#unearthly levels of beautiful

[exhausted-think-bucket]

[rin-fukuroi]

𝐖𝐚𝐧𝐭 𝐭𝐨 𝐫𝐞𝐦𝐞𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 [𝐘𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐱𝐢𝐧𝐠]

Please do not translate or publish my works without my permission.

The originals of my works can be read here

Fandom: Honkai: Star Rail

Pairings: Yingxing x fem!reader

Warnings: NSFW, fluff, just a little angst, creampie.

▶• ılıılıılıılıılıılı. 珂拉琪 Collage - 萬千花蕊慈母悲哀

▶• ılıılıılıılıılıılı. (Liányī / Ripples)SynthV AI Stardust - 涟漪

Note: English is not my native language, so I apologize if there are errors in the text qq

This work was written under the strong impression of beautiful chinese music, which always reminds me exactly how Blade used to be. In fact, this is one of the few tender sketches of mine that I really love.

art: @tiredceles_

— Yingxing, wait!

You giggle, barely managing to keep up with Yingxing pulling at your hand. His steps are slightly shaky, but he continues to walk confidently towards the forge, holding your hand and pulling you along. You can only see his broad back, but if you could see his face now, you might notice how his slightly clouded eyes sparkle and the corners of his lips are lifted in a slight smile.

The doors open with an unpleasant creak, and you almost stumble over the threshold, having to rush into a small outbuilding in the courtyard of your house. Yingxing lets go of your hand and rushes to rake through piles of metal and other accessories, the names of which you don't even know, in search of, obviously, something specific that he wanted to show you so badly.

— Why was there such a rush? You're always so fussy when you drink. I knew I should have gone with you. It would be easier if you just fell asleep like Jing Yuan, — you fake grumbling with displeasure, resting your fists on your hips. — What are you looking for?

— Look… I finished it this morning, — Yingxing turns around, holding an elegant sword in his palms. The thick blade shimmers with dark blue and burgundy shades, and the exquisite patterned handle glitters in the moonlight filtering through the window of the annex, as do the ashy strands of Yingxing, carelessly escaping from the pinned-up tuft of hair, falling on the black fabric of his cloak.

— Wow, — you tentatively hold out your hands, but immediately pull away. This blade seems unearthly, something special that you are not worthy to touch. You watch in fascination as Yingxing wraps his hands around the hilt, turning the sword in his hand. His lips are stretched in a soft smile, and purple eyes proudly look at the creation of his hands through heavy eyelids and long strands of bangs framing his elegant features.

— I think Jingliu will like it.

— Did you make such a beautiful blade to give away? I thought you were going to keep it.

— Huh? Why? — Yingxing is so cute when he turns his head, looking at you with a genuinely puzzled look that can't help but make you smile.

— Forget it. I just wanted to say that this is one of the most beautiful creations of the most skilled blacksmith in all of Lofu, — you put your palm on his hand holding the blade, lowering the weapon down before rising on tiptoe and leaving a gentle kiss on Yingxing's cheek. As soon as your lips approach the skin of his face, you can feel the faint smell of alcohol coming from Yingxing, mixed with his natural sweet aroma, which makes you linger at the level of his clouded eyes when his expression softens. You can't take your eyes off your lover, hearing the metal casually hitting the table as Yingxing puts down the sword, now moving her palm to your chin.

— Do you really think so? — his voice fades to a hoarse whisper.

— Of course. Are you questioning my objectivity because I'm your future wife?

— No, not at all. In fact, I always trust only your opinion, because it's the only one that matters to me.

You roll your eyes in mock annoyance before laughing softly, leaning in to touch his hand.

— Did I mention that you get too cute when you drink?

— Hmm, let me think… Will this be the third time tonight? Although before that you described me with a different epithet.

— So you're still able to count? This is very commendable.

— You hurt me with words like that. I can even forge another blade like this right now, if you wish.

— Mmm, I don't think that's what I want, — you smile softly, pressing your palm against Yingxing's cheek.

The silence is filled with the soft rustle of sakura leaves, falling and dancing in the evening wind. You feel the warm, so familiar and familiar breath of Yingxing on the skin of your face when his palms wrap around your cheeks, luring you into a kiss with a subtle taste of alcohol swirling on your tongues. And it was really the only thing that you always had, have and will need. It's so easy to feel the warmth of his skin on your own, run your fingers through his ashy soft hair, clinging to the clip that barely holds the curled curls before they scatter over his back and wide shoulders, feel the taste of his lips, press your chest against his and feel the vibrations of a rapid heartbeat synchronizing with yours.

Neither of you two notice how Yingxing's fingers cling to the light fabric of your hanfu*, how you hastily but carefully untangle button after button from the loops on his raincoat, impatiently touching the heated skin of his chest while big palms slide over your hips, gently lifting your petite figure off the floor, letting you wrap your legs around Yingxing's waist as he sweeps pieces of metal and tools off the table. You shudder and chuckle softly, without looking up from the kiss, when all the things from his desk collide with a dull crash with the wooden surface of the floor.

The gentle touch of calloused fingers on your chest, sneaking under hanfu, the soft sounds of heavy breathing when his lips leave yours only to gently press against your neck, the subtle vibrations of Yingxing's moans muffled by your skin, your fingers massaging the skin of his head, the warmth that spreads in your chest and settles somewhere in the lower abdomen, when his beard is pressed between your legs — all this is accompanied by bright moonlight illuminating the figures of two people lost in a moment that will be imprinted on Yingxing's mind for a long time even after decades. He can't stop admiring the fragility of your body, the pleasant floral scent emanating from your skin, the warmth of your breath blowing through his disheveled hair as you press him even closer to your neck, making him gasp, but keep sending that delicious shiver running down your spine whenever he gently nibbles and showers kisses your heated skin and presses his lips to the vein throbbing in time with your heart pounding in your chest.

Such moments always make the corners of your lips stretch into a soft smile before your consciousness clouds the pleasure in which you want to dissolve to the last, not missing the sound of hastily unbuttoning trousers, the flutter in your chest, the aching feeling in the bottom of your stomach and anticipation taking root in your veins when you feel the touch of hot, throbbing flesh between your legs.

It seemed that Yingxing's consciousness cleared up for just a moment from alcohol clouding his mind, only to be struck down at the same second by intoxication from the warmth enveloping his penis, slowly sinking into your pleasantly moist insides. The hot breath from the moan that escaped from his throat burns the skin of your neck as inch by inch of his hard flesh disappears inside you until his hips are pressed against yours. You can feel the swollen veins stretching along his length pulsating in your walls, so perfectly enveloping his cock. Yingxing raises his head, watching you look at him from under heavy eyelids and long eyelashes, hiding from him your gaze full of adoration and desire, on which his name is engraved. His long fingers catch the unruly strands that fall over your face, caress the skin of your cheek until his forehead presses against yours.

Every time he stays motionless inside the way he is now, you are torn apart by the desire to ask him to just stay like this for a little longer, and by an irresistible thirst to make him move. Yingxing exhales heavily from his lungs, just enjoying the way his cock fills your insides perfectly before his hips pull away to gently meet yours again, forcing you to squeeze around his hot organ every time he leaves your warm walls, not wanting to let go of him for a second.

— So beautiful… — Yingxing whispers in a velvety husky voice before his fingers squeeze your chin to lift your face for another kiss that takes your breath away.

— You say that every time, Yingxing, — you smile softly, breaking the kiss, wrapping your arms around his neck.

— I can't help myself, I can't get used to the fact that I own such a beautiful woman like you.

— Is that what you're saying? — you force his lips to meet yours again, muffling the moan that originated in your chest from the slow, soft thrusts of his cock, repeatedly touching all the most sensitive places in your insides. — A beautiful woman can only belong to a beautiful man whom I have fallen in love with.

You whisper into his lips, feeling how Yingxing smiles after your words, wrapping his free hand around your waist to pull you closer to his body. His movements don't accelerate, but become more insistent and deep, causing the table under you to wobble, hitting the wood of the wall with a thud every time Yingxing's hips press against yours.

Strong fingers gently press into your arching back towards him, crumpling the thin fabric of the dress that casually falls from your shoulders. Every movement of Yingxing is so desperate, so neat and gentle, as if he imprints in his memory every sound that escapes from your lips, every sweet whisper of his name hiding in a kiss divided into two, every contraction of the muscles of your back and hips while you squeeze around his cock every time he enters pushing you to the limit, making you tremble in his arms.

You desperately cling to the fabric of his cloak, which is open on Yingxing's heaving chest, feeling the heat boil in your lower abdomen. His languid movements are like sweet agony, which gradually brings you to the edge, driving you crazy with the pleasure it causes your body, which wants to get more. The heels of your feet press harder into Yingxing's back every time his hips pull away to make his cock cut into your insides faster as the knot in your stomach begins to tighten. You gasp, pulling away from his lips and burying your face in the curve of his neck, when you feel Yingxing begin to move faster, feeling how much you squeeze around him. You're always so needy and so vulnerable when he gets you into a state where the only word that's spinning on your tongue is his name, and it's so contagious. As if following the call of your need for him, Yingxing feels the same pleasure that has spread through your veins.

You're more intoxicating than any alcohol. You are more beautiful than any blade that could be forged by the hands of a skilled blacksmith. You are worth any battles in which Yingxing sheds blood just to return home and see your smile again. And he doesn't have to say it out loud. You can feel the unspoken words of love and care oozing from every touch, from every sigh and moan, merging with the sound of rustling leaves outside the window.

You can feel them when you are both gripped by such a familiar, alluring feeling that neither of you is able or willing to resist. You want to taste him, to taste the taste of Yingxing's lips at the moment when the warm sticky liquid fills your insides, so you lift your head to engage him in a kiss that will tell him much more than any words randomly spinning in your head.

«I'm proud of you»

«I'm worried about you»

«I miss you»

«I love you»

These words are sweet, but tart to the taste, and Yingxing will accept each of them, spinning her tongue along with yours in a dance that only the moon will witness, illuminating with its cold light the deserted streets of Lofu and a small house in a corner of the ship, as if deliberately hidden from prying eyes.

— Do you want to take a bath together? — from the fog of pleasure that has overwhelmed your body and mind, you are pulled out by your native low voice, which reverberates with pleasant vibrations on your skin when Yingxing imprints a last kiss on your neck.

— Only if my future husband is able to carry me in his arms, — you giggle, carefully brushing away the unruly strands of silver bangs falling over his purple eyes.

Yingxing's lips stretch into a warm smile before he pulls away, gently lowering the hem of your dress, then hastily tidying himself up.

While you are correcting the smell of your hanfu, your gaze falls on the blade lying at the other end of the table. Its blade shimmers with a menacing red hue in the cold light illuminating the small room. For some reason, a sudden sadness and anxiety pierces you, and a vile metallic taste swirls on your tongue, but you wave away the surging unpleasant feelings, carefully lowering your feet to the cool wooden floor.

«This blade will cause a lot of pain and suffering one day» — you thought to yourself, before meeting Yingxing's tired but gentle gaze again, holding out his hand to you.

*Hanfu is a traditional Chinese outfit, in this case in the form of a dress.

[farieofshampoo]

THE WOLF & THE DRAGON (1/?)

warnings: blood and gore, extreme violence

series masterlist, chapter 2, chapter 3, chapter 4, chapter 5, chapter 6

summary: To dance with dragons is to play with wolves. After surviving her own assassination attempt, Alarra Stark endured a large scar across her face, slicing her face in half. For years after Alarra was now known as "Alarra The Fierce" due to her ferocity at the young age, defending herself valiantly at merely thirteen-years-old. After then, she spent years training with her older brother, Cregan Stark, so that one day she could avoid the pain and suffering of anyone in her family; including herself. But, after those years spent training with men much larger than her, she is sent away and betrothed to Joffrey Velaryon for alliance towards the rightful heir to the Iron Throne: Rhaenyra Targaryen. Accompanying the family to Kingslanding, Alarra realized maybe marrying the young Velaryon boy wasn't so awful. But that was until she met a peculiar "one-eyed" prince.

pairing: Aemond Targaryen x Stark!OC

word count: 5.3k

tags: slow burn, forbidden love, canon Aemond, enemies to lovers, long fic, original characters, war, arranged marriage

rating: 18+, !MDNI!

Little Flame

Alarra Stark was truly the most elegant in all of the North.

As a girl, Alarra was known for her beauty. Even amongst the seven kingdoms, her beauty was spoken of in hushed whispers amongst all that witnessed her: as if she were a myth or story to be proven false. Those who encountered her never second guessed her alluring blue eyes, like staring into the deep blue of The Narrow Sea. Her long red hair, always braided away from her face, displaying her breathtaking features. Freckles adorned her youthful face, like a painter had splattered brown specs across her face. Even though Alarra’s beauty was now a fact, not a myth among the inhabitants of Westeros, the people of the North had always remained in awe at the princess’s beauty. And through the years, her hair was the thing they remembered the most. Her long, thick red curly hair, that always blew in the wind as if the God’s were doing it with purpose. And when winter came, Alarra’s beauty flourished.

In all her years, the Seven had only blessed her with one winter. It lasted two years of Alarra’s youth, and she always remembered the feeling of her nose turning into a frozen nub, her cheeks pink and rosy as the air grew colder and bit at her skin. She remembered her and her brother playing in the harsh winter cold, throwing snow and laughing as their father yelled at them to get inside before they caught a cold. She remembered the good.

Winter is coming, she remembered her father spewing as he drank the sweetest wine of the Arbor.

Winter is coming, she remembered Cregan saying as he groomed the horses with her.

Winter is coming, she would repeat, as she held her head high and proud. Like a true Stark.

When winter did come, and the days got longer, it was brutal. But, Alarra found it tranquil; she found the beauty in the most unearthly things.

And that would ensue to be her downfall.

“Give it back!” Eight-year-old Alarra screamed as her older brother, Cregan, stole her knife made of wood hanging it teasingly above her head.

“Do you even know how to hold one of these properly?” Cregan tilted his head to the side, the question hanging in the air.

Silence.

And that was all Cregan needed before he smirked and waved the knife around once more. Alarra resumed her jumping, unable to grab the knife from her brother. Cregan had freshly turned one and three, and was now much much taller than Alarra. He seemed to like flaunting it.

“Cregan!” Alarra yelled, stopping her continuous jumping. Cregan paused his waving to let out a laugh.

“Here, let me show you…” Cregan motioned for Alarra to get closer and she did, a sour expression still on her face. Cregan paused, crouching down on her level.

“Now this here is the blade… see?” Cregan traced the pointy part of the wooden knife. Alarra’s expression then changed from glum to one of immense interest.

“And this… is the handle, you put your hand here- and don't hold it like you're holding a firefly-” Cregan then held Alarra’s hands guiding her to how to properly hold a real dagger. Alarra held the wooden dagger, stealing it from Cregan’s hands with a triumphant hum.

“And now my prince I must defend myself…” Alarra said, holding her head high, the dagger above her head. She slowly let the dagger fall, reaching the heart of Cregan Stark, twisting and making squelching noises as she went. Cregan groaned, falling to the ground, a tongue out of his mouth for great measure. Alarra giggled lightly, still clutching the dagger in her hand. But, as Alarra looked at Cregan, he had stopped moving, his eyes closed in bliss as he laid on the ground.

“Cregan?” Alarra got down on his level, sitting by his head, worry etched on her features. Cregan was always there for Alarra and she couldn't remember a time when they were not together. Being apart from him was like stealing the moon from the sun. She could not bear it. But, then all of a sudden, Cregan let out a roar, making Alarra squawk and jump backwards.

“Cregan! That’s not funny. I truly thought I had pierced your heart!” Cregan laughed loudly at this. How could his kind little sister hurt him?

“Oh.. with that?” Cregan questioned, still laughing. Alarra reached towards him, hitting him on the arm, making him let out a loud noise in protest.

“I'm telling father!” Alarra exclaimed, standing quickly and running out of the room. The large doors closed behind her as she ran out, through the garden outside and up the large stairs towards her fathers chambers. But, when she arrived, guards and servants were frantically running around, in and out of his chambers. A guard ran past Alarra almost running her over and she gasped, clutching her chest. A hand was then placed on her shoulder, making her turn around quickly.

“My lady…” Alarra’s handmaiden, Eyla, was staring at her with concern.

“You should not be here- where is your brother?” Alarra glanced behind the handmaiden to see Cregan, face grim and hard, approaching her.

“Cregan, what's going on?” Cregan ignored her, continuing his path towards their father’s chambers. Alarra followed closely behind, ignoring the protests of her handmaiden.

Two guards were posted outside of the chambers, frantically scanning Cregan, proud and tall and Alarra’s frame, meek and small. Cregan had said something to the guard but Alarra was not listening because only the worst scenarios had started to display in her mind. Then suddenly, Cregan barged past the two guards, opening the chamber doors with immense force. Alarra followed shortly behind him, her hands clutched tightly in front of her.

Cregan seemed to have a mind of his own, walking towards the large bed across the room. The maester stood by the bed, seeming to be speaking to their father. At the sight of that, Cregan’s shoulders visibly lowered tension leaving his back.

The room smelled old; like dusty books or an old library. Alarra paused her movements when she got to the edge of the bed, and Cregan walked towards the maester.

“What's happened, Maester?” Cregan asked, standing next to him. The maester’s expression dropped, turning to face Cregan.

“Please sit, my lord.” Cregan paused, looking behind his shoulder at Alarra.

“Leave us.”

“But, my lord-”

“I said: leave us.” Cregan bellowed, staring at his father lying on the bed, unmoving.

The maester bowed silently, shuffling out of the room, his quiet footsteps echoing around them.

A cough, sounding like the last gasp of a ghoul, carried through the room and Cregan instantly moved to sit beside their father. Alarra stayed at the edge of the bed, now able to see her fathers deathly pale face. Her father was an alabaster statue, as if he was frozen in time and breath. Another cough rang, and Alarra could visibly see the strain it left on her father.

“My boy…” He whispered, turning to Cregan.

“Father what-”

“No, Cregan you mustn't speak. Listen to me.”

Cregan stopped, like he was holding his breath waiting for father to speak.

“You are my heir. The Lord of Winterfell in a moon’s set-”

“Father-” Cregan protested, his voice cracking.

“Let me finish, please,” Their father started, breathing heavily. Cregan swallowed down his words, nodding.

“You are my boy. My heir, my only boy,” He paused to take a breath.

“You will be the Lord of Winterfell. You will be the King of the North, do you hear me?” Father said, more sternly this time. Cregan had become quiet and still before he spoke again.

“Yes, Father. I-”

“Protect her. Always. I will be right beside you.”

“Always.”

“You will see me again. Whether it’s in the wind whistling the trees before bed or under the dirt, you will see me again, my son.” Their father grasped Cregan’s hand, tightly holding it as best as he could in his weak grip.

“Alarra,” Cregan whispered, turning his head to meet her eyes.

Alarra was standing quietly at the edge of the bed still, her eyes red and she was gasping quietly as she cried. Her father put his hand out, calling her to him. Alarra ran to her father’s side of the bed, getting on her knees beside Cregan.

“Father…” She weeped, eyes wet and cheeks red.

“My firecracker…” Her father said, reaching a hand to her face, using his thumb to wipe a tear away. His hand shook as he rose it, using all of his remaining power. Alarra sniffled her nose running now as she let her tears flow. Cregan put a hand on her shoulder, squeezing lightly.

“Alarra Stark, you will always be a firecracker. Don’t you ever let anyone stop you. No boy, no prince, no scary spider wanting to bite you!” Her father smiled, as Alarra laughed through her sob. Her father started to cough again, this time into a white rag. The cough was more violent, and the lord’s eyes were red and bloodshot. But, it was not from crying.

“When you were still a babe, your mother would say you had not cried once when you came into this world. Into our arms. A babe, silent as the night sky but the stars could not compare to your beauty, my love.” Alarra smiled as best as she could manage through the tears.

“My flourishing flower,” He whispered, grasping her cheek. “You are a true vision of your mother.”

“But, promise me one thing,” He started to say, coughing as he spoke. Alarra’s eyes were glued to her father, as he smiled with love for his children.

“Promise me that you will be true.” He spoke in a hushed tone, eyes glossed over with endearment.

“I promise.” She said, her head held high, lip quivering. I promise that I will always remain a true Stark. And no one, not a boy, a man, or a creature will stop me.

Rickon Stark smiled, glancing at both of his children, a Stark’s visionary.

“You must shine bright my little flame…no matter how small you feel, always shine bright.”

And that is exactly what Alarra did.

On Alarra’s one and three name day, she had begun her path to womanhood. And that path to womanhood had skewed into a path of knighthood.

Alarra had awoken early that morning, before the birds were chirping and the sun began to stream into her room. She was ecstatic. Today she was to be a woman.

“Eyla?” Alarra was standing in front of the mirror, adjusting her dress. She was wearing something new, something that she wasn’t used to. She didn’t realize how much her…chest had seemed to grow overnight. Or at least it felt like that to her.

“Yes, my lady?” Eyla was bent down on the ground, fanning Alarra’s dark blue dress around her.

“How do you know you're truly a woman?” She asked meekly, as Eyla stood wiping her hands on her legs.

“Well that’s up to you, my lady. You choose what makes you feel like a woman.” Eyla stated.

“How did you know?” Alarra questioned, playing with her fingers. Eyla smiled, still looking at the ground.

“When I was ten, I bled in the night. And my mother threw me out, telling me I was a woman and I could fend for myself. But, I didn't feel like a woman. I was still a child. It wasn't until I was one and five that I knew that women have power. More than a man ever will.”

“I haven't bled yet and-”

“My lady, enjoy it. Bleeding is not a celebration.” Eyla wrapped an arm around Alarra, stroking her arm.

“Then why do people rejoice at the sight of it?”

“Because men’s heads are hollow, my lady.” Eyla clasped her hands together.

“Now, let me see your dress! How beautiful you look.” Eyla looked Alarra up and down, scanning her. Alarra’s cheeks turned red and she laughed, rolling her eyes.

“Thank you, Eyla.” Alarra whispered, smiling at the ground, putting her hands on her cheeks. Bashful as a rabbit.

“Since you are one and three, let me teach you a lesson.” Alarra groaned, dropping her hands from her face.

“A lesson. It’s my name day!”

“It’s fun, trust me my lady.” Eyla smirked at Alarra, and turned her so she was facing the mirror again, Eyla behind her.

“Women have something men don’t…” Elya started, stopping behind Alarra, looking at her through the mirror.

“We can speak with our very eyes.” She whispered, clutching Alarra between her hands, grasping at her shoulders.

“How so?” Alarra questioned, eyebrows furrowed into a line.

“Men cannot help but express their emotions,” Eyla said, her eyebrows furrowed in thought. “It is in their blood.”

Alarra’s eyes watched her handmaiden through the mirror, waiting for her to speak again. Eyla stepped next to Alarra, still looking at her through the mirror.

“Watch my eyes…” Alarra nodded quickly. Eyla’s eyes were wide and doe-like at first; like large brown deer pupils. But, just as fast her eyes darkened, a seductive look on her face. Eyla then returned her gaze back to a more tame and blissful look. Eyla smiled at Alarra through the mirror, moving to stand behind her again, before speaking.

“As women we must use our… assets to our advantage.” Eyla pushed her hand between Alarra’s shoulder blades, and Alarra subconsciously bound her chest out.

“Assets?” Alarra blurted out, uncertainty in her voice.

“Our bosoms of course!” Eyla then chuckled at Alarra’s red face.

“You know what a breast is-”

“Yes, I know,” Alarra huffed, slightly annoyed. “I'm not a child anymore. I am one and three!”

“And what a special age that is, my lady.” Eyla grinned at Alarra through the mirror again, putting both her hands on her shoulders and squeezing.

“I trust the Gods will treat you well this year.” But, Eyla had been wrong. And the Gods’ had punished her that year.

Throughout the day, Alarra had been rained with compliments on her new attire. How grown she looked in blue. How her eyes popped, the blue more prominent, in this dress. Her brother had gotten her a gift, and sat with her in the garden, as the sun was starting to set.

Cregan pulled the gift from behind his back. It was long and pointy and covered in a white cloth.

“Open it.” He said handing it to her. Alarra slowly slid the cloth off to reveal a long slender dagger. Alarra gasped, feeling its hilt and tracing her fingers along the dull side of the blade.

“This is Valyrian steel- how did you-”

“The Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch gave it to me… I feel better acquainted with a sword than a tiny knife.” Cregan’s eyes had creased as he flashes Alarra a thin-lipped smile. He seemed nervous and he was visibly fidgeting with his hands; something Alarra regularly did when she was uncertain.

Then, Alarra jumped pulling Cregan into a tight hug. Cregan let out a groan at the harshness (his shoulders were sore from training maliciously), but wrapped his arms around her small frame regardless .

“Thank you.” She whispered, as he tightened his grip on his little sister, his arms almost engulfing her whole.

“I'll teach you how to use it properly, now that this one isn't wooden.” He said teasingly, as she pulled away from him her hands still on his shoulders.

“I promise not to pierce your heart.” She giggled after her statement, taking her hands away from Cregan’s broad frame.

“Now that is true Valyrian steel. Keep it wrapped in the cloth until tomorrow. I don’t want you to cut yourself.”

That night, while Alarra lay in bed, still awake deep into the Castle’s slumber, she laid next to her new friend: the dagger of Valyrian steel. The dagger was sitting next to her, on the thin white bed sheets and Alarra couldn't help but admire its craftsmanship-

Wind blew through the window, the white curtains waving in the soft breeze, and she held her breath. But Alarra had not left the window open. In fact, she specifically remembered closing them. Alarra briskly sat up, looking around the room, scanning for something out of place.

“You're supposed to be asleep.” A low, deep voice rang through her quiet room and Alarra jumped, opening her lips to scream. But, a hand wrapped around her mouth, shoveling her cries down her throat. She wept and wept, kicking and waving her hands above her head as a man, whose face she couldn't see masked by a black cloth, put a knife to her throat. She squirmed, but stopped when the cool metal of the dagger was at her throat.

“Stop. Moving.” He gritted out. Alarra could feel the shake of his hand, a sign he was either nervous or very close to slitting her throat. Alarra screamed loudly in his sweaty palm, as she slashed with her fingers at his face. Her fingers caught his skin, and he let out a groan, covering his left eye.

“You bitch-” He grumbled moving towards her again, but she put her arms out in front of her, speaking for the first time.

“You have about five seconds to kill me before the guards find you… 5, 4-” The man yelled as he slashed at her but she moved slightly, so he'd miss his dagger going into her feather pillow. Alarra rolled off the bed, grabbing her own dagger as she did, staring at the man across from her. Then, her vision got blurry and- red? Alarra groaned as she lifted her hand to her face, red blood covered her sight and hand, smelling the metallic. She laughed, looking up at the man that was now staring at her. His dagger tightly clutched in his hand.

“You nicked me…” Alarra huffed in disbelief, staring at the blood on her hand. Suddenly, the man launched forward across the bed, yelling as he crawled across the bed reaching her. Alarra gasped, dropping the dagger as he pushed her against the wall, choking her throat with his hand. Alarra coughed, hitting his hand, over and over again but he didn't budge. He was strong, stronger than a thirteen-year-old girl, but not skilled. He was messy, and seemed to be running on his anger and not his strategy. Alarra had noticed how he was still shaking, and he breathed heavily squeezing tightly on her throat. Now, Alarra could no longer breathe and she let out short gasps of air.

The man had made a mistake. He was facing her, his lower area facing her in the perfect position- and she kicked, hard, at his prized jewels. He released her, falling to his knees in agony, groaning and moaning. Alarra fell to the ground, coughing violently. She held her chest, looking around for the dagger- her dagger. The dagger was still on the ground and she grabbed it quickly.

“Cunt!” He screamed, and he opened his mouth again to yell but before he could, a dagger positioned itself between his eyes, and blood curdled slowly, covering both his eyes like tears. He was crying blood. She pulled the dagger out, letting a sob fall out from her pink lips. Alarra screamed as she let the dagger hit his skull again, cracking through skin and bone. And she slashed down again and again and again until his body was limp against the bed frame. Alarra straddled his unmoving waist, letting her dagger fall on his face again until his eyes were red holes and his face was spotted in cuts. And now, it wasn't only her own blood that covered her but one of the armed man.

I will always remain a true Stark. And no one, not a boy, a man, or a creature will stop me.

And she kept hitting until hands reached around hers, and she screamed, fighting the person behind her. Her brother had to pull her off of the man, his face now mutilated and unrecognizable.

“It’s me, Alarra.” Her brother whispered, and she dropped to her knees on the ground as he swept her into a hug. Alarra let out a cry of relief as she smelled the musk of her older brother. And she was safe. Cregan held her that night, until morning came, as she cried and the guards took away the disfigured body of the unknown man.

The next day, Alarra bathed until her fingers turned to prunes and the water was ice cold. Her handmaid told her that the water would leave her with a runny nose but she never felt clean. She scrubbed herself until she was raw, like a newborn babe. But she still saw the blood; the way his face felt soft and slick after stabbing it so many times, the way she felt him die beneath her, the way she had almost died, the way she had beat the clutches of death. She escaped the hands of the Seven.

Alarra demanded that her brother teach her how to protect herself, for there would be a time when he would not be there to keep her safe. Alarra was already learning hand-by-hand combat and archery, but decided to focus solely on her swordsmanship. Soon enough, Alarra was a growing prodigy. Courtesy of her older brother of course, but a prodigy nonetheless. Death from the Mother above taught Alarra how to preserve, how to push herself. After beating death, Alarra became a beautiful yet valiant knight with no title to claim.

The first time Alarra looked at her face she wept. She wept for hours. Her face was ruined. A princess with a scar. And it wasn't minuscule. It wasn't a small scar, it was a ginormous line running from the top of her forehead, to the bottom of her chin. Instead of whispers of her heavenly beauty or her hair, they were now filled with whispers of the girl that defeated death. Whispers of the princess with a slash. Whispers of a killer: a savage. Whispers now contained a new nickname, one Alarra was proud to coin.

They called her, Alarra the Fierce.

“Alarra you must not attack your opponent with your sword- lead with your legs- yes just like that!”

Alarra was now freshly one and five, and through two years her swordsmanship had increased and her level of fighting was, as Cregan liked to put it, incredible. The sound of their swords clashing against the other echoed through the training room, and the castle’s staff walked in and out and about the halls but not before glancing at the pair. Both were breathing heavily before Cregan laughed, losing his balance a little at Alarra’s push. Alarra let her guard down before she eventually fell backwards, the tip of Cregan’s sword at her neck.

“You lost focus. And when your life's on the line, will you lose focus then?” Alarra scoffed from the ground as Cregan held his hand out to her. She took it, begrudgingly, and stood next to him. Alarra bit her lip, taking her gloves off before throwing them harshly on the ground.

“I thought you were going to fall-”

“Excuses.” Alarra let out a loud sigh, shaking her head. Both of the siblings removed their armor, before exiting the training hall. One thing about Alarra was that she was stubborn. Whenever she messed up she vowed to never make the same mistake twice. They walked in silence, comfortable silence, until two servants passed them, whispering to each other, their heads low. Alarra caught the last bits of their conversation and realized they were talking about her.

“They whisper as I pass them, brother.”

“Let them. It means they are fearful. And fear will only take you far in this world.” Cregan’s strides were wide but Alarra was able to keep up with him, walking next to his now manly body.

“And what if I don't want people to fear me?”

“Would you rather them love you? Admire you?”

“Yes! I very much would.” Cregan stopped walking, and turned his head to look at Alarra. Her hair was loosely tied into a braid that had been falling out due to their training.

“I want people to love me like they did father. I want them to admire me not… “ Cregan stared at her as she looked beyond him at another passing servant, who hurriedly walked past them. “The first thing they see is this.” Alarra pointed at her scar.

“The first thing they see is your face.” Cregan smirked, crossing his arms.

“No I mean- I only mean that they think I'm some savage.”

“You are Alarra the Fierce, are you not?”

“Yes, but-”

“That name was given to you. You earned it. Don’t let the opinions of others dictate how you carry that name. Embrace it. You are Alarra the Fierce. You are The Princess that Lived. People respect you because of that, and fear is just the outcome of deep honor,” Cregan paused to gather his thoughts.

“Respect is something to be earned, and you earned it the day you were born. You have always been Alarra the Fierce…it was just a matter of when you would realize it.” Cregan then pulled Alarra into a deep hug, smelling like sweat and dirt. Alarra scrunched her nose, as Cregan pushed away from her.

“And Alarra the Fierce smells like she needs a bath.”

The raven had arrived in the morning, calling upon Cregan Stark to visit Dragonstone. The letter had no details that Alarra knew of, and she had remained curious until the day of his departure.

“Can I please come? I hear Jacaerys Velaryon is one of the most handsome in the realm.” Alarra started biting her lip, knowing she'd get a rise out of her older brother. Cregan stopped walking to turn to her, a piece of hair over his right eye.

“No.”

“Please?”

“No.”

Alarra sighed, kicking at the grass on the ground.

“And why not?” She asked quietly, still walking closely behind him.

“Because I said so, Alarra.” Cregan said sternly this time and Alarra huffed, rolling her hazel eyes. “You are not coming to Dragonstone with me. Have I made myself clear?”

“I am not a child.”

“Yet you act like one, no?”

Alarra bit her cheek, staring at the ground. She was now one and six, slightly annoyed that her older brother always teased her of her age.

“I have never left the North-.”

“Alarra you know why-”

“Yes, yes you vowed to protect me. But, you know damn well I can protect myself.” Alarra spat, walking towards Cregan.

“If I have the ability to protect you, I would do it over again if it means you are safe. I do not care how angry you are at me, as long as you are breathing.” Cregan stepped towards her, as much as he was annoyed, and left a kiss on the top of her head whilst pulling her into a half-hug.

“Cregan-” Cregan stepped away from her and started walking backwards.

“I will see you in two moons. Ser Wildrow will be with you when I am not.”

“Cregan-!”

And Cregan turned, stomping towards a carriage and disappearing beyond the wall.

Prick.

Two moons had come and gone, and all Alarra had done was train with Ser Wildrow. As much as Ser Wildrow didn't want to admit- he knew Alarra was just as skilled as her older brother. But, there was something different. Something in her eyes that shined. Everytime she had the upper hand her eyes gleamed, a frightening look overtaking her soft feminine features.

“I yield!” Ser Wildrow shouted, breathing heavily as his knees buckled under Alarra’s push.

“Your age is showing, Ser.” Alarra smirked as she started to take off her armor. Though Ser Wildrow wasn’t very old, not much older than her father would've been, she still enjoyed teasing the man.

Ser Wildrow was still on the ground, gradually standing.

“And you just seem to be getting better by the moon, Alarra the Fierce.” Alarra flinched at the nickname. Her alias had come from a night she wanted to forget. She lightly traced the scar with her hand, turning to face Ser Wildrow again.

“Will you bring me to the Wall?”

“Absolutely not, my lady.”

“But, I am Alarra the Fierce. And Alarra the Fierce should be able to visit the wall if she pleases.” Alarra declared, her nose pointed upwards.

Ser Wildrow stared at her for a moment, before he sighed.

“It’s as if you wish for my head on a stick, my lady.”

Ser Wildrow and Alarra were now thousands of feet in the air staring down at the deep, deep snowy landscape beneath her. Her breath fanned around her and she shivered at the cold, having not felt it since she was a child.

“Tis cold.” She murmured, shoving her hands beneath her fur coat.

Ser Wildrow laughed.

“I warned you, did I not my lady?” He smiled at her, burrowing further into his own fur coat.

“Mhm…” She grumbled, whispering profanities under her breath.

“Cregan will have your head if he finds out.”

“You worry too much.”

Silence ensued and the only sound was the wind blowing harshly against them.

“We are very high.”

“Exactly seven hundred feet that spans across three hundred miles from the Ban of Seals to the Gorge, my lady.”

Alarra stared at the fire next to them.

“Why has my brother gone to Dragonstone?”

“It is not my place to say.”

“The Heir to the Iron Throne must have a reason to summon my brother.”

Ser Wildrow remained silent, gazing at the sky that was darkening.

“It is getting dark, my lady-” Ser Wildrow started, looking back up at Alarra from the fire.

“- and your brother will be back in the morrow.”

Cregan stepped out of the carriage, his feet meeting the thick grass of Winterfell. Cregan’s eyes first met his sister’s. She encompassed a wide smile as she ran towards him, giving him a large hug. She pulled away, grinning widely.

“So, is Prince Jacaerys as handsome as they say?” She asked, laughing as her brother rolled his eyes pushing her away lightly.

“You will have to make that decision yourself.”

“Mhm… and you'll let me beyond these walls when I am merely dust and bone.”

Cregan remained silent, his eyebrows furrowed slightly. He’s hiding something.

“Alarra-” A smile graced Alarra’s face and her eyes widened, almost popping out of her skull.

“You’re letting me leave? I get to leave the North? After all these years?” Alarra stepped towards Cregan surveying his face, but he sighed putting two fingers on his temple.

“Alarra, let’s go inside-” Cregan reached a hand to pull her arm with him, towards the hall but Alarra shoved his arm away.

“No. Tell me now.” She ordered, tipping her chin upwards. A confident gesture. But, the next words that escaped his mouth were not something the Princess of the North were thinking she’d hear. She was hoping she could be free. Travel the country of Westeros with her elder brother by her side. Hence never leaving his side or the city of Winterfell, she yearned to escape. To leave. To see what lies beyond the clutches of an eerie landscape with nothing but trees and people like herself. But, she was now to be locked away in another castle, far away from her brother.

“I have given your hand to Joffrey Velaryon.”

A/N: Hi! Thank you so so much for reading! This is my first time ever posting or writing a fanfiction so please leave me some feedback. LMK if theres any corrections to be made or grammatical/spelling errors! This chapter is mainly to introduce you to the FMC (Alarra Stark, my OC) and to give you a glimpse into her past and future. Her and Aemond wont meet for two more chapters, so stay tuned!

PS I am NOT finished with Game of Thrones but I AM finished with House of the Dragon so let me know if i made any canon mistakes and if not it is now fanon! Lol and no spoilers please

[impossiblesuitcase]

Levana has two core tenets that drive her entire personal philosophy, both actively damaging and sustaining her: her need to be beautiful and her need to be loved. They are irrevocably intertwined and are ultimately her undoing.

Two people in her life dictate these notions--Channary and Evret. Channary implanted the desire to be loved and the necessity to be beautiful once Levana is disfigured. Without any willing participation from Evret, Levana carries over these insecurities, needing to be loved by him when Channary fails her and needing to keep up her glamour to feel beautiful. If Solstice is the only woman he can see as beautiful, that's what Levana must become. She sabotages her relationship with him after she shows him her true appearance; she refuses to be loved for her true self, and once he sees it, he must be disposed of. Evret lives on in Winter, who reinforces that Levana cannot ever control them as she wears her three uniform scars with pride.

With the death of these two motivators, she feels free of the burden of needing them. But the demand to be beautiful and loved is indefatigable, so she replaces them with an unearthly, ethereal glamour in her quest for vanity, and the contrived love from her citizens to feel wanted. These are both fundamentally artificial and never satisfy her, so she must always strive for more. Her body, face, voice 'improve' countless times over decades, as she is never sure that they are perfect enough. Her armies become fiercer, her inventory larger, and she sets her sights on the largest territory to conquer--Earth--all in the name of supplying her people to buy their love. Levana could have at any point abandoned her course of tyranny and used her circumstances to reform herself and her country's systemic disparity. She chooses every day to reject these opportunities and each action deepens her need to maintain the façade of love and looks. She is to be pitied, but not to be pardoned.

In order for Levana to be defeated as a villain, she must not only die, but must have her philosophy completely overturned. Kai takes the place of Evret and she replays her manipulation in the same way on their wedding day. But when she marries Kai, glamouring as his lover as she did to Evret, he dismantles her beauty, stating that she will never be as beautiful as the glamourless Linh Cinder. This directly mirrors Evret's loyalty to Solstice and it hurts Levana--not because she loves Kai in any way like she loved Evret--but because the message lives on in him. She is always inadequate.

Her glamour and her loyalties fall in one fell swoop. Her people come to her door to kill her, and her true face is blown up in the sky, permanently tainting her image. With her vanity blighted, all that's left is the fundamental nucleus of her problems: her relationship with Channary. It is the chief relationship in her life, even posthumously, and is the very cause of her perverted worldview. Levana never killed Channary and that is her greatest regret.

When Cinder arrives--Channary's near reincarnation in appearance--Levana has her second chance. It is particularly imperative to her to eliminate Selene because Levana was never loved by Channary, while Selene was. Her existence is a mockery of Levana's pain because it clarifies that Channary was capable of love and actively withheld it from Levana. However when Levana burnt Cinder alive, she levelled the playing field. She assigned Cinder a life of enduring the same prejudice and inadequacy that she faced. Therefore in their final battle, Levana likens Cinder to herself and her need to be desired. By killing Selene, she will finally prove that she has killed her need to be loved by Channary.

To do this, she sets up the perfect replica for this prophetic revenge. Cinder's friend will betray her as Channary did Levana, and Cinder will retaliate as Levana herself wished to do. It is particularly powerful that it is not Kai in the room at this final battle. Romantic love is irrelevant now. Instead it is Thorne, whom Cinder loves as family. Their almost sibling-like dynamic is now reflective of Channary and Levana. Levana asserts that this kind of love is false. But Cinder and Thorne demonstrate their loyalty to one another--even when Thorne is manipulated to hurt her, Cinder attacks Levana, not him. He proves his love in his sobs and apologies as his body rebels. Levana's final desire, to prove that love is merely a conquest and a war, is dashed.

In the end, Levana stabs Cinder, but it doesn't matter. Her worldview is shattered, her tenuous beliefs severed. That is where Levana is defeated. The final shot that kills her is simply to finalise the matter. Her tenets die with her and can be replaced with the true forms of beauty and love. Cinder and Winter, disfigured and scarred and unashamed. Kai, who loves Cinder and loves her appearance because she gave him good reason to, and never through manipulation. Cinder, who attains loyalty from the citizens of Luna and Earth alike through her action and compassion.

Love is not conquered, love is not a war; it is earned.

[remember-to-be-gentle]

This fic took me forever to write and its taken me over 45 minutes to post because of my shitty wi-fi but here it is! I'm so fucking hungry.

Subject: Genshin Impact, Neuvilette

Title: Justice

Trigger Warning: Size difference, breeding, dub con, double dick, claws, biting, nipple play, cunnilingus, scratching, kissing, rut (mentioned), some praise

By order of the Oratrice Mechanique d’Analyse Cardinale: You will be bred by the Hydro Dragon.

All you could do was stare dumbfounded at the sentencing from the Oratrice, the courtroom a riot of concerned whispers. Face placid, Neuvilette had been kind enough not to read your punishment aloud, instead walking down to your place on stage and allowing you to read it for yourself.

He breathed heavily beside you, his body so close the heat of him was like an inferno. Impossible to ignore.

You shivered.

Normally being besides your former boss was cooling and refreshing like fresh, clean water on a hot day. Your mouth grew dry remembering all that and changed between the two of you, and now this sentencing.

In the history of Fontaine, no punishment like this had ever been issued before. At least, as far as you knew.

And what crime was so great that you had to give up your autonomy? Forgery. For the last year, you'd worked as Neuvilette's assistant, and one month ago you were approached by a man looking to reduce a friend's sentence in exchange for more money than you could imagine. You caved. You sliced off ten years from his sentence.

And you'd been caught. Fired on the spot and scheduled for trial.

And now you were being sentenced to be bred by the Hydro Dragon, Neuvilette, your ex-boss.

In the last week you spent in jail, you dreaded the moment you’d have to face him again. Neuvilette was undeniably likable, and not just for his pretty face or deep, smooth voice. He wasn’t necessarily your friend, but you trusted him and disappointing him felt like an unforgivable sin. He’d been so kind to you at work, always happy to see you and ready to offer advice when you needed it.

"Meet me at my place tomorrow night," Neuvilette said quietly so only you could hear. His deep voice rumbled through you like thunder on the horizon, a taste of what was to come. His pearl grey-blue eyes bore into you, slit pupils cold and calm. This was the Hydro Dragon, not the judge of Fontaine. "I'll try to make your sentencing as comfortable as possible."

And with that, he turned on his heel and left you alone on stage, clutching your punishment between shaking hands.

***

All the next day, night threatened your every move. Each time a cloud passed in front of the sun was a jolt to your nerves, shadows growing as the dreaded time crept closer. The idea of doing anything knowing that once the sun was gone you would be spread open and fucked until the hydro dragon's seed rooted in your core... It made doing anything else impossible.

Neuvilette was the unattainable workplace crush. He was unearthly beautiful and tall and spoke with a voice that was both commanding and sensual. No man could compare and yet he was on an entirely different level. No one had the courage to so much as talk to him about anything other than work. The one time you'd tried ended in an awkward discussion about the weather and him recommending a new brand of water.

Even worse, you weren't even sure what to wear. It's not like it would stay on your body all that long. But still, this was Neuvilette's house, he was always so put together and calm. Showing up in your pajamas would be an insult, and despite betraying him, you still respected him.

Eventually you settled on a modest dress, long enough to the knees with a zipper on the back to take off easily.

By the time you'd finished applying an inoffensive red lipstain to your mouth, the sun was burning red against the green hills of Fontaine.

No more stalling. It was time.

***

The dragon's house was grand, not because of its size, but because of its warmth. Two stories tall and covered in flowers, boxes at the windows and lovingly spaced around the perimeter. Ivy crawled up the walls and tangled with a rooftop vegetable garden.

Smoke puffed from the chimney. Warm light spilled from the windows, clear indications that Neuvilette was home. Waiting.

All you could do was knock.

Within moments the door opened, Neuvilette's imposing figure filling the doorway. Without his judge's robes—and dressed down in simply a dress shirt, pants, and pink apron—you nearly thought you had the wrong house. But those cold, serpent eyes remained the same as they drank you in.

"Please, come in." He said.

Inside was well decorated, new vases of flowers and polished wood furniture. The fresh scent of warm bread and hot food tangled in the air with wood polish and pollen. Floorboards creaked pleasantly under your weight, the scuff of your shoes overshadowed by the deep thud of Neuvilette's boots.

"I made dinner for you," he said. "I thought I should at least do that for you before we... begin."

You nodded but your empty stomach was twisting. You weren't sure how much you could even eat knowing that soon you'd be pinned down with your other mouth stuffed full of a completely different kind of hot soup.

The kitchen was cozy, big windows giving a view of the street outside. Mechanic lights glittered in the dark. A hand-carved table sat in the middle of the room with two chairs, one place set for you and him. His seat already had a glass of wine poured and half consumed. At least he was nervous about this, too.

He pulled your chair out for you and offered you wine, which you accepted. In silence, he served your meal and set his own down on the table.

"The Oratrice has never made a decision like this," Neuvilette began. "I... I cannot imagine why breeding must be your punishment but its decisions have never been wrong."

You could only nod.

He didn’t look at you, fiddling with the wine bottle. "I will try and make this night as comfortable as I can, but you should know that my body only looks human. Not all of me has the same... anatomy."

You blinked at him confused. "I don't understand."

Neuvilette raised one milky white hand—you hadn't even noticed he wasn't wearing his usual gloves—and presented two blue-stained fingers. "I have more than one member. But fear not, one should suffice for tonight's... activity."

"I see." Two?! He had two cocks under those tight pants? Your head was spinning and you hadn't even sampled the wine yet.

The rest of dinner was had in silence. Neuvillette collected the dishes and placed them in the sink. Then his hand was on the back of your chair, the heat of his body a physical weight you couldn't ignore. "Shall we move to the bedroom?" His voice was nearly a whisper, so quiet it would have been easy to ignore.

You couldn't.

Like a ghost you followed Neuvilette to his room on the second floor. He'd prepared for the evening. New bottles of lube sat on his twin dressers, a sea of pillows spread across the mattress, and seated on a chair was a box of toys. Vibrators, dildos, blinding mask, and even handcuffs.

"I hope it's not too much." He said behind you. “I'm afraid I am rustier than I'd like to be.”

"Oh, no, it should be fine. It's fine." Nervously you sat on the bed. "Should I take my clothes off or...?"

"Please," Neuvilette sank to one knee, sliding between yours in a single, swift motion. His hands were on your thighs, parting them to give him more space. His heat sent a thrill of excitement through your core. "Allow me."

Slowly his thin, blue fingers slid beneath the hem of your skirt, just the tip poking beneath the elastic of your panties. He pressed his mouth to the inside of your knee, placing modest and thrilling kisses up your thigh, stopping just inches from your apex.

Your breath caught in your throat from the devilish glean in his pearlescent eyes. Just the corner of his stoic mouth was curled into a self-satisfied smirk. Never in your wildest dreams could you have imagined that the judge of Fontaine, aka your ex-boss, was a tease.

Just a hair further, Neuvilette whispered into your skin, his mouth so close you could feel the scrape of his teeth, "Is this to your liking, my lady?"

Heat rushed to your already red cheeks. You covered your mouth to try and hide the embarrassment. "It's weird to hear you call me that. Just call me what you normally would."

"Doesn't your name seem too... familiar? We no longer work together and I am bestowing the Oratrice's punishment onto you." As he spoke he slid his fingers around your ass, sinking into the soft flesh there, feeling you under your panties to pull you closer to him. "I should offer you some dignity, shouldn't I?" Neuvilette laid his cheek on your thigh, his white pale skin soft and practically glowing compared to yours. He blinked faux innocent eyes up at you, watching for your reaction.

"Fine." You huffed, your embarrassment and excitement only growing. "Just until we're done."

"Understood." And then his face vanished beneath the skirt of your dress.

You shrieked as you felt the thick length of his tongue against your cotton-covered cunt. Instantly you tried to close your legs, but Neuvilette's arms were under your thighs, strong and soft in the casing of his silk shirt. His thin but strong fingers squeezed your ass, pressing your clothed folds as close to his mouth as he could.

It was like he was making out with your crotch, the way his jaw worked and tongue explored, needy and smooth.

Suddenly Neuvilette pulled back, lifting your hips as he went. Your back hit the mattress as his movements intensified, his desire seeping into the fabric of your underwear as your core did the same. He groaned hungrily against your clit, the top of his white head bobbing between your thighs.

A noise you'd never made before threatened to squeak out of you and you bit your wrist to hold it back.

And just as suddenly as Neuvilette's intensity took over, it vanished. He lifted himself up, long snake tongue hanging out of his mouth as he caught his breath. His pale cheeks flushed red, pearl eyes unfocused. "Forgive my enthusiasm, I'm afraid my rut will be beginning soon. It's why I wanted to begin quickly, otherwise, you'll be trapped here with me for over a week and I won't stop even if you do conceive."

You weren't sure what to say to that, so you just nodded.

It was then you realized he hadn't stopped just to excuse himself. Your underwear was suddenly passing over your thighs and on the floor before you could even properly process it.

"Can I kiss you?"

You nodded.

Neuvilette leaned his face into yours, his mouth on your cheek then the corner of your lips. One hand traced teasing circles across your thigh, your bare cunt unignorable. And the other pressed against your upper back, working the zipper down as he pulled you closer. And just when the zipper was eased all the way open, his fingers ghosted against your folds.

You gasped and that's when Neuvilette captured your mouth in a kiss. Just the tip of his tongue was in your mouth, probing but patient, feeling everything he could without invading even as his hand did just the opposite.

Within a second, one finger was buried up to the knuckle inside you. You were already so wet, accommodating his thin digit with ease. Both of you groaned, him from your sucking wet heat and you from the pleasant feel of him against your soft walls.

His tongue moved a little further in, coaxing your own with his forked tip. It felt strange dancing over your taste buds, asking you to meet his enthusiastic lust.

Hesitantly you raised your tongue, carefully poking out to prod Neuvilette's teeth, tracing the path of his gums to his—you gasped at the sensation of his fangs, dagger-sharp and smooth as marble.

Neuvilette pulled away just enough to murmur against your lips, "You're okay. Did my teeth scare you?"

"Just surprised," you murmured.

A softness came over his face. Neuvilette kissed your cheek, then your jaw, slowly bringing his mouth to the stunning curve of your shoulder. Gently he pressed his front teeth to the skin, letting you feel their shape, then he opened wider to scrape his fangs on your skin. His teeth closed, exciting pain and a burning want inside you.

Your core fluttered around his fingers, suddenly threatening to snap. Unconsciously your hips bucked against his hand, asking for more.

"So sensitive," Neuvilette chuckled against your skin, breath hot. Goosebumps fluttered to life. "But I must ask you not to finish yet, my lady, I want it to be when you take me in."

Before you had a chance to process what he'd said, you were on your back, cunt empty as Neuvilette pulled back to unbuckle his pants. Black fabric slid away to reveal two blue erect lengths. Each of them was softly ridged and unmistakably inhuman.

White bumps lined the sides, growing larger towards the base of his cocks. Along the tops and bottoms were blue, scale-like ridges that followed the same gradient pattern as the rest of his lengths.

"I won't make you take both tonight,” Neuvilette was panting, his chest rising and falling with his eagerness, “but if our first attempt at fertilization fails, then using both may become a necessity." You could barely hear him, watching each head softly twitch with his desire. His cool hand cradled your heated cheek, forcing your gaze up to meet his. Burning pearl eyes commanded your attention. "My lady... Do you understand? I want to hear you say it."

You swallowed. You could barely imagine taking him in tonight, let alone taking two inside of you. "O-okay. I understand."

“Understand what?” He pressed, the ghost of a smug grin slipping into the corner of his mouth.

“That I might h-have to take both.”

Neuvilette seemed to relax, leaning in to nuzzle the side of your face with his own. His lips pressed against your throat as his hands slid lower, gently sliding your arms from your dress. He didn't wait to take off your bra, letting your breasts bounce free before engulfing them in his hands.

His mouth moved lower, breath coming fast as he enveloped the doughy flesh, teasing your nipples by squeezing them between his fingers. He relished your softness. Neuvilette brought his mouth to your hardening nipples, sinking his teeth inside of your breast, leaving bruises in the shape of his desire.

“Fuck,” he groaned. “I can’t wait any longer.”

Neuvilette reached for a bottle of lube, pouring enough in his hand to cover one of his members. He pulled back, lubed his cock and aimed it right at your core. The head pushed in suddenly, stretching you out, filling you in a way you hadn’t felt in a long time. Your fingers curled into the sheets, back arching as if trying to help him inside.

“Good girl,” he breathed, pressing in. The first ridge popped inside. “Just keep being good for me.”

Slowly, painfully slowly, each ridge slipped inside, strange and lumpy and pressing right against the top of your core, pushing up and into your g-spot so effortlessly you nearly came. And he still wasn't done.

The thick base of his cock began to press in, the ridges on the side struggling to squeeze into your cunt. It occured to you then that those ridges were for competition, to scrape out the seed of competing males. Knowing something so animalist, so feral and possessive existed on someone like Neuvilette who was virtuous with his patience and had a gentlemanly demeanor... It made your core flutter.

Neuvilette sighed, rolling his hips with notable frustration. “I fear I won't be able to get all the way inside. I feel something blocking me.” He shivered a little, his hands gripping your thighs with impatient squeezes. “I don't want to hurt you, but it's disappointing I can't go further.” His hips rolled again, as if testing if your body would really bar him from fully sheathing himself.

Gods, you felt so full. It was hard to focus on what he was saying, especially when the tip of his cock head kept twitching against your cervix in time with its twin hovering over your belly. Its shadow smoothed the bulge below your navel, a barely noticeable rise in your skin. Precum dribbled into your belly button.

He felt so good. Your mind cleared as the only thing you could focus on was the sensation of his cock bulging out of you. Your hips bucked, rubbing him up against your sweet spot, pleasurable shivers rising gooseflesh along your skin. You could probably cum just from humping him like this, forcing his cock head into that sweet spot over and over while his pearlescent eyes drank you in. You shivered again at the thought, fingers curling into the sheets as your core squeezed him excitedly.

Slowly, Neuvilette tested your cunt, pulling out an inch and rolling right back in. His breathing strained as he held himself back, trying so hard to keep himself trapped in the gentlemanly facade he showed the world as the animal he was vied for control.

Wet, pleased sounds escaped your cunt with each movement, eagerly swallowing his cock as best as it could. Pressure compressed against your cervix and just above, causing that sweet knot of release to tighten ever so slightly. The purpose of your union to Neuvilette vanished, only the animal need for more fuzzing over your thoughts.

He was barely moving and yet that the pressure of him, the space he took up inside you, numbed anything but the fire in your nerves. Your hips rocked to meet his, toes curling as you tried to get some kind of purchase under you.

Your clit ached for stimulation but the words wouldn't form in your mouth, too busy slumping open to leak your breathy moans. How did you become such a mess so quickly?

You reached between your legs where his cock was currently making mush of your cunt to relieve your aching but just as you pressed the pads of your fingers to your core, Neuvilette's hands were around your wrists. He pinned them above your head, his firm abdomen flush against your feverish belly. Feeling him press on the bulge of his cock with his other cock and his body, practically squashing his cock inside you and the hilt of his cock pushing up into your clit—

A high pitched whine escaped you as you bucked, head going blank. So close, so close...

“No need to rush,” he purred. “We have all night.”

“Neuvillette,” you cried, “please.” You didn't know what you were begging for. More? To cum?

“So impatient,” he huffed. He inhaled your scent, ghosting his lips over the marks he'd left on your throat. A light sheen of sweat began to glisten on his white skin. “I suppose if you're so wanting, I shouldn't hold back anymore myself.”

Hold back? You'd barely processed what he said when his shallow, smooth thrusts erupted into an animal frenzy.

His body slammed into yours, his bed rocking violently, practically throwing you to engulf more of his cock. Punishing, brutal, animal thrusts bounced you against him, leaving you to scramble to hold onto him for the ride. Pleasure burst like stars each time he rammed into your cervix, your nails burying into his back, legs vice tight around his narrow hips. Neuvilette seemed to relish your reaction, an animal purr escaping his throat.

He panted above you, sweat beading on his temples. White strands of hair stuck to his forehead, his cheeks. The clawed shaped of his blue-white fingers bit into his sheets for purchase, to better breed your criminal cunt. Suddenly the god-like gentleman Judge of Fontaine was disheveled and real and a man with human lust. You were probably the first human to see this side of him, and maybe even the last.

The thought nearly sobered you out of your pleasure haze until suddenly his sharp teeth sank into your collarbone. Pain erupted like white lightning and suddenly your core was snapping, mouth open to scream as you came.

Your wetness flooded down his balls, practically dripping but Neuvilette's pace didn't let up. He was moving faster if anything, shallower thrusts to humps against your cervix.

Your toes curled listening to your drenched core being churned, the sound so shamelessly slutty and crude it was nearly impossible to image it was coming from the space between your thighs.

A high whimper sounded in the back of Neuvilette's throat, his thick cock spasming inside you excitedly. “Close,” he grunted into your skin, breath hot. “So fucking close.” Those big teeth met your flesh again, leaving marks on the untouched side of your throat. That whimpering noise came again in time with his movements until his hips were hitching, bucking so hard against you nearly thought he'd managed to get his full length in. And then, melting his pelvis to yours, Neuvilette came.

Something thick, wet, and warm burst inside of you. It felt so strange, like an extra little pleasure right against your sweet spot. Your core twitched as you blinked away white desire. You hadn't realized you were panting until the world settled back under you, the bed still as Neuvilette recovered above you.

Slowly he let his weight pull him down, resting his head in the crook between your throat and shoulder. For what felt like a long time, he laid there breathing, nestled between your thighs and against your cervix. Then, slowly pulled out, standing up to his full height. Even sweaty with messy hair, he was beautiful. “I'll get you some water. I think Mondstat spring water would best suit our theme of tonight.” He didn't wait for an answer, leaving the room.

You went to sit up and felt everything gush out of you—lube, slick, cum. Something was surreal here but you didn't want to acknowledge it, naming what it was would make it actually real.

Carrying two tall glasses of water, Neuvilette returned. Condensation frosted the glass and you were grateful for something cold after how hot you'd just been.

Neuvilette knocked back his glass like a shot. Feverish excitement lit up his pearlescent eyes as they focused on you, slit pupils blown wide. “I think for our next round, a low angle might be best. Hips up and head down, like a stretch or yoga pose. I'm afraid I don't know the exact name of the position.”

Your ears burned hearing such perverse words come from your former boss’ mouth. It took you a second to realize exactly what he was talking about. You weren't done with your punishment, not for tonight anyways. After taking a careful gulp of water you asked, “Um, just how many times are going to be working on my punishment, tonight?”

Neuvillette reached for your glass, gently indicating for you to finish it. You obeyed, fully aware of the hungry stare that watched your throat bob with each swallow. When you'd finished, he took your glass and set it aside with his own. Only then he said, “As long as it takes.”

[fflewddur-feanorion]

maglor and eonwe in iowa. why? I don't know.

Maglor cranes his neck to look up at the sky. The clouds are purple and yellow, like a bad bruise that’s just begun to heal. Thunder booms overhead, rattling the windows on the porch.

He steps back toward the door. Nods decisively. “This is a good one.”

“There is nothing good about it,” Eonwë huffs. He’s standing with one hand on the doorknob, every muscle in his body pulled as taut as a bowstring. Ready to bolt inside at the slightest provocation. (He has not relocated to the basement, Maglor notices. After following every one of the rules to the letter for five Ages, this is the time Eonwë chooses not to listen?) “The storm… it is dangerous! You could be killed!”

Maglor raises an eyebrow wearily. When he speaks, his voice carries over the thunder just a bit more than it should. “Remind me again why you’re here?”

“To… to kill you. Or persuade you to return to Valinor.” Eonwë shivers. For some reason, he’s wearing one of Maglor’s tank tops. It’s far too small. Basically a crop top on him. (Maglor admits that it’s not a bad look, but Eonwë is going to get a cold and then he’ll be even more insufferable.)

“Ta-da,” Maglor drawls. “If I get struck by lightning– which I won’t– you can go home. I’m sure all of Valinor will be ecstatic.”

“Are you always this self-destructive?” Eonwë asks.

Maglor laughs. Bitterly. “You still have that armor? I could put it on. Wave my arms in the air and tell Manwë to go fuck himself. Really take it to the next level.”

“Shut up!” Eonwë’s eyes flash. “You don’t know what you are saying! If they hear us–”

The rain picks up. At this point, it’s less of a thunderstorm and more of a river flowing vertically. Maglor does the math in his head: there’s still no tornadoes in sight, and he is very, very hungry. “All right,” he says, pushing past Eonwë to open the door. “You win. I’ll make some dinner, and then–”

As if on cue, the lights go out. The clock on the microwave flickers and disappears.

“Christ alive,” says Maglor. “I just bought milk. What have I done to deserve this?”

“I assume that is a rhetorical question,” says Eonwë.

****

It’s been fourteen hours since Eonwë– Herald of the Valar, Manwë’s golden boy, and royal pain in the ass– arrived on Maglor’s doorstep. In his immaculate silver armor, he’d looked laughably out of place standing among the dusty folding chairs. “Greetings, Makalaurë, son of Fëanor,” he’d intoned in a voice like the crashing of waves. “I bring a message from the Valar.”

To Maglor, this situation presented a number of red flags:

Nine thousand years on this accursed earth have made Maglor wary of people who are clearly dangerous but want you to believe otherwise. That armor has never been worn in a fight.

He doesn’t trust the Valar.

He doesn’t trust Eonwë, specifically.

Back in the Second Age, Maglor would have attacked Eonwë with any weapons he had on hand (teeth and nails included) and almost certainly gotten himself killed. By the Fourth Age, he’d have simply walked away, having tired himself out with millennia of bad decisions. But now…

Well. Maglor isn’t going to slam the door in his face. If he doesn’t let Eonwë in, his neighbors will come out to investigate, and Maglor doesn’t want to inflict Eonwë on them quite yet.

He stretches out on the couch, running through the checklist in his mind. There's no electricity or internet, but he’s found two flashlights. He’ll talk to the neighbors and check for downed power lines once the rain stops. All he can do now is wait. (And also drink ridiculous quantities of milk before it spoils.)

Maglor feels the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. He whips his head around and sees Eonwë standing behind him, motionless as a statue. (He would make a beautiful statue. Even in a human disguise, there's something unearthly about him. Something that draws your attention in like a moth to a flame.)

“Fuck’s sake,” Maglor groans, mashing his face into the couch cushions. “Can you be unsettling somewhere else, please?”

“We could go back to Valinor.”

“I said no.” Maglor pushes himself to a seated position to glare at his companion. “Why are you still wearing a tank top? It’s, like, forty degrees.”

“I have no idea what any of that means,” Eonwë says quietly. He’s still shivering. His shoulders are hunched forward, and he looks on the verge of tears. (Why is he crying? He’s not the one with a price on his head.) “It was much warmer this morning, and I didn’t want to go through your things. I... I am sorry.”

And that makes absolutely zero sense, but… “Ugh, fine,” Maglor sighs. “C’mon. Let’s find you something that fits. We'll figure things out in the morning."

[best-at-episode]

Round 1 - Side C: Poll 1 of 8

Simon & Marcy:

1,000 years in the past, a young Marceline navigates the wasteland with her guardian, Simon Petrikov.

Joshua & Margaret Investigations:

Finn and Jake’s parents hunt an unearthly menace in the woods.

propaganda under the cut

Simon & Marcy:

Have not stopped thinking about it ever Episode that forever altered my brain. An absolute masterpiece

Thanks to this episode I cry whenever I hear the Cheers theme song

watches simon and marcy. cries for eleven minutes straight. watches it again and cries the whole time again really though, it’s great- on a technical level, it paces itself well and uses the time given it the best that it can. sets up the framing device without spending too long on it, sets up all the First Act stuff that will become important in the Second Act neatly and at the right time without rushing or focusing on it too much. and as for the story. it is without serious flaw. an earnest, unflinching glimpse of the post-apocalyptic world, our first time seeing the dynamic between little marceline and the person who basically raised her - not to mention our first time seeing the man the ice king used to be on a personal level. it’s beautiful and sweet and clever and heartbreaking.

[lifesarchive]

OUR SHARE OF NIGHT by MARIANA ENRÍQUEZ

quickly: a father tries everything in his earthly and unearthly power to prevent his son from inheriting a legacy of horror (abuse from the one who loves you most / blessed curses and buried secrets / bisexuality so powerful it’s omnisexual and omnipotent / chalk circles and pits of bones / closed doors opening / evil grandparents with old money / haunted houses with locked rooms / like father, like son / Lord of Doors, Signs, and Symbols / missing limbs and missing mothers / people lost in the darkness / something dark in the woods).

The story begins with a young Gaspar being spirited away by his migraine-stricken father Juan, and it follows him through his adolescence, as his father tries to keep him safe from their own evil family��by any means necessary. These people are not Disney© evil by the way, these families that include Juan’s in-laws, known as The Order, are vicious, kidnapping, human trafficking plutocrats. They practice a philosophy of magic where darkness begets darkness, and in that darker darkness they reign. They cage children, abduct and torture strangers, and will even spill their own blood to conjure chaos. Unfortunately for The Order however, their ability to render magic from their dark deeds is almost useless without a medium. 

★★★★★ Fantastic horror.

This was a book I read in March of 2024 after seeing it on a list from @bloodmaarked!

To Juan’s disappointment, his young son is showing signs of becoming a powerful medium at a young age, making him susceptible to the deplorable whims of The Order. To keep young Gaspar protected, he must also keep Gaspar ignorant to the powerful magic and sorcery flowing through his blood. As so often happens in families filled with trauma and secrets, the repression of Gaspar’s powers will cause him to be an overly sensitive and deeply emotionally wounded child who has a habit of walking backward into the traps his father works ceaselessly to keep him unaware of.

In time, it will be revealed to Gaspar that Juan is a Great and tortured medium; the vessel of a dark, powerful, and ruthless force known by many as The Darkness. The Darkness is an old god, often presenting itself as a massive black cloud of energy, and makes its power known through tragedy, bloodshed, foreknowledge, and the locking and unlocking of doors to other realms. This ‘demented’ and ‘savage’ force blesses whatever it curses and can mark its followers by wounding them with its golden talons. If you were to reach into this black cloud, you’d pull your arm back to find that your hand has been cleanly amputated and cauterized. Eaten. You may also wake up the next day, marked, with the ability to unlock locked things, or sense people before they appear. 

Meanwhile, until Juan’s truth is revealed to his son, Gaspar must learn to grow up with two versions of his dad. One version of Juan is the kind, serious, wise teacher. The other Juan, the dark version, is irrational, voracious, bloodthirsty, and almost evil. Though Gaspar has no knowledge of the powerful magic that flows within him and his father, he has an uncanny understanding that there is something lying beneath the surface of the waking world of reality. Sometimes he even finds himself opening doors no one else can open. No one but Juan.

By the time Gaspar reaches adulthood, he grows up to be just like his father… exceptionally powerful, stunningly beautiful, and outrageously unpredictable (maybe even a little bi too). The final phase of Juan’s elaborate plan to destroy The Order is set into motion by his death, leaving it up to fate, Gaspar, and those who love Juan and his son, to hopefully and finally, close the door to evil for good.

This is sophisticated, detailed, high-level horror, with excellent dialogue and conversation about family, community, lineage, capital, sex, grief, despair, power, and action—and by action I mean forming a well thought out plan and doing what it takes to see your plan through. 

[blackjackkent]

Made it to the upper level of Sharess's Caress, but if Rakha is hoping this will make it easy to finally find Voss, she is doomed to disappointment, because the first thing she walks in on is definitely NOT Voss:

"Tell me... am I beautiful?"

"More than beautiful. You are the aurora stretched across the north skies. You are the golden dunes swept across the Calim."

"You are the fruit of the forbidden palm - soft on my skin, sweet on my tongue. You are my sin... and salvation..."

(A/N: LOL. I laughed out loud in my chair at this shot. Rakha just standing there like, "...Am I interrupting something?"

Also please clock Jaheira in the background, definitely once again thinking this is fucking hilarious, and Wyll, who hasn't yet figured out what's going on:

)

Both women turn, hearing the sound of Rakha's footsteps, and stare with bemusement at the seven-foot-tall half-orc that has just interrupted their tryst. Rakha, who has bluescreened a little bit on walking into this accidentally, stares back wide-eyed.

And then pain stabs through her head, staggering her back onto her heels.

Narrator: Your parasite stirs, and you gaze at the nymph through the Flaming Fist's hungry eyes. Your muscles shiver with her longing; your skin burns with her heat.

The realization comes, bright and sharp through the fog of pain. The Flaming Fist officer has a tadpole in her head.

"What-- what's wrong, Jara?" she dimly hears the nymph say with concern to the Fist, who has also doubled over in agony.

The Fist doesn't answer, but lifts her head and stares at Rakha, an unearthly glow suddenly lighting her eyes with pale green.

"What are you--" she hisses. "Wait. I know you."

Rakha struggles against the sudden overwhelming awareness of the tadpole connection, and the pain that comes with it. She fights to control her mouth enough to speak. "This-- looks personal," she says, her voice slightly too high-pitched, and takes an unsteady step backwards. "I should-- leave--"

But of course she knew before she began to speak that it would not be that easy.

"Your face..." the Fist rasps. "The Absolute has shown me--"

"Jara, what's going on?" the nymph starts to ask. "Who's this woman?"

The woman doesn't respond. She can't. The change has begun, her body becoming a vessel for the overwhelming voice inside her head, surging over her skin, pouring from her mouth.

"--gather-- ---PREPARE--- BECOME------"

Narrator: Your head screams in agony. The change has come - pustules boiling beneath your skin, your bones twisting, your flesh rupturing... and suddenly... silence.

(A/N: I know I'm very Jaheira-brained lately but I'm amused thinking about what this is like for her. In the animation, she's the only one of the party not at least mildly freaking out here, presumably because she has no worm, so from her perspective everyone around her just went cross-eyed simultaneously and all she can do is sigh, unsheathe her scimitars, and say ye gods, now what...)

Rakha's vision clears slowly, and she slowly focuses her eyes on the fallen form of the Fist officer. Except she isn't there anymore. In her place quivers a new form, a shivering and slimy newborn creature sloughing off the remains of her shredded clothing.

"What's happening?" the nymph quavers, backing away.

The mind flayer arches its back, rising into the air, staring them down.

-----

It takes the whole party's combined efforts to take the horrible thing down. Rakha is trembling violently when the fight is over - both from the headiness of the kill and the lingering pain of the Absolute's contact with her mind.

Your face, the Fist said before she transformed. The Absolute has shown me...

Not a surprise, really, given that the Watcher at the checkpoint recognized them as well, and given that Rakha was apparently the face of the entire operation at one point, when she stood at Gortash's side. But it's a harsh reminder, nevertheless, that there is no anonymity here for them - that nowhere is safe.

Wyll starts to try to apologize to the nymph for interrupting her and forcing her to witness this terrible mess. The nymph, however, seems surprisingly unbothered by the development.

"Hells. I'd heard tales of mind flayers. Talons sharp as daggers, and tentacles yet more fearsome. But no tale did justice to its ethereal beauty." Her eyes close with an expression of beatific bliss. "It floats like a butterfly. Its blood shimmers like silver."

Rakha stares blankly at her, then looks down at the mind flayer's slashed-open corpse. Certainly the beast in her head finds beauty in the killing, but she tries to see past that, to what this odd woman is seeing. Tentacles, slimy skin -- none of it holds much appeal to her. But the illithid is a creature of magic, and its very skin shimmers with the Weave, with the echo of the Astral Plane to which it truly belongs.

"They are... beautiful, indeed," she says slowly. "And most lethal."

The nymph smiles faintly. "Is it not in the illithid's barbarity that we find it's splendor?" she asks, the words rolling elegantly in her mouth. She takes a step towards Rakha, lifts one hand just shy of brushing against her cheek.

"Your eyes are no less monstrous, I assure you," she murmurs. "A lesser woman might be frightened. But I am no lesser woman."

Rakha swallows, flinching backwards from the touch. You should be frightened, she thinks bitterly. You don't know what I am, what I've done. What I would still do, should I slip...

And yet something in her twists painfully to hear those words of acceptance, just it did to hear Gortash greet her broken, corrupted self with glee.

Narrator: Her gaze intensifies. Your breath quickens and your heart skips a beat. [INSIGHT] The woman's senses are heightened and her fires stoked. The mind flayer is no mere curiosity, but an object of desire.

Rakha's head swims. The last few minutes have been overwhelming, and the juxtaposition of the woman's lust-filled eyes and the smell of illithid blood in the air is making her dizzy, confused. She doesn't understand what's happening or how she should respond to any of it. The pain of the worm stabs in her temple.

"The creature... aroused you?" she asks unsteadily.

"Why should I deny it?" the nymph purrs with blithe pleasure. "My urge is as natural as the grape upon the vine."

But it's dead... Rakha almost says aloud, plaintive with confusion, but decides not to bother at the last moment. Anyway, the nymph is still talking.

"But perhaps..." She draws closer to Rakha, biting her lower lip. "There are other flavors that might satisfy my palate."

Rakha goes still, suddenly acutely aware of Wyll standing behind her. A feeling something like panic rockets through her, sending the short hair at the base of her neck up on end.

"I'm... not interested in sex," she manages to say, her voice strangled. "But thanks."

Instead of being offended, the nymph laughs. "Not sex," she says, her eyes narrowing in amusement. "Something far more intoxicating."

She steps forward again, until she and Rakha are almost chest-to-chest, and peers up into Rakha's eyes. "Rapture..." she murmurs.

Before Rakha can figure out how to respond, the nymph lifts a hand and presses it against Rakha's chest, directly over her heart. "Close your eyes," she says, whisper-light, "and listen."

She can't help it. The instruction is so gentle and yet so direct, so soft and so commanding, that she obeys before she can even think about it.

Close your eyes and listen.

Narrator: You see only darkness. Her voice shines through it, warmer than sun yet cooler than night.

Silence. Peace. She's dimly aware that even the subtle sounds of breath from behind her have vanished. Time has frozen around her and there is only this moment, the sudden rush of the Weave on her skin, the whisper of the nymph's voice through her mind.

"The all-being..." the nymph says softly. "Here, there is no suffering. Here, you want for nothing. Here, you are anything. You have one word. Tell me. What will you be?"

Rakha's breath catches. She floats in this infinite silence, her mind soothed, muscles loosened, the smell of blood gone from her nostrils and the taste of it gone from her mouth.

You have one word. What will you be?

Even through the stillness, the beast growls at the back of her mind. There are a thousand things it wants, always - destruction, power, satiety, the prey-fear in its victim's eyes in the moment before the kill, over and over and over, forever, always...

And she hates it. She hates the jagged tear down the middle of her psyche that divides what she wishes she could be from what she is. She hates that every moment is a battle, that those she cares most for must sit up and watch in the night to be sure she doesn't become a mad animal. She hates the patchwork brain that she was born with, and yet she does not know what would be left if she could cut the broken pieces out of it.

What will you be?

"Sane..." she whispers. It's a plea, a prayer, an uncertain question.

The nymph's voice rolls through her like a waterfall. "You are sane," she murmurs. "Time dances on in sequence. The winding path of time evens and becomes straight. With a quiet head, you can once again hear the song of the birds and the wind in the grass." Fingertips dust along her cheek, over her pulse point, between her eyes. "You pluck a flower, and it does not bleed."

Narrator: Your flesh shivers. Your heart bursts. True ecstasy, for one fleeting moment.

She doesn't cry out, doesn't speak. Ecstasy, yes... but an ecstasy that comes in a wave of peace. Not even her quietest moments in the Astral Prism have compared to this moment of utter silence and calm. For a moment she can picture herself whole, in a place beyond the battle within her mind. For a moment she is free.

"Open your eyes..." the nymph says.

Rakha realizes that she is sitting on the floor in the puddle of illithid blood, her knees pulled to her chest, her eyes damp with tears. Wyll is crouched next to her, holding one of her hands in both of his. The others are looking on from a slight distance - Minthara with disdain, Lae'zel with puzzlement, Jaheira with concern.

The nymph kneels in front of her, looks into her eyes. Her smile has a knowing edge to it now, and she nods with the air of someone satisfied with a job well done.

"I'll remember you," she says softly. "And you'll remember me."

[captainsvscaptains]

Battle of the Ships

Round 2 Part 2 Poll 3

Propaganda under the cut

Minecraft rowboat : Any player can build a wooden boat. Its color depends on the type of wood used. A boat can be occupied by two entities, they can be used to transport mobs, players, or a chest.

Vingilote :

"First of all, I must give credit where credit is due, Vingilot must be an incredibly sturdy vessel to have sailed into the West (to elf heaven) when no other ship could. Some might credit this to Eärendil's skill as a mariner or to the Silmaril on his brow, but I know better. For if he'd attempted it in any other ship, I doubt he would have been successful. This ship was built by Círdan after all (one of the oldest and wisest elves in the world), and it had already seen service in many adventures. No doubt its decks had scars and its silver sails stains from skirmishes survived and great deeds done. No, I've no doubt that Vingilot is the only ship that could make such a journey, Silmaril or no.

Second, after it has been hallowed, it can fly! And be used to fight dragons! That is rad as all hell and I do not think I even need to elaborate as to why -

But I will anyway. I need you to picture the clangor of sword on shield, the shouts of soldiers as they strive and fight and suffer and live, and the shrieking horror of massive dragons being brought to bear on the united armies of those who would oppose Morgoth, the big bad who was bigger and badder than Sauron. I need you to feel the grit and the fire and the anguish and then, imagine looking up to see Vingilot soaring above you - surrounded by a host of great eagles, engaging those fearsome, unbelievable dragons in aerial combat with such valor and grace that the battelfield below falls silent for a moment for both armies have forgotten their conflict for dazed awe. That - that is metal as all hell.

Third, but not least, is on an aesthetic level, Vingilot is a dream ship! Its sails shimmer with unearthly beauty, woven of gossamer silver. And its mighty oars are fashioned of gold! And lo, upon the prow is the image of a magnificent swan with wings unfurled! When Eärendil takes to the night sky, with a Silmaril on his brow, it becomes transparent to let the light through! Majestic! Purely aesthetically, this ship is perfect. 10/10, no notes.

[vraisetzen]

Hiya V! How’re you? Hope you’re well! 💛

Out of curiosity, who are your top ten favorite ‘Demon Slayer’ characters and why? I’m really curious!

Thanks! Xxx

Hi Anon! I'm doing well, thank you!

This is a really good question! I've never really thought about my top ten KnY characters before because I love all of them, but if I absolutely have to single out ten of them, with a few underrated ones:

Kokushibo: Need I say more? Or rather, in the immortal words of Jane Austen, if I loved him less, I might be able to talk about him more. His unearthly beauty, his appreciation for talent and skill no matter who he fought, his envy for Yoriichi's gifts, his fear of his legacy being forgotten — all at odds with what is ultimately his all-too human desire to be seen and appreciated for his own skills. Kokushibo has done many unforgivable things in his long, long life — things which not even I can excuse nor downplay — but he is also an immensely complex and compelling individual fraught with at once the ugliest and most beautiful parts of humanity.

Muzan: I have read many manga series over the years, but seldom have I seen an antagonist as single-minded as Kibutsuji Muzan. Certainly, there are better written villains out there, with greater depth and harsher backstories, but the simplicity of Muzan's aims — to conquer the sun and become a perfect being — stands out in a sea of moustache-twiddling foes with schemes to take over the world. That he was born to comfort at a time of Japan's culture epoch, who saw nothing wrong with dirtying his aristocratic hands to kill a lowly doctor; that he did not mind subsisting on humans, but could not tolerate the idea of sitting in the shade whilst other languished in the sun; that he created demons as a tool for his objectives but ultimately saw them more as a hindrance — he is truly a man for himself. As he said in the final battle, was it not enough for the rest of you lot to still be alive? He is not trying to rule over the world, mind you — and even if one were to be so unlucky as to cross paths with him, it was, well, because they were down on their luck. He does not wish to play God, for he does not even care about these lowly mortals; this is truly his world, and we are all just living in it.

Douma: Douma IS brat, y'all. I have always loved unsympathetic villains as much as sympathetic ones, and the second Upper Moon is no exception. Make no mistake, there is nothing redeemable about Douma — he is a cult leader who takes pride in objectifying women as nothing but sustenance. I adore the moment when the light in his dazzling eyes shut off after Kanao calls him out his act. Yet, unlike other delightful sociopathic villains (Tsukiyama Shū from Tokyo Ghoul comes to mind), Douma never fully crosses the line into camp, as in the case of Gyokko; in his mind, he is as sincere as he can be, and he comes across as someone who truly enjoys being a demon and the benefits that come with it. In that sense, he is delightful to watch and even more delightful to hate, and I wished we saw him riling up the other Upper Moons more.

Nakime: In a different world, Nakime would be the perfect protagonist of a psychological thriller/slasher film a la Black Swan. Killing her husband was one thing, but finding the trembling of her fingers post-murder so musically inspiring that she did it again and again — this was a level of artistry that not even Gyokko could fathom in his wildest imaginations.

Rengoku Shinjurō: Reader, I can fix him — was the first thing I thought of when we saw Shinjurō properly for the first time. He is an interesting comparison against Uzui — both of them are retired Hashira, yet the former did not so much as leave a trailing blaze as he fell from grace. How useless must he have felt by the time of Rengoku Gaiden — losing his wife, disgracing his family's name? Likewise, he was no doubt feeling like a mutton dressed as a lamb when Uzui and Himejima joined the ranks of the Hashira. Though his abusive treatment of his children are reprehensible, they also stem from a deeply seated place of mid-life crisis, insecurity, and self-hatred.

Urokodaki Sakonji: There is a wonderful art from Chapter 90 which depicts Urokodaki carving two wooden dolls of Tanjiro and Nesuko — it moves me in a strange way that I cannot put properly into words, only that it encapsulates Urokodaki's compassion, empathy, and kindness in a manner that sets him apart from the typical elder mentor that we see in other shōnen works.

Kanroji Mitsuri: If we are talking about relatable characters, then there is no one I see myself in more than Mitsuri. Though I may not have her generous heart and endless capacity for kindness and love, I understand her struggle of not feeling like a good enough young lady of marriageable age. Her dyeing her hair, eating less and suppressing her naturally bubbly self in a bid to be more likeable — haven't we all been there? Truly, if there was someone in the entirety of KnY to whom I aspire, it would be Mitsuri.

Uzui Tengen: Though he may resent the Shrek comparison (or own it; it's tough to determine Uzui's actual taste when he brushes so close to being trailer trash), Uzui has layers — his flamboyant exterior belies a true concern for his wives and young charges, and if I may repeat myself once more: it is only when he is the most quiet (sneaking up on the shop owner to demand the whereabouts of Zenitsu, feeding Hinatsuru the antidote, giving Suma and Makio head pats) that he is the most himself. His inclination for all things shiny and extravagant is not merely an expression of himself after escaping from his family, it is also a way for him to cloak his true feelings of care — just as a true shinobi would.

Ubuyashiki Amane: There is so little we know of her besides that she was a shrine maiden, but her actions speak volumes. Her arranged marriage to Ubuyashiki could have left her resentful for it was tantamount to an arranged widowhood, but she nonetheless loved and took care of her young husband, and stayed firmly by his side till the very end. The anime does a stunning depiction of this through the eyecatch of her holding his bandaged, disease hand; and that close-up of her impassive face as the explosives set off around the estate, engulfing her and her husband in flames — she has always known what she was signing up for. A lesser person might have left, or ended their life, but Amane stayed true till the very last moment.

The magistrate who sentenced Hantengu: A true underrated favourite, so hear me out on this one; I think this man is easily one of the most righteous of the entire KnY series. He reminds me so much of the real-life historical figure, Ōoka Echizen (played to perfection by Katō Gō in the 1971 series of the same name, but this is a rabbit hole I shan't force on anyone...), who not only exposed Hantengu's lies, but also saw through that pitiful blind man act and gave him a proper sentence. In a kinder world, he could have adopted Daki and Gyutaro; or delivered justice for Akaza — but that is an AU for another time.

xoxo, V ♥️

[midnightblues444]

Really real |

Zeus! Gojo x f!mortal reader

Summary: you were never completely faithful to the god of lightening , he can fix that

Content warnings: power dynamic (I think), no smut sorry , a lot of inaccuracies, themes of religion and atheism, teasing

Zeus; the chief deity, god of the sky, ruler of Olympus; the strongest. Your family being devoted to worshipping and honoring him, your roots trace back to the highly respected priests and priestess's of Zeus's temple. You tried to be like them, but had trouble understanding why they do what they do.

Why they devot themselves to a god that has never shown himself. You try understand and mimic everything they tell you, your devotaton being a reflection of other devotees faith, never your own.

Somedays you'd wonder through the temple aimlessly, admiring the overgrown vines that decorated the sides of the building, and how the colourful gardens blossoming made the space pretty.

You preferred being on this side of the temple, finding ways to maneuver your duties to be centered on the outside, cleaning the outdoor statues and tending to the gardens was your solace.

Plus the lushness of the temple would attract all sorts of creatures that you'd end up playing with, instead of fulfilling your duties.

On times like today, your mother caught you playing with a deer instead of praying. She scolded you, telling you to stay behind and make up for it.

"I expect to hear what you prayed for to the mighty Zeus, once you return" she says as they all left.

The afternoon sun shines through the enormous pillars, allowing an expanse of light to flood the room. You didn't mind the isolation, going right back to the garden, happy to find the deer still there.

"You'll stay here with me huh?" You say petting its head, as you begin to walk the animal follows. You sigh, "I know I should be praying but I cant bring myself to do it" you admit.

"Prayer feels like talking to nothing but a statue, I doubt the 'mighty Zeus' even listens" you laugh at yourself,

"I feel more heard talking to a deer right? but mother wants to know what I prayed for during my time alone...maybe I'll tell her I prayed for a kind husband" you explain, not suprised the deer has wondered off inside the temple.

Quick to stop it, you jog back in attempt to block its path. Gently explaining it can't go inside, to which it pushes you, roughly with its head way too strong for a deer.

You pout at the deer's change in mannerisms, getting up angrily, then suddenly hearing leaves rustling in the wind. That's apparently a sign of Zeus's presence.

When you turn back to the deer it begins to morph into... a man. A very tall man, with white hair, light blue electric eyes cloth sitting on his waist. You tumble backwards in shock.

The man then crouches to your level, flashing a pearly white smile. "Didn't mean to scare ya pretty" he extends his hand, hesitantly you take it, putting your much smaller one in his palm, feeling his thumb ghost over your knuckles as he slowly pulls you up.

"My stars, you are Zeus" your eyes dart between the statue and the man, he laughs loudly at your wide eyed expression. "I prefer Satoru" he smugly corrects.

You see, Gojo had been watching you, at the start of his infatuation he was checking the ongoings of his temple until he noticed your unearthly beauty, proud to see you in priestess dress. What took him by surprise was your complete lack of interest in the whole priestess thing.

Shifting into a deer to be closer to you, struggling to fight the urge of scoffing at your unfaithfulness to him and teach you a damn lesson.

"I hear you wish to speak with me, not a statue of me?" he teases, the taunt feels like a jab at your beliefs. In a sense he was right, your doubts stemmed from not seeing him, now here he is and you dont know what to do.

"I didn't wish to be disrespectful" you murmur, noticing he's still holding your hand. He laughs softer, you're an interesting one, he'd like to play with you a bit more.

"Well I wish to prove how real I am, I believe your doubt comes from a place of disbelief in my existence?" he says, guiding your hand to his chest. As soon as your fingers graze his chiseled skin you feel a flutter of nerves bundle in your core, waiting in anticipation.

"See? I'm right here darlin'" he hums, relishing how you visibly get shy. "Maybe I need to touch you so you know I'm real, how's that sound?"

You blurt out a yes way too quicklyfor your liking, taking note of the devilish look in his glowing eyes as he leans in. You feel his lips ghost over yours, he's grinning wickedly at your desperation.

"I'll show you how real I am sweet thing"

[kusagrasskusa]

Erron Black X Reader - “You’re gonna be a daddy”

Summery: Short little wholesome story where Erron Black comes home from a long bounty, and seeing his woman outside their little home. She looks at him and greets him in a strange way, and whenever he asks about it, he hears something he never expected to here. Read the last paragraph before getting to the story!

TW: Miscarriage

This is something that hits a little closer to home for me. Almost a year ago, I was gonna have a baby sister named Willow. I was at my boyfriend’s house and called my mom for something, but she sounded upset over the phone. When she picked me up later and I asked what it was about, she looked at me and said, “there wasn’t a heartbeat.” She was so depressed for months over it and we eventually discovered she has something called MTHFR, a blood clotting disease that results in pregnancy loss. Oh and just buy the way… My mom is going through a program to help her have one last kid, so the story has a happy ending.

In this story, Y/N has lost her children to this blood cell disease and was thought to never be able to have a family.

—————————————————————————————

The sun was bright and the unearthly birds chirped along with each other as they flew around the heated realm known as Outworld. A cute little deserted farmhouse was stationed quite a bit away from other civilians, but relatively close to the empire which Kotal Kahn resided in. A lovely pond was situated near the farm house and little gardens grew from the pond water. It was surrounded by woods, but a safe part of the forest. A lovely woman would go outside everyday to take care of the animals with her pet Outworlden cat, C/N. It was like a mainecoon and a demon had a baby, but it for the most part had the sweet maincoone personality. The woman had began to wear lovely loose white dresses lately, even in the bright and hot sun. But every single day had been the happiest day in her life ever since two months prior to when this story would take place.

But, she didn’t know this would be the happiest of even the happiest days. At least for now.

“Ooo,” she breathed out, holding onto her back as she sat down on a rock near the pond and garden for a quick break. She breathed in heavily, the morning air refreshing her skin but maybe a little too much so. She gazed over the beautiful own she built with her husband, remembering their dreams of starting a life together the way it felt it should be. Building a lovely little home and marrying there, and although it was just them at the wedding, they would later on find out they would have had another member of the family.

Her eyes gazed over the four tombstones on the other side of the pond. Y/N almost wanted to cry more for each second she looked at them, but those days would finally be behind her. She would always be a mother of those four, buried beneath the ground, and she would soon be a mother of five. Her first baby had died unexpectedly, and when she lost the third one, her husband spoke to his boss about what could possibly be wrong.

He was a blood god, god of war, and god of the sun- and the ruler of her realm. When he first laid on eyes on the girl, he felt pity for her; her gloomed face moving his heart enough to take time out of the day to help her. Each baby had died from high levels of homocysteine levels and eggs not being able to fertilize correctly- and it broke her heart more and more. Even the Kahn was upset for days after the meeting and allowed her husband to stay home for some time.

But, that was a year ago and her husband was off to complete a difficult bounty. Erron had been gone for about 3 months now, and the night before he left had been the night she would conceive her next child. She didn’t know she was pregnant until 2 months ago, and she had been seeing Kotal Kahn every single day for him to use his abilities on her and rejuvenate her. She wanted to badly to have her child- and her baby had lasted longer than any other. This one was going to survive.

C/N meowed as it chased after a bird that soared through the skies. “C/N!” The lady called out for her animal, “you’re gonna step on the flowers!” She huffed as the cat tripped over a watermelon vine- but this was an Outworld watermelon vine, so it was like tripping over a stubborn tree root.

“That cat’s gon’ get us killed one day,” a voice called out from behind her. She whipped her head around, her eyes widening at the sound of that familiar voice.

“Erron!” She called out, standing up and running into her husband’s arms, who chuckled while squeezing her under his loving grip.

“Hey there, baby doll,” he greeted, suppressing just how happy he really was to see her. Those long trips were always painful to go on, but the upside is that he gets more happy to see his girl’s beautiful face. “Y/N, baby, don’t cry,” he chuckled as he released her, grabbing her chin so she looked up at him. Tears flooded down her face more than usual, making her giggle as well.

“Haha, I told myself I wouldn’t cry this time,” she sniffled, brushing her hair out of her face. She instinctually put her hand on her stomach as the adrenaline died down which made her remember that her back was hurting. “Mmm,” she grunting as she backed up into the rock again, sitting down. Her husband followed her and sat down with her, wrapping his larger arm around her.

“Are you okay, suga’ plum?” He asked, glancing over at where she laid her hand. 3 months was still too early for a noticeable bump, but she was heavier than what she used to be if only by a little bit. Y/N sniffled, more tears pouring out as she looked at him.

“You’re gonna be a daddy,” she cried out, wrapping her arms around her husband. “This time, you’ll be holding your son in your arms happily! This one’s gonna make it!” Erron’s eyes widened as he blinked out in shock.

“I’m,” he started, chuckling, “I’m gonna be a daddy?” Y/N laughed, wiping more tears of joy while Erron wanted to hold his in.

“Yes! I already have his room made a-and-“ she stuttered while her breathe hitched. “I’ve been seeing Kotal everyday so he could rejuvenate and tell me what was going on with our boy. He’s as healthy as can be!”

That night, dinner was extra special. Along with whenever they went to bed later that night- they slept in each other’s arms that night, cuddling in their sleep. Little do they know in a few months, they wouldn’t be able to sleep that close together if they could sleep at all. Let’s just say S/N is gonna have his daddy’s fighting spirit.

Especially in his sleep when he kicks and punches his baby limps at those stupid monsters in what most kid’s would call a nightmare. To him, those nightmares are battlegrounds where nothing can escape his wrath.

[twoidiotwriters1]

The Curse of Oenone (Leo Valdez xFem!Oc)

A/N: Welcome to Ara's most chill nightmare -Danny Words: 2,098 Series' Masterlist Previous Chapter // Next Chapter Listen to: 'Wait for Me' -by Motopony

XLII: At Peace With Myself but Now I Got Beef With the Rest of the World

I dream. I don't see much, just the open sea, a little improvised tent nearby, and a small picnic table outside with dinner all set.

"I'm cursed too, you know? Maybe they sent me here to punish my girlfriend for telling me." I see Leo standing beside a rustically made worktable. Next to him, there is a beautiful girl I've never met, but I recognize her from Percy's stories.

Calypso observes Leo reluctantly like she's sure he's joking. Maybe she hears the word 'girlfriend' and wonders who in their right mind would date Leo. That happens a lot more often than it should. 

The girl decides to take the bait and asks anyway. "You have a girlfriend?"

"You bet I do," Leo smirks, each word full of adoration. "She's gorgeous. Maybe you heard about her? Her brother was here before. Arae Jackson."

"Jackson?" The goddess tenses. "Yes, I know her. She must've grown then, the way he talked about her sounded much too childlike to be dating a young man..."

"She's big enough now, that's for sure" Leo's face flushes. He stops what he's doing and looks at Calypso with urgency. "You don't have to be nice about it, but if I have to sit here and waste my time, can I please talk to you about Ara? I need to get this off my chest."

"Get what out?" The goddess steps away. 

Leo squeezes the fabric of his shirt like he's having a heart attack. "This worry. She doesn't know I'm alive, and she's already lost too many people. I need to go back."

At first, Calypso looks like she wants to go away, and that'd be fair, but the way she looks at Leo, is a mix of anger, hurt, and softness. It tells me she's not only feeling hatred—so long she's heard this story, and I know it always brings her all kinds of memories.

"I've had several men on this island, Leo Valdez," she replies calmly. "But rarely do they sound as genuine in their anguish as you do. Most prefer to waste their time with me, if only for just a moment. I hadn't met a boy so untempted by unearthly pleasures until now."

"Well, you don't see many boys around here anyway, do you?" He blurts out without thinking.

Calypso scowls and nudges him aside, grabbing a few wires and braiding them at an impressive speed. "You want to chatter about your Arae yes or no?"

"Yes," Leo blushes, watching her weave. I don't know what he's building, but it looks intricate and borderline nonsensical, so it's gotta be something extraordinary.

"Then keep those unsympathetic comments to yourself and sit down, we have a whole day of chores."

"Chores?"

"This thing you're making might take you out of Ogygia, who knows?" A little smile tugs at the corner of her lips. "If someone like you wooed an Aphrodite, everything's possible."

Leo frowns. "I'll take the compliment, but that was out of line."

"My point is," Calypso finishes her first set and grabs another pair of wires. "You'll need supplies. There is work to be done."

"You'll help me?"

Calypso looks up at him, speaking in a cynical tone. "Well, I have nothing better to do and you fixed my fountain—The project of a madman will be entertaining enough to keep my mind busy for a while, don't you think?"

"Glad to hear my longing is making someone happy..." he says with sarcasm.

"Yes, which is not unlike others, but the level of disinterest is fascinating," she tells him playfully. "My island is meant to be irresistible for all, but you don't like it much."

"I know a better beach," Leo smiles as he gets lost in his memories. "I had my first date with Ara there. I see the appeal of this place for people who have it worse out there in the real world, but I've got my own mundane pleasures," he smirks playfully. "What punny mortals call domestic bliss."

"What?" Calypso pauses to pay attention. "And what is that?"

"Stuff that would bore you to death on a normal day: doing the dishes, cooking a meal, cleaning your room... when I do all that with my girl, that's when I'm the happiest."

Calypso thinks about it. "And talking while building a machine counts as one of those things?"

Leo stares at the scraps and touches them with his fingertips. "Yeah... we do that all the time."

"I see the appeal," Calypso gives him a polite smile. "I don't hate sitting here and talking as much as I thought I would."

Leo laughs in a friendly way, giving her a pat on the back before going back to work. The girl grimaces and looks at the stain Leo left on her dress, and I know he totally did it on purpose. "Thanks, Cal!"

The dream fades and gets replaced with a different scenario. I'm standing in the middle of a workshop I've seen before. "Not this guy," I grumble.

"Hmph, yes, that's a normal reaction," Hephaestus says. He's holding a large piece of bronze, not really looking at me while he speaks.

I get ready to be scowled. "Look, I know I haven't been up to the test and I've failed you—"

"What nonsense are you blabbering?" He scans my appearance like I've got a loose wire somewhere. "Failed me? You helped one of my sons recover the bronze dragon, then you built a grand ship."

I open my mouth and then close it. Then I open it again. "Okay. So why am I here talking to you, sir?"

Hephaestus tosses the bronze plate out the window. Not very eco-friendly. "That'll do." He nods, then looks back at me. "Your mother threatened to reorganize my workshop if I didn't help you. I think you're holding on just fine, but she thinks your nerves might be on edge."

I slowly count up to five. "Maybe. So you put that vision of Leo and Calypso in my head?"

"Yes."

"He's in Ogygia."

"Yes."

"And he can't leave unless Calypso falls for him."

"That's how it usually works," Hephaestus nods, rummaging through his blueprints. "Leo is helping me."

I speak with a strained voice. "What do you mean?"

"When the war ended, your brother Percy asked us to release Calypso. Gods cannot undo what gods do."

"You sent Leo to rescue Calypso?" I lose my cool for a moment. "Couldn't you do that like, once this war was over? This is the worst timing ever! Sir." I add as an afterthought. "My lord, sir."

The god snorts. "Don't take this personally, child, but you've never been good at looking at the whole picture."

"What?"

"This was the best timing I could manufacture," he points at the window. "The fates are lousy planners, they toss out prophecies with no exact timeline, and we have to fish for a decent moment to set them in motion. That snow goddess you and your sister fought made it easier for me."

I want to scream. Easy? Of course that'd be convenient for a god. They measure my brainpower without lifting a finger or risking personal business so later on they know exactly how much weight they can put on my shoulders without inducing cracks.

My crew and I have been stuck at the Southwind god's palace for almost a week, with our ship hanging by a thread, and he calls this easy and nothing personal. Why don't you drag your mighty ass down to earth and fix the Argo II yourself, you big chunk of—

"Your anger is unnecessary," he brushes my thoughts aside. "What's done it's done, my son will come back, so focus on the ship."

"Without Leo or the sphere, the repairs can't be completed."

"You're saying you can't do it?" He raises a brow. "I thought you were a decent mechanic."

"Don't try to manipulate me, old man!" I bite my tongue. "Lord. Sir."

He snorts again, I think that's his actual laugh. "I see why my boy likes you."

"Listen..." I pinch the bridge of my nose. "I'm on a tight schedule here. You're saying I don't have to look for Leo, yes or no?"

"He'll be fine," the god assures me. "There is no need to worry." 

"Are you sure you're okay?"

"I'd be a beam of freaking sunshine if the stupid oars could stop going berserk every time I start them up!" Ara holds back from punching the control board.

"If you need to take a break—"

"Listen, Frank, if you're gonna pity me, you could at least do it while being useful," she snaps at him.

The boy blushes and clears his throat. "Sure. Sorry, General. What do you need?"

Ara points at the ropes. "Secure the sails, ask Piper to help you. Has to be done manually since most of the automatized stuff in the ship is all messed up without the Archimedes sphere." 

He looks up squinting. "You sure Piper will do? She's not fond of heights..."

"Jason is waiting for his royal jerkness to give him the time of day, and I don't know where Nico is," she crouches under the panels and crawls into them. "So unless you want little five-foot-two Hazel to climb up the topmast..."

"I'll get Piper."

"That's what I thought," Ara speaks with strain.

She has been unanimously vetoed from being their messenger since she's starting to lash out at deities a little too much. By unanimously, it means even Ara voted against herself, she's wise enough to know that to taunt their current host is to push their luck.

She retreats from under the control board, feeling a presence looming over her shoulder. "You done stalking Jason?"

"He got called in," Nico says, sounding grumpy. "He's more annoying than you ever were."

Ara smiles, knowing what he means. "He's still hung up on Croatia, huh? Yeah, he's the same with me. 'You sure you're okay, Ara? I'm here if you need to talk', man, you're a head taller than me, pick up a hammer and work," she huffs.

Nico smirks and gets closer. "What are you doing?"

"I'm trying to be the mechanic this ship needs, but I'm no Cabin Nine camper. This trireme was my best friend until it decided to go insane," she gets up rubbing her lower back. "I wanna crush it with my bare hands... I feel like such a cranky grandpa."

"Eat up, grandpa," he pulls out a granola bar from his pocket and hands it to her. Ara opens it and splits it in two, passing him a half. "You've fixed everything, you're doing fine," Nico nibbles on his half. "You just don't wanna move places without knowing you're not leaving Leo behind."

Nico knows about Leo's whereabouts because Ara told him. He's the only one that she shared this with because Piper keeps blaming herself for not knowing how snow smells and Jason is going through an identity crisis again. Right now, Nico is the only one on board with the least amount of mental setbacks, which is heavily concerning and a little bit ironic.

"This is what you wanted, right?" She teases him. "To see me alone in the world so I could get my shit together? Well, I've lost my brother, I've lost Lily and Annabeth, and now I've lost Leo. Now I just gotta lose you in a busy crowd and I'll go full eat-pray-love on Gaea."

She might be imagining things, but Ara catches what looks like the briefest grin on Nico's face before he responds. "That would be detrimental to the crew. If you want my opinion—"

"I don't."

"—You should let yourself be angry," he shrugs. "Generals shouldn't be generous."

Ara squints. "Was that a pun?"

"You should know how to keep a cool head by the time we get to the House of Hades, and you'll only learn if you allow yourself to feel. Get a good reason to kick the giant's butt. When Michael died— "

"Leo isn't dead."

"You don't act as a leader unless someone damages your favorite toys."

"Did you go to Hephaestus's school for social relations?" She frowns, taking a big bite of the granola bar. "Every word that leaves your mouth is insulting."

Nico smiles for real this time, though it's his sardonic, dark smirk. "Old habits die hard."

"Can I be honest for a second?"

"I rather you weren't," he finishes his snack and pulls out another one, this time it's a chocolate bar.

"I like my job. Heck, I love my job! Being a daughter of Olympus can be fun, but gods can ruin your day by just talking."

"That's funny, I feel the same way about you."

Ara playfully elbows Nico. A beige dusty cloud starts to make its way to them, and her smile goes away. "Please, let that be a good sentient cloud..."

Nico tilts his head and squints. "It's Jason."

Ara mimics his actions. "Doesn't that mean we're leaving?"

"Think so," Nico takes a huge bite of his chocolate and walks past her.

Next Chapter –>

Taglist.

@siriuslysirius1107 @ask-giggles1303 @asnyox-the-hoarder @im-planning-something-look @bandshirts-andbooks @coolninjapaper @thewaterlily @whenisthefall @1randomcomic @you-bloody-shank @sunflowergraves @owlalex44 @taylordaughter @typicalsolangelolover @writingmia @espressopatronum454 @slytherinnqueen @orbitingpolaris @obxstiles @ellipsisspelled @thepixiechicksh @ebony-reine-vibes

[orqheuss]

Even the iron still fears the rot PART 3

(Ominis Gaunt/Sebastian Sallow/GN!Reader ANGST)

Parts: 1 2 3 4 5 6 7

Summary:

As the woman approached his cell, a gleam of devious satisfaction in her eyes, Sebastian had never felt that magnitude of fear before. *** As the mysterious Rookwood sister tries in vain to get any information about the Ancient Magic wielder from Sebastian, you have a conversation with an unlikely friend.

Word count: 4.1k

Tags: torture, blood, gore, broken bones, body horror, emetophobia, graphic depictions of violence, cruciatus curse

Read at your own discretion

AN: This hurts me as much as it hurts you

The poacher’s heeled boots clicked against the sodden, dirt and stone floor— each sound sending a spark of terror into the young brunette’s already rapidly pounding heart. Sebastian backed towards the corner of the cell, hands splayed out in front of himself like calming a charging beast. The woman smiled at his obvious fear, lips stretching wider and wider with each clacking step. She moved like how a lioness would stalk a gazelle before pouncing, driving her wickedly sharp claws into his skin and tearing flesh from bone, slurping his bone marrow like he was the finest cut of beef at the butchers. Shivers wracked through his body, trembling like a leaf on a cold winter morning— his reserve and bravery falling to the ground at his feet and shattering, cutting and shredding at the anxiety wedging itself just under his jaw. 

With a flick of her wand she wordlessly flung the brunette against the metal gate, watching as he slammed into the bars and fell to the ground with a groan. She laughed, a shrill thing that cut through every other noise around them, and fixed her magic back on the boy, lifting him into the air and throwing him against the back wall. Sebastian could feel his ribs cracking in his chest, the little bone splinters lodging themselves in his surrounding organs. Struggling to his knees, he spit out the blood that pooled in his mouth, softly gagging in the back of his throat, before leveling the woman with a terrible stare. A cheshire grin stretched her face an unearthly amount, obviously enjoying the sight of the teenager in pain. Reaching down and grabbing at his collar, the dangerous beauty tossed him into the middle of the room, throwing him to the ground with a grand puff of dust and a scattering of pained grunts. The brunette rolled onto his back, eyes clenched shut as blinding pain rolled through his system. Pants left his mouth at a rapid rate, a hiss following each intake of breath. The woman readied another spell, flicking her wrist in a circle motion. 

“Brackium emendo.” 

Warmth spread through his body as his rib cage healed over. A look of befuddlement tweaked at his brow, his untrusting eyes meeting the icy hue of hers. They were unnerving— too bright, too piercing. 

“Where is the one with the ancient magic?” 

Sebastian feigned confusion, a cheeky grin stretching his cheeks. “Who’s that?” 

The woman gave him a look of displeasure, her eyebrow twitching in annoyance as she raised her heel off the ground and brought it down on his calf, snapping the bone in half. The boy screamed, loud and drawn out with each twist of her ankle, his voice raw with true, unbridled agony. He harshly breathed through his mouth, teeth clenched and creaking under the pressure of his jawbone. 

He rested his forehead against the ground, eyes squeezed shut and a groan tearing from his throat. “Ominis, don’t listen! Cover your ears!” 

The poacher made a noise of sarcastic affection. “Aww, that’s cute.” She pressed the sharp heel of her boot deeper into the break, painting the brunette's vision white as blinding pain shot through his leg and directly to his pain receptors. “I make the demands, not you.” 

She mended the bone, releasing the pressure and letting the boy breathe. He rolled over, his forehead sweaty and skin deathly pale. The woman chuckled, squatting down and looming over Sebastian as he fought to stay conscious. The pain had begun to mess with his mind slightly, and her warbling tone had a distinct muddle to it like his ears were full of water. 

“Maybe a different question, then? How did they get that power in the first place?” 

The brunette breathed a whisper, speech slurred around the dull, throbbing ache in his bones. “Give Merlin…my regards.” 

Rookwood’s sister tisked at him, clicking her tongue. Little flecks of saliva stuck to his skin from how close her face was. Sebastian cracked his eyes open, watching her face for any tell on what was to come next. She seemed to be pondering that very thought herself, resting her chin in her hand and looking off to the side with an increasingly curious and demented shine in her irises. Something caught her attention from across the way and her eyebrows dipped lower on her face, her lips twisting into a frown. Her muffled voice filled the boy’s ears. 

“Albathane, will you shut him up, please? It’s distracting me.” 

The brunette lazed his head to the side, more sounds beginning to fill his mind as his hearing slowly gave way to the blood pooling in his head. He had been so disoriented that he didn’t hear the screams and wails of Ominis from his cage. Curses against the three poachers and pleas for them to stop swam through his ears, the volume jarring like a bubble grew around his head when the torture began and had just popped in the small moment of peace. The blond was near feral, spittle flying from his mouth and eyebrows pinched in a mix of worry and rage. His lips were drawn up in a ferocious snarl, teeth gnashing against each other with enough force to crack and break the strong enamel. Sebastian had never seen that look in Ominis’ eyes before— like his world was ending and all he could do was watch the rapture swallow everything he had ever loved in a great ball of flame and brimstone. One of the lackeys had him held aloft in the air, arms tightly wrapped around his waist as he was hoisted up, feet dangling and kicking out in a hopelessly desperate need to get to his fallen love. His entire body was in motion, twisting against the tree trunk arms that held him, his shoulders smacking into the hard chest and making dull thumps. Tears fell from his horror struck, cloudy eyes, spilling down his cheeks and showing his sorrow to the world around him in poetic lines. The other henchman, Albathane apparently, drew his wand and pointed it at the struggling wizard. 

“Silencio.” 

The hallway drenched itself in silence, and it was only Sebastian and the woman once again. 

What a terrible thing, that silence. 

Sebastian had never felt so alone before. 

The woman smiled at the startling quiet, turning back to her prey and tapping her wand against his nose. “I am going to break you, you cocky, insufferable child.” 

A smirk tweaked at his mouth, eyes narrowed in tumultuous mischief. “Promise?” He was taking great joy out of annoying her— being a nuisance to authority figures was his pièce de résistance. The longer he could keep this facade going, have her attention on him, the longer Ominis was safe. He would endure whatever ostentatious torture she had in store for him if not one hair on the blond’s head was touched.  

The villain sighed, disappointment dripping from her features as she stood to her feet, rearing her right leg back and crashing it into the freckled boy’s side, breaking two of his lower ribs. His high pitched whine of pain filled the air, cut off by a small sob. He clenched his jaw around the pained whimpers choking their way out of his throat, denying his kidnappers the satisfaction of hearing him break down piece by piece. 

Yes, he was a weak child; just barely the age of sixteen and still so much to learn in the world. But, a secret talent of the Sallow boy was that he thrived under being underestimated. This woman thought she could break him? Good luck— Sebastian loved selfishly. He would rather take the ire of one thousand suns than ever give in and let harm come to someone he cared for. He welcomed the pain like a long lost lover, all on the off chance that Ominis would be spared. 

You nae made it a few steps down the stairs leading towards the kitchens when a frazzled Imelda Reyes barrelled into you, sending you both tumbling down the stone steps and into the adjoining wall below. You both grunted in pain, sitting up to rub at the spots of your body that were beginning to bruise before turning your attention back to the other student. You had never seen Imelda so shaken before— her eyes were wider than demiguise moons, glowing with a panic and fear that seemed foreign on her face. Her entire body was shaking with adrenaline, like she had just gotten back from the quidditch pitch. Clutched in her vibrating hand were two wands, one a pale ashen color with a green checkered handle, the other pitch black as the night with a matching black and gold base. 

You would recognize those wands anywhere, and the ramifications of what it meant that they were in the young Slytherin girls’ hand and not your trusted companions’ weighed heavily on your heart. 

In that second, it felt like the whole of the world had been placed on your chest. 

You quickly helped the girl up from the floor, arms tucked under her armpits like she would collapse at any moment, and pressed your hands to her shoulders with a calming but desperate pressure. Your pupils darted to and fro staring into hers, searching for some answer that didn’t include the worst scenario swimming in her mind. You found none— only hopeless disaster. 

Imelda hesitantly spoke, her voice trembling. “They— they didn’t come back.” Confused anxiety spilled from her like a thick fog. She was nearly out of breath from her sprint across the castle. “I w-went out looking for them. Flew over the entire t-town—” She cast her eyes downwards. “Found these in the woods?” 

She lifted her eyes away from the pieces of wood cradled in her hands, meeting your worried gaze and tweaking her eyebrows downwards in angry, weighty concern. “Why were they in the woods? What bloody reason would they have to go into the woods?” 

A sudden fear took over her form, nearly sending the two wands to the floor in her haste to grab at your shoulders in urgency. 

“There was blood on the ground,” she said. “It looked like a struggle happened. Clumps of kicked up grass everywhere. One of the trees looked like a bolder slammed into it! There was blood there too. F-fuck, there was so much blood.” 

Her skin was sickly pale, a green hue taking over slightly making her look like she was going to be sick. You were sure you didn’t look much different. It felt like you had been dunked in a frozen alpine lake, trapped between two glaciers that dug into you from both sides. Your breathing stuttered in your chest, heart fluttering with debilitating fear. 

You had many enemies— so did your two Slytherin boys. There was no telling who could have them right now, it was impossible. 

You held on to Imelda’s shoulders with more force, shaking her out of her panic and forcing her to meet your gaze again. Fighting to keep the dread from your tone, you spoke with authority, like you were scolding a misbehaving mooncalf. “We need to tell the teachers. You take Sebastian’s wand and tell Weasley and Sharp, I’ll take Ominis’ and tell Hecat and Ronen. We’ll convene in the Transfiguration room, where you can tell them everything you just told me, okay?” 

Imelda steeled her face, standing to her full height in determination before nodding her head once, spinning on her heel and running up the stairs with gusto. You quickly took after her, turning at the top and running towards the Library Annex. 

Prayers sang from your soul with each footfall against the tiled floor, desperately begging anyone who would listen to keep your loves safe. 

That was how it went for a while, the woman would break one of her prisoner’s bones, heal it for a second or two, and then break something else. Pained grunts slipped through the cracks between Sebastian’s molars, but nothing else was heard besides the sickening sounds of bones cracking and skin tearing. The stench of vomit and blood filled the air, gagging anyone who entered the room. Wounds covered the boy's skin, slices in his flesh and large jagged tears where his bones broke through stung across his entire body; he could feel every single pebble, every speck of dirt lodged inside his muscles and capillaries. His throat was scratched and bleeding along the inside, dripping the coppery liquid into his lungs and sending him harshly to the floor, struggling to breathe around the hacking, bloody coughs shaking his whole being. It was unnerving, hearing the exact same laughter of Victor Rookwood, one of the most feared wizards in the Hamlet up until last year, come from another person. Sebastian could see the similarities much more now, keenly aware of the uncomfortably familiar turquoise eyes peering down at him from someone else’s body, how the woman's brow wrinkled when she pondered her next move, how that predatory smile she always wore sent eerie shivers down his spine. He did not know Rookwood personally, but he had seen those features before. 

Rolling over from his side, nearly breaking his teeth around the pain from his broken femur and splintered third and fourth rib, he panted towards the ceiling— his breath forming little clouds of dragon’s smoke as the temperature dipped down, a chilly autumn night breezing through the countryside. It felt like little icicles were forming in his very veins. 

The woman stalked close again, slamming her foot into his forearm and snapping his radius. Another pained grunt echoed around the room, and more tears pooled in the mud below. 

Across the hallway, Ominis curled deeper into himself, his head tucked against his chest and arms folded over his head. The henchman dropped him after about an hour, feeling his body go slack as the realization that one of the people he loved most in the world was being tortured to the brink of death and there was nothing he could do to stop it. He pressed his forehead deeper into the ground as he sobbed, his throat rubbed raw from screaming against his forced muted silence. 

A voice came from the end of the hall, “Leona, hurry up! Stop actin’ like a bloody muggle n’ just finish ‘im already.” 

Leona, what a mundanely human name for someone so unnaturally evil. The wounded boy could think of at least three other Leona’s in his year. 

Leona Rookwood barked back, not shifting her eyes away from the brunette knocking on death's door. “I’ll finish this when I want to! Don’t forget who’s paying you.” She bent at the waist slightly, speaking directly to Sebastian now. “They are right, though. There are much more effective ways to do this, especially with magic.” 

She stood to her full height again, stepping back from the boy and pointing her wand at his chest— just over his heart. Her wand moved through the air like a ringleader snapping their whip, and her voice filled the room louder than ever before. 

“Crucio!” 

Sebastian remembered reading once that thinking of something else while injured would distract you from the pain. Through the deadly, torturous pain zapping through his body like a rogue bolt of lightning, he fought his brain to equate what he was feeling to words— maybe if he put names to the pain, if he understood it, he would feel it less. An ignorant hope, but it was the only one he had. The boy pictured Acromantulas crawling all over his skin, their needle legs digging into every single pain receptor he had and twisting their thorny barbs deep inside. Devil’s Snare crawled across his form, his chest tucked tightly to his knees in the fetal position, and squeezed at his muscles, its tentacles wrapped around him from ankles to neck— squeezing the air from his lungs and making every single scream that tore out of him silent and choking. Erumpent lava scorched through his veins, evaporating his blood and coating everything inside him with a thick layer of volcanic rock like the city of Pompeii. 

It didn’t work.

Sebastian still wanted to die. 

Across from him, Ominis wanted the same. 

Leona released the Slytherin from the curse, watching as he twitched in agony and fought to keep his sounds at bay. She kicked him back over onto his back, trying to get a closer look at his face when she spoke to him. Her lips turned downwards in a frown, unhappy with the stubbornness of the brunette below her foot. He spat blood from his mouth, wincing at the teeth marks dug deep into his tongue, and wheezed deep lungfuls of air. An idea struck the black-haired woman, raising the corners of her mouth into her near permanent grin once again. 

“Well, if I can’t get you to talk, maybe I’ll have more luck with the other one.” 

Sebastian’s eyes shot open, the most pure form of fear filling them for the first time since they were taken. Pleas came from him in a steady stream, panic and bleeding-hearted desperation rearing its ugly head in his voice. 

“Please no, not him. Do whatever you want with me but don’t hurt him. Don’t you dare— AH!” 

The cruciatus curse flew through him again, coloring his world white. Fire danced just behind his eyes, melting his corneas into his skull and turning his brain to liquid. 

The poachers' delighted giggles would haunt his dreams for the rest of his life— if he lived past this moment. 

She held the spell on him for longer this time, at least three full minutes before she released him from the curse. The boy sobbed into the ground, agony written across his taut features. Pleas continued to weep from his open lips. 

“Please…please…please…” 

The poacher simpered, tittering through her insane giggles, “That’s enough for now. We don’t want your brain to turn to mush before the next event.” 

Leona toed him over onto his back again, turning on her heel and walking towards the iron door. She turned towards the fallen boy one last time, an unhinged look twinkling in her eyes. “I like you begging, it suits you. But, no, I will be coming back tomorrow for blondie. Enjoy your last moments together!” 

With one last look, she mended the brunette's bones and strolled out of the cell, taking each man by the arm and apparating out of the dismal hallway. 

The silencing charm disapparated from the blond, rupturing the quiet that fell over the room with his croaking, frantic voice. 

“Sebastian!” He sobbed. “Please, Merlin, Sebastian get up. Do not die on me, you bastard; get the fuck up. Please be okay, please, Gods, please.” 

The brunette pulled himself to his knees, wheezing against the pain ricocheting through his lungs and hacking up a clump of bile, spit, and blood the size of his palm. He crawled to the closest wall, letting his body crash against it. “I’m fine.” 

A sharp sob came from Ominis, relieved tears spilling down his cheeks as he pressed his temple to the frosted bars. “Oh thank Merlin, Godric, Helga, Rowena, Salazar— fucking, all of them. Thank you.” He didn’t know what he would do if Sebastian died— didn’t want to think about that possibility even existing in this timeline. 

Sebastian leaned against the stone wall of the prison, listening to the sobs of his friend and trying to bring his breathing back to a normal velocity. He wasn’t in pain per say, more like a constant ache in his bones and muscles— like he had just ran three marathons back to back. He could feel where some of his bones that had been broken didn’t mend correctly, and they cracked when he moved into a more comfortable position. 

The Sallow boy was more tired than he had ever felt in his life. 

With a finality in his voice that only someone on the verge of death would have, he spoke to his love for what he hoped wasn’t the last time. “Ominis, I need to tell you something important.” 

The blond wasn’t an idiot, he knew what was coming. They had been dancing around each other for years, stuck in this perpetual “will they, won’t they” like an infernal gossip column entry. This was not how their game would end. “No you don’t, you self sacrificing moonmind. You can tell me all about how in love with me you are when we get out of here.” 

He could feel Sebastian’s stare on him— he always knew when the boy was looking, it was like a sixth sense. This look was dripping with sympathy. Sympathy and pity. Ominis hated the feeling of pity. He continued to choke out words around the lump growing larger in his throat.

“I was going to tell you today, in Hogsmeade. We would meet up again and I would have some fresh hot chocolate from one of the pop up stands around. I’d tell you how I felt and you’d say you felt the same and then we would go back and tell that stupid Hufflepuff with a death wish that we wanted to all be together, and they would be so happy and we would be so happy for once in our miserable, shitty lives.” He sucked air into his lungs, breathing it out slowly as little sobs split it apart. “So don’t you fucking tell me what I have been waiting for you to say since third year. Not in this forsaken prison, not like you’re going to die on me. You’re not going to die, so don’t you fucking dare.” 

Sebastian wanted to cry with him, he truly did, but he was out of tears. All of the water in his body had been sucked out of him, leaving only a numbing, dull ache in his chest. If he could feel anything other than that, he would have felt his heart shatter just under the sanctuary of his ribs. The boy leaned his head against the cool metal, imagining it was the always chilly hand of his crying love. 

“Ominis, listen to me. Tomorrow, someone is going to die, and out of the both of us I hope it’s me. If that bitch hurts you in any way, there is nothing on this earth that can save them from my wrath. I will take her down, and I will bring everyone that I can with me. I can’t live in this world without you— I refuse to. There is nothing without you, so please, let me say what I have been holding in since the day I met you while I still can.” 

The blond hiccuped a sob, exhaling shakily. Nothing had ever hurt this much before. It was no longer a metaphor, this pain. 

“Okay.” He breathed. 

The freckled boy inhaled, preparing himself for what he was about to do. 

“Ominis Gaunt, I am so in love with you. I have been since we were kids. You and them,” he pointed in what he thought was the direction of Hogwarts, “are all I could ever want. You both are my soulmates. There is no one else in the world I want more. I want to be yours, most ardently, if you’d have me.”

The blond shifted his weight, letting gravity work its magic falling against the wall, head smacking against the stone as tears flooded his eyes and created pools of salty water in the collar of his shirt. 

He closed his eyes, and accepted their fate. 

“I love you too, Sebastian.” He whispered, letting the cool autumn breeze flowing through the cracks in the wall carry it to the boy he never wanted to be without.  

Darkness fell over the cells once more as night crept over the horizon, bathing the Hamlet in a peaceful blackness. Under the stars, trapped together in a stone fortress, rested two Slyherin’s, hands stretched towards the other through the thick iron bars of their personal prisons, fingertips just out of reach. Both had cried themselves to sleep, exhaustion taking hold of their feeble, tired minds and draping them in a thick blanket of unconsciousness. They told each other everything that night, everything they had ever wanted to tell the other but were too scared to say. Now, quiet solitude coated the room like a thick sheet of snow.

There, in that desolate hovel, the two lovers would stay until the new horrors of tomorrow came for them. But for now, they were safe together, just a fingers length away.

***

like what you read? here's more!

[thegloweringcastle]

La Belle Fleur Sauvage

@elucienweekofficial​ Day 5: Nature

ao3 

a/n: This is unlike anything I’ve ever written before. So I'm a little nervous, but very curious to hear your thoughts! Even if it hasn’t turned out as I hoped, it was certainly lots of fun to write.

It is a songfic based on La Belle Fleur Sauvage by Lord Huron, and even if you don’t read this I am begging you to still listen to the song because it is absolutely enchanting.

Happy reading and listening! <3

Word Count: ~1.9k

~~~

I. What you’re looking for won’t be found easily

It grows upon the mountain, in a sacred place

Lucien had been reared in a family that valued power; raised by a father who controlled with an iron fist, surrounded by brothers who thirsted for riches and every exotic pleasure known to humankind.

His mother, a kindhearted woman too pure for the likes of his father, was his only solace. She offered him a refuge, a quiet place to hide, to live freely and exist simply.

That was the only sacred place in his entire world; not one other honorable being could be found within miles. As a boy, he doubted he would ever find anyone as loving as his mother in the rest of his life.

II. Up beyond the clouds an ancient ground, so they say

And many men have died trekking up that way

The first time Lucien heard the legend of the woman had been at one of his fathers banquets - one of Lucien’s first attendances.

He remembered, with shocking clarity, the many horrors recounted to him by rich merchants. There were stories of every ill-fate that had befallen those who set out in search of such unearthly beauty. Some had been so jealous - of whom or what, Lucien couldn’t understand - that they threw themselves from cliffs, while others never even survived the first leg of the journey, lost to the beasts that roamed the foothills.

But while each variation had a billion different details, one thing remained the same: the woman who dwelled in the mountains was of another world, another kind; her beauty so unnatural that anyone who could keep it would live a bountiful life.

III. Once he’s gazed upon her, a man is forever changed

The bravest men return with darkened hearts and phantom pain

There was not much that happened in the village. Peddlers came and went, merchants sold their goods and expanded their mansions, beggars crowded the street corners, and young men set off to intrude upon what did not want to be found.

Lucien was never one to believe the stories that circulated. Everyone had their own version of the legend, but as he matured he realized it was all nothing but the wishful thinking of those who craved what they would never deserve and could never obtain.

But his mindset changed when the O’Donoughy brothers left and swiftly returned, ice cold in the dead of summer, their eyes distant and watery. What they had seen, nobody knew; but everyone had suspected. As Lucien grew into a young man, more and more of the people he had known as boys set out mountain-bound. The O’Donoughy twins had returned aged beyond their years in those few days, while others - the ones never seen again - were said to have simply sat there, watching and waiting until they rotted to nothing, some force spending their lifespans tenfold.

Lucien always prided himself in being level headed and respectful, and he had every intention of leaving well enough alone no matter what legends were wrong or right. Honestly, he did.

Until the truth of his paternity came out, and they were forced to run.

He may have been able to help save his mother, but his life had been left in rubble, the knowledge that his mom was safe and happy the only salvageable debris.

IV. Her colors change to mark the passing of the days

No earthly sight can match the beauty she displays

Exiled now by his half-family, Lucien was left to seek out a new home; somewhere he could start fresh. But that meant risking trespassing on the one place he had always sworn not to intrude. A new, better life could only be found over the mountains, through the same pass that hosted so many legends and tales.

Evergreen trees towered above Lucien, toying with the golden sunlight and disorienting all sense of direction. As he wandered, following meek flower paths and worn animal trails, morning light took on the telltale orange hue of afternoon. Yet, even as time passed and the light changed above him, the sun never actually moved. Birdsong grew distant and rare as he gained elevation, the odd silence chilling him to his very marrow.

The woods grew so dense that the forest floor never saw daylight, and Lucien could barely squeeze between each tree as he forged ahead. He knew he should have taken it as a warning, but he had no other options.

V. I've meant to find the place where all good things begin

To smell her scent and watch her dancing in the wind

Finally, finally, the forest opened up to a meadow of rustling wildflowers and billowing grass and-

He did a double take. Triple take. He pinched himself.

It was real.

There she was, flesh and blood - maybe - and swaying through the tall grass; she looked like she was dancing. Rosy cheeks, gleaming honey-brown hair, and big doe eyes. She flowed with the wind as if it were a song made just for her. She understood the whisper of the grass and the humming of the bees as well as her own heartbeat. She flowed so smoothly as if she herself were part of the wind; a bird guiding the breeze across the dramatic hills.

And Lucien couldn’t fathom it; so many things, he simply couldn’t wrap his mind around. How could such beauty still exist? Why would anyone want to interfere with it? It was perfect just the way it was; humans didn’t deserve this. They simply weren’t good enough.

In circles she spun, dipping low to pick a flower before turning to brush one slender hand through a bundle of cattails. Lucien simply watched her, wholly enraptured by her supple movements. He didn’t even think about it when he stepped forward, wanting to keep watching her as she began to move away.

He saw her, she saw him, and the world froze. The breeze dissipated, the whispering grass held its breath, the dancing flowers paused.

Predator and prey held eye contact, stuck between cycles. Something glinted, the hollowness akin to fear. But he could have been wrong; he was on the edge of the clearing, after all.

She took one, timid step towards him. He took one, timid step back.

“Who are you?” Her voice, lush and gentle, rang louder than it should have. Wholly unnatural.

His throat was dry. “My name is Lucien Va- Lucien. I hail from the village to the east.” He paused, continuing when she didn’t speak. “I wish to use your alpine pass to continue west, with your blessing.”

Lucien’s heart constricted as she approached, her radiance even more devastating up close. But now he saw - proof. She wasn’t human. Pointed ears, wide eyes, long, slender fingers.

“Why should I believe you?” The sound of her voice would be the death of him. “Why would I offer you safe passage, when that is what everyone else has asked for? It has never turned out to be the truth.”

So neither were predators; both had been prey at some point in time. Lucien wanted to see to it that it would never again be the case.

“Lady…” He went down to one knee, looking up at her figure haloed by the sun.

Her brow quirked up as she hesitated. “Elain.”

“My Lady Elain,” It came out as a benediction. “I don’t know what proof I could present to you, but I swear to leave you be. I merely hope to pass through and allow you to enjoy your space.” Even if he didn’t want to leave.

She leaned in, evaluating him just as he did her. He caught her scent - honey and berries. Sweet and addicting.

“There is a flower,” She started. “It grows farther than most can travel, higher than many wish to go. But I’ve heard its beauty is unlike anything else, and I wish to see it. Help it flourish here,” She gestured to the clearing. “With the others. If you can find it for me and bring it back with roots intact, I will allow you onwards.”

She did not wait for a response before turning smoothly, her cotton dress rippling with the motion. Lucien waited another heartbeat before standing, struggling to process what had happened, what he had seen.

He began his quest.

It could have been days that he searched, or months. The sun never moved, only disappearing suddenly to leave room for night. Time moved strangely in the woods; one day it was mild, spring weather, and the next it was crisp autumn, with auburn leaves raining down. Once it snowed, but then it was blazing hot.

The entire time, Lucien searched. He thought long and hard, he went at it ruthlessly, he went over the same places dozens of times. But he never gave up. Because as he searched, something blossomed in his chest. Something warm and soft and right. He didn’t aim to find the flower just to move on; he wanted to please her, to give her a reason to smile. The thought of it made his heart yearn.

So he stayed resolute, fending off the beasts in the woods and pursuing any hint of unique greenery that could possibly match what she wanted.

But nothing he found would ever be enough, would never be as beautiful as her.

VI. I'd give it all to love that girl, oh

I'd be the one to pluck that fleur, oh

Lucien found his way back to the clearing, hoping to any higher power that she would be there again.

And sure enough, there she was, this time lying in the tall green grass and basking in the sun.

“My Lady Elain,” He called.

She stood slowly, brushing herself off as she moved towards him. “Lucien of the East.” A faint smile graced her face. “Have you found the flower?”

He returned the smile in kind with an added bit of mischief. “Indeed, I have.”

Her chin tilted, her eyes squinting.

“Where is it, then?”

“My lady, I am afraid you sent me on a snipe hunt.”

“Oh?”

“You asked for a flower whose beauty was unlike anything else. You wanted to help it thrive here,” He stepped forward, bolder now. “But I realized something.”

“Tell me, what did you realize?”

Now they both moved in, meeting each other halfway.

“I was meant to find you.”

Her eyes sparked, a bright boundless smile overtaking her features. It nearly brought Lucien to his knees. She tucked her slender, ivory hand into his broad, tan one. With a shared smile, she guided them through the meadow towards the small cottage hiding on the edge.

Lucien decided he had no reason to go over the pass; everything he could ever need was right there in that sacred place.

VII.  And when I die, I want her lying by my side, in my grave

I'd give it all to love that girl, oh

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