#: ) <- contains endless fury and wrath

[hunterofthehunters]

one thing everyone here on this website will learn is how much i love blue mage and simultaneously hate xiv's blue mage

[trulyumai]

belittling the reign

synopsis: the people began to doubt Geta, and in return, so did members of the senate. The emperor began to act wildly, his temper just a reach away. It all came crashing down when a man of the senate brought the empress up and how she would fall with the emperor.

pairing: Emperor geta / empress! reader

Warnings: Violence, anger, choking, death. Protectiveness/Possessive.

The room was dim, save for the flicker of torchlight dancing across the stone walls. Geta sat at the long table, his goblet half-full, eyes fixed on the dull gleam of his dagger. He had been deep in thought, tired from the endless political maneuvering of the Senate, when the sound of approaching footsteps interrupted his silence.

The door creaked open, and a figure entered—Marcus, a senator known for his sharp tongue and sharper ambitions. Geta didn’t look up as the man approached, choosing instead to swirl the dark wine in his cup.

“Geta,” Marcus began, his voice oozing with false politeness. “I trust you’re well this evening.”

Geta grunted in response, not bothering to hide his disdain. He knew this man all too well—his visits were never without some form of scheming. Marcus circled the room slowly, his fingers tracing the edge of the table as he moved closer.

“You know, it’s funny,” Marcus continued, his tone casual, though laced with something more sinister. “There’s been a lot of talk in the streets lately. The citizens are starting to wonder how much longer Rome will have to bear the burden of a violent ruler.” The man let out a chuckle, it reverberated through the room and Geta swore his fingers shook with an emitting anger.

The emperor’s eyes flicked upward for the first time, meeting Marcus’s gaze with a steely intensity. The senator smiled, a smirk dancing on his lips as he leaned against the table, arms crossed.

“They say,” Marcus went on, “that there will soon be a new emperor. A man who leads not with blood, but with wisdom. One who doesn’t lose himself to rage every time a senator dares to speak out. The people... they’re excited, Geta. They’re waiting for the day Rome is free of your wrath… Maybe Caracalla would be a better fit?”

Geta’s grip tightened on the goblet, the muscles in his arm tensing as he fought to contain his growing anger. “You tread on dangerous ground, Marcus,” he warned, his voice low and cold.

Breath in. Breath out. Remember your wife, the sweet laugh, those little dimples that littered your face when he told a good story.

But Marcus was undeterred. He leaned in closer, his breath hot and smug as he whispered, “Perhaps you’re the one who should be careful. People don’t fear you anymore, Geta. They’re waiting for your death. And when it comes, oh how they’ll cheer. Finally, a ruler worthy of the Empire will take your place.”

A dark laugh escaped Marcus’s lips, but it was quickly cut off by Geta’s sudden movement. In a flash, the emperor had risen from his seat, standing tall over the senator. Marcus stiffened, but continued, confidence seemed to block the mans rational fears. “What will your pretty little wife do when you’re gone, I wonder? Maybe she’ll find solace in someone with real power.”

That was the last mistake.

Geta’s fury ignited like a wildfire, burning through every shred of control he had left. Before Marcus could react, Geta’s hand shot out, his fingers wrapping around the man’s throat. The senator’s eyes widened in shock as he gasped for breath, his hands clawing uselessly at Geta’s iron grip.

“You dare threaten my wife?” Geta growled, his voice trembling with rage. His face was twisted in a snarl, the veins in his neck bulging as he squeezed tighter. “You think you can speak to me of death? Speak to me of weakness?” He spat the words with venom, his grip tightening as Marcus’s face turned pale, then purple.

The senator’s eyes bulged, and his mouth opened and closed in silent pleas for mercy, but Geta’s rage was far beyond words now. He lifted Marcus off the ground, the senator’s feet dangling as he struggled weakly. The torchlight flickered, casting eerie shadows on the walls as Geta’s expression darkened with each passing second.

“You thought you could replace me? With my own brother?!” Geta whispered, leaning in close to the dying man’s ear. “There will be no one else, dear Marcus.  I am Rome, hm? I. Am. Rome.”

Marcus’s body jerked one last time, and then he went still. Geta held him there for a moment longer, the senator’s lifeless eyes staring into nothingness, before finally letting the body fall to the ground with a heavy thud.

The room was silent, save for the sound of Geta’s ragged breathing. He stood over Marcus’s corpse, his chest rising and falling with the aftershocks of his rage. Slowly, he lowered his hand, twisting and turning the jeweled rings around his fingers while wiping the sweat from his brow. His gaze dropped to the dead man at his feet, his heart still pounding in his chest, though calmer now.

A twisted calm, one born of violence.

“Threatening my liege. My Wife,” Geta muttered to himself, stepping over Marcus’s body as he made his way toward the door. “They will all burn before I leave the throne.”

-

The hallways were dimly lit, the flickering flames of the torches casting long, distorted shadows along the stone walls. Geta’s breathing was still ragged, his pulse pounding in his ears as he moved through the empty corridors. His hands, still tingling with the memory of squeezing the life out of Marcus, twitched at his sides. Sweat clung to his brow, slicking his skin and making his tunic stick to his chest.

He could feel the weight of what he had done. The senator’s limp body, the satisfaction that had come when his struggles ceased. It was a different kind of battle—one where no soldier could see him, and no one could speak of it.

Yet, the thrill of victory felt different this time. It wasn’t the fight he was used to. He wasn’t on the battlefield, brandishing his sword, earning the respect of his men. This victory had been personal, quiet... but more satisfying than he could have imagined. Marcus had been wrong—there would be no new ruler. Not while Geta breathed.

He thought of the senators who whispered behind closed doors, plotting to strip him of his power. He thought of the citizens who questioned his rule, who had dared to entertain the idea of another emperor, a more peaceful one. And now he thought of those who might still move against him. They had made one fatal error—they underestimated his resolve, his willingness to do whatever was necessary to protect what was his. He had been lenient for too long.

His footsteps echoed in the silence as he neared the door to his chambers. The weight of his actions, the violence he was still capable of, burned beneath his skin, but as he pushed open the heavy wooden door, the tension seemed to soften.

There, lying in the massive bed, was his wife—your form draped in blankets, the soft rise and fall of your chest showing the example of a  peaceful slumber. You were so..  completely unaware of what he had just done, unaware of the thoughts that now consumed him.

Geta stood in the doorway for a moment, simply watching. His wife had been the one constant in his life, the anchor to his rage. You had calmed him when no one else could. 

His breath still came in short bursts, his chest tight with the remnants of his fury. Slowly, he approached the bed, his legs heavy beneath him as if the weight of the world had finally caught up with him. He collapsed beside you, the bed creaking under his weight. He was slick with sweat, the heat of the earlier confrontation still radiating from his body. He exhaled deeply, his muscles sagging as he sunk into the mattress.

His wife stirred slightly, your hand brushing against his arm as she mumbled something incoherent in sleep. Your touch was soft, gentle—so unlike the violence that had consumed him only moments before. For a moment, Geta considered waking you, telling just what had transpired, but no. You didn’t need to know about the bloodshed, the threat to their life. You didn’t need to carry the burden of his thoughts.

But in the stillness of the night, with his wife sleeping so peacefully beside him, his mind churned with plans. He would not be overthrown. He would not be replaced by anyone who dared to dream of ruling Rome in his stead. Geta would seek out the usurpers, one by one. He would find every senator, every noble, every conspirator who dared question his rule, and he would deal with them the same way he dealt with Marcus. There would be no mercy.

His wife shifted again, pressing closer to him, your hand now resting on his chest, and for a brief moment, the thoughts of violence faded. He closed his eyes, savoring the feel of her warmth, the way your perfect body curved against his.

But even as his breath steadied and exhaustion began to pull him into sleep, one thought remained clear in his mind: no one would threaten his reign. No one would ever threaten you again.

And when the time came to deal with the rest of them, Geta knew, deep down, he would not hesitate. Rome was his. And he would destroy anyone who thought otherwise.

[novaursa]

Legacy (sun over the capital)

- Summary: Tywin was the man who saved you from Robert's wrath. He was also the man who doomed you.

- Pairing: targ!reader/Tywin Lannister

- Note: Just a reminder how events and timeline of the story don't match the canon.

- Rating: Mature 16+

- Previous part: bloodlines

- Next part: the night is long

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @alyssa-dayne @oxymakestheworldgoround

The heavy wooden doors to Tywin’s private chambers in the Tower of the Hand were flung open with a force that made the guards stationed outside exchange wary glances. Cersei stormed in, her eyes blazing with barely contained fury, her voice sharp as she addressed her father.

“Father,” she spat, her tone filled with venom. “Is it true?”

Tywin didn’t bother looking up from the stack of documents on his desk, his face calm and collected, though his eyes flickered with a subtle hint of irritation. He set his quill down, folding his hands together as he finally regarded her.

“And what truth are you seeking, Cersei?” he asked, his voice even, though a trace of coldness lurked beneath the words.

Cersei’s nostrils flared as she glared at him, her fists clenched at her sides. “Pycelle has informed me that she—” Cersei’s voice dripped with contempt as she referred to you—“is with child. Your child. And yet, you saw fit not to tell any of us?”

Tywin’s gaze hardened, and a faint, dangerous glint sparked in his eyes at the mention of Pycelle. “I see I’ll need to have a conversation with Grand Maester Pycelle about the limits of his discretion,” he said icily, his voice carrying a warning that made even Cersei falter for a moment.

But Cersei’s fury was unrestrained, her temper flaring once more. “So it’s true, then? You’ve brought another child into this world, and you’ve kept it hidden from your own family! You think of nothing and no one but yourself, Father!”

Tywin rose slowly from his chair, his towering presence casting a long shadow in the low lit chamber. His expression was calm, controlled, but there was an unyielding authority in his gaze as he regarded his daughter.

“This child,” he said, his voice steady and sharp, “will be the future of House Lannister. Whether you approve or not, Cersei, this is a fact that will not change. I made this decision for the good of our family. You would do well to remember where your loyalties lie.”

Cersei’s face twisted with anger, her voice rising as she took a step toward him. “Our family? You mean your ambitions. This is all about your endless schemes, about the name Tywin Lannister—nothing more. And if it’s a boy, you’ll simply hand Casterly Rock to him, disregarding your own children?”

Tywin’s gaze did not waver. “If this child is born a son, he will indeed inherit Casterly Rock,” he replied with a note of finality. “He will carry the name of Lannister, a name that will live on long after I am gone. This child—my child—will be raised with the discipline and values that our house represents. And should he prove worthy, he will take his rightful place as Lord of Casterly Rock.”

Cersei’s eyes flashed with fury, and she let out a sharp, bitter laugh. “So you’ll set him above Jaime, above Tyrion, above me? Just because he’s the result of this… this alliance of yours?” Her voice dripped with scorn. “You’ll disregard your own blood—your true heirs—for a child born of convenience?”

Tywin’s voice remained firm, cutting through her tirade like steel. “This child is my blood, and I will not allow my legacy to falter because of your jealousy or pettiness, Cersei.” His eyes bore into hers, a silent warning in their depths. “You will treat this child with the respect befitting his place in this family. And you will not let your bitterness poison what I have built.”

Cersei’s mouth tightened, her eyes blazing as she struggled to contain her outrage. “And what of your daughter, then? What of your own children who have done everything for you, sacrificed everything for this family, only to be discarded when it suits you?”

Tywin’s expression did not soften, but there was a hint of impatience in his gaze, as though he were weary of her complaints. “This is not a matter of sentiment, Cersei. It is a matter of legacy. Every decision I make is for the strength of House Lannister, and I will not be questioned on this.” He took a step closer, his voice lowering but growing even more intense. “You would do well to remember your place, daughter, and to trust my judgment. There is no room for weakness in this family.”

Cersei’s face twisted with frustration, her voice low and dangerous. “You think this child will be some savior for our family? That he’ll be the one to carry your legacy?”

Tywin met her gaze with an unwavering stare. “If he is a son, he will have all that I offer—an inheritance, a legacy, and the guidance to become what I expect. And if he is a daughter, she will be treated with the same dignity. But I will not tolerate anything less than respect from you or anyone else in this family, Cersei.”

Cersei let out a humorless laugh, her voice tinged with bitterness. “So, we are all simply tools for your ambition, are we?”

Tywin’s gaze darkened, his voice cold and resolute. “I do what I must to ensure our house remains strong. I make the sacrifices no one else will. Do not forget, Cersei, that your position, your power, all stem from the strength I have built. If you truly care for our family, you will accept this and uphold our legacy.”

Cersei clenched her fists, her face flushed with anger, but she said nothing more. The silence stretched between them, thick with unspoken words, before she turned on her heel, storming out of his chambers, her footsteps echoing down the corridor.

Tywin watched her leave, his face unreadable, his gaze sharp and unyielding. After a long moment, he returned to his desk, picking up his quill once more, his expression composed and resolute.

The soft murmur of voices filled the chamber as you sat comfortably among Lady Olenna, Margaery, and Sansa. Servants moved gracefully around the room, bringing refreshments and tending to every detail, creating an air of quiet luxury.

Olenna leaned back in her chair, observing you with her sharp, discerning eyes, a faint, wry smile tugging at her lips. She had a presence that seemed to command the room effortlessly, every line on her face hinting at a life spent maneuvering through the treacherous waters of court. Margaery sat beside her, her gaze warm and attentive as she listened, and Sansa, ever poised but still shy, stole glances between you and Margaery with a mixture of admiration and quiet curiosity.

After a few minutes, Margaery turned to Sansa, her tone light but inviting. “Sansa, would you care to join me for a walk in the gardens? I’ve been meaning to talk with you about some of the arrangements for the upcoming festivities. I could use your input.”

Sansa’s face lit up with a smile, nodding eagerly. “Of course, Lady Margaery. I’d love to help.”

With a graceful rise, Margaery took Sansa’s hand, guiding her toward the doors. She cast a warm smile back at you and her grandmother before stepping out, leaving you alone with Olenna. The older woman’s gaze lingered on the door for a moment before settling back on you, her expression one of curious amusement.

“Well,” Olenna began, her voice dry and laced with humor, “I must say, Lady Y/N, the former princess turned Lady Lannister. Quite a title for one to carry in such interesting times.”

You returned her gaze with a steady smile, sensing the probing nature of her words but refusing to rise to any bait. “Times have indeed grown interesting, Lady Olenna,” you replied smoothly. “Titles change with the wind, as I’ve come to learn. One must adapt, after all.”

Olenna’s gaze sharpened, a glint of approval in her eyes as she observed you closely. “Adapt, yes,” she echoed. “But you have done more than adapt. I’ve seen how you’ve managed to earn favor with Lord Tywin himself, a man who’s hardly known for his warmth. That alone tells me there’s more to you than meets the eye.”

You let out a quiet chuckle, though the weight of her words hung between you. “Lady Olenna, when survival depends on forging unlikely alliances, one learns quickly. Tywin and I both understand that much.”

Olenna’s lips curled into a knowing smile. “Oh, my dear, it’s much more than survival. Don’t pretend otherwise. Tywin Lannister is many things, but sentimental is not one of them. He doesn’t hold people close unless there’s something worth keeping.” She leaned forward slightly, her tone taking on a more personal note. “And I daresay, it’s rare to see him so attentive to anyone.”

You felt the weight of her observation, her words cutting through the pleasantries and touching upon the truth you’d carefully guarded. Tywin’s attention had indeed been more than mere duty, and though he was hardly a man of outward affection, his loyalty and protective nature had shown in subtle ways.

“What Tywin values most,” you said slowly, carefully choosing your words, “is strength. I think he sees something of that in me, perhaps because we both know what it is to lose family, to survive by our wits.”

Olenna watched you intently, her gaze softened, though her sharpness remained. “Strength is one thing, but what you have is a gift for survival that goes beyond mere endurance. It’s an art form, the way you navigate this court.” She chuckled, a gleam of approval in her eyes. “A former princess of the blood, seated at Tywin’s side, holding his favor like a sword at her hip. It’s almost poetic.”

You allowed yourself a small, knowing smile. “Poetry, perhaps, but with a touch of tragedy, wouldn’t you say? Every choice is calculated, every alliance a delicate balance.” You paused, meeting her gaze with quiet resolve. “For Tywin and me, it’s as much about understanding each other’s strengths as it is about surviving the expectations placed on us.”

Olenna nodded, her expression contemplative. “Indeed. And in a place like King’s Landing, a partnership of that kind is as close to power as one can get. There are few who can claim such influence over the likes of Tywin Lannister.” She arched an eyebrow, her voice carrying a hint of respect. “Even fewer who can hold their own under his scrutiny.”

You laughed softly, a genuine sound that broke the formality of the moment. “Perhaps I should thank you for the compliment, Lady Olenna. But Tywin values loyalty and strength above all, and I value… survival, as we said.”

Olenna leaned back, studying you with a smile that hinted at admiration. “Oh, don’t mistake my words. I recognize a survivor when I see one, and you, my dear, are as skilled at the game as any queen who’s ever ruled from the shadows.” She tapped her fingers on the arm of her chair, a glimmer of satisfaction in her gaze. “But do not be fooled—what you have with Tywin is more than just survival. He wouldn’t waste his time or his protection if he didn’t see something valuable in you.”

You held her gaze, her words sinking in, and you knew Olenna spoke with the wisdom of someone who understood power intimately. “Perhaps he does,” you conceded softly. “But whatever he sees, it serves us both. And in a court like this one, such mutual interests are as precious as dragon’s gold.”

Olenna’s expression softened, her sharpness tempered by a rare warmth. “Well said, my dear. You’ve earned more than mere survival—you’ve earned a place of respect, even here, and that’s no small feat.” She paused, her voice lowering to a more personal tone. “But remember, in this game, allies are often as valuable as titles. And should you find yourself in need of friends… the Tyrells are not ones to turn away those with the strength to endure.”

You inclined your head, understanding the depth of her offer. “Thank you, Lady Olenna. I will remember that.” There was a subtle acknowledgment between you, a recognition that in the shifting sands of King’s Landing, allies could be the difference between survival and ruin.

Olenna’s gaze softened further, her voice holding a rare note of warmth. “Then let’s hope it’s a long-lasting friendship.” She lifted her cup in a small, quiet toast, her smile carrying a hint of respect, her eyes gleaming with something akin to approval.

The small, dimly lit room echoed with the clinking of glasses and soft laughter as Tyrion and Bronn sat together, sharing a rare moment of lighthearted drinking. The table before them was scattered with empty goblets, the dark red stains of Arbor wine smudged across the wood, a testament to the number of toasts they’d already raised.

As Bronn tipped his goblet back, the door opened with a quiet creak, and Varys entered, his footsteps light and his face calm but curious. Tyrion noticed him instantly, a grin stretching across his face as he raised his goblet in welcome.

“Ah, the Spider himself,” Tyrion greeted, gesturing grandly for Varys to join them. “Care to join us for a toast, Varys? It’s not often we have a cause for cheer in this dreary place.”

Varys inclined his head with a polite smile, stepping forward as Bronn slid over slightly, making room for him at the table. “A toast, is it? Now that does intrigue me,” Varys replied smoothly, his voice light but tinged with curiosity. “And what, may I ask, are we celebrating?”

Tyrion chuckled, raising an eyebrow as he leaned back in his chair. “Oh, don’t play coy with me, Varys. I find it hard to believe that the master of whispers is unaware of any piece of news circulating within these walls.”

Varys’s lips curved in a mild smile, his eyes twinkling with amusement. “One could say I’m aware of… many things, my lord. But I do so enjoy hearing it from the source. It lends a certain charm to the information.”

Tyrion laughed, shaking his head before lifting his goblet to Varys. “Well then, let it be known that we are toasting to the newest addition to House Lannister… or at least, the one yet to be born.” He smirked, his voice laced with a hint of irony. “My dear stepmother is with child. And, as you can imagine, this has done wonders for my sister’s mood.”

Bronn snorted, raising his goblet to clink against Tyrion’s. “Aye, Cersei’s likely to drink the whole damn wine cellar dry by morning.”

Varys’s smile widened slightly, though his eyes remained calm and calculating as he glanced between them. “How… delightful. A new addition to the family, and one with such a distinguished lineage. Lord Tywin must be very pleased indeed.”

Tyrion’s eyes sparkled with mischief as he took a sip of his wine, savoring it before setting the goblet down. “Oh, ‘pleased’ might be too soft a word. I’d wager he’s envisioning an heir that can finally inherit Casterly Rock, a son that he can shape in his image.” He tilted his head thoughtfully. “And wouldn’t that just be the thing to push Cersei over the edge?”

Bronn chuckled, raising his goblet again. “Here’s to that—no one drives her mad quite like her own family.”

Tyrion laughed, lifting his own goblet to join Bronn’s. “Indeed. Here’s to us, the fine architects of Cersei’s impending descent into madness.”

Varys, watching the exchange with amusement, finally accepted the offer of a goblet from a passing servant, though he held it delicately, not yet raising it to his lips. “My, my,” he said, his voice carrying a hint of humor. “A child born of both lion and dragon. The realm will certainly find that interesting, though not nearly as interesting as the politics it will spark within the family itself.”

Tyrion glanced at Varys, his expression thoughtful as he swirled the wine in his goblet. “Oh, don’t pretend you’re not intrigued by it yourself, Varys. An heir with Targaryen blood under Tywin’s roof—that’s enough to set even the most controlled noble spinning.”

Varys tilted his head, a glint of something almost approving in his eyes. “It does present… unique possibilities,” he agreed. “Tywin Lannister is not a man to make alliances lightly, especially one of such lasting consequence. And if this child should indeed prove to be a son, well… the implications for House Lannister would be substantial.”

Bronn gave a low chuckle, tipping his goblet back. “I don’t see what all the fuss is about. As long as the child doesn’t end up like Joffrey, Westeros should count itself lucky.”

Tyrion’s grin widened, a spark of mischief in his eyes as he raised his goblet to Varys. “Well said, Bronn. If this child inherits even an ounce of Tywin’s calculation and none of Joffrey’s malice, it might actually turn out to be the rare Lannister worth rooting for.”

Varys chuckled, swirling the wine in his goblet thoughtfully. “Let us hope, then, that this future heir finds the best qualities of both parents. Though, knowing Lord Tywin, I suspect the child will have little choice in the matter.”

Tyrion leaned back, his expression shifting into one of contemplation. “Yes, Tywin will no doubt be a forceful hand in the child’s upbringing. But… perhaps there’s a bit of Targaryen fire that might resist even him. I daresay my stepmother has shown herself more than capable of holding her own against the likes of Tywin.”

Bronn raised an eyebrow. “Sounds like you’re actually rooting for her.”

Tyrion shrugged, taking another sip of his wine. “Perhaps I am. She’s proven herself a formidable woman, and not without a touch of compassion—something our family has always lacked. She might actually bring a bit of balance to the golden lion’s brood.” His gaze drifted to Varys, his tone turning thoughtful. “I’d say that makes her quite the wild card, wouldn’t you agree, Varys?”

Varys inclined his head, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “Indeed. In a family as tightly controlled as the Lannisters, a touch of unpredictability can be… refreshing.” His gaze turned contemplative, as if he were already calculating the potential outcomes of this new addition.

Tyrion gave him a knowing smile, clinking his goblet with Varys’s. “Then let’s drink to unpredictability. To dragons in lion’s dens and the chaos they bring.”

Varys lifted his goblet with a faint chuckle, finally taking a small sip, a spark of amusement lingering in his eyes. “To dragons in lion’s dens,” he echoed softly.

And as they drank, a quiet understanding passed between them—of the game, of the players, and of the thrilling unpredictability that even the most careful plans could not account for.

The heavy drapes were drawn to shut out the glare of the midday sun in the Queen's chambers. Cersei sat by the hearth, a goblet of wine clutched tightly in her hand, her face a mask of bitterness. She was nursing her frustration in silence when Joffrey burst into the room, his face twisted with a mixture of anxiety and anger.

“Mother,” he began, his voice urgent, “is it true? Is she… is she with child?”

Cersei didn’t look up immediately, her grip tightening on the goblet as she took a deep, steadying breath. When she finally lifted her gaze to meet her son’s, her eyes were sharp, her expression sour. “Yes, Joffrey,” she replied curtly, her tone laced with contempt. “Your dear grandfather’s new wife is with child. A Lannister-Targaryen child. Imagine that.”

Joffrey’s face paled, and he took a step closer, his eyes wide with a growing panic. “A child with Targaryen blood… and Lannister blood?” He swallowed, his voice a whisper as he processed the implications. “Doesn’t that mean… wouldn’t that mean it could have a better claim than me?”

Cersei’s mouth twisted into a bitter smile, though her eyes were cold. “Yes, that’s certainly what some might think, isn’t it?” She took a long sip from her goblet, the wine staining her lips a dark red. “A Targaryen child, born into the heart of House Lannister. Tywin’s pet project. A new legacy for him to fawn over. And you, my sweet boy, are expected to simply sit by and watch as it unfolds.”

Joffrey’s panic turned swiftly into anger, his hands clenching into fists at his sides. “How can he do this?” he demanded, his voice rising. “How can you let him do this? This… this child could take everything that’s mine! My throne, my power!”

Cersei’s gaze darkened, her fingers tightening around the stem of her goblet. “You think I don’t know that, Joffrey?” she hissed, her voice laced with venom. “You think I haven’t seen this coming from the moment he married her? This child is Tywin’s way of ensuring his legacy goes on, with or without us.”

Joffrey’s face twisted with fury, his eyes blazing. “He’ll be no better than Stannis, Renly, or Robb Stark,” he spat, pacing angrily. “Another usurper trying to take what belongs to me. And you—” he turned on Cersei, his voice accusatory—“you should be doing something about it!”

Cersei’s gaze hardened, her voice dropping to a deadly whisper. “I am your mother, Joffrey. And I have done everything for you, to protect your throne, to protect your future. But Tywin… he doesn’t care about anything or anyone unless it serves his ambitions.”

“But you’re the Queen Regnant!” Joffrey snapped, his voice filled with a petulant fury. “You can stop him, you can make sure this child never sees the light of day!”

Cersei’s face twisted, her anger simmering just beneath the surface as she looked at her son. “And how would you suggest I do that, Joffrey? I am not the one who wields the power here. Tywin does, and he has made it very clear that this child will be the future of House Lannister.” Her voice softened, a bitter edge creeping into her tone. “He is willing to cast aside all of us for the sake of this… this perfect heir he believes he’ll have.”

Joffrey’s breathing was shallow, his chest rising and falling as he struggled to contain his frustration. “So we’re just supposed to sit back and watch as he creates another contender for the throne?” His voice was filled with disbelief, his eyes wide with anger and fear. “I’m the king, Mother! I won’t have anyone challenge me—not my uncles, not some… some child!”

Cersei took a measured sip of her wine, her gaze cool as she watched Joffrey’s reaction. “Then you’d better start acting like a king, Joffrey,” she said sharply. “This isn’t about whining or stamping your feet. This is about understanding who holds the real power—and learning how to play the game as they do.”

Joffrey’s mouth twisted into a sneer. “Tywin thinks he can control everything. He thinks he can just replace us whenever it suits him.”

Cersei’s gaze darkened, her eyes flashing with anger. “Believe me, I know exactly how Tywin operates. But for now, we have to be careful. This child isn’t here yet. And if it is born… well, there are ways to ensure it never becomes a threat.”

Joffrey’s expression shifted, his anger tempered by a glint of satisfaction at the thought of removing a rival before it could grow strong. “Then you’d better make sure it stays that way, Mother,” he said coldly. “I will not be replaced. I am the king. And anyone who tries to take that from me… will pay the price.”

Cersei’s lips curled into a thin smile, though her eyes were filled with bitterness. “Oh, my sweet Joffrey. I’ll make sure nothing takes your throne from you. But remember… in this world, it’s not always the strongest who survive. It’s the ones who know how to strike when the time is right.”

With that, she drained her goblet, her expression hardening as she met her son’s gaze. They both understood what needed to be done. And as they sat there, silent but resolute, a dark determination settled over them both—a shared desire to ensure that nothing, not even Tywin’s ambitions, would take away what they saw as rightfully theirs.

You lounged comfortably on a cushioned settee, Tywin seated across from you, deep in a stack of documents and letters. He seemed as immersed in the minutiae of the realm’s business as ever, though he’d allowed you this rare shared afternoon, a quiet moment that felt both peaceful and oddly domestic.

But the calm was interrupted by a soft knock at the door, and when Tywin inclined his head, a young servant stepped in, looking slightly flustered, his gaze shifting nervously between you and Tywin.

“Speak,” Tywin commanded, his tone cool and steady.

The servant cleared his throat, bowing his head respectfully before glancing quickly at you. “My lord, my lady… there is a visitor from Dorne in the city.”

Tywin’s gaze sharpened, his brow barely lifting. “Go on.”

The servant shifted from foot to foot, visibly uneasy. “Prince Oberyn Martell, my lord. He arrived in King’s Landing earlier today and is… insistent on speaking with Lady Y/N.”

At the mention of Oberyn, a flicker of surprise danced across Tywin’s face, though he quickly masked it, his expression hardening. He cast a sidelong glance at you, studying your reaction.

You arched an eyebrow, meeting Tywin’s gaze before turning to the servant. “Prince Oberyn is here?” you asked, a hint of curiosity in your voice. “Where is he staying?”

The servant hesitated, looking distinctly uncomfortable as he wrung his hands together. “Prince Oberyn is… currently at one of the city’s brothels, my lady. He was… most insistent that you be informed.”

You couldn’t help the faint smile that tugged at the corners of your lips. Oberyn’s choice of accommodations was hardly surprising, but you sensed it wouldn’t sit well with Tywin. You glanced over at him, noting the slight tightening of his jaw, the way his fingers flexed ever so slightly against the table.

“Of course he is,” you murmured, a hint of amusement coloring your tone. “It seems Prince Oberyn hasn’t changed his ways.”

Tywin’s expression was as cold as winter steel, his gaze flicking to the servant with a dismissive nod. “You may leave,” he instructed, his voice low and controlled.

The servant quickly bowed and hurried from the room, leaving you alone with Tywin once more. He turned his gaze on you, his expression unreadable but his eyes reflecting a simmering irritation.

“Oberyn Martell,” he said, his voice like granite. “Trust a Martell to make his entrance at a brothel, of all places. Did he give any indication why he so wishes to see you?”

You shrugged, a faint smirk lingering. “Oberyn has never been one for propriety. I suspect he has his reasons, though what they are, I can only imagine.” You paused, a playful glint in your eye. “And I imagine they are as intriguing as he is.”

Tywin’s gaze grew colder, his jaw set in a hard line. “Oberyn’s intrigue is of little consequence,” he replied sharply. “The man revels in scandal as if it were a sport. If he seeks your company, it’s likely only to fan the flames of discontent and stir up trouble.”

You tilted your head, meeting his gaze with a calm confidence. “Perhaps. But Oberyn has never been one to seek out someone without purpose. He may revel in scandal, but he is not a fool.”

Tywin’s eyes narrowed slightly, his voice carrying a quiet intensity. “He may be a prince, but Oberyn Martell is still a Martell—impulsive, driven by passions that often cloud his judgment. Do not mistake his presence here as a gesture of goodwill.”

You held his gaze, a hint of defiance in your expression. “I know Oberyn well enough to understand the complexities of his character, Tywin. And while he may be impulsive, he is also… refreshingly direct. I’d rather hear him out than speculate.”

Tywin’s jaw tightened further, though a glint of grudging respect flickered in his eyes. “You intend to meet with him, then?”

You nodded, your tone firm. “I do. Better to speak directly with Oberyn than leave questions unanswered. He’s come all this way, after all. It would be… impolite not to.”

A slight frown tugged at the corners of Tywin’s mouth, though he inclined his head slightly. “Very well,” he replied, though his tone remained clipped. “But I’ll not have him stirring up chaos in this city. And I trust you’ll remember where your loyalties lie.”

You offered him a calm smile, a touch of reassurance in your gaze. “My loyalties are clear, Tywin. But I cannot ignore a visitor from Dorne. I’ll meet with him, hear what he has to say… and return here.”

Tywin’s gaze lingered on you, a mixture of caution and an intensity that spoke of both his protectiveness and his mistrust of Oberyn. “See to it that Oberyn understands his place here. This city is not Dorne, and his actions will not go unobserved.”

You nodded, rising from the settee with a composed air. “I shall make that perfectly clear, my lord.” With a final glance at Tywin, you left the room, feeling his gaze follow you as you made your way down the corridors.

As you walked, thoughts of Oberyn filled your mind—his charm, his volatility, his relentless pursuit of justice. Whatever he wished to discuss, you had little doubt it would be laced with intrigue, perhaps even danger. But that was Oberyn’s way, and if there was one thing you knew about the Dornish prince, it was that he never did anything without purpose.

[sukunaslilgurl]

Blades of betrayal - Epilogue

Hello everyone,

I’m thrilled to introduce my new story to you all— a Sukuna x Irene Story . Irene is my own original character, and this is a samurai story close to my heart. I hope you enjoy it! Please be aware that it contains brutal content. ❤️❤️

The tale of Sukuna and Irene is one whispered in the shadows, a legend soaked in blood and betrayal. Sukuna, the King of Samurai, feared and revered as the embodiment of cruelty and wrath. And Irene, the one they called the “the unyielding demon ,” the strongest samurai warrior to have ever walked the land. Together, they had been more than partners. They had been a force of nature, an unstoppable storm of steel and fury. But in the end, the storm turned upon itself.

Once, they were inseparable. Irene was not just Sukuna’s ally—she was his equal. Where Sukuna commanded with power and terror, Irene executed his vision with precision and unparalleled skill. She had slain over a thousand men, all in his name. She had been the sharpest blade in his arsenal, his most trusted confidante, and the woman who had once held his heart.

But their bond, forged in battle and bloodshed, was not unbreakable.

Sukuna’s thirst for power grew insatiable, and with every conquest, every kingdom reduced to ash, Irene began to see the truth: he was no longer the man she had chosen to follow. The fire in his eyes had turned cold, replaced by an endless void of greed and destruction. What they had built together was no longer a partnership—it was a cage, a relentless march toward a world ruled by fear and despair.

One fateful night, Irene made her decision. She would leave him.

She betrayed the clan, vanishing into the darkness like a phantom, leaving behind the bloodstained empire they had built together. But Sukuna was no fool. He had sensed her wavering long before she made her move, and when she disappeared, his fury was unmatched. His rage swept across the land like a plague, leaving no one untouched.

“I will find you,” he had sworn the night she fled. His voice was as cold and unforgiving as steel. “And when I do, I will kill everyone you hold dear. No one will escape me. You are mine, Irene.”

Irene knew he meant every word. She knew that by leaving, she had doomed herself to a life of constant flight. No mountain, no forest, no hidden village would be beyond Sukuna’s reach. He would hunt her to the ends of the earth, not out of love, but out of the need to reclaim what he believed was his. She would never be free of him, and yet, she had chosen to leave.

Her decision was not without pain. Sukuna had been more than her lover; he had been her shadow, her mirror, the only one who understood the depths of her strength and darkness. But even shadows can suffocate, and Irene refused to be consumed.

Now, she lives in exile, a ghost moving from one forgotten place to the next. The strongest warrior to ever live, unbroken but forever hunted. She cannot stay in one place for long, for the memory of Sukuna is like a specter looming over her shoulder, a reminder that he will come for her.

And Sukuna? He waits. He searches. He revels in the game, knowing that Irene cannot escape him forever. The blood he spills on his path is his message to her—a reminder that her choice has consequences, that his wrath will never be sated until she is brought to her knees.

But what neither of them will admit, not even to themselves, is that beneath the hatred lies something far more complex. Irene was the only one who matched him, who understood him in ways no one else ever could. And for Irene, Sukuna will always be the man she once loved, even as she runs from the monster he has become. And what he did to her….

The story of Sukuna and Irene does not end with victory or redemption. It is a tale of betrayal, obsession, and a love twisted by power and vengeance. As the years pass, their names remain etched in the fabric of history, a warning and a curse. For no matter how far Irene runs, no matter how many years she evades him, the King of Samurai will always find her.

[nemo-in-wonderland]

What would Arena do if Mephistopheles got him aelf kidnappet by an Anyssal demon lord? And how scaried would Asmodeus be, of her rage?

Morning, Nonnie!!

thank you so much for your ask, please, do feel free to partake in some cake and a bit of coffee!

SO.

ONTO YOUR ASK.

Well, for a starter, if Mephistopheles were to find himself kidnapped, Aranea would immediately know that there would be something wrong on Mephistopheles' side (unless some kind of forces were to interrupt the Patron/Warlock bond that they share or unless he himself is the one impeding her to know, because HE KNOWS how she would react).

First thing my girl would do is to focus all her energies into finding out who is the the fucker who had actually the gull and gumption to try this sort of trick, because you can rest assured that after she lost Halim in her youth, she is not going to risk and have someone take her husband away from YET AGAIN.

She knows that Mephisto is a powerful Archdevil, and she knows that most of the time he would be more than capable to just get out of trouble by himself.

But even Gods can be tricked (as Greek Mythology has taught us), so she is not taking any chances and she would immediately try to locate him first and foremost.

Now, differently from what happened with Halim, she would not resort to just set everything on fire, partially because she knows that she is playing with forces stronger than herself - whose whole power derives from Mephisto's- and partially because, as much as that would be her first reaction, she needs to play smart.

But I think that, in general, as cool headed as Aranea would try to be, as calm as she would try to be, her rage would be IMMENSE and hard to contain. It fuels her entire being and it's ever present, an endless lava pool made of wrath and fury that's always boiling just beneath the surface and only awaits a small crack in the surface to find its way out. (again, Mephisto has one heck of a temper, but you can bet that Aranea has one to rival his bursts of anger. Needless to say, their fights are rather explosive, in Mephistar -but so it's the reconciliatory love making that follows suit -ok and now I am digressing lololol).

So, one of her moves would be to actually try and keep that rage at ease, and locate and call upon herself as many Patrons among the ones that benefits from Mephisto's powers as she can find, along with as many powerful members of the Cult of Mephisto, and gather them together so to have enough man power to distract the one that had dared to do this trick to her while she tries to find her way to Mephisto and free him and take him back with her (and, if things were to go south, they could be used as cannon fodder, and provide Mephisto with new souls from the contracts he created with those Warlocks, giving him more power, so it's a win-win situation for her -sorry, Aranea is ruthless and when it comes to her love, her soulmate, her everything, her Mephistopheles, doubly so. I mean what can be expected from someone that consort with Mephisto?

But make no mistake, regardless of how she will try and reach Mephisto, the one that has taken him will end up dead.

And if it happens to be Lord Devil in Baator, then she will gladly make sure that they meet their final death.

As for Asmodeus, I do not think that he is particularly concerned about Aranea's powers doing any harms to him. She is just mortal, and he is basically a God, so he truly has nothing to fear from her in that sense.

But one thing that absolutely unnerves him (and kinda make him wish HE had been the one to answer to Aranea's call back when she evoked a Patron) is Aranea's absolute devotion and loyalty to Mephistopheles, her fierce willingness to protect him even if he truly doesn't need to be protected and her apparent lack of fear (mixture of courage and self-destructive tendency of not caring about what happens to her- something that drives Mephisto absolutely crazy with anxiety -there, Aranea, you see? You broke the Lord of Cania! You gave the Mephisto anxiety!) in the face of dangers that are much bigger than herself).

She is a wild card, and you cannot know what she will end up doing, and this, coupled with the fact that she is more than likely complotting with Mephistopheles to overthrow Asmodeus, absolute unnerves Asmodeus.

Thank you so much for the ask, and sorry for the long babbling <3

I had fun thinking of Mephistea! Truly thank you for sending this to me! <3

--Nemo

[drcomttheo]

Amidst the Chaos

Amidst the Chaos— ML

TWENTY-NINE:

"Their eyes met, and in the silence of their gazes, a world of meaning passed between them."

The castle stood in chaos, its once-majestic halls shrouded in a thick veil of smoke, the air heavy with the acrid scent of death, the echoes of war, and the palpable weight of despair.

The once-familiar halls echoed with the whispers of strangers, their eyes piercing through Allie like daggers, sending a shiver down her spine and causing her stomach to twist in anxious knots.

The Death Eaters had seeped into every corner of the once-beautiful realm, their dark presence tainting all that was pure.

With a chilling fervor, they pursued every last muggle-born and half-blood, leaving a trail of devastation in their relentless quest.

The students of Hogwarts stood weary, their clothes in tatters, energy sapped, a stark contrast to the figures on his side; they appeared composed and battle-ready, except for Voldemort, who bore the weight of exhaustion not in body but in spirit.

His mind splintered, burdened by the heavy crown of his own victories.

Allie stood resolutely, arm in arm, with her fellow classmates and the Order.

The students, weary yet strong, stood united for the battle ahead.

They fought not just for their school but for themselves and the countless innocent lives claimed in the shadow of Voldemort's ascent.

Voldemort's unfolding theatrics captured everyone's attention in the tense silence as he glided into the center, his voice dripping with a chilling blend of persuasion and malice.

"Neither Harry nor your loyal Headmaster can protect you now," he began, his wand swirling dramatically as a chorus of maniacal laughter erupted from a few of his followers.

"I, the most powerful Dark Lord to have ever walked this earth, shall instill fear; the world will tremble at my name, and you..." He speaks, his voice trailing off as he moves closer to Allie. He declared, "There will be no more." With a sneer on his lips, he declared, "Giving hope to these blood traitors just as Potter did before you."

Allie felt her body shudder.

But she remained still, unwavering in the face of his menacing words.

Allie stepped forward, embodying fierce bravery; her cuts and bruises were a testament to the battles she had faced.

The shadows danced with malevolent glee as she limped closer, a defiant spark in her eyes.

"Oh, how brave you are, foolish girl; you stand before me now, but soon, you'll find yourself gazing up at the heavens." Voldemort hissed, his voice dripping with arrogance and fury, and the moment those words escaped his lips, Allie crumpled to the ground; her gaze turned skyward, just as he had foretold.

The cruciatus curse coursed through her veins, her body arching in agony as she gazed up at the endless expanse of the sky.

The light side gasped in shock as Voldemort circled her, his laughter ringing out with a chilling intensity.

Draco fixed his gaze on her form as it writhed upon the earth, a dance of desperation and turmoil.

Anger surged within him—a tempest he could no longer contain—and in mere seconds, it reached a boiling point.

With a charged glint in his eye, Draco stepped away from his peers, his fingers deftly retrieving the Elder Wand from the depths of his pocket. He unleashed a fierce 'confringo' from the tip of his wand, channeling all his power to send a searing blast through the air.

The spell's force propelled Voldemort backward, igniting a moment of triumph in Draco's chest.

As the tension crackled in the air during the fleeting clash between Voldemort and Draco, Allie rose to her feet, stepping back to gather her strength and readying herself for the impending confrontation.

Draco cast a furtive glance over his shoulder, his heart racing as he sought reassurance in her presence, a silent promise to protect her from what was unfolding around them.

In a matter of seconds, Voldemort regained his footing, a tempest of fury swirling within him, poised to unleash his wrath upon all who stood before him.

With a single flourish of his hands, his loyal followers ignited with fervor, unleashing a dazzling array of spells that soared through the air, aimed directly at their adversaries.

Voldemort, consumed by a thirst for vengeance against the one he had once held in trust, unleashed a torrent of vile spells, each one a manifestation of his fury.

Flames twirled in a wild ballet of blue, green, red, and yellow, swirling and flickering with a life of their own, casting an enchanting glow over the vast expanse.

The tumultuous clash had captivated everyone, and the searing intensity of the fight engulfed them.

Voldemort and Draco faced off, the air crackling with tension.

Draco, empowered by the Elder Wand's unwavering allegiance, wielded its might with confidence.

Meanwhile, Voldemort found himself ensnared in an illusion of deception, grappling with the twin wand that mocked him with its false authenticity.

A sudden surge of cowardice gripped the souls of a handful of Death Eaters as the shadows of defeat loomed over Voldemort.

With the fall of The Dark Lord, their fates were sealed, destined for the unforgiving confines of Azkaban.

In a desperate bid for survival, they sought refuge in the darkest corners of the world, hoping to evade the inevitable reckoning that awaited them.

Within the commotion of flight, one figure stood obstinate, unwavering in her devotion—Bellatrix, the dark enchantress, bound to Voldemort in a bond that defied reason, a love forged in shadows and madness.

She was fully immersed in her surroundings. Bellatrix danced across the battlefield, a radiant grin lighting up her face as she embraced the chaos around her.

With a keen eye, she surveyed the tense atmosphere of battles, weighing her options carefully.

A striking red-headed couple caught her attention, and she moved toward them with purpose, her steps steady and tenacious.

To her left, she caught sight of Greyback, the notorious werewolf, in line with a few other Death Eaters.

Bellatrix let out a piercing whistle, a sound that sliced through the air and found its way to his ears with an unsettling clarity.

He immediately sensed the desire that stirred within her, urging him to take the path she wanted for him.

With one quick flick of her gaze, Greyback effortlessly tracked her movements, his heavy steps leading him toward the Weasleys.

While defending against enemies, Arthur found himself unprepared, unable to muster the strength to resist the formidable werewolf that loomed before him.

Molly was of no use as she lay there immobilized, her form rendered still by the chilling incantation of 'Petrificus Totalus' that Bellatrix had unleashed upon her.

Bellatrix's plan worked in her favor as she and Greyback attacked the Weasleys.

Molly felt her heart race, a chilling dread enveloping her as she watched Greyback maul her husband, the scene unfolding before her like a nightmare she could not escape.

She was trembling on the inside, engulfed in a wave of pure terror, her gaze locked in place; all she yearned to do was scream, yet no sound escaped her lips.

Arthur's cries of terror pierced the air, echoing through the landscape like a haunting melody, yet they went unnoticed, swallowed by the vastness around him as his body endured the relentless assault.

Allie was lost, her gaze darting around as her body trembled with uncertainty.

The echoes of screams still rang in her ears as she steadied herself, taking a moment to assess Draco's condition.

He was fine, she told herself, even as he fought fiercely, locked in a struggle that demanded every ounce of his strength.

She hesitated for a brief second, caught in the fragile tie between two choices, but the moment she saw the raw terror reflected in Molly's eyes, she knew what she had to do.

Allie approached Molly with purpose, striding with her wand in hand.

Her fingers deftly worked to unravel the enchantment that held her captive; meanwhile, the wild spirit of Bellatrix danced across the battlefield, and she relentlessly struck down everything in her path, leaving a trail of destruction in her wake.

And after extricating herself, Molly pushed Greyback away from her husband, who was lying motionless on the ground.

She collapsed beside Arthur, her heart racing, as Allie fought fiercely against the encroaching Death Eaters.

With a flurry of spells, she fought valiantly until, at last, it felt as though they were alone in the chaos.

Allie stood vigilant, her eyes scanning the space as Molly tended to him, doing everything in her power to carve out a moment of peace for him.

Ron's heart shattered as he caught sight of his father's lifeless form across the courtyard. His body sprawled on the harsh stone, and a haunting stillness enveloped him.

Hermione, steadfast and determined, wrapped her arms around him, her voice a gentle whisper of comfort. Yet, as the weight of their reality pressed down, her words faltered, the gravity of their situation looming large.

Duty compelled them to continue fighting, unrelenting and unyielding, until their last breath.

Until Voldemort was gone.

In the heat of the battle, Snape's gaze caught sight of Allie.

He maneuvered through the chaos with quickness, guiding her to a hidden corner where he could share their strategy away from prying eyes.

Jax trailed behind them, a steadfast protector ready to shield them from any lurking danger.

Once they reached a secret area of the castle, Snape began to share all the information he possessed.

Allie stood dumbfounded, in complete disbelief, as he revealed every detail he had been told and all those of Dumbledore and his schemes.

From the very start, it was Dumbledore.

He had meticulously crafted every detail and step in favor of the order.

There were two masterminds.

Dumbledore and Voldemort.

Allie felt a swell of emotions as Snape's voice wrapped around her, each word hanging in the air, the knowledge that threatened to engulf her.

"There are seven Horcruxes..." With a measured tone, Snape began to elucidate the intricacies of the subject at hand. "Only two remain to be destroyed, but listen to my words, Miss Hesper; their dark magic is twisted and oppressive; do not let it consume you." Snape's voice trembled with urgency as he rushed to articulate his thoughts, desperation lacing his every word.

Time was slipping away, and he had to escape before it was too late for him; he understood all too well that the instant Draco had faltered in his loyalty to Voldemort and was destroyed, he would become the next target, a traitor in the eyes of the Darkest Wizard of all time.

"You must venture into the Chamber of Secrets and procure a Basilisk fang; its venom is extremely potent and capable of obliterating them."

Seven lives were taken to create small items that contained parts of Voldemort's soul.

He couldn't be killed unless you destroyed them first.

All seven.

Harry destroyed Tom Riddle's journal in the Chamber of Secrets with a Basilisk fang.

Dumbledore destroyed Marvolo Gaunt's ring in his office with Godric Gryffindor's sword.

Dumbledore once more destroyed Salazar Slytherin's locket in the Ministry with Godric Gryffindor's sword.

Snape destroyed Hufflepuff's cup in Bellatrix's vault with Fiendfyre.

And Harry.

Harry had been a Horcrux.

Voldemort destroyed Harry Potter in Malfoy Manor with Avada Kedavra.

And he died without knowing his sacrifice.

Allie felt a flicker of relief wash over her, a small comfort in the knowledge that his sacrifice had not been in vain.

Snape's voice continued to flow.

He meticulously unraveled the threads of the plan, the sinister nature of the Horcruxes, the weight of Draco's task, and the solemnity of Mattheo's vow, each revelation a shadowy echo that hung in the air between them.

Draco and Mattheo.

Voldemort had assigned Draco a task.

Draco had to kill Dumbledore.

Mattheo made an unbreakable vow with Draco to take over his task.

Mattheo was murdered and killed by his own father.

Draco had to take over and kill Dumbledore, or he would get killed for breaking the vow.

Allie found herself drowning in a sea of emotions; each word drowned her like a relentless tide.

Her breath quickened, and the world around her spun as the weight of the information pressed down, leaving her dizzy and disoriented.

Jax gently placed his hand on her shoulder to steady her, and his voice, barely audible, danced between them. Jax leaned closer, his voice barely above a whisper, "Think of the clouds and how they move as the wind blows."

Allie pressed her eyes shut, her legs gently swaying as she focused on the clouds above, envisioning the whimsical shapes they might form.

"The green grass feels soft under your touch as you lay back," Jax said, striving to offer his support.

Allie inhaled slowly, counting to ten in her mind, envisioning the clouds morphing into numbers as she attempted to calm her racing thoughts.

After a brief moment, Allie's eyes flutter open, abruptly thrusting her back into the current horrors of her reality.

"Chamber, fang, destroy," she murmured, her voice steady as she meticulously repeated the steps, each word woven into the air.

"But Professor, what exactly are the last two?" Allie pondered, uncertainty clouding her thoughts; she felt an urgent need to uncover what it was she sought.

"One is small, easily concealed, rumored to be Helena Ravenclaw's lost diadem, also said to be somewhere here in the castle," Snape began, his voice low and measured, as he poured forth the secrets Dumbledore had entrusted to him months prior, each word laced with the weight of their significance.

"His serpent, Nagini, that's the other one," Snape remarked, a hint of encouragement in his voice as he nodded, reassuring her that she possessed the strength to conquer this trial.

"I killed the snake," Jax declared, his gaze shifting between them, a mix of pride and defiance flickering in his eyes while they both looked at him confusedly.

"During the skirmish at Malfoy Manor, it was—was Harry's last words," Jax murmured, shaking his head slowly, a shadow of sorrow crossing his features.

Jackson destroyed Nagini in Malfoy Manor with the sword of Gryffindor.

"Then it's just the diadem," Snape confirmed, and Allie smiled weakly as it was one less to worry about, but then she thought about Harry and felt the weight of the world pressing down on her, the whirlwind of thoughts swirling in her mind.

But in that fleeting moment, clarity struck her like a bolt of lightning—this was her reality, and with fierce determination, she steeled herself, ready to face whatever challenges lay ahead, and she took in one last deep breath before she looked at them both.

"Okay," Allie replied, her resolve hardening as she began to turn and swiftly make her way back onto the battlefield, intent on finding Draco and conveying the urgent message.

"Allie!" Jax's voice pierced the air, causing Allie to stop abruptly and fix her gaze on him. With urgency in her voice, she demanded, "One thing, Jax, let me do this one thing," and then, with a reassuring smile, she disappeared into the crowd. She scanned the crowd, her gaze flitting anxiously from one face to another, desperately seeking Draco.

She held onto the hope that he was safe, feeling an ache in her chest.

Allie knew she had only seen him a few moments ago, but a lot can happen during a war. She continued to search as she clung tighter to hope, her heart aching with the weight of uncertainty.

In the swirling tides of vibrant hues and bustling masses, turmoil reigned supreme, making it nearly impossible for her to locate him until, in a flicker of a second, her gaze caught a glimpse of familiar bleach-blonde hair, and she let out a deep breath as a rush of relief washed over her heart.

She was glad he was safe. She was glad he was still here.

As Allie approached the final battle between Draco and Voldemort, he noticed the dark lord faltering, his grip on the wand slipping as it proved unworthy against the true Elder Wand.

Allie found herself pondering the odd nature of Voldemort's apparent lack of action, as if he were merely toying with the very fabric of fate itself.

Allie sensed the power coursing through him; she knew he could easily unleash unrest upon the courtyard, yet here he was, ensnared in a spell duel with Draco, their magic crackling in the air like a storm waiting to break.

The glowing red and green hues were at odds with one another, creating a striking visual discord. Allie understood the urgency of their situation; a conversation with Draco was impossible.

Their eyes met amidst the chaos, and in the silence between their gazes, a world of meaning passed between them.

Allie silently formed the word "Horcrux" with her lips, her gaze fixed on Draco as he stood resolute, his wand unwavering, facing the dark menace of Voldemort.

With determination coursing through her veins, Allie set off once more in search of Jax as they both prepared to face the daunting challenge of obliterating the Horcruxes.

[narwhalandchill]

ok so childes poor mood. lets discuss. i may be a bit insane at the moment but like. listen. hear me out.

(4.2 spoilers/leaks further down, will put a read more,)

so in act I childe divulges that hes been experiencing spikes of feeling like hes in a "terrible mood" and just been in a generally bad mood lately (highly unusual for him in general, mind you) in addition to feeling a power stirring in himself. he also directly mentions being in a bad mood during the act II trial as well - so like sure, its clearly reccurring at this point.

anyway. be it irritability, short-temperedness, anger, yeah, label it whatever - its not the specifics i care abt. the thing i really am quite curious about is how this overlaps with the emotional state of something else.

because you know what else is in a decisively bad mood as well? something that just happens to literally share a metaphysical bond with ajax going all the way back to when he was 14? the thing with a coincidentally telepathic connection to childe that called for him from the primordial sea?

yup. 'it'. good ol' abyssal sky beast. the heaven-devouring celestial narwhal. childes constellations namesake. appears to be malding quite severely as of recently.

"a tsunami of fury" capable of unleashing "endless catastrophe" is how neuvillette describes the force contained within the primordial seawater surging to merupide. like just a casually world-ending primal, ancient rage outright. funny how that goes eh? very curious words chosen there neuvillette. huge fan personally.

anyway this is where i get abysspilled. beware

sooo might the origin of childes increasingly worsening mood just be his strengthening mental connection to the whale and as a consequence its emotions as well? is this seemingly inexplicable and intensifying bad mood simply him beginning to share and resonate with the wrath 'it' holds towards whatever original sin the fontainians are tainted by and that the prophecy is the retribution for? maybe theyre just starting to vibe together. ever think about that huh.

also. if their emotions are already blending together and becoming one and the same. what is the true nature of their connection really?

(same entity allegations Not being dodged. i am sooo normal over this)

and now to add extra bonus context with the forbidden leeks - the whales anger is no fucking joke its literally central to its literal in-game combat mechanic

in the 4.2 boss leaks we see that the whale has a stacking mechanic called rage. which it will accumulate during the fight and once capped trigger the secondary fight phase with. youre literally fighting it as it goes absolute batshit in its rage.

so yeah. this thing is ANGY.

[m-for-musings]

Honey Webbing

Part XIII

!!! WARNING !!!

THIS CHAPTER CONTAINS SENSITIVE CONTENT SUCH AS DETAILED DEPICTIONS OF SEVERE MENTAL HEALTH ISSUES AND SUICIDE ATTEMPT

I flagged those parts with a [warning] before, so you can skip them if you want.

When Minthara awakes, the remnants of her nightmare were still fading as her vision cleared. The lingering sensation of endless falling sent a shiver down her spine, and she winced as a dull ache pulsed through her battered body, specially through her leg and shoulder, where blood-stained bandages were meticulously placed. Again. She barely had gotten rid of the previous set.

Glancing around, Minthara took in her unfamiliar surroundings. The simple yet well-appointed furnishings were immediately recognizable as Halsin's, but this was no longer the attendance room. The enormous bed, the adjoining bathroom, and the oversized clothes hung in complete disarray on the wooden hooks along the wall - while a pile of them occupied a chair behind the door - made it clear she was now in the druid's own bedchamber.

Minthara's armor and weapons had been carefully cleaned up and placed on the floor beside the bed, though they were in dire need of repair. She allowed herself a moment to appreciate the thoughtfulness of whoever had tended to her equipment, a small gesture that stood in stark contrast to the pain that permeated her weary body.

The memories came rushing back - the fight against the Cloaker, the searing pain, and her desperate attempts to summon her paladin powers during the battle, all to no avail. She had come perilously close to being killed for nothing, and the realization that her sacred gifts were beyond her grasp in the moment she needed it the most left her shaken to the core. But Minthara was not one to wallow in despair; her eyes narrowed with determination as she resolved to confront this issue head-on, unwilling to accept this loss of power.

Minthara sat on the edge of the bed, her brow furrowed in concentration as she stared down at her hands, palms facing upward. Taking a deep breath, she began the familiar ritual, the words of the Oath of Vengeance spilling from her lips with unwavering conviction.

"I am the wrath of justice, the scourge of my enemies. Nothing shall stand in my way, no foe shall escape my righteous fury..."

She paused, closing her eyes, waiting for the familiar surge of holy power to course through her veins, to feel the weight of her sacred duty settle upon her shoulders once more. But nothing happened. The air remained still, the silence deafening.

Undeterred, Minthara tried again, her voice growing more fervent with each passing phrase. "I am the instrument of retribution, the harbinger of ruin unto those who betrayed me. My blows shall be swift, my vengeance sure-"

Once more, the words fell flat, the sacred magic that had once answered her call conspicuously absent. Minthara's eyes snapped open, a growing sense of dread coiling in the pit of her stomach.

Shaking her head, she steeled herself and tried a final time, her normally steady cadence wavering with a hint of desperation. “May my enemies make peace with whatever gods they give their pathetic prayers to. May they beg their mercy, for I will show them none. My oath is my bond, my resolve unbreakable. I am-"

But the words caught in her throat, the familiar rituals and prayers that had once flowed so effortlessly now escaping her. Minthara stared down at her open palms, her crimson gaze burning with a mixture of confusion and dawning horror as the realization struck her.

Minthara had never particularly cared much for being excommunicated by Lolth, the rigid adherence to dogma and divine servitude that had always chafed at her independent spirit. In fact, she thought she was better served as a godless paladin than as a puppet of the Spider Queen. But this… This was different. The powers of her sacred oath, the gifts that had once shaped her very identity, were gone. Minthara was a Paladin no more.

She stared at her trembling hands with growing dread, her mind being filled with horror as she desperately reached for the power that had once coursed through her veins, only to be met with a haunting, deafening silence. The golden light, the sacred magic, the inner fire that had once burned so brightly - all of it had vanished, replaced by a hollow, devastating emptiness that left her feeling utterly abandoned, stripped of the very essence that had once defined her.

Her chest tightened, a wave of anguish washing over her as she confronted the humiliating truth. She had failed, her powers severed, her oath rendered meaningless. Tears welled in her eyes, spilling down her cheeks as she cradled her head in her hands. Minthara's shoulders shook with silent sobs, the weight of her failure crushing her. She had always prided herself on her unwavering determination, her unshakable resolve. But now, as she lay alone in this unfamiliar bed, she felt utterly adrift, her purpose in life seemingly slipping through her fingers. The drow curled in on herself, her typically stoic demeanor shattered by the anguish of her loss. She had always believed in the power of her word, her unyielding willpower a cornerstone of her identity. But now, as she lay in the druid's home, wounded and broken, she found herself questioning everything she had ever known. In that moment, as the tears continued to flow, Minthara felt more lost and vulnerable than she had ever been.

[WARNING: THE NEXT TWO PARAGRAPHS DEPICT A SEVERE ANXIETY/PANIC ATTACK]

She wanted to scream, to lash out and destroy everything around her, anything to dull the ache that consumed her. But all she could do was weep, the tears streaming down her cheeks as the desperation began to swallow her whole. Her quickened heartbeat thundered in her ears, her ragged breaths shallow and insufficient, as if she were drowning in a sea of her own torment.

And there was the pain. A searing pain, like a thousand needles that spreaded through her body and concentrated on her chest, piercing and crushing her heart all at once. It was greater than any pain her body ever bore, spreading back to her limbs and her head, and she could not force it to the back of her mind like she usually did. The drow slid from the bed, her knees painfully connecting to the floor, clutching at her chest as the phantoms of her nightmares surrounded her. Their whispered voices echoed in her mind, each word a dagger to her already shattered heart.

"No one can save you, oathbreaker."

"No one wants you, not even the gods."

“You're a tool to be used and discarded.”

"You failed us, Minthara."

"You bring only death in your way."

[WARNING: SUICIDE ATTEMPT IN THE NEXT PARAGRAPH]

Minthara reached for her dagger, her trembling hands barely able to grasp the familiar hilt. She stared at the blade, the sharp edge glinting in the dim light, and for a moment, the promise of oblivion seemed like a siren's call. With trembling hands she lifts the blade, her weakened arms barely able to hold it steady. She slowly points the tip of the dagger towards her heart. Her eyes closed as the pain consumed her, her head felt heavy as if it was made of lead instead of flesh. Her heart was tight in her chest as if it would explode, crushing her beneath the burden. A single thrust, a twist of the blade, and it would all be over. She would be free from this endless torment, this aching void where her purpose once resided. 

[SUICIDE ATTEMPT OVER]

"Pwetty ladyyyy!" The shrill voice of the young half-drow girl pierced the quiet of the room, her high-pitched tone jarring Minthara from her despondent reverie, stiffening as the piercing voice of the toddler shattered the heavy silence that had enveloped the room. Her limbs felt leaden, as if her very bones had turned to stone, trapping her there, on her knees, on the bedroom’s floor. She sucked in a shuddering breath, her heart still pounding in her ears, the frantic rhythm slowly steadying as her surroundings came back into focus. 

Minthara's eyes snapped towards the source of the sound, watching as the small child flung open the bedroom door, her tiny body weight swinging from the handle. Instinctively, the drow shoved the dagger she had been clutching under the pillows, her movement quick yet hardly precise. Fren released her grip on the door, her tiny feet pattering against the wooden floor as she ran towards Minthara, small arms wrapping around the drow's neck in an affectionate embrace. Minthara's expression was one of thinly veiled discomfort, her brow furrowing as she looked down at the girl.

"What are you doing here, child?" she asked, her tone clipped, betraying the turmoil that still roiled within her.

Minthara's muscles were tense, her body heavy yet in high alert, as if bracing for some unseen threat. She was clearly shaken, her typically stoic demeanor cracking under the weight of the despair that had consumed her in the moments before Fren's intrusion. 

“Why you cwying?” The girl asked, gazing up at her with those confused, yet innocent, adoring eyes. Minthara felt a flicker of... something. A sliver of that aching void within her seemed to ease, if only momentarily. But the drow quickly tamped down on the unfamiliar emotion, steeling herself against the vulnerability it threatened to expose.

“I, ah, the sun is too bright today.” Minthara said dismissively, waving a hand as she hurriedly wiped the remaining tears from her face. The drow didn't remember the last time she had succumbed to tears, the wetness on her cheeks feeling foreign and unsettling.

“It hurts my eyes too.” Fren gives her an acknowledging nod. “That's why daddy has curtains.”

“Yes, yes, very clever of him,” Minthara replied hastily. At the window, just like the little girl signaled, heavy curtains hang, not a single ray of sunlight coming through them. Her gaze swept the room, her senses on high alert. She painfully stood up, disentangling herself from the little child’s arms in a single, rigid motion as she tried to ensure that no one else had borne witness to her moment of weakness, her desperate contemplation of the unthinkable. The drow's grip on her composure was tenuous at best, and she could ill afford any further intrusions or prying eyes.

"You should not be here," Minthara stated firmly, her voice brooking no argument. She needed to regain her footing, to reclaim the mantle of the stoic, unyielding warrior she had always been. The alternative... The alternative was too frightening to contemplate. “Where is your father? Your siblings?”

Fren shrugged nonchalantly, a mischievous glint in her eyes. "Daddy is busy," she replied, "and Talia can't find me! I'm the best at hide-and-seek!"

Minthara's brow rose slightly at the child's attitude, a flicker of grudging amusement passing across her features. Before she could respond, a human teenager with curly, long hair appeared at the door, her eyes wide and her breathing heavy - this was Talia, one of the oldest of Halsin’s urchin flock.

"Fren! There you are, I searched the entire house looking for you!" the girl exclaimed, her gaze darting warily towards Minthara. With a desperate reverence, the teenager bowed politely. "I-I'm so sorry, ma'am, I didn't know she would disturb your rest!" she apologized, her voice trembling slightly.

Minthara regarded the teenager, a hint of fake disdain in her expression. "See that it does not happen again," she replied, her words clipped and laced with a subtle warning.

The girl's expression was one of flustered panic. "Yes, yes, of course, ma'am. I'm so, so sorry..." she rushed to apologize, hurriedly scooping up the toddler in her arms. Talia shot Fren a chastising look, quietly scolding the child for supposedly disturbing Minthara's rest, taking her away despite the little girl’s protests.

Minthara let out a quiet sigh, her gaze drifting towards the window, where the heavy curtains still blocked out the offending sunlight. Despite her stern demeanor, she couldn't help but feel a twinge of sympathy for the young half-drow girl. Fren's carefree innocence was a stark contrast to the turmoil that had consumed her own thoughts, and a more than welcome disturbance in her intentions. Minthara found herself reluctantly drawn to the child's untainted spirit, even if she would never admit it aloud.

<Part 12 || Part 14 >

[moonstalk]

Like a wounded, embarrassed dog, Michael nurses the gory injury at his side. One of the survivors managed to get his knife from him and used it against him, and in the midst of the pain and anger, he somehow lost his way back to Haddonfield. Instead, he’s at Crystal Lake now, which seems to be empty. He huffs in pain as he enters the shed by the lake, hoping to find some first aid in here. / for jason

jason moved silently through the dense forest, his senses attuned to every rustle, every shift of the trees. he had been patrolling, ensuring no one lingered, when something different caught his attention—a familiar presence, but not one of the usual intruders. the air seemed heavier, charged with something more than the usual threat.

it wasn’t long before he caught sight of the shed by the lake, and inside, someone moved. jason’s grip tightened on the handle of his machete as he stepped closer, his eyes narrowing behind the mask. the figure inside wasn’t a stranger.

it was michael.

for a brief moment, jason watched, studying the other killer’s movements. michael was hunched over, cradling his side, clearly injured. jason could see the blood, the way it seeped through michael’s fingers as he nursed the wound. he had never seen him like this before—wounded, vulnerable.

without a second thought, jason moved quickly, his boots pounding through the dirt and brush with a thunderous silence. his heart pounded, his grip on the machete tightening to the point where his knuckles strained under the pressure. the urge to find whoever was responsible ignited an insatiable need to destroy. he could already picture it: their intestines wetting his fingers, the visceral satisfaction of cramming them down the wretched survivor’s throat, suffocating them with their own remains. he wanted to break their ribs, rip their face from their skull, and drown in their blood.

by the time he reached michael’s side, jason’s breathing was heavy, his chest rising and falling in time with the violent thoughts racing through his mind. he found the first aid kit, yanking it from the shelf with such force that it nearly snapped. trembling, he thrust it towards michael, the white-hot fury coursing through his body making his hands shake.

his mind was already elsewhere, lost in the thought of finding the person who had dared injured michael. jason’s vision blurred with anger, his fingers aching for the chance to snap bones, to gouge out eyes, to spend eternity making their life a sacrifice to whatever force kept him trapped in this endless cycle of violence. his breath hissed through the holes in his mask as he silently seethed, the world around him throbbing with his barely contained wrath.

he wanted to bathe in their blood, to make them suffer in ways he had suffered, to ensure they regretted every moment of their existence. and the moment michael was patched up, that’s exactly what jason would do.

[brightfancies]

Rab x Andy: kissing your partner to seal a marriage

“And now, you may kiss your bride.”

His.

Andromeda Black is composed, poised, and regal as always. Her ladies-in-waiting had done a magnificent job of masking her fury as beauty. 

The gloomy skies thundered, lightning striking the ground. But the last snowflakes fell but a few hours ago, leaving behind a chilling mist and the unmistakable scent of maple and musk, the promise of spring. Celebrations rose with exuberance in every pub and every home, each corner of the Kingdom adorned with ivory fabrics and frosted petals. Roses. Carnations. Lilies. A beautiful day, truly. No one works harder than a mother trying to hide her daughter’s scandal. Even her favorite flower, snowdrops, nestled between her feet in the soft ground - blooming just in time to attend her wedding. Their wedding.

Stormy blue eyes locked on the endless darkness of his. Rabastan Lestrange. The young Queen couldn’t quite read the rough expression on his handsome face, but that didn’t stop her mind's eye from picturing his thoughts. Oh, how he must hate her. How he must detest her. Andromeda couldn’t find it in herself to blame him for that, at least. They were never meant to be here, hand in hand, droplets of scarlet blood dripping into the grass beneath them, staining the cloth tying their hands together.

You are the blood of my blood and bone of my bone. I give you my body, my spirit, so we shall be one. 

She had repeated the words she’d once, in the secret depths of her desires, dreamed of saying. To her lover. To her soulmate. To whichever man dared to truly see her as who she was, to love her body and soul and wild heart. Andromeda had dreamed of a simpler wedding before. Of friends cheering and toasting with laughter and whiskey. Of joy glowing in every damn pore of her skin, of tears staining her cheek, unable to contain the love for the man before her. With a man she chose.

Andromeda takes the first step, closer to him. Her free hand rose to rest on his cheek, delicate and cold, as her eyes searched his gaze. Rage. The foundation for their marriage, a reflection of the very same chaos unraveling in her body. She can feel his hand resting on the back of her back, moving her closer, flushed against his leather-clad chest, and flashes of their night together clutter her thoughts. Had it only been a week ago? Smoke and alcohol invigorate her senses, and she's grateful he had the sense to drink for the occasion. His mouth is so close, hovering over her own, the warmth of his breath caressing her mouth. Was he hesitating? Her eyes shut as she closes the space between them, and a beat later his mouth claims her red lips mercilessly, a hot tongue demanding entrance at once. She can’t help but moan lightly, surrendering, giving fully into his wrath and matching it, inch by inch, with her own, biting into his lower lip to draw just one more drop of blood as heat warms the very core of her body. 

Perhaps one day she would apologize for claiming his life, but that day was not today. 

[sins-of-the-sea]

@riiese

Captain Frascona doesn't answer the question right away. He just keeps staring at the estate just outside the walls around the main city. Well… what was once an estate.

"Lots of things. Wicked things. Commands to make sure people got hurt. Rumors spread to bring in more hurt to those they cannot touch. Words to encourage that the hurt needed to happen and that it was all a good thing. All to maintain status to two Crowns that cared little for us. Status that wouldn't climb even if the people here wanted it to. And the experimental magic that took it all down….

"It was experimental in the sense that it wasn't done at this scale and power before. It couldn't be contained. Everything it touched, it crumbled. It took apart. It destroyed. Years upon years of hurt, returned thirty-six fold. On behalf of so many names, from the home itself to the courts and ghettos they extended their reach.

"That magic is rage. Fury. Anger. Wrath. The story of the destruction of the House of Frances shall be told as a cautionary tale to anyone who uses the name of God and the Crown to inflict pain and control upon others.

"A tale of Wrath incarnate. Alive and breathing, today and for eternity. Sung from the endless, darkest depths of the sea."

[eupharaos]

Disclaimer

This work of fiction is entirely a product of the author's imagination. All characters, events, and situations are fictitious, and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. This book contains themes of violence, revenge, psychological trauma, sexual assault, and supernatural horror. It explores the psychological impact of loss, manipulation, emotional suffering, and the violation of personal boundaries, as well as how these experiences can shape and transform a person. The story may be disturbing and evoke intense emotional responses. Reader discretion is strongly advised.

Dedication to my mother for always believing in me. No matter how damn difficult I made it.

Reader Dedication: Let it be known: this is no mere recounting, but a chronicle etched in the marrow of the earth. Mine is a tale weathered by age, spoken in the rustle of dead leaves and the hush of ancient groves. I have journeyed through shadowed epochs of the soul, where sorrow dripped like resin from wounded bark, and silence grew thick as ivy. To call these trials difficult would be to name the mountain a hill, or the abyss a well. There were years when my spirit wandered like a ghost through twilight moors, and nights when I howled not to be heard, but to be unburdened. Therapy came like the old rains—patient, cleansing— yet the grief remained, buried in roots, sacred and wild. Even now, I carry the memory of tears as the stone remembers fire, and the wind remembers names long forgotten by men.

To thosewho find kinship with thE villains— know this: your actions have stirred something far older than your understanding. You did not simply harm me. You have awakenEd an ancient wrath, a vengeancE that does not scream but smolders, waiting in the depths of time. You may feel anger, denial, or the bitter sting of guilt, but know this: your feelings are the trEmbling of the earth before the quake. I have fElt it all, and it no longer touches me. I have shed my pain like old skin, becoming something cold, something that no longer weeps, for I have walked through fire until it has burned all warmth from me. The wound you inflicted upon mE is a scar carved into the fabric of my soul, one that twists and warps the way I see the world. You will never escape the shame of what you’ve done. This is no plea. This is your judgment, spoken from realms whEre gods trEmblE and fatE is unyielding. Every word I have written is steeped in the venom of ages, saturated in the rage of the earth, and I have givEn it form, so it may rise and suffocate you like the smoke of a thousand pyres. The FuriEs hear this, and their hunger is endless. You cannot outrun what you’ve summoned. ThEsE truths will follow you like a shadow of blood, creeping beneath your skin, gnawing at your bonEs, until your very breath becomEs a whisper of regret. May you carry this mark forEvEr— a brand that cannot be erased, a wound that cannot heal, EvEn in the place where gods fear to trEad.

To thoSe who find their way here, looking for stories that huM like a lullaby, that wrap you in a Blanket of gentle connection, wheN loneliness feels like a cloud too heavy to lift— know this: you are loved. By me, by the little wanderer who still roams within you, still believes in the Magic of the moon and stars. You are worth More than the wildest dreAm, more than you’ve ever given yourself credit for. As you read these tales, know that you are never alone. I am here, a flicker in the shadows, and I’ve danced through the same storMs. When you say it hurts and the words flutter away like dAndelion seeds, I feel it too. I’ve whispered those silent sorrows into the night. Let the light find you, and carry you, even through the darK.

[gethellbcnt-m]

@fearedelight / for mammon from belphegor !

❝ MAMMON. ❞ The goat-like Sin cuts through his statement like thunder, smoke pouring from the corners of her snarling maw as she grips onto the front of his outfit with all the fury of a barely-contained tornado. coat loses pigment, cloud-like hair roils and lightening sparks with a number of vibrant colors ; a show of intimidation at its finest.

Very few are able to push Belphegor's seemingly endless well of patience beyond its limit -- and even fewer have seen her in her overly-wrathful, blindingly multicolored glory. only Bee has been able to pull such a feat on a regular basis, with Mammon following closely in second. but just as quickly as she loses her grip on her temper, a deep, collective breath ensures that just as quickly as the outburst happened, patience is regained just as swiftly.

❝ Mammon.. mate, darling.. ah-haaa. ❞ A flattening of the wrinkles she had caused to his attire, dark pigments returning to her fur and hair returning to its calm, cumulus shape. ❝ if you wanted to blow off steam, you should've just told me ; NOT abuse my staff ! .. i have a few subjects that can be your punching bags and a little treat. but never, ever do that again. ❞

[templeofom]

Prayer to Cernunnos VII - Tribute

With your forked crown of antlers reaching to the sky, as do the crested branches of the mighty oak, you perpetuate the dizzying, endless cycle of exchange in Nature. Life grows, dies, decays and is born again.

In your hands are the wealth and generosity of the Earth, this world before us is your greatest work, the first spark of creativity that led to such abundance.

You are the thrill of the chase, whether in the fear of the prey or the hunger of the hunter. Each adrenaline rush is nothing more than a flash of your essence, each step under our feet is a gift offered to us by your ancient and enormous power.

In your presence is the warmth of a candle flame, as well as the fury of a forest fire, the cool relief of a breeze and the biting cold of a blizzard, the shadow of the forest and the light of the clearing.

To know you is to know a creator's love for his creation, his patient guidance, and sometimes the exasperated frustration of a friend who has always watched from afar while waiting for me to awaken from my lack of knowledge.

You are the wild longing, the primal instinct and acceptance of the grim and brutal, while fostering the nourishing and compassionate brilliance of life among the endless chaos, and the inevitable pains and losses. You are the sparks of joy and hope that make life worth living, the fortunes claimed after a long and arduous journey.

You grant this world an abundant display of goods to contemplate and consume with respect and humility. You are the drive to survive and the motivation to live for more than survival. You are ambition, intuition and the balance between instinct and reason.

You are the paths that are woven through the timbers left by beasts of all sizes, paths worn into the Earth by the many legs and hooves of the creatures that walk the lands.

You are the roots and the branches, a bridge between worlds that balances life, and gives breath to all living beings.

You are vitality incarnate, the roar of agitated breathing, the pain of well-worked muscles, the crunch of bones like a bent tree branch, the torrent of primary passions, the thunderous pulse of an accelerated heartbeat.

You are the first breath and the last words, the spark of life and the eternal sleep of death. You are the wealth of commerce and crafts, but you do not feed greed or abuse of land. You are the abundance of every harvest, the spoils of every hunt, the giver of sustenance and stability.

You are the desire to travel in my soul, drawing me to nature and bringing me closer to the incredible sights of this wide, beautiful world. You are the love and compassion I feel for all the creatures I encounter, and the caution and respect I feel for all the beasts that could destroy me. You are the impulse to collect curiosities of nature, as well as the morbid fascinations that humanity contains.

Every feather, every leaf, every flower, every stone, shell, stick and bone. They are all pieces of your dominion, calling to mortals and reminding us of the truth of all things. All things die, and new things will always replace them, but this fact does not mean that life is meaningless and only suffering, because there will always be something that comes in place of what has been lost. The cycle must continue for life to be as it is, decay facilitates growth.

Yet you also burn within me a rabid protection of the condition of the Earth, with every piece of trash, every careless forest fire, every greedy deforestation, every spoiled water source, every cruel and unnecessarily harmed animal, falling your wrath and disappointment in humanity. On your path I am being guided towards understanding the balance, the mutuality of our relationship with the world in which we live, and respect for that exchange between the Wild and Civilization, between Life and Death, between the past and the present. .

You are the majesty of the deer, the strength of the boar, the ingenuity of the dog, the cunning of the snake, the wisdom of the owl, the tenacity of the rat, the intelligence of the crow, the virility of the bull. You are the very embodiment of true masculinity, not that of boasting and posturing, but that of strength, confidence and boldness. He manifests the traits of the most powerful and agile beasts, a being of many forms, many names, many disguises.

I have heard your call, and now I wonder how I didn't hear you before. I listen to you, and I will never again turn away from the wildness in me.

In your duality and constant state of change, you serve as an example of adaptation to mortals. Even in the loss of knowledge of the Old Ways that celebrated and honored you, your light persists and finds new devotees through your ever-changing nature, such is your path.

Praise you, Glorious Lord of Life and Death.

Source: two-braincell-bastard

[etruatcaelum]

[ @utallige | ozma // for salem ]

" i wish god had chose another. serving as your foe on his behalf is the last thing that i wanted. "

Embers of wrath smoldered in her narrowing eyes; Salem wanted to—to bare her teeth, to scream, to seize Ozma by the collar and shake him as if brute force could somehow dislodge his forgotten courage from the shackles of his precious task, but rage choked her. All she could do was curl her shaking fingers into fists, bitter incredulity eking out a scathing little sound, low in her throat.

Coward. Liar—liar–

"Then stop," she hissed, rooted to the spot by the molten weight of it. "Ozma–"

His name did not fit right in her mouth anymore, too soft and too loud at once, a pitiful contusion upon the fragile skin of anguish that contained her fury. Salem shuddered. Such a pristine cruelty: an act of sadism so pure and deep she could almost admire its depravity, that after all these endless centuries eaten alive by Ozma's absence, the world felt too small to hold them both.

"…Ozma," she said, voice tight. "Have you never wondered why he chose you?"

[omgshiftercat]

Credit where it’s due: Edmund Spenser, way back in the sixteenth century, portrayed Lust as a gross dude in The Faerie Queene.

But this did get me thinking: what might the Seven Deadly Sins look like if, instead of simply embodying their sin, they were designed to elicit that sin?

Wrath is primarily a talk-radio host, though he also publishes his rants in book and blog format. He whips his audience into a fury against a host of enemies, some obvious, others ill-defined. On social media, he commands a veritable army of internet trolls. His followers are both sore losers and sore winners: as long as dissenters exist, they cannot consider themselves victorious. And that will never happen, because Wrath is always ready to point out a new enemy.

Gluttony looks like a kindly grandmother. Everything that comes out of her kitchen looks, tastes, and smells absolutely delicious, so it hardly seems like a burden when she chivvies you to eat, even when you’re already full. But she always makes far too much, and throws out all of her leftovers. Meals that could have fed a soup kitchen for a week congeal in a dumpster outside, crawling with maggots.

Avarice is a corporate lobbyist. He convinces the rich that they owe the public nothing, and the poor that they are but temporarily embarrassed millionaires. At his smiling suggestion, laws restricting businesses’ power are jettisoned, or else rendered powerless. He speaks of “the free market” as though it were a wise and benevolent deity, though he has also been known to argue Social Darwinism and Prosperity Gospel without even pausing for breath.

Vanity is a motivational speaker. She tells her audiences that they are all especially gifted and deserve everything they want—they just have to focus on it really hard. Anyone who tells them that they’re being selfish, or evading other responsibilities, is just dragging them down; anyone to whom bad things happen brought it on themselves by being so negative. Her Facebook page shares a lot of pseudoscience and conspiracy theory, framing believers as smarter than the masses.

Sloth comes off as a good-natured stoner. He’s always happy to share his shabby couch and his coffee-table covered with game controllers, TV remotes, and an endless assortment of substances to drink, smoke, or inject. Schoolwork can wait. Tell your boss you’re sick again. Someone else’ll do the other stuff. Just take it easy. Don’t be a buzzkill.

Envy runs a string of popular magazines. The cover models are Photoshopped into impossible beauty; the ads feature products well out of most readers’ price range. The text portions contain “health plans” that are recipes for failure, celebrity gossip that is by turns fawning and venomous, and advice columns warning against “man-stealers” or “girl-stealers”.

Lust is a pick-up artist. He doesn’t simply advocate promiscuity, but employs an entire dialect encouraging straight men to think of women as objects to be evaluated, used, and discarded. Though his focus is primarily on heterosexual males, he also argues that it’s “naturally masculine” for gay men to treat their partners in a similar fashion.

When it comes to artistic personification of the deadly sins, Lust is usually the ONLY ONE ever designed to be the OBJECT of the sin rather than the sinner. Greed? They tend to design some one who LOOKS greedy. Sloth? Lazy person. A lot of these design choices kinda reveal how the creator views people in general (wow you made Gluttony or Greed fat, how original, so groundbreaking) but LUST? Lust is usually just… a hot chick. Who makes OTHERS lust but she herself often isn't running around acting inappropriately horny or anything. She's just kinda there. Maybe a bit flirty but otherwise the whole intent is to make the AUDIENCE feel attraction and that's how they associate it with lust. The Greed character won't make the viewer feel greedy but by god with Lust this is all we GOT. (Before you ask, I only half-count the FMA versions of these characters since they had these names but their origins were more complicated than Being Literal Sins)

I want all or nothin' here. Make the personifications ALL like Lust, maybe! Make it so their designs are only hinting at these things but the MAIN THING they can do is make OTHERS feel these things. Greed? He's a crypto guy who can manipulate people into screwing over others for easy cash. Sloth? The dude commenting "lol who cares, no one cares, just chill" at even the most horrible tragedies in the news (We can also change this one to Apathy and throw THAT deadly sin in, I just like that concept as a sin), make Wrath a reactionary podcaster or something. Make them make OTHERS sin.

Or, go the other way, and have them all LOOK like the sinners, and include Lust IN THAT. Just design some gooner who hasn't seen a real woman in six weeks and comments on every selfie they see online judging them for not looking like an anime waifu.

COMMIT TO THE BIT, PEOPLE, this mixed-up message is WEAK