptively) blue sky.

There's a figure perched on a nearby rock. Wiry, long-limbed, with a sharp pale face and flowing crimson hair.

Oh, it’s *her*, is it?

 To be quite honest, Lumen would rather not think of Yrliet right now: the pain from Drukhari torture is bad enough without trying to disentangle the spool of barbed wire that the xenos has spun in Lumen's mind.

Lumen von Valancius does not suffer traitors. But Yrliet is nothing like the men who sold her out. Lumen’s heart (for when she ascended on her throne, she decided she should still have one, under all the gilding) breaks for her friend's pain and guilt. But are they truly friends... Were they ever?

So yes. Yrliet's presence in Lumen’s daydreams rather disrupts her supposed bliss... Maybe her mind did not conjure her up; maybe the crafty xenos slipped in of her own accord. She knows how to do that.

She... She seems to be talking to her.

"Elantach, listen to me! This is no illusion! We did escape Commorragh, and we are now on Lilaethan. You must come to your senses!"

Lumen fixes her inner gaze upon Yrliet. Slowly, blearily, with a vague sensation that they have had this conversation before.

Interesting. "Come to her senses"? So, delve deeper into the illusion? Lose herself in it entirely? Tempting, but she cannot afford to do that. She has escape plans to work on.

She tells Yrliet as much.

"Oh, come now! You know it's just my own mind taking a little rest, before I blink and we are back in Commorragh again!"

Yrliet's response is a long, frustrated intake of air. Why exactly is she here? What is her goal? She hates Drukhari machinations, doesn't she? So why would she push so hard against Lumen waking up?

"There she is, sir! The retinue is mostly... recovering at the governor's palace, but Her Ladyship has, uh, wandered off."

"Watch your tongue! The Lord Captain would not just wander off! I am certain she had a perfectly good reason!"

Yrliet winces at the crackle of undergrowth under clumsy mon-keigh feet. Lumen, though, grins from ear to ear.

She knows that voice.

And naturally, her illusion of being home would not be complete without it. Hearing it again *is* being home.

"The reason is, elantach's mind is fractured," Yrliet says bluntly.

Her gaze is as burning, as intense, as unshakable as the laser point of her sniper rifle. It pierces, unblinking, through the two humans that have just stepped onto the beach out of the waist-high ferns — a panting, frantically apologetic enforcer, and Abelard, whose hand flies to his chainsword's hilt the instant he locks eyes with Yrliet.

"Explain," he barks.

His tone is almost as firm as Lumen remembers it... But something in the illusion seems to have gone wrong. Abelard's voice sounds thinner... Shakier somehow. Like he's a pale imitation of her Seneschal, drawn in an unsteady hand.

Lumen lifts herself up on her elbows, frowning. Abelard looks just as... off as he sounds. His unaugmented eye is sunken, rimmed with red, and the weathered, beautifully scarred skin seems to hang looser off his face, as if he had lost weight.

Even his trusty coat — whose warm, comforting weight Lumen felt on her bare shoulders on more than one occasion — is notably worse for wear. Like he'd neglected to wash it.

He has, however, kept the little lily brooch she made for him, in another life, far, far away from Commorragh... When her biggest concern was how to best stun her admirers and make her enemies squirm at the Magnae Accessio.

When doing research for an ecosystem revival project on Janus — seated in front of a cogitator in a frilly layered gown, surrounded by plush cushions, because a lady remains ladylike even when browsing old records with a tech priest’s help — Lumen found a most gorgeous pict of a local flower. The priest duly informed her that the entire species had been driven to extinction decades ago by farmland expansion. Enamored with the delicate flow of its silhouette, she reached out to the best jeweler that Jae's galaxy-spanning network of contacts could provide, and he brought the lost lily back to eternal life, crafting a pair of bespoke jewelry pieces. For her and her Seneschal to wear at her coronation… As another way for them to match: her in his house's colors, him with her lily. And another way to remind the highborn that this filthy commoner was her right hand.

She still remembers the look he gave her when she first presented him with the brooch. A gasp of air escaped his lungs, like she'd speared him straight through his heart; and there was... a glimmer of recognition in his eye. She was quick to realize that an old echo from his past was coming back to haunt him. For a moment, her pict-perfect display of queenly grace nearly dissolved into messy blotches, into leaking, muddled colors of panic, straight from under Cassia's brush. She wondered if she'd committed a faux pas, if she'd inadvertently reminded him of something best left buried.

But when he spoke to her, his voice — for the fleeting few seconds before he collected himself — was trembling with quiet awe.

"Truly," he said breathlessly, "The Emperor works in mysterious ways... Thank you, Lord Captain. I serve at your pleasure."

She was so struck by his tone, she completely forgot to make a quip about there being all kinds of pleasure he was surely not too old for... And he has never parted with the lily brooch since.

Even now, in her vision of him on the beach, it glimmers ruby and gold against the dark grime on his coat. While his sword hand tightens, white-knuckled, around his weapon, his other hand keeps travelling to the metal lily. Feeling its contours. Adjusting it. Again and again and again. The motion is so persistent, so repetitive, that it has all but turned into a nervous tic.

In fact, as she squints and cranes her neck forward, Lumen realizes that fiddling with the brooch has dug raw, reddish grooves into Abelard's fingertips.

Her blood runs cold — in a way that has nothing to do with the sea water splashing around her, or the breeze on her skin.

Why would she imagine this little detail? Or the deep, bruised half-moon under his eye? The new lines of exhaustion on his forehead and around his mouth? Why would her own mind be so... uncharitable to Abelard? To the man whose face she summoned from the heaving marshes of delirium, to guide her, to ground her, when she was stumbling through the Commorragh streets, fresh from the corpse pile?

Meanwhile, the little illusory scene continues. Yrliet has deigned to give Abelard an explanation.

"Your Lord Captain believes that we are still trapped. That our return to Lilaethan — to Janus —" Yrliet chokes out the planet's human name like a cat wheezing on a ball of fur. "... is just a pretty story her own brain is telling her, as a defense mechanism against my dark cousins' torture."

Distracted from her worries for... definitely-not-real Abelard, Lumen has to roll her eyes at this. What a droll little debate to have within her mind!

"Well, what else could it be?" she tells Yrliet. "If we were not all inside my head, why would Abelard just... appear so soon after I started thinking of him?"

Yrliet snaps her eyes to Lumen, her face unreadable.

"That is not sound logic, elantach. You think of him all the time, regardless of where your body resides."

Now, at this point Yrliet's impassive porcelain mask cracks. She looks utterly distraught. Disgusted even.

"Your mind was... swarming with images of him when I taught you how to explore your thoughts, long before Commorragh. Some of those images, I would rather not dwell on. Ever again."

Lumen bites her lip.

Well, in her defense, there's a perfectly reasonable explanation behind all the silvery apparitions of Abelard in various states of undress, which stepped out of the fog as she and Yrliet chased down her hopes and fears during that Eldar mind ritual. They were merely the result of her trying to figure out how far down his scars extended! And whether his body hair had gone grey too! Surely, that is not such an outlandish thing to wonder about?

The current Abelard apparition — less see-through, more clothed, feet planted firmly into the imaginary white sand — draws himself up to his full height. His fingers clasp the lily brooch so tightly that the sharper parts of the flower break skin, drawing blood.

"Did you do this to her, xenos?" he demands. "Did you... twist the Lord Captain's mind?"

Yrliet's face freezes again, but her eyes cloud over with an unspoken sadness.

"The answer to that is…  complicated, mon-keigh," she says quietly. "I trust elantach to tell it all, however she sees fit. When she is ready. For now, you must tend to her. Maybe one of her own kind will reach her in a way a child of Asuryan could not."

With that, she leaps gracefully from the rock onto the sand and takes off, up the overgrown path that, in realspace, would have led back to the palace. The enforcer soon scrambles off after her. Maybe he's decided that the xenos is being particularly suspicious right now, and needs to be tailed — or maybe he is not too keen of lingering under Abelard's glare. Either explanation could work in the theater of Lumen's mind.

And thus, the Rogue Trader and her Seneschal are left on their own. Like during their dance, the rest of the world falls back, stilling. Except this time, none of this is real. It can't be.

Yet, the instant both Yrliet and the enforcer vanish among the trees, Abelard drops heavily to his knees... As if he were a hollow, deceptively solid statue of a steadfast warrior, held together only flimsy, rotting scaffolding — which has finally fallen apart. Lumen would never imagine him like this! Except... Except in her worst nightmares. Is that it? Is her perfect little dream world twisting into something darker? Have the bastards shoved another brain-eating maggot up her nose?!

Like some pathetic, flopping beached sea animal, she claws uselessly at the wet sand. Struggling desperately to reshape her dream back into a sunny idyll. Wanting, above all else, to remain in control. For just a little longer. Before she wakes up and is a specimen again.

"Lord Captain," Abelard says to her hoarsely. His fingers, too, have sunk into the sand. Grasping for purchase, but finding only clumps of tiny grains.

"You were gone for so long, I — the people almost lost hope. Please, come back to — with me."

His eye lingers on her brine-soaked form; not lustfully, like she'd expect from one of her fantasies — but with concern. Well. She supposes that can be a fantasy as well. A longing for comfort. How many times, when the barbed xenos whips fell upon her, did she imagine Abelard with his trusty medkit, tending to her wounds?

"You will catch a cold," he blurts out.

After he stuns himself into silence, she laughs. And laughs and laughs. Until her chest begins to ache.

"Of course you'd say that, you darling man," she says...  And the scaffolding that was supporting her own statuette, all curves and glitter and gold, rots away into nothing as well.

"I miss you..."

With a poorly stifled sob — no, no, no; this was meant to be a kind dream, an escape! — Lumen reaches up to wrap her... so realistically damp, goosebump-covered arms around Abelard.

"I miss... glancing back and finding you there. I miss your voice. Your shadow overlaying mine. Even the sound of your gun at my flank..."

Emperor's balls, that came off dubious. But she has no cheeky jokes left in her.

"I don't know how long I have been here," she mumbles, pressing herself against him, with only a layer of waterlogged linen between his body and her own... Suddenly shivering. Suddenly so, so utterly small.

"Sometimes I'm afraid that time has unraveled... Broken… Like everything else in the warp... And that back in the realspace, it's been centuries... And you are long dead..."

She finds the sleeves of his coat, hanging empty off his shoulders, and tugs them around herself. Diving into the familiar, slightly musty warmth. At least... At least the dream world has gifted her a new shelter. A new place to be at home in, for the time being.

"I hope you lived a good life, my darling Seneschal," she tells the apparition that cannot hear her. She knows it's not really him, she does, she does, but the words keep spilling out.

"I hope you raised your great grandchildren, and their children, to do your house proud. I hope you found another Rogue Trader that finished what I — we — started. I hope... Some day, some place, out there... where I might never return... You remembered me, and thought of me fondly."

"I thought of you every waking moment," a voice whispers into her hair. Does it look like her old golden tresses in this dream space, she wonders, or like the mangy mess her captors turned it into? She does not know; she never looked at her face in the water... But regardless, there are fingers weaving through it now. And their tender, reverent touch feels so terribly real that she begins to sob faintly again.

"I neglected my other duties to give more and more orders to the astropaths... I had them scry every system thrice over, I forbade them to rest until they found any trace of you... I was ready to pitch a tent in the Chapel and keep watch… Terrified that I might miss urgent news of you if I stepped away, if I closed my eyes even for a moment... I — "

Abelard cuts himself short. Lumen feels him shudder. That could be the water she's splashed all over him... Or...

"Lord Captain, did you believe a single word I just said?"

She peeks out from the little nest she's made in his coat.

"It's very... gratifying to imagine that you cared for me that much," she admits, looking up at him. "To pretend that you found me. Even if I have to face reality..."

"You do, Lord Captain," he says, with a sudden surge of fortitude in his voice. An emphasis on every word, like a strike of a blade.

And as the final strike, he kisses her.

In all her fantasies, she has always been the one to kiss him first. To leap over the boundaries of propriety with her usual elegant mischief; to turn their dancing into something more.

But here, now... His tongue is against hers; his hands are clawing the fabric of his own coat, reaching for her, clutching her tight. Even as she feels she might melt. Slip through his fingers in a trickle of gold-flaked water.

Never, not in her wildest dreams, has she imagined him drinking of her with such unabashed thirst — what feels like months and months of it, all pent up under his armor.

Which must mean...

"Abelard," she chokes, breaking contact with one final, tiny hurried bite at his lower lip. "You are here... You are really here! We... We made it out of Commorragh! It was not a dream!"

He nods, giddy and out of breath, almost all heavy markings of his restless vigil erased from his features. He even has the strength to get up from his knees while still holding on to Lumen. Something tells her he is intending to carry her like this all the way back to the palace.

But after he takes the first few steps, he stumbles to a halt. His face falls.

"Forgive me, Lord Captain. I acted inappropriately. Exceedingly so. If you dole out punishment for my transgressions, I shall accept it."

She clicks her tongue, clinging on to him — refusing to ever be let down.

"Whatever happened to serving at my pleasure?"

He turns an absolutely impossible shade of magenta... Then, relaxes, exhales — and laughs. A breathy, almost inaudible sound that makes her heart race.

"I missed you as well."

"First Theodora, now me," Lumen muses with a highly affected, faux philosophical tone.

Now, she can breathe again. Can banter again.

"Do you get hopelessly infatuated with every Rogue Trader you serve?"

No. That might have been too far. That will not do in the real world.

"Oh! I apologize, darling. I overstepped."

Abelard tilts his head to study her face. He does not appear angry — but his jaw tightens ever so slightly.

"Let me put it this way, Lord Captain... And I trust this will stay between us. In my past, I've had a tendency to get... infatuated with people I'd later lose. I intend to end that pattern."

Neither of them speaks up again until they reach the palace. But Lumen is content to make the journey in silence, resting her head against Abelard's chest.

He has given her much to mull over, in this brilliant mind of hers.

[notastraykid]

Winding Road

Pairing: non idol Chan x fem reader (talked about only) Genre: Angst Warnings: Death of fem reader implied

Chan’s days were woven with the threads of routine and remembrance. Each morning, as the sun cast a golden hue over the city, he would set out on the same winding road that led past a house that once brimmed with laughter, love and promises of forever. It stood there, silent and stoic, a testament to what had been and what could have been.

The house was like a beacon, pulling him towards it with an invisible force. He knew every crevice of its walls, every creak of its floors. Memories flooded his mind with each step he took; memories of tender touches, whispered promises, and shared dreams. But time had been a cruel thief, snatching away his beloved into the eternal slumber. He knew that the unrelenting tide of life had carried her beyond his reach and he would be forever without. ‘Time would heal’ he was told, ‘eventually you’ll be able to move on with your life and be happy again’. In his heart, he knew they meant well, but how could he explain that every fibre of his being was intertwined with hers? That moving on felt less like healing and more like leaving a piece of himself behind? So he continued his daily pilgrimage, a testament to a love that refused to be left in the past. As he passed the house each day, he allowed himself a moment to pause, to feel the ache of loss and the warmth of nostalgia, conflicting but welcomed. He knew he would never cross its threshold again or gaze into eyes that mirrored his soul, completing his heart. But in his half heart, he carried a flicker of hope that maybe, just maybe, love could find a way back. And so, Chan walked on, following the road not to reach a destination but to honour a journey that had shaped him. In his pining, there was pain, but also beauty in the memories. As he walked the familiar path, his thoughts often wandered to the soft caress of a hand against his, the gentle press of lips in a kiss that promised forever. The house, with its shuttered windows and silent walls, held echoes of tender moments spent under the shelter of its roof. Sometimes, he could almost hear the faint melody of their favourite song dancing in the air, a ghostly serenade that spoke of love’s sweet refrain. He remembered nights spent under the stars, wrapped in an embrace that felt like coming home and evenings cuddled by the fire as the rain battered the windows. They would dance in the kitchen, barefoot and care free, as their dinner simmered on the stovetop. Their days would almost always end in evenings on the porch swing, sharing their future dreams and wishes that would now never happen. Though the pain of loss was sharp, it was entwined with the sweetness of love that had once blossomed in that very place. The winding road was not just a path of sorrow but also a trail of rose petals, each one a memory of passion and connection. As the seasons changed, so did the house. Its paint peeled, its garden overgrew and the wood on the porch swing had begun to rot, and yet Chan’s ritual remained unaltered. The road seemed to grow longer with each passing day, his steps heavier, as if he carried the weight of his lost love on his shoulders. As snowflakes began to gently blanket the world in white, Chan made his way to the house for what he knew would be the last time. He stood before it, the cold biting at his skin, and let out a breath that hung in the air like a whispered goodbye. He pulled his scarf closer around his neck. With a heart heavy as stone, he reached out to touch the gate that had once welcomed him with open arms. It was then that he noticed a single rose, defiant against the frost, blooming where once there had been many. Tears welled in his eyes as he realised that this rose was a symbol of their love. It was beautiful but solitary, enduring yet ultimately fleeting. He left the rose untouched as a silent tribute to a love that had warmed his heart even in the coldest of times. He turned away from the house, knowing he would never return. His heart would never heal but time had moved on. The winding road stretched out before him, leading him away from his past and into an uncertain future where her memory would be both his solace and his sorrow.

[what-about-zaladane]

Tarot Courts as Perfume - Embodying the Queens by Scent

I'm combining two things I love in this series: perfume and tarot. I want to explore the court archetypes through scent -- the idea of them, their real-world fragrance, and how you can embody them in your everyday life (and budget).

We'll start with the Queens. Each queen is more than a character. She is inner sovereignty. She is a quiet, yin throne -- a ruling force within her element.

Queen of Wands

Fantasy Scent: The smell of amber and warm skin in the summer sun. Sun-warmed amber, scorched cinnamon, fresh peach skins. Spilled perfume in an unstoppered bottle, knocked over by an expansive gesture. The scent of confidence and chutzpah.

Signature Scent: Killian -- Woman in Gold. Notes: bergamot, vanilla, patchouli, rose. A lush golden floral with long presence.

Etat Libre d’Orange -- Fils de Dieu. Notes: spiced lime, coconut rice, and gold sunlight. Confident and unexpected. Glam chaos.

Affordable Embodiment: Lattafa -- Ana Abiyedh Rouge. Notes: saffron, ambergris, white woods. A Baccarat Rouge 540 dupe with sweetness and heat.

Al Rehab -- Dalal. Notes: caramel, orange blossom, vanilla, soft woods.

Demeter Bonus: Cinnamon Bun. Warm, spicy and sticky-sweet. No shame.

Queen of Cups

Fantasy Scent: Gentle, happy tears and salt sea glass. Vanilla waves and sweet lullabies. Rose petals in warm bathwater. The smell of memory, longing and happiness. The powder of old, known love. Seafoam and faintly remembered dreams of the ocean.

Signature Scent: Diptyque -- Eau Rose. Notes: Damask rose, lychee, musk. A soft, intimate, water-sheen rose.

Xerjoff - 40 Knots. Notes: Salted wood, marine drift, ambergris, clean ocean. A more grown-up, less sentimental Queen of Cups.

Affordable Embodiment: Demeter -- Bulgarian Rose. Notes: single rose note. Transparent, watery, not powdery.

Lattafa -- Yara Tous. Notes: sweet floral, tropical fruit, whipped cream softness.

Demeter Bonus: Kitten Fur. Sweet, light, cozy and affectionate.

Queen of Swords

Fantasy Scent: The air after a lightning strike. Fresh-pressed cotton. A gin martini with a twist, untouched. A letter in a linen envelope, crisply sliced open. The faintest hint of steel under perfumed silk. Blue-black fountain pen ink.

Signature Scent: Ormonde Jayne -- Tolu. Notes: orange blossom, juniper, clary sage, orchid, balsam, amber, olibanum. Dry, resinous floral over something glinting and smooth. It doesn’t try to charm you. It demands respect.

Escentric Molecules -- Molecule 01. Bare skin musk, a "not a perfume" perfume. The ultimate “don’t look at me, but you will” scent.

Affordable Embodiment: Demeter -- Thunderstorm. Notes: Ozone, petrichor, broken sky. Smells like you stood too close to the truth of the universe and came away slightly electric.

Dossier – Floral Aldehydes (Chanel No. 5 dupe). Notes: citrus, jasmine, powdery strength.

Demeter Bonus: Clean Skin. The ultimate in clarity.

Queen of Pentacles

Fantasy Scent: A garden in summer, lushly in bloom. A ripe tomato, weighed in one hand, still attached to the vine. The smell of fresh baked bread. A warm hug from your favorite aunt and the smell of her skin. Tanner leather and warm beeswax next to a familiar hearth. She is nurturing with backbone -- earthy, warm, and rooted in something old and generous. If there was an eldritch Great Old One of comfort and care, it would be the Queen of Pentacles.

Signature Scent: Hermès -- Un Jardin sur le Nil. Notes: green mango, tomato leaf, light incense. A bountiful garden plot in a bottle.

Imaginary Authors -- Slow Explosions. Notes: saffron, rose, leather, apple, benzoin and cashmeran.

Maison Margiela -- By The Fireplace. Notes: Warm chestnut wood, burnt sugar, a fire well-tended not just lit.

Affordable Embodiment: Demeter -- Tomato. Notes: photorealistic tomato leaf. Green, juicy, grounding, dirt-under-fingernails real.

Maison Alhambra -- The Tux. Notes: moss, amber, wood with elegance.

Demeter Bonus: Beeswax. Simple, golden, slightly dusty and warm. A personal favorite to layer with almost anything.

~

Which Queen speaks to your skin today? Which one will you wear out into the world? Let her walk beside you in a gentle cloud of sillage.

[henriediosa]

The Princess of Lucifer / 悪ノ娘 (Aku no Musume) original music and lyrics by mothy / 悪ノP jazzwaltz version by 情熱Ｐ / てとてと arrangement by Desconico vocals by SOLARIA (Lite) on Synthesizer V Studio Basic from a UST by Masao-san https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2Jd73E95dy4 tuning, mixing, video, illustration, additional vocals, and translation by Henrie Diosa

I'm not kidding when I say this project is at least ten years in the making. I fell in love with the Evillious Chronicles as a little nerd in high school, and I was already working on translated English lyrics. Vocal synths as a technology have come so far since then, and so have I as an artist, so I'm really happy that now I can make the videos I've always dreamed of making.

links, credits, and lyrics under the cut!

His Significance of Existence: on tumblr, on youtube Fallen Angel: https://youtu.be/W4Rq9ZIasO0

SVP and instrumental/off vocal: https://drive.google.com/drive/folders/17c_Zo2s6uQB4wSAzPRVpDUOjl-2qrNn6?usp=sharing

Image Credits: The Metropolitan Museum of Art Open Access Abstract Ink Drops and Spread on Wet Paper Free Video from Vecteezy Rose Flower Seamless Pattern from @Helenlane Dreamstime.com

The folks on Ko-fi saw it first! I have a membership tier on Ko-fi that helps me afford meds and have the space to make art. I was also posting demos of the music and sketches of the art while I was making them. You can join the minamahal at ko-fi.com/henriediosa

Lyrics:

[So! On your knees.]

Once upon a time in a land far away, Was a kingdom of every evil in the world. Sitting at the top, she who always had her way, Was a queen in yellow, a fourteen year old girl.

A palace well furnished, a show of her means A servant her mirror, and loyal to the throne A thoroughbred named Josephine Everything, yes, everything, she claimed as her own

When there's no money left for what she wants “The people have no bread? Let them eat cake!” she’d sneer Anyone who dared oppose would meet her commandants She makes her dissenters disappear!

[So! On your knees.]

Aku no hana, an evil flower blooms Brilliant, iridescent, dignified Over the pitiful weeds she looms Let them rot, let them die, let them nourish her pride

Our little tyrant had her heart set on a prince From the blue land of Marlon, across another port But his heart had been promised long since To a girl from the green Kingdom of Elphegort

Emerald went Her Majesty in envy, and she called For an audience with the Minister of War Said in a soft voice that left him appalled "I want to see the green kingdom burn."

Thousands of homes turned to ash in the Hunt Thousands left mourning for millions of lives Uncountable suffering out on the front But the queen never heard their cries

[Oh, is it teatime already?]

Aku no hana, an evil flower blooms Furor, fire, and genocide Around the lesser flowers’ tombs She's untouched, all her thorns protect her with pride

[We live in a world where some are born to rule, and some are born to be ruled. If everyone were equal, society would collapse. Somebody has to keep those filthy peasants in their places. ]

Finally the years of suffering quietly end Finally the people's hatred stirred up too much to ignore On they rose, led by a rose-red woman and her friends On the people marched, into the palace and the court

Low Lucifenians on fire with rage Against royal soldiers exhausted from the war Screaming for justice and hungry for change, Armour and swords posed no threat anymore

Into the palace, all doorways flung wide All her rats ran away, none remain "Take the queen!" the rebels cried And at last they had her in chains!

[What do you think you’re doing? Unhand me, you ruffians! Let go!]

Aku no hana, an evil flower blooms Pensive and quiet, cast aside Watching her paradise meets its doom And fall with the weight of her sins and her pride

Once upon a time in a land far away, Was a kingdom of every evil in the world. Sitting at the top, she who always had her way, Was a girl in yellow, a fourteen year old girl.

They set her death to three hours after noon When the bells rang "Rerum, Deus tenax vigor" Did that girl, alone in her room Think of all of the sins she must answer for?

Full of hope and fear, now the church bells strike three Now the girl walks out, head held high to the world And the crowd jeered and jabbered, but she made no last plea She smiled with her last words:

[Oh, is it teatime already?]

Aku no hana, an evil flower died Brilliant, iridescent, dignified La fille du mal, so they call her, but I'd Not insult the ghost of the princess of pride

[brihaley213]

VELENO TRACKLIST

CW: Dark Themes, G*ns, Poison, Mafia Crime

VELENO (TITLE) ; “I wasn’t born a weapon. I was made one. Then I chose to be fire”.

In a fractured kingdom where every throne is soaked in betrayal and every crown drips with lies, a forgotten heir rises—not with an army, but with a toxin forged from heartbreak, vengeance, and divine wrath. VELENO is not just a song—it’s a proclamation, an awakening, the sound of poison seeping into the veins of a corrupt world.

The intro to VELENO is the summoning of the venom—an eerie, slow-burning pulse like the breath of a serpent. Whispered incantations in multiple languages lace the beat, as if ancient voices are calling forth a curse long buried beneath the marble floors of a royal palace.

A single heartbeat drops—then the melody slithers in, layered with distorted strings and cinematic echoes, as if a queen cloaked in midnight silk has stepped into the room. She does not raise her voice—the world bends to hear her whisper.

This intro sets the stage for a dark regality—the transformation of pain into power, venom into weapon, silence into domination.

She doesn’t ask for her throne.

She takes it back—with poison on her lips and flames in her eyes.

La Figlia ; “Blood in my veins is designer. I don’t cry-I retaliate.”

In a land where dynasties are forged by blood and legacies are carved into marble tombs, La Figlia was never meant to inherit the crown—she was meant to obey it. A daughter born under an empire of control, veiled in silk and silence, trained to smile but never speak.

But a storm brews behind her eyes. And the daughter becomes the downfall.

Then—the tempo shifts. The daughter stops mourning. And starts rewriting the legacy. La Figlia does not ask to be remembered. She becomes the story that replaces them all.

CODED SILENCE (ft Bangchan) ; “If I scream in silence, will you decode me?”

In a futuristic dystopia where every emotion is monitored and language is weaponized, there are only two ways to survive: speak nothing, or encrypt everything.

Chan’s verse is quiet, almost whispered—like a message buried in white noise. He doesn’t say “I miss you.” Instead, he says, “System glitch. Thought of you. Still no reboot.”

THORNS AND THRONES ; “Before I wore the crown, I bled for it.”

This is the story of a girl who was never chosen—she carved her way to the throne with bare hands and broken rules. Every verse is a battle cry, every line a record of scars turned to sigils.

She doesn’t run from pain—she wears it like velvet armor. She is the ruler of ash and iron, and she didn’t inherit this reign.

She earned it.

V.E.E: (Victory. Execution. Elegance.) ; “They wanted an icon. I gave them an empire.”

In a world where power is performance and wars are waged on runways, V.E.E is not just a song—it’s a declaration. A strike. A strut. A storm wrapped in velvet and precision.

She is not a soldier.

She is a sovereign tactician.

Each step she takes is calculated—every heel click is an execution order.

V.E.E is the anthem of the empress who doesn’t chase crowns—she makes them, breaks them, and walks away untouched.

GLASS HEELS ; “They wanted me to shatter. Instead, I walked away—cutting the world with every step.”

This is not a fairytale.

This is the story of a girl who wore glass heels not to dance—but to survive. To be beautiful, delicate, perfect… and still bleed beneath the surface.

She was made to be a doll in a castle.

Adored. Displayed. Never heard.

But behind every bow, every smile, every “yes,” she was breaking.

No one noticed the cracks—until she turned them into weapons.

The Last Rose (Outro) ; “Not every ending is death. Some are just the final bloom.”

The album began with venom, battle cries, poisoned elegance, and glass-sharp survival. But “The Last Rose” is where it all falls quiet. It’s where the crown is laid down—not in surrender, but in peace. This is the final chapter of the daughter, the queen, the empress—the one who bled, fought, ruled, and walked away.

She is no longer fighting for the throne.

She has become the throne.

And now, she lets it go.

[wheretheforgottenthingslive]

The King and the Star: The Flame that Calms the Fire

The private garden chamber was now illuminated by hanging lanterns and filled with the scent of pressed jasmine. Hypatia reclined in a half-moon of cushions near the window, while a brazier burned low. Her hands rested on the rise of her belly. She heard him approaching before she saw him, and she already knew—he carried more with him than just his body.

Hephaestion pushed open the carved cedar door harder than he intended. It didn’t slam, but the sound was sharp, like something bitten back too late. Hypatia turned her head from the window. Her robe had slipped off one shoulder, and a bowl of fig slices sat untouched beside her. She saw him and said nothing—just extended her hand, an invitation, not a question.

He came to her immediately, falling to his knees beside the cushions, hands shaking slightly as he braced himself on either side of her legs. His head dropped to her belly, his brow pressed against the silk stretching over new life. She cradled his head with both hands, her thumbs stroking through his hair.

“What did you do?” she asked softly. Her tone was not scolding or accusing; it was simply a way to open the door to the truth.

He didn’t answer immediately. When he spoke, his voice was rough. “I hit him.”

“Cassander,” she replied.

“He asked who the father was. He said… things about you, about the child, about my place.” He lifted his head just enough for her to see the rage flickering behind his eyes. “I couldn’t let it sit in silence anymore. I couldn’t let him speak like that about you.”

She reached up and cupped his jaw, her fingers grazing the faint bruise blooming along his cheekbone. Her touch was like water poured over hot metal—not dousing it, but tempering it. “You don’t need to be their sword, Hephaestion,” she whispered. “You are ours now.”

His eyes closed, and for a long moment, he simply breathed against her. Her belly rose and fell beneath his palms. Then, the child kicked, strong and sure beneath his touch. He let out a sharp breath, part laugh, part sigh. “She’s angry, too,” he murmured.

Hypatia smiled faintly. “She feels what you feel.”

“She’s always listening,” he replied.

He climbed into the cushions beside her carefully, gently, as if ashamed of the heat he carried. She curled into him, and he laid a hand over her belly again, this time with stillness.

“Do you think I’m too violent?” he asked, barely above a whisper.

Hypatia shook her head. “I think your love is too big for small rooms.”

“But in here—” she pressed his hand tighter to her stomach, “—it makes her safe.”

He bent down and kissed the side of her throat, then her shoulder, and finally the edge of her breast, his lips slow and reverent. “I didn’t want to tell Alexander. Not yet. Not while he sleeps.”

“He’ll know,” she said.

“But he’ll understand. He always does when it’s you.”

Hephaestion rested his head beneath her chin. One of her hands stroked down his back, while the other wrapped around his hand that covered the child’s rhythm. For the first time since the confrontation, his breath slowed— not calmed by surrender, but by being seen.