#soul liquid chambers

[ervotica]

liam mairi x reader where he literally loses it during the torture chamber over seeing her hurt

pairing; liam mairi x fem!reader

warnings; torture lol, graphic depictions of violence and injury, liam is a little unhinged (as much as a golden retriever can be) and also the best bf ever. also xaddy makes an appearance <3

a/n; for argument's sake, liam is alive and well (also for my sake bc he's my baby and i adore him) this is a little different to the plot in the books as liam isn't *technically* there during the torture chamber scene, so this diverts from the original plot. this is gonna get like 4 whole notes but idgaf because liam is taking up my entire mind atm i just want that boy to smother me in love and i can kiss his perfect face<3

Knuckles crack against the already swollen expanse of your jaw and your neck whips sideways awkwardly as blood fills your gasping mouth. Your ears ring, vision beginning to blur and blacken at the edges as Liam roars.

You can't see him for the soldiers crowding your line of vision, but the guttural sound that rips its way from his throat is unlike anything you've ever heard before. It's raw, full of untethered fury that no one would expect from a kind soul like Liam. But, then again, no one's seen the lengths he will go to to keep you safe.

"I'm fine, Li," you murmur, neck cracking as you wrench your head upright to reassure him. The swarm of bodies part somewhat, and they back against the wall; you watch him thrash against the restraints, teeth bared like a predator; it's a stark juxtaposition to his usual - docile - countenance.

“Touch her again and I’ll kill you! I’ll fucking kill all of you!” he bellows, voice permeating the otherwise relatively silent chamber. It cuts through you like glass, and you wince as another blow collides with your cheekbone. You feel it shatter, growling through grit teeth at your attacker.

“You have all the power here,” he croons. “Tell us what we need to know, and I’ll let you go.”

“Fuck you,” you seethe. “You really think I’ll break that easily?”

He cracks his knuckles slowly, one by one echoing through the empty room as he paces, his head tilting curiously as though he's enraptured by your resilience. “No. But he will.”

Your nostrils flare, eyes darting to where Liam’s still struggling to break himself free. His eyes are dark, cerulean replaced with black onyx as the rage consumes him.

“You underestimate us,” you say simply; your chin juts out indignantly. “We’re not telling you shit.”

Your ribs are next to break with a sickening crunch, and when you scream, the sharp yell of your boyfriend takes up all the space left in your brain. It's all you hear, all you can decipher through the thick cotton wadded into your ears, the only thing you can manage past the searing flames that set your body alight with agony. Your lids start to droop, lips parting to croak something indiscernible; and Liam's begging, pleading with you to stay conscious, but even as you gaze up at him through sticky, tear-soaked lashes, the darkness wraps its cruel fingers around your throat and you can't fend it off.

You don't know how many days it's been when your eyes peel open, glued shut with sleep. Every nerve ending in your body ignites, set aflame with pure, unrelenting excruciation. Your chest heaves and the movement triggers another cataclysmic inferno; a sob claws its way from your throat almost involuntarily, your body relying purely on survival instincts.

Xaden's standing over you in an instant, a warm palm cradled against the curve of your jaw to keep you still when you shout and thrash, trying to rid yourself of the unyielding pain that courses through your veins like liquid fire.

"Shh, shh." He's doing his best to placate you, but you're manic, eyes wide and frantic as you attempt to orientate yourself in the room.

"Liam," you croak. "Where's Liam?"

"He's okay. He's fine. I need you to stay calm, okay?" A tear slips past your clogged waterline and runs over Xaden's knuckle, his thumb following its downward path to brush it away.

"I want Liam," you wheeze, a pain that transcends physicality blooming into your aching chest. "Please."

There's a scuffle and a flash of blonde before Liam is crouching at your side, a thick fingered hand anchoring against the top of your head.

"I'm right here, my girl. You didn't think I'd leave you alone, did you?"

You shake your head vehemently despite the throbbing in your temples, your own fingers looping around his wrist to keep him close, to keep him touching you.

"It hurts, Li," you whimper, and it's the first sign of true weakness he's seen you expose in this long, painful week. You're safe to fall apart now, safe with the knowledge that he'll help you put yourself back together.

"I know. We just need to get you fixed up and you'll feel better."

He tips forward on his toes to press his cheek to yours, and the warmth of his breath tickles at the shell of your ear. His face turns, nose squishing into the soft flesh of your cheek, lips puckered in a kiss against the corner of your mouth. You feel the scab, long dried over, and the groove in his lip where it's split; when he tilts his head sideways to watch you, your eyes fix on it.

"You're hurt," you sniffle. "It's my fault."

"Oh, this old thing?" He waves you off, flippant as the tip of his finger prods at the dried skin. "Doesn't even hurt, angel. Don't you worry about me."

"I do worry about you."

You use the little strength you have left to turn on your side, tuning out Liam's abrupt protests until there'e enough room for two on the bed. He knows what you want from no more than a pleading glance.

"I can't-" he starts, and the complaints die in his throat when your fingers dig into the worn fabric of his uniform.

"I need you," you admit. His shoulders slouch in defeat.

"You promise to go to sleep?"

He lifts your tender body, propping you against a muscular forearm as he slides beneath you, and settling you between two thick thighs, your back to his chest. His warmth seeps into your pores and he feels you sag, only succumbing to the exhaustion now you know he's safe.

Fingernails scratch at your scalp and dimples crater into the centre of his cheeks when your head tilts to nuzzle deeper into the touch. The flaring pain resides to a dull - but manageable - ache.

"I'm tired," you say, muffled.

"I know, my girl." You don't miss the thrum of his pulse, the way it picks up when he catches sight of the deep bruises that mar your skin, the swelling from broken bones. He's angry.

And he's going to make them pay for this.

#liam mairi x reader #liam mairi x you #liam mairi x y/n #fourth wing fanfic #fourth wing #liam mairi #liam x reader #liam x you #liam and xaden #liam fourth wing #fourth wing fic #fourth wing rebecca yarros #writer #writers on tumblr #writing #writing for fun #love letters #ily #iron flame #fourth wing fluff #fourth wing angst #liam mairi drabble #liam mairi fanfiction #liam mairi fic #liam mairi angst #liam mairi fluff #hurt/comfort #comfort fic #fluff writing #fluff with angst

[llamagoddessofficial]

It was the best hidden room in his castle.

Nightmare appeared, emerging from within the liquid shadows at the far corner, taking on a solid form. The room had no doors- that was the trick to it. Only a being who already knew the room’s location in the castle, and had the ability to transport themselves through space, would be capable of accessing this place.

... Though there was no door, there was a window. Just one. A circular skylight, directly above the bed... it gave a perfect view of the stars.

It was a small, comfortable chamber, the obsidian walls draped with finely embroidered midnight blue tapestries to maintain warmth. Ancient murals, moons and interlocking patterns that had long lost their meaning, inlaid with silver- the silver caught the light from the small glowing blue stones that dotted the walls. The room was barely brighter than a dim twilight. 

Of course... the most important thing in the whole room was what was at the centre.

... Nightmare approached your bed.

A fine bed, of course. A large canopy draped luxuriously, for even more warmth, protection and quiet. Only the best for you. You were tucked under sumptuous sheets, your head upon a satin pillow, sweet little face barely visible under all the layers of comfort.

... He reached out, tucking the blanket down slightly, to get a better look at you. You were so peaceful. Your cheeks had regained some colour, over the past few days, as had your lips- but your eyelids did not move.

He knew what it looked like. If his damned brother found this room, and the sleeping human, he’d jump to conclusions (as he always did); Nightmare had stolen a human, cursed them with eternal sleep. Worst case scenario, Nightmare was tormenting this human as a sick game- best case scenario, Nightmare has grown so feverishly attached he would rather have someone sleep in his arms forever than be free to walk away from him.

...

And... well. It would be a lie to say that he wasn’t enjoying having you this way. But it was missing one crucial detail.

... You would wake up the moment you wanted to.

He sat on the bed, beside you. He reached out, and gently stroked your hair... enjoying the softness and texture.

You didn’t stir.

Nightmare had felt your pain far across your universe. Like a moth to a flame, he came to you- and though he originally had only the intent to feed, he loved you the moment he laid eyes on you. Your Soul, such a pretty thing, cracking under the weight of its pain; the fractures sparkled like fault lines in a diamond. You were holding the agony within, unwilling to let anyone know. You were on the verge of shattering. On the verge of your Soul going out.

When he came for you, you didn’t protest, you didn't even struggle.

You had looked at him with an empty, accepting expression.

Perhaps you thought he was death? Cute.

... So he took you, instead. You let him put his arms around you- he had never had someone accept him so completely, his jealous desire only intensified. He carried you back to his palace, he cradled you lovingly. Once your eyes had closed, he laid you down in the quietest room, in his finest bed... cuddled under his softest sheets and guarded by his most possessive magic.

The spell in question was one he hadn’t used in a long, long time. There was nothing on any Earth that could forcibly awaken you from your slumber. No sound, no touch, no pain nor magic. No power he (or any other great being) possessed, nothing in the wide multiverse. Nothing could awaken you from the outside.

But... the moment you wanted to open your eyes, you would. The tail of the Rupert’s drop. As if waking from a pleasant midday nap, the spell would shatter into dust around you.

It was a one-way spell. That was what made it so powerful.

... He continued to stroke your hair. Your dreams were safety- he ensured nothing crossed your mind but visions of peace and warmth. You curled deeper into his dreams like a hibernating rabbit. He could sense the injuries in your slowly Soul mending, your wounds slowly healing, as you were finally allowed to rest.

You had yet to even think of opening your eyes.

At that moment, the moon emerged. Its light passed through the skylight window... catching a small array of crystals that hung above your bed. Flecks of iridescence silently scattered across the walls, and over your face. 

“... beautiful.” He murmured. “no one will ever hurt you again, my darling. no one. i promise.”

...

... You, of course... did not even stir.

#concept was clacking around in m brain like a marble #llama writes #its one of the kindest things nightmare has ever done #he didn't expect to enjoy being kind so much #might have to indulge himself a little more~

[utterlyotterlyx]

A Fate Inked In Starlight

Part Three

Eris x Fem!Reader x Azriel

Summary - After crashing into the Autumn Court with no idea who you are, where you are, or how you got there, Eris takes it upon himself to hide you and care for you with the help of the Night Court. That is until souls from other walks of life infiltrate Prythian searching for you.

Part One Part Two Part Four Part Five

Warnings - nightmares, alludes to slight depression and struggling, mentions of blood and torture, memory loss, angst, baby Eris trying to do the right thing 🥺

Drip.

Drip.

Drip.

That horrid metallic liquid was sprayed across the walls where you swung by your wrists, your head tossed back and blood leaking from your nose, droplets rolling backward down your cheeks and dripping on the floor.

The room was freezing, stone blocks caged you in at every direction, the only light in the room slicing through the iron bars at the roof of the chamber. A thin grey gown hung from your shoulders, nothing opulent, it was plain and dirty, soaked with tears and blood amongst other things, it was ripped up the side, the threads floating against your skin.

A scratching filled the void, the tip of a sword dragging against the stone floor, "Are you going to cooperate today?" A voice drawled and you winced as you tried to open your swollen eyes, your vision blurred and entire face aching.

Your wrists were burning, the ringed wounds tearing themselves open and whimpers straining in your mouth. Chains rattled and you felt yourself lower closer to the ground, the tips of your toes brushed against the stone but you weren't lowered enough to stand, to give your shoulders and wrists some relief.

Fingers curled around your chin, jolting it forward so that you were looking at the owner of the voice. "I asked you a question, pet," from what you could make out, his smile was chilling, eyes narrowed and cold, short black hair, and you wished your vision would clear for just a moment, just so you could really see him.

"I don't know what you want," you rasped, "I don't know what I'm doing here."

His tongue ticked against the roof of his mouth, you felt him circling you, like a predator toying with their prey, "Don't play with me, pet, you know that I don't like your games," you felt the skin of your abdomen slicing apart, pooling with liquid that ran down your thighs.

"You have the wrong person. Please, I don't know what you want," tears ran down your cheeks, searing pain drove through you and you sobbed.

The room began to rumble, with your terror or his anguish you weren't sure, "Do I have to take another thing you love to ensure your loyalty?"

Creaking metal doors blew open, and your stomach dropped at the aroma that washed away the scent of death from the room. Burnt orange peels and pine, warm rain, and a hint of caramel. Eris.

"Flora," he called to you weakly, he sounded so defeated, his voice sounded gargled and wet, and he was dropped to the floor with a thud that made you cringe.

"Give me what I want, pet."

"Flora."

Your bottom lip wobbled furiously, the room felt like it was tipping on an opposing axis, "No. Not him. Not him. Please."

"Submit yourself to me and I will spare him," he moved behind Eris, ripping his head backward and pressing the blade to his throat.

"Flora!"

"FLORA!"

You awoke screaming and thrashing, tears flowing down your face and chest rising and falling at a dangerously rapid pace, "Hey, hey," a voice shushed, hands bundled in your hair with burnt orange dancing around you, "You're alright, okay? You're in Fir Manor, you're okay," he mumbled over and over again until your breathing had slowed to an acceptable rate.

"You, you were -I," you were struggling to form words, to speak, to convey what you had seen.

The place had felt so familiar but not at the same time, like you should remember being there, like it was important to remember that place. The stench of iron and that searing pain made your stomach churn and you bolted from the bed, rushing to the toilet and emptying whatever contents in there that you could.

A cold hand pressed against your back, rubbing circles between your shoulder blades, "Come on," Eris picked you up from the floor like it was nothing, scooping you into his arms and sitting with you on the small two seater sofa before the fire. The blanket he had used to cover himself for his slumber was tossed aside, thrown over the edge of the furniture, and the rug was slightly askew from where he had hit the floor and come running to you.

Eris had made a habit out of sleeping on the cruelly small thing the moment your nightmares had started two weeks ago. Nightly, you'd wake up mumbling, incoherently trying to throw together anything that would make sense whilst panting and sweaty, pale with fright. And nightly, Eris would soothe away your troubles, he would hold you until you fell back asleep before tucking you back in your bed again.

It felt different though, that this time the nightmare had really shaken you to the point of physical shuddering. It was the first time you had alluded to him that he was present in your dream, and he wasn't sure if that was a good thing or a bad thing.

"You were- he was going to- I couldn't," you bubbled, shaking in his arms like a leaf in the wind.

"Hey," he cooed to you, covering you in his blanket and rubbing warmth into your arms, "I'm right here. I'm not going anywhere. I'm right here."

Eris was the calm. Eris was the safe place. Eris was breathing. Eris was alive. It was just a dream.

Just a dream.

Eris stood at the window, looking out into the gardens at you as you weaved between flowerbeds with Duke in tow. A pale yellow sundress wrapped around your figure, and he smiled fondly as your fingers dragged through the blooming flowers, each one of them bending toward your touch.

Nature just seemed to adore you.

It was the morning after Rhys and Azriel's visit that he found you in the gardens, feet dipped into the fountain with swirling spandrils of water flowing up your arms and neck. It was then that you both found out that you could control water, and by extension, anything made up of it.

Eris was encouraging, he had sat with you in the ponds and fountains and coached you, trained you to control your gift like he had trained to control his. And soon enough, you could summon the element from wherever you stood, your personal tendrils extinguishing his fiery rage with gentle licks across his hands.

He had noticed how the nightmares had been altering you. You had become more withdrawn, the personality that had been bubbling beneath the surface for the last two weeks now retreating. He had to do something.

The stress of your situation hadn't helped, you knew how dangerous it was to be in the Autumn Court, Eris had told you that much. He promised to protect you, and you believed him. But he didn't know how to stop the nightmares, he didn't know how to plump out the circles under your eyes. You had tried sleeping tonics but they didn't want to work on you, neither of you knew why.

"I don't want to go," you told him after he'd sat you down and proposed you visit Rhys and Azriel, both of which you had become closer with, through letters and their idle flybys to check up on you, constantly telling you of their progress, "I feel safe here. I feel safe with you."

Eris had told Rhys of the nightmares, told him that they could be memories trying to claw to the surface, told him that you needed a distraction, that you needed help. The heir wasn't sure what the High Lord saw in you, but he always offered clear advice and a bedroom at the River House with your name on it whenever you should need it.

"I know," he watched as you fiddled with your fingers and kept your eyes on the floor, "This will be good for you. You'll love Velaris, Little Flower," he ran a hand down your hair and gave you an encouraging smile.

"The decision has been made?"

"You'll be back with me before you know it, then we can carry on with your training and read our books by the fire. It's just temporary," your eyes were flooded with sadness, it was taking everything in him to not take back what he had decided and wrap you into his embrace instead, "I promise."

That's how you found yourself curled up in the library within the River House.

Rhys' family were lovely, and Azriel had tried to make you feel as at home as possible, but something just didn't feel right. The safety that you had felt wrapped around you like a shield had disappeared, replaced by a shrill chill that made you too alert. Too poised.

Velaris was beautiful. The book was lax in your hands and you found yourself reading the patterns of the stars instead, like you could simply reach up and pluck one from the sky-

"Flora?" A gentle knock sounded at the door, you turned to it, finding Feyre stood in the gap possessing an ethereal glow and trusting eyes. She entered, seemingly floating to where you sat, and took the place beside you.

Snow capped mountains and starry skies welcomed your gaze as you turned back to the window. A tidal wave of gentle light glowed beneath you, flowing like a river through a valley, that humming energy bowing its head and delving into every beautiful corner of the city.

"How are you feeling?"

"How am I supposed to feel?"

Feyre frowned, "However you'd like. There's no pressure to feel a certain way."

They had all welcomed you with open arms, Mor had even hugged you, and to everyone's surprise, Nesta had offered a shoulder to talk to if you ever felt like it.

"I struggled with nightmares too, after what happened Under the Mountain," she confessed and you found yourself looking into her quizzically, "I died to save Prythian, to save Tamlin, from Amarantha. I dealt with the repercussions of resurrection nightly afterward, I dreamt of being back there, and then one day I was here and I began to heal."

"How did you do it?"

"You find ways to ground yourself," she shrugged, curling her legs up beneath her, "Whether that be a smell, or person, or memory, you find ways to ground yourself in the present, to remind you that whatever fills your past is exactly what it is. The past."

"Do you think that these dreams are memories?"

Feyre hummed, "Maybe," the High Lady had made many a painting of the marks you had sketched and sent to Azriel, something about them intrigued her to the point of inspiration, her power thrummed when she saw them, and she took to the canvas to accurately depict how she saw them in her mind.

Amren had told you that your markings were runes, ancient things painted on walls on crystals in order to try to contain and control power. It was other-worldly, and she was able to tell you with confidence that the runes were by no means inflicted upon you maliciously, more like your body forced them to appear in order to protect itself.

Your mind floated to Eris. You wondered how he was, you wondered if he was sat alone drowning in the silence of Fir Manor whilst you were surrounded by light and echoing laughter.

"We will help you, Flora. Rhys won't admit it but, you remind him of his sister a little bit. I think that's why he's so determined to have this all figured out, so he can help you in ways he couldn't help her," Feyre had been in awe of your beauty despite the deep circles under your eyes, you reminded her of herself, like she was staring at a mirror into the past, "Even if we do figure this out and you have the option of returning home, I want you to know that you're welcome here, if you ever wanted to stay. Though, I feel someone would outbid me on that." Feyre had spied the swirl of shadows in the corner of the room when she had entered, they had been watching you and then your exchange unbeknownst to you, she smirked at them, knowing that they'd be whispering to their master that they had been caught.

"I do love it in Autumn," you had assumed she was talking about Eris, who else could she have been speaking of? "I was happy there, I think."

Feyre took your hand in hers and tugged you up, she had loaned you a few of her dresses for the time being, just until she and Mor could take you into town and buy everything your eyes landed on. They knew how it felt to feel out of place and unwelcomed, and they wouldn't wish that upon the fragile creature that had stumbled into their lives.

"You can be happy here too, if you just give us a chance?"

Hope.

For the first time in two weeks, since the nightmares began, you felt hope. Beautiful, all-consuming hope.

You took one last look out of the window as Feyre began to pull you from the room and toward her family, you found the stars that begged for your touch, sparkling brightly as if to say pick me, choose me. Their disappointment clear by their faltering shine as you willingly followed Feyre, followed her down the path of healing, a path toward the life you wanted to build for yourself.

Not for anyone else, but for you.

"I can see you. We're coming."

You bolted upright, your breath caught in your throat. It took you a moment to adjust to your surroundings, to realise that you were in Velaris, in a room across the hall from Azriel, and that Eris wouldn't be coming to bundle you into his embrace and have his steady heartbeat rock you back to sleep.

"We're coming."

Violet pools of shadow hovered before your face, they were wide, like they weren’t expecting that you could see them. The only source of light in the pitch black room where you lay. An arm emitting black curls of smoke reached for you and you flinched backward, hitting your elbow against the headboard and hissing in pain.

"You're not meant to be here."

The voice was clouded but sounded so familiar, the warmth and tinge of worry in their eyes did also, it was odd, how a ripple of whispering shadow felt so intimate.

It disappeared as quickly as it came, floating away like a freshly blown out candle, wisping up through the roof and into space.

Authors Note

Part 3!

I’m sorry if any of you are finding things a bit slow, I just want to do this fic justice.

Part 4 is gonna be wild ✨

Thinking about making this into a 8/9 part series, what do we think?

Taglist

@acourtofbatboydreams @glitterypirateduck2 @isaxbella749 @aactuaaltraash @imma-too-many-fandoms @blackgirlmagicforever

#acotar #acotar fanfiction #acotar imagine #azriel x reader #eris vanserra #eris acotar #eris x reader #fanfiction #imagine #cassian #maasverse #mor acotar #rhysand #feyre archeron #nesta #amren acotar #crescent city #crescent city imagine #azriel x you #shadowsinger x reader

[voidpetrova]

hanahaki — damon salvatore x reader

☄. *. ⋆

content warnings and genre: swearing, blood, death, diseases, unrequited love — angst

˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚

synopsis: 花吐き病, a disease that only a one-sided fairy tale can cause, because when damon won't give you the flowers, you grow them yourself

✧.*

the air was infused with the scent of blooming flowers, a fragile beauty that masked the impending tragedy that lay hidden within. there was once a time where roses that grew in your garden held a special place in your heart, and nowhere else. you relished in the moments you spent kneeling down in order to catch a sweet whiff of the devastatingly beautiful scent. when winter came, when they began to wither, you couldn't help but feel sorrowful.

you stood at the periphery of the salvatore mansion, your gaze fixated on the enchanting sight before you. damon salvatore, the enigmatic vampire with eyes like liquid darkness, moved with a grace that seemed to defy time itself. he was entwined in a dance of whispered words and stolen glances with elena gilbert, the woman who held his heart captive.

your heart fluttered with an ache you had grown accustomed to, a yearning that seemed to grow stronger with every stolen glance you cast upon the two lovers. damon's laughter, rich and intoxicating, echoed through the air, and you couldn't help but drink in every note as if it were a rare elixir. his devotion to Eeena was palpable, a force that bound them together with an unbreakable thread of destiny.

“they look great together, don't they?” you turned to see stefan by your side, smiling because he knew how much their happiness meant to him. you so desperately forced a smile, ignoring the way your breathing grew heavy as your gaze softened. “yeah,” you murmured, voice a mere whisper. “yeah, they do.”

as the days turned into weeks, your affection for damon remained a silent symphony, playing softly in the chambers of your heart. you watched him from the shadows, your presence unnoticed amidst the bustling chaos. you reveled in the mere seconds he spared for you, fleeting interactions that left an indelible mark on your soul.

the town itself seemed to mirror your emotions, as flowers of all kinds bloomed in profusion. yet, within you, a seed of despair took root, its tendrils creeping through your heart like delicate vines. unbeknownst to you, this burgeoning ache was mirrored within your very breath, as each inhale carried a hidden poison that would soon become an integral part of your existence.

it was a cool evening, the stars above twinkling like diamonds against the inky sky, when you dared to venture closer to the epicenter of your yearning. a masquerade ball had enveloped the salvatore mansion in an air of mystique, drawing guests from all corners of mystic falls.

you watched from the shadows, your masked visage concealing the hope and pain that swirled within your eyes. damon and elena moved through the crowd, a picture of grace and desire. their dance was one of undeniable connection, leaving you feeling as if you were but a specter in their world.

as the night waned and the moon hung low, you found yourself on the outskirts of the mansion's sprawling garden. moonflowers, their petals luminescent in the silvery light, bloomed in abundance. wiih a sigh, you plucked a single bloom, its delicate fragrance filling the air around you.

“gorgeous, aren't they?” you met stefan's eyes once more, his gaze nearly pitiful. he was aware of how much you yearned for his brother—how much you craved to be loved the way he loved elena. you turned back to the bundle of flowers, eyes glowing with admiration. “i love them,” you admitted, all the while knowing you had a different confession in mind. him. you loved damon.

stefan's lips curved in a gentle smile, though there was a tinge of sadness hidden behind his eyes. “moonflowers,” he murmured, his voice carrying a soft, almost melancholic quality. “they're said to bloom only at night, under the moon's tender gaze. but their beauty comes with a price.” he extended a hand to touch one of the petals, his fingers brushing against the delicate surface with a reverence that spoke of deeper understanding. you followed his lead, letting your fingers graze the petals of the moonflower. the texture was velvety, cool against your touch, and you couldn't help but think that it mirrored the complexity of the emotions swirling within you. “what price?” you asked, your voice hushed as if afraid to break the fragile tranquility that surrounded you both.

stefan's gaze turned distant, as if he were peering into a past filled with memories too painful to bear. “legend has it that moonflowers take their beauty from those who admire them,” he explained, his words carrying a weight you could sense even before he continued. “they absorb the heartache, the unspoken longing, and the unrequited love of those who stand in their presence.”

the truth of his words settled over you like a shroud, chilling and numbing. you stared at the moonflowers with a mixture of awe and trepidation, as if they held the key to your very existence. “do they take away the pain?” you whispered, your gaze flickering up to meet stefan's.

hia expression held a mixture of sympathy and empathy. “no,” he said softly, his voice carrying the weight of his own experience. “they bear witness to it. they hold it, absorb it, until the pain becomes an intrinsic part of them. but they cannot erase it.”

a silence hung between you, heavy with unspoken truths. you turned your gaze back to the moonflowers, their luminescence seeming to shimmer with an otherworldly light. it was as if they understood the depth of your emotions, as if they were waiting to cradle your secrets and carry them into the night.

“you're not alone in this,” stefan said, his voice a gentle reassurance. “i know what you feel.” your heart clenched at his words, a mixture of gratitude and sorrow flooding your senses. in that moment, you understood that the pain you carried was not a solitary burden—it was shared by another who knew the taste of unrequited love all too well. you knew he loved elena more than damon ever could.

as the days turned into weeks, the symptoms of your hidden affliction began to manifest. A persistent cough, dry and unyielding, echoed through the quiet chambers of your room. each breath you took seemed to carry a weight, as if the air itself had turned into a tangible reminder of your unspoken desires.

days turned into nights, and the moonflowers in the garden continued to wilt, their petals falling like tears that went unnoticed by all but you. the nights grew colder, the air carrying a heaviness that matched the weight on your chest. your coughs became more frequent, each one a reminder that the poison of unrequited love had taken root within you. the moonflowers had all but withered, their once-beautiful petals scattered like confetti of heartache upon the ground.

in the final throes of your affliction, you sought solace in the warmth of your bathtub, the water soothing against your skin. moonflower petals floated upon the surface, their delicate fragrance a reminder of the pain you had carried, the love you had hidden, and the sacrifices you had made. the coughing had grown more frequent, each fit more violent than the last, leaving you weak and trembling.

blood stained the water, a macabre dance of crimson against the white porcelain. each cough was a harsh reminder of the poison that had taken hold, the unspoken emotions that had finally found their voice in the form of bloodied petals.

as you leaned against the edge of the bathtub, your breathing labored and your body weakened, you felt a strange sense of peace settle over you. the moonlight filtered through the window, casting an ethereal glow upon your skin. you closed your eyes, your consciousness drifting between the realms of pain and serenity.

in the quiet of that moment, you felt a gentle pressure against your hand—a touch so light, it could have been a figment of your imagination. but then it came again, more persistent, and you slowly turned your head to see stefan sitting by your side. his gaze was filled with a mixture of sorrow and acceptance, a silent acknowledgment of the journey you had shared.

“i'm here,” he murmured, his voice a soft reassurance.

you managed a weak smile, your fingers curling around his hand. It was cold, a reflection of the reality that was slowly dawning upon you. “stefan,” you whispered, the word a fragile breath that carried the weight of a thousand unspoken sentiments.

his eyes met yours, and in their depths, you saw the depth of his affection, the extent of his understanding. he was not just a witness to your pain; he was a bearer of it, a partner in the silent symphony of longing that had played out in the shadows.

as your vision began to blur and the world around you faded, you felt a strange sense of release. the pain that had plagued you for so long was no longer yours to bear. and as you closed your eyes for the last time, you felt a single tear slide down your cheek, mingling with the petals that still clung to your skin.

when consciousness finally left you, stefan held your cold hand, his touch a poignant reminder of the connection you had shared. he stayed by your side, his gaze fixed upon your face, as if willing you to find peace in the afterlife.

but just as the sun began to paint the sky with the first hues of dawn, a harsh cough erupted from stefan's lips. he doubled over, a hand pressed to his mouth, and as he coughed, delicate petals of moonflowers tumbled to the ground—a mirror of the pain he had absorbed, the love he had carried, and the sacrifice he had made for you.

the ache that had bloomed within his heart was the same ache you had carried for his brother, and now, it was the ache that bound him to you in death.

#tvd #the vampire diaries angst #the vampire diaries #damon salvatore #damon salvatore x reader #damon salvatore angst #stefan salvatore x reader angst #stefan salavatore x reader #stefan salvatore angst #stefan x reader #stefan salvatore oneshot #stefan salvatore

[hollowed-theory-hall]

Secrets of the Darkest Art: How to Make a Horcrux

So I saw many theories regarding how to make a Horcrux, but none of them really made perfect sense to me, so I decided to give it a crack myself as part of my mission to understand Lord Voldemort/Tom Marvolo Riddle (Which I think I did, big post coming about that at some point, this is but another piece of that puzzle of a man)

So this is my reverse engineering of a ritual to create Horcruxes based on book evidence, my knowledge of real-world alchemy, real-world ancient Greek cults and rituals and linguistic analysis.

How to reverse engineering a dark magical ritual:

The first thing, is to define what we knew fore certain:

The name: "Horcrux"

The creator is an Ancient Greek wizard named Harpo the Foul.

A death is required in the making.

A Horcrux holds a piece of the casters soul that anchors them to life so they won't die.

I'll actually start with the third point.

How to split a soul?

Both Dumbledore and Slughorn mention a death being required to tear your soul to make a Horcrux, and that never really sat right with me. It magically doesn't make sense and even the canon examples we have for Horcrux murders make this statment iffy.

We have seven examples of murders used to create Horcruxs (thanks to one Tom Riddle being dramatic):

The Diary - Myrtle Warren - killed by a basilisk. Sure, Tom freed the Basilisk, but it hardly seemed targeted at Myrtle specifically and you can argue he didn't actually kill her (more a manslaughter by negligence). He didn't cast the spell, so how come this tore his soul?

The Ring - his father (Tom Riddle Sr) - Avada Kadevra.

The Cup - Hepzibah Smith - she was poisoned by her house elf. Sure, the elf was under the imperious, but it wasn't a first-degree murder, and like with the Basilisk I find it hard to consider this the same as casting a killing curse. Magically those are very different things.

The Locket - Muggle Tramp - Avada Kadevra

The Diadem - Albanian Peasant - Avada Kadevra

Harry Potter - himself - backfired Avada Kadevra

Nagini - Bertha Jorkins - Avada Kadevra

Now, I used the term "magically different" or "magically make sense" what do I mean by that?

Well, besides the fact I'm going to make a full post about how I see magical theory in the Harry Potter Wizarding World, I'll say it takes a lot after occult philosophies from Alchemy that are very old, Slughorn mentions as much in book 6 and there are a few other references to it. I'm just gonna cover the basics required for this theory.

In Alchemy, everything (people, animals, plants and rocks) are built of three base components:

The Salt - the body - the physical form.

The Sulfur - the soul - the self that holds the divine flame.

The Murcury - the spirit - the life essence that binds the salt and sulfer together.

Now, in Alchemy, the main study is in purifying and combining these different aspects of material. Let's look at a herb, for an example:

If we want to retrieve its salt, we'll dry the herb completely using fire to leave behind a fine light grey ash that represents only the physical form.

If we wanted its mercury we'd distill all liquids from it until we get a purified, clear liquid which in the case of plants would be alcohol (it's why alcohol is referred to as "spirit").

And if we wanted its soul, we would take the remains from the distillation and drying process which would be a kind of oil.

(it can get more complicated with different materials, but this isn't a post about Alchemy)

Now, back to Horcruxs.

So, if we would want to split a soul, Alchemecly, how do we go about it?

Well, we don't. Not really. See a soul can't really be split, as every part of it, every bit of that oil from our random herb represents the entire soul. It's why something like a Horcrux could theoretically work in giving a full life to the diary the way we see in Chamber of Secrets.

Additionally, to work with any material in Alchemy, you are required to purify it first. It means that to get a piece of soul to bind to a diary, you need a pure soul.

Killing someone else won't sever your own soul from the spirit and the body, it's not how this works. Killing someone severs their spirit and therefore splits their body, spirit, and soul. Besides, an Ancient Greek man, like Herpo was, would hardly consider murder as vile as we do today. It wouldn't even cross his mind that any murder (even an indirect one) could harm one's own soul.

No, the only way to "split" a soul is to first sever it from life, disconnecting the bond between soul and body. Essentially, the only way to promise you immortality is to kill yourself.

I know it sounds a little confusing, but, essentially, once the soul is severed from the spirit and body you can split it. Think of the herbal oil, once you have the oil, separate from the rest of the plant parts, you can combine it with new ingredients. You can only work on a specific aspect once you severed it from the other two and as what binds all three together is spirit — life — the only way to do it for a human soul — is death.

But really, how?

Well, here comes the second thing we know about making Horcruxs — that dear Herpo was Ancient Greek.

In Ancient Greece they had multiple different religious cults, some of which were Chthonic cults. Cults that dedicated themselves to death or ditties and heroes associated with death and more importantly — rebirth.

Many of these cults were dedicated to figures like Orpheous, Dyonysus, Persephone, characters in mythology who are known for going through the underworld — through death — and coming back out. These cults were very secretive and not much is known about their practices, but some is.

What is known is that they had rituals were they reenacted a death and then rebirth (usually drinking wine — a water if life, was the representation of rebirth).

This created a very clear idea in my head — to split a soul, you'll have to ritualisticlly, magically kill yourself, severe a peice of your soul and then revive yourself with a water of life — a potion.

This potion is never mentioned, but I believe it exists due to these Chthonic cult rituals and how they were structured. Not only that, but the Greek underworld did have a river known for being incredibly painful to drink, literally made of fire, but being able to bring the dead back - The Phlegethon River.

Note: Lethe River Water (the river in the Greek Underworld that makes the drinker forget) is a canon ingredient in a Forgetfulness Potion.

So what is the dead body for?

Well, congratulations, you killed yourself to retrieve a sliver of your soul and revived yourself so you won't stay dead. You found an item you can keep secure to tie that sliver of soul, too. Now, how would you bind then? After all, the only thing meant to bind a human soul to a body is a human spirit - a human life... you get where I'm going with this.

This is why Tom didn't have to be the one to do the deed. As long as he had a recently deceased corpse to harvest the life from to use to bind his newly split soul and the item of his choice.

It explains why nothing was missing from the bodies. Myrtle and the Riddles were investigated by the Ministry of Magic. One would assume the aurors would've noticed if any corpse was missing a hand due to the killer eating it (as other Horcrux theories suggest).

Not only was nothing missing from the body, the soul was intact. Myrtle became a ghost after death, a ghost is quite literally, just the soul, no body, no spirit.

So the only thing that was taken from Tom's victims was their life, quite literally at that.

Is that all? Can we make a Horcrux now?

Not really. See, when analyzing spells in Harry Potter is their name.

Avada Kadevra - is a reference to an Aramaic healing spell "Abracadabra" pronounced in Aramaic as: "Avra Kadebra" and meaning "I will create as commanded". Merged with the Latin word "cadaver" meaning "corpse" to create -> "I will create dead bodies as commanded"

Or Wingardium Laviosa - is a cross of the English word "wing", the Latin word "arduus" (meaning "high, tall, lofty, steep, proudly elevated"), or "arduum" (meaning "steep place, the steep" and the Latin word "levo" (meaning to "raise, lift up"). So together the spell means -> "lift high up".

So, it's pretty clear spells, their names and incantations are very self-explanatory. So a Horcrux should be no different.

I've seen some attempts at translating the name Horcrux. Unfortunately, these attempts treated the name as Latin, modern Greek, or Old English. Herpo, was Ancient Greek, though, so I went and translated a few possible meanings from Ancient Greek (Classical Greek and Homeric Greek are what I looked at):

ὅρκος (orkus, pronounced "hor-kus") - an oath, the object by which one swears, bound by oath (still used in modern Greek).

κρόκες (crukes, pronounced "cru-kes") - saffron-colored (blood red in Greek), crocus flower. The crocus flower symbolizes both death (the saffron that is the spice) and rebirth (the golden crocus which brings renewal and joy) because Demeter wears them when Persephone returns from the underworld in myth.

So what we have is a spell called "binding oath of death and rebirth" which all around sounds fitting.

There might also be a "made in blood" tucked at the end due to the association of κρόκες with the color of blood.

But what does it matter?

Well, somewhat. As now with this name, I expect the binding between the spirit from the victim, the split soul, and the item would be done in a sort of oath - an orkus.

The association with blood gives us another hint. Blood is the part of the human body most representative of life. Therefore, in Alchemy, your blood is your spirit. So it'll make sense that your own blood would be used in the binding process or more correctly in the process of turning another person's spirit into your own. Making the thread to bind the body (item) and the soul piece your own. As it also refers to just a red firey color, it can indicate the Phlagatton potion I hypothesize should be part of the ritual due to how Chthonic rituals usually went, as the Phlagaton river is made of fire.

So we have a general idea on how to make a Horcrux. You need an item of your choice to bind your soul to. You need a life (spirit) harvested from a human that you transformed into being your own using your blood. And you need a piece of your own soul, which you get by killing yourself and then reviving yourself. And you finish it off by binding it all together with an oath.

But how could you make one accidentally?

So, everyone knows Voldemort succeeded in somehow making a Horcrux accidentally, something a lot of theories I saw don't account for. Becouse whatever process you need to go to to make a Horcrux, Voldemort went through all of it the night he died the first time and marked Harry.

All the steps for my method of making a Horcrux were met that night.

The item in qustion is baby Harry, nothing interesting there.

The soul sliver was split the way it always is — through death. Voldemort dies, killed by his own killing curse and that is what splits his soul.

The life or spirit that then binds his soul to Harry isn't Lily's spirit or James'; it's his own spirit that acts as a binder between Harry and Voldemort’s split soul. Because the spirit was already his, there was no need to transform it by blood.

Step-by-step guide to making Horcruxes:

I'm not going to actually give the full step-by-step least a budging dark lord is looking for this information. I do have notes about exact incantations and even the full recipe and instructions for the Phlagaton potion I'm going to mention. These instructions won't be here since they are more in the realm of speculation and headcanon. This is just the overview of the ritual based on canon information and the occult philosophy I mentioned above.

Step 1 - Life and Blood

Get access to a recently deceased human and extract their Mercury (Spirit or Life Essence).

Submerge the retrieved life essence with your own blood on a new moon (life and vitality). (7 drops of blood will probably do)

Step 2 - Water of Fire

To complete the cycle of death and rebirth you’ll need the Phlegeton Water potion to return you to life at the end of the cycle.

As you brew the potion, it must be brewed in a dark room, preferably underground to remind as much of the underworld as possible.

While brewing the potion one must be in the mindset of the Phlegeton, must be willing to go through agony to achieve eternal life and imbue these thoughts in their potion. (In alchemy, when working, it is believed you imbue your work with your thoughts during the Alchemical process. As an Alchemical process affects both the material being worked and the Alchemist themselves)

Likley Ingrediants:

Saffron spice

Golden crocus flower juice

Pomegranate juice

Step 3 - The Ritual Preparation

Set up your space so none of the components may escape the ritual space and so the ritual will not be interfered with.

Make sure the spirit you retrieved is within reach.

Make sure the item you desire will hold the Horcrux will be within reach as well.

Coax the spirit into the item and prepare it to tie your soul to the next step.

Step 4 - Death and Rebirth

To create a thread of your soul to tie to the ritual, you must die figuratively. Go through death to return stronger from the underworld.

Once you feel like death has reached you and your soul is separated you should heal your soul and finish the cycle, bringing you out of death and back to life by drinking the Phlegeton potion.

After the pain subsides you will feel healthier than before, stronger than before, and you’ll have an additional thread of sulfur (soul) in your chest to be pulled out and placed into the Horcrux.

The split-off soul should, on its own, try to search for life and a body to be bound to. If it doesn't, coax it out yourself and bind it to the Horcrux with the spirit you made in step 1.

Step 5 - Oath of Life

The connection between the body (the item), soul, and spirit is still unstable, if most likely strong enough to hold.

Swear the oath of life to finalise the bound between you, the Horcrux, and the soul thread together to ward off death.

I'll end with this note I made regarding Horcruxes when I started working on this theory:

I don't know what all goes into the process of making a Horcrux but I don't believe a person who truly likes themselves and doesn't want to inflict pain on themselves could make a Horcrux. Tearing up your soul is an act of arrogance above nature, sure, thinking you deserve to change the laws of the world and be the exception is part of it, but it's also an act of self-hatred. You need to hate yourself enough to be willing to kill yourself, hurt yourself, and tear yourself up in the most unnatural ways — hence why so few can do so, let alone more than once.

And Tom Riddle does seem to have that exact mix of arrogance, spite, and low self-esteem that would allow it.

#hp theory #hp #harry potter #harry potter theory #harry potter thoughts #tom marvolo riddle #lord voldemort #horcrux #hollowedtheory #overthinking #voldemort #voldemort analysis #wizarding world #tom riddle #horcruxes #nagini #moaning myrtle #slytherin

[herlondonboy]

The Songbird and the Rebel

pairings: lucy gray baird x gn!reader

summary: you love lucy. you would do anything for her. including throw yourself in with the wolves in order to protect her.

warnings: canon typical violence, minor SPOILERS FOR TBOSAS!!!! reader is gender neutral BUT takes the spot for male tribute, first person

word count: 2.3k

a/n: my first fanfic in a while (leilani if you see this leave) part 2?

Lucy Gray Baird was a name known to most in District 12.

If you don’t know her from when her and her covey arrived in District 12 with an array of songs, then you definitely know her from her singing in the bar or by the hanging tree.

In the quiet corners of my heart, there exists a profound narrative woven with the threads of affection and admiration for Lucy Gray Baird. To gaze upon her is to witness a kaleidoscope of beauty, each facet revealing a unique charm that, when combined, creates an enchanting tapestry of allure. Her presence is a gentle breeze, weaving through the tapestry of my days, leaving me breathless with the ethereal magic she brings.

Lucy Gray's eyes are like pools of liquid moonlight, reflecting a depth that seems to hold the secrets of the universe. When she casts her gaze upon me, it's as if time itself pauses, and in those moments, I find solace in the silent language exchanged between our souls. Her laughter, a melody that dances in the air, resonates with the sweetness of a thousand songbirds. Each note is a reminder that joy is not just an emotion, but a symphony composed by the mere existence of Lucy Gray.

Yet, it is in the cadence of her voice that the true enchantment unfolds. Her words are like a lyrical river, flowing with grace and carrying the weight of untold stories. The timbre, a harmonious blend of warmth and tenderness, wraps around my heart like a comforting embrace. Listening to Lucy Gray speak is akin to traversing a forest of ancient trees, each word a delicate leaf that rustles in the gentle breeze, revealing the wisdom etched into the very fabric of her being.

In the quietude of twilight, as the world settles into a hushed symphony, Lucy Gray's voice becomes a lullaby, a soothing melody that cradles my thoughts and lingers in the corridors of my dreams. It is a voice that navigates the complexities of emotion, painting vivid landscapes of understanding and empathy. With every syllable, she unveils a tapestry of connection, forging a bond that transcends the mundane and elevates our shared existence to a realm where love is not just a sentiment but a living, breathing entity.

To be in love with Lucy Gray Baird is to be immersed in a story where every chapter unfolds with the grace of a sonnet, and her enchanting voice serves as the narrator, guiding me through the intricacies of emotion with eloquence and poise. In her presence, time becomes an ephemeral concept, and the symphony of our shared moments resonates in the chambers of my heart, an everlasting ode to the captivating magic that is Lucy Gray.

As the calendar inches closer to that dreaded date, the annual arrival of the reaping, a shiver courses through my veins, and the spectre of fear looms large in the recesses of my thoughts. It's a perennial nightmare, a cyclical horror that etches its mark on my soul with each passing year. The looming prospect of the reaping casts a long, foreboding shadow over the days leading up to it, like an impending storm gathering its strength.

In the district, where life is a delicate dance on the precipice of survival, the reaping is the grand conductor orchestrating the symphony of anxiety that grips every heart. The Capitol's merciless tradition, designed to remind us of our vulnerability, is an annual ritual that plunges us into a maelstrom of uncertainty. As the day draws near, the atmosphere becomes thick with a palpable tension, a collective holding of breaths that echo the unspoken dread etched across the faces of my fellow citizens.

The fear is not merely a response to the capricious nature of the reaping; it is an acknowledgment of the ruthless lottery that defines our existence. Every year, the odds are a cruel reminder of the fragility of life, and as the names are drawn, the spectre of mortality hangs heavy in the air. It's a twisted game where the stakes are nothing less than life itself, and the chances of escape grow slimmer with each passing year.

Yet, in the recesses of my consciousness, a tiny flame of hope persists. Three more years, I tell myself, just three more before the shackles of this annual torment are lifted. The countdown becomes a mantra, a whispered reassurance that carries me through the darkest hours leading up to the reaping. I imagine a future where the weight of this fear is but a distant memory, where the spectre of the Capitol's malevolence no longer casts its sinister gaze upon my destiny.

Survival becomes an art, a delicate dance between evading the Capitol's scrutiny and navigating the treacherous currents of our district's harsh realities. With each passing reaping, the lessons learned, the alliances forged, and the scars accumulated become badges of a silent resistance against the Capitol's oppressive grip. As the clock ticks away, the urgency to outlast this infernal cycle intensifies, and I find solace in the belief that resilience will be my shield until the dawn of that promised freedom.

The reaping remains an annual crucible, but with each passing year, the embers of hope burn a little brighter. Three more years—a finite horizon that promises liberation from the perennial terror that shadows my days. Until then, I navigate the minefield of survival, driven by the unyielding determination to defy the odds and emerge from the crucible of the reaping with the scars of endurance etched upon my soul.

Lost in the tapestry of my daydreams, where the edges of reality blur into the realms of imagination, I found myself wading through the ethereal landscapes of distant thoughts. The cadence of a country twang, like a gentle breeze, pulled me back from the reverie, and there she was – Lucy Gray Baird, a vision of warmth and southern charm.

"What's wrong, darling?" Lucy Gray's voice, dripping with honeyed tones, sliced through the cocoon of my musings. Startled, I looked up to find her gaze fixed on me, a playful twinkle in her eyes that made my heart flutter.

Shaking my head to dispel the lingering fragments of my daydreams, I stammered out a feeble response, "Oh, nothing, just lost in thought."

Lucy Gray's expression shifted to a quizzical 'really?' as she cocked her head to the side. It was as if she could read the unsaid, decipher the hidden nuances beneath the surface of my demeanour. Unable to support the charade, I sighed and admitted, "Just thinking about tomorrow."

Her brow furrowed with concern, and Lucy Gray, with a sincerity that belied the playful banter, insisted, "We're not getting picked, darling. Trust me."

The assurance, while comforting, collided with the grim reality that haunted the eve of every reaping. "Lucy Gray, you can't be sure. The odds are never in our favour," I argued, my voice laced with the weight of impending dread.

An animated debate unfolded, our words clashing like opposing currents in a tempestuous sea. Lucy Gray, with an unwavering confidence, insisted that fate would spare us, while I, burdened by the grim statistics of our district, could not share her optimism. The tension escalated, transforming a mere disagreement into a storm of conflicting emotions.

With a heavy sigh, I declared, "I can't afford false hope, Lucy Gray. I need to face the reality of our situation."

Lucy Gray's eyes darkened with disappointment, and her lips formed a thin line. "You don't have to face it alone, darling," she murmured, her voice now devoid of its earlier playfulness.

In the aftermath of our heated exchange, the room echoed with the haunting silence of unresolved tension. Unable to bear the weight of the unspoken, I stormed out, leaving behind a tumultuous atmosphere that lingered in the air like a palpable storm. The door swung shut behind me, closing the chapter on a disagreement that lingered in the corridors of my conscience.

As I walked away, the shadows of doubt and fear clung to me like a relentless spectre. Tomorrow's reaping loomed on the horizon, and amid our clash, the uncertain fate that awaited us cast a shadow on the camaraderie between Lucy Gray and me.

The morning of the reaping dawned with an eerie stillness, the air thick with tension as I stood flanked by my brothers, a tight knot of apprehension settling in the pit of my stomach. The proximity to them, a meagre comfort in the face of the impending ordeal, offered a silent solidarity that spoke of shared fears and unspoken bonds.

As the announcer's voice echoed through the square, a collective hush fell over the assembled crowd. My gaze scanned the sea of faces, searching for Lucy Gray amid the sea of anxious expressions. But she was nowhere to be found, and a gnawing unease crept into my thoughts.

The dread reached its zenith when the familiar twang of the announcer's voice pierced the air, uttering those fateful words that sent shockwaves through my world. "Lucy Gray Baird."

Time seemed to grind to a halt as her name reverberated through the square. A sharp intake of breath echoed through the crowd, and my brothers and I exchanged glances, our eyes mirroring the disbelief that clung to our collective consciousness. Lucy Gray, the beacon of defiance and warmth, had been ensnared by the merciless claws of the reaping.

A murmur rippled through the crowd as Lucy Gray emerged, her steps deliberate yet exuding an air of unrestrained rebellion. As she approached the podium, the atmosphere crackled with a palpable tension. Instead of submitting to the Capitol's ritual humiliation, Lucy Gray took matters into her own hands.

In a daring act of defiance, she slipped a snake into the folds of the mayor's daughter's dress, a calculated rebellion that unfolded like a subversive ballet. Gasps of astonishment and screams of fear spread through the crowd as Lucy Gray stood there, an embodiment of resistance against the Capitol's oppression.

Her gaze, a beacon of unyielding determination, sought me out in the crowd. Our eyes locked in a silent exchange, a communion of understanding that transcended the barriers of the Capitol's surveillance. In that fleeting moment, I saw not just defiance but a plea for solidarity, a shared understanding of the injustice that had befallen her.

The Covey, recognizing their songbird in distress, began to sing. Their harmonies, a haunting melody of sorrow and defiance, wove through the square, amplifying the rebellious spirit that Lucy Gray embodied. It was a serenade for a fallen comrade, a hymn of resistance that reverberated through the hearts of those who dared to challenge the Capitol's iron grip.

As Lucy Gray stood there, surrounded by the harmonies of the Covey, I felt an indescribable mixture of emotions. Anguish, for the injustice that had befallen her; admiration, for her unyielding spirit; and a lingering sense of guilt for the moments of doubt that had clouded our camaraderie. The reaping square transformed into a stage for a silent revolution, and Lucy Gray, with her audacious act, had become the unwitting protagonist in a tale of defiance and sacrifice.

Driven by a surge of emotions that transcended reason, I pushed forward through the tightly packed crowd, determination burning in my veins. The air crackled with tension as I reached the front, and my heart pounded in my chest like a war drum. Lucy Gray's name lingered in the air, a haunting echo that reverberated through the square.

As I stumbled towards the platform, the weight of the moment settled on my shoulders. My voice trembled, but a resolute conviction carried me forward. "I volunteer!"

Lucy Gray, standing defiantly on the podium, shot me a perplexed frown. A silent exchange passed between us, a question lingering in her eyes. Why would I jeopardize my own safety for her? But there was no time for explanations as the Capitol's relentless proceedings demanded swift adherence.

Shaking her head in disbelief, Lucy Gray gestured towards me, her eyes mirroring a silent plea for me to reconsider. But I couldn't back down now. I couldn't let Lucy Gray face the Capitol's brutality alone.

"I volunteer to take the place of Jessup Diggs!" The words hung in the air, a courageous declaration that seemed to confound the very fabric of the reaping ceremony. Murmurs of uncertainty rippled through the crowd, unsure if such a deviation from the Capitol's script was permissible.

The Capitol's enforcers hesitated, caught off guard by the unprecedented turn of events. The air was thick with uncertainty, the collective gasp of the onlookers amplifying the tension that permeated the square. Jessup Diggs looked bewildered, unsure whether to be grateful or worried for the unexpected twist of fate.

Before the Capitol's enforcers could make sense of the situation, Jessup was roughly thrown down from the stage. A jolt of realization surged through the crowd, the unspoken understanding that the Capitol's machinations brooked no dissent. I was seized by unseen hands, dragged up to the platform, and away from the tumultuous sea of faces.

As I was pulled away, my eyes sought out Lucy Gray, who now stood alone, a solitary figure in the midst of the chaotic spectacle. Her gaze met mine, a silent acknowledgment passing between us. In that moment, I saw gratitude mixed with an unspoken sadness, a recognition of the sacrifice made in the name of defiance.

The cheers and protests of the crowd faded into the background as I was led away from the square, the consequences of my impulsive decision looming ahead. In the face of the Capitol's cruelty, I had dared to challenge the script, to rewrite the narrative of the reaping. The road ahead was uncertain, but as I cast a last glance at Lucy Gray Baird, standing alone on the podium, I knew that the seeds of rebellion had been sown, and the repercussions of my choice would resonate far beyond the confines of the reaping square.

#elijah writes #lucy gray baird #lucy gray x coriolanus #lucy gray x reader #lucy gray #lucy gray baird x reader #gn #gn reader #the ballad of songbirds and snakes #tbosas #tbosas x reader #x you #tbosas x you #the ballard of songbirds and snakes x reader

[inoreuct]

Headcanons for Zoro and Sanji as Hades and Persephone? 👀

HERE WE GOOOOO. buckle up. this is LONG.

sanji’s persephone. the breathtakingly beautiful god of spring, kind and charming with wit sharper than a grain scythe and a marvellous capacity for divine rage. he’s a whiz in the kitchen (it’s sanji. duh.) and has a green thumb to boot; up on the surface he has a garden that’s his pride and joy, where he grows his own fruits and herbs and vegetables and rare blooms, occupying a plot of land together with the cottage that he and zeff (more on him later) stay at whenever they can.

zoro’s hades. intimidating as all hell (heh), has a MAJOR resting bitch face, and a three-headed dog with the heads named wado, kitetsu and enma. he’s a good man, just VERY emotionally constipated and he’s never had to woo anyone before; it should be illegal for someone that powerful to be so awkward but he IS.

he goes up to the surface one day to take care of underworld business, something about dead souls escaping— and he sees sanji in his garden, on his knees in the dirt, gathering herbs with his hair a mess, golden as the sun and all over his face and when he flips it aside to talk to zeff his smile is even brighter. zoro feels his heart lurch so hard he wonders if he’d gotten cardiac arrest.

and as previously mentioned, zoro has NO IDEA how to talk to this beautiful— god? nymph? human?? he doesn’t know. he doesn’t care. he wants to get to know his mystery guy but he doesn’t want to freak him out, so he just thinks FUCK IT I’LL BRING HIM TO MY HOME AND FIGURE IT OUT FROM THERE. totally not a bad idea.

zeff’s demeter. protective, sometimes TOO protective, the god of agriculture practically raised sanji himself; barely anyone even knows that he HAS a son. he has fields upon fields of grain; rice, oats, wheat, whatever sanji requires to cook and bake to his heart’s content. the entire valley where their cottage resides is known to be zeff’s territory, and he doesn’t hesitate to rain holy vengeance down on whoever trespasses.

which is why zeff is so mad when zoro pops out of the literal dirt and whisks sanji away. it’s not fun for any of the human farmers on earth that day.

when zoro brings him to the underworld, sanji’s pissed as fuck; kicks and yells the whole way down, then knees him in the balls and nearly rips out one of his earrings before strutting off like he already owns the place. what about his garden? zeff? all the humans he has a soft spot for?? who the fuck does this king of the underworld think he is, plucking sanji out of his life like this?

meanwhile, zoro lies there curled up on the ground as wado licks at his face, and for the first time in his life he wonders if making a plan would have been a better idea. he asks his shades to gather information and learns that sanji’s the god of spring, zeff’s son in all the ways that matter; but even if he hadn’t been a god, zoro would have easily made him immortal if he’d wished. the thought is wild and so out of character for him that he sits there for even longer until the shades tell him that sanji’s demanding to talk to him.

sanji finds the throne room but on the way he’d already passed multiple chambers filled with gold, crystals, extremely rare night-blooming plants— he walked by a cave with its walls encrusted with rubies as big as his head. but he misses the sun. he misses his flowers and his herbs and fuck, he had a bundle of rosemary drying in the kitchen. he really hopes he’ll get to see it again.

the shades are all polite, if a little wary, but they seem to relax more when he smiles at them. the throne room is massive, a cavern with stalactites dripping from the ceiling and ending in wicked points, and the throne itself is a twisted amalgamation of iron and volcanic glass, gold and bleached bone and pure, sparkling diamond.

he doesn’t even flinch when zoro enters with his sweeping black cloak and his liquid, inky shadows, just pulls his lip up in a sneer; he doesn’t give a shit who this big shot is. doesn’t care for the crown of ivory and obsidian set atop his brow. he knows where he is, knows exactly who he’s dealing with, and he stomps right up to zoro, shoves a finger in his chest and says, “what the fuck do you think you’re doing.”

the shades obviously didn’t see the whole getting-kneed-in-the-family-jewels spectacle, because there is a collective audible gasp. the court goes deadly quiet. zoro feels his shadows subconsciously swirl around him, building the silhouette behind his back into something out of a nightmare, but he makes an effort to disperse them as soon as sanji looks.

“i want. to court you,” he ekes out, eyes big and mouth pinched, and sanji suddenly realises that this man is just very, very awkward and obviously has not interacted with many living people for a very long time.

and no matter about anything else, zoro looks earnest. he takes a deep breath and his shoulders shift beneath his cloak, lifting his chin— but his expression screams pleasesayyespleasesayyespleasesayyes and sanji… doesn’t have the heart to say no. what will a few days hurt, right?

so they come to an agreement. sanji will spend a month in the underworld and allow zoro to court him, and if by the end of that time he doesn’t want to stay, zoro would personally see to it that he got home safe. he isn’t a prisoner, either; he is free to wander in the upper world for half the day. twelve hours of sunshine, and twelve hours in zoro’s domain.

if sanji’s honest with himself, the underworld honestly isn’t bad; zoro spares no expense to ensure he's comfortable even though he doesn't come see sanji himself very often in the beginning.

(sanji doesn't know it yet, but it’s because zoro's deathly terrified of sanji genuinely hating/fearing him or the underworld, or not being happy. he'd brought sanji down because he'd fallen hard and fast in love but if sanji ever truly did want to leave, it wouldn’t be a question. zoro would send him back up with his weight in jewels and gold as recompense.)

it's a little lonely, but not horrible; sanji befriends the shades and talks to the passing spirits, and word spreads that the king's crush (oh, zoro would have a conniption if he heard) is to be treated with the utmost respect, not just because of the order zoro proclaimed but because he deserves it. sanji is kind and understanding and snarky and fun to be around, but he also gives solid advice and he's a good bit more emotionally aware than zoro. the shades haven’t gossiped this much in years and honestly zoro’s concerned about their work ethic, but he walks past a tea-spilling session one day and hears sanji giggle and all thoughts of stopping it fly right out of his brain.

zoro snoops around secretly and finds out that sanji’s birthday is within the month. the last day of their stipulated month, in fact. so he calls in a favour from luffy (apollo!! the sun god!! his best friend!!). he spends two weeks, almost three in a cave he’d picked out, carefully pulling gemstones and groundwater to the surface, getting his shades to bring down soil and seeds and consulting with dead farmers about how the hell he’s supposed to pull off what he wants to pull off, because he HAS to pull it off.

all the while, he’s still courting sanji; having tea with the god of spring, trying not to embarrass himself and mainly just trying to win sanji over. he gets so enthralled by sanji recounting a story once that he drops an entire crystal teapot, heart hammering as one of his shades phase through the ground and catches it before it can shatter. sanji looks a little perplexed about how it suddenly disappeared, but zoro urges him to go on and he lets it go.

(zoro had never been that panicked in his entire immortal life.)

i can’t believe it WE NEED A PART 2 I’M OUT OF CHARACTERS

(part 2 here)

#zosan #op zosan #one piece zosan #zoro x sanji #roronoa zoro #one piece sanji #one piece zoro #black leg sanji #one piece #zosan au #ask box #ino’s ask box

[athanasius-symposium-of-writings]

Ooh I have an idea! What about a vampire spawn!Tav who killed their old master before running away and getting caught up in the mind flayer incident? It would be interesting to see how Astarion would react to that

Ngl i love the idea of Astarion using the tadpole to peer into vampire spawn!tav's memories like how in-game tav goes into Gale's mind (a wisdom check I think)

Blood. Gods, it is everywhere! You try your damndest but it seems to only make it worse. The red robe you were forced to wear is soaked in blood thus weighing you slightly down. The ankle-deep pool of blood flows endlessly; ripples across the liquid surface as you try to get out of the sickly sweet sanguine abyss, hands covering your ears as the chanting starts. Something deep within you stirs, your stomach in pain and your mouth aches as your fangs feel as if being tugged down. "Leave me alone!" Crying in pain as your mind struggles to keep its sanity, "I don't want this!" You never did, this is forced upon you by your currently dead master. He lays lifelessly still in the blood, his eyes no longer have the light of his soul within but his gaze pierces through you. You scream as hands of blood grab at your legs and the bottom of your robe. The echo of pleased purr echoes in this chamber, the chamber of vampiric rites. Here Kanchelsis gives his gift directly. Your robe tears as you scramble away and run out of blood right into a priest who is leading the chant. "Get them!" You ran, that is all you can recall. Running and running and running. All you knew was that you had to get away, to escape.

The memory fades. Astarion cannot nor tries to reach deeper with the tadpole, that was enough. The high charge of emotions, the vividness of the temple. He never heard of Kanchelsis, of a cult of vampire worshippers, nor about this depraved ritual to complete in order to become a Vampire Lord. A ritual you did not consent to be a part of much less to be turned into a vampire.

You stay silent as a mouse, your hands shaking, your eyes squeezed shut to fight the tears. This memory is one of many but this is the most recent, the most vivid, and one showing Astarion that you are a victim not a fellow oppressor like Cazador.

"I.. Shit." He grabs your hands covering it with his, "Breathe." Trying to stop the way your body shakes like a leaf in the wind. When he kisses you, it doesn't help like he hoped— Though it would distract you. Your anxiety rises until he stops trying and simply sits with you.

The silent save for the sounds of nature outside of this tent.

It takes a while before the tears fall and you are clinging to the kindred in front of you.

The tadpole stirs once more.

He sees himself through your eyes, the nervousness and the hope. When he spoke about Cazador, you do not want to be happy but you are. Finally, someone who understands.

Misery loves company, sort of speak.

The connection is gone, your head is on his chest as if he has a beating heart to soothe you. Instead, he finds your blessed warmth to put him at ease. The silence is okay and comfortable, your hands stay with his.

Later you both can talk.

#reader insert #anon ask #astarion x reader #astarion bg3 #baldur's gate astarion #baldurs gate astarion #astarion #astarion x you #astarion x tav #astarion x mc

[i-cant-sing]

It's that time of the year where right before my exams, I get the most amazing story idea, so here it goes:

You guys have heard about how the Devil is bad because his sole purpose is to come and guide the believers to the wrong path? To make them commit sins? Like how he whispered in Eve's ear to eat the forbidden fruit?

So imagine the Devil coming down to earth for his next target to cause chaos- you!

Now usually, the devil has no problem persuading people to do wrong things but you- you're a stubborn one. A devout follower who refuses to cause anyone harm or even swear (even when you're all alone).

The devil is irritated by you, more so when he reveals his true identity and you have the nerve to chuckle and tell him that you know. You fucking knew he was the devil, and yet here you are, welcoming him into your home and offering him tea.

From there on, the devil is even more compelled to make God's favourite little believer come to the dark side. He loves a challenge after all. But eventually, the inevitable happens-

He falls in love.

And so do you. Not with him though, with another mortal.

You're so happy that you make the devil dance with you as you reveal to him how your parents have set the wedding date! And the devil... he simply cannot bare it, especially when he actually confesses to you and you still turn him down, albeit gently.

"Oh Lucifer... I'm afraid we can't. We're not supposed to be together, God wouldn't allow it!"

Oh so you think you're far too good and pure for him? That's he's far too filthy and damned for you?

In a rage, he returns to Hell and wreacks havoc upon the poor souls there, until a demon finally gathers up the courage to ask him what he should do to please their dark king.

But Lucifer doesn't say a word. Not that it mattered, because the demon who had been following his king around already knew you were the thorn in his side. And so, in an effort to please Lucifer, the demon had decided to find you.

You're the target he needs to break down.

-

A week later, Lucifer had finally cooled down a bit to go to Earth again. He'd missed you a lot, not that he would say it out loud, but be wanted to see you again.

What he didn't expect was to find you dead in your home.

He didn't believe it at first when he found you, tucked away in your bed, looking like a complete angel with your eyes closed. However, when he caressed your cheek, it alarmed him how cold your skin was. And when he pulled the covers off your body, he felt like hell froze over when he saw crimson, a dagger lying by your side.

Lucifer didn't get that you'd killed yourself, not initially. His first thought was that fiance of yours had done this, but that suspicion was dismissed when he saw your fiance come to check on you and look heartbroken at your state.

As Lucifer attended your funeral from afar, all he could focus was on who had murdered you.

And then it him. The demon.

In an instant, Lucifer had returned to Hell to find the demon, going to the lowest level where the said demon worked on punishing the worst sinners.

What he did not expect to see was the demon drowning you in hot lava, over and over again as you screamed so painfully that Lucifer actually doubted if God had indeed given him a heart.

"STOP!" Immeadiately, the entire hell came to a halt as they looked at their king. The demon bowed "My King-" but Lucifer had already threw him away as he pulled you out of the hot lava, yet you continued to scream as you were still covered in that burning liquid.

With a wave of his hand, all the lava had cleared off you and youd lost unconscious. Wrapping his cloak around you, Lucifer took you to his chambers where he laid you on his bed, using his powers to heal whatever burns and marks remained on your body. It was only then that it it him-

What are you doing here?

As glad as he was to see you, he couldn't figure out how the kindest soul he'd encountered had somehow ended up in his lair.

He left his room and called for the demon who was tormenting you, demanding an explanation.

The demon smirked. "I took care of the one who was troubling you, my King. Since she was too good to commit any sin, I just... pushed her a little until she broke down."

"What did you do?" Lucifer asked, patience evidently running thin.

"I defiled her."

What?

"I defiled her, against her will. Took her sweet little virginity and then told her how no one will want her now, not her fiance, not her family and not even God will forgive her for being a whore." The demon chuckled. "With continuous reminders of how much of a disgusting thing she is now, she finally killed herself a week later. And since taking your own life is a major sin, she ended up here, for me and my King to torment forever and ever. It's the perfect plan-" The demon never got to finish because the torture that had followed then was a sight far too horrible to describe.

By the end of it, all that was left behind were the demon's remains.

Lucifer will deal with him again when he resurrects him again to punish him for the rest of eternity.

For now, Lucifer needs to hold you again. He cant- he can't believe what you'd gone through. To end up in hell despite being a good soul was bad enough, but the reason why you had ended up there- the hell you'd already gone through on Earth- it was far worse.

He never wanted you to go through all of that. He'd rather cut off his own wings than to let anything happen to you. And yet... he couldn't help but feel a little happy that you did end up in hell. You're here now, for the rest of eternity and he'll spend all of that time picking up pieces of yourself and building you up again.

Lucifer strokes your cheek again, his head already hurting from trying to figure out how he's going to convince you that what happened to you- on earth and in hell, were not his orders. He'd never force himself on you, why would he have someone else force themselves on his object of all affections and desires.

I must remain calm. Lucifer tells himself, rubbing soothing circles to your cheek. For you, I will become worthy. I will make you happy again, Y/n. My queen✨️

I got exams in 3 days bro I need to stop daydreaming sm

#yandere lucifer #yandere oc #yandere ocs #yandere devil #yandere #yandere x reader

[hauntedestheart]

Royal Privilege Pt. 2 (Male Possession)

PART ONE

Having successfully gotten away with stealing the body of a royal prince, Bartelby kept his head down and followed the maid towards the prince's chambers. He had to restrain himself from gaping at the finery around him (it would be unbecoming of a prince) until he was alone in his new rooms, when he finally allowed himself to cackle with glee.

Impossibly, food was already waiting for him when he arrived– but that was just the life of a royal, he supposed. He had merely to ask and it would be given.

An array of delicacies laid spread out on a table before him: fruits, roast meats, sweet sugar spun delicacies that he had seen during festivals but never been able to afford. And here it was being given to him for free.

Suddenly starving, Bartelby fell upon the feast like a wild animal. He was almost afraid that the food would be too rich for him to stomach, but of course his new body was used to it. But each new flavor was still a delight for his mind and he savored every bite– he almost cried when he tasted chocolate for the first time.

A large bottle of bubbling yellow liquid had been provided as well and he recognized it as champagne, which peasants had whispered about as one of the finest spirits ever brewed. Bartelby drank greedily straight from the bottle, feeling his head grow light and his body loose.

His belly fuller than it had ever been before and his basic needs satisfied, Bartelby turned his attention to other matters.

Bartelby approached the mirror that hung on one of the walls of the room, and the face of prince Nicholas stared back at him from its shiny surface. He leaned in close and gazed into those blue eyes– the eyes of a prince hiding the soul of a peasant. Rags to riches like a fairy tale; now he was Prince Charming.

Curious of his new body, Bartelby began to divest himself of his clothes, and beneath the finery he found something even better than riches.

He had assumed, naturally, that thanks to their life of luxury all royals would be fat and lazy– but of course that wouldn't be the case for a seventh-in-line prince like Nicholas. A seventh-in-line prince like Nicholas was so far removed from the line of succession that he was essentially breeding stock, destined to be married off to some foreign royal to forge a diplomatic alliance. His only job was to be pretty– but my, he did that exceptionally well.

"You probably haven't been missing many meals," he whispered to himself as he pressed his hand to the prince's firm midsection. The muscles there were individually sculpted, different than the kind of raw strength the men developed toiling in the fields, but as he explored the grooves with his fingers he found they held their own appeal.

He flexed one of his arms, watching as the muscles bulged up appealingly. Prince Nicholas had probably never lifted a shovel or even swung a sword in his life, but his family had most likely assigned him private tutors whose job it was to ensure that he would have big, firm arms like these that he could use to catch the princesses who swooned before him.

These were show muscles, Bartelby realized with disgust. Pretty to look at, but they would be useless for any real work.

Then he laughed and shook his head– none of that mattered, he'd never be going near a field ever again! He had to stop thinking like a peasant and start thinking like a royal. His new body was beautiful, like a marble sculpture. He was a walking work of art.

Bartelby's hands drifted over his skin and he marveled at how soft and smooth his body was now– other than the strange blow to the shoulder (the only reminder his previous life) there wasn't a blemish on prince Nicholas. This was the skin of a man who grew up sheltered from the blistering sun, the skin of a man who bathed.

He'd get to bathe now! In a proper tub of warm water, with soap, and perhaps even fragrant oils.

As Bartelby's eyes devoured the handsome man in the mirror he felt a stirring in his britches and could resist no longer. Without further ceremony he lowered his trousers, letting his scepter and royal jewels spill out to hang majestically before him.

"Well," he said, his mouth quirking up into a smile. "This must be that divine right of kings I'm always hearing about."

Nicholas's manhood was thick and long, sitting atop two huge balls as if they were a throne. Curiously it lacked the folds of skin that had surrounded Bartelby's old cock, but as its mushroom crown pulsed and flushed dark pink, he couldn't bring himself to care. This was a cock befitting of a prince.

Bartelby seized upon his cock and began tugging at it, eager to stake claim over his new body, but then he cursed– even as soft as his new hand was, he still wanted something to wet his cock and ease the motion.

His eyes searched the room and settled on the champagne bottle that stood upon the table. He licked his lips.

Seizing the bottle in one hand he raised it high and poured the champagne upon himself, licking a few drops into his mouth but feeling the rest of liquid spill over the crevices of his muscles and trickle down to his cock. His hand slick with the golden spirit, he began to pump on his new treasure.

In his old, frail body, weak from hunger and tired from overwork, his manhood had been a sad snail of a thing between his legs that could barely muster up a few droplets of cum before his reserves were exhausted. Now it poured from him like a fountain, his healthy, virile balls churning as they ejaculated load after load which flew up as far as his face.

He panted and stared down at his muscular torso, his broad chest heaving with each breath. He was still drenched and the light reflected off the sweat and semen as if someone had poured diamonds over him; even his mess was beautiful.

People around the village always joked that sex was the one place where peasant and royal were equal, and Bartelby now knew that wasn't true because the orgasm he'd just received felt like a gift from heaven.

Just another pleasure in a life that would be full of them

Drunk on champagne and power, he barely managed to stumble over to the prince's bed and collapse atop it. He groaned anew as his naked body embraced the bed– silk sheets and a mattress stuffed with feathers, the softest things he'd ever felt. He drifted off to sleep in moments.

-

He awoke in the morning to knocking at his door.

For a moment, Bartelby was scared that it had all been a dream, but when he opened his eyes and saw the finery around him he knew his mind could never have conjured this up.

His new cock bid him a good morning, eager to please its new master, and he grinned down at the sight of the sizable bump beneath the covers. He rolled over and pressed it into the bed and groaned in pleasure as he felt his manhood grind into the silk. He thrust lazily as he chased that leisurely pleasure, feeling his muscular arse flexing behind him as he humped the mattress.

The knocking came again, irritating Bartelby enough to stir from his slumber to see what the fuss was, but he was a prince now. He would take his time.

He rose from his bed and strutted over to the closet he'd seen at the other side of the room, his mouth gaping at the sheer number of garments it contained. He selected a green silk robe and began to decide on a shirt as well before he paused and left his chest bare. No sense in hiding his blessings. For his lower half he donned only modest undergarments that bulged with his still hard cock.

Bartelby flung the door open and instantly recognized the man before him: it was the servant who had turned him away at the gates.

For a moment, anger flared up within Bartelby, but it flickered out just as quickly. Why should he be angry? The man had done him a service by turning him away, it had lead him to this new life. And besides, as the prince, a servant like this was insignificant. Bartelby was now above him in all ways– wealth, status, and even height.

He peered down at the man before him and realized with amusement that the servant was frozen with his mouth hanging open dumbly, his wide eyes running Bartelby up and down as if he didn't believe what he was seeing.

Did Prince Nicholas often answer the door open unclothed, Bartelby wondered? Would he allow his servants precious glimpses of this magnificent body? Whatever the answer, Bartelby enjoyed the attention.

"Well?" He asked the servant, draping himself against the doorframe alluringly.

"Apologies, your highness," the butler managed to blather out, still struck dumb by the sight of the nearly naked prince. He cast his eyes to the floor and regained some composure. "But I was told to remind you that your father requests your attendance at dinner tonight."

There was silence for a moment as Bartelby scrutinized the servant before him. With his strong jaw, thick hair, and broad shoulders, he was a rather attractive fellow– surely all of the maids in the castle were swooning over him. But, Bartelby wondered as he glanced at the way the man shuffled before him, did he desire them back?

"And now," the butler gave a bow, and then began to back away nervously. "I must away to-"

"No no, stay," Bartelby commanded, and the man froze in place instantly. Bartelby gestured for the man to step into his chambers, and to his delight, the man complied.

Bartelby nearly shivered with the display of power, and he now understood what had driven this servant to be so cruel to him at the gates– the pleasure of subordination, of having someone else be the weak one. It was intoxicating.

He could have his servant thrown in the dungeon, whipped, tossed out into the street and torn limb from limb by wild horses– but Bartelby wasn't a cruel man. No, he instead he had his mind on something he thought they might both enjoy.

He bent down and dropped his loincloth, letting his massive new cock spring forth and hang between the two men. The butler gasped, and Bartelby grinned.

"My cock is hard," Bartelby announced, sweeping one hand down the flesh that jutted out before him and shaking it. He shivered for a moment when he felt the heft of it, much greater than his old cock, and a strangled whine escaped the throat of his servant. "As you can so clearly see."

In his old life as a peasant, Bartelby would have never dared to be so forwards– people in his village were not open minded and he could have been stoned for acting upon his desires for other men. But who would tell him what to do now that he was a prince? He was free to do as he pleased, and what he wanted to do was to sample that which had been forbidden to him for so long.

And now he had something to offer as well, a beautiful body with delicious muscles and a generous cock that would satisfy any man.

Bartelby watched the way that the butler's eyes searched him up and down, traced the hard lines of his physique, lingered on the obscenity bursting forth from his groin, and he knew that this man wanted the same thing too.

"You are my servant, are you not?" Bartelby continued, and his butler nodded weakly. Bartelby smiled. "Well as my servant, I command you to do something about this. Personally. Have I made myself clear?

The servant's eyes went wide, and he licked his lips. "As you wish, my lord."

His loyal subject kneeled before him to kiss the royal scepter, and Bartelby groaned in ecstasy.

It's good to be the prince.

#male possession #male body swap #feels like this is the dirtiest thing I've written yet because there's something kinda dark about it too

[thegoatsongs]

(Following the bad ending, Mina waking up as a vampire in one of the tombs of Castle Dracula after Jonathan carries her body there)

-

The moment she opened her eyes, her whole being was Hunger.

Once the smell that she knew was blood came from the breathing, black-clad body lying with her in a tomb as cold as she, a wild desire came upon her, and she was now pinning it under relentless arms.

She was instinct, bare fangs itching to tear that bag of flesh and bone underneath her apart.

The scent of anything besides blood was a dark blur, yet she was driven to seek fear too. She grabbed the fabric covering the pumping veins beneath and met the eyes; hollow, gleaming in the moonlight.

Why was this man in mourning garments not trembling underneath her adamantine, heartless cruelty? Why was he smiling so sadly up to her?

Why was this invading familiarity hurting?

"Wilhelmina..."

The word deafened the thumping of the arteries in the hand reaching out to her snarling face.

The hand (no, her Darling's hand) cupping her face was cold and tender on her cheek.

A wetness trailed down her cheeks and she saw red liquid drip on his clothes underneath her, staining them.

His thumb simply wiped one of her tears away, and she was again in that sickbed that became their wedding bed, on top of him, as he was looking up at her with these same adoring eyes.

The remnant of his love was supposed to have passed into hate and loathing. Her killing to be done by his hand, with savage delight.

My husband, she tried to assert, but the pain in her wounded throat cut like a bonesaw, but he must have heard it anyway because my wife was his staunch reply.

Her husband bent his head to the hand gripping his collar and kissed the ring in reverence.

She saw through his eyes how the final act had played out: Alone he returned to his old Hell, carrying his other half in his arms for this final visit, and thus he abandoned his place among the stars of Heaven. She understood then where the smell of blood on him had come from, that the snow outside was as stained as her forehead.

But the past was dead like noble old friends with stakes and saws, and there was only the now. No regrets arising from the grave.

In the haze of her mind, she felt a touch of triumph. Her sire's demand for her to devour her man against his will had been overpowered. Could King Saul force his kin to mangle the Beloved intertwined with his soul? Foolish to even conceive. She knew the Vampire would shroud her mind again, but she would not let It take their renewed union and its sanctity away from them.

She lifted her clasping hand away and waited. Wordlessly, her husband presented his dear throat to her.

His caress was tender in her long hair as she sank her teeth, and his sigh filled their desolate chamber. Love surged through her veins, and she was enveloped in warmth.

#dracula #jonathan harker #mina harker #jonmina #holiest love #blood of my blood #dracula au #dracula daily #dracula fic

[aldryrththerainbowheart]

Even in sickness...

Fandom: Black Butler

Characters: Sebastian Michaelis

Relationships: Sebastian x reader

“My lady, I’ve brought your breakfast,” Sebastian calls from you from behind closed door, but there’s no answer.

“My lady?” He calls for you again, knocking on the door this time.

Annoyed, he opens the door to your chamber and makes a beeline to your bed. She overslept, again. Sebastian puts the tray with food on your bedside table with clinking of cutlery and quite indiscriminately rips the covers away from your face. That moment his irritation at your laziness turns into worry.

“My…lady?” he calls for you third time, voice now filled with urgency. Your face is deathly pale, your breathing is too quiet and your bloodshot eyes are accompanied by grey circles below them. Only after shaking you forcefully you manage to wake up.

“Hnnng…Sebastian?” you say his name so weakly, it’s nothing more than rustling of wind. His face looks more serious than ever, you notice, as he presses his glowed hand against your forehead. You’re running a fever.

You try to push his hand away, but your attempts have no strength behind them. It was as if he was holding a small bird in his palm. You start to get dizzy again when you hear him calling for nearby maid and ordering her to call for doctor immediately. You used your remaining strength to stay awake.

“It’ll be alright, dear. The doctor will take care of you. You’ll be spring on your feet in no time,” Sebastian talked to you in hushed voice as he held one of your hands in his. You weren’t sure if he said this to reassure you, or himself.

You spend the several days in dreamless sleep, disturbed only by delirious fevers and Sebastian feeding you medicine and needed liquids. You weren’t sure how many days and hours have passed but whenever you regained sliver of consciousness, Sebastian was there tending to your every need. On the eight day of the recovery, you were able to stay conscious for considerable time. However, you were still prohibited by your doctor to move out of bed and Sebastian was just as vehement in keeping you in your role of a good patient.

Today you’ll try to convince him to let you out once more. As you recognized his footsteps behind the door, you quickly fixed your appearance to look as healthy as possible to gain his approval. The door open and Sebastian walks in with the breakfast that was fit for a family of three. Since you haven’t had exactly time to eat as usual for the last week, Seb made it his goal to ‘plump you up’ and to give you necessary fuel to battle the sickness. He sat the tray on your lap and immediately checked your temperature. Inspecting the contents of the tray over his arm, you noticed a single rose resting in a small glass vase between toast rack and bowl of roasted tomatoes. So your pleas to see the rosegardens haven’t gone completely forgotten, and it was your favorite kind too, hybrid tea rose nicknamed Love and Peace. At moments like these you felt your heart swell. It was hard to think of Sebastian as cruel sadistic monster only hungry for your soul, when he did things like this. Of course, if you asked about the rose he would insist it was on of the scullery maids who put it in there but you knew better.

“How are you feeling today?” Sebastian asked as he poured you a fresh cup of tea.

You gave him sweet smile and with the most energetic voice you could muster, you answered “I’m feeling much better today!”

“You say that every time I ask you this.” The demon butler pointed out suspiciously as he handed you your cup.

“That’s because I feel better every day,” you remarked and took a sip. “Speaking of feeling better-”

“You are not to leave this bed,” Sebastian cut you off vehemently, his voice dismissing any argument.

“Sebastian please! I’m going crazy! Stuck there all day with nothing and no one to keep me company. I’ve read all the books you brought to me and can’t even sleep anymore,” you fired the arguments one after another while not giving him time to talk back. Then, you pulled out your trump card, “And it’s such a nice weather outside.” You pointed in the direction of the opened window. There, a streams of morning golden sunlight fell to the darkened room while the sounds of birds and rustling threes reached your ears.

You gave Sebastian your best puppy eyes, or rather, kitty eyes since it’s him. Your butler inspected you wordlessly for a moment. Then he took away the tray and started wrapping you in the blanket. You sighed to yourself, it seems you have to try tom-

“Eek,” you squeaked in surprise as you were lifted and carried out of the door. “S-Sebastian!”, “Stop trashing, my lady, else I drop you,” he scolded you with starchy tone. On his way out, he ordered one of the servants to bring your breakfast to the rose garden. You spend the rest of the forenoon with your demon butler in the garden eating away at your generous breakfast while he kept you company and made sure you eat everything.

And despite his initial objections to the idea, you noticed him pouring you tea with a small content smile on his face.

#kuroshitsuji #black butler #sebastian michaelis #sebastian michaelis x reader

[an-angels-fury]

The only Heaven I'll be sent to is when I'm alone with you

OR: Basically what happens after one day I find myself re-listining to "Take me to Church" by Hozier and suddenly getting all inspired to write a Caspeter oneshot based on the concept of #love as religion

OR: My first (kind of) successful attempt at writing something... spicier... I think...

A little dedication to @equixen, because you said you were interested at seeing more of my writing for this ship, and @eds-gryff, because I believe you might enjoy this as well - also the fact you made a Caspeter edit with the lyrics of this song, which I absolutely love it (😍) ! (Oh, and in case any of you feel uncomfortable for being tagged in my posts for any reason, just warn me so I won't do it next time, okay? 😅).

Anyway, good reading! 🫶

P.S.: The moodboard below was made by me. Images and quotes used were all found on Pinterest. The photo in the middle is from a fanart made by Tasya Rey (don't know the original ship tho).

Warning: Sexual Content (but nothing super descriptive)

You always knew this would happen anyway. You've been waiting for this moment your whole life. It was the truest of all truths, the one that had already been carved into your bones by the arrows of destiny long before you even existed.

And it was precisely because you blindly believed in such certainty that you didn't question when the High King intertwined his fingers with yours and guided you through the infinite maze of corridors to his private chambers, turning his head back from time to time to make sure you were still following him - of course you were. You would follow him to the ends of the earth if he asked you to. There is no other place you would rather be than by his side.

You don't question it when you hear the slow creak of doors being closed and locked. The noise sends a shiver down your spine, only serving to alert you to the proximity of what is to come. The crackling fire in the hearth is the only source of light in the entire room, creating a trail of orange flash across the stone floor. You don't question it when the High King pushes you against the wall and his lips collide with yours. The two of you start off at a gentle pace, savoring every inch of each other's mouths. You tilt your head just a little to the side and make room for his tongue to enter, letting a hoarse moan escape from the back of your throat. Your hands find their way to the hair on the back of his neck and give a slight tug, causing the other to emit a low, guttural sound and quickly deepen the kiss.

You feel his hands slide down the sides of your body, burning your skin beneath your robes, until they stop at your hips and press them against his. The more the technique improves, the faster the embers burn and you fear that your heart will stop beating. You continue to taste those soft lips, the two of you moving in a continuous rhythm, until you are forced to stop to catch your breath.

Your eyes meet his and your insides are taken over by a wave of heat that weakens you from head to toe. You admire the way the red of the hearth flames mix with the blue of his pupils like liquid gold, displaying a flickering glow. For a moment, you begin to believe that you are under the influence of some spell - and you don't want to wake up. You would have already fallen to your knees if you weren't holding onto his shoulders as if he were the only anchor keeping you from drowning. But he is also the water that clogs your lungs, the water that cleanses and purifies your soul, the water that, the more you drink, the more you become thirsty.

A smile spreads across the High King's face, conveying a new kind of emotion for which there seem to be no words to describe its true meaning. Passion? Lust? Devotion? Maybe... love? Whatever it was, it was something that made you want to surrender to that feeling. Surrender to him.

You don't let yourself be intimidated by the intensity of his gaze, you just keep staring at him while you feel nimble fingers working to open the buttons on your tunic. And you don't try to stop him. You don't want him to stop because you need to feel more of him, more than ever, and he knows it.

The boy takes his time removing the remaining parts of your costume, layer by layer, undressing you with deliciously torturous slowness. You stop breathing for a moment when his hands find your bare chest and his palm rests over where your heart beats like a drum. Quickly, the hand is replaced by the mouth and you close your eyes and revel in the way those lips so intimately caress that specific place - the sacred place of your life source - and all you want is for him to go forward. You want him to rip your skin, open your ribcage and take your heart in his hands just so you can declare to him "It's yours. It beats for you... I bleed for you." You want to cling to him. You want him inside you.

When you least realize it, you find yourself completely undressed from your clothes, your back tingling from the contact against the rough, cold surface of the wall. Your lover's lips gently brush your skin, starting on your chest and passing through your shoulder, your collarbone and only stopping until they find a pulsing vein on your neck. Soon, his tongue and teeth begin to taste more of that corner and, involuntarily, you lift your head back just a little bit and oh! It feels so, so good. You can't help the whimpers of ecstasy that leave your mouth, the kind of sound you had no idea you were capable of producing. In an instinctive gesture, you grope the body in front of you, your vision still clouded by the darkness of your eyelids, and pull the fabric of his coat in a failed attempt to get rid of it. However, you feel your wrists being grabbed and pinned above your head and you grunt in frustration at the break of contact.

When your vision clears, you are met with a serious expression on the High King's face. His grip, once gentle, was now firm and strong. Despite having the youthful features of a teenager, it was enough to feel the calluses on his hands or dive into the deep abyss of his eyes to remember that in that body - that small cage - lay the soul of a powerful warrior whose acts of bravery spanned the centuries and gave you hope in the darkest days of your childhood. You dreamed of meeting him, of sitting next to him and listening to him tell you stories about his adventures for days and nights. You dreamed of the enchanting sound of his voice, the sweetness of his laugh and the feeling of his arms comforting you and taking all the loneliness away. But never, not even in your wildest dreams, have you seen yourself as the object of his adoration, of his most primal desire. A mere mortal like you being bestowed with such an honor? How was this possible?

For a minute, you both remain still where you are, until he approaches and places a chaste kiss on your lips before whispering in a commanding tone:

- Lay down.

And you just obey. You walk towards the bed and lie down on the velvet sheets. He comes to you, sits on the edge of the mattress and observes your nakedness appreciatively. His hands slide carefully over your tanned skin, knowing every curve and noticing your reactions. Every touch is a sacred gesture that you always respond to with a sigh of pleasure. It continues its path through the muscles of your belly, always descending, and a strange throbbing sensation begins to spread in the space between your thighs. When those skilled fingers finally approach your intimacy, your entire body contracts in a mix of embarrassment and thrill. The young blond man just gives you a small cheeky smile when you instinctively lift your pelvis towards the touch you so longed for.

Suddenly, he stops what he was doing and gets out of bed to take off his boots. Confused, you sit down and watch him attentively, not daring to say a single word. The High King stands before you and asks you to extend your hand. You give it to him – the one with the scar – and he kisses the thin, pink line across your palm. Then he takes that same hand and guides it to his belt buckle and you know exactly what to do. Your movements are slow and shaky, exposing your inexperience, but you keep going anyway. With each layer of clothing that falls to the floor, your heart skips a beat. In the end, you just gasp in admiration before the divine image that blesses your eyes.

Even naked, he carries the same aura of grandeur and magnanimity that he has always displayed. He is the Sun, and every part of his being - from his golden hair and his eyes as blue and vast as the northern sky that is his domain, to his marble skin, pale and marked with cracks - is sculpted by light. It shines so brightly that you fear you will go blind. You want to look away, you want to touch him too, but you can't move. His presence paralyzes every fiber of your being. It's as if your body no longer belongs to you.

Fortunately, in your moment of greatest despair, your loved one came to your aid - as he always did. He lifts your chin and holds your face between his hands, sliding his thumbs down your cheeks, then your nose, until it rests on the surface of your lips. He acts as if you are the work of art and he is the fascinated admirer. You find yourself too busy soaking in such grace that you don't even notice the silent shadows that begin to grow behind the mirrors of his soul. That darkness that manifested itself was just the silhouette of an even deeper and… animalistic feeling.

You finally find out what it is when he leans towards you and takes your mouth in an eager, ardent kiss. Tongues dance and meet in perfect synchrony and it doesn't take long for teeth to join in the act. His fingers cling to the black strands of your hair and you don't even try to contain your loud moan when he sits on your lap. Your arms grab him around the waist, trying to increase the friction between your bodies for as long as possible. Yes, you know that feeling, the desperate desire to devour and be eaten alive. It's so strong, so visceral, so... pure.

"What's the name again?" You wonder. Oh yes. Hunger. And the most exquisite kind.

You fall onto the pillow like a feather and he positions himself over you, all without breaking the kiss. There was no longer any escape - you already knew that the moment you heard the door close -. Now you are completely at his mercy. And you couldn't have it any other way.

His lips leave yours and begin to trace their way along your jawline, continuing until he reaches your neck. He starts to explore your weaknesses and quickly learns the best way to stimulate them. His magical touch makes you tremble and arch your spine in a mix of agony and delight. His enchanted tongue leaves a hot trail of saliva wherever it goes, and the further it goes down, the fiercer the need becomes. And when it finally arrives at the place that most craves attention, you just… feel like you're floating in the air. And you have to hold on to his tangled hair, otherwise you are sure you would get lost somewhere amidst the clouds and never return to the ground again.

An explosion of completely new sensations turns you into a pile of rubble on the sheets. It was exactly what you wanted. That's why you gave him the power to ruin you. You wanted him to hurt you and then end your suffering. You wanted him to kill you slowly and then bring you back to life. He is pain and relief, sickness and the cure, chaos and tranquility. He is everything to you and he is beautiful - Oh, heavens, he's absolutely beautiful - in a way you've never seen before and you soon regret not having worshiped him sooner.

That's why the first thing you decide to do right after you regain your senses is to hold him by the shoulders and push him against the bed, putting all your weight on him. Now it was your turn to drive him crazy with passion and, just like him, you wouldn't be the least bit merciful.

You kiss and caress him with the devotion of a fervent believer. You feel his nails scratching your back, leaving marks on your skin, a reminder that everything you are and everything you will ever become belongs to him and him alone. But that's where the best part comes from: there's reciprocity. His pleasure is also yours. You feel his desire - the same one that takes over you right now - to be consumed, to merge and become one. One body. One heart. One love.

Suddenly, he calls you and you answer him. You kiss him again and you even get to taste a little of yourself in his mouth. He finally surrenders to your advances and begs you to give him peace and take him to Paradise. Who would have thought that one day you would witness this scene: the High King, always so correct and composed, reduced to a pitiful creature begging for something that only you can give him? Seeing him so defenseless, so vulnerable and so uninhibited awakens something in your heart that leaves it heavy. It's shocking and painful to realize that you were responsible for leaving him in that state. You ruined him too.

You decide that you won't make either of you wait any longer. The truth is, there was nothing in this world or any other that you could ever deny him. You rest your forehead on his and look into his eyes one last time, searching for any sign of fear or doubt. However, all you find is a tempting invitation to your own damnation, which you accept with open arms because if he is a religion, then you are his most passionate disciple.

When you begin the ritual, which had only the moon and the night as legitimate witnesses, it is as if everything around you two faded into oblivion and the only thing that existed were your hands clasped on the mattress and the heavy breathing that marked the rhythm of the music to which your sweaty bodies danced. May the Great Lion forgive you for such blasphemy, but you do not wish to pay obeisance to any other god than the one beneath you. His body is your temple and his hips are the altar on which you kneel to pray. It is his name that comes from your lips when you sing your orisons and it is between his legs that you find your salvation. If it is such an abominable crime to praise the one you love most, then you will accept burning in that heavenly fire for all eternity.

But all good things come to an end. You watch him reach his climax and marvel at the way those angelic features contort with pleasure and you swear the title of 'Magnificent' has never suited him so well as it did at that very moment. You finish right after him and feel the little that remains of your energy drain away. A whirlwind of emotions takes hold of you and you find yourself unable to formulate any concrete idea that describes what you are feeling right now. You are surprised by the hot tears that form in your eyes and run down your cheeks, but what really leaves you speechless are the fingers that brush your damp hair away from your face and the pink lips that kiss your tears, drinking them like the delicate bud that searches for rain. And it's when he smiles that you see him blossom into a lovely flower. Finally, he hugs you and whispers his vows in your ear like a secret:

- My beautiful, gentle sin.

Then you realize why you could never prevent what happened tonight, why your bodies fit together so perfectly as if they were made for each other and why you could never break the invisible bond that connects your souls: it was never something simply carnal. It was a love capable of crossing the barriers of time and space - after all, more than 1300 years separated you two and, even so, he somehow managed to find his way to you. It was a love that no superior force could overcome. It was a love that meant more than love.

You always knew this would happen, one way or another. This was the mystery that gave life to the stars and hold them in place, the secret you fought so long to unravel. For years, you made the same wish, again and again, and after a long wait, they finally granted it. And you couldn't be more grateful for having received such a precious gift in your life.

You rejoice in your good fortune as you drift off into a calm, peaceful sleep.

#bia's failed attempt at writing #I'm really not sure how to feel about this one... #like it's not that bad but I feel pretty embarrassed posting this because I'm not used to writing sexy stuff - which yeah it's obvious! #but I really wanted to take a risk so... #also I basically give myself the mission to fill the caspeter tumblr tag 'cause if I don't then who will? #the chronicles of narnia #chronicles of narnia #narnia #tcon #c.s. lewis #peter pevensie #caspian x #prince caspian #caspeter #caspian x peter #peter x caspian #fanfiction #narnia fanfiction #narnia fic #smut #take me to church #hozier #love as religion #love as worship #one shot #my writing #aesthetic #narnia aesthetic #aesthetic moodboard #my edits

[shmowder]

What Pathologic characters bring for your birthday Pt.2

[Note: this took...so much more effort than I ever expected, I'm unsure if I'll continue the termites and humbles part. Either way, I hope you enjoy this.]

The Utopians

Andrey Stamatin

he is used to sharing his birthday with his twin brother. As kids, most people would just hand them one present and expect them to split it. He knew better and would always concede the gift to Peter throughout the years. He's not used to attending a birthday that's not his own either. Going out of his way to indulge people was never one of his traits. And yet, he came to yours. Maybe that's a gift of its own. His gifts tend to be self-serving in one way or another, chaotic in nature, and borderline inappropriate. They usually include:

Imported fabric from the Capital, its pattern is unusual, but Andrey claims it's the current peak of high fashion in the industry. He can lend you his tailor's mailing address if you ever wish to fashion it into something wearable, or you could just drape the fabric over your naked self and walk around, Andrey will enjoy the view either way.

A Pythagorean cup he moulded himself from clay. He doesn't tell you the nature of the cup and just hands it to you with a wine bottle he grabbed on his way out of the Broken Heart pub.

A .44 calibre revolver, which is the most beautiful gun you've ever seen. The handle grip is made of brown rich wood with a smooth surface, the trigger gaurd is plated in gold, the frame is engraved with an intricate design resembling silver leaves curling around the barrel and chamber of the gun.

He let's you borrow the Broken Heart bar for a whole day for your celebration party in case you didn't want guests trashing your house. If you insist to throw the party in your own home, Andrey insists to allow him the privilege of kicking everyone out comes midnight, as long as you don't mind some bullet holes in your walls...and roof.

♧

Peter Stamatin

He tends to think of what he would like to receive when tasked with picking out a gift for someone else. He let Andrey pick which flavour the cake for their birthday was each time growing up since the adults would just cut them one slice and expect them to share it. Peter would give up the whole plate to his brother. He's accustomed to people coming to his own birthday rather than the other way around. Maybe the fact that he left his room to walk all the way to your house is a gift of its own. Peter treats the gifting process as another medium for art. His gifts may include:

One of his paintings, a newer one you haven't seen before. Despite the subject depicted being abstract in nature, there is still a resemblance to a human figure on the canvas. The more you stare at it, the more it feels like you're looking onto a mirror, as if he manages to paint the essences of your soul.

The first bottles of twyrine produced from the freshly picked herbs of this season. He much prefers the local drinks over the Capital's champagne and the pubs celler of wines. He usually goes out of his way to secure the first bottles to himself each season, but this time around, he decided to share them with you. Attempting to explain the unearthed magic that is this liquid condensation of herbs before losing interest halfway through the conversation and sipping on his glass in silence.

A tombstone he designed himself. Heavy black marble starting in the base and cut in precise spots midway through to allow for the seamlessly translation to the stained glass art which makes the top of the tomestone. The art piece itself is made from various glass pieces, different in texture and colours. A day celebrating your birth seemed like the perfect opportunity to offer a reminder of your inevitable death.

A bouquet of wilted flowers. What used to be white petals is now yellowish in colour, fragile looking as if the buds might crumble if you look at them for too long. Dried thin stems and falling leaves, flowers rotting from the inside as they fall apart on the outside.

♧

Eva Yan

She arrives late, water is dripping from her hair as she admits she fell asleep in the bath and didn't realise how much time has passed. You help her to the upper floor and lend her a towel to dry up. She asks to borrow some of the flowers from the bouquets you receive to decorate her hair with, and you oblige. Two golden braids crown her head with small flower buds framing them like pearls.

A silk handheld fan with a light blue floral design and rosewood base structure. As she hands you the gift, she makes sure to stay and explain the romantic symbolism behind the choice of flowers in the design. At the end, she teaches you the basics of handheld fan language.

asymmetrical clip-on earrings. One has a dangling delicate chain that ends with a silver moon charm, and the other is made out of thin fabric to resemble the wings of a butterfly. The earrings look like they were taken from two different sets, and yet they match in a beautiful contrasting way of day and night.

A single lotus flower. A real living freshly picked lotus flower with waterdrolpets clinging to the pale pink leaves. It's still in the process of blooming. You're not sure how Eva managed to acquire this flower in such a preserved state this quickly, maybe with the help of a friend or two. When Eva makes a passing comment on how she knows a good herbal recipe to make with lotus flowers, Dankovsky almost chokes on his drink as he opens his mouth to say something before deciding against it.

A blank book, the pages aren't well aligned, and they vary in thickness. The leather cover holding them together is stiched by hand with the spine. Eva made it herself, she confessed, it took a long time. The pages hold the slightest hint of perfume to them, a soft smell that threatens to be washed away with each passing wind. She heard someone was bringing you a pen, and so she wanted to provide you with the pages.

♧

Maria Kaina

She commands the room effortlessly with her presence. Even the more rowdy guests feel a sense of shame under her heavy gaze as they quiet down and keep the destructiveness to a minimum. Dressed up to the nines in one of her best maroon dresses, she looks nothing short of bewitching while walking as if she was floating on air. You find yourself mesmerised by her beauty for a moment while she stands in front of you, your reaction clearly feeding her ego.

A golden picture frame. You've seen similar ones hanging around the crucible with paintings inside, depicting her late mother while others capture her own likeness with. Gold is her colour. You come to the conclusion as you lift the frame and look through it at the elegant figure of Maria, looking at you unimpressed with one lifted eyebrow. If you're out of paintings, she'll let you borrow one of the Stamatin twins to make do with, they technically work for her family after all.

perfume...or is it a colonge? You can't really tell. It's certainly strong with an ever-lasting smell, but the smell itself doesn't sting your nose despite how intense it is. It weaves itself seemingly through your senses, and for a second, you almost find yourself in a trance as your heart skips a beat. Hours later into the party, you find yourself still reminiscing about that lovely scent. The reproctutions of using that bottle might outweigh the benefits, and you realise you must think twice before touching it again.

A carving of flowers made from mundane stone. The material looks unexpectedly dull with a simple design until you view the art piece under direct sunlight. That's when it... remains an ordinary stone. Maybe for someone surrounded by gems, marbles, and silks all her life, the beauty of the mundane is hard to come by. You're reminded of the tale of Meduca as you stare at the hardened petals. Which one of the goddesses did this humble flora anger, you wonder.

♧

Mark Immortell

You're not sure when he arrives. You don't see him come in, nor do you hear the door. You just turned around a corner in your room and saw him staring out of the window. He smiled at you as he offered you one of three choices.

A snake's venom, you feel the glass vial staring back at you. The liquid is transparent red, much like diluted blood swirling around itself.

A bull's horn, with a hollow inside only the shell of bones remains. You put it to your ear and listen to the sounds of worms digging beneath the earth.

A mouse's heart, it's barely the size of your fingernail. Beating still, contrasts of red and blue veins pumping nothing into the void. You say hello, and it squeaks back.

♧

Vlad the Younger

From the way he seems to be studying the atmosphere of the party, it becomes apparent he is out of his usual element here. If you confront him about it, he admits that he never attended a birthday celebration before, even his own he'd usually ignore and be absent for. He simply didn't care for them, never saw the point. Although, since the day his sister was born, he made a habit of leaving gifts for her the day prior. It's a shame she grew out of playing with toys too soon.

A ruby ring it, was for someone else. The framing is made out of solid gold. It weights heavy on your palm and doesn't fit your finger quite right. A clear crimson crystal sits in the middle, not a single flaw amidst the professionally cut gem. For a second, you wonder if it's a proposal from how much the thing resembled an engagement ring. Vlad quickly clears the misunderstanding before it has time to occur. It simply is just a ring. Nothing more and nothing less. If the size is too off, just send it back to him, and he'll take care of resizing it for you.

a precious doll in a puffy dress. It's clearly meant for children yet is still on the high-end expensive kind of dolls, the ones you see in glass box displays. It comes with two different dresses and a golden hairbrush with a butterfly engraved on the back. You think you've seen a similar doll of this style on one of the shelves in Capella's room. Except this one is brand new while the one belonging to his sister was clearly well-loved and played with constantly in the past. He hands it to you with a melancholic smile.

♧

Georgiy Kain

He's very punctual with time, arrives exactly on the stroke of at the hour you've informed him the party would start at, and leaves on the dot at 9pm before bidding his farewells and congratulating you on throwing a successful social event. Saying he looks forward to next year's party, ah, but maybe you'd rather borrow the crucible for it? The location you've picked isn't exactly the most fitting, nor was the space accommodating enough. If you offer to walk him home, he'd find it amusing and indulge you by accepting the offer. The two of you walk about life and its meaning during the short walk.

A one of a kind vase, moulded by his own hands from clay. Countless hours must have been spent in the workshop for a vase to look this effortlessly flawless, as close to perfection as humanity can strive for. He humbly insists it was not a bother, the work was worth it. After all, if he doesn't push his limits with every single piece he makes, how is he supposed to improve? Each one has to put the last to shame, or else the whole process has been a failure, is what the judge explains to you as you awkwardly stand there holding the vase, hands getting sweaty and making you more aware of the possibility of accidentally breaking it. You hurry to carefully place it down a stable surface midway through his speech.

♧

Victor Kain

His congratulations are exactly tailored to fit the minimum standards of what's socially acceptable. He mostly keeps to himself through the party, discreetly keeping an eye on who's Maria's mingling with and making sure Casper doesn't break anything with the wooden sword he insisted on bringing while fighting with Notkin. Midway through the event, him and Bad Grief end up engrossed in their own conversation near the grandfather clock at the entrance of your house.

flowers, a bouquet of pure white roses and peace lilies, to be precise. A milky silk ribbon holds the deep green stems together in a delicate bow. A smaller ribbion made out of transparent lace makes a second bow right below the first one serving a decorative purpose. As you hold it and stare at yourself in the mirror, you get a sinking feeling in your stomach. You quickly place it into his brother's vase instead.

#Pathologic #andrey stamatin #Peter Stamatin #maria kaina #♧Andrey #♧Peter #♧Maria #eva yan #Victor kain #georgiy kain #♧Eva #♧Victor #♧Georgiy #vlad the younger #♧Younger vlad #♧Utopians #The utopians #♧mark #mark immortell #pathologic x reader #platonic x reader

[nixiefics]

A Tangle of Souls - Chapter 4

As Jaena entered her chambers, the faint scent of jasmine wafted through the air, mingling with the soft glow of candlelight that danced across the room. Neseya sat gracefully at the small table by the window, her silhouette outlined against the backdrop of the setting sun. Dark tendrils of hair cascaded over her shoulders like liquid midnight, framing her features with an air of mystique.

Their fabricated bond, spun by the intricate webs of deception orchestrated by Jason Lannister, served as a precarious facade in the halls of King's Landing.

Despite the scant acquaintance, Jaena's movements exuded a quiet determination as she approached Neseya, her steps measured and purposeful. Neseya, her pretence carefully crafted to exude maternal love, met Jaena's gaze with a practiced warmth that masked the uncertainty lingering beneath the surface.

As Jaena drew nearer, the tension between truth and falsehood hung palpably in the air, a silent testament to the intricate dance they were entangled in.

"So, Neseya, why exactly are you here?" Jaena's voice sliced through the silence, each word laced with suspicion as she broke the tension that hung in the air like a heavy fog. Her arms folded across her chest, a barrier of defiance against the world she sought to unravel.

Neseya's lips curved into a smile, a mere whisper of amusement that danced upon her features like a fleeting shadow. "Straight to the point, I see. Very well," she conceded, her voice a melodic cadence that belied the gravity of their conversation.

"I orchestrated our convergence in King's Landing," Neseya continued, her gaze steady and unwavering. "You see, I harbour ties to the Lannister family, connections I've kept hidden until now. But my intentions toward you, Jaena, are not tinged with malice. No, those sentiments I reserve for others. With you, I see potential, an opportunity waiting to be seized for mutual gain."

As Neseya spoke, she took a sip from her goblet, her movements leisurely as if time itself bowed to her whims. The goblet, a delicate vessel of crystal, caught the fading light, casting prisms of colour across the room in a kaleidoscope of hues.

Jaena's brows furrowed in disbelief, a ripple of scepticism marring the porcelain smoothness of her features. "Opportunity? What kind of opportunity involves parading me around as the daughter of a prince I've never met?" Her voice, sharp as the crack of a whip, cut through the air.

Neseya leaned forward, the hint of a smile playing upon her lips as she considered Jaena's words. "A profitable one, my dear Jaena," she replied, her voice a whisper that carried the weight of her ambitions. "You see, in this game of thrones, power is everything. And with the right connections, we can secure a place of great influence in Westeros."

Jaena scoffed, her disbelief palpable in the air between them like a thick fog. "Influence? Is that what you think this is about? Daemon Targaryen, knowingly or otherwise, abandoned me to a life secluded from the world; Jason Lannister took me and raised me like a prize pig, ready to slaughter only when he was ready-"

But before Jaena could finish her sentence, Neseya raised a hand, silencing her with a solemn gaze that held the weight of centuries in its depths. "Your father and Lord Lannister's motivations are of little consequence now," she interjected, her voice a gentle admonition that cut through the bitterness that threatened to consume them both. "What matters is what we can achieve together. A life of freedom from the confines of a lonely tower, and the opportunity to forge your own path in this world."

Jaena's features softened, the icy facade melting away to reveal a glimmer of hope that shimmered like a distant star in the darkness. "And how do you propose we accomplish this?" she inquired, her curiosity piqued despite herself.

Queen Alicent Hightower's private quarters, despite their opulence, carried an air of uneasy formality that evening. The dinner was meant to be a private affair, but the presence of Jaena, the girl who had arrived earlier that day claiming to be the trueborn daughter of Daemon Targaryen, added a layer of tension to the room.

Neseya's smile widened, a flicker of mischief dancing in the depths of her obsidian eyes. "With the help of someone who wields far greater power than any king or prince," she replied cryptically, her words hanging in the air like a promise waiting to be fulfilled. "The Red Priestess of R'hllor, Kinvara, possesses many abilities. Rest assured, Jaena, she will visit you soon with requests. And when she does, you will be ready to comply."

The table was set with meticulous care. Alicent herself had ensured that the finest linens and the most exquisite of the Red Keep's porcelain were used. The golden candelabras flickered gently, their flames casting long shadows on the tapestried walls.

Queen Alicent sat at the head of the table, her demeanour composed but her eyes betraying a hint of wariness. To her right sat Aegon, slouched in his chair, his fingers drumming on the table impatiently as he eyed the goblet of wine before him. He had already emptied two and was on his way to a third, his disinterest in the evening’s proceedings clear.

Helaena sat quietly beside him, meticulously dissecting a plate of roast fowl, her eyes occasionally darting to the centrepieces, where a collection of exotic beetles in glass cases had been arranged for her amusement. Every so often, she muttered something under her breath, her cryptic words lost to the others in the room.

Aemond, ever the epitome of seriousness, sat across from Helaena. His single eye, sharp and calculating, never left Jaena for long. His scepticism was palpable, and he maintained a stoic silence, his fingers absently tracing the scar that ran from his forehead to his jawline, a permanent reminder of the childhood altercation with his nephews and cousins.

To the left of Alicent sat Ser Otto Hightower, the Hand of the King. His presence was imposing, his demeanour one of controlled authority. He observed the proceedings with a critical eye, his expression revealing little of his thoughts. Everyone agreed that Ser Otto was a skilled man in his position, but serving two kings had made him haughty, direct, abrupt with others, dominant, and proud. The more he served as Hand, the more imperious he became, and holding the second most powerful position in the kingdom had made him very ambitious.

Jaena, the centre of attention, was seated next to Otto. Her long silver-blonde hair, so reminiscent of the Targaryen lineage, had been done in a Pentoshi style that ended in a bun that made Alicent cringe at the thought of the weight.

"Tell us more about Pentos," Aemond prompted, his tone polite but edged with a challenge. "I've heard it is a city of great wealth and some intrigue."

Jaena smiled, a practiced, serene expression. "Indeed, my prince. Pentos is a place of beauty and mystery. Its people are as varied as the colours of the sea, and its traditions are rich and ancient. I spent much of my time painting the landscapes, capturing the essence of its vibrant culture."

Aegon snorted into his goblet, not bothering to hide his disbelief. "Sounds like a convenient story to me," he muttered, taking another long drink of his wine.

"Aegon," Alicent chided softly, her gaze flicking to her eldest son with a mixture of frustration and resignation.

"It's true," Aegon continued, ignoring his mother's reprimand. "Why should we believe you, Jaena? You show up out of nowhere, claiming to be our cousin. What proof do you have?"

Jaena's eyes met his calmly. "I seek no throne, no power," she said, her voice steady. "I only wish to be acknowledged for who I am. The truth will reveal itself in time, as it always does."

Helaena, who had been quietly observing a beetle, looked up suddenly. "The truth is a many-legged creature," she said softly, like smoke, curling and lingering long after she had spoken.

Aemond glanced from his sister to Jaena and his eye narrowed. "How convenient for you to say. But words are wind. Proof is what matters."

Otto Hightower leaned forward slightly, his gaze piercing. "Proof can be difficult to come by, especially in matters of lineage," he said, his tone even. "But it is not beyond our reach. We will investigate your claims thoroughly, Jaena. Rest assured, we will uncover the truth."

Alicent raised her hand, signalling for calm. "Enough," she said firmly. "We are here to dine as a family. Let us set aside our doubts and questions for now and simply share this meal."

The servants began to bring in the courses, starting with a delicate soup of river trout, followed by roasted venison with a sauce of rich, dark berries. The food was sumptuous, but the atmosphere remained taut with unspoken tension. Conversation was sparse, punctuated only by the clink of silverware and the occasional murmur from Helaena.

Aegon, growing increasingly inebriated, leaned closer to Jaena. "So, cousin," he drawled, "your egg did not hatch."

Jaena's smile didn't waver. "It did not," she replied calmly, even as her eyes darted to her lap. "But perhaps one day, I will claim my own as Prince Aemond did."

Aemond's lips curled into a smirk. "Being a dragonrider is not for the faint of heart. It requires true courage and strength."

"Qualities I am sure you possess in abundance, Prince Aemond," Jaena said, inclining her head.

Otto leaned back, his eyes narrowing as he scrutinized Jaena. "Tell us, girl," he began, his voice calm yet commanding, "how do you intend to prove your claims? Do you have any tangible evidence, any relics or documents, that might support your story?"

Jaena met his gaze steadily, carefully considering her words. "My mother, Neseya, possesses the proof of my lineage," she said. "She has kept records and documents from my birth. They include a letter from Prince Daemon and a seal that can only be his."

Aemond scoffed. "Letters can be forged, and a seal proves little. It’s a weak claim at best."

Otto raised a hand to silence his grandson. "We will examine these items when they are presented. Until then, we must proceed with caution but also with an open mind."

The dinner dragged on, each course more lavish than the last, but the conversation never fully thawed. Alicent made a few attempts to steer the talk toward lighter topics, asking Helaena about her latest insect collection and Aemond about his training, but the underlying tension was impossible to ignore.

As the final course was cleared away and dessert — a delicate lemon cake with honeyed cream — was served, Aegon, now thoroughly drunk, stood abruptly, his chair scraping against the floor. "I've had enough of this charade," he declared, his voice slurred. "Enjoy your painting and your stories, Jaena. But don't expect me to believe them."

He staggered out of the room, leaving a heavy silence in his wake. Alicent sighed, her expression weary. "I apologize for my son," she said to Jaena. "He is... troubled."

Jaena inclined her head gracefully. "There is no need, Your Grace. I understand."

Helaena looked up from her plate, her eyes wide and distant. "The spider weaves its web, unseen by those who tread too heavily," she murmured.

Aemond rose from his seat, his gaze still locked on Jaena. "I will find the truth of your claims," he said quietly, a promise and a threat all in one. "And if you are who you say you are, then you will have my respect. But if not..."

"There is no need for threats, Aemond," Alicent interjected, her voice sharp. "We will handle this matter with the dignity it deserves."

Otto nodded in agreement, his expression stern. "Indeed. This is a delicate matter, and we must approach it with the gravity it warrants. Jaena, you will provide us with whatever evidence you have. We will examine it thoroughly, and until then, you will remain our guest."

Jaena met Aemond's stare without flinching. "I welcome the truth," she said softly. "It is the only thing that matters."

Otto leaned in, his eyes narrowing. "You speak well, girl," he said, his tone colder. "But words can only carry you so far. If you are not who you claim to be, understand that deception will not be forgiven lightly in this court."

Jaena nodded, her demeanour unfazed. "I understand, Lord Hand. I assure you, I have nothing to hide."

Otto held her gaze for a moment longer before leaning back in his chair. "We shall see. My men will collect the records from your mother tomorrow. I will personally ensure they are authenticated."

The flickering candlelight cast long shadows across the stone walls of the chamber as Prince Daemon Targaryen reclined in a plush chair, his dark eyes scanning the room with a predatory gaze. The silence was thick, interrupted only by the occasional crackle of the fire in the hearth. A goblet of wine rested on the table beside him, untouched, as he read through a new book of Valyrian histories.

As the dinner came to a close, the tension in the room remained thick, the air heavy with unspoken words and unresolved doubts. Alicent watched as her children left the table one by one, her heart heavy with worry for the future. Jaena, the mysterious girl with the silver hair, had brought with her a storm of uncertainty, and it was clear that this was only the beginning.

Pentos lay sprawled beneath the window, a sprawling city of pale domes and minarets, nestled beside the vast expanse of the Shivering Sea. The city's cobbled streets wound through bustling markets, where merchants from distant lands hawked their wares – spices, silks, and gems that glittered like stars under the midday sun. The scent of exotic foods and the sound of foreign tongues filled the air, a testament to the city's worldly nature. Elegant manses of wealthy magisters dotted the landscape, their high walls guarding secrets and wealth alike.

Daemon found a strange comfort in the city’s chaos. Yet tonight, his thoughts were elsewhere, clouded with concerns for his family. His wife, Laena Velaryon, was heavily pregnant. The maesters had warned of complications, and though Daemon put on a brave front, the worry gnawed at him. His twin daughters, Baela and Rhaena, were thirteen years old, standing on the cusp of womanhood, their bond unbreakable. Their fierce spirit and determination reminded him so much of himself, and he would do anything to protect them.

A knock echoed through the chamber, pulling Daemon from his thoughts. He turned his head sharply, irritation flashing across his features. “Enter,” he commanded, his voice a low growl.

A servant stepped in, head bowed, holding a parchment sealed with the royal crest. Daemon’s eyes narrowed as he took the letter, dismissing the servant with a flick of his wrist. He broke the seal and unfurled the parchment, his eyes scanning the elegant script of his brother’s hand.

"Daemon,

I write to you with a matter of utmost urgency. You are to come to King’s Landing at once. There are rumours that require your attention, and I require your presence here.

Viserys of House Targaryen, the First of His Name

King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men

Lord of the Seven Kingdoms

Protector of the Realm"

Daemon’s brow furrowed as he read the letter again. What could be so urgent? He had heard whispers; rumours of a girl claiming to be his daughter. But he dismissed such talk as the idle gossip of court. He had always been loyal to his family, fiercely so, but this... He crumpled the letter in his hand, the parchment crackling under his grip.

"Viserys always with his cryptic messages," Daemon muttered to himself. "What game are you playing, brother?"

Daemon rose from his chair, his movements smooth and purposeful. He strode to the window, staring out over the darkened landscape of Pentos. His mind raced with possibilities. A girl claiming to be his daughter? He had sired no bastards, or so he believed. The idea of a child, his blood, roaming the world unknown to him, gnawed at his insides.

He turned away from the window, his decision solidifying. King’s Landing held answers he needed, and he would uncover them. His path was set, and he would not shy away from whatever awaited him there.

His thoughts drifted back to Laena, resting in their chambers. He worried for her and the unborn child she carried. Despite his fierce exterior, the love he held for his family was boundless. Baela and Rhaena needed their father, and he would ensure they had him for as long as he could fight.

Just as he was about to call for his preparations to begin, another knock came at the door, this one softer, more deliberate. Daemon’s eyes narrowed. “Enter,” he said again, his tone edged with curiosity.

The door opened to reveal a figure draped in red and gold, her eyes a striking shade of amber that seemed to glow in the dim light. She stepped forward with a grace that spoke of confidence and power.

“Prince Daemon,” she said, her voice smooth and melodic. “I am Kinvara, a servant of the Lord of Light. I bring you a message.”

Daemon’s curiosity turned to suspicion, his gaze locking onto Kinvara with a steely intensity. “A message? From whom?” His hand drifted towards the hilt of Dark Sister, ready to draw the blade at a moment’s notice.

“From the flames,” Kinvara replied, her eyes never leaving his. “And perhaps, from your future.”

Daemon's lips curled into a smirk, though his eyes remained cold. “I have no time for the riddles of red priestesses. Leave now, or I will cut you down.”

Kinvara didn’t flinch. Instead, she raised her hands, and the temperature in the room seemed to rise. The flames in the hearth roared higher, casting an otherworldly light. She began to chant softly, the words foreign yet resonant.

“Look into the flames, Prince Daemon,” Kinvara said, her voice almost hypnotic. “Your path is entwined with this girl’s fate. To ignore it is to court disaster for your family.”

The flames twisted and turned, forming shapes and images that caught Daemon’s eye despite himself; he saw visions—himself in King’s Landing, a young girl with silver hair, and a throne room filled with tension and intrigue. The images flickered and shifted, but the message was clear.

Daemon’s hand dropped from Dark Sister’s hilt, his eyes fixed on the flames. The hostility in his gaze softened into reluctant curiosity. “Very well, Kinvara. Speak, and let us see what else the flames have to say.”

The corridors of the Red Keep were a labyrinthine maze of secrets, but Aemond knew them well. As a child, he had explored these hidden passages with an insatiable curiosity, learning every twist and turn, every creaky floorboard and shadowy alcove. Tonight, that knowledge served him well as he made his way silently to the private quarters where Jaena had been given a room.

As Kinvara continued, the shadows danced around them, and Daemon listened intently, ready to face whatever destiny awaited him in King’s Landing.

The soft glow of moonlight filtered through the narrow windows, casting elongated shadows on the stone walls. As Aemond approached Jaena's door, he heard a soft, melodic voice. He pressed his ear to the cool wood, straining to catch the words of the song she was singing. It was a lullaby, unfamiliar yet hauntingly beautiful, sung in the ancient tongue of Old Valyria.

"By the fires of the great Qelbar,

Where dragons soared and stars were born,

Close your eyes and dream so sweet,

In lands where night and day do meet.

In silver seas and golden skies,

Where shadows dance and phoenix flies,

Rest your head and find your peace,

As starlight weaves a dreamer's fleece.

The mountains high, the rivers wide,

In dreams, dear child, you'll safely bide.

The fire's glow, the dragon's roar,

Will guard you now and evermore.

So sleep, my love, and do not fear,

For in your dreams, I will be near.

The ancient songs, the tales old,

Will guide you to the light of gold."

Aemond's breath caught in his throat. The melody was filled with a sorrowful longing, a connection to a past that was as much myth as memory. Gently, he pushed the door open a crack, careful to keep silent as he peered inside.

Jaena sat on the edge of her bed, hair cascading over her shoulders like a waterfall of moonlight. She was lost in her song, her eyes closed as if she were seeing something far beyond the confines of her room. Spread out before her was a collection of paints and brushes, a blank canvas waiting for her touch.

Aemond watched as she reached for a brush, his eye tracing the graceful curve of her neck and the delicate line of her shoulders. Her figure, accentuated by the soft gown she wore, was both slender and womanly, exuding a quiet strength that intrigued him. She dipped the brush into a pot of deep blue paint, then brought it to the canvas, beginning to sketch out the faint outlines of a mural. Dragons took shape under her hand, their forms fluid and majestic, intertwined with stars and swirling mists.

The song faded into a gentle hum, and Jaena opened her eyes, a serene smile playing on her lips. Aemond, entranced by the scene, took an involuntary step forward, the door creaking slightly under his weight.

Jaena's head snapped up, her eyes wide with surprise. "Who's there?" she called, her voice steady despite the sudden intrusion.

Realizing he had been discovered, Aemond pushed the door open fully and stepped into the room. "It's just me," he said, his tone attempting to be reassuring.

Jaena's expression shifted from surprise to curiosity. "Prince Aemond," she acknowledged, setting her brush down carefully. "What brings you here at this hour?"

Aemond hesitated, searching for the right words. "I... heard your song," he admitted. "It was beautiful. I didn't mean to intrude."

She regarded him for a moment, her gaze probing yet kind. "It's an old lullaby from Valyria," she explained softly. "Always brings me peace."

Aemond nodded, stepping closer to the mural. "You're quite talented," he observed, his eye tracing the lines of the dragons she had begun to paint. "It looks almost alive."

"Thank you," Jaena replied, a hint of pride in her voice. "I find peace in painting as well. It helps me feel connected to my surroundings."

Aemond's gaze lingered on her, a mix of admiration and something deeper, something he couldn't quite name. "I understand that feeling," he said quietly. "I feel it best astride Vhagar."

They stood in companionable silence for a moment, the tension of the dinner earlier in the evening seeming to dissipate in the soft glow of moonlight and the quiet intimacy of the room. Aemond took a step closer, drawn to the serenity that seemed to emanate from Jaena.

"I apologize for my harsh words earlier," he said, his voice sincere. "It's difficult to trust in these times, but I don't want to judge you unfairly."

Jaena's eyes softened, and she gave a small nod. "I understand, Prince Aemond. Trust must be earned. I hope that in time, you will see that I am not here to cause harm."

Aemond inclined his head, accepting her words. "Perhaps, with time, we will come to understand each other better."

As he turned to leave, Jaena's voice stopped him. "Aemond," she called softly. He looked back, meeting her gaze. "Thank you for listening to my song."

He gave her a small, genuine smile. "Good night, Jaena."

"Good night, Prince Aemond," she replied, watching as he slipped back into the shadows of the secret passage.

As the door closed behind him, Jaena returned to her painting, her heart lighter than it had been in days. She dipped her brush into the paint, the lullaby's melody still echoing in her mind, and began to bring her vision to life on the canvas, feeling a newfound sense of hope.

#aemond x original character #aemond x oc #aemond fic #masterlist #aemond fanfiction #aemond targaryen x oc #aemond targaryen #aemond one eye

[strangerthingsstuff4]

A Darling among Dragons- Part Five

Warning- Swearing, Sexual references, Mentions of Violence and SMUT SMUT SMUT!!!

‘One flesh, one heart, one soul now and forever’

With the coppery taste of her brother’s blood seeping into her mouth, Raenerys spoke her vows in unison with Aemond. Their hands had been cut and their life liquid smeared across one another’s forehead and mouth. The two were in the midst of their wedding, Aemond dressed in his best leather tunic and Raenerys in the heavy white gown. Their lips connected to announce their union to the small group of on lookers that had joined them in the small clearing off the king’s wood. The kiss was strange, his lips a foreign feeling against hers. Raenerys had never kissed her betrothed before, always opting for spending her time smooching with their older brother Aegon. Although he was not a bad kisser, his lips were soft, and he was firm enough with her, but he could not compare.

Aegon had been in horrid mood all morning. It had been his turn to beg her to run with him instead of marrying their brother, but before she could even move to grab a cloak to leave, Ser Arryk had come searching for the prince, having been ordered to follow his every move for the last week he had not been able to go anywhere unnoticed. His stomach churned as he watched Aemond kiss her, kiss what was his.

‘Blue scale, pink scale, blue scale, pink scale’ His wife mumbled to herself as she smiled looking on at the new couple.

Aegon’s foul mood followed him back to the castle and to the feast. He sat bearing a grimace the entire night, staring down at all the lords and ladies of the court. The wedding had been a small affair. The king had demanded a traditional Targaryen wedding for his youngest two children, there had been no guests other than those who resided in kings landing. No lords or ladies had travelled to see them wed, nor did they care. Aemond and Raenerys were the second son and daughter of Queen Alicent, they would never be heirs, they were just there. But she was everything to him, she was Aegon’s world, and he would curse his mother and father to selling her off too that fool.

As Aegon swallowed another cup, Raenerys sat on the other side of their father, next to her husband. All the lords and ladies had approached the table and offered their congratulations, more to the king than to them but she did not care. Her mind was solely fixed on what was to happen when the feast ended. She was to lose her maidenhood to Aemond, he who had also taken his sisters virginity. It was not worth the risk of her to save herself for Aegon, her mother had assured her that she was going to have her inspected by the maester, to ensure that she had been penetrated and filled.

Raenerys was pulled from her thoughts of what she had always imagined her wedding night to be, with Aegon, by her husband standing and offering her his hand to dance. She complied and followed his from the table and into the centre of the room. The joyful tune began and so did the dancing, the couple moved gracefully around the room, and they smiled, as a couple of newlyweds should.

‘We will take our leave soon my wife, return to our chambers and… well, just keep smiling and I promise it will be over soon’ Aemond reassured her, looking into her disheartened eyes.

‘I fear I will not be what you have been expecting of me this evening husband’ Raenerys mumbled back as more couples joined them in the choreographed dance.

‘I am sure you will do your duty to me tonight and I will do mine to you’ he said as gentlemanly as Aemond always was.

They parted ways as they switched partners as was planned with their wedding dance. Aemond off with some lady she did not care to know while she gripped the hand and shoulder of Tyland Lannister, the kings master of coin. His big hands rested a little too lowly on her waist, but she would only be with him a few moments, before being stolen off by some other lord.

‘My congratulations for your nuptial’s princess’

‘Thank you ser’ Raenerys replied, refusing to lay her eyes on the face of anyone.

‘I’m sure you will come to love your husband; I mean he does have a look of your eldest brother’ He quipped before releasing her grip and moving onto his next dance partner.

She was stunned, had he really just spoken so rashly to her? Was her desire for her brother so obvious? Raenerys could not take her eyes off the lord of Lannister’s as she moved her feet to flow with her new partner, some lord of wherever. She could not comprehend what had just happened, she was a princess of the seven kingdoms, and he was some lord that served her father! She could have his head for such a thing.

Before she knew it Raenerys was swept from her partner into a pair of familiar arms. He came out of nowhere, stealing her hands and turning with her. Aegon’s hands went straight to her face and pulled her forehead to his as they continued dancing. Raenerys was positive he had only just the festivities to steal her away, Aegon did not dance, not even on his own wedding day.

‘Aeg-‘

‘You are not to fuck him’ he interrupted.

‘Aegon, you know I must, mother will beat me to death if I do not bleed tonight’ She sighed back at him, grabbing onto his forearms like her life depended on it.

‘Kostilus’ (Please) Aegon begged.

Both had closed their eyes and fought the strong urge to taste each other, to inhale the others breath and saliva. It would not bode well for them to express their passion in front of all the onlookers at the feast.

‘Avy jorraelan’ (I love you) Raenerys whispered before she was ripped out of Aegon’s grip.

Aemond pulled his wife to stand behind him as he stepped towards his brother, towering over him.

‘Father is watching! You may be content to publicly shame your wife, but you will not do the same with mine!’ Aemond spat, quiet enough to not catch the attention of the people that surrounded them.

‘I am the one she wants’ Aegon growled, trying to take a step back towards where she stood holding Aemond’s arm, in an attempt to calm his growing anger.

‘And I am the one she was given! Now return to your seat before your head happens to fall from your neck’

Aemond had placed his hand on his brother’s chest, stopping him from coming in grabbing distance of his new wife. Two different tones of purple iris’ met as they stared each other down. The height difference that the younger of the two held favoured him greatly in intimidating his sibling. Aegon bit back a retort and quickly spun on his heel, pushing through lords and ladies, disappearing from sight and from the throne room.

Raenerys did not receive a word from her husband as he escorted her back to her seat at the head of the table, nor did she get a word from him as she spent the rest of the night staring longingly at the big heavy doors that separated her and Aegon, wherever he had disappeared to. She did not get a word out of Aemond until it was time for them to retire to their shared quarters. With a firm grip on her hand, she was led through the corridors by her husband, the nerves of what was to come, eating away at her. Raenerys struggled to keep up with Aemond’s big strides, the noise of the continuing partiers fading gradually as they quickly moved further away and deeper into the red keep.

‘My prince, my princess’ The knights on guard of their apartments greeted them as they came into view.

‘I wish to have some privacy with my wife, you are dismissed’ Aemond insisted without even stopping his stride.

Once in their quarters with the doors closed behind them, Aemond let out a big sigh. Whether it was out of relief or frustration she could not tell. Raenerys watched in anticipation as her husband walked over to their now shared four poster bed and pulled back the drape.

 ‘You and Aegon are never going to have a moment alone if you both continue to be so reckless with each other’ he stated while continuing to feel the stones on the wall.

‘It has been a difficult day for us both, Aemond what on earth are you doing?’ she questioned confused as she watched him move past her to the other side of the bed.

‘Father will have us both shipped off to Dragonstone if you do not become more discreet dear sister, which I assure you neither off us wants’ He continued as he began knocking on the wall.

‘Mother would not allow him to send us to that godless pit, besides father does not care as long as we are not humping in the court’ She grumbled, reserving herself to remove the heavy jewels that sat around her neck and turned to place them gently on her dresser, ignoring the heavy rumble that sounded behind her from where Aemond messed with the wall.

‘That sounds like fun’ his echoing voice hit her ears like the sweetest song.

Raenerys lifted her head and spun to be blessed with the sight of her eldest brother, climbing through an entrance that had appeared out of no where in the wall. Aegon smiled gently at her while she looked back, shocked.

‘I would not wish to take you for the first time, this may not be the pairing either of us wanted but I do care for you, and this can be a happy marriage… as long as we are discreet’ Aemond reassured her before placing a gentle kiss on her forehead.

‘Be gentle with her’ he warned Aegon before climbing into the gap in the wall himself and pulling the slab off brick work back into its place.

It was merely seconds before Aegon crossed the room and captured her lips with his. The kiss was heavy, passionate and needy.

‘I was so scared I was to do this without you’ she breathed between kisses.

Aegon’s hands moved to her hips and gently led her backwards until the back of her knees hit the side of the soft mattress. His movements completely destabilised her, allowing him to turn her way from his with ease. Removing his dagger from its sheath on his hip, he was too impatient to unlace her bodice, so he took to sliding his blade up through the lace that was holding the tight corset up around her chest. He moved his attack to her neck and shoulders as she slipped out of the sleeve and the fabric slipped off her body, leaving her in the partly translucent silk underdress she had chosen to wear, mainly for the satisfaction of her husband but Aegon enjoyed it just as much. Seeing her nipples peek through the fabric sent a wave of emotion through him that he knew he couldn’t contain any longer.

‘After we are done tonight you are going to have a taste for no other cock but mine sweet sister, you will have a thirst for me as I do you’ Aegon growled into her ear as he lightly bit her lobe.

Raenerys inhaled sharply at his words and his breath on her neck. She pushed her behind into him and pushed out her chest as a glorious shiver took over her entire body. His hands wandered her bound while his lips sucked a bruise into the nape of her neck. He knew he shouldn’t, but he was thinking only of the way her eyes would look nervously to him when their mother or father asked her of her marital bedding. He drew a soft moan out of her, she was leaning into his begging for more of him, more of his delicious touch.

She turned to face him once again and began removing his tunic. Her own mouth now found his, nibbling on his lip lightly and allowing his tongue to enter her mouth and maintain dominance while she undressed him.

‘I already have that thirst, I have had that thirst for many a moon now my love’ Raenerys smirked playfully, helping him out of his tunic and under shirt.

Once free from his constricting clothing, Aegon’s lips kissed any patch of skin he could find. He pulls her flush against him, needing to feel her against him. Her skin hot and soft. Raenerys breathed heavily, dizzy off the pleasure he was causing to pulse through her. They continued to undress each other, Aegon bunched up the silk underdress that was covering her modesty and lifted it over her head leaving her bare.

She was beautiful.

Every curve, every crease, he could drink it all up. He reluctantly removed his eyes from her body to watch as she untied his breeches. His erection was evident through the fabric but that did not prepare Raenerys to see it uncovered for the first time. She was slightly taken back at the sight of her brother’s manhood slapping up against his stomach after being release from his trousers. It was redder than she had expected, and shinier.  

‘Do not be alarmed, I will be gentle’ Aegon soothed, pulling her against him once again and kissing her, gentler this time.

‘How do you want it?’ he questioned lovingly.

Raenerys searched his eyes for any hint of wanting, trying to find out if there was a correct answer, she was supposed to give him to make him happy. She found nothing but pure curiosity and devotion. She lifted her hand and tucked a stray lock behind his ear and out of his face.

‘I would look upon you, if it pleases you’ she mumbled gently.

Aegon gently nodded his head towards the bed, signalling her to climb up. He helps her onto the soft mattress, climbing over her as she shuffled herself to the centre. Aegon settled himself between her legs, spreading them a little further to allow himself a proper look at her. She was visibly wet, her folds glistening with her arousal for him.  His cock, pulsing and begging to be buried inside her, sat seeping droplets of his seed onto his stomach while he used his pointer and index finger and ran them through her folds, collecting her juices and spreading them over himself as a form of extra lubrication.

‘Aegon please, I have waited long enough’ Raenerys whined, arching her back a little trying to catch more of her brother’s teasing touch.

‘Are you sure? I do not wish to hurt you’ He worried, slipping a single finger into her opening.

‘I’m ready’

Still a little hesitant, Aegon lay over her and placed his tip at her entrance. A soft kiss was shared between them as he slowly pressed himself into her, clenching his eyes shut as her hands flew to his hips, pressing against them slightly. He quickly searched her face for a sign, anything that was telling him to stop but despite her scrunched up nose and worried eyes, Raenerys nodded her head. So he continued slowly. His arms were bent either side of her head, his hands stroking her soft hair in encouragement to take him.

‘Ahh’ Raenerys whimpered when his head popped into her fully, stretching her out at his full girth now.

Aegon wanted to tell her soothing words and encourage her but he struggled keeping his satisfaction silent. At long last he had her wrapped around his and she felt better than he could have ever imagined. She was tight but not so much to strangle him. She was slick and warm, whether that was with her arousal or her virgin blood he did not care, she felt glorious. Raenerys nails digging into the skin on his bare hips pulled him back to reality, continuing to push into her Aegon bottomed out. His entire manhood was enclosed within her, and he could not help the gravelly moan that he released at the feel of her unintentionally clenching around him.

‘I-I… I’m going to s-start rocking now, okay?’ he struggled to get out.

‘Okay’ Raenerys sniffled, her eyes having filled with tears at the stinging pain that throbbed from between her legs.

She took a deep breath preparing herself for the pain of his movement. The stinging stabbed at her again when he began to remove himself from her slowly and then sink himself back in. The mixture of her wetness and blood made it easy for him to slide in and out of her. Raenerys’ hands moved from pressing his hips away from her and moved to holding onto his back, her legs had begun to drop further apart as she grew accustomed to the invasion of her womanhood.

‘You… you can speed up’ She muttered nervously; her face flushed red with a slight embarrassment of asking his to fuck her faster.

Her brother obliged happily and picked up his pace in thrusting into her, small moans and grunts fell from his mouth more freely now as they joined the small whines that she was allowing to float into the otherwise silent room.

Aegon moved his face down and enveloped her left nipple in his mouth, he relished in the gasp that fell from her already open mouth and the way she arched her back, pushing her breasts further into him. One of his hands found her waist while the other continued to hold him up above her. The slap of skin on skin now filled the room as Aegon took it upon himself to harden his force into her, watching her flesh ripple as it rebounded off him made him roll his eyes into the back of his head.

It was a sight that she could happily get used to, her lover ploughing into her, his face overtaken with pleasure. She loved the way his plump lips had parted slightly, and his eyes were closed, the deep moans that he graced her ears with. The pleasure was muted slightly with the pain that still resided between her legs, but it was still there, her whole body felt as though it was a light with the brightest fire. Aegon hiked one of her legs over his hip and drove himself into her faster and harder, it was uncomfortable more than it was enjoyable, but she was not about to tell him that. They had both wanted this for so long but Aegon more so, she knew he had dreamt of it from the way he would moan her name and grind himself against her on the nights he shared her bed.

‘I’m goin- fuck’ Aegon groaned loudly as he faltered in his thrusts.

Raenerys was unsure of what was happening, his hips were flush against her, his cock was twitching inside of her, and his hands were digging into her skin so hard, they were sure to leave marks. Her chest heaved as she breathed heavily, watching him reach his high was something she never knew she needed to witness. His short silver locks stuck to his forehead with sweat, he dropped himself onto her. She held him while they both calmed, ran her fingertips over his sweat slicked back and through his hair.

After a few moments of silence, Aegon lifted his head and connected his lips to hers. It was a kiss no longer full of passion but swimming with love and care for the amazing woman that had allowed him to deflower her, taken his seed and his heart. Pulling his lips away he pressed his forehead against hers, his hands gripping her body tighter.

‘You are mine, from this day until the end of my day’ Aegon mumbled quietly

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