#Copper Cliffs

[project-nebula]

Copper Cliffs

As part of our update map expansions we like to make community themed towns as launch points for new players! This is Copper Cliffs, our 1.21 town!

[Want to Join? Check pinned for info!]

[crumbsispoggers]

They keep losing their lives over falling!!!!!!

[pwesident]

is it weird/lame i build myself a base first in creative in minecraft. like i just dont enjoy the slow start anymore it feels so tedious

[dansnaturepictures]

Our wild adventure in Yorkshire 1st-8th June 2024 

Over the past week we have had another fantastic, packed, relaxing and breathtaking wild holiday this year, this time returning to the Yorkshire coast for a trip based around visiting the incredible RSPB Bempton Cliffs. It was an amazing week. 

The main highlights came on the visits to Bempton on Monday and Friday, going on a boat trip underneath there and Flamborough Head on Wednesday and visits to Flamborough Head and North Landing and Thornwick Bay where we were mesmerised to be immersed in bustling seabird colonies. It was magical especially to be ensconced in the elegant world of Gannets, seeing these remarkable and bold sea kings and queens in huge numbers was an honour getting views of ones with vegetation in their bills, scuffles and many flying and still views. The enchanting Puffins with their parrot beaks were also stars of the trip, I can never tire of these birds which awaken by heart. As do Guillemots and Razorbills, more awesome auks treasured at close quarters this week. Another of my favourites the Fulmars meandered in the wind and brought me much joy. Also making Bempton and Flamborough stand out are true seagulls, the angelic Kittiwakes whose onomatopoeic calls provide the colonies’ main soundtrack, precious to witness seeing the quirky sight of the ones nesting on buildings in urban Bridlington too. The sight, sound and smell of seabird colonies enriched my soul. Also seen this week were Herring Gulls well including young, Shag, Sandwich Tern and loads of Little Terns on a first visit to places I had always wanted to go the peculiar and almost otherworldly Spurn and Kilnsea Wetlands.  

At Kilnsea Wetlands we saw a surprise bird of the trip with exhilarating views of our first Yellow Wagtails of the year, part of a rich farmland double of bird year ticks for me this trip alongside thrilling views of a grand pair of Grey Partridges on a walk from Bempton. We were spellbound to watch two owls, brilliant Barn Owl views at Bempton and epic views of stunning Short-eared Owl at Flamborough North Landing just before setting off for home today. Also standing out throughout the week were a scattering of other pretty passerines; luxurious views of Bempton’s gorgeous Tree Sparrows birds I love seeing, strong Sedge Warbler views, Whitethroat, Chiffchaff, Stonechat including young, Reed Buntings, Dunnock, House Sparrow, Starling, Goldfinch, Song Thrush, lots of views of hirundines Swallow, House Martin and Sand Martin including on nests and Swifts. It was good to see Pheasants and Stock Dove too. Beautiful Little Ringed Plover, Ringed Plover, Avocet, Grey Plover, Oystercatcher, Lapwing, Grey Heron, Teal and Wigeon mostly at Kilnsea Wetlands and Spurn were nice wader and waterfowl sightings with a Cuckoo’s call heard in a third area of the country for us this year alongside Hampshire and Scotland reverberating over the North York Moors landscape at Fen Bog Nature Reserve. 

Lepidoptera played a big part in the week with my treasured first sighting of a Small Copper this year a butterfly I needed to see at Fen Bog Nature Reserve and it was also good to see some of my last Orange Tips of the year I shall imagine with them coming to their end especially at home with lovely Painted Lady at Bempton Cliffs, Red Admiral, Dingy Skipper, Speckled Wood and Green-veined White other butterflies enjoyed. Silver Y and Mother Shipton were good to see too as was Brown House moth where we stayed. We also saw some nice caterpillars, burnet moth, Garden Tiger moth and Brown-tail moth. 

Onto other wildlife and mammals starred in the week with astonishing sightings of Weasel and Field Voles at Bempton Cliffs providing me some of my moments of the year, making my mammal year list my joint highest ever alongside last year’s total. It was breathtaking to watch iconic Grey Seals from land and from the boat at Flamborough Head with some powerful intimate experiences. Brown Hare on another holiday this year, Rabbit and Grey Squirrel were nice to see too. Fen Bog brought more marvellous moments with my first giant Golden-ringed Dragonfly and thrilling Common Lizard of the year, with bees, lots of snails and slugs including Black Slugs, flies, a Green Tiger beetle at Fen Bog also seen in Scotland, at home and Yorkshire for me this year and Long-bodied Cellar Spider at where we stayed other highlights. 

There were some fabulous flowers seen with hogweed and red campion painting swathes of colour on Bempton’s seaside meadows. Common butterwort and heath bedstraw at Fen Bog Nature Reserve and many marsh orchids adorning the coast were other key species seen. Other key flowers enjoyed across the week were meadow crane’s-bill, herb-Robert, yellow rattle, plantain, white and red clover, groundsel, oxeye daisy, daisy, chamomile, hawksbeard, sow thistle, milkwort, comfrey, poppies, mouse-ear chickweed, green alkanet, roses, buttercups, cuckooflower, vetch and seas of kidney vetch painting cliffs.

Thursday brought something slightly different for us with a look at nearby to where we stayed Sewerby Hall and Gardens; feeling inspired to see the Wildlife Photographer of the Year exhibition and enjoying gladiolus, roses and forget-me-not in the gardens and Humboldt Penguins, Racoon Dogs and Rheas in the Zoo among others. Quite something to see Penguins which I love then see the auks Guillemots, Razorbills and Puffin on a look at Thornwick Bay later in the day; my early childhood obsession with Penguins meaning I was drawn to these northern hemisphere counterparts when I first got into birdwatching in my mid-late childhood sowing the seeds for my hobby and passion something I reflected on a lot this week in this big seabird experiences. Finally particularly centring on rugged and stunning coast but also including meadows, moor and marsh and hints of woodland with picture postcard seaside at Bridlington too I have taken in some breathtaking views this week and nice sky scenes too. An unforgettable and extraordinary week. 

The photos I took in this photoset from the week are of; Tree Sparrow, Yellow Wagtail, carrot type flowers at Flamborough North Landing, hawksbit type flowers with a fly and beetle on at Fen Bog Nature Reserve, view at Spurn and snail at Flamborough Head, view at Thornwick Bay, Kittiwake at Flamborough Head and views at Flamborough North Landing and Sewerby Gardens.

[suspenz]

My webfishing doge

[mr-fluffy-travel]

Unforgettable Mexican Road Trips: Routes for Adventure Seekers

Unforgettable Mexican Road Trips: Routes for Adventure Seekers Discover Mexico’s Hidden Gems: Epic Road Trips for Thrill-Seekers and Explorers Unforgettable Mexican Road Trips: Routes for Adventure Seekers

Discover Mexico’s Hidden Gems: Epic Road Trips for Thrill-Seekers and ExplorersUnforgettable Mexican Road Trips: Routes for Adventure Seekers Introduction Mexico is a land of breathtaking landscapes, vibrant cultures, and unparalleled diversity. For adventure seekers, there’s no better way to experience the essence of this beautiful country than by hitting the open road. From dramatic mountain…

[agreeewrites]

Magic Lessons | B.W.

Part One

feat. Bill Weasley x intern!reader

SUMMARY: Your best friends Fred and George convince their older brother, Bill, to give you a shot at a coveted curse-breaker internship position at Gringott's.

CW: age gap, boss/intern, fem!reader, reader is whip smart and sweet, dark curses and magical artifacts, men being shitty, hurt/comfort, dark academia vibes

AN: inspired by an ask I accidentally deleted (im so sorry) about Bill tutoring Fred & George's best friend. It spiraled into this.

part two | part three | masterlist

“You're going to be fine,” George soothed, wrapping an arm around your shoulders.

“Yeah, Bill’s not so bad. You aren't scared of us, are ‘ya? So there's no need to be scared of him,” Fred added, bumping your knee with his.

You were sandwiched between them on a hard wooden bench in Gringott's, just outside their older brothers office, his name emblazoned in gold on the fogged door window. The twins, two of your closest friends from school, had secured you an interview for a coveted internship in the Ancient Artifacts Department, and you hadn't slept in a week leading up to it.

This was your dream job, a real stepping stone to the career you'd always imagined for yourself. You couldn't screw this up.

But that didn't quite explain the bone-deep anxiety clawing through your skin. It felt like you were standing on the edge of a cliff, one foot hanging into empty space.

Then, a shadow crossed the fogged mirror, tall and broad, and you shivered.

“You've got this,” George murmured at the same moment the door handle turned. It swung open, and your heart fell through the marble floor.

Bill Weasley was, objectively, terrifying. He had none of the softness of the twins, none of the jovial ease of youth. He was dressed in a white button down with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows and charcoal trousers, traces of magic glittering along his forearms.

Standing at least a head taller than the twins, he had long copper hair and sharp cheekbones, deep scars across the left side of his face that only enhanced the striking beauty of his features. His green eyes were arresting, challenging in the way they swept across the hall before settling on you.

“Bill!” Fred said, jumping up, and Bill’s demeanor immediately shifted into something friendlier.

“Freddie,” Bill said, extending a hand to his younger brother with an expression you could almost call warm.

“Bill, this is our friend, y/n,” George said, getting up to shake his brother's hand, and you rose to your feet, hoping he didn't notice the slight tremble in your knees.

“Pleasure, y/n. I'm Bill Weasley, Head of the Ancient Artifacts Department here at Gringott's.” He extended a hand to you, calloused and long-fingered, a golden signet ring on his middle finger.

“Nice to meet you, Mr. Weasley,” you said, placing your hand in his for a brief shake. He was gentle, but you could feel the undercurrent of strength in his movement, the intention he had to put towards being soft.

“Fred and George have told me a lot about you,” Bill said, glancing at his brother's. “You’re interested in Blessed Artifacts, correct?”

You nodded. “Yes, primarily magical items created with the intention of offering protection or assistance,” you answered, fighting the nervous heat climbing up your neck.

The corner of his mouth lifted, scrunching the scars across his cheek and eyebrow. “The opposite of what I do, hm?”

You laughed nervously. “Yeah, I suppose. Though I've studied your curse-breaking work extensively. A curse and a blessing are two sides of the same coin, and we can learn a lot about the workings of one from the other.”

Bill’s expression shifted slightly, his eyes narrowing and skimming over your face, and suddenly you knew what it felt like to be one of his artifacts.

No wonder he never crossed a curse he couldn't break.

“Step into my office, I have a few questions before we discuss terms of the internship. I'll see you two this weekend at the Burrow, yeah?”

“Yep!” Fred and George chirped in unison, and Bill slipped back into his office. The twins gave you a big thumbs up and you gave a nervous chuckle, waving them away before following Bill into his office.

It was nothing at all like you expected. Two enormous windows filled the back wall, spilling grey light across the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves along the left wall. The shelves were overflowing with tomes and littered with artifacts, more than you'd ever seen outside for a museum or Dumbledore’s office. They perfumed the air with the scent of parchment and sandalwood, the warm musk of incense.

The carpet was plush under your feet, a mesmerizing pattern of deep maroon and teal, and overstuffed furniture rested against the right wall, a couch and two arm chairs framed by more loaded shelves and a gallery wall of shifting art.

But most surprising was his desk. It looked like it belonged in a research tent in the desert, not a gold-plated bank. It was covered in tools and stacks of paper, open books and deconstructed items, half-drank mugs of tea and a spilled ink pot.

“You look surprised,” he mused, following your eye.

“I didn't realize you still did field research,” you admitted sheepishly. “Now that you're head of the department.”

Bill shrugged, grabbing a mug and a stack of papers from the table and gesturing to the furniture against the wall. “I prefer the hands-on approach. Please, have a seat. Can I get you anything?”

“Oh, no thank you,” you answered, sinking into one of the arm chairs. It was so comfortable, you had to force yourself to sit upright. You could smell his cologne on the leather, vetiver and black pepper, and it made your chest warm.

He sat in the other armchair, bracing an ankle on the opposite knee. “So, how did you come to befriend my brother's?” He asked, taking a sip of tea.

“Fred needed some help in Charms,” you said, crossing your legs. “Then George needed help in Potions. And we just worked well together. They're good friends.

“So you're the reason they didn't flunk out, hm?”

You shook your head. “Not at all. They just needed a different perspective. They did the work themselves.”

Bill nodded, shuffling the papers in his lap. “Have you ever worked with curses directly? Beyond Defense Against the Dark Arts?”

You shook your head. “I don't have a lot of experience with curses, but I can read magic well, and have an eye for detail. I know I'm not the most qualified of the candidates you've probably met with, but this is my dream, and it would be such an honor to learn from the best— ”

“It's alright, y/n,” Bill stopped you with a small shake of his head, his low voice demanding acquiescence. “You're clearly bright, and determined to learn. That's more valuable to me than anything else.”

You exhaled in relief. “I appreciate that, Mr. Weasley,” you said, offering a small smile.

“Bill,” he corrected. “Bill is fine.”

Your heart gave an excited thump, and you nodded.

“So, for this internship, you'd be working directly with me, mostly archiving artifacts as they come in and out of the bank. You'll be spending a lot of time here and in the vaults. The pay isn't great, but if you do well over the six months term, there's potential for full-time employment.” He passed a contract to you, a quill floating over from his desk and into your hand. “And you're welcome to conduct supervised independent research whenever there's downtime.”

You blinked, shocked at the employment contract in your lap. “You don't—you don't have any more questions for me?” You asked.

Bill shook his head, giving you an amused smile. “You already showed that your head and heart are in the right place, and I trust my brother’s judgement. If they like you this much, there must be a reason.”

“I—thank you, sir,” you said, a grin breaking through as you signed your name on the line. The ink blazed gold before settling back to black, the contract magically binding.

Bill rose, extending a hand to help you to your feet. “Welcome aboard, y/n.”

The first few days of your internship were spent with members of Bill’s team, taking lengthy tours of Gringotts and the Archives. You quite liked Rumi and Kira, two of the lead archivists, but had a difficult time with Waylan, the Collector, as they called him, who seemed to have it out for you.

You waited with bated breath for your first project with Bill, but you'd barely seen him since you started. You brought it up to Kira at breakfast one morning, and she chuckled.

“He's around, I promise. Hardly goes anywhere else. But we usually only see him if he needs something.”

“Or when we fuck something up,” Rumi added, and you chuckled.

Kira rolled her eyes. “They're being dramatic. Bill's not nearly as scary as he looks.”

“Aren't I?”

The three of you jumped, turning to find Bill leaning against the wall beside Rumi’s seat. He looked exceptionally handsome this morning, his hair tucked behind his ears, a single strand falling over his eyes, dressed in finely pressed white shirt and navy trousers.

“Well you are when you sneak up on people!” Rumi laughed, and Bill cracked a smile.

“Apologies, mate. Y/n, ready for your first assignment?” His eyes met yours, brilliant as polished jade, and your tongue forgot how to function.

“Oh, uh, yes, sir!”

“Sir?” Kira snorted. “Are we supposed to call you ‘sir’?”

Bill shook his head. “I’d rather you didn't, but maybe you could use a lesson in manners from this one,” he teased, stealing Kira’s croissant. “Come along, fledgling,” he said, his deep voice resonant and rough around the edges.

The nickname jolted through you like a lightning strike, heating your blood to a simmer, and you nearly gasped, hiding your reaction by taking a final swig of breakfast tea.

Fuck no, you were not developing a crush on your boss. Get it together, you chastised yourself.

You got to your feet and hurried after him through the dining hall and into the wrought iron elevator. He held the door for you as you scurried in. The grate rolled shut, and the machine heaved off the ground with a metallic groan.

“Glad to you see you're getting along with the team,” he remarked, eyes trained up to watch the pulley system.

“Yes, they've been very welcoming,” you said, resisting the urge to stare at the hard angle of his jaw, the reddish stubble dusting it and spreading down his throat.

“There's a lot they can teach you. They're some of the best in the business,” he said, glancing down at you as the elevator came to stop. The doors rolled open and he strolled out, his long legs taking him a third of the way down the hall before you managed to get your knees to unlock.

You caught up to him at his office door. “What are we working on?” You asked, excitement building as you followed him to his desk.

He moved around it, stopping in front of a black velvet box. Carefully, he lifted the lid. “Waylan brought this back last month, and I hadn't been able to crack it until our meeting.”

“Oh?” Your heart began to beat a little faster, eyes fixed not on the box containing the object, but the way his deft fingers handled it with such a care.

He turned the box around, revealing a stunning necklace, dripping with black sapphires and diamonds, the chain a thick and luscious gold.

You gasped, covering your mouth. It was the most beautiful piece of jewelry you'd ever seen.

He smiled at your reaction before catching himself, returning to neutral, if a bit curious, expression. “I hadn't considered that it might be a blessed object until our conversation.” He gingerly lifted the necklace from the box, the luxurious stones creating a stark contrast against his laborers hands. “And if I read the magical signature correctly, it should be a chameleon charm. To make any spectator see what they want to see in the wearer.” He came around behind you and you lost your breath, his closeness overwhelming your senses.

There was something about him that tilted the axis of the world, bending everything to center around him. He had his own gravity, his own magnetic force that you were struggling to resist.

“May I?” He asked, and you nodded, holding your breath as the cool stones kissed your clavicle, his fingertips ghosted the edge of your throat.

With a small click, the necklace was fastened around your neck. You could feel the magic in it, warm and buzzing as it spread through you.

Bill stepped away, moving back around to your front, and his brow furrowed.

“What? Did I grow a horn?” You joked, trying to dispel the tension winding tighter between you.

He shook his head, stepping back to ring a silver bell by his desk, a small plaque reading ‘Kira’ beneath it. There was one for each of you, you noticed.

A moment later, Kira walked in. “What's up, boss? Oh, did you change, y/n? I absolutely love that designer in Hogsmeade. His work is stunning,” Kira praised. “Sorry, can I help with something?” She said, turning to Bill.

Bill’s frown deepened as his eyes skimmed over you. “That'll be all, Kira. Thank you.”

“Oh, uh, okay. Let me know if you want to go shopping sometime, y/n!” She said before stepping back out of the office.

“So, she saw something in common that we didn't have before,” you observed, moving to jot some notes down on a piece of parchment in an attempt to stay on track despite the frustrated look on his face. “What do you see?”

“You can take it off. I need you to decode the magic signature yourself, archive the piece and charm accordingly, and see if you can replicate it on something else,” he directed, turning away and rustling through some pages on his desk.

“Sure, no problem.” Carefully, you unclasped the necklace and set it into its velvet case, confused by his sudden shift in demeanor, both the absence of the necklaces magic and his sudden distance leaving you cold.

What did he see in you?

He conjured another chair for you and sank into his own, turning his attention to what appeared to be a wooden horse.

Uncertain, you sat down and pulled the necklace towards you, along with the parchment and a quill, and got to work.

The uncertainty dissolved as the minutes turned to hours, both of you working quietly side by side to solve your own puzzles. The only sounds were the rustling of papers and scratch of quills, the soft music playing from a record player in the corner, and you felt a wave of peace settle over you.

Being able to work at your own pace, in a quiet, peaceful environment was all you'd ever wanted. And finally, you felt like you found a place that allowed that.

You glanced over at Bill, finding him scribbling something with his black feather quill, completely zeroed in on his task, and you felt a rush of gratitude for him, and a determination to ensure he didn't regret his decision to take a chance on you.

You turned back to the necklace, eager to uncover it's secrets.

The rest of your first two weeks passed the same way, you and Bill with your heads bowed, working on separate projects. He'd come over periodically to check your work, but mostly left you to your own devices unless you needed help, which he provided without judgement or reservation.

You and Bill seemed to work together well, both of you preferring the quiet so you could focus, with the occasional conversation about your findings during your lunch break or afternoon tea.

Despite yourself, your ill-advised attraction to him only grew as he loosened up around you. But that's all it was, you told yourself over and over again. An attraction to a handsome, accomplished man.

You were only human, after all. Who could blame you?

On Friday, Bill had a meeting with the Board and left you in his office to work. You were more than happy to occupy his space, enjoying the comfortable quiet as you reviewed your notes on the artifact you were working on.

A knock pulled you from your work. Waylan walked through the door, a long, thin wooden box in his arms.

“Oh, hey Waylan,” you said, getting up. “Bill is in a meeting—”

“I know, but this can't wait.” He dropped the long box onto the desk with a thud, scattering your meticulously organized notes, and a prickle of irritation climbed the back of your neck.

“What is it?” You asked, already sensing the dark energy permeating off of the box.

With a pry bar, Waylan cracked open the box, a putrid smell wafting out of it.

“Are you sure we should be doing this here? Surely a vault would be safer—”

“It's fine,” he snapped, and you cracked your jaw shut, irritation growing to full on anger. “This is a cursed executioners axe,” he said. “And the curse needs to be broken now.”

“Waylan, surely—”

“I thought you were qualified?” He bit. “Isn't that why you got the job? Or was it because your friends with his brothers?”

You grit your teeth. “What's the nature of the curse?”

“You tell me.”

You moved to look at the axe, it's blade dark and stained with gore, the handle black wood. Tiny notches decorated it's expanse, and your stomach turned imagining what each notch represented.

Carefully, you held your hand over it, coaxing the magic to reveal itself, but couldn't focus properly with Waylan breathing down your neck, the magic slithering through your fingers like a sieve.

Suddenly the room went dark, all the light and air sucked from the world around you until you were staring into the void, cold dread dripping down your spine.

“Waylan?” You called, fighting the urge to panic. You tried to lift your arms to feel around, but found that you couldn't move. “Waylan?!” You cried, a little louder.

Something white, a delicate, vaguely human shaped mist floated by you and you screamed, unable to move away from it. Then another appeared, slightly more formed like a person, then another, until you were surrounded by spirits. Terror split your skull, your heart pounding so hard it made your vision shake.

“No, please,” you croaked, fighting your body to move even an inch away from them. “Let me go!” You shouted, but they only moved closer. “Let me go!”

Suddenly you slammed back into your body, the bright light of the room blinding you. You were on your back, staring up at the ceiling. Bill was leaning over you, his mouth moving like he was speaking.

“—m’right here, you're alright. It was just a trick, just a little curse. Wake up, love. Come back to me,” he murmured. “There we are, that's it,” he shushed when you began to shake, his grip tightening on your shoulders when you tried to sit up.

Your body was still tingling with numbness, nerves prickling painfully back to life. “Bill,” you gasped, clinging to him as you came fully back to consciousness.

“Are you alright? Does anything hurt?” He asked, helping you sit up slowly, one hand braced on the slope of your ribcage, the other supporting your head.

“No, no. I--what happened?” you asked, looking around the room. You noticed Waylan then, also prone on the floor, eyes staring wide at the ceiling. It seemed Bill made no effort to wake him up.

Bill glanced at Waylan as well, shaking his head. “He was trying to scare you. Prove you didn't deserve the position. And apparently was too stupid to realize the curse would affect him too.”

“Will he—”

“He'll be fine. Are you okay?” He repeated, catching your eye so you'd look at him.

You nodded. “I think so.”

Waylan groaned, stirring on the carpet, and you saw a flicker of anger in Bill’s eyes.

“Wait for me in the lobby,” he said, helping you to your feet. “I'll deal with him.” There was no question in his words, and you obeyed without thought, collecting your things and slipping out of the room.

As the elevator doors started to close, you heard Bill shout, “I should have you sent to fucking Azkaban for pulling—” The groan of the machine cut off the rest of his words.

You did as you were told and waited in the lobby for Bill, busying yourself with people watching and admiring the expansive marble floors.

Twenty minutes later, Bill appeared from one of the elevators, holding Waylan by the scruff of his neck, a box of his stuff in his arms. You jumped up, alarmed when a few security guards rushed over to them.

“Waylan is no longer permitted on the premises, my orders. I discovered him tampering with curses,” Bill directed. “He's a threat to Gringott’s security.”

Your jaw dropped when the security guards nodded and dragged Waylan away without question, effectively tossing him out onto the street of Diagon Alley.

Bill stepped up beside you, concern over your frowning face drawing his brows together. “What is it?” He asked.

“Did you—you fired him?” you stammered.

“Absolutely. I can't have someone on my staff that doesn't take curses seriously. It puts us all at risk,” he said, without an ounce of hesitation.

You nodded, you supposed that made sense.

He started walking, beckoning you to follow with two fingers, and you fell into step beside him. “Come on, I'm going to teach you how to dispel that curse.”

You froze. “What?”

He turned to look at at you. “You heard me, fledgling. I need to make sure something like this won't happen again.” His voice was firm, but not unkind, and you found yourself yielding despite your trepidation. “I'll be with you the entire time, okay?” He said, a bit softer when you returned to his side.

“And if we both get knocked out?” You scowled.

He smirked at your pout. “Do you doubt me?”

A pulse of heat curled around your spine, warming your lower belly. “No, sir,” you replied, intending it to come across as teasing, but you saw something dark flash in his eyes, something hungry, and your heart began to race.

Surely you imagined it, you told yourself as the two of you descended into the vaults. There was no way you could be affecting Bill the same way he was affecting you. He was Bill Weasley, and you were just some intern that got a lucky break. He would never be interested in you, not to mention how wrong it would be for a boss to be romantically involved with his subordinate.

So, why did that thought make your pulse spike?

He guided you to a private vault, the heavy door unlocking with a wave of his hand. The inside was dank and poorly lit, permeated with that same rotten smell as before. The axe rested on a table at the center of the room, encased in glass.

You hesitated at the door, that cold, deathly sensation crawling over your skin again.

Bill paused, sensing your fear. “You can do this,” he said, offering you his hand. “I'll walk you through it.”

You placed your hand on his, focusing on his warmth, his steadiness, as he led you into the vault.

“You can feel it, right? The energy of the void clinging to it?” He asked, his voice low.

You nodded. “Feels like death,” you murmured.

“That's what this curse does, makes you feel like you died. It was used by an old Ministry executioner to subdue prisoners before their deaths. Kept them from trying to escape.” He cast his eyes to the axe, a somber look on his face. “Waylan was supposed to leave it here until after my meeting. They just unearthed it this morning.”

“That's awful,” you said, finding yourself counting the notches along the handle. There had to be at least two hundred, maybe even five hundred.

“With every kill, it got stronger, until it eventually took the executioner himself. It was buried with him, until some unfortunate muggle grave robber dug it up and nearly killed himself.”

“So, how do we dispel it?” You asked, hating the tremble in your voice.

“Take your wand out,” he instructed, and you obeyed. “I'm going to open the box. Stay focused on your breathing, the ground beneath your feet. When I open the box, you'll feel it start to pull at you, to drag you under.”

You nodded, lifting your wand and squaring your shoulders, forcing your lungs to take big, deep breaths despite the rotten smell.

“Good, when you feel it pull at you, imagine your wand is an axe itself, okay? You're going to cut the tether of the curse reaching towards you. It will resist, but I promise you can do it. Ready?”

You grit your teeth. “Ready.”

With a wave of his wand, he opened the box. The curse spilled out of it, clawing and twisted, and you immediately felt the blackness start to tug at the edge of your vision, its cold talons digging into your flesh.

“You can do it, fledgling. I know you can. Fight it,” Bill encouraged, somewhere to your left.

You pushed back against the darkness, refocusing on your breathing, the stone beneath your feet, your wand at the tips of your fingers. You slashed through the air with it, imagining an axe cutting through thick, black tendrils, and suddenly the tugging sensation vanished, the blackness receding from your vision.

“Yes, good girl! Keep going, push it all the way back into the axe.”

You did, pushing with all your might against the dark magic until it began to retreat, sinking back into the blade of the axe. But it wouldn't go all the way in, resisting your quickly depleting energy, when you felt something akin to a warm breeze blow over you: Bill’s magic. It joined your efforts, making the final push to force the curse back into the axe.

“Now hold it for me. Just like that,” Bill said, moving around the room. “I'm going to try a counter curse, but it may not take. Are you ready?”

“Ready.” You nodded, a rush of excitement pulsing through you. You were actually doing it. And doing it well.

With a flourish of wand movements and a string of words you don't understand, a beam of white light blasted from the end of Bill's wand and towards the axe, blinding you.

Something gave a godawful shriek, echoing off the walls until rubble rained over your head, and you heard a thunderous snap, followed by a whoosh of screaming air.

The light suddenly vanished, leaving you and Bill alone in the dark room, silent besides your ragged breathing.

“Lumos,” Bill muttered, and the torches along the walls relit, revealing the room around you. The axe lay on its side on the table, splintered in half. The rotten smell, and the curse, were gone. The handle was now just smooth wood, no notches in sight.

You exhaled, a giddy laugh bubbling up, and Bill smiled, crossing the room to you.

“Let me see you, you alright?” He asked, taking your hands to inspect your trembling fingers. The touch sent a zing of energy under your skin. “It didn't hurt you?”

You shook your head, dizzy from his unexpected tenderness and the after effects of using so much magic. “I'm okay,” you murmured, a little breathless.

“Okay,” he said, releasing your hands, though for a second, he seemed reluctant to. “I'll clean up here. Go home and get some rest, yeah?”

“Yes, sir,” you said, dipping your chin obediently.

His eyes searched your face for a moment longer, his jaw flexing, before he nodded once and turned back to the axe, dismissing you.

You slipped out of the vault and returned to the surface, reckless hope burning in your chest.

>Part Two

Thanks for reading! 🫶🏻

[imaloregremlin]

You know it’s bad when the Minecraft YouTubers roleplaying as government officials are actually better than your own government officials.

in light of this election, i will now be moving to pixandria

see you guys never

[shiftthemoon]

THINGS YOUR DRS REMIND ME OF ✷ sunlight, or moonlight?

✺ TABLE OF CONTENTS :

harry potter dr. fantastic beasts dr. percy jackson dr. fame dr. mermaid dr. f1 driver dr. httyd dr. game of thrones dr. hunger games dr. marvel dr. spider-man + spiderverse dr. marauders era dr. arcane dr. vampire dr. pirate dr.

psssst!!! post's layout was ib hrrtshape!! my fav mootie ever,, ♡

⊹₊ ✰ ⋆ NOW READING ┋ harry potter dr.

your hogwarts reality feels like rainy afternoons, where clouds cling to the sky like an unspoken promise. it’s libraries that smell of leather and parchment, the kind where you breathe in and suddenly remember things you’ve never lived.

• it reminds me of the soft hum of the cranberries’ “dreams” or the low ache in radiohead’s “exit music (for a film).”

• it feels like the gothic spires of edinburgh, dark green scarves blowing in the wind, and the cold stone streets of york.

• movies like dead poets society and stardust carry the same weight, that blend of whimsy and melancholy, where magic isn’t just magic—it’s rebellion, it’s survival.

• this dr smells like earl grey tea, sharp with bergamot, and the flickering glow of a candle dripping wax onto an old oak desk. it’s virgo sun with scorpio moon energy: structured, mysterious, aching with purpose.

• autumn is your season—cool winds, warm fires, and leaves crackling underfoot.

⊹₊ ✰ ⋆ NOW READING ┋ fantastic beasts & where to find them dr.

this dr is gold filigree and vintage maps, the kind you get lost in, only to discover yourself in the borders. it’s the delicate art of understanding things bigger than you—creatures, love, alchemy.

• it’s the nostalgic drawl of jeff buckley’s “hallelujah” or fleetwood mac’s “the chain,” songs that sound like they were written by ancient souls.

• feels like london, fog rolling off the thames at dawn, or somewhere quieter, like oxford or canterbury, where history whispers to you in cobblestone cracks.

• watch the theory of everything or midnight in paris, for that subtle sense of chasing something you’ll never quite touch but will die trying to understand.

• it smells like leather gloves and ink-stained fingers. it feels like cancer venus — taurus mars — gemini mercury energy: tender, protective, but a little guarded.

• winter. always winter. the kind of cold that bites, but you endure it because it reminds you you’re alive.

⊹₊ ✰ ⋆ NOW READING ┋ percy jackson dr.

camp half-blood hums like cicadas at twilight, drenched in summer heat and the salt of the sea. it’s friendship forged in battle, love found between cracks in the earth.

• this dr is nirvana’s “come as you are” and smashing pumpkins’ “1979.” chaotic, nostalgic, but alive.

• it’s greece in all its ancient glory—the ruins of delphi, the waves crashing at the cliffs of santorini. but it’s also the rugged coastlines of california, where myths could hide in the spray of the pacific.

• the movies the perks of being a wallflower and the goonies echo this vibe: coming-of-age stories tied with adventure and heartache.

• it’s that faint copper smell of blood and the earthy scent of olive trees. sagittarius rising — aquarius mercury — aries mars energy: reckless, bold, chasing freedom with no map in hand.

• summer. long days, wild nights, golden sunsets.

⊹₊ ✰ ⋆ NOW READING ┋ fame dr.

this dr is glitter in your veins, like electricity is the only thing keeping you moving. it’s the hum of the spotlight, the chaos of dreams colliding with reality.

• this one is björk’s “human behaviour” and radiohead’s “high and dry.” a little experimental, a little tragic, but undeniably iconic.

• it’s new york city, obviously—broadway lights cutting through the smoke, or maybe los angeles, a city burning with ambition.

• black swan and whiplash—these movies carry the same brutal hunger, the obsession that eats you alive but makes it all worth it.

• it smells like sweat and perfume and cigarette smoke, all blending together under flashing lights. aries moon — leo sun — gemini venus energy: fiery, intense, unapologetically raw.

• spring—the season of beginnings, of things growing, of chasing what could be.

⊹₊ ✰ ⋆ NOW READING ┋ mermaid dr.

this dr feels like the ocean’s lullaby, where the waves carry secrets and the moon pulls your heart like a tide. it’s otherworldly and yet familiar, like a dream you wake up from, still tasting salt on your lips.

• it sounds like enya’s “sail away” or the cure’s “lullaby.” haunting, ethereal, but grounding.

• the turquoise waters of the maldives, or the dark, stormy coasts of cornwall, where cliffs meet an endless horizon.

• the shape of water and ponyo—love stories where the sea breathes life into forgotten places.

• it’s the smell of saltwater and seaweed, the sting of ocean spray against your cheeks. pisces sun & neptune — taurus moon energy: dreamy, fluid, a little lost but beautifully so.

• late summer, early autumn—those blurry in-between days when the air holds onto its warmth just a little longer.

⊹₊ ✰ ⋆ NOW READING ┋ f1 driver dr.

your f1 dr feels like adrenaline in your veins, the roar of engines, and the wind whipping against your face. it’s speed, competition, but also the camaraderie of shared obsession.

• it sounds like oasis’ “champagne supernova” and the killers’ “all these things that i’ve done.” songs that echo triumph, heartbreak, and everything in between.

• monaco glitters in this dr: yachts anchored in the harbor, the narrow streets drenched in sunlight. but it’s also the neon-soaked nights of singapore and the deserts of bahrain, where the air hums with tension.

• movies like rush and ford v ferrari capture the heart of this dr—rivalries, passion, and the pursuit of perfection.

• it smells like burnt rubber, sweat, and the metallic tang of engines. aries sun — capricorn mars — aquarius uranus energy: fiercely competitive, always chasing the next thrill.

• summer, specifically those late august days when the air is electric with possibility.

⊹₊ ✰ ⋆ NOW READING ┋ how to train your dragon dr.

your how to train your dragon dr is wind-tossed hair, wild laughter, and the freedom of flying. it’s the untamed beauty of a world that doesn’t quite exist but should.

• it’s muse’s “starlight” and florence + the machine’s “dog days are over.” songs that feel like they could lift you into the clouds.

• it smells like the briny ocean, dragon scales warmed by the sun, and the smoky scent of campfires.

• the cliffs and fjords of norway, the volcanic shores of iceland—this dr is rugged and alive, filled with places where magic hides in the landscape.

• movies like spirit: stallion of the cimarron and brave echo this vibe: freedom, connection, and the push against expectations.

• it feels like sagittarius moon & jupiter — aquarius moon energy: wild-hearted, always exploring, always yearning for more.

• spring, where the world blooms and feels untamed, uncharted, and full of life.

⊹₊ ✰ ⋆ NOW READING ┋ game of thrones dr.

your game of thrones dr is fire and ice, betrayal and loyalty, the sharp edge of power balanced with the fragility of hope. it’s a world where survival is its own form of poetry.

• it’s joy division’s “atmosphere” and led zeppelin’s “stairway to heaven.” haunting and raw, filled with the weight of kingdoms rising and falling.

• the ancient castles of scotland, the desolate beauty of the sahara, the twisting streets of dubrovnik—places where history feels alive, where whispers of power still linger.

• movies like gladiator and kingdom of heaven hold the same pulse: grand, epic, and dripping in drama.

• it smells like blood, snow, and the faint sweetness of wine. scorpio rising — capricorn mars & mercury energy: intense, strategic, magnetic, but dangerous if crossed.

• winter—long, harsh, and unforgiving, yet filled with moments of beauty that steal your breath.

⊹₊ ✰ ⋆ NOW READING ┋ hunger games dr.

your hunger games dr is survival carved into your bones, rebellion written in the ashes of the world. it’s the quiet rage of the oppressed turned into a wildfire.

• it’s nine inch nails’ “hurt” and linkin park’s “in the end.” desperate, raw, and relentless, but with a thread of hope.

• the forests of appalachia, the industrial grit of detroit, the sprawling deserts of utah—it’s a patchwork of places where survival feels elemental.

• movies like children of men and the road share this dr’s heart: bleak and brutal, but deeply human.

• it smells like damp earth, gunpowder, and the acrid scent of fire. capricorn mars — virgo venus — leo rising energy: unrelenting, ambitious, and forged in hardship.

• autumn, when the air turns cold, and the trees burn with color, reminding you that beauty exists even in endings.

⊹₊ ✰ ⋆ NOW READING ┋ marvel dr.

your marvel dr is the blur of action and humanity, larger-than-life stakes grounded in the intimacy of love, loss, and choice. it’s heroes who bleed and villains who cry.

• it’s u2’s “with or without you” and audioslave’s “like a stone.” powerful, aching, and utterly cinematic.

• new york city pulses through this dr: the skyline glowing at night, the chaos of people, the hidden corners where stories unfold.

• movies like the dark knight and logan carry the same weight: gritty, emotional, and built on moral gray areas.

• it smells like leather jackets, rain-slick streets, and the metallic tang of battle. aquarius sun — leo mars — gemini moon energy: visionary, a little distant, always fighting for the greater good.

• spring and fall—transitional seasons that feel like the calm before and after the storm.

⊹₊ ✰ ⋆ NOW READING ┋ spider-man + spiderverse dr.

your spiderverse dr feels like swinging between skyscrapers, the air electric with possibility and purpose. it’s chaos and connection, a kaleidoscope of choices and the weight of responsibility.

• it’s the strokes’ “reptilia” and gorillaz’s “feel good inc.”—gritty, pulsing, and full of edge.

• the streets of brooklyn, the neon haze of tokyo, or the rooftops of chicago, where the city is a character all its own.

• movies like blade runner 2049 and tron: legacy carry this vibe: sleek, emotional, and larger than life.

• it smells like rain on pavement, fresh paint on a graffiti wall, and the ozone tang of lightning. aquarius mercury — gemini mars — libra moon energy: inventive, unconventional, and sharp-witted.

• spring—when the world starts to bloom again, full of fresh starts and untold stories.

⊹₊ ✰ ⋆ NOW READING ┋ marauders era dr.

your marauders dr is all late-night laughter and whispered secrets, rebellion scrawled in ink and moonlight. it’s the ache of youth, of moments that feel infinite but are fleeting.

• it’s pink floyd’s “wish you were here” and fleetwood mac’s “rhiannon.” bittersweet, timeless, full of soul.

• feels like the hidden alleys of london, the rolling hills of wales, or the misty forests of the scottish highlands.

• movies like the breakfast club and dead poets society carry this dr’s energy—complicated friendships, rebellion, and nostalgia for a time that might not have been perfect but was yours.

• it smells like old books, cigarette smoke, and the faint sweetness of butterbeer. libra moon — cancer sun — pisces venus energy: romantic, thoughtful, and deeply tied to relationships.

• autumn, when the world feels crisp, nostalgic, and alive with change.

⊹�� ✰ ⋆ NOW READING ┋ arcane dr.

your arcane dr is a masterpiece of contradictions—gritty streets juxtaposed with glittering innovation. it’s a world of broken dreams and endless ambition.

• it’s placebo’s “every you every me” and radiohead’s “no surprises.” raw, haunting, and brimming with unspoken emotion.

• zaun is the heart of this dr: neon lights cutting through the smoke, the underbelly of progress. piltover looms above, all gold and power.

• movies like v for vendetta and ghost in the shell share this vibe: revolutionary, futuristic, and deeply human.

• it smells like oil, soot, and metallic sparks. pluto & mars in aquarius — scorpio moon energy: transformative, innovative, and unapologetically intense.

• winter—the cold amplifies the tension, the longing for warmth, the fight for survival.

⊹₊ ✰ ⋆ NOW READING ┋ vampire dr.

your vampire dr is velvet and shadows, the allure of eternity balanced with the weight of it. it’s beauty that bites, darkness that whispers, and immortality that aches.

• it’s bauhaus’ “bela lugosi’s dead” and depeche mode’s “enjoy the silence.” moody, sensual, and timeless.

• feels like prague at midnight, the foggy streets of victorian london, or the endless forests of transylvania.

• movies like interview with the vampire and crimson peak embody this dr—hauntingly beautiful, filled with danger and longing.

• it smells like old wine, wax-dripping candles, and the iron tang of blood. scorpio sun — libra venus — pisces mercury energy: intense, magnetic, and deeply tied to the unseen.

• late autumn, when the world is cold and still, and the nights stretch on forever.

⊹₊ ✰ ⋆ NOW READING ┋ pirate dr.

your pirate dr is salt spray in your hair, the endless expanse of the horizon, and the reckless freedom of a life untethered. it’s treasure maps and tempestuous seas, loyalty forged in fire.

• it’s the rolling stones’ “paint it black” and led zeppelin’s “immigrant song.” wild, untamed, and unapologetic.

• the caribbean islands, the rocky cliffs of ireland, or the misty coasts of the azores—where the ocean feels infinite and alive.

• movies like pirates of the caribbean: the curse of the black pearl and master and commander echo this dr: swashbuckling adventure, grit, and loyalty.

• it smells like saltwater, rum, and the wood of a well-worn ship. sagittarius mars — pisces rising — aries sun energy: adventurous, daring, and always chasing the next horizon.

• summer, especially in the golden haze of dusk, when the ocean glows like molten gold.

[valoisfulcanellideux]

From Pix’s first dungeon run of the Lost Crypt on Misadventures SMP, streamed Thursday 27th March 2025. This is the moment of realisation that he had found a tribute to the Vigil.

Transcript:

"What is this?" [reads the epitaph on the tomb] "'Beloved Dragon of the Crystal Cliffs'? Oh!" [starts lighting the candles around the tomb] "So, we've got to light the… there are these pink and purple candles all around here…" [continues lighting the candles, and then he lights a plain ivory candle - the colour of the Copper King's candle - and the moment of realisation hits] "Oh, you know what? [laughs] I think I may have gathered what this is about…" [continues lighting candles until the room suddenly lights up and 'You will be rewarded for this' appears across the screen] "[gasp] Yaaay! Okay! All right! Yeeeaahh! We'll be rewarded for that. Okay, cool. So that's one of the things like the levers in the slime dungeon? That's about, like, maybe there being a reward at the exit for me now." [pause] "Aw. Little tribute to the Vigil. [fond, delighted smile] Oh, I love it so much! You mad lads. What, are you gonna put candles in a dungeon and expect ME not to light them? Come on! Come on! [laughs]"

ETA: And here is the moment where he discovered the tomb of the King of Copper.

[dailyadventureprompts]

Settlement: Errishaan, where Inspiration Rises with the Tide

Artsource1 Artsource2

Though it boasts no mighty navy or renowned trading port, the harbour town of Errishaan has seen an unexpected surge in prosperity in recent years as it's become something of a hotspot for some of the most brillaint minds in the realm.

Tinkerers and scholars of all kinds have begun flocking to the cliffside settlement in droves, hoping to obtain the attention of its ruler, Countess Milsa Bonharte , who's become a famed patron of the inventive arts over the past decade and a half.

What began as an informal gathering of minds has breathed new life into Errishaan which now boasts numerous workshops, annual innovator's competitions, and a thriving trade in clockworks.

Adventure Hooks:

Of the region's biggest attractions is the Savyswell Rally, an annual competition where various the boatbuilders and artificers of Errishaan race self made vessels to see who can be the first one to cross the notoriously turbulent waters to the town's lighthouse and back, with the caveat that their creations can only use magical forms of propulsion AFTER the half way mark. The party might be seeking the aid of one of these artificers and be drawn into the competition as a means of paying off their services, or they may have a friend/relation/contact who's in need of a hand as the deadline draws near.

Beyond drawing it's livelyhood from the sea, the cliffs surrounding Errishaan do a tidy trade in copper, and the local mines and metalworks are always willing to pay adventurers to help drive off cavedwelling monsters or runaway elementals. Cannonmakers Heldok & Loyid are having a bit of trouble with one of the latter, as the ignis bound to their foundry has become a bit hyperactive after one too many overtime shifts doing important work for the Countess. Now it's slipped its arcane bonds and is going about town manicly smelting things like a blacksmith's forge hopped up on one too many 5 hour energy shots.

Seeing the potential in all the curious minds drawn to Errishaan by the influx of Artifice and Lady Bonharte's patronage, a travelling dedicate of the Archheart named Dijdek has taken it upon himself to found an academy where the magics, crafts, and sciences can be recorded and taught formally. Doing so is easier said than done, as he'll need to convince at least a few of the infamously protective master artificers to consider teaching, and convince the Countess to help provide funding. The first step in this endeavour will be finding a place to establish the academy, an abandoned monastery not far from town might be just the place, but something dangerous is lairing there and most folk have written it off. Perhaps a little divine meddling can bring the priest and the party together for common cause.

Though no one would speak it publicly, it's commonly thought that Countess Milsa's interest in inventions is a distraction from the sorrow she feels at her husband's untimely death, a means to feel close to the famously brilliant man by surrounding herself with the science he loved.

People think too little of Milsa Bonharte, they always have. She was the pretty daughter of a wealthy merchant, courted by an eccentric noble ten years her senior thought mostly unmarrigeable for his habit of splashing about in tidepools and fucking off for weeks at a time to study the migration patterns and mating habits of the local sea birds.

Milsa loved Daedalyn, loved him for being someone who would deny the decorum of his station to chase his passion, loved him for being one of the few to see the clever mind behind her pretty face, loved him with a fierceness that neither death nor the ocean could deny.

So when his ship went down in a storm, she made a vow: The water could have her tears, it would not keep his bones.

Milsa was not a mage, nor was she an engineer, but with her husband's title, her family's connections, and her own business acumen, she could bend the talents of mages and engineers to her purpose: to build a craft that could recover Daedalyn's ship ( the Sandpiper) from the deep and bring his remains to rest in the Bonharte family crypt where she would one day join him.

After fifteen years her vessel, her Vow, is nearly complete, ready to delve into the depths and bring her husband home. All that's needed are some final preparations, some last mechanical and course adjustments, and maybe the addiction of a few worthy heroes to the crew.

Further Adventures:

The Bonhartes had three children before the Daedalyn was lost to the waves, and all three feel the tragedy of his loss in a different way. Madalyn, the youngest was an infant when her father died, and grew up the dutiful daughter of a mother who's attentions were largely elsewhere. Mildryd, eldest, remembers the happy times the best, and has felt their loss most sharply, sinking into sullenness , spending most of her time in the castle library or listlessly watching the sea. The family's servants are worried about her melancholy, having found a diary overfull with vivid and poetic descriptions of death and drowning. In reality the budding little goth is just working through her emotions... partially with the help of her secret merfolk boyfriend named Eddy who's also so done with like, everything. Teenagers, am I right?

Then there's Delsyn, the tempestuous middle child. with a lot of mixed up feelings and no way to channel them, Delsyn has a history of acting out...the latest of which happens to be using a fake name to sign up for the same Savyswell team the party are on, recklessly pushing them forward to the point where he'll likely get himself or others hurt.

The sandpiper was lost on a scholarly expedition, using Daedalyn's newly acquired diving bell to explore the wonders of a not so distant coral reef. With more than one wreck site reported and no confirmations, Milsa and the crew of the Vow will need to check all of them, an exacting process that will have the party encountering all kinds of hostile sea life (big and small and very, very big) as well as negotiating with territorial merfolk (hey, maybe Eddy can help smooth things over).

What Milsa couldn't have known is that the storm that destroyed Daedalyn's ship was a magical one, creating a whirlpool that sucked the vessel and all those aboard it into an aquatic demiplane before smashing it into the ruins of a sunken city. Her husband was in the diving bell at the time, and managed to make a desperate swim for shelter when it was evident that rescue was impossible. Trapped in a series of half flooded ruins, Daedalyn has managed to survive the intervening years in the half flooded ruins, barely staving off madness and the dark influences of the Demiplane. If the party do it right, they might just might be able to give this double tragedy a happy ending after all.

[valyrianink]

Whispers

Aemond Targaryen x Targaryen Niece Reader

۶ৎ 4.8k words

↳ Summary:

Speculations lingered in hushed corners of court that Prince Jacaerys and his twin shared more than just blood. Such rumors left Aemond burdened with silent longing. Yet he knew not then, whispers are just whispers.

↳ Warnings:

MDNI! 18+, Targcest (Uncle/Niece Dynamic), Speculations of Twincest (Jace/Twin Sister Reader), Power Dynamics, Mention of Jealousy, Mention of Alcohol

The streets of King’s Landing were veiled in shadow, torches casting flickers of gold on stone and soot as Aemond made his way back from a meeting that dragged too long, with lords who spoke too little sense. Vhagar was left resting at the Dragonpit hours ago, her wings folded like the roofs of temples, unmoved by war or politics. Aemond preferred the stillness now. The cool descent of night, the thinning of crowds, the weightless press of dusk.

But just before the gate, he paused.

There. Through the narrow arch where the cliffs curved toward the Blackwater, he saw movement.

Two figures, cloaked not in armor but moonlight. Quiet. Free.

His feet moved before reason followed.

He knew that gait. That voice. That laughter like silver hitting water.

You.

You, barefoot on the pale sand, robe slipping off one shoulder, your hair half-braided as if you’d undone it in a hurry, dragging Jace by the hand with mischief in your eyes.

Jacaerys said something low, and you laughed again, louder this time, before he tugged at your waist and pulled you near. His mouth caught your temple, then your cheek, and you let him. Not in desire, but comfort. Habit.

Aemond’s breath halted as you reached for the ties of your gown and let it fall.

Not fully, not ceremonious, just enough for the silk to pool at your feet.

And gods help him.

His eye stayed rooted as you stepped into the water, Jace trailing close, his hand steady at your back. They were like children, he told himself. Foolish, fearless, loud. But then you turned slightly, chest rising, the moon cresting your collarbone as Jace whispered something into the hollow of your ear.

You tilted your head back to laugh and Aemond felt it. Like a lash. Like a blade.

He should’ve turned away.

Should’ve walked. Should’ve run.

Instead, he stayed. Watched.

Not out of curiosity.

But because his body refused to move.

He returned to the Keep without a word.

The sentries saw nothing in his gait to suggest unrest. No one caught the storm roiling beneath the surface, least of all the servants who bowed low as he passed, unaware that the prince’s composure tonight was a blade drawn thin.

He walked in silence. Through the long stone halls, through the shadowed turns of the tower, to the chamber where he always ended his day alone.

But tonight, he was not alone in his mind.

He entered his quarters slowly, locking the door with a click too soft to echo. He paused only to unbuckle his sword, letting it rest against the carved edge of the hearth. The rest he discarded by rote: his cloak, his boots, the tunic that still smelled faintly of wind and smoke.

Steam curled from behind the tall wooden screen where a bath had been drawn, the copper tub set deep and wide, the water still steaming.

He stepped toward it wordlessly.

The firelight flickered golden across the water’s surface, refracting in broken halos on the stone walls. Aemond’s breath was steady, but his hands, his hands betrayed him.

They lingered at his belt. Tense.

He undressed in silence.

The heat licked up his skin as he stepped in, muscles twitching as they adjusted to the warmth. He sank lower until water covered his chest, the dim light catching the sharp angle of his jaw, the single sapphire glinting faintly in its place.

But even in the water, he could not forget.

You. Rising from the waves like something sacred. Your smile unguarded, your hair clinging to your skin. And Jacaerys? His hands on you as if he owned what Aemond never dared reach for.

His jaw tightened. One hand gripped the rim of the tub.

The other slid lower.

This was not indulgence. This was discipline, twisted and contorted by the rot of longing. By the knowledge that you, twin to his enemy, daughter of his father’s shame, moved through the world untouched by the consequence you deserved.

His breath hissed between his teeth as his fingers dipped below the water.

He imagined your voice first. Low. Teasing. That silken tone you used when you knew you’d won an argument in court. That glint in your eye when you turned away from him, smug, victorious, unaware that each step you took was a hook dragging deeper into him.

He imagined your hands. Soft but sure, bracing yourself on his chest. Or curling around the edge of the bath, steam rising around you as you leaned in too close.

The flicker of your mouth.

The curve of your breast, half-covered by silk, then not at all.

The sound of your breath catching, high and helpless as he touched you where Jacaerys never should have.

Aemond’s head tipped back, hair damp against the edge of the tub. His hand moved with purpose now, slow but deliberate, caught between rage and reverence. He squeezed his eyes shut and saw you there. Wet and flushed, pinned beneath his palm like something wild made docile only for him.

"Say it," he imagined himself snarling. "Say who it is you want."

And you, lips parted, shuddering. You would say his name.

Not the bastard’s.

His.

A quiet grunt escaped him as his body tensed, pleasure cresting through him like flame in dry kindling. He did not speak. He did not moan.

He burned.

And when it was done, when his breath slowed and his hand fell still beneath the water, he sat there motionless.

۶ৎ ─── ⋆⋅ ♰ ⋅⋆ ─── ۶ৎ ─── ⋆⋅ ♰ ⋅⋆ ─── ۶ৎ

In the days that followed, the Red Keep resumed its rhythm. Tension pulsed beneath every gilded hallway, but the motions remained the same. Morning audiences. Training in the yards. Quiet suppers with veiled glances cast across long, lacquered tables. The air hung heavy, thick with the unsaid, the unsolved.

You moved through it all like a shadow dressed in silk.

Composed. Civil. Pleasant, when necessary.

You greeted Queen Alicent with a respectful nod. You stood beside Rhaenyra with measured ease. When your brother sparred in the yard, eyes sharp with something more than competition, you would clap. When your aunt Helaena mumbled verses to herself, you paused to listen, offering a gentle smile.

You were a princess. And you played your part.

Even if the halls were colder now.

Even if your dreams were haunted by silver hair and a sapphire stare you could never name aloud.

There was no time to dwell. The duties of royalty made perfect distractions. You studied maps beside your grandsire. You rode your dragon when restlessness gnawed at your ribs. You exchanged polite conversation with the maesters, learned the names of lords you’d likely never meet. The Keep bustled around you and in that, you found strange relief.

And yet.

There were moments.

Brief, stolen, unnerving.

Moments when your gaze would drift across the training yard… and catch his.

There hadn’t been many words between you. But there were moments. Fleeting, almost forgettable, if not for how they made your skin prickle with awareness.

You would see him sometimes in the Dragonpit, just as you were preparing for a ride or leading your dragon back to its lair. You never went there expecting to run into him, and yet somehow you did. He would emerge from the shadows, boots heavy against stone, Vhagar’s looming presence behind him. You would nod. He would bow.

"Uncle," you’d say, chin lifting just slightly.

"Princess," he’d return, curt and cool.

It was never more than that. Just the brushing of titles in an echo chamber of smoke and dragonfire. But something always lingered in his eye, something unreadable. You never stopped to name it.

And then there were the times in the yard.

On some afternoons, when the court felt suffocating and your thoughts restless, you would join your brother at archery. You never said it aloud, but you were a fair shot. Jace would try to correct your form with that big-brother know-it-all charm.

Aemond, of course, was always near.

Sometimes he sparred. Other times he only watched, arms crossed and stance coiled like a spring. But once, just once, you caught him saying it.

"Your grip is too tight. You’ll lose aim that way."

You turned then, startled, and met his eye.

"I wasn’t asking," you replied evenly.

He only lifted a brow. "Then don’t miss."

You didn’t. Not that time.

But you also didn’t thank him.

And you didn’t forget it either.

Then, there was that one night.

You had been creeping back through the Keep, hood pulled low, boots silent on cold stone. The moon was high, the castle quiet. You had slipped past the guards with the same daring you always had. Restless blood called for restless nights. The cool air outside the castle walls had sobered you slightly, but not completely. Your cheeks were still warm, the thrill of the night still buzzing in your veins.

You didn’t expect anyone to be in the hallways. Certainly not him.

But there he was, coming around the corner, fresh from some late-night venture of his own. He didn’t stumble, but there was a looseness to him. A scent, too. Wine. Myrrh. Maybe more. Maybe less.

You stopped. He did too.

"Uncle," you greeted coolly, as if your pulse wasn’t suddenly hammering in your throat.

"Princess," he said, voice low.

His eye scanned you. Your windblown hair, your cloak pulled hastily across your chest, the flushed glow of your cheeks. He said nothing more. Neither did you. The moment passed, thick and quiet, like the heavy press of a thunderstorm before it breaks.

You both moved on.

But not for long.

It wasn’t the last time your paths would cross under moonlight.

A few days later, gods knew from what escapade, you found yourself returning to the Keep again after dark. Your head was light, feet uneven. The world felt like it spun just a little too fast, but you didn’t mind. A little fun wasn’t forbidden. Not yet, anyway.

Aegon had brought you out that night, one of his rare moments of generosity though you were never sure if it was born of affection or boredom. He’d paraded you through the Streets of Silk like a precious bauble, daring anyone to stare too long at the girl on his arm. "My favorite niece," he had called you. "Beautiful thing."

You remembered laughter. Too many goblets passed to your hands. A dancer with veils who taught you to move with your hips. A drink that burned your throat and made you laugh so hard you nearly fell backward.

And now gods, now you were stumbling into the shadowed halls of the Red Keep, cloak half-askew, boots scuffing too loudly across stone.

You didn’t even realize you weren’t alone until a hand seized your arm and yanked you backward hard.

You gave a small yelp, but it was quickly muffled. A strong hand clamped gently over your mouth, the other bracing your back as your body hit cold stone tucked into the narrow recess of a pillar just off the hallway.

You blinked.

And found yourself face-to-face with him.

Aemond.

He was cloaked in black, tall and looming, scent of leather and steel hanging from him like fog. His silver hair was tied back, his single eye sharp even in the dark.

His hand still covered your mouth.

You didn’t know whether to laugh or glare.

Then, faintly, boots echoed down the corridor. Guards. You could hear them now, their steps brisk and purposeful. They were close.

You froze. So did he.

His body pressed closer against yours, shielding you completely from sight. You could feel the hilt of his sword grazing your hip. His breath was calm against your cheek, and you, gods, you were anything but calm.

You said something behind his palm. Muffled, nonsense.

His eye narrowed.

"Quiet," he mouthed.

You huffed but stayed still, a giddy little thrill tickling your spine.

The guards passed.

Their steps faded.

Aemond finally let go.

And you immediately slumped forward with a grin, giggling.

"Shouldn’t you be asleep, Uncle?" you slurred, half-laughing.

You lost your balance as soon as the words left your mouth, your weight pitching forward from your heeled boots and clouded head.

He caught you before you could fall completely. Hands firm around your waist, drawing you upright again. Your hands found purchase at his chest, and for one dizzy, breathless second, the two of you stood there like dancers caught in stillness.

"You reek of silk and wine," he muttered, his tone clipped.

"Thank you," you smiled, eyes heavy. "I try my best."

His jaw ticked.

"Did Aegon drag you to the brothels again?"

"Drag?" You scoffed. "He invited. I accepted. I'm not some damsel, Uncle."

"And yet here you are," he said, steadying you once more as you swayed. "Tripping over yourself in a hallway like one."

"Was that concern?" you teased, lips quirking.

He didn’t answer.

But his hand lingered at your waist.

And his gaze, sharp and unreadable stayed fixed on you, even when the silence began to stretch.

You licked your lips, still breathless.

"You’re staring."

"You’re drunk."

"Very," you whispered. "But not blind."

His grip on you tightened, just slightly.

"Do you even realize what could’ve happened if a guard found you like this?" he asked.

"But you found me instead," you countered, voice softer now. "How lucky I am."

Aemond stared at you for a beat too long. Your words lingered like incense between you, sweet and provocative.

But you were swaying again, head lolling lightly to the side as you blinked blearily at him. You looked at your feet, then down the corridor, then back at him.

"...Where were my chambers again?"

He sighed.

"You’re hopeless," he muttered and before you could protest, you were hoisted.

A yelp escaped your lips, sharp and indignant as he threw you over his shoulder like a sack of grain.

"Seven—bloody—hells—Aemond!" you cried, voice muffled against his cloak. “You can’t just go around manhandling princesses!”

"Quiet," he hissed. "Do you want to wake the entire Keep?"

"You're kidnapping me!"

He walked briskly, steps silent despite your flailing limbs. You kept yapping as he carried you, unbothered and far too amused by your own drunkenness.

"Are you always this grumpy at night? Maybe you need a drink. I needed three—no, four. That last one didn’t count. Too small. But—"

"If you don’t shut up," he muttered under his breath, "I swear on Vhagar, she wouldn't mind to have a princess as meal."

That got a giggle out of you. “You're so dramatic, uncle.”

"You’re lucky it’s me who found you," he growled low.

"I am lucky," you agreed smugly. "You’re my favorite uncle, after all."

He said nothing to that. But his pace quickened.

When he finally reached your chambers, two handmaidens were inside finishing the lighting of your hearth and arranging fresh towels by your bath. They barely turned at the door creaking open until they saw him, with you slung over his shoulder.

Their eyes widened.

"Leave," Aemond ordered, voice firm.

They scrambled, dipping into clumsy curtsies before hurrying out. The door shut behind them.

He set you down with a gentleness you didn’t expect, guiding you to the bed as though you were made of glass. You landed softly atop the coverlet, hair a mess, cheeks flushed, lips parted from half-spoken thoughts.

But your hand didn’t let go of him.

Instead, your fingers fisted in the collar of his tunic, pulling him slightly downward.

"You’re always in a hurry," you murmured, eyes half-lidded and teasing. "Don’t even stay for a kiss?"

"I have business to tend to."

You pouted. “You’re no fun.”

And with an unexpected strength, still drunk but not entirely helpless, you pushed yourself upright. Your balance faltered, so your hand braced against his chest. Broad, firm, warm beneath the fabric.

Now face to face.

Your breath slowed.

His didn’t.

You stared up at him, barely a hair’s breadth between you. His eye flicked from your gaze to your lips, then back again. His body didn’t move, but something in the air did. Like the moment before lightning strikes.

You smirked.

“Liar,” you whispered. “You’re staying.”

Your fingers slipped to the clasp of your cloak. A flick, a shift. And it fell to the floor with a whisper, revealing the dress beneath.

Aemond stilled.

Gods.

You were still clothed, yes, but only barely. The white fabric hugged your frame too well, too soft, too bare to have come from any of the royal seamstresses. Light caught the sheerness at the hem, and the neckline dipped just low enough that he averted his gaze. Not out of disinterest, but out of sheer discipline.

It was not a dress meant to be worn within the Keep, and certainly not one your mother would’ve approved of. If Rhaenyra had seen you in it, she might’ve summoned a tailor and a septa all in the same breath.

But Aemond was no septon.

And you were no saint.

You swayed slightly, intoxication still clinging to your limbs, but your gaze was clear now. Sharp, curious, hungry.

He forced himself to speak.

"You should rest," he said, tone flat but heavy. "I’ll call your handmaidens to draw your bath. Then you’re going to sleep."

But that only made you laugh.

A soft, melodic sound, mocking and amused.

You reached for his cloak this time, tugging it from his shoulders with easy familiarity. It joined yours on the floor in a heap of dark velvet and silver embroidery.

“You’ve always had such a noble mouth,” you teased, eyes raking over him. “But your body opposes.”

He didn’t move.

Didn’t breathe.

Your hands found the edge of his sword belt, fingers working with almost practiced ease as you began to remove it. Your knuckles brushed against his hips, his abdomen, warmth radiating through his leathers.

Then, your fingers slid to the fastenings at his chest, beginning to unlace the upper half of his usual leather jerkin, tugging at the buckles just beneath his collarbone.

His hand caught yours.

Firm. Final.

"I'm not going to repeat myself," he said, voice low and dangerous.

But you just tilted your head, lips parting slowly, breaths mingling.

"Then don’t," you whispered. "Just feel. Don’t lie to yourself, Uncle," you murmured, your breath brushing his cheek. "I know you want it too."

Your hand slid down, slow and deliberate, until it found the growing evidence of his arousal beneath the folds of his tunic and leathers. He inhaled sharply as your fingers stroked him through the fabric. Unhurried, unbothered, daring.

That was when his hand rose to your throat.

Not harshly.

Not to harm.

But with enough pressure, just enough to remind you that no matter how clever your mouth was or how bold your touch, he was still the one in control.

Your eyes met his.

Neither of you smiled.

This wasn’t jest.

This was truth laid bare.

His gaze was storm and fire. Silent, but aching.

Yours was open, defiant. Willing.

"You're enjoying this," Aemond murmured, his voice low and taut as wire, lips brushing the shell of your ear. "I hope you know what you're signing up for."

You didn’t flinch. You didn’t falter.

Your fingers tightened around the heat of him, stroking with firmer intent now, deliberate and slow. "Always have," you whispered, gaze steady beneath his. "Always been."

"Then you’re mine."

No more warning.

His mouth crashed into yours, wild and starved. You moaned against him as he kissed you like he’d been dying for it, like years of restraint had crumbled in a breath.

And your hand kept working him, unrelenting, until the growl in his throat became something dangerously close to a whimper.

He kissed like a man unhinged. Desperate, controlled only by the years he had forced himself to look, never touch. His hand at your throat moved to your jaw, tilting your face so he could deepen the kiss, tongue sweeping into your mouth as if claiming territory long denied.

But you wanted more.

Your fingers moved with purpose, loosening the leather across his chest, unfastening clasps one by one until his clothing parted, revealing skin hot and taut beneath your touch. You swallowed the low groan that rumbled from his throat, swallowed it and fed it with your hands, your mouth, your need.

And then you dropped to your knees.

Aemond’s breath caught.

Your hands worked him free, the weight of him warm in your palm. You looked up once, just once. And gods, the way he stared down at you… jaw tight, lips parted, his silver hair falling slightly across his brow like he’d stepped straight from one of your dreams. His eye was fixed on you like prey, and yet you were the one who had him trembling.

Your mouth found him without hesitation.

A sharp breath hissed through his teeth as your lips wrapped around him, slow, warm, deliberate.

His hand slid into your hair, not forcing, not pushing, just anchoring. Grounding himself. The silence broke only with the sound of your mouth, the soft drag of breath, the whisper of his voice murmuring your name like a sin on his tongue.

“Seven hells,” he muttered. “You don’t know what you’re doing to me.”

But you did.

Because you’d thought of this too, countless times. Wondered if he’d taste like fire and fury, if he’d come undone for you, just once. If he'd let himself feel.

His hips bucked once, reflexive, raw, as the tension shattered from within him, years of restraint unraveling into your touch.

A strangled curse escaped his lips, low and guttural, as his fingers tightened in your hair, holding you there, breathless beneath the weight of his need. His other hand lifted your chin as the moment washed over you. Warm and claiming. His gaze never left yours.

You blinked up at him, lips parted, breath uneven. You were trembling slightly, but your eyes, gods, your eyes burned with mischief and fire and something almost like reverence.

“Swallow,” he commanded, voice hoarse and wrecked.

And you did. Obedient, unblinking.

“Good girl.”

Aemond's thumb brushed a stray smear from your chin, his expression unreadable. He brought it to your lips, pressing it against the softness there.

Your tongue darted out, licking him clean.

He wasn’t done.

Aemond’s gaze dropped to your form. Disheveled, wanton, eyes still dazed with pleasure and mischief. His hand slipped to your waist, gripped, then to the sheer fabric clinging to your hips. You barely had time to breathe before the sound tore through the room—

Riiip.

Your dress was nothing but soft seams and delicate stitching, no match for the heat that gripped him now. Silk whispered as it tore apart in his hands, falling like water to the floor. You gasped, but not in protest.

His mouth was on your collarbone, then lower. Teeth grazing skin. Tongue drawing slow lines of fire down your chest, until your knees buckled and your back hit the bedframe.

You laid back, chest heaving. Aemond towered above you like a shadow, his silver hair falling forward, framing that single eye aflame with hunger. His hands ran along your legs, thumbs digging into your thighs as he parted them, gaze locked on yours.

“You’ve no idea what you've done,” he said, voice strained.

“I think I do,” you whispered back, breathless.

And then he was upon you.

His weight pressed into yours, skin meeting skin as he claimed your mouth again. This time rougher, needier. His hips slotted between yours as his hands explored every curve, every inch of you, as though he'd dreamed of this moment too many times to waste a second.

You arched into him, nails dragging down his back, and he groaned against your mouth.

“Tell me you mean this. That you're not just drunk,” he murmured, lips brushing your jaw, your throat, your pulse point.

“Drunk? Yes,” you breathed. “Meant it? Definitely.”

That undid him.

He gripped your thighs and pulled you to the edge of the bed, positioning himself. The tip of him pressed against you, teasing, waiting. Your breath hitched.

“Look at me,” he said.

You did.

Then he pushed in. Slow at first, inch by inch, stretching you open, filling you so completely your mouth parted in a silent gasp.

Your hands flew to his shoulders, clutching, grounding yourself as pleasure shot through you like lightning. He groaned, long and low, at the feel of you wrapped around him, finally, finally his.

He moved.

Not gently.

He thrust deep and hard, hips snapping forward as your legs wrapped around him instinctively, your back arching off the sheets. The bed creaked, the headboard knocking gently against the stone wall, and still, he didn’t slow.

His hand slid beneath your knee, angling you just right, hitting deeper. You cried out his name, and something snapped in him.

“I need to hear it again,” he growled. “Say my name.”

“Aemond—gods, Aemond—”

He kissed you to swallow your cries, his rhythm relentless now. Every thrust felt like penance and worship all at once, like he was staking a claim, branding your body with every desperate movement.

One of your hands found his jaw, holding him close, the other tangled in his hair. His mouth never strayed far from yours. Lips, neck, shoulder, marking wherever he could reach.

You were both unraveling, fast.

The pressure was building. The knot inside you tightening. And his thrusts were becoming more erratic, more desperate. Each one laced with the years of restraint now crumbling between you.

But then you moved.

Aemond let out a breathless sound when your hands pushed gently against his chest. His eyes flying open in surprise, then something darker. You rolled him onto his back with quiet authority, straddling him. His hands gripped your hips on instinct, but he didn’t resist. He watched you, mouth parted, his silver hair fanned out beneath him like a fallen prince.

Now you were the one in control.

You braced your hands against his chest, the rise and fall of it uneven beneath your palms. His skin was flushed, warm, and slick with effort. You had always imagined this. This exact thing. How he’d look beneath you. Tamed. Vulnerable. Yours.

You began to move, hips rolling with purpose, your pace slow at first, savoring every reaction you pulled from him. His fingers dug into your thighs, not to stop you, but to ground himself. Aemond was not a man easily undone, but gods, you were doing it. With every shift of your hips, every breathless moan, every flicker of your eyes locking with his.

“Look at you,” he rasped, voice thick. “Like you were made for this.”

You leaned forward slightly, and his hands slid up your torso, thumbs brushing the curve of your ribs. You felt worshipped, like every part of you was a sacred thing he’d denied himself too long.

He was close again. You could feel it in the way his hands began to tremble, the way his breathing broke. His grip on your hips tightened, grounding himself in the feeling of you, of your heat, your weight, your rhythm above him.

You rode him with purpose now, the sound of skin meeting skin echoing softly through the chamber. Every roll of your hips sent sparks through your spine, every strained sound from his lips drove you higher, until your fingers clawed into the muscle of his chest just to keep from unraveling.

"Aemond," you gasped, the name breaking free like a prayer.

That was what did it.

He sat up suddenly, arms wrapping around you, your bodies flush, your foreheads pressed together as he drove up into you with a force that stole your breath. The sudden closeness, the rawness of it, made your world tilt.

The knot snapped.

You broke apart in his arms. Head thrown back, mouth parted in a moan he swallowed with a kiss as your body trembled around him. He followed right after, with a groan against your skin, the sound low and guttural, his release buried deep inside you. One last thrust. Then stillness.

Heavy breathing. Damp skin. His arms still locked around your waist like if he let go, the moment would vanish.

You didn’t move. Neither did he.

“Better than Jace could make you feel?” Aemond asked, voice low and dry, though the corner of his mouth twitched. Half smug, half something darker. A flicker of something possessive behind the jest.

Your brows furrowed slightly, eyes narrowing as you leaned back just enough to study him. “Jealousy doesn’t suit you, Uncle.”

He didn’t answer, just held your gaze. Still waiting. Still wanting something you couldn’t quite name.

You sighed, resting your palms on his chest. “Jace is my twin,” you said, as though that should have been enough. And it should’ve been. “We’ve been together since the womb. That kind of closeness.. people will always whisper.”

“But that’s all they do,” you added pointedly. “Whisper.”

Aemond’s jaw flexed.

You smirked, a little breathless still. “Besides… if Jace could make me feel like that, don’t you think I’d be limping more often?”

His eye widened slightly, caught off guard for just a second, before a sharp laugh escaped him, his hands gripping your waist tighter.

“Seven hells,” he muttered under his breath, dragging his lips against your collarbone.

“Don’t start again unless you plan to finish it,” you teased, brushing the silver hair from his face.

“I always finish."

[moodymuu]

Murky Luminescent Seas

I took her legs she doesn’t deserve them. ANYWAYS

Seas has gone from blue to red and has taken a more siren approach to her design just to fit the region she is located in. She is based off of the Red Copper Betta fish with the colors more dull and no black and the various large fins.

Her puppet is not entirely metal, with her arms and head being made of metal and her chest to her tail being that of fabric and stuffing.

Despite that her personality is still the same. She’s jumpy and excitable, all the more curious about the ocean around her, and loves all her scugs to death. Seas doesn’t have overseer, but instead uses Scugs as not only her eyes, but all of the 5 senses. Whatever the scugs eat and taste, seas can taste it as well. Same thing with the other senses. This gives Seas the idea to try and transfer herself into a scug she made for herself to be free from her Can.

Her placement is rather isolated. Cliffs block her view of the other three Iterators and she doesn’t belong to any Iterator group. Her structure is almost completely submerged in the ocean except for her city. Tho, soon her structure will be completely submerged and only time will tell when that will ever happen. Despite her being rather far from others , she is still able to communicate with the other Iterators that are closest to her.

( I’m thinking of drawing some of these main/sub regions just to get a better idea of placement. I’ll do it when I have the time )

That’s her new info and redesign! More shall come soon!

[thestuffedalligator]

Thoughts on magic words in fantasy settings.

I really like the idea of magic words as just a release pin on a trebuchet. The word itself is meaningless. A wizard makes a spell, winds it up to take effect, and designates a word to trigger that effect when spoken aloud, and the reason magic words are so weird is because you really really emphatically don’t want the trigger to be something that comes up in conversation.

This is different from magic rhymes. Everything sings, and old magic, truly old magic, wants to sing. The Kalevala tells us that Väinämöinen could sing the mountain cliffs to crumble, could sing a wooden sledge to turn back into budding branches. “Grandly sang wise Väinämöinen/Till the copper-bearing mountains/And the flinty rocks and ledges/Heard his magic tones and trembled.” Magic sings, and making a magic rhyme is to harmonize with magic itself.

And that includes “Skidaddle skidoodle your dick is now a noodle”

[letthemkook]

➴ THE PANTHEON SERIES J.JK➴

Pairing: Yandere God of War Jungkook (Ares) × Defiant Mortal Priestess OC (You as Ione)

Themes: Obsession, Power Imbalance, Divine Possession, Sacrifice, Loyalty vs. Temptation, War and Devotion

Tone: Dark, Mythic, Sensual, Slow-Burn, Tense

Warnings: Dubious consent, coercion, god/mortal power dynamics, religious symbolism, obsession, manipulation, sacrificial themes, mild violence, smut (later chapters)

Intro: When the God of War sets his eyes on a mortal sworn to another, the battlefield is no longer land or sea—but her body, her vow, and how long she can withstand his obsession.

Part 1: Plight of the War God

The Temple of Hera stood white and gold against the olive-strewn cliffs of Argolis, its marble columns scorched by centuries of sun, its sanctum sweet with myrrh and rose oil. Within its sacred bounds lived women bound not by blood or coin—but by oaths. And she, the youngest among them, bore her vow with a ferocity that even the High Priestess regarded with caution.

She was called Ione.

Born of a disgraced noble house and given to the temple at age seven, Ione was forged in ritual and silence. She had never lain with a man, never left the temple’s borders, never spoken her own name without offering it to Hera first. Her voice, her mind, her body—offered.

Each dawn, she scrubbed the altar steps until her knuckles bled, chanting litanies older than empire. She had no illusions. The gods did not give freely. But Hera had spared her. Raised her. And Ione would burn before she broke her vow.

But the gods had their own appetites.

The omens began with birds falling dead from the sky.

Then the dreams. Dreams of iron and fire. Of wolves with human eyes. Of a man’s voice low and honey-dark, whispering beneath her skin. Each morning, she’d wake with her hands trembling, her linens damp. She scrubbed herself raw in the temple baths, prayed until her knees split.

It did not help.

The High Priestess noticed. “Your devotion is lacking,” she snapped one morning as Ione knelt in penance. “Hera turns her face when doubt creeps in.”

“I do not doubt,” Ione lied.

She knew exactly whose voice haunted her.

Ares. The god of slaughter. The defiler of vows.

And he was watching her.

He came the first time as smoke in the library, coiling between scrolls of law and marriage rites. She turned, breath halting—and he was there.

Tall. Broad. Beautiful in the cruel, predatory way of beasts. Gold pierced his brow. Crimson cloaked his shoulders. His dark eyes pinned her to the stone floor.

She did not scream.

“A temple rat,” he mused aloud, voice slick as oil. “And yet Hera hides her prettiest pearl in open air. Curious.”

She rose slowly, not daring to blink.

“You defile sacred ground.”

He smiled. It did not reach his eyes.

“I’m not here for the temple.” He stepped closer. The torches flared. “I’m here for you.”

Her nails dug into her palms. “I am Hera’s. I wear her vow.”

“You wear chains,” he corrected. “But I’ve brought fire.”

She stepped back.

He caught her wrist—not hard, not hurting, but enough.

“You’ve felt it. In your marrow. The hunger.” He leaned closer. “You can deny it. But I know what you dream.”

Her jaw tightened. “Leave.”

He didn’t. Instead, he held up a scroll—one she had hidden in the private archives. A text forbidden to lower acolytes, one she had stolen to read under candlelight. The Blood Rites of Laconia.

“I wonder,” he murmured, letting the parchment unroll, “what Hera’s High Priestess would say about a maiden who reads of flesh rites under moonlight.”

Her stomach dropped.

Blackmail.

“I should burn it,” she hissed.

“You should,” he agreed. “But you won’t. Because now, you know what I can do.”

“I will not be yours.”

“Oh, you will.” He stepped back, and the torches dimmed. “But not yet. I prefer to let the vines tighten slowly.”

With a flash of shadow and heat, he vanished.

જ⁀➴

Rain came late to Argolis that spring. The skies burned with copper light. Even the temple’s sacred laurel trees began to wilt. Some said it was Hera’s displeasure. Others whispered darker names.

Ione heard them.

She heard the kitchen girls speak of curses. She felt the change in the other priestesses’ eyes—once warm, now wary. Her meals were halved. Her duties reassigned. The High Priestess no longer summoned her to the central altar.

She was being exiled by inches.

And Ares had not returned in body, but his presence had. She found iron shavings in her basin. A rose—black, blooming unnaturally—in her robes. Footsteps outside her cell when no one was near.

She prayed until her voice cracked.

Then, one dusk, he left her a gift. No shadow, no voice—just a folded cloth on her cot.

Inside, the stolen scroll.

And beneath it—a knife. Not of temple make. Bronze, ancient. Blood-washed.

A choice.

Burn the scroll. Slice her palm. Swear herself to him. Or expose the theft and be cast into disgrace.

That night, she dreamt of him again.

He knelt at her feet.

He pressed a kiss to her thigh.

He said, “You’ll scream for me before the moon turns full.”

She woke drenched in shame.

And hatred.

°˖➴

Ione began planning her own offense.

She returned the scroll to its hiding place. She fasted. She cleansed herself in the sea and wore rose ash across her brow—an ancient rite of reclamation. But when she stood before Hera’s altar, no warmth touched her. The goddess was silent.

But Ares wasn’t.

He appeared on the roof of the sanctum days later, seated like a king among birds. Watching.

“I could burn this place,” he said lightly.

“You already have,” she snapped. “With rot. With lies.”

He dropped down like a shadow and landed with inhuman grace.

“You hate me.” He tilted his head. “Good. Love never follows far behind.”

“Delude yourself,” she hissed.

“I don’t need to.” He stepped close, voice velvet and venom. “Do you think the scroll is the only thing I hold?”

He whispered then. Names. Events. Secrets she had never spoken aloud. How she once doubted her calling. How she envied the women who bore children. How she feared she would die untouched, unmourned.

She stumbled back.

“You’ve spied on me—”

“I know you,” he said. “I have from the moment you bled your first vow.”

The wind shifted. The flames around the altar flickered blue.

“You can fight me,” he said. “I want you to. It’s what makes you worth taking.”

And with that, he disappeared again.

°˖➴

The next day, the High Priestess summoned her.

“Your presence disturbs the goddess,” she said coldly. “You are hereby stripped of your rites. Effective at moonrise, you will leave this place.”

Ione stood silent.

No defense would matter.

Ares had tightened the vine.

And Hera, silent still, had let it happen.

The night of Ione’s expulsion came not with shame, but with thunder.

The storm split the sky above Argolis as she descended the temple steps barefoot, robes damp from ritual washing, carrying nothing but the votive coin she had worn since childhood. The gates closed behind her not with malice, but with finality. The clang of the bronze was the sound of the world reshaping itself.

She did not weep.

She walked into the forest of Mycenae, where gods were said to sleep under stone and dryads whispered madness into the wind. Each branch that snagged her gown, each owl’s cry, only steadied her spine.

She would not belong to Ares.

Even if the world turned upside down.

°˖➴

Mortals began to feel the tension of heaven.

The crops wilted in Arcadia. Rivers ran red near the plains of Troy. Herds in Delos stampeded their pens without cause. The Oracle at Delphi refused to speak, save one line:

"The Maiden has resisted. But War is not merciful."

In Sparta, generals sharpened their swords with trembling hands. In Athens, scholars began to dream of iron altars and blood-wreathed brides.

Ares was restless.

And restlessness in a god is perilous.

Ares appeared before her again—this time not as shadow, but flesh. Naked from the waist up, body streaked with battle ash, eyes storm-dark.

He found her beneath an olive tree sacred to Athena, where she had built her own crude altar. She had burned lavender in Hera’s name. She had dared—again—to pray.

“Still loyal,” he said, voice a growl.

“To the last breath,” she replied, unmoved.

He circled her. Like a wolf.

“You insult me.”

“You threaten me.”

“I offer you the world.”

“You offer ruin in gold.”

He halted. “I could tear the veil of the heavens and no god would stop me.”

“Then why haven’t you?” she asked, meeting his gaze. “What are you afraid of, Ares?”

Silence. Then, a quiet, feral smile.

“I fear nothing,” he said. “But I hate delay.”

He stepped closer. The earth beneath them steamed.

“I could make the mortals demand you. They already whisper of sacrifice. The priestesses’ silence. The goddess’s withdrawal. You’re becoming legend, Ione. And what is legend if not offering?”

“Then let them come,” she said, chin high. “Let me die for my vow. I will not kneel to you.”

Something in him snarled. Not in throat, but in essence.

“You would burn rather than yield?”

“Yes.”

His hand shot out. Not to strike—but to hold her face, firm, trembling. “Then you will burn in my hands.”

But he did not take her.

Not yet.

In the cities, they began to speak of Ione.

"The virgin of the war god’s eye." "The cursed bride." "The one Hera forsook."

Effigies were carved in her likeness and nailed to temple doors. Dreams of her spread like plague. Men bled from the nose at her name. Women miscarried when they touched her image.

The world wanted her sacrificed.

The world wanted peace.

And Ares only watched, waiting for her to bend.

But she would not.

Not yet.

°˖➴

They came for her under moonlight.

Not soldiers. Not priests. But the people—the same villagers who once kissed her fingers for blessings, who wept beside her as she anointed their stillborns. They arrived barefoot, clutching votives, chanting old hymns warped by desperation.

She met them not with fear, but with pity.

“What would you have me do?” she asked, standing alone before the fire they’d built. “Give myself to the god who seeks to unmake me?”

An old woman stepped forward. Her voice was hollow. “We cannot suffer more. The fields are dust. The goats birth monsters. You are the curse.”

“No,” Ione said, voice sharp as a blade. “I am not the curse. He is.”

The crowd stirred.

“Then end it,” a man spat. “Let him have you. Let this war god take what he wants.”

Ione turned to the heavens. “Hera, Mother of Marriage, Queen of Olympus—will you let them turn me over like cattle?”

The wind answered. Cold. Silent.

Ares had warned her.

Legend is offering.

They tied her in linen soaked with honey and herbs, an old rite of appeasement. Carried her to the blood grove where sacrifices were once made to Ares during the Peloponnesian uprisings.

She did not cry.

When they bound her to the rock, she only said one thing:

“I do not belong to you.”

And Ares came.

He came with no army, no fire, no fanfare.

Only silence, and the crushing weight of divinity.

He appeared as man—but no mortal could mistake the cut of his form, the glint in his eyes. Bronze shimmered against his bare chest. The ground trembled at his step.

He knelt beside her.

“I offered you worship,” he murmured, brushing a curl from her cheek. “I offered obsession. I offered power. And you spat in my face.”

She turned her head. “You offered chains.”

He leaned close.

“Then I’ll teach you the pleasure of being bound.”

With a flick of his fingers, the bonds unraveled. But she could not move. Her body betrayed her—frozen, breathless. Not by fear, but by something older. A god’s will.

He kissed her forehead.

And the world cracked.

The earth beneath the grove split open like a wound. Red light poured out. Screams—hundreds, thousands—echoed from the chasm. The villagers fled in horror, their voices torn from their throats.

But Ione could not scream.

He whispered into her hair, “You will descend with me, beloved. And when you rise again, it will be as mine.”

Ares gathered her in his arms.

She did not struggle. But her eyes burned.

“I will not love you,” she vowed.

He smiled. “You will learn that love is not asked for. It is carved.”

And he carried her into the earth.

⋅જ⁀➴

Elsewhere, on the high slopes of Mount Olympus, Hera stood beneath the hanging gardens of her court. Wind rustled the gold leaves of her sacred myrtle tree, but she did not move.

He appeared behind her without thunder. Ares. The scent of iron and blood drifted on the air.

“You’ve broken ancient law,” she said. “No god may lay claim to a sworn one without divine judgment.”

Ares’s voice was low. Unbending. “Then judge me. But you will not interfere.”

She turned, eyes blazing. “She was mine.”

“She is mine now.” He stepped closer. “And if you challenge that, I will split the skies over every polis. Let Sparta fall to madness. Let Athens bleed. Let the sons of kings die with their mothers’ names on their lips.”

Hera did not flinch. But her silence stretched.

“You would destroy the mortal world for a single woman?”

“I would destroy Olympus for her,” he said. “You know what I am.”

“And she?”

“She is what I lack.”

Hera’s gaze lowered. Her voice was colder than snow. “Then take her. But when she breaks, you will not return her to me.”

“I would never let her go,” Ares said.

And vanished into the wind.

[artificialroux]

͡ ݂ ⊹ 𝐀𝐍𝐍𝐄𝐓𝐓 𝐃𝐀𝐖𝐍 𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐑𝐎𝐖, 𝐂𝐎𝐕𝐄𝐘

౨ৎ annett dawn marrow is the substitute accordionist for the covey's band in district 12, though she takes over fully for billy taupe later on. she is named after a ballad originating years before in ireland. her parents were executed by peacekeepers for rebelling against moving the covey, she doesn't remember them, but she does remember her father teaching her how to use a rifle, which she still carries to this day, illegally.

౨ৎ the name dawn, comes from her fiery locks of wild hair, which resemble the orange sky at sunrise. she is fierce, unadulterated, and protective of the younger members of the covey, since she serves as one of the oldest and almost a guardian of sorts for them. she sews their clothes and takes care of most of the chores, ie. laundry.

౨ৎ annet dawn has caused a few issues with peacekeepers in the past, a few fights one might say during rough bar nights. though, because the covey provide entertainment, most don't end up complaining when a woman beats them up. maude ivory likes to joke that she's like a corn snake, since only lucy gray seems to be able to calm her when she gets her temper going, along with the red hair.

౨ৎ she forms a connection with sejanus plinth when he comes to 12. originally, she distrusts both him and coriolanus, attributing this to the fact they are both peacekeepers and not trustworthy. though once she learns of sejanus's previous district origins, and heavy dislike of the games, she realizes he is able to be trusted.

౨ৎ her ballad goes as follows ;

“in dunlin glen where willows weep, a maiden sang her love to sleep. they called her annet, soft and fair, with foxfire eyes and copper hair. he vowed he'd come when spring was near— but seasons passed, he stayed unclear. she climbed the cliffs in gown of white and vanished with the fading light. now when the dusk is cold and stark, the wind still calls for annet lark.”

౨ৎ tags ; @dippindotties @logansdogmotif @chshiresgrin @glxsyymads