#change of command ceremony

[valeisaslut]

Ellie fucking you with her gun…👅👅👅

loaded worship ₊ ⊹

𖥠 word count: 1.9k 𖥔 ݁ ˖

𖥠 content warnings: top!ellie x sub!reader, porn w no plot, gunplay (r!receiving, consensual, unloaded, treated as a kink object), oral fixation (licking/sucking gun), AFAB!reader, cursing, pet names, spit kink, mild choking, degradation + praise, overstimulation, power dynamics, brat taming, MEN AND MINORS DNI, likes and reblogs are deeply appreciated 𖥔 ݁ ˖

it starts, like it always does, with you mouthing off.

ellie’s at the edge of the bed, legs spread, perched in a chair that’s more throne than furniture. the window’s cracked open behind her. the clouds blur into the moonlight.

she’s cleaning her gun again—not for protection, not for purpose, but for the meditative rhythm of it. something ancient in her hands, like a priest with a chalice.

and you—bratty, barely clothed in a paper-thin tank and those sleep shorts she loathes and loves at the same time— are sprawled across the sheets, soft skin glowing under the bedside lamp.

“gonna spend more time with that thing than me tonight?”

your voice is honey-laced venom. flirtatious, syrupy, barbed. she hears the dare in it. she always does.

ellie doesn’t answer right away. she slides the barrel back into place. presses the magazine in, safety flicks on with a soft click. there’s a smile on her lips that doesn’t quite meet her eyes. the kind that says she’s deciding whether to be sweet. or cruel.

“you jealous, baby?”

that voice. low and warm and mocking, but still so tender it hurts.

“maybe.” you stretch, belly tight, spine arching in a way that’s downright pornographic. “it’s prettier than me.”

her head lifts. one eyebrow raises. her gaze cuts you in half.

“nothing’s prettier than you.”

you roll your eyes.

and that’s it. the eye-roll, the little sigh, the careless way you flop onto your back like you’re bored. like she doesn’t have her trigger finger twitching. like she doesn’t wake up every morning already wet just from the thought of shutting you up.

she sets the gun down.

softly.

like it's not the most dangerous thing in the room.

“come here.”

there’s a change in the air. you feel it like a shift in pressure. her voice is velvet-wrapped steel—low, calm, lethal. not angry, but simmering. inevitable.

“ellie,” you murmur, but you’re already moving.

“no,” she says again. “come. here.”

she’s spread out in that chair like she owns even the air you're breathing. tattooed arm draped over her thigh. pupils blown wide. the slow smirk of someone who’s been waiting all day for an excuse.

“you got a lot to say tonight,” she murmurs when you get close. “real mouthy for someone who couldn’t stop begging ten minutes ago.”

“wasn’t begging,” you whisper, breathless. fake confident.

she tilts her head. hums low in her throat.

“nah. you were whining.”

her hand curls around your wrist and tugs you into her lap. you’re not even sure how you end up there — her fingers are hot against your skin, her thigh spreads you open instinctively. she kisses you once, deep and slow, like she’s claiming her prize. then she leans back.

“take your clothes off.”

you blink.

her voice is soft, but the command in it cuts like glass.

“why?”

she smiles.

and picks the gun back up.

“ellie—”

“relax.” her voice is velvet now, coaxing, almost sweet. “you trust me?”

you nod. instantly.

“you like being a brat, huh?” she murmurs. “you like pushing me.”

your heart’s in your throat. “maybe.”

“you want me to show you who you fucking belong to?”

a shaky breath. a nod.

and when you comply, you do it slow. ceremoniously. like you’re undressing for god — or something much, much worse. your fingers hook into the waistband of your shorts and panties, peeling them down your thighs with shaky grace. your breath hitches at the chill in the room, the way it grazes over your freshly bare skin. you kick them aside, standing exposed from the waist down — but ellie’s still watching. still waiting.

your hands reach for the hem of your tank. soft cotton, now clinging with sweat. you pull it up, slow enough to feel her eyes follow the motion. over your ribs, your chest, your shoulders. when it finally leaves your body, you’re stripped to nothing — and that’s when it hits.

you feel it.

the weight of her stare. like a spotlight. like heat crawling over every inch of you. ellie’s not just looking, she’s devouring. the kind of look that makes you feel like prey, like art, like her favorite sin all at once. it makes your skin burn. your pulse skip. your thighs press together on instinct, already aching.

she doesn’t speak.

she just spins the gun in her hand with the ease of long practice—as if she was born with it, the ritual of cleaning and handling the only thing that steadies her. it twirls in her palm once, twice, catching the light as it flips , and then lands barrel-down in her open hand. her thumb brushes the safety. her fingers curl around the grip.

she’s still watching you.

you’re completely bare. she’s fully clothed. legs spread, eyes dark. the contrast makes you feel tiny. and impossibly turned on.

"you look like a dream,” she murmurs, her gaze pinning you in place like a knife to the throat. there’s a smirk playing on her lips — cocky, slow-burning — but her eyes are pure fire.

she spins the gun in her hand again and lets the barrel rest on her open palm.

“spit.”

“ellie—”

“spit on it.”

she doesn’t blink. and you —shaking now, lips parted— obey.

saliva hits the black metal, slick and hot. it glides down the barrel in the most obsene, wicked way imaginable.

ellie groans, quiet. pleased.

“fuck. good girl.”

she uses her thumb to smear it in. sensual, fucking indulgent.

“turn around.”

and you do. breath hitched. you straddle her lap with your back to her chest, thighs spread wide, cunt wet and aching. every inch of you is electric.

she nudges the barrel between your legs. just a tease. the steel is cold and slippery now, coated in spit and tension.

“still think she’s prettier than you?”

“n-no.”

“you gonna behave now?”

“i’ll try.”

she laughs against your neck.

“cute. too bad i don’t want ‘try.’ i want a 'yes'.”

and then she presses the barrel inside you.

your body jolts like it’s been shocked, the cold metal punching the breath from your lungs. it’s an unnatural stretch, one you've never felt before — not wide, but so precise. so smooth. it doesn’t flex. it doesn’t give. it fills you with the weight of power, the absolute certainty that you are being claimed, not fucked. your muscles clench instinctively, helplessly. the coolness burns as it warms inside you, the safety ridge dragging ever-so-slightly against your entrance, sending jolts up your spine.

ellie’s eyes are locked on your face, watching the transformation. the way your expression flickers from shock to lust to devotion.

she pushes in deeper, not rough, just deliberate. your thighs quiver around her lap. your cunt is already dripping, coating the slick metal in heat and want.

“jesus,” you gasp, nearly choking on it.

ellie grins, her voice a dark ribbon in your ear.

“nah, baby. not him.”

she begins to move. slow, sinful thrusts. the steel slides in and out, obscene and perfect. your slick is making it glide now, every drag sending aftershocks through your belly. it’s mechanical and intimate all at once. humiliating and holy. you’re spread wide on her lap, completely open, held still by her arm wrapped tight around your waist.

“this what you wanted?” she whispers. “you like being used like this?”

you moan. “yes—”

“like my little toy? like a wet fuckin’ hole?”

“yes—yes—”

your hips are rocking now, chasing it. chasing her.

“needy thing,” she breathes. “so fucking desperate. you gonna come like this? on my gun?”

“please, ellie—please—”

she lets out a groan. fucks it into you a little deeper. her free hand wraps around your throat, pulling you upright against her chest. your head falls back and your breath breaks.

“you hear yourself?” she murmurs. “you gonna remember this next time you wanna mouth off.”

she fucks you harder, a little rough now. precise. measured. like she knows every angle of your body, built it with her calloused hands just to use it like this.

you’re shaking.

“say it,” she growls.

“i’m yours,” you sob.

“again.”

“i’m yours—i’m yours—”

and then it hits you — a high so sharp it feels like lightning cracking down your spine. your body spasms. thighs clamp, back arches, a broken sob escaping your lips as you shatter. it’s not just release — it’s surrender. full-body, soul-deep, trembling surrender. you’re crying, and you don’t even realize it. your voice breaks open in a moan that borders on a whimper, like the pleasure was too much for you to carry.

ellie doesn’t stop. she fucks you through it — slow, possessive thrusts, making you feel every inch of the steel inside you, every twitch of your cunt around it, every aftershock that ripples through your core. her mouth is hot on your neck, mouthing filth against your skin like prayers.

“that’s it, baby,” she breathes. “that’s my girl. coming on my fucking gun like you were made for it.”

your body slumps against her, boneless. still twitching. still clenching around nothing when she finally eases the barrel out of you. the drag is slow —so slow— and the loss leaves you whimpering, your cunt fluttering around emptiness, dripping with slick and spit and the remnants of your orgasm.

ellie looks down at you like she’s just unearthed a masterpiece.

“fuck,” she mutters, reverent. “look at this mess.”

your thighs are soaked. your stomach rising and falling like you’ve run for your life. your cheeks are damp, lips parted, eyes barely focused.

she slides the gun slowly along your stomach, your chest, your neck, painting your release on your skin like a signature. deliberate, crude, worshipful.

then she leans in and presses a kiss to your neck — soft, warm, tender in the aftermath.

“mine,” she murmurs.

you nod, dazed. dizzy. your body’s humming. you don’t think you could move if you tried.

and then —slow as a ritual— she lifts the gun to her mouth.

you watch, hypnotized, as her tongue parts her lips. she licks a long, filthy stripe up the length of the barrel, tasting your slick like it’s a holy thing, worshipping the altar of your body even after she’s already made you come undone. her eyes flutter shut for half a second, lashes trembling. she hums low in her throat, a sound that vibrates through your chest like a second orgasm blooming.

and then she parts her lips wider — and takes the barrel into her mouth.

your breath catches. your knees almost give out.

she doesn’t break eye contact. not once.

it slides past her tongue, slow and obscene. her lips wrap around the metal like it’s your cunt she’s sucking. she moans around it, and it’s not just a show—it’s real, messy, shameless want. her spit mixes with your slick, glistening at the corners of her mouth. the sight is nothing short of devastating. your stomach twists.

her free hand slides between your legs, presses two fingers inside you without warning.

you cry out, overstimulated, needy.

“shit.” she says around the barrel, pulling it out with a soft wet pop. “sweetest fucking thing in the world.”

she sets it aside like it’s holy. it’s much more sacred now that it’s been inside you.

then she grips your chin. firm but gentle. tilts your face back so your eyes meet hers — pupils blown, lashes damp, lips trembling.

“get on the bed. gonna fuck you for real now.”

⭒ perm taglist (tysm for supporting, hope you enjoy <3): @talyaisvalslutsoldier @miajooz @andiemiaswife @mayfldss @sewithinsouls @coastalwilliams @hotpinkskitties @ssijht @pleasejoel @pariiissssssss @liddy333 @beeisscaredofbees @d1catwhisperer @the-sick-habit @elliescoquettegirl @elliewilliams-wife @yueluv3rrrr @your-eternal-muse @ellies-real-wife @katherinesmirnova @ellies-moth-to-a-flame @thxtmarvelchick @natscloset @lesbiansreverywhere @2against3 @wwefan2002 @ilahrawr @harmonib @piastorys @azteriarizz @starincarnated @natssgf @ukissmyfaceinacrowdedroom @iadorefineshyt @claudiajacobs @urmomssideh0e @kingofeyeliner @womenlover0 @ferxanda @imunpunishable @elliewilliamsloverrrrrrrr @bambi-luvs @maru0uu @mikellie @gold-dustwomxn @nramv

࿐♡ ˚.*ೃ PURE. FILTH. IM SHOKED WITH MYSELF. THE PARTS OF A GUN TAB IS STARING AT ME. AND JUDGING. huge HUGE HUGE love and tysm to my gorg mootie who sent this amazing request before i even started collide—you live in my brain rent free forever bby!

i might play around with a few more fics + requests before launching the next big series i’ve been outlining (👀), so stay tuned babes. ily all dearly ♡

credits for divider: @kodaswrld <3 – images from pinterest - edited by me

[literaryvein-reblogs]

commonly confused words

accept: to receive except: with the exclusion of

advice: recommendation (noun) advise: to recommend (verb)

adverse: unfavorable averse: opposed to

affect: to influence (verb); emotional response (noun) effect: result (noun); to cause (verb)

aisle: space between rows isle: island

allude: to make indirect reference to elude: to avoid

allusion: indirect reference illusion: false idea, misleading appearance

already: by this time all ready: fully prepared

altar: sacred platform or place alter: to change

altogether: thoroughly all together: everyone/everything in one place

a lot: a quantity; many of something allot: to divide or portion out

angel: supernatural being, good person angle: shape made by joining two straight lines

are: plural form of "to be" our: plural form of "my"

accent: pronunciation common to a region ascent: the act of rising or climbing assent: consent, agreement

assistance: help assistants: helpers

bare: nude, unadorned bear: to carry; an animal

beside: close to; next to besides: except for; in addition

boar: a wild male pig bore: to drill a hole through

board: piece of wood bored: uninterested

born: brought into life borne: past participle of "to bear" (carry)

breath: air taken in (noun) breathe: to take in air (verb)

brake: device for stopping break: destroy; make into pieces

buy: to purchase by: next to; through the agency of

canvas: heavy cloth canvass: to take a survey; a survey

capital: major city capitol: government building

choose: to pick chose: past tense of "to choose"

clothes: garments close: to shut; near cloths: pieces of fabric

coarse: rough course: path; series of lectures

complement: something that completes compliment: praise, flattery

conscience: sense of morality conscious: awake, aware

corps: regulated group corpse: dead body

council: governing body counsel: advice; to give advice

dairy: place where milk products are processed diary: personal journal

descent: downward movement dissent: disagreement

dessert: final, sweet course in a meal desert: to abandon; dry, sandy area

device: a plan; a tool or utensil devise: to create

discreet: modest, prudent behavior discrete: a separate thing, distinct

do: a verb indicating performance or execution of a task dew: water droplets condensed from air due: as a result of

dominant: commanding, controlling dominate: to control

die: to lose life; one of a pair of dice dye: to change or add color

dyeing: changing or adding color dying: losing life

elicit: to draw out illicit: illegal, forbidden

eminent: prominent imminent: about to happen

envelop: to surround (verb) envelope: container for a letter (noun)

everyday: routine, commonplace, ordinary (adj.) every day: each day, succession (adj. + noun)

fair: just, honest; a carnival; light skinned fare: money for transportation; food

farther: at a greater (measurable) distance further: in greater (non-measurable) depth

formally: conventionally, with ceremony formerly: previously

forth: forward fourth: number four in a list

gorilla: animal in ape family guerrilla: soldier specializing in surprise attacks

hear: to sense sound by ear here: in this place

heard: past tense of "to hear" herd: group of animals

hoard: a hidden fund or supply, a cache horde: a large group or crowd, swarm

hole: opening whole: complete; an entire thing

human: relating to the species homo sapiens humane: compassionate

its: possessive form of "it" it's: contraction for "it is"

knew: past tense of "know" new: fresh, not yet old

know: to comprehend no: negative

later: after a time latter: second one of two things

lead: heavy metal substance; to guide led: past tense of "to lead"

lessen: to decrease lesson: something learned and/or taught

lightning: storm-related electricity lightening: making lighter

loose: unbound, not tightly fastened lose: to misplace

maybe: perhaps (adv.) may be: might be (verb)

meat: animal flesh meet: to encounter mete: to measure; to distribute

medal: a flat disk stamped with a design meddle: to interfere, intrude metal: a hard organic substance mettle: courage, spirit, energy

miner: a worker in a mine minor: underage person (noun); less important (adj.)

moral: distinguishing right from wrong; lesson of a fable or story morale: attitude or outlook usually of a group

passed: past tense of "to pass" past: at a previous time

patience: putting up with annoyances patients: people under medical care

peace: absence of war piece: part of a whole; musical arrangement

peak: point, pinnacle, maximum peek: to peer through or look furtively pique: fit of resentment, feeling of wounded vanity

pedal: the foot lever of a bicycle or car petal: a flower segment peddle: to sell

personal: intimate; owned by a person personnel: employees

plain: simple, unadorned plane: to shave wood; aircraft (noun)

precede: to come before proceed: to continue

presence: attendance; being at hand presents: gifts

principal: foremost (adj.); administrator of a school (noun) principle: moral conviction, basic truth

quiet: silent, calm quite: very

rain: water drops falling; to fall like rain reign: to rule rein: strap to control an animal (noun); to guide or control (verb)

raise: to lift up raze: to tear down

rational: having reason or understanding rationale: principles of opinion, beliefs

respectfully: with respect respectively: in that order

reverend: title given to clergy; deserving respect reverent: worshipful

right: correct; opposite of left rite: ritual or ceremony write: to put words on paper

road: path rode: past tense of "to ride"

scene: place of an action; segment of a play seen: viewed; past participle of "to see"

sense: perception, understanding since: measurement of past time; because

sight: scene, view, picture site: place, location cite: to document or quote (verb)

stationary: standing still stationery: writing paper

straight: unbending strait: narrow or confining; a waterway

taught: past tense of "to teach" taut: tight

than: used to introduce second element; compared to then: at that time; next

their: possessive form of "they" there: in that place they’re: contraction for "they are"

through: finished; into and out of threw: past tense of "to throw" thorough: complete

to: toward too: also; very (used to show emphasis) two: number following one

track: course, road tract: pamphlet; plot of ground

waist: midsection of the body waste: discarded material; to squander

waive: forgo, renounce wave: flutter, move back and forth

weak: not strong week: seven days

weather: climatic condition whether: if wether: a neutered male sheep

where: in which place were: past tense of "to be"

which: one of a group witch: female sorcerer

whose: possessive for "of who" who’s: contraction for "who is"

your: possessive for "of you" you’re: contraction for "you are" yore: time long past

commonly confused words part 2 ⚜ Writing Resources PDFs

[astrocafecoffee]

Destiny Matrix

(predicting some events of your life and characteristics of your fs)

• For entertainment purposes only, enjoy •

•☞ Masterlist

Guys, destiny matrix chart is So gorgeous 😭 , I fell in love. I am new to this, but it's so fascinating, so I am sharing with you guys. Obviously I learnt a lot from ann_matrix_destiny insta page. I explained some of her work here, rest is mine.

✨What is Destiny matrix chart?

-A spiritual and metaphysical chart that reveals a person's life path, soul purpose, and potential.

✨How is it calculated?

-Based on a person's birth date, using a complex system of numerology and astrological correspondences.

💫 How to see some important events of your life?

see this area(perimeter line)of your chart , this will explain many important events of your life.

💚Age of getting married/ meeting with your significant other/ spouse:

- look at your age in your chart, if you see 3,5,6,19,20 at the top of your age then at that age you will get married/ meet your significant other/ start a family. Like in this chart I have shown above '5' is top of the age of 23.5- 24, so this individual will meet their spouse at that age/ get married.

• Going through Transformation in your life :

- if you see 13 or 16 at the top of your age , then at that age your life will drastically change/ you will go through a huge transformation of your life. You will change your location/ your career/ will shift to another country or city.

⚡Moving abroad/ travelling:

If you see 7,10,21,22 above your age then this is the best age for travelling or going abroad.

if you find 21 in your love line(circled part)then most probably you will marry a foreigner.

And if you find 7, 10 , 21 or 22 in this positions then most probably you will go abroad/ find your partner there .

Now , the future spouse part : -

💖 Hints about your future partner :

Look at the number below the heart symbol to know about your future partner. In this chart it's 21.

So, let's explain each numbers -

•Number 1: The magician

- creative and innovative

- skilled and talented

- confident and charismatic

- however they may also struggled with over - confidence and arrogance.

- gemini / Virgo zodiac sign placements

- profession : musicians, writer, public speaker, coaches and mentors , scientist, entrepreneur, marketing and advertising professionals.

- meeting: conference or seminar, art galleries, meuseum, workshop or studio, networking events or industry conference, class or training session.

• Number 2 : High Priestess

- intuitive and wise

- mysterious and enigmatic

- maybe quiet and reserved.

- soft spoken and considerate.

- cancer zodiac sign placements.

- profession: councillors, therapists, psychologist, Nurse or healthcare professionals, social workers, spiritual leaders, energy workers.

- meeting: secret or private settings, libraries, coaching, weddings , meeting in the context of any spiritual retreats.

• Number 3 : Empress

- Full of life , energy and vitality.

- encouraging others to grow and flourish.

- committed, dedicated and faithful.

- Taurus and Libra zodiac sign placements.

- profession: fashion designer , sculptors, teachers and educators,event planer, environmentalists, musicians, healthcare.

- meeting through : parties, gatherings, festival, fair, creative workshops, artistic projects ,meuseum, concerts.

• Number 4 : Emperor

- Natural born leader, authoritative, commanding.

- makes tough decisions with clarity and conviction.

- commited to family and responsibilities.

- zodiac sign: Aries placements.

- profession: executive, CEO, leader or manager, military officer, architect, Engineer, government officials, buisness owner.

- meeting : buisness meeting, job interviews, formal events , official ceremonies.

• Number 5 : Hierophant

- values established customs, rituals, and institutions.

- upholds ethical standards and moral principles.

- prioritise stability and security over change and uncertainty.

- Taurus zodiac sign placements

- profession: spiritual leaders and mentors, councellor , advisor or consultants, traditional healers or healthcare professionals.

- meeting: spiritual or religious gatherings, traditional ceremonies or rituals, educational and training sessions , counciling or therapy sessions, church,temples , mosques.

• Number 6 : The lovers

- collaborative, work well others.

- empathetic and aware of others feelings.

- true to themselves and their values.

- zodiac sign: Gemini placements.

- profession: counselors, coaches , writer , journalist, artist, musicians, public speaker, philosophers , scientist, researchers.

- meeting : social getherings or parties , creative or artistic collaboration, Beauty or fashion events , community or networking meeting.

• Number 7 : The chariot

- Determined, self disciplined.

- ability to overcome any obstacles and setbacks

- has clear direction

- zodiac : cancer placements

- profession: nurses , social worker, military, architect, psychologist, chefs , nutritionist, hospitality professionals.

- Meeting: family gatherings, home or domestic settings, caregiving or helping professions.

• Number 8 : strength

- courageous, brave , have inner strength.

- has capacity to forgive and let go.

- has self discipline and self control.

- zodiac sign: leo placements

- profession: artist , designer, performers , public speaker, motivator, executives, philanthropist, teacher, councellor, athletes, trainers.

- meeting: park or garden, fitness or wellness center, creative studio or art space, festivals, social gatherings.

• Number 9 : Hermit

- quiet, reflective, and introspective often preferring to spend time alone

- serves as guide or mentor

- discerning and concious about every step they take.

- zodiac sign: Virgo placements.

- profession: therapist, counselors,teachers , coaches , writers, editors, healthcare industry, social worker.

- meeting: therapists or counselor office, library , spiritual or religious sanctuary, coffee shop , book store.

• Number 10 : wheel of fortune

- flexible, able to adjust to changing circumstances.

- believes in destiny

- have philosophical outlook on life.

- zodiac sign: Taurus, leo, scorpio, Aquarius placements.

- profession: life coach, astrologer, environmentalists, entrepreneur, investors, historians.

- meeting: a farm , airport, bus station, temple, monastery, party,park , near mountain or river.

• Number 11 : Justice

- impartial and balanced

- they make descision based on reason and logics.

- have strong sense of morality and ethics.

- zodiac sign: Libra placements

- profession: lawyer, judge, counselors, social worker, activists, advocate, journalist, analyst , or spiritual leader.

- meeting: courthouse, law office, government building, council chamber, community centre, places of worship, philosophical organization.

• Number 12 : Hanged Man

- they are reflective , look inward for answers.

- they are open to new settings.

- courageous, deep understanding of themselves.

- zodiac sign: Pisces placements

- profession : spiritual leaders, therapist, counselor , artist, writer, healthcare industry, motivator, life coach.

- meeting : temples , church , meditation room , yoga class , hospital, library, therapy office,art studio, gym.

• Number 13 : Death

- they are like phoenix from the ashes.

- they can navigate difficult situations and come out stronger.

- constantly growing and evolving.

- zodiac sign: scorpio placements

- profession: therapist, estate lawyers, spiritual leaders, scientist, healthcare professionals.

- meeting: counselling centre, place of worship, innovation hub or entrepreneurship centres, hospital, wellness center.

• Number 14 : Temperance

- they strive for equilibrium in all aspects of life .

- they prioritise physical, mental and emotional well-being.

- have creative sides.

- zodiac sign: Sagittarius placements .

- profession: doctor or nurse , therapist or counselor, artist or musicians, spiritual leader, international relation specialist , life coach , designer .

- meeting : art galleries or museums, embassies or international conference centres , community centres, clubs , parks , garden , spiritual center , yoga class.

• Number 15 : The devil

- they thinks outside the box and brings fresh ideas .

- magnetic personality, can attract others.

- unconventional, transformative.

- zodiac sign: Capricorn placements.

- profession: politician, CEO, artist, law enforcement, military, detective , investigators, activists, occultist.

- meeting: historic mansion or estate, a secret rooftop, art galleries, studio , book store, library , cafe.

• Number 16 : Tower

- they seek honesty and transparency even if it's uncomfortable.

- rebellious, resilient, revolutionary.

- they are open to new ideas.

- zodiac sign: Aries placements.

- profession : scientist, inventor, engineer, architect, military officer, crisis manager, technologist.

- meeting: transformation hub, a unique event space or art studio, bookstore, library, co-working space.

• Number 17 : Star

- they have a optimistic outlook of life and believe in a bright future.

- inspiring, peaceful, compassionate.

- creative and imaginative mind.

- zodiac sign: Aquarius placements.

- profession: creative expression, artist , industry related to healing and wellness, science and technology, humanitarian work, counselors.

- meeting: yoga studio or wellness center, botanical garden or peaceful outdoor setting, co-working space, concerts? , innovation hub.

• Number 18 : The Moon

- they trust their instincts and have a strong connection to their subconscious mind.

- deeply in touch with their emotions.

- unpredictable, may surprise other with their actions.

- zodiac sign : Pisces placements.

- profession : psychic or medium, artist or writer, musician, poet , spiritual teacher, healer, counselors.

- meeting: mystical or esoteric shop, secluded beach, art studio, a spiritual or metaphysical bookstore, coffee shop.

• Number 19 : Sun

- they exude self assurance and positivity.

- optimistic, enthusiastic, charismatic.

- warm hearted , willing to share blessings with others.

- zodiac sign: leo placements.

- profession: actor or performer, artist, CEO , teacher or mentor, event planner, musicians, life coach, designer.

- meeting: cafe / restaurant/ hotel , studio , gathering hall, auditorium, music festival.

• Number 20: Judgement

- they are introspective and willing to confront their past and inner self.

- self aware, have deep understanding of their strengths and weaknesses.

- awakened, courageous, honest.

- zodiac sign: scorpio placements

- profession : spiritual teacher or guide , therapist or counselor, life coach, researcher, artist or creative expression.

- meeting: spiritual center or temple, yoga class, a writer's workshop, park , garden , therapy or councilling office.

• Number 21: The world

- they have achieved their goals and fullfill their potential.

- compassions, wise, confident

- adventurous and global minded.( Most likely a foreigner)

- zodiac sign: Taurus, Capricorn, leo , placements.

- profession : global diplomat, artist ( global or universal theme) , cultural ambassador, world traveler, humanitarian work.

- meeting: while traveling, international conference centres , airport, spiritual retreat, international art or music venues.

• Number 22 : The fool

- they are willing to take risks and embark on new journeys.

- spontaneous, carefree , open minded.

- have faith in themselves and universe.

- zodiac sign: Aquarius placements.

- profession: entrepreneur or startup founder, activist, humanitarian work,coach or consultants, designer, scientist,teacher, journalist.

- meeting: spontaneous meet-up or pop up events, inspirational seminars, creative workshops,cafe or coffee shop, outdoor adventure location.

----------------✨✨----------------

END .....( I am tired af 😭)

☞ Healing through marriage

Thanks for reading 💓

-Piko ✨

[societyfolklore]

Just a Little More

Title: Just a Little More

Pairing: Thor x Virgin!Female Reader

Summary:  Your wedding night with Thor was meant to be a simple, just enough to fulfill tradition. Plans change.

Word Count: 1.4k

Warnings:  / Explicit Content /18+, Minors DNI, Smut, Unprotected sex, Slight Dub Con, virginity lost, size difference, painful first time..  

A/N: ‘just the tip’ Thor – Starting to notice a little bit of a ‘theme’ with my Thor stories.. The scent of sacred oils still clung to your skin, lingering between the strands of your freshly washed hair as Thor’s large hands glided over you, his touch reverent, tender. The ceremonial dress lay discarded on the floor, its delicate fabrics a whisper of tradition now shed in the intimacy of your shared chambers. He had been so gentle with you, bathing you with hands that could command thunder and lightning, yet, he treated you as though you were spun of fragile silk. Murmuring soft assurances as he poured warm water over your shoulders, washing away the last remnants of the evening’s rituals. His fingers had combed through your hair, working fragrant oils into your scalp before rinsing them away, his touch a stark contrast to the power he wielded in battle. Every action was deliberate, a careful unravelling of the ceremonial layers until nothing remained but the woman he was to claim.

But now, standing before him in nothing but the flickering candlelight, your breath caught as he shed the last of his own garments. The air shifted between you, thick with something unspoken, something inevitable.

He was a god. A warrior. A king in waiting.

Broad shoulders and a chest carved with divine strength, his thighs thick and powerful- the very ones you had perched on throughout the feast, his palm steady on your waist, possessive but warm. Now, with the revelry behind you and the weight of expectation settling in the quiet of your chambers, he stood before you, fully bare. His presence dominated the room, towering and unyielding, yet his hands, when they touched you, were careful, reverent. And now, with nothing between you, your eyes dipped lower, and you felt the sharp bite of panic in your chest.

The sheer size of him- the weapon that hung heavily between his legs- left your innocence trembling beneath the weight of reality. Your mouth parted, something close to a whimper escaping before you could stop it. He was overwhelming in every way, and the thought of taking him, of being his in the way tradition demanded, sent a mix of desire and trepidation spiraling through you. Heat coiled in your belly, warring with the nerves that had your thighs pressing together.

“Sweet one,” Thor murmured, his knuckles brushing along your jaw, tilting your face up to meet his gaze. Those oceanic blue eyes softened with understanding, though beneath his tenderness, there lay something desperate, something restrained. “I do not wish to rush you, but…” He exhaled, pressing a slow kiss to your temple. “A marriage must be consummated.”

A shiver ran through you, nerves tangled with want. He had been nothing but patient, but now he had you beneath him, breathless and shaking. His lips found your forehead, "We only need to go just a little, enough for me to claim your maidenhood." His voice a gentle purr as he kissed your cheeks, your throat. Murmured praises against your skin, a steady litany of devotion and reassurance.

“My sweet flower,” he hummed, tracing his fingers down your bare spine. “My little petal.”

His weight caged you, yet you never felt trapped. He settled between your parted thighs, one hand gripping his thick length, the other smoothing down your side in soothing strokes. His calloused fingertips danced along your ribs, his warmth seeping into your skin, grounding you in the moment. His thumb brushed over the swell of your breast, slow and deliberate, coaxing the tension from your body.

“This will hurt,” he whispered. “But only for a moment.”

The broad tip pressed against your entrance, slick from his attentions, yet still so unprepared for something of his size. He kissed you deeply as he pushed forward, just enough to breach that delicate barrier. The stretch was sharp, foreign, and you whimpered against his lips, hands clutching at his broad shoulders, your legs instinctively trying to close, only to press against the firm muscle of his powerful thighs. The realization sent a fresh wave of helplessness through you- there was no escaping the size of him. Thor stilled for a moment, giving you time, but you could feel him trembling with restraint, his body coiled tight above you.

You had done your duty. Had let him take what was required. The pain was still sharp, but the act was complete. It should have ended here- a moment of pain, a brief claim, nothing more. You squirmed beneath him, your breathing quick and uneven, your heart pounding against your ribs. Each shift of your hips sent another pulse of sensation through you-  even this small intrusion stretched you in a way that you could barely take.  Your pulse thrummed in your ears. Your body pulsed around him, tight and unfamiliar, creeping embers of something else- something overwhelming, something too much. He would move soon, pull back any moment now. 

“T-Thor?” Your voice wavered, barely more than a breath, uncertain. A plea, an expectation, waiting for him to retreat.

He didn’t.

Thor kept going.

His breath hitched, a low groan spilling from his lips as he pushed deeper. You whimpered, hands flying to his arms, nails biting into his unyielding flesh. You tried to shift away, to alleviate the burning stretch, but his hands on your hips held you still. He was too strong, too solid, and you were utterly trapped beneath him.

Your confusion twisted into panic, a choked sob escaping before you could swallow it down. This wasn’t supposed to happen. He had said only a little- only enough to make you his.

“Shhh, sweet one,” he murmured, voice warm but heavy with something darker, something raw. “Just a little more. You can take it- I know you can.” You choked on the small, helpless sob that left you. This wasn't supposed to be happening. He had said you only had to go so far. 

It was sweet agony. The burn of being stretched open, the way his girth invaded you inch by inch. He whispered to you through it all, lips pressing against your damp cheeks, kissing away the tears that slipped from the corners of your eyes. His hips rolled in careful, measured motions, easing the pain, coaxing your body to relax.

“It’s alright, it always hurts at first,” he soothed, voice tender yet dripping with something darker, something primal. “You’re so strong, my love. Soon the pain will be forgotten.”

His hips rolled again in slow, shallow circles, coaxing your body to yield to him, to accept the unbearable fullness of being taken for the first time. The heat between you grew, the press of his heavy body against yours grounding you as you whimpered and arched beneath him. His hands were everywhere- stroking, petting, kneading as though he could soothe the ache even as he deepened it. He kissed along your jaw, his lips dragging against the sweat-slick skin of your throat.

“You’ll make me proud.”

Thor’s forehead pressed to yours, his breath warm, his body impossibly hard against your softer curves. His weight surrounded you, his scent- wood smoke, spice, something purely him- invading your senses. He was inside you, fully seated, and you swore you felt your body give way to him, trembling in overwhelmed bliss.

The realization of what you had taken, of what was now fully inside you, sent a sharp pulse of pleasure through your core, tipping you into something raw, something overwhelming. It was too much- the mix of pain and pleasure, the way his thick, rigid length stretched you beyond what you thought possible. Your breath hitched, a sob catching in your throat as your walls spasmed around him, your body caught in the first unbearable waves of pleasure. The tight grip of your core around him, the pulsing squeeze of your walls, had him growling, a deep, primal sound that sent another rush of heat through you.

You gasped, the heat rolling through you, consuming you from the inside out. Your body trembled beneath him, your nails biting into his shoulders as the sensation crested, stealing your breath. The thought of having him entirely, of how deeply he filled you, how his sheer size claimed you, only made the feeling stronger, more potent.

Thor groaned, deep and guttural, as he felt you clench around him, his own control fraying at the edges. His large hands cradled your face, his thumbs stroking over your tear-streaked cheeks, and through his own labored breaths, he whispered,

“There you are, there's my queen.”

[slushycoookie]

You almost died...

All because of a flower across the frozen lake.

The brightly colored pink shape blooms amongst the white snow, catching your eye instantly. You don’t think Sukuna has it in his garden.

You wanted to show it to him, maybe see if he can grow it to add color amongst the vastness of white. The only problem is that the flower was on the other side of a frozen lake. The bridge nearby was broken and the contractors were slowly taking their time rebuilding it.

On first examination, the lake looked sturdy enough. You were just going to tip toe across and back, no harm no foul.

“My Lady…” Your servant clutched on to your sleeve, “You shouldn’t go. It’s not safe.”

“I won’t be long.” You reassure, “I’ve crossed plenty of frozen lakes before. I have experience.”

“Still, I don’t think it’s wise-”

You give a gentle shush, “I will be okay.”

That’s what you said.

After a slow trek where you were holding your breath the whole time, you managed to grab the flower. The excitement rose in your body as you couldn't wait to show your husband.

Suddenly, cracks from the ice occurred before your feet. Before you could hurry and get to safety, you fell in.

A garbled shriek escaped you. There was a strong cold surrounding your entire body, the chill going straight to your bones. Bubbles escaped your lips as you swam up immediately to try and claw out of the hole you fell in. The flower was nowhere to be seen, but you couldn't worry about that now. Your vision getting blurry with every movement, the extreme cold slowing you down.

Was this supposed to be your fate? Dying in a frozen river all because you wanted to show your husband a flower? Would Sukuna even miss you? He wouldn't. You were just a toy. Someone to entertain his boredom.

Right when you're about to accept your endless demise, a hand breaks through the ice and grabs your arm. You're pulled up and out of the frigid water when you're met with those signature red eyes.

“What were you thinking?”

His shouts go through you. You're spewing up water, lungs burning with each cough and shivering as the clothes stick to your skin.

“I-I w-was-”

Sukuna holds you close to him while sprinting his way back to the estate. It's almost nauseating how fast he went. How he burst open the doors to the bedroom and barked commands at the servants. Your soaked clothing were hastily removed. Towels dried off your quivering body and new clothes were replaced.

A gigantic hearth at the far end of the room was lit. Sukuna didn't hesitate to place you in front of it, so close to the heat. Tea was served to you not long after. Your husband ordered Uraume to watch you drink while he went to go change himself.

A momentary silence befell the two of you. The tea was doing it's best to warm you up on the inside and the fire was on the verge of making you sweat with how close you were to it.

“I messed up…”

“Continue to drink, my Lady.”

You frown, cradling your cup, “He’s going to be upset with me, isn't he?”

Uraume's immediate silence told you everything you need to know. Your best bet was to finish your tea and wait for him to come back.

Sukuna, dressed in his own warm, comfortable kimono, glared at you upon his arrival. Uraume quickly said their goodbyes and left you to fend for yourself. It's clear you've gotten too comfortable under Ryomen Sukuna’s presence. No need to watch out for any danger when you were constantly surrounded by one. Why else would you pull this kind of stunt?

You hope your empty tea cup, paired with that soft smile he likes is enough to lessen his anger.

“What you did was idiotic.”

“I know-”

“No, you do not.” He folds his arms, “Otherwise you wouldn't have walked across that frozen lake in the first place.”

“Sukuna, I have done it plenty of times before-”

“Well, your luck had run out. You would've been dead if I didn't save you.” He starts pacing, two arms still folded, his other hands fiddling with the string on his robe.

“I know.”

“Do you know how troubling the ceremonies are for marriage? Do you think I wish to go through that again?”

“No…” Sukuna grunts and you can clearly see that you messed up. “I'm sorry. I didn't mean to scare you-”

His pacing stops, “You did not scare me.”

You blink, unsure if you heard that correctly. Not when the entire time your husband has been berating you, his fingers mess with the string, fraying the piece of clothing. His muscles taut as if they couldn't relax at all. Not when you're safe and by his side.

“I'm sorry, really.”

Sukuna waves you away before moving closer to you. His eyes inspecting your frame for any imperfections.

“Why were you crossing the lake to begin with?”

“You’re going to be mad if I say…”

“I am already furious with you.”

You bite the inside of your cheek, “It was for a flower…”

All four eyes stare you down, brows lowered as if he was trying to comprehend your words.

“A flower? A tiny, small living thing? That was the reason?”

You're almost afraid to say yes, unsure how mad your husband will be when you confirm. But it was for him. Would that make it better?

“Yes, but-”

Sukuna abruptly stands, shaking his head furiously. You couldn't say the true reason when his heavy footsteps and frustrated aura overlap you.

“I have brought you too much comfort. No wonder your brain has gone soft. Before we wed, you could comprehend that crossing a frozen lake is dangerous. That it would destroy your frail, weak body.”

“I am not those things.”

It's your turn to stand. This is the point where you'd argue with him. Push and fight that he's overreacting and that he needs to relax. But you know why he's really like this.

You walk up to him and slide your arms around his waist. A gentle kiss to his closed maw before you bury your head in his chest, tightening the hug.

Sukuna’s arms move as if he wants to hug you back, but not yet. They remain by his sides.

“The last thing I'd want to do is make you worry.” You say against his chest, “You hardly show your emotions and a part of me thought you wouldn't care if I died-”

“A foolish thought.”

“I know…” Your eyes connect with his and you see his face soften with each moment that passes by. “But I see now that I scared you and I don't take that lightly. I truly am sorry.

Sukuna huffs when his arms finally wrap around yours. You hold in a giggle when he picks you up and nudges his face along yours. Your cheek was still a bit cool in contrast to his warmth. He held you close while rubbing your back, his heavy breathing going back to normal.

“You are forgiven, but if you do anything like that again I will not save you.”

“Okay.” You hold his face to give him a gentle kiss. Sukuna accepts the embrace, not once loosening his grip. He can't let you go just yet.

“This flower…” He starts, “What did it look like?”

“It’s pink and beautiful. It reminded me of you.”

“We have plenty of pink flowers in the garden.”

“I know, but this one was different. It grew in the snow. I wanted to show you to see if you can maybe grow it-”

Sukuna’s chest rumbles in amusement, “I may know which one. There aren't many pink flowers that grow where the snow resides.”

Your lips purse as you tried not to get annoyed at yourself. You could've just asked him the whole time without the whole lake debacle.

No wonder he was upset with you.

A/N: Would I cross a frozen lake to show my man a flower? Maybe-

[novaursa]

What Was Promised (2/2)

- Summary: From her childhood, Cersei has been told how she would one day stand next to the dragon as his queen. And she will. Just not in the way she dreamed of.

- Pairing: (targ)male!reader/Cersei Lannister

- Rating: Explicit 18+ (adult content, blood, gore, violence and death)

- Previous part: 1/2

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

The torches lining the corridors of the Red Keep flickered as a warm evening breeze drifted through the open archways, carrying with it the distant echoes of music and laughter from the great hall. The wedding feast continued in full splendor, but you had long since removed yourself from the revelry, slipping past the crowd with the ease of someone who did not wish to be found. The air outside was cooler, touched with the salt of Blackwater Bay, the night sky above the city dark and endless, save for the dim glow of scattered lanterns below.

You had always preferred solitude over the noise of court, and tonight was no different. The games played within the walls of the great hall were of little interest to you—hollow displays of feigned loyalty, careful smiles masking hidden ambitions. You had known the outcome of this day long before the first vows were spoken. Rhaegar was wed, the match sealed, the ties between Targaryen and Martell forged in ceremony. And yet, you had seen it in your father’s eyes during the feast, the way he had watched Rhaegar with something akin to contempt, the way his fingers had clenched against the armrest of his chair whenever Dorne was mentioned.

Aerys was slipping. The cracks in his mind were beginning to show, and the court whispered of it more freely now, no longer only in hushed corners but behind veiled hands at feasts and in council chambers.

You had just stepped into the open courtyard, inhaling the cool night air, when you heard the measured footfalls behind you.

You did not turn immediately.

Instead, you let the silence stretch, waiting, listening. The steps were deliberate, steady—not the hurried movement of a squire or the cautious gait of a servant. No, this was a man who knew he had a right to be here, who had no need to rush, no need to announce himself.

When you finally turned, you were unsurprised to find Lord Tywin Lannister standing there.

The lion of Casterly Rock regarded you with his piercing gaze, his expression as unreadable as ever. His golden cloak barely shifted in the breeze, his posture rigid, composed. He did not bow, nor did he feign pleasantries. Tywin Lannister did not waste words on things he deemed unnecessary.

“Leaving the festivities so soon, my prince?” he asked at last, his voice smooth, deliberate.

You tilted your head slightly, watching him. “I find them tedious.”

Tywin gave a small nod, as if he had expected that answer. He stepped closer, his hands clasped neatly behind his back. “I had hoped to speak with you,” he said. “In private.”

You leaned back against one of the stone pillars, arms folding across your chest. “Then speak.”

For a moment, he only studied you, his green eyes measuring, weighing. Tywin Lannister did not enter a negotiation without first assessing his opponent. And though he was a man who commanded respect, a man who had shaped the realm through his rule as Hand, you knew well enough that he did not see you as his equal. Not yet.

“There is much uncertainty in the realm,” he began. “Much change. The King’s mind… wavers.” He did not say the word madness, but it hung unspoken between you.

You said nothing, waiting.

Tywin’s gaze did not waver. “Dorne is a weak alliance.”

That caught your interest. Your lips curled slightly. “My brother seems to disagree.”

“Your brother is not the King,” Tywin countered, his voice edged with finality. “And he may never be.”

You let that settle between you, watching the way his eyes flickered, the careful way in which he chose his words.

You had known this conversation would come eventually. Tywin Lannister had spent years molding himself as the true power behind the throne, his command as Hand unchallenged for over a decade. He had built the might of House Lannister not through blind loyalty, but through strategy, through precision, through patience.

And now, as Aerys slipped further into paranoia, as his trust in his former Hand crumbled, Tywin was looking elsewhere.

“You speak as if you are ready to break from the King,” you said evenly.

Tywin’s face remained impassive. “I speak of alliances, my prince.”

A small breath of amusement escaped you. “And how, Lord Lannister, do you propose we form such an alliance?”

The words lingered in the night air.

Tywin’s silence was his answer.

Your smirk deepened. “You offer me your daughter.”

Still, Tywin did not blink.

“It would be a strong match,” he said simply. “Your father has already made his disdain for Dorne clear, even as he binds our future to them. House Lannister is a stronger ally, with resources unmatched by any in Westeros.”

You watched him carefully, noting the steel in his tone, the unwavering certainty. Tywin Lannister did not beg, nor did he request. He offered, knowing full well that what he brought to the table was of worth.

But he was not a man without pride.

And there was one flaw in his plan.

“Tell me, Lord Lannister,” you said, voice light, yet cutting, “do you truly believe my father would allow such a match?” You tilted your head slightly. “Would he not laugh in your face again?”

Tywin’s jaw tightened ever so slightly, though his expression did not shift. “Your father is not the man he once was.”

“No,” you agreed. “He is not.”

You let the silence stretch again, considering. Tywin was not wrong—Dorne was a fragile ally at best, their fealty given only as long as it suited them. Aerys had made his choice, binding Rhaegar to Elia, but Aerys himself was no longer seen as a stable ruler.

And you?

You had always known your place in the shadows of your brother’s legacy, in the court that adored him, in the eyes of a father who only saw one true heir. But things were shifting. Rhaegar had secured his future. Perhaps it was time you secured yours.

Cersei.

Your mind drifted back to the dance, to the way she had met your gaze, unflinching, taunting. The way she had pressed you, provoked you. She did not cower. She did not shy away from the fire.

No, she burned just as fiercely.

You inhaled slowly, turning your attention back to Tywin. “I will consider your offer.”

Tywin Lannister gave a small nod, as if that was all he had expected. “That is all I ask.”

He did not bow as he turned to leave, his golden cloak sweeping behind him.

You watched him go, your fingers curling slightly at your sides.

The lion had made his move.

Now, it was time to decide your own.

The tourney at Harrenhal was the grandest spectacle the realm had seen in decades, a gathering of lords and knights, of banners unfurled and sworn swords eager to prove themselves in the lists. The crumbling walls of the cursed castle loomed over the vast expanse of the field, its shadow stretching long across the gathering of nobility seated beneath richly adorned pavilions. The banners of every great house in Westeros fluttered in the early spring breeze, a riot of colors against the dull grey of Harrenhal’s ancient stones.

Cersei sat in a place of honor now, her seat among the royal family, though she was not yet their own. Not officially. But the whispers had long since spread, and the colors she wore today left no doubt.

Gone was the crimson and gold of House Lannister alone. In its place, she wore a gown of deep black, embroidered with dragons of gold and red—the colors of her betrothed. The weight of the silk clung to her as she sat beside her father, the great Lord Tywin Lannister, who had never looked more pleased, nor more controlled in his satisfaction.

She did not sit with Queen Rhaella or with Rhaegar’s Dornish wife, though Elia Martell was not far, her dark eyes keenly watching the jousts, her delicate hands clasped over the swell of her belly. Cersei knew the Martell princess found no joy in these games of blood and sport, but she played the role expected of her. Just as Cersei did.

Except today, there was something different.

Cersei’s gaze remained fixed on the field, watching as the next round of jousts commenced. The crowd was alive with anticipation, the rumbling excitement growing as knights rode forth, their lances gleaming in the afternoon light. The banners of House Baratheon, House Tyrell, House Tully, and a dozen others stood proud along the edges of the lists.

But none commanded attention quite like the black dragon.

He sat atop his destrier, the warhorse a beast of night-dark muscle, its breath misting in the cool air as it pawed at the earth. He wore no elaborate flourishes upon his armor, no unnecessary embellishments of pageantry this time. His armor was blackened steel, the filigree of golden dragons glinting faintly along the pauldrons and gauntlets, the sigil of his house emblazoned upon his breastplate. His helm, adorned with nothing but the sharp ridges of Valyrian steel, concealed his expression, but Cersei did not need to see his face to know the weight of his gaze.

He had always been like this. Unyielding. Relentless. More dragon than courtier, a man who commanded without words, without poetry or song. Where Rhaegar had always been the prince of dreams, this one had been forged in fire and steel.

The crowd hushed as the joust began.

His opponent was formidable—Ser Jonothor Darry, a sworn knight of the Kingsguard, a man known for his prowess in the lists. But skill meant nothing when faced with sheer, unrelenting force.

The moment the signal was given, the two knights charged.

Their lances struck true, but where Ser Jonothor’s shattered harmlessly upon the black dragon’s breastplate, the younger prince’s struck with the precision of a predator. The impact was brutal, sending the Kingsguard knight crashing to the ground in an explosion of dust and splintered wood.

The crowd erupted in cheers, but Cersei did not stand, did not clap. She only watched, her breath held in anticipation of what she knew was coming next.

He did not linger at the far end of the lists.

Instead, he turned his horse sharply, guiding the great beast along the edge of the stands, his movements controlled, deliberate. The other knights had played their part well today, accepting their victories with bows and flourishes, basking in the admiration of ladies eager to toss them favors.

But he did not stop for them.

He rode past the fluttering hands of noble daughters, past the bright smiles of eager young maidens hoping to catch his eye. Past the noblewomen who whispered his name behind their fans, their gazes lingering on the untamed silver of his hair, the unshakable confidence in his stride.

And then, he came to a stop.

Before her.

The hush that fell over the crowd was almost tangible, a collective breath held as the black dragon lifted his lance, tilting it toward Cersei in an unmistakable request.

A request for her favor.

She had waited years for this.

The moment she had been denied at the tourney so long ago, when he had walked past the ladies of the court without so much as a glance. The moment she had burned in silence as he had shown no interest, no desire to play the game that others so eagerly indulged in.

And now, here he was. A man, no longer a boy, standing before the court—before her—and making it known.

Cersei did not hesitate.

She rose from her seat, the black and gold of her gown pooling around her as she stepped forward. Her hands were steady as she unpinned the silken ribbon from her sleeve, the colors matching his own, a deliberate declaration that she was his and he was hers.

The crowd watched, murmuring, as she leaned down, tying the ribbon to the shaft of his lance with slow, deliberate movements. The cool steel beneath her fingers felt warm, thrumming with something unspoken, something electric.

When she finished, she met his gaze, her green eyes locking with his through the narrow slit of his helm.

She did not smile.

She did not need to.

The message was clear.

And then, without a word, he turned his horse and rode away, the black and gold trailing behind him like a banner of conquest.

Cersei sat back down, her heart pounding beneath her ribs, her fingers still tingling from where they had brushed against his.

This was no song of courtly love.

No empty gesture meant for admiration.

No, this was a claim.

And Cersei Lannister had never wanted anything more.

The chaos of the tourney had settled into an uneasy hum by the time you strode through the halls of Harrenhal, your blood still burning with the fury of what had just transpired. The air inside the great castle was thick with smoke and murmured voices, the remnants of feasting and celebration still clinging to the walls. But all of it felt like a distant haze compared to the storm raging inside you.

You had left the lists. You had withdrawn from the tourney just before facing Barristan Selmy, a match that had been anticipated by lords and knights alike. And in your absence, Rhaegar had taken your place.

And he had won.

That, in itself, did not matter. He was your brother, and if anyone was to best Barristan Selmy, it was him. But it was what came after that had sent the court into uproar, that had left the lords whispering and the ladies gasping.

Rhaegar, in all his silvered grace, had ridden past his own wife. Past Elia Martell, who had watched with her dark eyes brimming with quiet resignation. Past the woman he had sworn himself to in the sight of gods and men.

And he had crowned Lyanna Stark instead.

The blue roses had looked almost like an omen in his hands, their color rich and vibrant against the pale skin of the northern girl who stood frozen in the stands. The moment the wreath had touched her lap, the world had cracked apart.

A prince did not forsake his wife in such a way. A Targaryen did not snub Dorne. A husband did not humiliate his bride before the entire realm.

But Rhaegar had.

Because of some dream. Because of something he had seen in the flames or the stars or whatever foolish thing he had let consume his mind.

And now, you were going to make him face it.

The door to his chamber swung open with force as you stepped inside, the wood slamming against the stone wall. Rhaegar was standing by the hearth, his silver hair catching in the dim light, his hands braced against the mantel as if the weight of what he had done had only just begun to settle upon him. He did not turn immediately, as though he had been expecting you, as though he had known this confrontation was inevitable.

"You sentimental fool," you spat, your voice edged with barely restrained fury. "Do you have any idea what you have done?"

Rhaegar exhaled, slow and measured, before finally facing you. His indigo eyes were calm, but there was something else beneath them—something distant, something unshakable.

"I did what I had to," he said simply.

You laughed, the sound bitter. "Had to? Had to?" You took a step closer, your boots heavy against the stone floor. "You crowned a Stark bitch as your Queen of Love and Beauty. You humiliated your wife, insulted Dorne, and made an enemy of the North in the span of a single moment." Your voice dropped, sharp and cutting. "For what? A dream?"

Rhaegar's jaw tightened. "It is more than that."

"You think the gods whispered to you?" You sneered, your patience unraveling. "You think some prophecy—some foolish, half-formed vision—is worth tearing the realm apart?"

Rhaegar’s gaze did not waver. "She is important."

"She is a girl," you snapped. "A girl with a wolf’s blood in her veins and a house that will burn the world to see her returned to them."

"She is more than that," he insisted, his voice firm, unwavering.

Your breath came harshly as you stared at him, your older brother, the golden son, the one everyone adored, the one who had been meant to lead. But looking at him now, all you saw was a man lost in his own delusions, a man who had damned them all for a whisper in the dark.

"Do you think Aerys will forgive this?" you demanded. "Do you think our father will let this pass? Or do you think he will see treason in your actions and burn every Stark in the process?" You stepped closer, your voice a growl. "You have destroyed us. You have destroyed her."

That struck something in him. A flicker of pain. Of doubt. But it was gone as quickly as it had come.

"I know what I am doing," Rhaegar said, but there was a crack in his voice, a hint of hesitation.

"No," you said, your voice low, dangerous. "You don’t."

And then, you moved.

Rhaegar barely had time to react before your fist struck his jaw, the force sending him stumbling back against the table. He caught himself, his eyes wide with shock, but you did not stop.

You lunged, grabbing the front of his tunic, shoving him back with enough force that the wooden chair beside him toppled over. He struggled, but you were stronger, your grip unrelenting as you slammed him against the stone wall, your forearm pressing against his throat.

"Do you think love will save you, brother?" you hissed. "Do you think the North will sing your praises for this?" You leaned in closer, your breath hot against his skin. "They will kill you. They will kill all of us."

Rhaegar struggled against your grip, his hands bracing against your arms, but you did not relent. You could feel the way his breath came faster, the way his pulse quickened beneath your hand.

"You would strike me?" he rasped, his voice strained.

"I would kill you if it meant saving our house," you snarled.

For a long, heavy moment, neither of you moved. The fire crackled behind you, casting flickering shadows against the walls. Your breathing was harsh, your pulse a drumbeat in your ears.

Then, with a sharp exhale, you shoved him away, releasing him with enough force that he staggered forward, coughing as he caught his breath.

"You are my brother," you said, your voice calmer now, but no less lethal. "But if you do not stop this madness, if you do not think before you act again, I will not be so merciful next time."

Rhaegar straightened, his hand rubbing his throat, but he said nothing.

You turned, striding toward the door. But before you left, you cast one final glance over your shoulder.

"Whatever it is you think you saw," you said, your voice quiet but firm, "forget it. Before it consumes you."

Then you were gone, leaving Rhaegar standing alone in the flickering firelight, his hand still pressed against his throat.

The waters of the Trident ran red with the blood of men. The clang of steel and the screams of the dying echoed over the riverbanks, drowning in the roar of war. The banners of Targaryen and Baratheon clashed in the wind, torn by the fury of battle, their colors sullied by the mud and gore that painted the ground beneath them. The air was thick with the scent of death—iron and sweat, flesh burned from the torches that had set the fields ablaze.

You had seen war before, but never like this. Never had you seen the river choke on the bodies of the slain, never had you watched knights drown beneath the weight of their own armor as they clawed at the surface, only to be pulled under by unseen hands. Never had you seen the dream of your house shatter like this.

And all for what?

For a woman. For a prophecy. For a foolish love that had turned a kingdom to ruin.

Rhaegar had always believed in destiny. He had believed in the songs, in the visions, in the whispers of things unseen. And now, here he was, fighting in the waters of the Trident, his silvered armor glinting with each desperate strike of his sword, his breath coming ragged, his strength waning.

And then, Robert Baratheon’s warhammer struck.

You saw it before you could stop it, before you could move, before you could call out. The heavy iron weapon swung through the air with terrifying force, smashing into Rhaegar’s chest with a sickening crunch. The dragon’s armor, the rubies embedded in the plate, shattered on impact, scattering like drops of blood across the river.

Rhaegar reeled back, his body crumbling into the shallows, the water around him churning red. His sword slipped from his fingers, sinking beneath the current as he struggled to breathe.

The world slowed.

Robert turned, lifting his hammer once more, his body heaving from exertion, his face twisted in victory. He did not see you coming.

You moved like the shadow of death itself.

Your sword was in your hand before thought could form, the weight of it an extension of your will. You had been trained for this since the moment you could walk, forged not in prophecy but in war, not in dreams but in blood. You were not the prince who sang songs. You were not the prince who spoke of destiny.

You were the prince who killed.

Your blade found Robert’s flesh before he could react, slipping between the plates of his armor, piercing through his ribs. His eyes widened in shock, his mouth opening, a guttural sound escaping his lips as he staggered. You twisted the blade, feeling the warmth of his lifeblood spill over your hands as you wrenched it free.

Robert Baratheon, the would-be usurper, the man who had sworn to take the Iron Throne, collapsed at your feet, his warhammer falling from his grasp, sinking into the bloodied waters of the Trident.

He was dead before he hit the ground.

Silence fell, but only for a moment.

The battle still raged around you, but you did not hear it. Did not see it. Your world had narrowed, had funneled into a single moment, into the broken body of your brother lying in the shallows, his chest rising and falling in shallow, struggling gasps.

You dropped your sword.

The water sloshed around your knees as you stepped toward him, the sounds of war fading into a dull roar. His hands trembled as they pressed against his ruined chestplate, as if he could hold himself together, as if he could stop what was coming.

You knelt beside him, your hands steady as you pulled the helm from his head. Silver hair, damp with sweat and blood, clung to his forehead, his indigo eyes unfocused as he looked up at you.

You had never seen him like this.

Rhaegar, the golden son, the dragon who had been promised, lay broken before you. The prince of prophecy, the man who had abandoned reason for fate, was dying in the waters of a river that had swallowed the dreams of so many before him.

You swallowed, your throat tightening as you reached for him. He flinched, just barely, his body trembling beneath your hands.

“I told you,” you murmured, your voice quieter than it had ever been, “this would consume you.”

His lips parted, his breath coming in short, uneven bursts. He was trying to speak, but the words would not come. Blood bubbled at the corner of his mouth, his body shuddering beneath the weight of his wounds.

You gripped his chin, forcing him to meet your gaze. “I am sorry, brother,” you said, your voice steady.

And then, you took your dagger and drove it into his heart.

He gasped, his body jerking beneath you, his fingers twitching before going still. His indigo eyes, softer then yours, stared up at the sky, unseeing.

The river carried the rubies from his breastplate downstream, scattering them like drops of blood upon the current.

You exhaled slowly, feeling the weight of what you had done settle deep into your bones.

Rhaegar Targaryen, the prince of prophecy, was dead.

And you had kept your promise.

The Red Keep had never felt so suffocating. The great hall, with its towering pillars and high vaulted ceiling, had always been a place of power, a chamber where kings commanded and courtiers whispered. But today, there was a weight in the air, thick and stifling, pressing down upon every soul gathered within its walls. The torches burned low, the flickering flames illuminating the wary faces of those who stood in silence, waiting.

Cersei stood among them, adorned in the black and gold of her betrothed, her gown draped in rich silks, the embroidery of dragons curled along the sleeves, a symbol of the union that had been promised. She had been here before, had stood in this hall countless times, had walked these corridors knowing that one day, this would all be hers. But today, for the first time, she felt something akin to unease curling beneath her skin.

The war was won. Robert Baratheon was dead. Rhaegar was dead. The rebellion had been crushed before it could consume the realm entirely. And yet, there was no celebration in the Red Keep, no triumphant feasts or songs of victory. The court lingered like a gathering of ghosts, their eyes flitting between one another, between the door and the Iron Throne, where the king—her king—sat, unseeing, unknowing, slipping further into the madness that had taken root in his mind.

Grand Maester Pycelle stepped forward, his hands folded within the heavy sleeves of his robes, his expression carefully schooled, but even he could not hide the tremor in his voice. “Your Grace,” he murmured, bowing deeply, his white beard brushing against his chest, “Prince—” he hesitated, correcting himself, “—your son, and Lord Tywin Lannister, stand at the gates of the city. They come with their armies, victorious.”

A hush fell over the chamber, the words settling like a cold weight upon them all.

Cersei felt it, the pang of relief that coursed through her at the knowledge that her father was here, that he was here. She had waited for this moment, had clung to the certainty that they would return, that they would see this war ended, that they would not let the realm descend into chaos.

But the silence that followed Pycelle’s words was heavy, stretching unbearably long before Aerys finally stirred upon his throne.

The king’s fingers tapped against the armrest, slow and erratic, the nail of his smallest finger broken, dark with dried blood. His robes, once resplendent in crimson and black, hung loose around his thinning frame, his silver hair unkempt, his lips twitching as he glanced toward the gathered court, eyes darting from face to face, searching for treason in every shadow.

“And you would have me open my gates to them?” Aerys’s voice was biting, brittle, like glass that had already cracked but had yet to shatter completely.

Pycelle hesitated. “They are your loyal subjects, Your Grace. They have won your war.”

Aerys let out a short, high laugh, a sound that sent an uncomfortable shiver through the chamber. “My war?” he echoed, his voice rising. “My war?” He shifted upon the throne, his fingers curling into the carved dragon heads at its arms. “This war is far from over. The traitors still breathe. The wolves, the falcons, the dragonslayers.” His lips peeled back in something that was not quite a smile, his teeth bared like a starving dog eyeing a fresh kill. “My fire has yet to consume them all.”

Cersei’s jaw tightened, her hands folding at her waist to keep them from trembling.

This was not the king her father had once served. This was not the ruler of Westeros. This was a man who had been swallowed whole by his own madness, who had turned his throne into a cage from which he would never escape.

She looked to Jaime, standing rigid in his white cloak, his hand resting upon the pommel of his sword. His expression was unreadable, but she could see it in his eyes—the quiet war within him, the battle between duty and the reality of the man he had sworn to protect.

Aerys shifted again, his gaze snapping back to Pycelle. “They mean to replace me,” he whispered, though the words were spoken loudly enough for all to hear. “They mean to usurp me, just as Rhaegar—” he cut himself off, his mouth twisting as if he had bitten into something rotten. “I will not open my gates. Let them beg like the rest.”

Before Pycelle could find his voice, before anyone could speak, the great doors of the hall groaned open, the heavy iron hinges shrieking under the weight of movement.

The court turned.

And the world shifted.

The golden lion entered first.

Tywin Lannister stepped into the hall with the same measured confidence he had always carried, his cloak billowing behind him, his armor polished and gleaming, the lion of his house emblazoned upon his breastplate. The light of the torches flickered against the edges of his face, his cold green eyes scanning the chamber with the practiced ease of a man who had already decided the fate of those within it.

And beside him, walking with slow, deliberate steps, was the dragon.

He was no longer the prince who had once stood at Rhaegar’s side, no longer the shadow behind the dreamer. He was something else entirely now.

The black and gold of his armor had been darkened by war, the dragon wings carved into his pauldrons glinting like the edges of a blade. His long pale hair, damp with sweat, clung to his jawline, his face unreadable beneath the weight of the past days. He had killed Robert Baratheon. He had killed Rhaegar. He had crushed the rebellion at the Trident with his own hands.

And now, he had returned.

The hush that fell over the court was suffocating. No one spoke. No one dared move.

Aerys, for the first time in days, was silent.

Cersei’s breath caught in her throat.

She had seen him fight before. Had seen him ride, had seen him command. But this… this was something new.

This was not a man returning in victory.

This was a conqueror standing before a king who no longer ruled.

And as Tywin Lannister took another step forward, as the prince followed in silent, watchful step, the entire court felt it.

The tides had turned.

And the Red Keep would never be the same again.

The silence in the great hall stretched unbearably, thick with unspoken words and the weight of what was about to come. Cersei sat rigid in her place among the courtiers, her green eyes locked upon the two figures now striding toward the throne, toward the unraveling king who perched atop it, his fingers twitching against the armrests of blackened iron.

Tywin Lannister was composed as always, his every step slow, deliberate, a lion stalking the last moments before a kill. He did not look at the assembled lords, did not acknowledge the way their gazes flickered nervously between him and the throne. He had served in this hall for years, had commanded from behind the throne, had once been the most powerful man in the Seven Kingdoms. And now, he had returned, but not as a servant.

At his side, the younger prince walked in equal silence, though his presence was something altogether different. There was no caution in his steps, no hesitation in the way he carried himself. His violet eyes, dark and unreadable, did not waver as they settled upon the throne and the mad king who sat upon it.

Cersei’s breath was shallow, her fingers gripping the fabric of her gown beneath the table, unseen. She had spent years longing for this moment, for the war to be over, for her father’s return, for her betrothed to claim what was rightfully his. But now that it was happening, now that the moment had come, she could not shake the feeling curling in her stomach—the certainty that nothing would be the same after today.

Aerys Targaryen tilted his head slightly as Tywin and his son approached, his lips parting into something like a smile, but it was wrong—stretched too thin, twitching at the corners. His nails drummed erratically against the throne, the jagged edges of his seat pressing into his thin frame. He had wasted away in these last moons.

Tywin stopped before the dais, but it was the younger prince who spoke first.

“The war is over,” his voice cut through the chamber like a blade, smooth but firm, unyielding. “You have won, Father. Step down. Rest.”

Aerys blinked.

And then, he laughed.

The sound was shrill, fractured, peeling into the air like the screech of metal against metal. It rang through the chamber, bouncing off the walls, sending a ripple of unease through the assembled lords and courtiers.

“Step down?” Aerys cackled, shaking his head violently. “Step down?” His eyes darted between them, lingering on his son, his expression twisting. “You sound just like Tywin. Is that what this is? Has he turned you against me? Has he promised you something grand? Has he filled your head with ambition?”

Cersei saw the flicker of something in her betrothed’s eyes, but he did not react, did not shift under his father’s manic scrutiny. “There is no one left to fight,” he said simply. “No one left to burn.”

Aerys stilled, his fingers curling tightly against the armrests.

“I will burn them all,” he whispered, his voice suddenly low, almost childlike. “I will burn them all before I let them take my throne. Before I let you take my throne.”

The king’s breathing was erratic, his lips twitching as his gaze darted wildly, his mind slipping further from reason. His fingers found the edge of his robes, curling into them, as if seeking comfort, as if seeking control.

The younger prince took a slow step forward.

“Then kill me.”

Aerys’s gaze snapped to his son, his body tensing.

Cersei’s breath caught in her throat.

The room went still.

The younger prince spread his arms slightly, exposing the dark armor that bore the sigil of their house, the dragon of three heads gleaming in the dim torchlight. His dark violet eyes were steady, unblinking, fixed solely upon his father.

“If you believe I mean to take your throne,” he continued, his voice calm, unwavering, “then do it. Kill me, and prove to them all that you are still king.”

Aerys’s fingers twitched.

Cersei saw it then—the hesitation, the flicker of confusion in the king’s eyes, the way his mind scrambled to process the words, to grasp at what was real and what was not.

Aerys let out a shuddering breath, his chest rising and falling rapidly. His gaze flickered to the guards, to the pyromancers standing near the edge of the chamber, to the ones who had whispered to him of fire and destruction, who had fed the growing madness within him.

His lips curled, baring his teeth.

He opened his mouth—

And then, steel flashed.

A gasp rippled through the chamber, a choked sound of surprise and horror as Aerys jerked forward, his body convulsing.

For a moment, he sat motionless upon the throne, his breath caught in his throat, his hands twitching.

Then, slowly, he turned his head.

And behind him, standing at the foot of the Iron Throne, was Jaime Lannister.

His white cloak billowed slightly, his sword still buried in the king’s back, his expression unreadable. Blood pooled around the hilt, a crimson stain spreading against the deep red of Aerys’s robes.

The king let out a ragged breath, his body shuddering as his hands gripped the arms of the throne. His lips parted, as if to speak, but no words came. Only the sound of a wet, choking gasp.

Jaime ripped the sword free.

Aerys pitched forward.

He tumbled from the throne, falling in a heap at the younger prince’s feet, the light in his wild eyes flickering out before his head hit the stone.

The chamber was deathly silent.

Cersei stared, her mind racing, her heart hammering against her ribs. She had imagined Aerys dead before, had dreamed of it, had longed for it in the quiet of her thoughts, but never had she imagined it would happen like this.

Never had she imagined that it would be Jaime who struck the fatal blow.

Jaime stood rigid, his Kingsguard whites now stained crimson, his breath coming harsh and uneven. His sword—his oath-sworn blade—was slick with the blood of the man he had once sworn to protect.

The silence was still deafening.

Cersei could not breathe.

The king was dead.

Her betrothed stared down at the body, his expression unreadable, his dark violet eyes cold and fathomless.

And then, he sighed.

He stepped over the corpse, past the fallen king, past the pools of blood that seeped between the cracks in the stone.

He did not look at Jaime.

He did not look at Tywin.

He only walked forward.

And with each step, Cersei knew.

The throne was his now.

And nothing—not gods, not kings, not the ashes of the war—would ever take it from him.

The Sept of Baelor had never felt so vast, nor so heavy with silence. The high, arched ceilings, adorned with delicate carvings of the Seven, loomed above, their presence eternal, unyielding. The colored light from the stained-glass windows painted the marble floors in hues of crimson and gold, deep blue and shadowed green, reflecting the gods who watched as the realm turned upon its axis.

It was quiet now, save for the soft murmurs of the septons preparing the altar, the shuffle of feet as nobles found their places among the pews. The air smelled of myrrh and melted wax, of incense curling through the air in thin, ghostly tendrils. The weight of history settled over the sacred space, for today was not just a wedding—it was the binding of a kingdom, the final stitch in the tapestry of a conquest that had begun with fire and ended with blood.

And at the altar, waiting beneath the flickering glow of a hundred candles, stood the king.

He was clad in black and gold, the armor of war now set aside for the regality of rule. His tunic, woven from the finest Valyrian silk, bore the sigil of House Targaryen, the three-headed dragon emblazoned across his chest in thread of red and black. The heavy cloak that draped over his shoulders was fastened by a golden clasp in the shape of a dragon’s head, the metal gleaming in the dim light. His silver hair, untamed as ever, fell past his shoulders, unbound by the ceremonial circlet of Valyrian steel that crowned his brow.

He was a king now. Her king.

Cersei stood just beyond the great doors of the Sept, waiting as the moment stretched unbearably. The weight of her gown, a cascade of golden silk embroidered with dragons in red and black, felt heavier than it should have, the tightness of her bodice almost suffocating. The jewels at her throat gleamed, the rubies nestled within gold settings catching the light as she breathed. She was beautiful—radiant even—but there was a sharpness beneath her beauty now, something carved from the past moons, from the war, from the weight of what was about to happen.

Tywin Lannister stood beside her, his expression unreadable, his hands clasped behind his back in that controlled, measured way of his. But Cersei could feel it—the change in him, the subtle shift of his ambitions, the moment when he realized that what was unfolding before him was not the future he had originally planned.

No, this was something far more terrible. And far more perfect.

He had once envisioned his daughter as the wife of Rhaegar, the quiet queen beside the dragon prince who played his harp and dreamed of prophecies. That had been his path to power, his way to secure his dynasty. But now, she was to wed not the prince of songs, but the dragon of war.

She was not marrying a man who played at prophecy.

She was marrying the man who had killed his brother to take the throne.

"You should be proud," Tywin said, his voice smooth, deliberate. "You will be queen, as I always intended."

Cersei turned her gaze to her father, tilting her chin slightly. "You did not intend this," she said, her voice light, almost teasing, but there was an edge beneath it.

Tywin studied her, his green eyes flickering with something unreadable. "No," he admitted after a pause. "Not like this."

Cersei smiled, slow and knowing. "And yet, this is better, isn’t it?"

Tywin did not answer immediately, but she saw it—the way his jaw shifted slightly, the way his gaze flickered toward the doors of the Sept, toward the man who waited within.

"This is not a man who will be ruled," he said at last.

Cersei’s smile did not fade. "No," she agreed. "He will not."

Her father exhaled, a slow breath, before offering her his arm. "Come, then. It is time."

Cersei placed her hand upon his arm, her fingers resting lightly against the crimson silk of his sleeve. Together, they stepped forward, the great doors of the Sept opening before them, revealing the path to the altar, where the man who had reshaped the kingdom in fire and blood stood waiting.

She felt every pair of eyes upon her as she walked—lords and ladies, knights and septons, the great and the powerful, all witnessing the moment that would bind her fate to the most dangerous man in Westeros.

And as she stepped closer, her gaze met his.

His dark violet eyes held hers, steady, unblinking, as if he had known all along that it would come to this. As if he had always known that no matter what had been planned before, no matter the fate her father had once written for her, this had been inevitable.

She was not marrying a dreamer.

She was marrying a dragon.

And she had never wanted anything more.

The chambers given to the King and his new Queen were vast, their grandeur unmatched by any in the Red Keep. The canopy bed, carved from dark mahogany, was adorned in black and crimson, the silks smooth beneath Cersei’s fingers as she stood in the center of the chamber, feeling the weight of expectation settle upon her shoulders. The air was thick with the lingering scent of wine and candle wax, the remnants of the feast still echoing in the halls beyond, though the laughter and music had long since faded.

She barely heard it now.

Her heart pounded in her chest, but it was not from fear. No, she had never feared this. This was what she had longed for, what she had envisioned in the quiet corners of her mind, in the years she had been denied.

The doors shut behind her with a deep, resonant sound, sealing them within the chamber. She did not turn immediately, but she felt him. Felt his presence like the heat of a fire growing ever closer.

When she did turn, he was there, standing in the flickering glow of the hearth, his violet eyes dark beneath the crown he had not yet removed. The circlet of Valyrian steel rested upon his brow, but his tunic was already loosened at the collar, his hands working at the fastenings with deliberate ease.

Cersei exhaled, slowly, tilting her chin upward, her green eyes locking onto his with the same unshakable defiance she had carried through the years. She was not a timid maiden, not some meek girl to be taken gently, to be coaxed with whispers of love and careful touches. That had never been what she wanted.

She stepped toward him, the golden embroidery of her gown catching the candlelight.

"Are you going to make me wait?" she murmured, her voice smooth, edged with challenge.

A slow smirk curled at the corner of his lips, though his eyes remained focused, unwavering. He said nothing, only watching her, assessing, as though weighing the hunger in her voice against his own.

Then, with a single motion, he shed the heavy cloak from his shoulders, the fabric pooling onto the floor behind him.

The space between them vanished in an instant.

His hands were upon her, not soft, not hesitant—strong fingers curling around her waist, pulling her flush against him, the heat of his body searing through the silks that still clung to her. She gasped, but it was not in protest. No, she arched into him, her fingers finding the clasps of his tunic, working them apart as his mouth found the skin of her throat, his breath hot against her pulse.

"Not gentle, are you?" she whispered against his ear, her nails scraping against his skin as she shoved the fabric from his shoulders.

His response was a low, amused growl. "Would you want me to be?"

Cersei laughed, low and breathless. "No."

She felt the shift, the way his grip tightened, the way his restraint frayed like a rope pulled too taut. He did not waste time, did not treat this like some delicate courtship. He was fire and strength, unyielding in the way he pressed her back against the edge of the bed, in the way he tore at the laces of her gown, the fabric slipping from her shoulders, pooling at her feet.

Her skin burned beneath his touch, every nerve alight, but she did not falter. She met him with equal fervor, her fingers tangling in his hair, her mouth claiming his with the same demand, the same hunger that had simmered between them since the moment she had first seen him.

Their bodies collided, limbs tangled, hands bruising, lips parting only for breath, only for more.

He did not worship her like some fragile thing.

He took her.

And she let him.

The world narrowed to the heat of his body above her, to the way his fingers dug into her hips as he thrust into her, each movement forcing a gasp from her lips, each stroke deeper, rougher, claiming her in a way no man had before.

She met him with the same force, her nails scoring against his back, her legs wrapping around him, pulling him closer, taking all that he gave and demanding more. There was no patience, no soft murmurs of affection. Only the raw, unrelenting rhythm of their bodies, the sound of their mingled breath, the fevered gasps swallowed by the night.

It was not sweet.

It was not gentle.

It was a battle.

And neither of them surrendered.

It was only when the fire reached its peak, when the pressure built to the breaking point, that he groaned her name against her throat, his body shuddering as he spilled inside her, the last vestiges of control snapping as he buried himself deep within her.

Cersei gasped, her own release crashing over her like a wave, her back arching, her fingers curling against his skin as she trembled beneath him.

The world stilled, their breath the only sound in the chamber.

His weight pressed against her for a moment longer before he shifted, his lips brushing against her shoulder, his breath warm against her damp skin.

Then, his voice came, low, rough, edged with something unreadable.

"Is this what you wished for?"

Cersei turned her head slightly, meeting his gaze, her own breath still uneven.

She did not smile.

She did not hesitate.

"Yes," she whispered. "And more."

The great hall of the Red Keep had always been a place of power, but now, as the banners of House Targaryen draped over the towering pillars and the Iron Throne loomed above, it was something more. It was the beating heart of the realm, the seat of a dynasty reforged in war, tempered in fire and blood. The torches burned low, casting flickering shadows over the polished stone floors, their light dancing across the scaled sigil of House Targaryen carved deep into the walls.

Cersei sat upon the dais, clad in black and crimson, her golden hair bound in intricate braids that crowned her head like a queen’s diadem. She had ruled beside her husband for years now, had seen the kingdom shaped under his reign, had birthed his heirs. And now, as she watched the great doors of the hall swing open, she knew that today would be another moment upon which history would turn.

Eddard Stark stepped into the chamber, his steps slow, deliberate, the wolf of Winterfell standing tall even in the lion’s den. The banners of House Stark, grey and white, did not fly here, but he carried the weight of his house in his stance, in the quiet steel of his gaze. His wife, Catelyn, walked beside him, her expression composed but wary, and behind them followed their household—Benjen Stark, grim and watchful, and the great lords of the North who had ridden south in the name of justice.

And yet, before their eyes could settle upon the throne, before they could bow before the dragon who ruled from its seat, their gazes fell upon something else entirely.

Three children sat at their mother’s side, dressed in Targaryen black, their silver hair gleaming beneath the light of the torches.

The eldest, Aerion, no more than ten, sat with all the composure of his father, his dark violet eyes steady, his expression unreadable. He bore the strength of his lineage, the sharp lines of his father’s face already beginning to take shape. Beside him sat his sister, Rhaenys, seven, her curls cascading over her shoulders, her gaze keen and curious, though tempered with the same regal poise as her mother. And the youngest, Daemon, barely five, leaned slightly against Cersei’s arm, his small fingers curled around the edge of her sleeve, though his sharp eyes studied the Northern guests with unblinking intensity.

The sight of them was undeniable. They were dragons.

And for the briefest moment, Eddard Stark faltered.

Cersei saw it—the flicker of something in his eyes, the way his lips pressed into a thin line, as though he had glimpsed a future that had long been denied him.

"Lord Stark," she greeted, her voice smooth, unwavering. "Winterfell has come a long way from the North to stand in our halls."

Eddard inclined his head, slow and measured. "Your Grace." His gaze flickered briefly to her children before returning to her. "It was not a journey made lightly."

Cersei smiled, though it did not reach her eyes. "Few journeys are."

A beat of silence passed, heavy with the weight of the years that had led to this moment.

"I have come to speak with the King," Eddard said finally, his voice firm, but not without caution. "To demand justice for the deaths of my father and brother, slain under the rule of Aerys Targaryen."

The hall was silent save for the distant crackle of the torches.

Cersei tilted her head slightly, her gaze never leaving his. "Justice?" she echoed, amusement curling at the edge of her voice. "And tell me, Lord Stark, what justice do you seek from a man who had no hand in their deaths?"

Eddard’s jaw tightened. "Aerys may be dead, but his crimes remain unpunished."

Cersei leaned forward slightly, resting her elbow upon the armrest of her chair. "The Mad King burned your father alive, yes. And his son, the one you would have raised banners for, the one you fought against us for, stood by and did nothing." She let the words sink in before she continued. "My husband did not."

Eddard’s eyes darkened. "Your husband is a Targaryen, just as Aerys was."

"And your friend, Robert Baratheon, was a traitor," Cersei countered, her voice sharpening. "Yet you followed him to war. You killed for him. You bled for him." She smiled, slow and cold. "Tell me, Lord Stark, is it justice you seek? Or is it vengeance?"

Eddard exhaled through his nose, his hand clenching at his side.

Cersei did not move, did not break his gaze, but she felt the small shift beside her, the way Aerion straightened slightly, the way Rhaenys glanced between them, already keenly aware of the weight of the conversation. Even Daemon, barely past his fifth name day, watched with quiet intensity.

Finally, after a long moment, Eddard spoke.

"There must be peace," he said. "The North will not rise against the throne, but neither will it forget what was done to us."

Cersei inhaled, then exhaled slowly.

"You stand in a hall that bears the banners of House Targaryen," she said, her voice quiet but edged with steel. "You stand before the wife of the King, before his heirs. The war is over, Lord Stark. It has been over for years. Whatever vengeance you carry in your heart, whatever ghosts still haunt you, they will not change what is."

Eddard’s gaze flickered, but he said nothing.

The great doors of the hall creaked open once more, and the presence that filled the chamber was undeniable.

The King had arrived.

The hush that fell was immediate, a ripple of bows and lowered heads as the ruler of Westeros strode toward the dais, his cloak billowing behind him, his dark violet gaze taking in the gathered lords with quiet command.

Cersei did not turn to greet him; she did not need to.

She simply smiled.

The dragon had come.

And whatever justice Eddard Stark sought, he would find only the rule of fire and blood.

...

The silence between you and Eddard Stark stretched, taut as a drawn bowstring, unspoken words simmering between you, unyielding as the cold of the North he had come from.

His eyes, grey as a winter storm, held no fear, no wavering hesitation. He had come here not as a petitioner, not as a man seeking favor, but as a son, as a brother, as the last of his house who remembered the day Aerys burned Rickard Stark alive, the day Brandon Stark strangled himself in chains, clawing for a sword that would never come.

“I ask for my father’s and brother’s remains,” Eddard said, his voice steady but edged with something deeper, something that had been buried beneath years of duty and restraint. “They were left to rot in the dungeons of this keep. I would see them returned to Winterfell, to be laid to rest beside their kin.”

The hall was silent.

Cersei sat beside you, watching with an expression as still as a painted mask, her golden hair glinting under the dim light of the torches. Your children, the future of your house, watched with quiet intensity—Aerion, regal and composed, his eyes betraying nothing, Rhaenys, sharp and curious, and Daemon, young but already understanding that power was not just in words, but in how they were spoken.

You exhaled slowly, fingers tapping once against the armrest of your throne before nodding. “It will be done,” you said simply. “You have my word.”

Eddard held your gaze for a moment longer, as if measuring the weight of your promise, as if still trying to reconcile the man who sat before him with the legacy of the house you bore. Then, he inclined his head, slow, deliberate. “Thank you, Your Grace.”

He turned, the final act of his duty seemingly fulfilled, his cloak shifting as he moved toward the doors. The North had come for its dead, and soon it would leave, retreating back to the lands of snow and silence.

But you were not done.

“Stark.”

Your voice carried across the hall, smooth, measured, but there was something beneath it, something that made him stop in his tracks.

Slowly, Eddard turned back, his grey eyes wary.

You tilted your head slightly, studying him, watching the way his shoulders stiffened ever so slightly beneath the weight of what he thought had been laid to rest.

“They were both fools,” you said, your voice quiet, but edged with something biting. “Your brother, my brother. But Lyanna… she was just as much to blame.”

The shift in him was subtle, but you saw it. The way his jaw tightened, the flicker of something behind his eyes, something long buried, long silenced.

“You know it,” you continued, watching him carefully, gauging the way his breath came just a fraction slower, as if he were bracing himself. “Perhaps you have always known it, but you could never say it. You could never let yourself believe it. Because if she was not stolen, if she was not taken… then what does that make her?”

The silence that followed was deafening.

A muscle in Eddard’s jaw twitched, but still, he did not speak.

You leaned forward slightly, resting your forearms against the arms of your throne, your gaze never leaving his. “I was there the day my brother died, Stark. I saw it. I saw the way his chest was caved in, the way the rubies from his armor scattered into the river like blood upon the water. And in his final breath, do you know what he looked for?” You tilted your head. “Not his wife. Not his children. Not his house. He looked for her.”

Eddard’s breath came slow, controlled, but you saw the tremor in his fingers, the way they curled into fists at his sides.

“They destroyed us,” you murmured, your voice lower now, the words curling through the air like embers caught in the wind. “Together. Not just Rhaegar. Not just Aerys. Lyanna, too. She was no mere girl stolen in the night, no innocent thing torn from her home. She ran with him. She chose him.” You let the words sink in, let the weight of them settle upon the man who had built his life upon the ruins they had left behind. “And for what? A prophecy neither of them understood? A love that was doomed before it even began?”

Eddard’s throat worked, his breath heavy, controlled, though his face betrayed nothing.

You leaned back, exhaling slowly. “I wonder, Lord Stark, how long you’ve known the truth,” you mused, tilting your head slightly. “Or is it that you never allowed yourself to see it?”

A long silence stretched between you, the weight of unspoken truths pressing upon the hall like the final embers of a dying fire.

Finally, Eddard inhaled, slow and steady. His face remained unreadable, but there was something behind his eyes now, something colder, something resolved.

“I came for justice,” he said at last. “Not for ghosts.”

You smiled, slow and knowing. “Then you have what you came for.”

Eddard Stark turned without another word, his cloak sweeping behind him as he strode toward the doors, the weight of the past trailing in his wake.

The doors groaned open, the cold wind of the North whispering through the hall as he disappeared into the shadows beyond.

And just like that, the last remnants of the rebellion, the last echoes of the war that had shaped the world, faded into silence.

Cersei exhaled softly beside you, her fingers brushing over the armrest of her chair, her golden hair catching in the dim light as she watched the doors close.

You did not move.

The past was gone.

And the future was yours, like it was promised.

[mikkies]

「 THROUGH THE STORMS AND THE STRIVING, HERE I STAND, STILL THRIVING. 」

Cruel King x GN! Spouse! Reader

warnings: none!

notes: I completely forgot to do answer asks and do requests since I was busy being gud as the killer in Forsaken and the hitbox is NOT working in my favor

Despite the coldness of his physical presence, Cruel King shows his warmth in subtle ways. His frostbitten fingers are often surprisingly gentle as he holds your hand, his icy touch a contrast to the fiery passion in his heart when he looks at you.

You know of the sleepless nights he spends protecting Blackrock Kingdom. Often, you’ll find him pacing his frost-laden throne room, a weary look in his ever-changing eyes. You quietly enter the room, offering him silent company as he confides in you. Even though his duties weigh heavily, he always finds time to acknowledge how much your presence keeps him grounded.

While he is harsh and cold in his demeanor toward others, with you, he allows glimpses of his vulnerable side. He opens up about the manipulative voices of the dagger, his fears for the kingdom, and his relentless determination to save it. You're his anchor, the person who keeps him tethered to reality when his thoughts grow stormy.

While his first instinct is to shield you from harm, Cruel King respects your strength and wisdom. If you suggest joining him in the kingdom’s struggles, he may initially hesitate but ultimately values your counsel and support. You’re not just his spouse—you’re his equal and his partner in all things.

In the rare quiet moments, the two of you sit by the frost-covered windows of the castle, watching the snow fall. He wraps you in his red, fur-lined cape, his frost-tipped hair brushing against your cheek as he murmurs how much he treasures your unwavering loyalty and love.

Though he’s not the type to shower you with grand displays of affection, his gifts are thoughtful and meaningful. A crown that matches his own, forged with the finest black and crimson jewels, or a cloak lined with fur to keep you warm during Blackrock’s frigid nights.

His harsh and cold exterior often intimidates others, but with you, he’s different. While the frost spreads through his throne room, a rare warmth envelops the two of you—a warmth that comes from the love he holds for you, his steadfast partner.

As the dagger’s voices grow louder, you’re the one who reminds him of his humanity. You remind him that Blackrock’s strength isn’t just in its frost-covered walls but in the people he protects—and that his compassion is what makes him a truly great king.

Despite his stern demeanor, Cruel King has a way of whispering soft, endearing words to you when no one else is around. His voice, usually commanding and cold, becomes softer than snowflakes falling in winter, reserved only for you.

During royal balls or ceremonies, he insists on having at least one dance with you. Though his icy presence often chills the room, the way he holds you close creates an atmosphere of warmth that rivals even the grandest fires.

On the rare nights he allows himself to sleep, he insists on you being close. Even when haunted by restless dreams, the feel of your warmth beside him reminds him that he’s not alone in his struggles.

While his face is often stoic and unreadable, you’ve learned to recognize the subtle quirks in his expression. The slight upward tug of his lips or the glimmer in his eyes when you enter the room speaks volumes of his affection for you.

When you fall ill, he becomes overbearing in his care for you. Though his touch remains icy, he ensures that the castle staff provide you with every comfort possible, from warm blankets to hot soups, even if he must oversee it personally.

Cruel King values your input in governing Blackrock Kingdom. He often consults you during important decisions, trusting your judgment implicitly. Your wisdom has saved the kingdom from calamity more than once, and he never fails to acknowledge your contribution.

The frost on his body sometimes threatens to spread, even to you, but you embrace it without hesitation. Your love melts the metaphorical ice surrounding his heart, giving him the strength to continue ruling with compassion amidst the darkness.

[nemo-writes]

⋆˚࿔ ⋆˚࿔ 𝐝𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐦𝐚𝐜𝐚𝐛𝐫𝐞 ; 𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐞 𝜗𝜚˚⋆𝜗𝜚˚⋆

↣ pack!tf141 x witch!reader

↣ chapter summary; tensions rise as you take a stand during dinner, voicing long-held truths and setting the stage for change within the coven. meanwhile, the pack finally confronts leah, each grappling with the weight of their choices and the path forward.

⚠️ warnings; none

★ previous ; next

☆ story masterlist

The grand dining room’s dark wood-panelled walls and deep burgundy drapes lent the space a sombre atmosphere. Flickering candles set in wrought-iron candelabras cast dancing shadows across the intricate carvings of the mahogany table, which gleamed faintly in the dim, golden light of the chandelier above.

The faint rustle of skirts and the soft clink of silverware on porcelain marked the presence of the maids, moving with quiet precision as they served the meal. Their dark uniforms blended seamlessly with the subdued decor, their heads bowed respectfully as they placed steaming dishes before each of you. One paused briefly to pour wine into your glass, her hands steady despite the tension that permeated the room.

Sybil lay curled at your feet, her snow-white fur stark against the dark, polished floors. Her head rested lightly on your foot, her large, intelligent eyes occasionally flicked toward the maids as they moved about, her tail thumping faintly when one of them dared a soft smile in her direction.

Cath Palug lounged on the armrest of your Mother’s chair, his sharp eyes following the maids’ every move with a predatory stillness. Barghest lingered by your Mom’s side, her sleek form almost melting into the shadows cast by the heavy drapes. 

Your Mother sat at the head of the table, her posture rigid, the sharp lines of her profile illuminated by the soft glow of the candles. She addressed the room with the measured authority that left no room for deviation.

“The preparations for your ascension are nearly complete,” she began, tone clipped and commanding. “The wards have been strengthened, the ceremony will commence as planned, and the council has been informed. They await your formal acceptance of the position.”

The weight of her words pressed against you like the very shadows that clung to the room. The maids, having finished their task, withdrew quietly, the faint creak of the heavy doors closing behind them leaving the space cloaked in an uneasy silence.

You stared at your plate, the rich aroma of the meal doing little to stir your appetite. Your Mom sat to your left, her usual warmth tempered by an undercurrent of unease. She sipped her own drink delicately, her gaze flicking between you and your Mother, though she remained silent.

“We will resume your training tomorrow,” your Mother continued. “There is no room for error, and you will—”

“I’ll do it.” Your voice cut through the air, quiet but resolute, halting her mid-sentence. Her sharp gaze turned to you, her brow lifting slightly in surprise. “As promised, I’ll assume the position.”

For a fleeting moment, the room stilled. Even Cath Palug paused, his ears pricking forward as he regarded you intently. Barghest raised her head from where she lay by your Mom’s chair, her dark eyes gleaming with curiosity. Sybil shifted slightly at your feet, her tail brushing lightly against your leg as if grounding you.

Your Mother inclined her head slightly. “Good. Then—”

“But,” you interjected, your voice gaining strength as you straightened in your chair. “It’s my turn to speak now.”

The silence that followed was suffocating, the flickering candlelight casting shifting patterns across the table as everyone stilled. Your Mom’s fingers trembled slightly as she set her utensils down, the soft clink echoing in the tense space. 

Your Mother’s lips thinned, her gaze sharp enough to pierce. “Very well,” she said, her voice low and measured. “Speak.”

The room seemed to hold its breath, the oppressive air thickening as you prepared to finally voice the words that had been lodged deep in your chest for so, so long.

You took a deep breath, your voice steady but carrying the weight of years of unspoken truths. “My time away gave me time to think,” you began, each word sharp and deliberate. “And I’ve come to realise a few things—things I didn’t have the courage to say before I left.”

Your Mother tilted her head slightly, her expression unreadable but the tension in her posture betraying her irritation. “Go on,” she said, her voice clipped, as if daring you to falter.

You met her gaze, refusing to look away. “Your suffocating expectations—your constant need for control over every aspect of my life—are the reason we’re in this mess in the first place.”

Her eyes narrowed, but she didn’t interrupt, her silence more cutting than words.

“You’ve created an environment so stifling, so oppressive, that it’s not just me who’s suffocating,” you continued, your voice rising slightly. “The coven itself is choking under your hold. Families are leaving. Women are moving away just to avoid sending their daughters here. They don’t see the protection of the coven anymore—they see a prison. And it’s because of you.”

A flicker of something—discomfort, perhaps—passed over her face, but she quickly masked it, her jaw tightening. Cath Palug’s tail swayed, his sharp pale eyes fixed intently on you.

You shifted your attention to your Mom, whose face had paled slightly. Her hands gripped the edge of the table, her knuckles tight against the dark wood. “And you,” you said, your tone softer but no less pointed. “You’re kind and nurturing, yes. But you’ve overlooked everything to appease her.”

Your Mom flinched, the words landing like a solid blow.

“You’ve turned a blind eye to how much damage she’s done—to me, to the coven, to the very people we’re supposed to protect.” Your voice cracked slightly, but you pushed on. “You tell me you love me, that you care about my well-being, but when it mattered most, you did nothing. You let this happen.”

The weight of your accusations hung heavy in the air, the oppressive silence only broken by the soft rustle of Sybil shifting at your feet. 

“So yes,” you said finally, your voice firm and resolute, “I will take over the coven. I will assume the position you’ve prepared me for my entire life. But I won’t do it in your image.”

Your Mother stiffened, her lips pressing into a thin line, while your Mom’s eyes filled with unshed tears.

“I’ll change everything,” you continued, your words like a hammer striking an anvil. “I’ll rebuild the coven into something better, something kinder, something people can actually trust. And I’ll do it so thoroughly that no one will even remember your names.”

Your Mother didn’t rise from her seat as you had expected. Instead, she picked up her wine glass, the deep crimson liquid catching the flicker of candlelight, and took a measured sip. The faintest curve of a smile touched her lips as she set the glass back down with deliberate precision.

She leaned back slightly in her chair, her sharp gaze fixed on you. “Well,” she said, her voice calm and cold, yet carrying an undertone of something you couldn’t quite place. Was it satisfaction? Amusement? “There you are.”

Her words lingered, cryptic and cutting, as though she had been waiting for this moment all along. She folded her hands neatly in her lap, her poise unshaken, and her expression—though cool and composed—betrayed a flicker of something almost... pleased.

Your Mom, however, looked far less composed. Her hands trembled as she wiped at the tears staining her cheeks, her warm gaze flickering uncertainly between you and your Mother. Though her lips tightened in disapproval, she followed your Mother’s lead, forcing herself to pick up her utensils and return to her meal, though her movements were stiff and mechanical.

The silence of the dining room pressed against you like a weight, the flicker of candlelight casting dancing shadows across the richly adorned walls. As you ran your fingers absently through Sybil’s soft fur, your thoughts drifted, unbidden, to the pack.

It was their presence in your life—the good and the bad—that had brought you to this moment. Their kindness, their laughter, and even their flaws had shown you what it meant to belong somewhere, to feel valued not because of your lineage or your role but simply for being yourself. And yet, it was their involuntary betrayal, their failures, that had lit the fire that now burned within you, giving you the courage to face the people who had shaped your life in a different but no less suffocating way.

A sad smile touched your lips as you stared down at your untouched plate. If things had been different, you thought bitterly, how satisfying it would have been to have them here, watching as you told your Mother off, as you shattered the chains of expectation she had bound you with. You could almost see Johnny’s grin, hear Gaz’s low whistle of approval, feel Ghost’s quiet, steady presence at your back, and see Price’s sharp nod of acknowledgment.

But it was just a pipe dream—a fleeting, wistful fantasy that dissolved as quickly as it had formed. You knew better than to hope for their presence now, to think they could ever be by your side again after what had happened. The pain of their absence twisted in your chest, a dull ache you’d long grown used to but never fully accepted.

Sybil nudged your leg gently, pulling you back to the present. Her dark eyes gazed up at you with a silent understanding that made your throat tighten. You reached down, brushing your fingers over her head, drawing strength from her unwavering loyalty.

The dinner continued in tense silence, and as the clink of silverware filled the void, you swallowed down the lump in your throat, sitting a little straighter in your chair. Whatever heartbreak lingered in your soul, whatever pieces of yourself had been scattered along the way, you were here now. 

You had spoken up. And for once, you hadn’t been silenced.

. . .

The tension in the hallway was unbearable, thick as the heavy air before a storm. Johnny paced back and forth, his bare feet thudding against the floorboards, the frustration radiating off him in waves. His hair was tied back in a messy ponytail, and his face was flushed with barely contained anger. His hand covered his nose and mouth as if to shield himself from something he couldn’t bear to acknowledge.

“I’m not going in there!” he snapped, voice raw and desperate. “I’m not doin’ it. You can’t make me.” He turned sharply, pointing an accusatory finger at Price, his brows furrowed in a mixture of fury and panic. “You shouldn’t even be askin’ me to!”

Price stood firm, arms crossed tightly over his chest. The faint smell of cigar smoke still clung to him, grounding but stale in the oppressive atmosphere. “We need to,” he said firmly, his voice low but resolute. “Together. As a pack.”

“It’s not a bloody pack if it’s falling apart!” Johnny shot back, his words biting. His hand gestured wildly toward Ghost, who sat slumped in a chair by the wall. His face was pale beneath the shadow of his hood, his mask absent. The dark circles under his eyes and the hollowness in his expression made him look like a man already half-broken.

“Look at him!” Johnny barked, his voice cracking. “He’s the one who—” He stopped himself short, clenching his fists as if the words were too much to speak aloud. “And you want us all in there? Together? With her?”

Gaz, leaning against the opposite wall, pinched the bridge of his nose. His leg bounced anxiously, but he stayed silent, his jaw tight as he glanced toward Ghost, then to Price.

Price exhaled heavily, his frustration evident but controlled. “None of this is easy,” he said, his voice calmer but no less firm. “But we need answers. And she’s the only one who might have them.”

“She’s innocent,” Gaz added, his voice quiet but strained. “She didn’t ask for this.”

Johnny shook his head violently, his ponytail swishing with the motion. “Doesn’t matter. I can’t—” His voice broke, and he covered his face with his hands, muttering something incomprehensible under his breath.

The silence that followed was deafening, broken only by the faint creak of the house settling. For a moment, no one moved, the weight of the decision pressing down on them all.

Then, to everyone’s surprise, Ghost spoke. His voice was low and hoarse, like it had been dragged from the depths of his soul. “Let’s do it.”

Johnny froze mid-step, turning to stare at him. “What?”

Ghost straightened slowly, his movements stiff and deliberate. His gaze, though dull, was steady as he looked at Price. “I’ll go in,” he repeated, his voice firmer this time. “We need to. I need to.”

Johnny opened his mouth to argue, but no words came out. For a moment, he looked torn between anger and something else—something softer, almost pitying. Finally, he cursed under his breath and turned away, crossing his arms tightly over his chest.

Price nodded, though the tension in his shoulders didn’t ease. “Alright,” he said, glancing at the others. “We do this together. No more running.”

With that, he stepped forward and pushed the door open, the hinges creaking loudly in the stillness. Inside, the room was dimly lit, the curtains drawn to block out the fading light of day. Leah sat on the edge of the bed, her hands clasped tightly in her lap. She looked small and fragile, her face pale but calm, her eyes shadowed by a deep weariness.

Laswell stood nearby, her expression neutral but her posture stiff. She glanced at the pack as they entered, her sharp gaze sweeping over each of them in turn. “Took you long enough,” she said dryly, though there was no bite in her tone.

Ghost was the last to step inside, his heavy boots barely making a sound as he moved. His gaze flicked to Leah for the briefest moment before dropping to the floor. His broad frame seemed even more imposing in the confined space, but his hunched posture betrayed the turmoil within him.

Leah looked up slowly, her eyes meeting theirs for a fleeting second before darting away. Her hands tightened on her lap, her knuckles turning white.

Laswell broke the silence, her voice cutting through the tension like a knife. “Alright,” she said, folding her arms across her chest. “Let’s get this over with.”

The room seemed to tighten around them as Leah began to speak, her voice trembling but steady enough to command attention. Her fingers twisted in her lap, her knuckles white against her pale skin as she glanced nervously between the pack members, Laswell, and the floor.

“I live in the city,” she began quietly, her words measured and slow. “It’s not far from here, just a few hours’ drive. The last thing I remember was…being out with my friends. We went to a club—one of those trendy places everyone talks about.”

Price leaned forward slightly, his arms crossed over his chest. His expression was unreadable, though his sharp blue eyes bore into her, urging her to continue.

Leah hesitated, her brow furrowing as she tried to piece together the fragments of her memory. “I was having fun. Dancing, drinking, laughing. And then… this man approached me.” Her voice faltered, and she swallowed hard before continuing. “He was… handsome, I think. Hypnotising. He just had this presence. It was like… like I couldn’t say no to him, even if I wanted to.”

Johnny shifted uncomfortably where he stood, arms still crossed tightly over his chest as if trying to shield himself from her words. Gaz glanced at Ghost, but the latter remained still, his eyes fixed on a spot on the floor.

Price’s voice was low but commanding when he finally spoke. “Can you describe him? Anything you remember about how he looked?”

Leah’s lips parted, but she hesitated again, her face twisting with frustration. “I… I can’t,” she admitted, her voice breaking slightly. “It’s like there’s this wall in my mind, keeping me from remembering him properly. I can almost see his face, but it’s blurry, like I’m not supposed to remember.”

Her words hung heavy in the air, the implications clear. Whoever this man was, he had gone to great lengths to erase himself from her memory.

Price frowned, his jaw tightening. “Alright. What about anything else? Details about the club, the people, anything out of the ordinary?”

Leah bit her lip, her gaze distant as she searched her mind. “There was… a logo,” she said after a moment. “On the wall behind the bar. It was… strange. A skull, I think? But not a human one—something else. Maybe a snake or… something reptilian. And there was a sword or a knife stabbing through it. That’s the only thing I remember clearly.”

Price exchanged a glance with Laswell, whose brows furrowed slightly in thought. “A logo like that isn’t exactly subtle,” she said. “It could narrow things down.”

“It’s not much, but it’s a start,” Price muttered, his tone grim. He turned his gaze back to Leah. “Anything else? Anything at all?”

Leah shook her head, her shoulders sagging as if the weight of her fractured memories was too much to bear. “No. That’s all I remember before… before everything went black. The next thing I knew, I was....here.”

Price straightened, his expression hardening. “Alright. We’ll figure out what that logo belongs to,” he said, his tone leaving no room for argument. “But this man—whoever he is—knew what he was doing. He didn’t just pick you at random. This was deliberate.”

Leah’s lips trembled, but she nodded, clutching her hands tightly together as if trying to hold herself together. “I just want this to be over,” she whispered.

“We all do,” Price said firmly. “And we’ll get to the bottom of it. But it starts with finding him.”

For the first time since this ordeal began, they truly looked at her. She was undeniably beautiful, in a way that felt deliberate—her features delicate yet striking, her presence almost magnetic. It was easy to see why someone would choose her as the host for a curse like this.

Price’s mind churned as he pieced together Leah’s account with Alejandro and Rudy’s earlier explanations. Curses like this worked best with hosts who could draw people in naturally, breaking down their defences before the magic took over. Leah’s appearance, her charm—it all made sense now. She had been chosen intentionally, not just for her beauty but for her ability to disarm.

And yet, as they stood before her now, there was nothing. No pull, no compulsion, no lingering feelings of obsession. The spell was broken, and what remained was just a frightened, broken young woman, stripped of the influence that had ensnared them all.

Leah’s voice wavered, and her composure finally shattered. Tears streamed down her face as she broke down, her shoulders shaking with sobs. “I’m so sorry,” she choked out, her voice thick with genuine remorse. “I didn’t mean for any of this to happen. I didn’t even know—” She covered her face with her hands, her words dissolving into unintelligible cries. “I’m so sorry… to all of you.”

The pack said nothing.

Gaz’s jaw tightened as he looked away, his face shadowed with guilt and unease. Johnny’s hands clenched into fists, his knuckles white as he stood frozen in place, clearly fighting the urge to bolt. Ghost, who had been silent the entire time, finally moved. He turned sharply on his heel and walked out, his boots striking the floor with heavy, deliberate steps. He didn’t say a word, his exit leaving an echo of finality in the room.

Gaz followed soon after, his steps slower but just as weighted. Johnny lingered for a moment, his gaze flicking toward Leah with something that looked like conflicted anger before he, too, left without a word.

Price stayed behind, his presence steady but heavy with unspoken judgement. Leah’s sobs softened into hiccups, and she glanced up at him, her tear-streaked face pleading. He didn’t meet her eyes, instead turning to Laswell.

“She stays with you for now,” Price said, his tone leaving no room for argument. “We’ll cover her relocation, but until we’ve sorted this out and gotten every scrap of information we can, she doesn’t go anywhere else.”

Laswell nodded, her sharp gaze sweeping over Leah before softening slightly. “Understood. I’ll handle her.”

Leah sniffled, looking between Price and Laswell with wide, tear-filled eyes. “I’ll do whatever you need,” she said shakily. “Anything. Just… please, I want to go home.”

Price’s eyes flicked to her briefly, his expression unreadable. “You’ll stay safe with Laswell,” he said curtly. “That’s all you need to focus on for now.”

With that, he turned and strode toward the door, his shoulders squared as if bracing against the weight of everything they’d just heard. Laswell lingered behind, her hand resting lightly on Leah’s shoulder, her sharp gaze following Price’s retreating figure.

As Price stepped out into the hallway, he cast a quick glance down the corridor where the pack had disappeared. Ghost’s silhouette was barely visible at the far end, his shoulders hunched as he walked away, the weight of his guilt and silence heavy in the air.

Price exhaled sharply, the faint glow of his cigar ember casting fleeting light against his weathered face. This wasn’t over—not by a long shot.

banner credit

[ruesol]

Ex bf Price who was your first and knows everything about your body sees you with your new boyfriend for the first time and can’t help but get jealous MDNI

Note: female reader

NSFW content - mentions of sex and sexual experiences. No direct smut

Masterlist

Price hated weddings. The unnecessary crying, large centerpieces, fancy food that tasted like nothing but cream and butter, and dancing. He hated all of it.

However, if you asked him about his opinions on weddings five months ago, he would’ve gone on and on about how he loves weddings.

Why the change of opinion? Because you broke up with him. He had been with a lot of women before but only you had managed to create large tremors in his heart and mind.

He didn’t show it but he was a complete mess after breaking up. Had a sour attitude, picked a fight with anyone within a six foot radius, and drank like a sailor. It only took him five months to finally stop associating your favorite things with you. Five months of pure torture is what the 141 called it.

The five months where hell ascended to the surface.

And now the squad was afraid it would happen again. After the break up, you happened to get very friendly with Kyle. The two of you kept close contact throughout so he naturally invited you to his wedding. What he wasn’t expecting was for your current boyfriend to be in the army as well. Just not as well known.

Price was going to lose his mind.

“I’m a grown man. Quit tryin’ to distract me. I know she’s here with someone.” The commander scoffed as Simon and Soap tried their best to hide you and your boyfriend from his view.

Of course, he knew you were with someone. He had eyes and ears everywhere including your current boyfriend’s team. He knew the bugger had quite the history with women and specifically went after you because you had little experience. Lucky for the captain, your boyfriend didn’t know that he was your ex.

Price couldn’t peel his eyes away from you from the beginning of the ceremony till dinner time. You look ravishing in your outfit. He remembered how you would always ask him to zip your dresses up and you both would end up arriving late to events because he would do the opposite.

He noticed how you wore the earrings he got you, giving him hope that somewhere in your heart you still wanted to be with him.

After the ceremony, the women gathered in their own separate area, sitting with the bride and asking her about the wedding and taking a few candid photos. The men had mostly dispersed to the bar or outside the wedding hall for a smoke break. The entirety of the 141 squad left with Kyle for a smoke, probably to enjoy his last few moments before he left for his honeymoon. But Price didn’t like corny goodbyes so he stayed behind.

He sipped his whiskey, reminiscing about his own dreams of getting married until he heard boisterous laughing coming from a group approaching his side of the bar.

It was your ex. Price knew his name but preferred to call him Dick when he thought of him. He chose his last name as Head. He could overhear Dick talk about his new girlfriend and Price immediately directed all his attention towards them. Discreetly of course. He was still facing the bartender so it seemed like he was uninterested.

“I’m telling you, mate, she is so easy to please. All I need to do fuck her and she comes. It’s fucking insane.” Dick bragged as he took a swig of his beer. Price had a small smile on his face. He knew some lousy fucking could never get you off.

“I know you didn’t come last night. Don’t lie to me.” Price said as he cuddled with you on your shared bed. “I’m sorry. I just didn’t know how to tell you.” You sheepishly replied. “Next time you don’t feel satisfied, I want you to tell me.” He pulled away and straddled you. “Now let me make it up to you the right way, yeah?” He said as he lifted your tank top and began kissing down your abdomen.

“She doesn’t even beg me to do anything. I can do whatever I want. It’s heaven.” Price wanted to laugh out loud. You? Not saying what you wanted? Sounds like Dick was sleeping with a total stranger.

“John, please, I need you in me. I can’t take any more of this teasing.” You groaned against his neck. Price chose to ignore you and kept rubbing his fingers around your entrance. “Come on, darling, you can be a little patient.” You huffed in anger and rolled on top of him. “Either you fuck me like I asked or I’ll ride you so hard you’ll forget your name.” You snapped. Price smiled knowing that neither of you were going to wake up early the next day.

“She also hates all that aftercare shit which is good because I’m fucking beat after all that work.” This guys was a ball of grease. Price wondered how you met him but chose to find out the answer later.

You were laying on Price’s chest after a particularly rough session. His hand played with your hair as your eyelids grew heavy. You had this habit of going non verbal after sex so you could recover your mental energy as well. Price understood and respected that so he’d hold you as you regained your strength. It was your own little heaven with him. Sometimes he’d bring you warm tea and snacks to rejuvenate, other times he’d lightly massage your shoulders as you’d sleep on top of him.

It was confirmed- you did not give a fuck about Dick and he was a rebound. Price laughed loudly and all the men in the group beside him turned. He got off the bar stool and walked to Dick. He placed his hand on your boyfriend’s shoulder and held it with a firm grip.

“Hope you get the message.” He said before sarcastically chuckling and walking away.

“The fuck is he on about?” He heard Dick murmur while he headed to where you were sitting with the women.

You seem surprised to see him but walked to a corner away from the wedding hall.

He grabbed your waist and pulled you close enough to smell the whiskey in his breath. “I believe you and I need to have a conversation.”

-•-

Didn’t like Price’s character when I first learned about him and look at me now. Maybe I’ll write a part 2, idk I like surprising people.

[zeroseuniverse]

Royal Duties

Word count: 763 Summary:“You’re an idiot,” he whispered when your eyes met his. “And you’re overprotective,” you shot back, but your voice was weak. He smiled then, that soft, devastating smile. “Maybe so. I think I’m actually falling in love with this idiot.” Pairing: Prince Yunho X Royal reader

Taglist: @sh0dor1

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The throne room was silent as the announcement echoed through its gilded halls. The words still rang in your ears, sharp and suffocating. An arranged marriage. Your arranged marriage. To Prince Yunho of the Eastern Kingdom — a man you’d never met, whose reputation as the people’s prince preceded him.

You stood tall, chin lifted in defiance even as your heart pounded. You were no ornamental royal, no fragile figurehead to be tucked away behind palace walls. You fought alongside your soldiers, stood at the front lines, bled and bruised and burned for your kingdom. You’d earned the respect of your people through action, not birthright. And now they wanted to marry you off like a pawn.

Your people deserved better. You deserved better.

Still, duty was duty. The alliance with the Eastern Kingdom was crucial. And so you swallowed your pride and prepared to meet the man who would change your life.

When you met Yunho for the first time, he was exactly as the stories said — warm-eyed and golden, with an easy smile and the kind of presence that commanded attention without demanding it. He looked every inch the perfect prince, with his sun-kissed skin and the confidence of someone who knew his people adored him.

And you hated that you liked him immediately.

“Your Highness,” he greeted, his voice low and steady, dipping into a bow that felt more genuine than ceremonial. “It’s an honor.”

You studied him, trying to find some weakness in that perfect composure. “We’ll see about that,” you replied coolly, unwilling to be charmed.

The days that followed were a delicate dance of formality and tension. Yunho was respectful, patient — but he was also protective in a way that grated against your independence. He shadowed your every step, though he never once overstepped. When you rode out with the soldiers for a training exercise, he followed. When you insisted on inspecting the border defenses yourself, he was there, watching your every move with quiet intensity.

He was competent — you had to give him that. He handled a sword well and commanded respect with ease. But his careful attentiveness felt like a cage, and you weren’t sure whether it was duty or something else keeping him so close.

“You don’t have to do this,” he said one evening, his voice soft but firm as you sharpened your sword by the fire.

“Do what?” you asked without looking up.

“Carry this weight alone.”

You froze, the unexpected gentleness in his tone hitting harder than any blade. But you forced yourself to keep your walls up. “I don’t need your protection, Prince Yunho.”

“I know,” he said simply. “But that doesn’t mean you don’t deserve it.”

The battle came sooner than anyone expected.

You were side by side on the front lines when the enemy broke through the outer defenses. Yunho fought with a skill and ferocity that matched his reputation — and when you fell, a sword slicing across your side, it was his arms that caught you.

“Stay with me,” he pleaded, his voice breaking. And for the first time, you saw the fear beneath his calm.

After the battle, when you woke in the healer’s tent, he was there — his hand clasping yours tightly, his eyes dark with worry.

“You’re an idiot,” he whispered when your eyes met his.

“And you’re overprotective,” you shot back, but your voice was weak.

He smiled then, that soft, devastating smile. “Maybe so. I think I’m actually falling in love with this idiot.”

The weeks following the battle shifted everything between you. The walls you’d built began to crack, and Yunho was patient with every inch you gave him. He trained with you in the mornings and listened to you at council meetings, never overshadowing but always supporting.

One evening, as the sun dipped low over the training grounds, you found yourselves sparring. Sweat slicked your skin, and your breath came in quick bursts as your swords clashed. And then, in one swift move, Yunho disarmed you — his blade at your throat and his eyes burning into yours.

“Yield,” he murmured.

You didn’t. You couldn’t. Instead, you surged forward and kissed him — hard and desperate and long overdue.

When you pulled back, his eyes were wide, his breath stolen. “You never do what’s expected,” he whispered, wonder lacing his voice.

“Never,” you agreed, and kissed him again.

The war still loomed, and the kingdom’s future was uncertain. But with Yunho at your side — his strength and warmth and unwavering belief in you — you finally felt ready to face whatever came next.

Together.

[claramelooo]

WOVEN FATES (20/20)

I know. I know! I'm late! I'm so sorry 😭

I had a serious problem with the wifi, I managed to get it working only now. But we're going to let you think that mommy left you suffering on purpose (it's more poetic that way, right?) 😅

So! That's it! Enjoy it!!! <3

MINORS MUST NOT INTERACT

Pairing: AgathaRio x Fem Reader

Summary: After your experience. You understand what it is really made of.

Fate

You woke up feeling light. For the first time in so long… there was no exhaustion. Not even that strange lethargy that usually followed the intense acts of the night before.

Your body ached, of course — the marks, the bruises, the still-fresh cut on your palm.

But it was a different kind of pain.

A good pain. A living memory.

As if your flesh was whispering: “You survived. You belong.”

You stretched, naked — fingers interlaced, arms raised over your head, reaching out. The sheets still tangled around your legs. Sunrays slipped through the curtains like a blessing, and the whole room seemed to breathe with you.

As you moved your hands, you felt it.

The cut from Rio’s cold blade was still there. You touched it gently. It was thick. Dark red. It almost looked like it was smiling at you.

And you smiled back.

You walked to the kitchen with your heart pounding, bare feet making no sound on the cold, expensive wooden floor.

And then you saw it: the same scene as always.

Rio was leaning over the counter, trying to draw on a plate with molasses. At first glance, the lines looked clumsy, but there was a kind of care there that made you bite your lower lip to keep from grinning too wide. — it was funny seeing her like this. Your Mama, not Rio the award-winning artist, so severe that even pancake doodles were supposed to be perfect.

Agatha, as always, had her back to you, focused on the kettle and the scrambled eggs. Her movements were graceful, precise. Even when she wasn’t trying, she commanded the space.

Even in the bad weeks.

Even in the heaviest silences.

This scene never changed.

“You’re always here…” you murmured, more to yourself than to them.

“And you always look at us like it’s a miracle,” Rio said, turning around with that cheeky smile, revealing her molasses masterpiece on the pancakes. “Like it? It’s you, Agatha, and me. I thought it’d be cute.”

Agatha gave a dry chuckle, not even turning. “That little face looks like a dead fish.”

“Hey!” Rio feigned outrage, wiping her hands on a cloth. “I’m the internationally awarded artist, remember?”

You laughed out loud, sitting at the table, still feeling your body sore from the night before.

“You two are so normal in the morning, you don’t even look like the wicked witches who did unspeakable things to me last night.”

“Ooh, you do love playing that card, don’t you, sweetheart?” Rio teased, walking toward you. “So bossy and fierce last night, and now acting all innocent?”

“I wasn’t being fierce!” you protested, your face heating up even more. “That was called confidence! I knew you wouldn’t deny me anything.”

“Oh, my love,” Agatha finally turned, a mischievous smile on her lips. “You looked like a demonic princess. I must’ve done an excellent job shaping you, little gem.”

You stifled a laugh behind your fingers, shaking your head.

That’s when your Mama noticed.

“Oh my god… sweetheart.” She rushed toward you, taking your hand gently. “Does it still hurt?”

“What?” you blinked, confused. It took a few seconds to realize she was referring to the cut. “Oh. Yeah, but… it’ll pass, right?”

The smile she gave you stole the breath from your lungs. Reverently tender, Rio brought your hand to her lips.

She examined the cut, her eyes moving across your skin with almost ceremonial care. Then she blew on it — a soft, flickering breath.

The sting came like a shiver. The cut tingled, glowed…

And disappeared.

Your eyes widened.

Rio turned your palm over and kissed the back of your hand before whispering: “Better?”

You still hadn’t managed to blink. “Impressive.”

She tossed her hair back with a victorious air. “Oh, what? That simple, mediocre spell? Please. It’s nothing to me.”

Agatha rolled her eyes dramatically, clearly used to her wife’s enchanted showmanship, and murmured something in Latin just to poke her: “Vanitas vanitatum, Rio.”

Vanity of vanities, Rio.

You chuckled softly, eyes moving from one to the other, with a warmth in your chest that felt too big to hold in.

This was real.

They were here.

Bickering, flirting, caring — being your chaos and your refuge all at once.

Rio arched a brow, pretending to be offended.

“Oh. I’m the vain one, Agatha?”

“If the shoe fits…”

“Darling, the shoe fit and I strutted it down the runway of life,” Rio replied proudly, winking at you like she expected applause.

You covered your face with your hands, laughing — and when you peeked through your fingers, you realized how much you loved that routine. Even the bickering, the dramatics, the sharp retorts.

It was all so… familiar.

So yours.

The taste of coffee mixed with milk was so sweet on your tongue, it felt tailor-made for that morning.

Happiness came quietly, seeping gently through the spaces of the kitchen: in the scent of melting butter, the muffled sounds of laughter, the warmth of hands brushing now and then — accidentally or on purpose.

You found yourself smiling at them, without even realizing it. Not the forced, nervous smile from the beginning.

But a real one.

Loose. Warm. So honest it trembled.

Rio looked at you and raised a playful eyebrow.

“Falling in love, are we?”

You let out a laugh through your nose, not denying it, and Agatha murmured something like “Finally figured it out.”

The molasses on your plate had become a happy little face with horns. A clumsy attempt by Rio to draw a smiling little witch. You found it adorable.

And then…

Something sparked in your eyes.

“What happened to Wanda?”

The silence spread slowly, like smoke.

Not a tense silence. But a heavy one. Almost respectful.

Agatha placed her cup gently on the saucer, her fingers resting on the warm porcelain. Rio licked her lips, took a deep breath to answer — but Agatha spoke first.

“Her powers have been… suspended. Removed. Until you decide what to do.”

You blinked, feeling the ground fall away beneath you even though you were sitting.

“That means…”

Agatha looked at you with a half-smile. Not mocking — but with a kind of dark pride.

“That means her fate is in your hands.”

Your chest tightened. Your mind spun.

Not that you’d take revenge. Not that you wanted harm to come to Wanda — at least, not anymore.

But knowing this… Knowing you could.

Knowing you had that power.

That control.

It lit a spark.

Something dangerous. Warm. Almost… sweet.

You lowered your eyes, as if that could hide the thought. But Agatha had already seen it. She leaned forward, her eyes gleaming with that wicked tenderness only she possessed:

“Do you feel it?”

“Feel what?” you asked, surprised she had sensed it.

“The weight.” She said it like revealing an ancient secret. As if no other word in the world could better fit that moment.

“Weight? Of what?” you asked, though you already knew the answer. Your brow furrowed, your chest tightened. And still, you needed to hear it from her lips.

“Of being chosen.”

It was like too-tight a hug. Or a punch straight to the stomach. You still couldn’t tell. But something inside you tore open completely. And instead of pain, what flooded your body was a kind of fever — an impossible mix of relief, fear, pride, and vertigo.

To be chosen. To be the end of one story and the beginning of another. To be the knot in someone’s fate.

Suddenly, all your years of loneliness seemed to converge in that moment. All the times you felt forgotten, invisible, too small to fit into any bigger plan… all of that now seemed like it had only ever been a rehearsal.

A quiet preparation for this moment.

The moment you would be seen. Recognized. Chosen. Marked. You lowered your head. Part of you wanted to scream. The other just wanted to cry.

That’s when Rio approached from behind.

You felt her before you saw her — warm and solid, like a wall of flesh, bone, and magic wrapped around you.

Her arms circled your shoulders with a care that nearly broke you.

The touch wasn’t possessive. It was protective.

A physical reminder that you weren’t alone.

“You are our end,” Rio murmured, her lips brushing the back of your neck, her voice rough with something that sounded like worship. “And the beginning of her story, my love.”

You closed your eyes.

The kiss she placed on your skin carried everything you couldn’t name.

It wasn’t just affection — it was a vow. A sacrament. A seal.

You felt anger. So much anger toward Wanda.

For everything she did and took.

For making you feel small. Insignificant. Replaceable.

But you also felt responsibility. You were now the guardian of a power you didn’t fully understand. In your hands, you held the fate of the woman who once tried to control yours.

And finally, there was desire. Not the wild, raw kind from a few hours ago — but something else.

A deeper desire. A more dangerous one.

The desire to stay. To remain. To belong.

To never again live in a world where Agatha and Rio didn’t exist. The desire to deserve that touch, that love, that curse.

You were fury and mercy.

You were the poison and the cure.

The punishment and the miracle.

And when Rio’s kisses spread across your skin like a profane blessing, when Agatha’s eyes burned into you with that devoted intensity, something inside you unlock and called you.

[...]

The Audi engine hummed through the city. You’d grown spoiled, always riding in Aggie’s car in the mornings. Listening to her old-people music, breathing in the scent of leather.

It was a good routine to have.

When the car stopped, your heart sank — yes, the dreaded three blocks. Always three. The safe distance between their world and the one that still couldn’t know.

You sighed, hand hovering over the door handle with hesitation.

But before you could open it, Agatha’s fingers touched yours — firm, gentle.

“Don’t go yet,” she whispered. “I haven’t looked at you enough. My little student girl.”

You smiled, still surprised by how deeply it affected you. She said those things with such dangerous ease.

And you? You felt it all like it was the very first time.

How could someone with that much power make you feel so... so alive? So silly? So absurdly young, as if time held no weight at all?

Maybe being their secret... wasn’t so bad. Maybe mystery protected. Maybe silence built something only theirs — where the world couldn’t reach.

There was poetry in the hiding.

Freedom in what didn’t need to be explained.

But the clock was merciless, and you had to go. The project presentation was that afternoon, and despite the surreal life you lived with Agatha and Rio, part of you still existed in the ordinary world.

The student. The friend. The survivor.

“The presentation’s today,” you murmured, almost like an apology.

The ride had been short but sweet. Aggie looked at you at every red light like she was about to discover a new secret on your face.

And you? You laughed. A light, clean laugh — almost adolescent.

She nodded in understanding.

“Good luck, my heart,” she said, cupping your chin before kissing you. “Show them what you're made of.”

You entered the building on trembling legs, your heart pounding in your ears. It felt strange walking through the college halls, knowing what you now knew.

Knowing what had happened.

Knowing who you had become.

The presentation room was packed.

The final project of the class, led by Lilia, had turned into a small event.

As you walked in, Alice’s eyes found yours almost immediately — and you looked away. The anger still lived there, buried beneath layers of disappointment.

Then your gaze was caught by Lilia, seated at the front.

She didn’t smile.

Her face was the same as always: elegant, unreadable, a professional mask impossible to crack. But her eyes... her eyes said something more. She looked you up and down with a focus that pierced.

And a chill ran down your spine, like a ghost had passed behind you.

“Good morning, everyone,” Lilia’s voice rang out — steady, controlled. “I hope you're ready.”

She stood with her usual grace, unhurried. Leaned her hip against the corner of the desk, arms crossed, eyes sweeping the room like she knew exactly what everyone was trying to hide.

As she read out names, calling group by group, you felt Alice’s presence inching closer — like an unwanted shadow.

She was shorter than you, but in that moment, she seemed even smaller.

Smaller on the inside.

Shrunk by guilt, maybe. Or regret.

You heard her calling your name softly.

Once.

Again.

And again.

At first, you ignored her.

You really didn’t want to deal with that shit. Not now.

But she kept going.

And you turned.

Your face was serious. Rigid. Like stone refusing to be shaped by empty words.

A look you’d never shown her before.

And now, it was the only one you had to give.

But before you could say anything — before the flood of hurt, rage, and frustration came out — Lilia’s unmistakable voice cut in.

“Girls,” she called.

Your eyes turned to her.

“It’s your turn.”

You took a deep breath.

Gave Alice one last glance. And said, barely moving your lips: “Let’s get this over with.”

You walked to the front of the room with steady steps, though your heart was pounding like mad in your chest.

Behind you, Alice hesitated, but followed — that was the deal. Even if the trust between you was broken, the work was shared.

At least on paper.

You didn’t look at her.

You didn’t have to.

This story was yours now.

Lilia leaned back slightly in her chair, fingers laced, her sharp gaze locked on you.

You plugged your USB into the projector. Took a deep breath.

And began.

“When we talk about character building, we’re taught to focus on conflict, motivation, trauma. But some creations don’t come from any of those places.”

The first images appeared on the screen: Paintings, shadows, scribbles. Fragments of a world where the real and the mythological aren’t opposites — They’re layers.

“Some characters aren’t written in ink. They’re summoned.”

You felt the room’s silence thicken, Lilia’s eyes like a knife against your skin — and still, you didn’t flinch.

“This is the story of two women. One made of absolute control. The other, of darkness in its most beautiful form.”'

You moved through the room like someone who knew exactly where they belonged.

“They appear in hidden records, in stories scholars like us would label as fiction. But what happens when fiction refuses to stay made up?”

The screen now showed a sketch of a map: three interlocking circles.

“They didn’t build kingdoms. They didn’t seek power for power’s sake. They shaped a being. A third figure. Not as heir. But as proof.”

Lilia was watching you with a hard gaze, making you want to flee from her eyes.

But you didn’t.

You stopped.

Agatha’s voice echoed in your mind: “Show them what you’re made of.”

And what are you made of?

The question slithered inside you like an ancient serpent.

You stood at the center of the room, under the weight of Lilia’s stare, under the quiet judgment, under the tense silence.

And somewhere deep within you, far beneath your skin, the answer began to rise.

You are made of your mother’s absence on Sunday mornings. Of your father’s frustration that you weren’t who he wanted you to be. Of the metallic taste of shame. Of the words you swallowed just to avoid looking weak.

You are made of the first time you saw Agatha and couldn’t tell if you were scared or mesmerized. Of the way Rio looked at you in that café, like she could paint your soul. Of the warm leather in their car. Of the scent of jasmine on her neck. Of the taste of freedom on the tip of your tongue.

You are made of the things that were almost said about you. And the ones you never allowed anyone to say.

You are made of magic that can’t be explained — only felt. And of a quiet hunger for belonging.

You are made of love. But not the soft, romantic kind. Love as a blade. A pact. A fire that burns everything down until only what’s real remains.

Your skin prickled. But your body stood firm.

On the outside, what others saw was a girl presenting a project.

But inside you, a temple was being built.

You inhaled.

Lifted your eyes.

And your voice, low and fatal, rang out:

"Proof that love can also be a kind of madness. That control can be care. And that sometimes… the best characters aren’t invented. They’re awakened."

Lilia moved for the first time. A slight tilt of her chin. Her mouth parted — not in surprise, but… fascination.

"Our characters don’t have names on paper. But they’ve left their signature on everything they touch: In the way someone leads without raising their voice. In the smile that hides entire worlds behind the eyes. In the body of someone who wasn’t made to obey… but to belong."

The final slide appeared.

Three figures dancing in blue flames, like shadows behind a sheer veil.

"This is our proposal: beings not born from a rational arc, but from a ritual. Who need no redemption — because they were born marked to be exactly what they are."

You fell silent.

And the silence after your final words was heavier than any applause.

Lilia sat like a sphinx.

Then she spoke, slowly, as if she’d swallowed shards of glass:

"You’re actually good. Truly impressive."

The words left Lilia’s lips like a rare flash of lightning in a clear sky. You didn’t answer — but your chest rose subtly, recognizing the compliment not as a gift, but as a nod of confirmation.

She was strict. Surgical.

She didn’t praise out of politeness.

But something in her tone said she had high expectations for you.

Beside her, Alice opened her mouth — hesitant, like she wanted to share the moment, soak in the glow.

But then the bell rang, shattering the spell.

The students began to disperse like leaves in the wind.

You said nothing. Just walked toward the door, leaving Alice behind, stuck in her own hesitation.

"Alright, class! Grades will be posted on the bulletin outside. Stay tuned." Lilia called out, watching the students walk through the doorway.

The work was done.

And now you could go home.

Watch a silly show with Lucky curled up beside you, always purring. Water your plants while waiting for your mommies to come home from work.

You took a deep breath.

Finally.

The peace that comes after giving your all.

But that peace was broken by the touch of a hand on your wrist.

A hand grabbed your wrist, stopping you.

"Hey—hey! You’re seriously just going to ignore me? You vanish for two days and when you come back, you’ve got this… this attitude..." she hesitated, as if unsure which word fit best. “Pretentious.” Her grip on your wrist tightened.

You turned on your heels, eyes cold.

Oh. My. God.

How dare she?

"Yes, Alice! I’d love to go back to the time when you were just the weird girl."

Ouch.

You knew that stung.

But well… it stung you too.

The betrayal, the lies and the silence.

She swallowed hard, as if she finally understood the real issue here. "Oh. Right. This is about the night of the party, I see."

"No, Alice." You let out a dry, cracked laugh. "This is about you. Your betrayal. Or better yet — were you ever really my friend at all?" You pointed a finger at her, each word slicing into her like a blade.

She blinked quickly, her eyes brimming with tears for a moment. "What—? Of course I was. I–I–"

"Funny… Wanda told me something else." You stepped back, arms crossed, waiting for her reaction.

Alice’s eyes widened for a split second. “Wanda…”

"The fucking witch who told you about the source. About me." You tried to control your voice, but the last part came out like a growl.

"Look. Billy said she was just some acquaintance. We didn’t… we didn’t even really know who she was."

Billy.

You remembered his eyes.

Dark. Deep. Haunted.

He had seen something in you before you even knew it existed.

And now you could see what he saw.

That son of a bitch.

What did he have to do with her?

You let out a tired sigh. The rage weighed on your shoulders like a stone. You rubbed them with your fingers, exhausted from feeling so much.

"Screw all this, okay? I don’t care anymore. I’m fine. More alive than ever." Your voice came out proud, confident.

And it was true.

You were alive.

More aware.

Stronger.

Because now you knew who you could count on — and who you couldn’t.

"The real question is: why did you agree to this? Why did you do this to a friend?"

Alice lowered her head, finally broken. The tears now fell freely, without shame. But her body remained rigid, like she was clinging to some scrap of dignity amid the collapse.

You looked away.

Not out of weakness.

But because it hurt too much to watch her fall apart.

You glanced around — students coming and going, ordinary lives, trivial problems. And you, standing in the middle of an open abyss.

"She said I could be stronger. More… powerful." The word came out broken. Like a child confessing she’d broken her sister’s favorite toy.

You stared at her in silence.

"Well… I hope it was worth it, at least."

You said it with confidence — and it was true.

But inside, you were shattered.

You closed your eyes for a moment, accepting what you’d known all along. Sometimes, people choose paths where there’s no room for you.

Deal with it.

You turned your back and disappeared into the crowd.

[...]

The door clicked shut behind you with a soft sound. And like magic, the world outside shrank into something distant, irrelevant.

Here, within the warmth of your walls, you were just… you again.

The jingle of Lucky’s collar was all it took to revive your heart.

You dropped your backpack to the floor and ran to him, throwing yourself onto the couch with a heavy sigh. The tiny furball landed on your lap in seconds, purring loud, heart racing with joy just to have you back.

"My baby!" you cried, laughing as he wrapped himself around your arm, showering you in soft, playful bites. "Mommy missed you so much…"

For a few seconds, time dissolved in that cuddle. It was just you, him, and the purring.

Until a familiar voice came from behind the couch:

“Look, my love. Seems like we’re grandparents already.”

You turned to Agatha — who murmured in agreement while fixated on the iPad screen — and frowned. What were they doing home? So early?

“You bet we are,” you replied, kissing the top of the black cat’s head. “The real question is whether Lucky was properly fed these past two days.” Your tone was stern and serious.

Agatha scoffed, sinking into the armchair across from you. “Oh, please… He’s a cat. He ate his kibble every three hours, just like he should.”

“What? What kind of kibble? Lucky only eats the three-protein blend. No fish. So you have to remove every—”

“What a spoiled, demanding little creature,” Rio cut off your avalanche of instructions.

“Oh, really? Then take a good look at the monster you created,” Agatha shot back, dramatically pointing at you and Lucky curled up on the couch.

“I created?” Rio repeated, incredulous. “Says the woman don’t-feed-the-baby-sugar-because-it’s-bad-for-them.”

“Well, it is,” Agatha shrugged, as if she had just won the argument with a bulletproof truth.

You just laughed, defeated. Being with them felt like living inside a dream — a warm, silly, messy dream you never wanted to wake up from.

But then, something white hopped across your peripheral vision. You blinked.

A little puffball.

Lucky jumped down and went straight to it, sniffing curiously.

What…?

You leaned over the couch to get a better view and saw the tiny creature, pink-nosed and alert-eyed, sniffing your cat... and for a second, you couldn’t believe it. Lucky started licking the soft white fur, and the tiny being leapt forward, giving you a full view.

Your eyes widened.

“What the fuck is that?”

“Language,” Agatha warned, eyes still on the screen.

“Aggie. Love…” Rio chimed in, her voice thick with barely restrained amusement.

Agatha finally looked. She squinted at the little rabbit, as if deciphering a secret etched into its ears... then relaxed.

“Hm. That’s Señor Scratchy,” she said, trying to sound convincing.

Rio sank deeper into the couch, arms crossed. Like she already knew what was coming — and that it would be delightful to witness.

“No, it’s not. Señor Scratchy is a rabbit… plush,” you said with emphasis, like explaining something to a child who just told a very bad lie.

Agatha raised a cynical eyebrow. She glanced again at the bunny with the faint brown spots.

“Oh. He is?” She looked back at you, feigning innocence.

“Yes, Agatha. I remember perfectly. Plush,” Rio chimed in just to tease her, earning a deadly glare from the witch.

“Mommy…” you began, but didn’t even need to finish — Agatha sighed loudly, like someone caught red-handed but determined to keep her dignity.

“Ugh, fine!” She raised her hands, standing just to pick up the little furball. “Señor Scratchy was our pet before you got here.” She petted him gently.

“What?!” You were stunned and slightly outraged.

“And we had a deal that when you came here,” she continued, stroking the bunny, who seemed to approve with closed, content eyes, “he’d behave and help you adjust to the house.” Agatha rubbed his ears, and he practically melted in her lap with pleasure.

“And to us,” Rio added now, her chocolate-bright eyes piercing right into your heart.

Then it clicked. Why hugging that bunny always soothed your worst days. It felt like touching them. Like their emotions flowed right back through him.

“Oh my God,” you whispered.

“Surprise!” Agatha stood up and placed the tiny creature in your lap.

“Oh my God!” you repeated, breathless, feeling the soft fur and that cool little pink nose brushing your fingers.

“We changed him back because we didn’t want Lucky to feel lonely while we went to pick you up,” Rio explained, petting him too.

“Oh my God! I have a real bunny!” You stood up with him in your arms, spinning excitedly. “You two are the best mommies in the world!”

They laughed at your enthusiasm.

“Sweetheart, don’t shake him like that. Rabbits naturally have fast heart rates. Let’s not give a centuries-old creature a heart attack,” Agatha warned, still smiling.

“Oh. Right. Sorry. Forgot he’s not plush anymore.”

Rio burst out laughing, tossing her head back. Neck exposed, that wide smile — a spectacle on its own. All you could think was how beautiful she was.

“All right, little weirdo. No more surprises,” she pointed to the couch. “How about helping us choose your dress for your Mommy’s film premiere?”

“I already picked one,” Agatha said firmly, eyes glued to a website.

“Aggie!” Rio scolded. “We agreed she gets to choose this time, remember?”

“But it’s an important night!”

“For her too.” Rio now sounded like she was parenting a teenage Aggie. It was hilarious.

“Fine. But only tonight,” Agatha declared, pointing her finger like it was law — because obviously, your Mommy would never actually give up dressing and feeding you like her doll.

“Uh, hello? I’m still right here, remember?” you chimed in, sarcastic.

“Silence, child! Move over,” Agatha demanded, settling on the couch.

She handed you the tablet, and you started browsing through the dress options.

There were so many. All colors.

And you decided to tease her a little.

“Hmm… Which one should I pick?” you sang the words, making your Mommy visibly tense. “Maybe lace?” You saw Aggie swallow hard. “Or something made of polyester…?” You knew she’d hate that. And she really did — judging by the way she clenched the pillow like she wanted to strangle you.

“Or what about neon—?”

“Don’t you dare even think about it!” she exploded, finally.

You laughed and gave a mischievous grin, tongue pressed between your teeth.

“I got you.”

You returned your attention to the pictures. Until one of them stopped you cold.

It was long. A deep navy blue. Elegant and mysterious. A classic, sophisticated silhouette made for a red carpet. The full, structured skirt made the deep blue look almost black.

The bodice shimmered in starry blue — tight to the body, with thin straps. It came with a pair of long black satin gloves.

It was dramatic.

It was perfect.

Pure red carpet.

You whistled. “Yeah. I really got it.”

[...]

You were sweating inside the car.

The muffled sound of the crowd outside seemed distant, as if echoing through a glass dome. Cameras flashed like lightning. Shouts, flashes, and a red carpet that seemed endless. It was like standing on the edge of an abyss.

Your chest rose and fell in short, nervous breaths. The claustrophobia of the moment squeezed your waist tighter than any corset ever could.

To your left, Agatha held your gloved hand—her touch firm and calculated, as always. But her eyes, fixed on you, were pure embers. She tilted her head slightly and said, in that tone that made you tremble inside:

"Honey, breathe."

You tried. But all you managed was a dry swallow.

On the other side, Rio adjusted the choker around your neck—the one that had always been yours, even when you didn’t understand what it meant. Her fingers traced your collarbone with tenderness and reverence. Then she whispered, her lips brushing behind your ear:

"You look stunning."

A brief kiss, warm like melting wax.

"Everyone will see how you shine, my little gem."

Your gaze darted between them. And there it was—your anchor. Your temple. You felt the entire world pulling you out of that car, and yet, for a second, you wanted to stay there forever.

But the door opened.

And the world exploded in light.

You stepped out alone.

The night wind lifted the hem of your blue dress just enough to make the photographers lose their minds. It was as if you were made of liquid stardust.

They didn’t know your name.

Much less who you were.

But the dress told them your importance. And that this was where you belonged.

After the photos, you enter the building to join your staff colleagues.

"Hey!"

Yelena’s voice calls out to you in the middle of the brightly lit lobby, cutting through the noise of heels, laughter, and clinking glasses.

You turn—and there she is.

Beautiful.

A white dress shimmering like snow under neon lights. Her half-up hairstyle left a few strands loose, framing her glowing face. She looked like she’d stepped out of a magazine editorial. Or a dream.

"You look gorgeous." She smiles sincerely, her Russian accent caressing each syllable like a gift.

"You too," you reply, your heart still racing. "Seriously… wow. Like you fell from the wrong constellation."

Yelena laughs.

"Oh, stop. But thank you."

She looks you up and down and adds with a crooked smile: "You killed it out there. It was like… the birth of a star. Everyone stopped."

You shrug, shy, but your smile betrays you. "It was kinda scary."

"Scary is being in the middle of all those people trying not to look too emotional watching you shine. And I failed miserably." She nudges you lightly with her elbow. "Seriously, you’ve got talent. And presence. There’s something about you… that holds people."

You swallow hard.

You know why that happens.

Now you know it’s what a Source is.

Pure, eccentric energy.

You want to thank her, but part of you doesn’t know how. Compliments always felt like traps. But not with Yelena. With her, it’s just lightness.

Before you can respond, a woman’s voice—firm and slightly husky—calls her name:

"Yelena."

You both turn at the same time.

A woman approaches with decisive steps. Red hair. A high bun that looks sculpted. The black suit fits with millimeter precision, as if sewn directly onto her body. There’s something in her eyes that commands silence—and fire.

"We need to review the security for the outer wing. A press group got past the barrier."

Her voice doesn’t rise. But it demands.

Her gaze briefly sweeps over you. Assessing. Cutting.

Then returns to Yelena.

Yelena sighs, exasperated. "I’m coming. Two seconds."

The woman nods with an almost imperceptible movement and walks away, firm, elegant, an aura of power lingering in the air.

You can’t help it.

You look back at Yelena.

Then toward where the woman disappeared.

Then back at Yelena with raised eyebrows.

And venture:

"Girlfriend?"

Yelena chokes on the champagne she’d barely started drinking.

"Are you crazy?" she sputters, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, laughing and coughing at the same time. "That’s Natasha. My older sister."

"Oh." You blink. "Wow."

"'Wow' is what everyone says before getting scolded. Or punched." Yelena laughs but then gives you a conspiratorial smirk. "She’s got that eternal-PMS Russian goddess aura, but… she’s good people. A legend in the military, actually."

You’re still staring down the hallway where Natasha went.

"She looked at me like she could hear my thoughts."

"She probably could," Yelena replies, amused. "She’s like a retired spy, head of security, espionage master, and queen of sarcasm. Anyway, don’t flirt with my sister. I want to keep liking you."

You widen your eyes.

"Oh. No. I wasn’t." You assure the blonde.

I mean, the woman was indeed a vision, but nothing that would make you take your eyes off your mommies. It was just a burning curiosity in your chest.

But you definitely didn’t need to worry about that now.

Not when your mommies stepped onto the red carpet.

Agatha appeared first, her eyes half-lidded as if reading secrets on the horizon. The black dress was as tight as it was liquid, as if dressing her by pure will alone.

The deep neckline merged with the dark choker, revealing the swell of her breasts with a kind of threatening elegance—as if sin had learned to walk in heels.

And right beside her came Rio.

The white dress ignited under the flashes, as soft as moonlight on sheets. The high bun left her long neck exposed, her skin gleaming, her generous décolletage on display like a sacred canvas.

Her neckline was deep too, but in a way that seemed almost innocent—almost. Because nothing about Rio was ever truly pure. It just seemed that way. Until you looked again.

The two of them walked as if they’d been born for that red floor.

You lost your breath. Literally. Your heart seemed to leap so hard your vision blurred for a second.

It was pure exhilaration.

And you knew.

You knew no one—no one—would ever be able to occupy that space like they did. Not Hollywood stars. Not queens, not legends.

Because they were all those things... and so much more.

Your entire body tingled.

You gripped the champagne flute tightly, as if it could keep you grounded. But every part of you wanted to run. Scream. Bite your own lips.

Or drop to your knees right there.

The cameras went wild.

Flashes exploded like fireworks.

But you didn’t see any of that.

You only saw them.

Agatha turned her head slightly.

And for a brief second—a single, precious second—her eyes met yours.

Rio held Agatha’s arm, pulling her slightly by the waist as she whispered something in the older woman’s ear. Agatha laughed, one of those nearly inaudible laughs you knew by heart.

The most beautiful sound in the world.

You felt your legs weaken.

If it weren’t for the wall behind you, you would’ve collapsed right then.

"Fuck..." you whispered without realizing.

Yelena let out a low whistle beside you. "The witches of Hollywood have arrived. "

You smiled. But inside... inside you were melting.

Part of you wanted to run to them. Drop to your knees and beg them to claim you right there on that carpet.

The other part... just wanted to keep watching.

To etch it into your retina. Tattoo it onto your soul.

Because, in that moment, you knew:

You belonged to those women.

Forever.

The party hall was soaked in expensive perfumes, artificial laughter, and clinking champagne flutes. You mingled for a few minutes, greeted who you needed to, smiled at who you should.

You watched your mommies from afar. They gestured dramatically. It was so fucking sensual. Your cunt clenched around nothing. Fuck. You’d barely arrived and already wanted to leave.

Your legs were nearly giving out, and you needed to go to the bathroom to empty your bladder, which felt swollen from the adrenaline.

You needed to splash your face and calm down.

The bathroom was luxurious. A chandelier hung from the ceiling, and plaster moldings mimicked Greek sculptures.

You splashed cold water on the back of your neck and tried to take three deep breaths.

1.

2.

3.

“Well, well, well… Looks like Agatha chose a decent dress this time.”

Wanda.

Shit.

You swallowed hard, feeling shaky. You wouldn’t show fear. Never again.

Fuck this.

“I chose it.”

The reply came out sharp, direct. Firmer than you thought you could muster. The back of your neck still dripped with cold water, but the heat of her name—Wanda—already surged through your veins like poison and desire.

You turned slowly, your damp fingers gripping the white marble sink. Wanda leaned against the wall by the door, arms crossed, a champagne flute in hand, her gaze red as freshly spilled blood.

She wore a tight wine-colored jumpsuit with strategic cutouts and a plunging neckline that nearly reached her navel. Every curve seemed placed there with a singular purpose: to provoke. Command. Destabilize.

“Chose it?” She smiled, but it wasn’t kind. “Think that makes you... one of them?”

You forced your eyes not to waver.

This was Wanda.

Her. The woman who’d kidnapped and tortured you for two fucking days. You wanted to vomit. But not now. Tonight, you were different. You were full. Full of your mommies’ presence. Full of the power growing in your chest like an unbreakable secret.

“I don’t think. I know.”

Wanda raised an eyebrow, sipping her champagne elegantly. “Hmm. And how’s it going, being their little doll?”

She stepped closer. Slow. Her heels echoed on the bathroom tiles like hammers chipping at your self-control. “Can you even handle all this, little girl?”

The taunt stung. Burned.

But instead of flinching, you smiled.

Slow.

Almost cruel.

As if, suddenly, you knew something she didn’t.

“They molded me,” you replied, lowering your voice like a forbidden prayer. “But I’m no doll. I’m fire. I’m a relic. I’m the curse they chose to love.”

Wanda stopped inches from you.

The air vibrated between you.

“You talk pretty for someone who still trembles at the sight of me.”

You smiled wider. Because yes, maybe your legs shook. Maybe your heart raced. But there was something in you now... something even she couldn’t break.

“I tremble because I feel too much. Not because I fear you.”

Wanda narrowed her eyes, as if trying to read between the lines of your soul. And maybe she was.

But you were no longer an open book.

She leaned in, her face close to yours.

Her breath brushed your lips.

“You’ll get hurt with them. Think you’re special? You’re not. It’ll hurt so much when they leave.”

You swallowed hard but didn’t look away. Instead, you lifted your chin, gaze steady.

“If it hurts, I’ll love the pain. But you, Wanda… you’ll love it twice as hard. And then, you’ll understand me.”

Silence fell like thunder.

Wanda’s expression hardened for a second. Her mocking laugh died in her throat, morphing into something heavier.

Something she swallowed dryly.

You walked past her with elegance, leaving a trail of perfume, power, and something else—a spell, perhaps.

As you opened the door, you didn’t look back.

But you felt it.

Felt her gaze burning into your back.

Felt the seed of a curse taking root in the Scarlet Witch’s eyes.

Four hours later, the car glided silently through Los Angeles streets damp with early winter rain. City lights blinked outside as if still trying to compete with the glow of the night you’d left behind.

You leaned between them, exhausted.

Your feet ached from the heels. Your skin still pulsed with the thrill of it all.

But it was more than fatigue.

It was the feeling of something completing. Like a musical note finally finding its harmony.

Rio stroked your hair while Agatha rested her chin atop your head.

“You were perfect,” the older woman murmured.

“You were born for this, little gem,” Rio added, almost like a prophecy.

You didn’t reply. Just closed your eyes.

“I just want to get home,” you whined, tired and petulant. “I want to put on cozy pajamas and sleep.”

“Oh. Sleep?” Rio said. “But you haven’t seen the surprise we prepared for you.”

There.

The moment Rio said it, you cracked one eye open. “Surprise?”

“Oh yes, darling.”

In an impulse you lifted your torso off the bench.

“Tell Ralph to drive faster.” You ordered. “Hear that, Ralph? Faster!”

The mansion was dark, save for the muffled click of Agatha and Rio’s heels on marble. They walked ahead, letting you kick off your shoes at the door, the cold floor biting your feet.

The entire house felt different. Not the furniture. The air. As if… something had shifted. As if a cycle had finally closed.

You rushed to the bedroom. You wanted your surprise now. To kiss them. Maybe… more.

But when you crossed the threshold, you froze.

There, facing the bed, stood a mirror.

Enormous. Antique. Gilded frame ornate enough to feel alive.

And you knew it hadn’t been there that morning.

In its reflection, you saw something strange.

Agatha stood behind you, dressed in black like at the premiere. Rio, beside her, in white, as if balancing the scales.

But their reflections weren’t exact.

A faint shimmer hovered between their bodies. A blue glow invisible to ordinary eyes.

And it came… from you.

You looked at your hands. Nothing there.

But in the mirror, you glowed.

A soft click sounded behind you. The door closing.

“You see it, don’t you?” Agatha asked, her voice softer than ever.

You nodded, still staring. “What… is that?”

Rio stepped closer, removing her choker and placing it on the dresser like an ancient relic returned to its altar.

“It’s the truth,” she said. “And the gift.”

Agatha took your hand.

“It was never about having you, sweetie. It was about making you accept the bond. On your own.”

Rio finished: “You walked through the trials. Lived. Grew. Cried. Shone. And through it all… you stayed. You chose us.”

And as they spoke… you felt it.

Your heart changed rhythm. As if beating in triple time. As if it had finally found its song.

The mirror glowed—not with light, but with truth. The blue bond shimmered between your bodies. No longer a reflection. Now it was real.

Now, binding all three of you.

Agatha pressed her lips to your temple.

“The bond is sealed.”

You shuddered.

Energy shot up your spine like sweet, merciless lightning. Your skin prickled. Your chest burned from the inside out.

And then… something snapped.

Something inside you that was still human.

Something that bled.

That feared.

Something that no longer existed.

You staggered, but Rio caught you—steady, like an ancient vow.

“It’s done,” she whispered, her brown eyes brimming, reflecting gold as they shimmered. “You belong to us now. In all times.”

You looked into the mirror one last time.

And you saw it.

Your eyes were no longer the same.

They glowed—fluorescent blue, alive, impossible. As if made from the very essence of the night sky.

Something utterly terrifying to human eyes.

But perfect in their world.

You had become immortal.

This story was never meant for just anyone. It was written for those who find beauty in darkness. For those who fall in love with what is eerie and strange.

Where some see fear, others find peace.

And where others give up… you stayed.

Because sometimes, the path fate weaves toward joy is terrifying.

And that’s the beauty of living.

There were no fireworks.

No music.

Only the silence of eternity, being written by three hands.

You were no longer free.

You never would be again.

Three hearts.

One curse.

And the most beautiful of destinies.

~*~

Thanks for following Woven Fates, my beloved ones. I hope this story can reach everyone who reads this story :)

And yes... the spin-off will be WandNat x Reader.

Mommy will take a rest from writing 🥱 But I'll be always here to read you, my babies.

Tag List <3

@vyvvycg @rosekjsses @3liyuh @indentity0018 @beggingonmykneesforher @reginassecretlover @trying-to-do-good @imjustvibingsworld @mbxoxo @jazzyxqzl @eternallyconfuzed @ctrlaltedits @sheriffhaughtearp @lesbiansweet @i-luv-w1men @htinha157 @syssmin @wandasslut3000 @fuzzygiantlamphorse @imaginaryblogger01 @aboutcustardcreams @upsidedowndanvers @starbucks-06 @absolute-memegarbage @trinity2k @greyella @angel-kitten-babygirl-u-choose @whitelotus00 @dandelions4us @creaturesaphique @warpdrive-witch @sweetmidnights @dingdongthetail @mommy-mommy-mommy-hi

[inky-duchess]

Fantasy Guide to Royal Guards

Royals have multiple layers of servants but there is no set of servants most important that their protection. Royalty are never without some kind of protection and palaces are usually guarded to the teeth. So how do we write royal security. This is for @jamie-ties-writing

Recruitment

Royal guards aren't just any person plucked from the street and put into a uniform. They are usually recruited from within the royal army, from within particular regiments across the army (a mixture of calvary, naval, artillery, infantry). The Royal Guard is usually made of of multiple regiments, not just a single one. These regiments would share and rotate duties. The British Royal family are currently guarded by the Coldstream Regiment, Welsh Guards, Grenadier Guards among others. Royal guards will be selected for their skill, sometimes their birth (they may be chosen if they rank higher socially) and of course, loyalty to the Crown. Royal guards were intended to be a show of force, strength, Majesty so they were usually impressive specimens meant to instill some power to their monarch.

Duties

A royal guard's first order of business is the protection of the family. They may have sentry duty around the palace, guarding doors or patrolling palace grounds or corridors. A Royal Guard may be assigned to one member only but most likely they will rotate through the family as needed. Of course, a royal can request a guard to always be assigned to them if they want. They may escort their charge of the day to their engagements. If assigned a certain royal to protect, they would tail them throughout the day. A royal guard may even perform ceremonial duties such as the changing of the guard or riding in coronations or state funerals. A royal guard is expected to remain vigilant but never speak of what they see, they are meant to keep an ear out for threats but never repeat whatever is said, they are expected at all times to uphold a professional countenance and respect protocol. They will be expected to give their lives if needed, and be loyal to the last.

Rank

Royal guards are a military division and rank is a part of their lives. Their supreme commander would he the monarch first but there would be an appointed commander. Depending on how you want to write Royal Guards, each regiment would have it's own captain and leaders. Of course, not all regiments may adhere to the same ranks but this would be a basic outline for you to follow.

Colonel: Colonels actually have no duties, they are more an honourary figurehead. Many members of the royal family would have a regiment to be colonel of. This usually requires nothing more than a ceremonial role, the wearing of the uniform while inspecting the troops for example.

Captain: The Commander of the regiment. They would undertake managerial duties, issuing commands from the monarch, assigning duties, approving the induction of new guards into the Household Division. The Captain would decide who would guard which member of the royal family.

Lieutenant: The Second in command. They will assume command if the Captain is not available. They would take on a large portion of duties and aid the Captain.

Sergeant: The sergeant would be next in command.

Guardsman: The lowest rank. They will have the least experience but usually the most duties. They would be the ones patrolling and standing sentry.

Uniform

Of course, no royal guard is complete without their uniform. Royal guards would have to stand out, especially in ceremonial duties. This uniform would be distinctive, not only because it is a great honour for anybody to be named to the guard but also as mentioned above, to add a layer of might to those they protect.

Notable Royal Guard Units

Dahomey Mino (the inspiration of Black Panther's Dora Milaje)

The Praetorian Guard

The Imperial Guard of Napoleon

The Imperial German Bodyguard

Varangian Guard

Swiss Guards

The Kheshig

The Janissary

The Imperial Guards of Tsarist Russia

The Cossack Guard

Guardia Real

Coldstream Guards

Irish Guards

Welsh Guards

Grenadier Guards

Medjay of Ancient Egypt

Al-Ḥars al-Malakī as-Suʿūdī

Compagnie des Carabiniers du Prince

Thahan Raksa Phra Ong

[mermaidchansons]

Warm In December

Terry Richmond x Black Reader

Story Summary: You convince your husband, Terry, to slip away during your annual Christmas Eve party.

Words: 2500+

Warnings: SMUT, 18+ minors do NOT engage (you’ll be blocked), pre-established relationship, married reader, cursing, unprotected sex, P in V, fingering, squirting, slight mentions of breeding kink if you squint a little, breath play, good ole fluff

Author’s Note: Short and sweet. Dedicated to my sweet little bby @megamindsecretlair 💕. It’s still Christmas in my heart! - Ashanti

Christmas time at the Richmond house was always a big celebration. As soon as Thanksgiving dinner was cleaned up, Terry was out gathering the decorations from the garage. It always tickled you how quickly your love of the holiday season had infected him. When you first met your husband, he never had much of a yearning to celebrate. But that all changed when you first confessed your love to him at a local tree lighting ceremony. Every year since, Terry added the tree lighting ceremony onto his evergrowing itinerary of holiday related events. Driving around to look at the lights, gingerbread house competitions, and of course, tonight’s main event; the annual Christmas Eve dinner party. 

You waltzed between your guests dancing in your colorful living room. Terry’s friend Mel was DJ’ing a set of black holiday hits, coaxing folks out of an incoming case of the itis. A few people stopped you on your way to the kitchen; waxing about how delicious everything was. An invite to a Terry x Y/N dinner party was coveted amongst your community. You were practically a young Ina Garten in your own right; pulling off elaborate 3 and 4-course dinners with the likes of curried oxtail, whole fried tilapia, and king crab gumbo. Some of your friends would change their entire flight schedule to eat at the Richmond house on Christmas Eve.

“Ooo T, if these folk keep gassing me up, my heads gone get too big,” you said as you balanced a few empty glasses. 

“Let ‘em gas you. You really outdid yourself this year, baby.”

Going all out was expected of you, and Terry was determined to match your fly this year. Eight months ago, his therapist suggested he take up baking as a way to spend time with his thoughts. And now, he was ready to show your guests what he had been perfecting all this time. You leaned against the door frame and watched your gentle giant pull a pan of steaming hot cinnamon rolls out of the oven. He placed the pan down with cautious hesitation, making you bite back a giggle. 

Although you loved that Terry had cultivated a hobby that worked for him, you couldn’t help but still be tickled by it. Your 6’3, former marine, no-nonsense husband was a home baker. And he looked mighty fine doing it too. He wore his nice fitted polo that hugged every part of his muscle lined frame. He stared down intently through his gold-rimmed glasses that sat at the bridge of his nose as he whipped frosting in a bowl. Placing your tray down, you wrung out your hands; biting your lip as you watched his biceps flex with each whip of the whisk. Flashbacks of your quicky before the party popped into your mind. You’d shown him your dress for the night: a short black dress with dusty pink feathers lining the bottom. He must have liked it, the way he made quick work of hiking the dress over your thick thighs; commanding you to watch yourself in the mirrored ceiling while he greedily lapped at your pussy on the staircase. Jolting back to the present, your middle pooled with desire. Terry spread the cream cheese frosting over the freshly baked pastries and you practically moaned at the sight of it. God, I wish that was me.

“If you finna ogle me like that, you may as well give me a hand.” He playfully shook his head under your stare. It wouldn’t be the first time he feigned disapproval at your lust for him. You were sure it wouldn’t be the last.

Hastily, you crossed the kitchen to press your chest against his back, hugging his waist. Your gold-adorned hands roamed his chest as you hummed along to the music floating in front of the living room. Terry chuckled and the depth of his voice was like honey in your ears. The wine from dinner made your body hum with lust. Probably should have stopped after the second glass. Red wine always made you horny. Your clit was beginning to hurt from how badly you wanted him. With dinner finished, your hostess duties had been mostly completed. Who would notice if you slipped away?

“Here, taste this,” he commanded.

Terry held up a frosting covered finger and you wasted no time in wrapping your pretty pouty lips around it. Nutmeg and cinnamon danced on your tongue as you sucked down to the base of his knuckle. You watched as his bottom lip raked between his teeth, his stormy eyes flashing with desire. 

“Baby, you’re gonna get in trouble playing around like that.” Terry’s Adam’s apple bobbed up and down as he swallowed a groan. Releasing his finger with a pop, you looked up at him with your brown sugar eyes and pulled him in by his belt. 

“You promise, lover?” You bat your eyelashes wistfully, causing him to take a precautionary look around. Making a show of ensuring no unsuspecting guest was in eyesight. 

Terry practically melted when you smiled at him, your multi-faced grill illuminated by the warm lights. You were irresistible and you knew it. Perching on your tippy toes, you puckered your lips at him, causing him to smirk. He leaned down and gave you a small peck, much to your dismay. Greedy.

“Terryyyyyyy,” you whined, dragging out the syllables in his name. He leaned down with his lips to your neck, planting an open mouth kiss right where you liked it. His large hands gripped your thick hips, sending a shiver down your spine.

“Y/N,” he whispered into your ear, “you know we have guests. Don’t start something you can’t finish, princess.” His cologne mixed with the smell of the pastries, making you woozy with lust. He was a cinnamon, citrus, and coconut dream. You just wanted a bite.

“I could say the same thing to you. You talking all this shit when I know you’re hard for me.” Straightening back up to look at you, his eyes met yours. You watched as a flash of deviance glazed over those blue-gray eyes. Terry spun you away, pressing his hardened groin against your plump behind. 

“This what you wanted? You wanted to feel this fat dick against that ass, huh?” You could only nod in response, feeling light as air from your husband’s touch. The bass of the music mixed with your ever-quickening heartbeat, filling the spaces in your ears. His touch only worsened it, every caress and squeeze set your skin ablaze. You couldn’t go on like this. You desperately needed friction and he knew it. 

“Mhm, I see them wheels turning in that pretty head. Go set these out and meet me upstairs.” 

“Yes, sir.”

You picked up the glass pan of treats with glee before turning to your husband with your lips puckered. He chuckled deeply and pecked your lips; spinning you around with a smack on your plump behind. Your giggles filled his ears as you walked out. Terry grabbed a jingle bell stirring stick and headed to your shared room. 

After worming your way out of conversations downstairs, you kicked off your feathered heels and hastened up the stairs. Once you entered the room, the sounds of Boyz 2 Men wafted in from below. You bit your lip in anticipation and you stopped to slide down your panties. They were soaked beyond recovery, a usual dilemma that occurred around Terry. Your husband had just wrapped up his teeth routine when you walked in. Already shirtless and ready to please. He made a spinning motion with his finger and you turned with a quickness. Unzipping your dress with one hand, he slipped a thin rod into your right hand. It jingled when you shook it and you rolled your eyes. This game became a tradition ever since your honeymoon at the Christmas markets in France. But with everything that happened this year, you’d almost forgotten about it. A strong hand wrapped around your neck, bringing your attention to the mirror. Your eyes met his and you could have come right then and there. 

“You better keep your eyes straight. You know the rules; every time you come, I need to hear that bell. Understood?” 

“Yes, Daddy,” you cooed. Terry made quick work of sliding the dress over your pretty hair, working carefully to preserve all your hard work. He hoisted you onto the cool counter and sighed as he opened your legs. 

Leaning down, he took your bottom lip between yours and lightly sucked. You couldn’t help but moan against his mouth as he kissed you with vigor. His hand slid up from your plush tummy to your chest, kneading and grabbing at any and every part of you. He loved every bit of you. He always had and it drove you crazy; being desired by him was euphoric. 

Breaking the kiss, he put two fingers in your mouth. You sucked them with excitement, making him stifle a chuckle. You couldn’t help it. Your poor pussy was dripping with want; squeezing around nothing. He popped his fingers out of your mouth and slid them inside your dewy walls with no hesitation. You both let out a drawn-out fuuuuuuuuck in unison. 

“I’ve been thinking about this pussy all night, baby. So damn gorgeous in that little dress, working the room. I’m tryna work you.”

“You play too much- oh!” You giggled in between your moans as your husband slightly bent his fingers inside of you. He watched you intently as he worked you into submission. The building tension in your tummy made you clench around his two digits.  Terry smoothed his hand over your breast before squeezing and twisting your left nipple. Your back arched away from the cold mirror as much as it could without inducing a cramp. 

“Look at this pretty pussy gripping me. Let me see it, baby.” Grabbing your face with his large hand, he turned you to the side. You watched your reflection in the mirrored cabinet, with Terry’s thick arm pumping his fingers in and out of you. Your ears grew hot as you watched with your mouth agape. The sight of it made the coil in your middle tighten before snapping completely. You came with stuttered squirts, moaning out his name.

“Good girl. Go ahead and ring that bell, princess.” 

You weakly shook the stick and his mouth covered yours once again. The sound of the jingling bell mixed with the clanking of his belt. He pulled you to the edge and lined up his hardened member with your entrance. You cradled his chiseled chin in your hand, staring into his eyes as he worked himself inside of you. Your pussy stretched willingly to accommodate his size, just as it did before the party. He rolled his hips at a painfully slow pace, making you feel every inch of him. 

“Fuck, I missed you. You good, Y/N?” Terry smirked at your face contorted in pleasure. You bit down on your lip and nodded wildly, failing at holding back the oncoming orgasm. 

Just the stretch alone was enough to get you there. With just a few pumps into you, the jingle bell echoed in the bathroom. It was astonishing to see how quickly the man could make you come. An evil chuckle bubbled out of his chest as he adjusted his hold on you. Hooking his left arm under your knee, he closed in the space between you. You raked your hooded eyes over his body and sent a quick thank you to the ancestors. God, was he pretty. His pace quickened and he wrapped his free hand around your throat, lightly pressing the sides. 

“Yes, just like that Terrence,” you yelled, turned on from the lessened airflow. 

“Just like that, baby? Just like that, huh?” Your eyes rolled back into your head while you nodded. All sense had gone out of the window as he fucked you dumb. Guests be damned. Both of your moans mixed with the muffled singing of Anita Baker and the cacophony of clapping and lewd squelches. He playfully timed his strokes to the beat of Sweet Love and a mixture of giggles and groans erupted from you. 

“Ease up, Y/N,” Terry groaned stiffly, shutting his eyes tight, “if you keep squeezing me like that, I’ll come.” What a silly man. That’s everything you wanted. You craved the feeling of him filling you to the brim with his seed. The man had you fantasizing about carrying his child for Christ's sake. 

“Come for me then, daddy.”

His thick brows furrowed and you shook your head, giggling more. The tables had turned and you weren’t about to let up. Watching your 6’3 husband writhe from your touch was so much more than satisfying, it was a drug. You craved seeing him in utter ecstasy, watching it overtake him. What a sight to behold. Gripping the edge of the counter with one hand, you steadied yourself and rolled your hips against him. Terry locked eyes with yours and moaned your name, overtaken by the feeling of you wrapped around him. You got lost in his stormy pools as he quickly rutted into you, chasing his undoing. You squeezed around him once more as an orgasm ripped through you. 

“Fuuuuuuck, Terrence,” you groaned out, ringing the bell sloppily. 

He fucked you through the orgasm, overstimulating you until tears pricked at the corners of your eyes. His hips stuttered to a stop as he came, white-hot strands coating your insides and filling you up. Fuck’s and I love you’s trailed into the air while you both caught your breath. You gave the bell rod one more shake, sending the both of you into a fit of laughter. Sharing a peck or two between smiles. He slipped himself out of you with a contented sigh and moved to clean you up. 

Once you made yourselves presentable, you headed down the stairs to rejoin your party hand in hand. Guests were slow dancing to the velvety voice of Samara Joy in the light of the Christmas glow. DJ Mel shot the two of you a knowing look and Terry shrugged before hugging you close to him. 

“We grown, Mel,” Terry said, eliciting a shrug from them. You could only smile and shake your head at the man’s antics.

“We throw a good party, baby. Maybe too good.” Spinning you slowly, he pulled you into him. You pouted while you watched him gently kiss the tops of your manicured hands. 

“Way too good. All the cinnamon rolls are gone and I didn’t get one,” you whimpered sadly and laid your head against his hard chest. He rubbed your back as he swayed you to the music. 

“Mhm, that’s why I made you another batch,” he hummed, the bass in his chest vibrating against your ear. You looked up at him with stars in your eyes and he kissed your forehead. You brought your hand up to caress his face and he pressed a kiss against your palm.

“You’re so real for that, Terrence. Merry Christmas, baby.” A soft smile took over his face when you squeezed his waist with all your might.

“Merry Christmas, princess.” 

Thanks For Reading!

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[kcsplace]

So.....the military has a bunch of cake-cutting ceremonies, including when the incoming COMPACFLT takes over from the outgoing. Full uniform, both standing there, cutting a cake like it's a wedding Meaning, Iceman had a change of command cake-cutting ceremony when he became COMPACFLT and if you think Mav didn't tease the shit out of him and pout about how they've been together for decades and not cut a cake together and what does the Admiral have that he doesn't have and Ice getting annoyed and asking if Mav even wants to get married, and Mav's all, well 'not now, I'm not a homewrecker', then you're kidding yourself.