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hopeamarsu · 1 year

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The Moon in May - New Moon

Joel Miller x reader (no pronouns)

Word count 1,8k

Warnings Tracking someone, confrontation, wolf shifters, fated mates, TLOU AU

Summary He’d been tracking you for hours now. Despite the evasive tactics you had used, he had remained on your trail and it made cold sweat break out on your skin.

A/N The first of Moon in May fics is here. I wanted to explore wolves within the Last of Us universe and this little AU was born. It doesn't go too deep into wolfshifter lore but sort of dips its toes in which I found fun.

He’d been tracking you for hours now. Despite the evasive tactics you had used, he had remained on your trail and it made cold sweat break out on your skin. You’d always been able to slip away from those who tracked you or tried to bite you, your years as a shifter working to your advantage.

But he was too good at this, elegant and stealthy, which meant he wasn’t human or part of the infected. He was a wolf shifter like yourself and that made him twice as dangerous. So you only had one play left if you didn’t want him finding your den. You had to confront him.

In another world, you hadn’t been much of a fighter but since that day when the infected broke loose, you either had to learn to fight or die. And so you learned, honing your skills with the few wolf shifters you had encountered before moving on again, not wanting to settle down. You hadn’t been comfortable with the pack life and they had respected your wishes on being a lone wolf.

Sure, sometimes that meant the wolves you left behind tracked you for some time before you left their air but never had one tracked you like this. To say you were nervous as you planted your feet and let the wolf inside you surface, was an understatement. And now you waited, teeth bared but silent.

“I mean no harm,” the man said, arms raised when he approached you after a few tense moments. He wore clothes that had seen better days, his jeans grimy and crusty and his shirt patched in many places. The brown boots seemed to be held together with duct tape and the brown hair covering his head and jawline was shaggy and streaked with silver. But his eyes were clear and sharp, watching your wolf with interest and a slight bit of trepidation.

You watched him back, your eyes sharper now as a wolf as you cataloged even the tiniest of his movements. He seemed alert but relaxed, aware of his and your surroundings but also giving you his full attention. This was no recent shifter, he’d been like this ever since he was born perhaps because he knew exactly what to do and what not to do. No sudden movements, no running, but holding his ground and advancing slowly. From the way he moved, you also suspected he had seen a fair amount of battle and blood in his life. He moved like a warrior, sure and steady. You wondered briefly if his wolf would move the same.

He took measured steps closer until you growled menacingly and he halted. “Okay, not getting any closer, got it,” he nodded his head approvingly. His eyes flashed around you, checking if there were others nearby. “You alone?” You knew the question was redundant, he was already aware you were alone here. So why ask it? To try and fool you, or to ensure you knew he could do whatever he wanted?

You sniffed the air, trying to catch a whiff of deceit in him, but you couldn’t find any. The man waited for your move, arms now by his side but he made no move to come closer. You could easily jump him, and rip out his throat before he could shift, but something in him told you he wasn’t a danger. Something that called to you from inside him and with a startle, you realized it was his wolf. His wolf wanted to meet yours and you wanted it too.

You growled once more but lowered your snout a little, hoping he would catch on and he did, nodding as well. He lowered to the ground and his magic roared, transforming the gorgeous man into a gorgeous wolf in seconds. His fur was dark brown dotted with silver, much like his hair and beard and he was large. Possibly one of the largest wolves you’d met before, towering above you even a small distance away.

Despite his size, he didn’t try to run you over, instead trotting closer almost shyly, keeping his paws on the ground and his snout pointed downward. He got closer than in his human form until you stood nose to nose, both wolves scenting one another. The eerie silence of the forest fell away as his scent enveloped you. Your wolf whined softly when the notes registered and you nearly shifted back at the intensity of it.

He smelled like all your dreams and hopes wrapped into one and amped up. He smelled like petrichor, a long-forgotten memory from your childhood that still made you smile, a hint of vanilla and something darker, something menacing but never towards you. He smelled like you had always dreamt of and hoped for, even in a world as doomed as you lived in.

He smelled like your mate.

My mate, your wolf told you quietly, letting the small words bounce around in your brain. My forever.

The eyes of your wolf popped wide open as your hind legs dropped to the ground in shock. You opened your mouth and the wolf whined low, a deeply sad sound echoing on the forest floor. He was your mate. Your wolf had a mate! The front paws followed closely behind when you understood the magnitude. The world turned upside down and suddenly your wolf was lying on the ground and he was there with you, positioned equally next to you. He looked at you with glowing eyes, asking for permission to come closer and you whined again, beckoning him.

The large wolf crawled closer until you felt his hot breath and wet nose touch you before he let out a tiny yip of happiness. He nuzzled close, rubbing his long head against your ears, your muzzle, and your throat. You returned his touch, feeling happiness grow in your chest and heart. You had a mate! Your wolf had a mate!

This was something you never thought you’d get. With the infected roaming around and QZ’s not being a safe space for wolves, you had been resigned to your faith as an outsider and as a loner. Finding a mate was a pipedream, a distant wonder you hadn’t really thought about before. But now that the moment was here, now that he was here, you were overwhelmed and flabbergasted.

The two wolves became bolder, more playful in their joy, and soon they were tussling on the ground, one on top of the other. Their elation of finding the one meant for them overflowed and it seemed they couldn’t go seconds without one paw finding the other or nuzzling closer. Noses bumped in an imitation of a kiss before cheeks brushed. One of his paws found its way on top of your neck before he tousled you to the ground, only to start grooming you. The rough tongue felt like heaven on your fur and skin and your wolf purred at the delight. You didn’t want to leave this place ever, feeling safe and warm at that moment, but you knew you needed to talk human to human before things progressed further.

With a tinge, your wolf disentangled from his and you shifted back quickly. He followed your lead, shifting back and rising to his full height in front of you. Once more he seemed to tower over you, the wideness of his shoulders matching his wolf.

“I’m Joel,” he offered before you could get a word out. You gave out your name, which Joel repeated softly. He nodded, seemingly liking how it sounded on his tongue. “And your wolf? Does he have a name?”

“I’ve been calling him Shadow in my head, but we have yet to come to an agreement.”

“Oh? You are not born wolf then?” Your mouth snapped audibly shut, embarrassed over being so blunt but Joel just shrugged, not seemingly caring you had committed a faux pas. “Nah, was bitten some years back. Thought it was an infected bite but no. Shadow joined me and kept me safe.”

“He’s done a good job, I’ve never seen a tracker like you before.” Joel tipped his chin at your praise and you had to grin at his nonchalance. “Not one for praise?”

“Nah. You on the other hand, your tactics were good. I lost you multiple times before you stopped.”

“But you found me again.”

“Shadow.” He flashed his teeth in a small grin. “He was insistent and told me that the perfume he scented was something that we couldn’t lose. And if I’m correct, he’s telling me you are my … mate?” His brown eyes seemed a little hesitant like he was unsure of what it meant.

“Yeah, mine’s telling me the same thing. It’s not common to find a mate, so what we have right now is very rare. One in a million shot,” You offered the words quietly, still not fully believing your luck yourself. Here was this gorgeous man, this gorgeous wolf, and he was yours as determined by fates themselves. And not only was he gorgeous, he was capable and strong and his wolf mirrored those traits. You could only hope he saw the same traits in you and wanted this too.

“Hmmm. And you, you want this?” Joel asked and you knew it was Shadow asking. They weren’t the proper words an alpha was supposed to ask its mate before the ceremony, those texts and rituals were now lost to the world, but the seeking of consent was there. A true alpha never took or demanded, they left the final decision to their mate. Accept or reject, no matter how his heart wanted it.

You looked deep into his eyes, seeing his want and desire flashing behind the irises, and knew instantly it was what you wanted too. You wanted both the man and the wolf. You stepped closer, sharing his space and warmth. Joel’s arms banded tight around your middle, erasing any remaining air between you. His lips hovered over yours, the need coursing in his veins pushing him forward but still, he waited for your words. You fell a little in love with him, knowing he would always put your comfort above his, even at this first meeting.

“Yes, Joel. I, we, want it. Want you. Want Shadow. Our mate, our forever.” Your words weren’t perfect either, your sentences were choppy and fast, but it didn’t matter. He moved closer, capturing your lips into a soft kiss and you could feel your soul burst with happiness when it banded with his.

Thank you for reading, I hope you enjoyed this! Tagging the creator of this wonderful challenge @lavenderursa

#the moon in may writing challenge #moon in may #the moon in may #wolf shifter au #the last of us alternate universe #joel miller #joel miller x reader #tlou fanfiction #joel miller fanfiction #pedro pascal character fanfic #hopeamarsu #themooninmay

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anamazingangie · 1 year

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deliciae | Rhaenyra x Daemon

🌧️ Rated E 🌧️ 8.3k words 🌧️ Complete 🌧️ by AmazingAngie 🌧️

Tags: AU, Loss of Virginity, Overstimulation, Valyrian Culture, Minor Bloodplay, Lore, Ritual Sex, Pregnancy, Lactation Kink, Non-Con Somno, Consent Issues, Velyaron Inlaws, Virgin Sacrifice, Darcyphilia, Begging

Summary:

“You will have to practice the marriage rites, if you wish for it to be valid.” She nodded, uncaring of the warning. But then—she did not truly know what the rites entailed. She didn’t realize it would require a sacrifice to Daemon. They used to sacrifice virgins to him, believing his alter was hungry for their blood. When that was outlawed, they realized it was not their life he desired, but rather their purity. (He desired a bit more than that from Rhaenyra, though.)

part one of ? of amorous autumn / kinktober. 1. loss of virginity / first times 2. praise kink/talking during sex/dirty talk 3. orgasm control /denial/chastity/begging 4. overstimulation/multiple orgasms

🌧️ deliciae 🌧️

Once, all of the known world worshiped the old gods of Valyria. At least that was the claim she had heard from the village elders—a handful of men and women so old their skin resembled dried fruit in texture, and parchment in color. Rhaenyra had been scared of them as a child, but now as a girl on the cusp of womanhood, she found herself fascinated by them and their knowledge.

There was a church for the Seven on the island, too. The majority of the island had been converted to their ways and beliefs now, but Rhaenyra was a Targaryen. The blood in her veins was as pure as what flowed through the gods who sculpted Valyria itself. She would never insult them by praying to another.

Her father knew how proud she was of her—their—heritage, but he still gave her a choice when it came time to secure a match for her. She could wed a man of the faith in the church, or she could wed a man who worshiped the old gods. It was an easy choice, and she was not dissuaded by his next statement,

“You will have to practice the marriage rites, if you wish for it to be valid.”

She nodded, uncaring of the warning.

But then—she did not truly know what the rites entailed.

She had seen Valyrian weddings before, though always from a distance. They took place on the highest peaks of the island, so they could be closer to the gods that still inhabited the clouds. Rhaenyra knew it involved small offerings of blood—one for the gods, served in a holy goblet, and one another for the couple, served from the other’s lips. Some thought it barbaric, but Rhaenyra thought it romantic—the long held Valyrian way was sharing all of yourself with your partner, and blood was no exception.

She had not seen the marriage rites, though. The practice was not in any tome or scroll, considered too sacred—too private to be written. It was Rhaenys, the mother of her betrothed, who told her of them in detail.

The gods worshiped most openly on Dragonstone were those of the sea and the sky, for they controlled nearly every part of the islanders' life—or at least the quality of it. But there were other gods, ones rarely even whispered about, either for lack of need or due to long held superstitions.

Daemon was the latter.

Rhaenys said his entire purpose was debated—some thought him evil, a harbinger of death and the god of darkness; of night. Others claimed he was a god of death, but a god of life, too. He could bless a life as easily as he could take it, which is why brides made such a sacrifice to him on their wedding night.

“Myths say they used to sacrifice virgins to him, that his alter was hungry for their blood. When that was outlawed, they realized it was not their life he desired, but rather their purity. By offering him that, by giving yourself to the night, he in turn blesses you with life. The first babe born to you is thought to come from his seed, and will ceremoniously be brought back to the altar in which they were conceived to be offered to the god.”

She went on to explain that they used to kill the first baby, as it was not thought to belong to the woman’s husband. Its blood was yet another sacrifice to Daemon. But those who dared were cursed, the women's wombs never quickening no matter what was done.

Now a small offering—that of simply showing the infant to the gods before it was named, was done in its place. It completed the cycle—for Daemon had taken one's innocence and replaced it with the most innocent creature of all—an infant.

“What must I do?” Rhaenyra asked, sounding determined. This new knowledge was surprising, but did nothing to sway her. Her lack of familiarity with a god made him no less powerful, and made her no less willing to offer something—even herself—to him.

She realized, as Rhaenys explained, why this was such a tightly held secret. People were embarrassed by the fact they underwent it, something so at odds with the more common faith who claimed a woman was only for their husband. Even amongst those committed to the Valyrian ways, like Rhaenys herself, recalled the practice with mixed feelings.

“It is a blessing, in one way. For the act of intercourse is at its core an invasion of your body—not dissimilar to a sword being buried inside you, though its tip is blunted. The fact that the first intrusion was something I controlled made me feel quite…powerful. It was as if it took any nervousness along with my maidenhead, leaving me prepared—even confident for what may come with my husband.”

She paused, looking thoughtful for a moment before continuing, “Despite that, it is not pleasant. The act—the phallus, it may pierce you but it is unlikely to provide pleasure. It’s large, cold, and unyielding. It lacks the intimacy of a man, of their arms around you and the contact of skin to skin. I think it a pity, I suppose, that such things were missing from my first experience of something entering me there.”

Rhaenyra swallowed, her throat feeling thick. She had never felt much fear for sex. Valyrian’s were more free than those who followed the Seven. They expected chastity until marriage, and fidelity within the confines of it, but once a pair was wed their intimacy was celebrated. She’d heard legends of her grandparents and how sounds of pleasure filled every corner of the stone cottage, no door or curtain capable of stifling their enjoyment. And even without tales like that, the illustrations and art of the Valyrian people created showed a reverence and enthusiasm that vastly differed from the Seven.

The followers of the Seven believed sex was for procreation—the possibility and hope for a child was the only pleasure that should be felt by a woman when she was with her husband.

But the Valyrians believed that a union—a wedding following their traditions, was not just blessed by their gods but involved them. Passion between a man and wife flowed through them, their pleasure serving as a gift that would in turn reward the couple with good health and happiness.

And so, it was not a frightening prospect to her, such an act with her husband.

But this…

There were several feasts leading up to her wedding, while the ceremony itself was private. Vows were given with only their closest family and the gods to serve as witnesses.

It was still summer when she wed the eldest son of her Aunt, Rhaenys Targaryen, and her husband, Corlys Velaryon. Her groom, Laenor Velaryon, was a slim man, only a few years older than her. His face wasn’t masculine enough to be handsome. But instead she considered him rather pretty. His skin was smooth, free of any beard or blemish. A perfect mixture between the shades of his mother and father.

Despite the season, she shivered as they spoke their vows—she wondered if a storm was coming, the sky seeming to form a haze even thicker than what was common on Dragonstone. The wind whipped at her free hair, distracting her from the Septon’s words and making her stumble over her own.

The wedding wasn’t quite what she had imagined. Despite his good looks, she wasn’t enamored with her groom. The lack of enthusiasm for the match left her to focus on her discomfort—the way the headdress dug into her scalp, and the weight of the heavy robes she wore. They had belonged to Rhaenys and still smelled musty from storage, too, which assaulted her delicate senses and made her nose wrinkle throughout the entire ceremony.

Laenor cut his palm, and they shared sips from the goblet—the taste was metallic, bitter, and unpleasant, but she knew she could not spit it out. She bit her lip and swallowed, swallowing a gag with it. Next her lip was pierced with the dragonglass, as was Laenor’s, and the vows were sealed with a gentle kiss.

They walked side by side down the mountain and through the village—he returned to his home, and Rhaenyra returned to her own. Though neither were their homes, for they were shared with their families.

Rhaenys and Laena were by her side for this, knowing the traditions and preparations far better than Rhaenyra’s stepmother who practiced the Seven and was not keen to even witness the ceremony, much less take part in what was to come.

Rhaenyra was happy to shed her robes and slip into the warm bathwater—the heat soothing the ache in her shoulders. Rhaenys protested when she dunked her head beneath the surface, but Rhaenyra did not care, the water felt good on her sore scalp. She massaged where the headdress had pressed into her, before reaching for the fragrant charcoal soap that was meant to cleanse her.

When she was done, a steel strigil was used to scrape the residue of oil from her body and then she was dried with white cloth. Unlike brides married under the Seven— who coated their bodies with perfumes and creams in an effort to appeal to their husband’s, the Valyrian gods desired women in their purest form.

And so, Rhaenyra was dressed in a simple pure white linen robe.

She was barefoot as she walked through the tunnels—the ones beneath Dragonstone. There were springs down here that some used for bathing, or laundry. Some was even funneled through pipes into cottages close to the keep. But if you went deeper, down what felt like hundreds of steps, you would reach Caraxes Crypt.

Caraxes was one of three serpent deities the Valyrian’s believed in—there was one of the sky, one of the land, and one of the sea.

The scaled beasts were thought to be evil by some—but also worshiped as a symbol of rebirth and fertility. They could shed their skin and were born anew in an ease and grace expectant mothers craved to experience in the birthing bed.

Caraxes was a serpent of the sky, revered for bringing fire to the earth with lightning that spewed from his monstrous mouth. Perhaps it was odd, that a creature of the sky was worshiped so far below the ground, but it was intentional—the crypt was close to the veins of lava that lived beneath Dragonstone and the heat was said to satisfy the creature.

Rhaenyra asked why Daemon was worshiped here too, and Rhaenys said it was because it was the closest they could get to the center of the earth—the closest they could get to the void of darkness, absent of life and all but his presence. It was not a comforting answer, but she nodded, as she could do little else.

She had never been in the crypt before, and she was somewhat awed by it—the walls lined with scales and Valyrian script. The space was lit with an eternal flame—one that never required tending, at least by no other than the deity Caraxes. It lived in the jaws of the creature's likeness, a massive head carved from dark stone and painted red with the blood of offerings. The eyes were rubies, glimmering and strangely lifelike despite the crystalline shape and sheen.

Rhaenys did not follow her into the final room.

Even the door was intimidating—a mixture of steel and lacquered black wood. Rhaenyra swallowed, pushing it open—surprised to find it warm on her palms.

The last room had been noticeably warm, but not uncomfortably so. Not sweltering or sweat inducing. But this one was different—the air was thick, almost syrupy in her throat and lungs as she breathed it in. There was no fire in here, save for the flame she carried, which Rhaenyra used to light lanterns on either side of the door—which had slammed shut as soon as she slipped through.

When she turned she had her first chance to look at the room. The previous chamber had been dark, chiseled from the stone and lava rock that made up the island. But in the lamplight it had not seemed so ominous in its coloring—not so different from Rhaenyra’s own stone-walled chambers.

This room was smaller and lined in obsidian tiles. Any reflected light from the flame bounced, but in a way that only emphasized the depth of its coloring. The lava-glass was often used for jewelry and blades, and though not rare it was prized for its sheen and inky shade. Medallions of it hung at the breast of many, representing luck and love and all sorts of things. But Rhaenyra had never seen it used like this.

It truly felt she was entombed by shadows, able to see but just barely as she approached the throne she was meant to mount. It was only a few steps away given the room's size, but she was sweating when she reached it—the heat was oppressive, unlike anything she had experienced before. She took off her robe then, hoping her skin would be able to breathe if exposed to the air.

If anything, she seemed to grow even warmer.

She placed her lantern next to the throne—illuminating it further. It was such an odd creation, made from the warped weapons of soldiers who had been killed in battle. Rhaenys said Daemon was once a war god, too—people thanked him for his part in skirmishes with offerings after the enemy was defeated. She wasn’t sure when it was formed into a seat, nor when the statue was added to it, but it was…exquisite.

It was made from shining obsidian, the muscle structure so very realistic she swore she saw the chest breathe. She knew little of mens appendages, but she could only assume it shared the same level of accuracy as the upper body, and…gods. That was beautiful too, the intimidating length that curved upward. The tip was thicker, delicate ridges and even veins carved into it.

Suddenly the lantern wasn’t enough, seeing it wasn’t enough. She set it down, reaching her palm to the stone. She traced it with her fingertips, completely awed by the feeling of it in her hand. She knew it was stone—obsidian, it was not alive the way a human was, but it seemed to pulse beneath her fingers all the same. It was warm too, even hotter than the rest of the room.

She was eager now, to have it inside her. To sit in the lap of this godly figure and offer him her maidenhead.

There was oil in the pocket of her robe and she reached for it—thinking it may not even be necessary for she felt hot in her loin, she felt hot all over. Feverish and needy as she spilled the liquid across the phallus, just as Rhaenys had instructed.

What else had she said? Rhaenyra could hardly remember—something about fingers, and the length of it being too much. Yes. Not to take all of it, not to hurt herself, but not to stress either.

Well. She certainly wasn’t stressed.

She stroked between her thighs, dipping the tips of her fingers between her folds. She had done this before—not for pleasure, but for sanitary reasons. And though the action wasn’t different, it felt different. It made her shiver, the sensitivity odd but far from unpleasant. She was slick there, with something thicker than oil or water, and it eased the entry of her fingers as they pressed deeper.

I think you’re ready, deliciae.

She startled, nearly slipping and having to catch herself on the arm of the throne. She looked around, but the room was empty—it was just her, and…

She looked at the sculpture, it lacked a face, and it had no arms. It was a torso, with legs and hips merely to support a base for its phallus. It could not speak. Gods, she was going mad—driven by the heat of her desire and the room, to be sure. Because it didn’t matter if the sculpture had a face, for a stone mouth was no more capable of speech than a nonexistent one!

She calmed herself with deep breaths, focusing on the hot air entering her lungs until she was swaying slightly, as if drunk on it. No matter where the words had come from, she was ready.

Already nude, and with the phallus oiled, there was little left to do but…mount it. She felt slightly awkward as she attempted this, positioning herself on the lap of the statue until its appendage was pressed between them. It was more intimidating like this, against the pale skin of her stomach, showing how deep it could penetrate her. It didn’t make her less aroused, though, if anything she felt anticipation—an eagerness to see how much she could take.

She rose upward on her knees, supporting herself with one hand on the shoulder of the torso while the other parted her folds. With how slick she was, and with all the oil, it did not take long for her to ease the head inside—though even that was a considerable stretch.

It didn’t hurt, it felt right, as if her muscles were made for this—to accommodate a man. And she supposed they were, this was just the first evidence she had seen—felt—of it.

What little ache there was, was chased away by the heat of the phallus—her aunt had called it cold but Rhaenyra thought its temperature far closer to something that would burn. She liked it though, and was suddenly desperate for more—but when she pressed down, her body protested, still attempting to adjust to the size of its bulbous head.

I can help you, deliciae.

She yelped—jerking in surprise. She likely would have lost her place on the lap of the throne if not for the—hands. Yes. Those were definitely hands. That gripped her waist and stilled her. She was panting now, the arousal and fear and confusion proving to be too much.

Don’t be afraid, deliciae. The night does not harm the day, nor does evil harm the innocent.

Her fingers clawed at the stone beneath them—proving to her that it was not a person, that this wasn’t real. But that voice seemed the opposite, echoing in the small room in a way that made her so sure it wasn’t just in her head. But that was impossible!

You won’t be innocent for long though, will you? Parting the petals of your precious flower and planting it on the root of my loin. So desperate for seed, greedy with the desire for a babe.

She shook her head, “No—” she wasn’t greedy for that. Her desire was for—she swallowed, she didn’t know what it was for. She simply wanted this—his length inside her. She wanted to know pleasure, even if she’d not been promised it by this ritual.

She said none of this, but he heard it. Gods, he wasn’t even there. She was going mad.

Oh deliciae, I shall give you both.

She didn’t know what that meant—and then the hands holding her waist moved. They did what she had not, pulling her further down the length—it was so hard inside her, so warm, seeming to thrum in time with her own heartbeat. She was stretched tightly across the appendage, skin straining and burning but doing so with an eagerness that made her desire more.

He gave it to her. Another inch—and she felt it, the tearing and pain that signaled she was no longer a maiden. It hurt, but she had little time to think for she was suddenly jerked further down the length—all the way down his length, she realized, for her body was now fully seated atop the statue's own without an inch between them. Though no tearing sensation accompanied this movement, the pain made her woozy, made her scream. It made everything go black.

One of Rhaenyra’s first memories was a poem. A man was jealous of his lover’s mindless playing with a sparrow. Whether it was because he wished to play so lightheartedly with the delicate bird, or because he wished to be in its place and play with his lover, was not made clear. She could not recite the exact words. After all, she hadn’t heard them in nearly a decade—not since her mother died, taking Rhaenyra’s interest in poetry with her.

It took a while for her to regain enough awareness to listen. The candance was the same, familiar enough to spark the memory of her youth. It must have been written by the same person, but she had not heard this part. In it, the sparrow was dead, and the man was blaming god—

‘you devour all beautiful things,’

‘now on account of your work my little girl's slightly swollen eyes are red from weeping.’

She wondered if it was a warning that he was going to devour her. Or perhaps meant as a compliment, that he thought her beautiful. She sniffed, her nose snotty from the tears that had come before she lost consciousness. There was a finger brushing them away, gentle thumbs cradling her face as she lay back against something warm.

Oh. She realized, almost wanting to laugh, it was because her eyes were swollen and red from weeping.

I shall reward you, deliciae, for your cleverness.

The voice sounded closer, now, and she shivered as lips brushed her ear, a tongue dragging to the lobe before teeth nipped at it. She wasn’t sure what this…whatever it was, would consider a reward, but if it was death, she wanted to see what creature would take her to the afterlife. Her eyes opened just enough to see him in the dim room.

She was shocked by what she saw, for he was the opposite of their surroundings, the opposite of the obsidian body that sat atop a throne.

His skin was white as snow, and his hair as bright as polished coins of silver and gold. He was handsome, breathtakingly so, with piercing eyes and plush lips. He looked more like a prince, than a god, though he was attractive enough to be both.

Was it so awful that his appearance alone soothed her fear?

Was it vain that he did not seem so monstrous when she knew he was handsome?

That she would rather die at the hand of someone beautiful?

Death—yes, she could imagine no other outcome, and his next words were no comfort.

I shall devour you, of course, my beautiful thing.

She waited for the pain—but none came, aside from the pressure of his hands on her pelvis, which reminded her of the ache in her cunt. It felt like an overstretched muscle, twisted and sore but in a way you knew would be better in the morning. Hardly damaged beyond repair, no matter how excruciating it had been when he fully entered her.

It was soothing—the weight of his palms pressing down on her, as if it could heal her that way. They soon moved, though, cupping her thighs and lifting them—bringing her cunt to his mouth as if he wished to sip from a bowl of soup. And this was what he had meant, she realized, as his mouth descended on her folds.

She didn’t know how to describe it—though she doubted her ability to describe anything at that moment. But it was warm and wet and wonderful. He lapped at her voraciously, as if he was starved for this act and unable to restrain himself. While his tongue curled into her, his fingers roamed—joining his tongue, and tracing both above and below her folds. She was shaking in a matter of minutes, and pleading for release. She had to look at herself to be convinced she wasn’t expanding, for her skin felt tight and she swore she was going to explode.

And then it came.

She came.

And she did again, and again.

She begged for mercy but he gave none. Her pleading seemed to amuse him, but he did not stop, for he was parched and intended to quench himself on the juices of her cunt.

Despite her protests, she ground her hips against his chin and dug her nails into his scalp in an attempt to drag him closer. It was as if her body knew she could take this, her body wanted this, it was just her foolish brain that was unwilling to resign to such pleasures.

It did, eventually. Or rather he forced her to resign. She came too many times to think, her vision blurred and she feared she may pass out again if he did not stop—though this time it would be for a reason opposite that of pain, it would be for pleasure. He seemed to know this, but remained unbothered—continuing to lap at her until her lids fell shut and grip on his hair weakened.

When she woke, there was an ache inside her, a cramping making her aware of an intrusion. Her upper body was against the stone tiles—they felt cool in the heat of her room and she moaned, momentarily distracted as her nipples scraped across their rough surface.

Her hips were held by large hands, the cheeks of her rear pressed against unyielding flesh. Warm. So warm. One hand stroked her hip while the other ventured up her side, cupping a breast before traveling to her stomach, pressing gently against the place his cock had reached inside her. She whimpered, and he made a shushing noise, like she was a child.

It shall pass. Tis a risk little things like you take, when they crave the cock of a god.

“I didn’t.” She cried, nails curling against the tiles before they bit into the skin of her palm.

Didn’t you?

She shook her head, and he made a humming noise behind her before leaning over her—trapping her body beneath him and whispering into her ear.

You will.

She didn’t know how long they stayed like that, him stroking her flank as her core desperately tried to adjust to his length. It could have been minutes, or hours, she didn’t have the slightest idea. But eventually her muscles gave up—growing as slack as they could while being stretched so thoroughly. The ache of pain faded slowly, and the ache of desire readily took its place. Soon that was all that remained—pooling in her gut and making her cunt slick, though it had nowhere to go with how his cock plugged her.

His cock. God, it was so warm, so hard. It soothed the ache it had caused in her, while leaving her burning for more. She wanted for him to move. She wanted him. She wanted.

“Please.” She whispered, though it sounded pathetic, even to her own ears.

He hummed.

Please what, deliciae?

“Please move.” She begged.

I am not sure you have earned it. When you claim to not even crave it.

She sobbed in frustration, “I do! Please! I need it.”

Greedy little thing. Alright deliciae, I am not so cruel as to deny a pretty thing such as you.

And he didn’t—his thrusts were shallow at first, letting her adjust to the sensation of something not just being there but moving in there. She thought her muscles were too fatigued for it to hurt, she barely twitched at his movements, though she felt them. She couldn’t escape them, the force of each thrust flowing from her folds to the tip of each of her fingers.

She swore she felt more than the force of his movements, but also the force of his being. If he had been a shadow when she first walked into this room then perhaps it was not so impossible that part of him had crept into her with each breath. She would worry over that later, for at this moment all she could focus on was him pressing into her—and then pulling out until only the head remained, before slamming back in and making her shriek and scramble.

It was not predictable. Each thrust was a different pace and length—she trembled in anticipation as he pulled back only to nearly collapse in pleasure when he pushed forward. His hands hadn’t moved through all of this, somehow still supporting her. They soothed her with strokes along her flank, before slipping down to where they were joined—a fingernail scraped against the taught skin that clung to his cock and her entire body seemed to coil before it snapped.

He kept thrusting, his finger dancing around where they were joined, then rubbing the bud above her folds. She felt tears spilling from her eyes and she bit down on her lip in an effort to avoid crying audibly.

Do not hide from me, deliciae. Not your tears, or sounds, or body. Let yourself be. Let yourself cry out for me.

She hiccuped, “I don’t even know who you are.”

I am Daemon— and perhaps more than that to you.

She didn’t know what that meant.

But she knew his name, at least. And she became familiar with it on her tongue, as she cried out for him again, and again. He was relentless, the coupling seeming endless until he finally—finally emptied himself into her. She knew a man would spend themselves, but she hadn’t expected to feel it—the heat, and the pressure. The way it managed to pour into every crevice his cock itself had not reached, being pushed deeper and deeper with his shallow thrusts until she was sure it filled every empty part of her.

There was no way she could know this, but somehow she did.

And somehow he did too.

Name him Baelon. He whispered, before gently pulling out of her

She whimpered—now unused to being empty, even though before that night it was all she knew.

She felt herself being lifted into his arms and being moved—she was curled up quite efficiently in his lap, her lips and face buried in the crook of his neck. “It won’t be a demon, will it?” Rhaenyra asked, thinking of the legends—creatures born by evil spirits as punishment for one's misdeeds.

No more so than you.

She laughed a little at that, stroking his chest, her thumb dragging across scarred flesh that nearly covered his right nipple. It was strange for a god to have scars.

A warrior wears his failings and his victories on his flesh. It is a fact unchanged by death or deity.

She hummed in response, unable to think of anything else for his own fingers had wandered. She hissed as his thumb touched her own nipple—the bud scraped, as was most of her chest, from being pressed against the tile floors. The sensitive nubs had gotten the worst of it, given their hardened state that only served to press them more harshly against the jagged stone.

Daemon did not apologize—instead enveloping one in his mouth. The heat of his tongue against broken skin stung at first, but the suckling sensation was soothing and pleasant enough that any other feelings soon faded. She petted his hair while he lapped at her, sucking turning to lazy licks before he repeated the act on her other breast.

She had seen women in the village feed their children before, and so she never gave much thought to her breasts' purpose beyond that. If anything they were an annoyance, making her back ache because of their size. She didn’t know they could feel like this. But then, she’d never had a man's hands massaging them, nor one's mouth miming the act of drinking from one.

Her arms wrapped around his shoulders, and she collapsed against the armrest—her head tilting back against the throne. The last thing she remembered was being very warm, very tired, and asking for a good night's kiss.

Of course. Sleep, deliciae.

His lips were soft and warm, and she was asleep before their mouths fully parted.

She was warm. So warm. Not like the night before though—this was uncomfortable, stifling, claustrophobic and not at all like the embrace of her god. She struggled, and hands pressed her down—she tried to fight them, but she was so weak.

Why was she so weak?

A woman’s voice tried to calm her.

“Go back to sleep, Rhaenyra, you have a fever, you need rest.”

The next time she awoke, she was more comfortable—but when her eyes opened, everything was much too bright. It was as if they were still adjusted to the dim crypt, and her head pounded as they attempted to adjust. Or perhaps her head just pounded. She touched her forehead—it felt grimy with sweat, but had no exterior damage.

What had happened? The last thing she remembered was…

Daemon.

Rhaenys was the one to explain—that Rhaenyra never returned to the ground level of the keep. Rhaenys had stood watch all night, and when morning came both she and Laena descended into the crypt to search.

They found her asleep on the throne, curled against the side of the statue.

“You were pale and completely unresponsive. The Maester said he has only seen such a water imbalance in men who had been missing for weeks.” Laena told her, sounding far more concerned than her mother had.

“You were alone down there, yes?” Rhaenys asked, after Laena had left the room. Her tone was very serious. Rhaenyra picked at her fingers, she could hardly admit that a god took a human form in order to take her virginity. They would think her mad. Maybe she was. But she knew from the ache in her legs, and the sensitivity of her breasts against the chemise that something had happened.

“Yes. I was alone.” Rhaenyra said. She had to have been. Rhaenys had been at the entry all night, and the rooms had been empty when she first entered them.

“There were marks, Rhaenyra.” The older woman said “Bruises. Trauma.” She paused for a moment before gritting her teeth and saying, “There was seed.”

Rhaenyra looked at her lap, blushing despite not doing anything wrong. She gathered despite the rumor of the stone phallus leading to conception on a woman’s wedding night, it was not meant to leave visible evidence like it had with her.

“You saw me bare and unblemished just minutes before I went into that chamber. You saw me enter that chamber alone. You saw that no one else entered! I will not deny the marks or moisture that was present, but I was alone.”

Rhaenys eyes narrowed, and then softened when Rhaenyra yawned—exhausted from merely sitting up and speaking. She clutched her daughter in law's hand. “Regardless of what happened—I’m glad you survived, and I bid you not to speak of it to others.”

Rhaenyra nodded, that much she could agree to—as it was she had little plan to tell anyone of what happened. Of what she thought happened. She would not let a…hallucination brought on by lack of water be the downfall of her marriage or life.

It was to be forgotten.

It did not want to be forgotten.

She did not consummate her marriage with her husband until a full month after they married. He was insistent that her health had to come first, and that she was still recovering what had occurred in the crypt. Rhaenyra swore she was fine, but he protested all the same.

She was quite sure when he did agree, it had to do with his mother’s interference rather than his own desire.

Despite his good looks and the easy friendship they had developed, he was not suave. He treated her more like a sister than a lover, even when they had the privacy of shared chambers. She was somewhat…offended at his lack of interest, but she wasn’t sure how to fix it. She was confident it wasn’t her fault, for she was beautiful, and she knew it. Which meant it was something he had to decide to fix, and he seemed more eager to avoid than address it.

It was somewhat of a relief to learn his lack of desire applied to the entirety of her sex, rather than just her. He had admitted this when his cock refused to thicken enough to even press it inside of her. She had held him, his face against her chemise covered chest—for he had asked her not to remove it during—while he sobbed.

Before he returned to his room, he swore he appreciated the female form, he just had no appetite for it.

That night, her fingers roamed beneath her chemise. She remembered the sensation of Daemon’s appetite, the unrelenting tongue that had made her come until her body could no longer take it. It was this that brought on a release, though it was less satisfying using her own hand.

Her sleep was fitful that night.

She started feeding the sparrows, leaving little bits of bread on the windowsill of her room.

She started reading her mothers poetry books.

She started to acknowledge that she was going to be a mother too.

The bump was small, but could not be ignored. Her husband did not ask questions, and neither did Rhaenys.

Corlys seemed to know the truth of it, but was uncaring—names were what people remembered, he claimed, and her child would be a Velaryon.

There was a terrible storm that night—unexpected and violent. The wind ripped shingles from rooftops, and the seas were so rocky they wrecked parts of the dock and sank several boats.

A bad omen, the townspeople claimed.

Laenor had gotten the wound while sparring—just a small cut, not worthy of seeing a Maester or stitching. He was insistent on that, brushing it off in the unserious manner he did almost everything. Rhaenyra huffed but didn’t argue, it wasn’t worth it, he never listened.

The wound festered.

His pride kept it hidden beneath his sleeve, until the swelling and stiffness made the severity obvious.

The Maester did what he could, but the infection had spread to the point where even amputation would not stop it. “If it already travels through his veins, the presence of the original source has little effect on what comes after.” He claimed. “Best to clean the wound, use the pastes and tonics.” He paused for a moment, “And pray.”

Laneor had laughed at this, too, claiming his arm ached but he was fine.

He seemed it, too. Until the fever came.

After that, his condition deteriorated rapidly.

Rhaenys spent hours at the altar. Perhaps that was what motivated Rhaenyra to do it—to visit the only place she had truly felt the gods presence. Or at least one god's presence.

The task was harder now that she was more than halfway through her pregnancy. Everything was harder now. But the steps felt especially treacherous now that she was unable to see her foot placement over her swollen belly. She was nervous too, which didn’t help. Far more nervous now than she had on her wedding day.

Though there was no reason to be, it turned out.

The ruby eyes of the dragon Caraxes followed her as she opened the steel door to the obsidian room. .

The room was different than she remembered. It was cold. Or rather, it wasn’t warm, not like it had been.

She swallowed as she approached the statue—missing the arms she swore she had felt, and the mouth she had kissed. Whatever she had coupled with that night had been more than her imagination, she knew that now. The evidence of this grew bigger each day—for she grew bigger each day. She palmed her stomach before reaching out to touch the shoulder of the obsidian torso—the stone was cold, like ice.

Yes—she knew what she had coupled with that night had been more than her imagination.

But whatever she had coupled with that night was gone now, she knew that too.

Her eyes strayed to the sky during the funeral, even before the pyre was lit. She swore she saw a dragon circling ahead, or something too big to be a bird, with shiny red reptilian scales in addition to wings. Laena squeezed her arm, and Rhaenyra turned her attention back to the service.

When she looked up again, whatever the creature was, it was gone.

The only tears that fell from her eyes that day were from the smoke—making her eyes itch in a way the loss of her husband hadn’t.

The town seemed to be buzzing—rumors had spread that inhabitants were returning to the great keep, named Dragonstone after the island it sat on. It was an intimidating structure, and said to be very grand inside, but the definition of grand on Dragonstone paled compared to the Crownlands or Essos. Clearly it wasn’t enough for her distant relatives, the Targaryen’s, who had left the island centuries ago and taken the dragon’s with them.

Dragonstone was not entirely uninhabited. The Septon’s and Maesters retained residence there, with special permissions, and was maintained by a skeletal staff with servants split between the keep and nearby stone cottages.

Having existed long before the village itself, the keep was built with the intention to serve the soldiers and a large number of attendants in addition to the ancestral family. When the family left, this practice remained, leaving crypts, springs, places for prayer, and the kitchens accessible to all.

Rhaenyra knew the lower floors offered little insight into the grandeur of the structure. It was hard to consider anyone who lived there—in the servants chambers—an inhabitant, for they too were limited from enjoying its glory.

It was exciting, Rhaenyra supposed, but she was more concerned with what lived in her womb at that moment, than what lived in the keep. Her babe was expected in mere weeks and she couldn’t help but worry—for herself, and for the baby. If it was a baby.

She had nightmares of a midwife placing a bundle into her arms. In one, the weight of it felt strange, and when she pushed back its blanket, the babe was nothing but black stone.

In another, the lively human wails made her sob in relief. But when she attempted to lift the babes head and help it latch, she found a hissing dragon that left her breasts bloodstreaked.

Her worry was for naught.

“A god was watching over this one, watching over them both, never seen a first labor like it.” The midwife said, after it was over.

Rhaenyra was grateful for the apparent ease of it—though it had still hurt to the point she screamed and threatened the poor woman’s life. She was not eager to repeat this, much less a dozen times like some villagers had. But it could have been worse.

So much worse.

She blinked away the memory of how her mother had been flayed.

And the babe…he was perfect.

A little boy. Ten fingers and ten toes. Ruddy cheeks and bright eyes and hair as white as ash. She was immediately besotted with him, stroking his hair as he mouthed at the bud of her breast.

“Lusty, that one.” The midwife said, and Rhaenyra wasn’t sure if she should cry or laugh, because all she could think was, yes, just like his father.

She missed the arrival of the Lord that had returned to Dragonstone, for it had occurred the same day at the birth of Ba—she swallowed the name. It was considered bad luck to name a babe in its first fortnight of life. Rhaenys said it was only to be done after the infant had been offered to the gods.

Rhaenyra put this task off for seventeen days. Using healing as an excuse until she could no longer.

She never made it to the crypt.

She stumbled on the hem of her dress—it was one from when she was pregnant and without the roundness of her belly it was too long. It was an easy alteration to make but Rhaenyra despised hemming with a passion, and so it had not yet been done.

She was relieved when she was saved from injury by someone catching her arm. She knew the firm grip belonged to a man before she looked at him, but she had not expected it to be him.

He was more handsome in daylight, she thought. His skin was so bright he almost glowed, and his eyes shone more like jewels or glass than anything human. He was beautiful—if he existed at all.

His name was caught in her throat, as he looked down at her expectantly. She had never seen him standing, had she? Never been able to appreciate the breadth of his shoulders and how his height compared to her.

“Are you alright?” The man asked, and gods, even the voice was what she remembered.

She blinked, her voice hoarse when she replied, “No, I think perhaps I’ve seen a ghost.”

He smirked, leaning in slightly—his hand notably still on her arm. His breath smelled warm, spicy and sweet and it made her want to do nothing but breathe in the aroma of him.

His voice was low, “I think, deliciae, I’ve seen something I’d like to eat.”

She shivered—the prospect arousing, for she remembered that act well…but, wait—gods, her voice was a panicked whisper, “You don’t mean the baby, do you?”

He laughed. A masculine yet musical sound full of such mirth and humor it almost wiped away her worry before he answered, “No, Rhaenyra, I do not mean the baby.” His attention was turned to the babe now, though, looking down at the bundle in her arms.

“He is beautiful.” His eyes glanced up to her own, “I think he looks quite like his father.”

She did not disagree.

“Tragic, how young you’ve been widowed—I do hope you would allow me, as the new Lord of Dragonstone, to offer you aid if you are ever in need of it. In need of anything.” He said, the last part sounding sinful in the tone he used.

“I thank you for that but—-” he cut her off, “There is little reason to go there now, Rhaenyra. Baelon is a fine name for a son. I’m positive your gods would approve.”

His fingers were stroking the trim of her sleeve, and then the strip of exposed skin below it.

“Join me for a meal instead?” He asked.

She nodded.

She had never eaten so much or so well. He fed her quail and meat pies and pudding and syrupy wine, until she swore she had never been so full in her life.

He insisted she had room for just a little bit more, before feeding her his cock. It was a clumsy act, a mess of drool and gagging around the length, but he seemed pleased all the same, watching with a smile and gently stroking her hair while she sucked.

She had barely wiped the seed from her chin before she was in his lap and her breasts freed from her dress. He looked awed by them, swollen with milk and larger than they had been even a few months ago. His thumbs brushed her nipples, before his tongue descended—giving them far more attention than they had ever known before.

He did not move away when the milk came—quite the opposite. He lapped up what spilled before sucking the rosy peak between his lips. She wasn’t sure why it felt so good—but it did, the relief and the pleasure of it all was almost enough to make her come. She thought she might have, when his lips swallowed the other breast, and she sobbed while curling herself around his head.

No part of her wanted him to stop, but she pulled at his hair and pleaded, “Leave some for Baelon.” The words a mere gasp on her tongue.

He pulled away, though looked quite pathetic as he did.

“Pity, the sacrifices a father must make to keep their son from going hungry.”

She stiffened—he had fully admitted it with that statement, hadn’t he?

“What does that make me, if he is your son?” She asked.

“You are my deliciae, but if that is not enough, then I shall have to make you my wife, too.”

Her second marriage was consummated mere minutes after the vows were said.

The taste of blood made Daemon thirst for something else, he claimed.

She did not find it so invigorating—though she was pleased when she did not find it grotesque, either. Daemon was smug when she admitted this—that his blood was far more palatable than her first husband’s. He promised he would bleed for her eagerly if she desired it.

She found she desired a different part of him in that moment—and she helped herself to it, sliding down the appendage with a long moan.

He had to carry her back to the keep, her legs refused to work. But that was alright, their function was not required in what he had planned.

“It is tradition,” He said, when he pressed his length into her once more, “For us to conceive on your wedding night.”

definition of deliciae | latin

1, delight, pleasure (an activity which affords enjoyment)

2, pet, darling, sweetheart, beloved object

.end.

References, quotes via wikipedia:

a. Throughout the ancient Mediterranean images of Priapus with a phallus were used in deflowering rituals of newlywed, virgin brides. Though the bride would later consummate the marriage with her husband, the deity was said to impregnate her with her firstborn child.

In early times, this child begotten of the deity was sometimes then offered back to the deity as a sacrifice, just as the first fruits of all kinds were offered to the deity who provided them.

b. During preliminary marriage rites, Roman brides are supposed to have straddled the phallus of Mutunus to prepare themselves for intercourse. Arnobius says that Roman matrons were taken for a ride on Tutunus's "awful phallus" with its "immense shameful parts" and “Tutinus, upon whose shameful lap sit brides, so that the god seems to sample their shame before the fact.”

“Daemon” was based mostly on gods from the Aztec Pantheon who generally covered a realm of things — a sky god would provide water for crops, which would grow and represent new life, for example. But I primarily used: Tezcatlipoca as a reference, he is associated with a variety of concepts, including the night sky, hurricanes, obsidian, and conflict.

Snakes, serpents, and dragons were often a sign of evil, rebirth, fertility, and sensuality. There is like a wikipedia page for each religion and how horny/scared they are of them. This might have been what partially inspired my Oberyn / Daemon / Rhaenyra fic, lol.

Poems inspired by Catullus #2

#hotdaemyra #hotdaemyraautumn #hotd #kinktober #fanfic #amorous autumn #ao3 #daemyra #daemon x rhaenyra #house of the dragon #Rhaenyra Targaryen #Daemon Targaryen #fic #a03 #daemon x Rhaenyra #HOTD #Angie writes

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cyberpunkonline · 1 year

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Let's delve into the fascinating world of 80s sci-fi comics and geek culture, where satire and social commentary often lurked beneath the flashy exteriors. Buckle up, because we're about to explore how franchises like Warhammer 40k, Judge Dredd, and others began their journeys as satirical works that demand a closer examination with that fact in mind.

"Warhammer 40k: A Grimdark Satire"

Warhammer 40,000, or Warhammer 40k, is known for its dark, dystopian future, where humanity is constantly besieged by alien threats, religious zealotry, and an oppressive regime. While it's a beloved tabletop wargame and expansive lore universe today, its origins are rooted in satire.

Warhammer 40k was born in the late 1980s, a time when the British punk and post-punk scenes were in full swing. The creators, Rick Priestley and others at Games Workshop, sought to parody the bleakness of dystopian fiction, turning it up to eleven. In doing so, they crafted a satirical critique of authoritarianism, religious fanaticism, and the absurdity of perpetual war.

The imperium of man, with its over-the-top religiosity and totalitarian rule, serves as a caricature of the worst aspects of organized religion and militarism. The use of Gothic architecture and absurdly oversized weaponry mocks the excesses of the Warhammer fantasy setting.

So, when you dive into the grim darkness of the 41st millennium, remember that beneath the layers of doom and gloom lies a satirical reflection of the societal anxieties of its time.

"Judge Dredd: The Ultimate Satirical Enforcer"

If we're talking about satirical 80s comics, we can't forget Judge Dredd. Created by John Wagner, Pat Mills, and Carlos Ezquerra, this iconic character embodies the darkly comedic spirit of the era.

Set in a post-apocalyptic future where the law is upheld by ruthless Judges who have the power to act as judge, jury, and executioner, Judge Dredd was a satirical commentary on authoritarianism, the justice system, and the erosion of civil liberties. The sprawling mega-city of Mega-City One serves as a grotesque exaggeration of urban dystopia.

Judge Dredd's unwavering adherence to the law, even when it's absurd or unjust, highlights the dangers of absolute power and the absurdity of a legal system taken to its extreme. The comic often used black humor to comment on issues like crime, justice, and authoritarianism.

The Importance of Examining Satire

Both Warhammer 40k and Judge Dredd began as satirical works, but over time, they have evolved into beloved and enduring franchises. While their satirical origins may not always be at the forefront, it's essential to consider them when exploring the deeper themes and narratives within these universes.

Examining these works through a satirical lens allows us to appreciate the underlying commentary on society and politics that the creators embedded into their stories. It's a reminder that even in the fantastical and larger-than-life worlds of geek culture, there can be powerful reflections of our own reality.

So, as you venture into the vast and intricate realms of 80s sci-fi comics and geek culture, keep in mind the satirical roots that shaped these iconic franchises. They are more than just action-packed stories; they are mirrors held up to our own world, reflecting back the absurdities and injustices that continue to shape our society.

Stay cheeky and keep exploring those thought-provoking narratives!

- Raz

#warhammer #judge dredd #80s #1980s #geek #comic #culture #satire

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unplanned-parenthood · 1 year

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I WANT TO HEAR YOUR AMBER LORE SOOOO BAD. she is my everything i agree with all of your takes on her so so so hard you put it into words

i was definitely exaggerating when i said Amber Lore but i do think abt her past a lot....most of it is related to her upbringing (shocking in the show where absolutely everyone has smthing going on w their family) AND her being a lesbian because lesbian amber is so real to me. this is very messy and barely coherent but. you asked so you shall receive. under the cut though bc its like. a lot

born and raised in boston (thanks mrs. dunnek for being born there) by her mom, really good relationship with her but they didn’t /see/ each other too often bc mamalakis worked a pretty demanding corporate job (she is just as ambitious as amber, yeah, except she worries about how others see her quite more, aka she Will play nice to get what she needs) so amber was by herself a lot since a very young age. she has no siblings and no connection with her immediate or extended family (neither from her mom’s or dad’s side, dad’s mostly because he was never in the picture)

her mom being a very successful and hard-working woman certainly made amber internalize lots of stuff and add lots of expectations to what shes supposed to be slash what shes supposed to do and mamalakis was never demanding or strict w amber but amber 100% was with herself and she was definitely one of those kids who cried and threw up when they didnt get perfect marks LOL

she has always been very blunt + obsessed with being right + smarter than anyone else so she was pretty much by herself even outside of her home but she spent a lot of the time in the local library. she read pretty much everything available and the only ones that didnt bore her were medical books (i can perfectly imagine a little amber liking how grotesque some of the graphics/pictures were lol…my princess)

adding onto the ‘mostly by herself thing’ she pretty much did not have friends for most of her childhood/teenhood but she had a small group of girls she used to hang out and go shopping with during hs, they were all pretty fake and disliked each other though. amber knew that but she didnt care, she just took advantage of it so she at least had someone to drag with her when there were group projects and stuff (if she was going to be gifting away perfect marks she would much rather it be a known evil, you know)

she did her undergrad, premed, um whatever its called in boston uni. last time i did research i settled on biomed, i think? but i could also see her pursuing something in the psychology field…

in uni is when she deliberately started trying to get boyfriends and stuff, even if she knew she didnt need a boyfriend or anything bc her mom didnt have one and she was fine but she still went out of her way to date like every boy out there. just to feel something and like prove herself she could, and maybe just become the image of the perfect daughter her mom deserves (the one who her mom definitely would never push her to become but rather the one amber made in head. she really put her mom on a pedestal A Lot) she didnt like any of the guys she dated though, and most of them werent very Nice either (plays the love and respect scene over and over in my brain) but she just shrugged it off at the fact that maybe relationships just werent for her

but she was like Very Wrong bc while she was out there having meaningless relationships w guys she was growing closer with her roommate lol…who was pretty much her first Real friend and whom she didnt get along very well at first bc she slacked off a lot and was constantly asking for her help but she was also very sweet, had a nice smile and took care of amber whenever she was sick (which was a lot, i think she has seasonal allergies and gets lots of colds) also completely unrelated but she did have brown hair and dark brown eyes :) (you see where this is going) they never dated although her roommate definitely liked her that way but also comphet is a bitch and when amber realized she might actually want to pursue something w her she started dating even More Guys and started avoiding her roommate and everything. she realized somewhere along the 3rd year or so of being roommates (they stuck together even after their freshman year, yeah <3) that she liked her but it wasnt until her last year there that her roommate confronted her about it and it was a whole fight and everything. amber might or might not have said that their friendship would never last bc she didnt want distractions once she started med school and...it was Bad. after that amber stopped dating altogether up until…you know who. absolutely not a coincidence she ended with the one guy who is absolutely repressed and dealing with the comphet demons too (i do think they loved each other though, as much as they could. but they were both trying to fill the gap of the one thing they could never have. and as i have said lesbians and gay men will always literally go and have the most tragic romances in TV)

and. well. after that it pretty much went downhill for my princess. she moved to missouri for med school (canonically WUSM!) and…her mom died, car accident, um. the narratives im so sorry. it was Bad she struggled a lot and she was now by herself for sure but she worked her ass off to get her degree because she knew her mom wouldnt have wanted to see her giving up. then she moved to NJ to do her residencies (a little closer to what she used to call home, but not close enough to make her depressed) and then pretty much what happens in the show :-)

in a happier timeline she comes to terms w her sexuality and tries to connect w her old roommate again and she is like head of radiology in some prestigious hospital. or maybe head of the second diagnostics department to ever exist. she deserves it.

#thank you for asking. i love her so much #inbox #amber volakis

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diveyne · 8 months

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no because what's really interesting to me is the way morgana's features changed.

like.

she clearly has pointed ears and it's so fascinating to me because she was born human. like, her mother was human. she trekked up mount targon while pregnant with her twins, and it's the residual power flowing from mount targon being absorbed in during the pregnancy.

when their mother dropped her sword unto the earth and with it the light and dark magic from the aspect of justice, the fact that it manifested these wings that tore from their backs is insane to me, like it was awakening something that was trapped within them because they were born with this demigod aspect to them due to the nature of mihira's pregnancy.

morgana has always been more in touch with her humanity than kayle has, i think. kayle has always been so lost in the ideals of these false prophets and righteousness in the name of holy justice and black and white when morgana sees the world for how it truly is: the world is filled with nuance and its people are multi-faceted and complex and deep and yes there is evil, but there is also so much good, and people are not what they are born and they are not always what they are made out to be, and that it is down to the mortal divinity in the humanity that is choice and free will, and morgana believes so wholeheartedly that people should be allowed to make their choices and learn from their mistakes before they are branded good or evil. she acts when it's clear that there is no good inside of them, when there is no hope for redemption. those are the people she takes down.

kayle doesn't see it that way.

kayle believes strictly in the guidelines of right or wrong, good or evil, black and white with no gray lines or battles of morality, and she cuts down anyone she perceives as evil without considering their motivations, their stories, their affinity for good, the idea or possibility that they could yet be redeemed.

and so this is why kayle is the evil twin, but kayle's ideals align so closely with that of demacia, and of course, morgana aiding those who cannot help themselves and mages and knowing the truth of demacia's roots and of kayle and everything it all stood for is something they want silenced.

morgana has spent all of her life, for thousands of years, keeping to the shadows while aiding humanity as best as she can while her sister does gods know what.

and what's more is that ... kayle has always looked so much like their mother. i think the lore has since changed and evolved beyond the girls not ever knowing their mother and now it seems that mihira was present, but more absentee than anything, and before i think it was thought that she perished and that's why they took up the split powers, but mihira being alive changes everything.

morgana resents kayle for everything she's done and everything she stands for, and i think morgana resents her mother, too, for choosing her duties above family and leaving them without a mother. kayle idolizes mihira, and truthfully, they're so alike, and i think it's also what makes morgana resent kayle even more. morgana feels scorned by her mother, and kayle. morgana has always been closer to her father, because she's ever been the one who has loved humanity for all that it was, and her father, to her, was the embodiment of what humanity should be: kind, loving, nurturing, and warm. for her mother to leave her father so anguished and break his heart and ruin their family, morgana is filled with so much rage and heartache.

when she sees kayle, she sees the spitting image of her mother, too.

i don't know if riot's ever shown a picture of kilam, but i imagine morgana looks a lot like him, too. sometimes she wishes she was more like him. i imagine he's a kind-hearted man, and he raised the girls alone as best as he could.

i know it pained her to grow beyond her father and his mortality, especially knowing all that he had to endure in his life, and that the rest of it likely wasn't what it should've been, especially in the wars kayle and morgana fought against each other.

#hc.#i have a lot of fucking feelings about morgana kjbsdksd #she is #one of my favorite characters ever #also you can see my adhd derail in this post it's kinda funny

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ladysternchen · 2 years

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headcanon explained- Galadhon and descendants

Headcanon-time again, Galadhon. There is not so much to tell about Galadhon that I didn’t tell before in the other headcanon-explained:s, but there goes.

Galadhon was born as the first and only child to Elmo and his wife in the lands that would later be called Eglador. His birth was a moment of light in a time that was very dark for Elmo, missing both brothers and ever wondering whether he had done the right thing in not following Olwë. The light of having Galadhon was enough for Elmo, however, and he grew up loved and cherished, and after Elwë returned, Galadhon was named crown-prince (and spoiled rotten by his aunt and uncle), Elmo refusing that role. Galadhon took that in his strides, caring as little about it as he cared about anything. He was an easy-going character who knew no grief, who loved to laugh and dance and very rarely seen anywhere without his harp. Fear was something entirely strange to him, and animals many other would have called dangerous came to his hand tame and friendly. He could talk a hungry pack of wolfs out of killing a weak foal and instead share the elves own meals. He would talk also to trees and find to his delight that they talked back, telling stories and lore of times even before the elves had awoken. This love of the trees and wild things he had inherited from his mother, being overall as much like her in bearing as he was unlike her in looks. (He would have got on PERFECTLY with his cousin’s sons, especially with Finrod, but that was not to be until after Mandos, and by that time he had lost his carelessness). When Denethor lead his people into Beleriand, he travelled to Ossiriand with his mother, who was overjoyed to meet her kin again. There, Galadhon fell in love with a girl of the greenelves, and they were soon married, and she went with him to the woods of Neldoreth, and with her went her brother Oropher. (Alright, edit, hitch here that I overlooked: the Greenelves only came to Beleriand much much later. Ah well, I still have to work my way around it, figuring out whether I just ignore it or have some come earlier or indeed have Galathil and Celeborn be born later... idk) Not too long after their wedding, Galathil was born (writer’s note here: I never found any information anywhere as to who was the elder of the two, Galathil or Celeborn, and in my imagination it’s Galathil, but I might be just as well mistaken about it). The boys were close in age, closer than was usual with elves by then, so it was not long until Galadhon had two sons he adored just like he has been adored, though he had a much tighter bond with Galathil than he had with Celeborn, who was always very close to both his mother and Elmo, being the quieter, more thoughtful of the brothers. Between Galathil and Celeborn, Lúthien was born, and Galadhon inwardly sighed in relief, because this -or so he thought- released him from any obligations as heir to the crown. He found out quickish that it was not so easy, as Lúthien was... well, Lúthien. Much too freedom-loving, much too impulsive to ever be even remotely interested in something as mundane as ruling a kingdom. In those days, it didn't really matter, for without the evil things of Morgoth’s making, no thought was spent to the possibility of Elu ever needing an heir. But times didn’t stay that peaceful, and Melian’s dark forebodings finally lead to the building of Menegroth. Unlike his parents, who always preferred the woods, Galadhon was in love with the thousand caves, with their beauty and their music. To him, the stone was as sentient as the woods themselves. Not too much later, they first encountered orcs, and there, Galadhon saw his father terrified for the first time, and a fear and hatred also in his uncle’s eyes he had never seen there before. Galadhon could only accept that, not understand. For him, killing orcs was almost a sport. As much as he loved all other living things (well, maybe he didn’t exactly LOVE the dwarves, but he was awed by their handiwork and deeply admired them for it, and honoured and respected them), he had no pity for the orcs, and he very quickly became the King’s most able captain. As such, he rode to war side by side with his uncle when the first battle of Beleriand was upon the elves, and there he -who had never heeded any danger, never wasted even a thought about death- fell, dying in a very stricken Elu’s arms. Galadhon’s death was quick enough to be near painless, he succumbed to his injuries before the shock had worn off, and Elu and Mablung hastily buried Galadhon upon the battlefield so as to save his body from the hunger of the orcs that roamed the fields of the fallen, so he never knew of the horror of Denethor’s death. Victorious the elves may have been, but really that first battle was to the Sindar what the Nirnaeth was to the Noldor, and nobody returned home wholly unscathed. Of all that, Galadhon knew nothing (at least for a while). For his family back in Menegroth the news of his death was a calamity and they grieved for him for a long time. Celeborn was forever haunted by the image of his father in his gleaming armour, waving them goodbye with a laugh, promising to return. He missed him sorely ever after, and indeed named his own capital after his father, Ages later. Galathil mourned his father horribly for centuries, only truly healing when his daughter was born, because she was so very like her grandfather, her Fëa light as a feather carried by the wind. Everyone adored Nimloth, and she adored her family and friends in return, especially loving Lúthien. It was small wonder, therefore, that she ended up falling for Dior, even if her leaving Menegroth was yet another wound dealt to the royal house of Doriath. She was sad about the parting as well, but still keen to live with her husband and parents-in-law in Ossiriand. Grief first struck her when, so very soon after her twins were born, her mother, grandmother and great-grandmother were slain on their return to Menegroth after they had paid her a visit to see the boys. They were still very small when she got pregnant again, but before her daughter was born, her entire world had been turned upside down. She never found words to describe her feelings for this time, not even in Mandos. She didn’t know if the predominant feeling was her own grief or her pity for Lúthien or her fear of what was to come or just her utter loss of how to ever take Melian’s place. They travelled to Menegroth long before she was really fit to travel after Elwing’s birth, and she had never felt so alone. They were children themselves, almost, or so it felt to Nimloth, and they were alone. Her feelings of dread were only increased when at last they reached Menegroth, for her childhood home was hardly recognisable, nor were its inhabitants, the shadow of the terror they had been through and for which they had never been prepared sitting too deep for healing. She had held onto Dior’s hand as hard as she could when they were crowned, and he to her. Out of affection, yes, but mainly really so no one would see how much both their hands shook. The only comfort for Nimloth of this dreadful return was seeing her father again, the only member of family they had left, him and Oropher and Thranduil. And Celeborn, but Nimloth knew that it was only his sense of duty for the stricken realm that kept her uncle in Doriath, his heart yearning to go after his wife and be reunited with her once more. It all ended on that horrible winter’s night when Nimloth pressed her little daughter into Oropher’s arms and told him to flee. When she searched for her sons in vain. When finally Caranthir slit her throat. Both Dior and Galathil saw her die before they themselves were slain. Maybe it was one of the Fëanorians’ swords that ended Galathil’s life, maybe it was really his broken heart, for seeing his beloved daughter die was finally too much. What had started with his father’s death now ended with his daughter’s, and it would take Galathil a long time in Mandos to learn to live with all that loss and pain and grief. Elurín and Eluréd, too, watched their parents die, hidden as they had been the entire time. They ran out to where Dior and Nimloth lay together, wanting nothing more than to cuddle up to their parents, but before they reached them, hand seized the twins. Long and torturous was their fight, but hopeless in the end. Brothers’ bonds had always been strong in their family, though, so it was comforted by each other that they finally closed their eyes to the cold, Eluréd valiantly fighting to stay awake and much stronger than he felt as long as his little brother still breathed, before giving himself into death’s welcoming arms as well.

#silmarillion headcanon #headcanon explained #galadhon #galathil and celeborn #nimloth of doriath #dior eluchíl #elurín and eluréd #doriath #second kinslaying #first battle of beleriand #eglador

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thefirstknife · 2 years

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Hello I was the anon that asked what the deal was about Toland. (Thank you very much for answering!!)

I was going over old lines and something struck me.

With all the new details we now know about the nature of the Darkness, the existence of The Witness, and even the suprise relevance of Nezarec, it definitely throws new light (ha) on old throwaway lore and flavor text.

One that I keep looping is the one from I think from D1 of Toland?

"And how do you know this?"

"It was told to me."

"By the Speaker?"

"By the Darkness itself."

I wonder if that was actually The Witness or Nezarec or something influencing Toland? If he was always unhinged or like if it was a slow descent kinda thing and he was given pushes?

Is there any old lore or flavortext that you like that's meaning cluld have changed thanks to the new information?

You're welcome!!

Also yeah, with Toland it's hard to say. This old text is pretty cool and definitely reads differently now. It's absolutely possible that he was being influenced directly, given how much time he spent investigating the Hive and the Darkness. He was pretty much 100% on point with understanding the Darkness and the Sword Logic:

Existence is a game that everything plays, and some strategies are winners: the ability to exist, to shape existence, to remake it so that your descendants - molecules or stars or people or ideas - will flourish, and others will find no ground to grow.

From Unveiling:

Existence is the first and truest proof of the right to exist. Those who cannot claim and hold existence do not deserve it. This is the true and only divination, a game whose losers are not just forgotten but are never born at all.

Also from Toland; whether he understood it or not, he described the Final Shape:

This is the shape of victory: to rule the universe so absolutely that nothing will ever exist except by your consent. This is the queen at the end of time, whose sovereignty is eternal because no other sovereign can defeat it. And there is no reason for it, no more than there was reason for the victory of the atom. It is simply the winning play.

And from Unveiling:

They're majestic, I said. They have no purpose except to subsume all other purposes. There is nothing at the center of them except the will to go on existing, to alter the game to suit their existence. They spare not one sliver of their totality for any other work. They are the end.

I'm not sure if he had any experience directly with the Darkness or the Witness or Nezarec to gain all this insight, but it's certainly possible that he at least came close. Whatever he did to research the Hive and the Sword Logic so thoroughly, it may have gotten him close enough to direct interaction with any of the above. Consciously or not.

No matter how Toland got to these conclusions, he was correct and it's definitely possible that he got way closer to the Darkness than we previously knew or understood. Also yeah, Nezarec has been influencing people for a very long time even in death so it's not a stretch to think that Toland somehow got in contact with him. Again, consciously or not, doesn't really matter.

As for old lore tabs that now read differently, there's way too much to mention. I know sometimes it's accidental because the writers couldn't have accounted for everything years ago, especially with the story changing paths and hands. But in a lot of cases, from what I've seen, certain main points stayed the same and were hints for years. Or, more accurately, a lot of the old stuff was something that writers looked back on and said "Let's use this for a future storyline." So it looks like a hint.

But it definitely helps to have a cohesive setting and sets of stories you can pull older lore from and capitalise on it. I think Nezarec is the best example here. I don't think they knew 5 years ago that he will be a disciple, but they had that mysterious entry around and were able to use it now to expand on both that old lore and tie it into the new lore. In the same vein, now reading all of Toland's ramblings about the Darkness makes more sense with the new information we got about how the Darkness works, how it sends messages (Unveiling), the Witness and its pyramid scheme of disciples.

#destiny 2 #toland #darkness #witness #ask

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hsr-texts · 1 year

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im just gonna dump my oc here :) glhf w your own oc!

"The truth shall always be a double-edged sword. Only after acknowledging this fact, can one receive my blessing."

Every action shall hold merits, as well as its respective flaws, says the newly born Aeon of Duality. The Aeon, while looked down upon due to formerly being a sickly mortal, has knowledge and wisdom rivaling The Erudion. As long as one's hunger for the truth is sufficient, and their mind is clear to the drawbacks of Their answer, The Duality shall answer any question known to Them.

Born sick and frail, neglected, The Duality yearned for what lies outside of the hospital walls. One fateful day, they ran away, deep into a snowy forest they went after escaping the eyes of the staff. There, they found a glowing, yellow orb, drawing energy from the surrounding taiga. A voice spoke into their mind, and it tempted the child to draw closer and closer before introducing itself as the Stellaron plaguing the planet. "Let us borrow your body and mind," those voices spoke "and we shall comply with any request you utter."

That day, the planet of (redacted) ceased to exist, becoming a playtoy within the hands of a child. Jumping from one planet to another, the child destroyed countless planets and civilizations, absorbing every drop of energy before leaving for another. Finally realizing the fault of their actions, the child discarded the Stellaron within them, and continued the journey, still holding solar systems worth of energy within their palm. This, the Intelligentsia Guild believes, is the full story behind The Duality.

"To fully understand the consequences, and to persure that which one craves, that is the meaning of the Duality."

Listen to your heart, repeat the question within your mind, and if misfortune is with you, The Aeon shall appear before you. Your world shall suddenly plunge into darkness, and your own voice shall ask you the question:

"Are you truly ready to understand the consequences of My answer?"

YES I LOVE AEON LORE!!! This is so scrumptious anon!!!

#♡ sugo speaks .ᐟ [ ✦ ]#anonymous #oc talk

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kootiepatra · 2 years

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NEW WOL DROP

Keimwyda isn't going anywhere, and she will always be my beloved baby, but over the past few months my brain has been itching to also explore FFXIV's story from a different perspective.

So meet O'septha. Her parents and a few other adults from the O Tribe fled to Ul'dah in the early days of the Empire's advance on their homeland, leading to O'septha and all but her oldest siblings/half-siblings being born and raised there.

As an adult, she went into work with Hearty Briar, a friend she'd known since childhood--a sharp Roegadyn who had a nose for finding business deals that needed runners, messengers, and middlemen, in the various strictly legal arrangements being conducted everyday in the city. The job needed people who would ask no questions and take no guff, and above all, be absolutely discrete. O'septha was good at all of those things. Her and Hearty's clients knew her only by her working alias of Silent Coerl.

It was all a big rat race, of course. Everyone had an angle, as is Ul'dah's way, and one party or other in their deals often walked away a bit poorer if not wiser. And for most people, that's not personal--it's just business. Until one day, one particular deal ran afoul of the wrong rat.

As a result, O'septha needed to swiftly get out of town to lay low for a while, heading to Limsa Lominsa at Hearty's recommendation. Her weapons of choice have always been daggers, but she is also starting to train with an axe. She'll always prefer to stick to the shadows, but Hellsguard hired muscle are big, and so she feels a little bit more comfortable being able to wield a weapon that exudes a stronger "back off" vibe when she needs to.

I've got several half-finished documents on her--I want to take my time through MSQ and flesh out her lore as I go. But here's an excerpt from the opening scenes of MSQ to get to know her a little bit better. :)

=================

She was floating in an expanse she could see neither the beginning nor end of. Faint swirls of color pulsed around her. She was descending, down and down, until her feet touched a floor that was not really there.

Flashes of images assailed her. A giant crystal suspended upon nothing. A coiling cloud of darkness that parted, revealing a man clothed in black robes, face obscured by an angry red mask. She looked down and saw herself wearing armor that was unfamiliar to her, wielding an axe nothing like the one she had grabbed during her panicked flight from Ul’dah. She struck at the man, not really knowing why.

A low feminine voice reverberated around her. Hear… feel… think…

Then a raspy masculine one. Oi! Ye all right, lass?

“Lass?”

O’septha snapped awake to the voice that was not in her dream after all. A bearded man stood over her, far closer and more interested in her than she would have liked.

Gods, when did I fall asleep? She must have been more exhausted than she realized.

“You were moanin’ in your sleep and sweatin’ buckets besides. Rollin’ of the ship got your stomach churnin’, has it?”

She blearily tried to focus on the stranger and wished with everything in her that he would go away. “No,” she said flatly, in a tone which dripped with her profound disinterest in continuing this conversation.

“Hmm… Don’t seem like seasickness now that I look at you. It’ll be the aether then, I reckon.”

She stared at him. He really just kept talking, huh. She could not fathom where he thought she had come from that she wouldn’t know what aetherytes were, but she was not about to tell him.

The ship lurched worryingly and the man staggered in an effort to keep his feet. O’septha rocked unsteadily on the bench where she was seated and glanced around the cabin, as if that would somehow reveal the source of the upset. The man kept blathering about how rough the sea was.

He mentioned going up on deck to get some fresh air, and despite her own irritation, she found herself acquiescing to his invitation to join him. Fresh air did sound nice. And obnoxious as this man was, he seemed friendly enough. Perhaps it meant more to her than she realized to have a meaningless conversation with someone who clearly had no interest in trying to kill her.

O’septha’s reticence did precisely nothing to deter the small talk from her fellow passenger. A peddler, as it turns out, by the name of Brennan. She regarded him with mild amusement despite herself. Yes, she could see it. She knew his like in the scraggly drifters who would wander through the Sapphire Avenue Exchange, hawking strange baubles that few people wanted, before cheerfully wandering out of the city to their next destination. How they managed to eke out a living, she never knew.

“Ain’t no secret that adventurin’ is dangerous business—these days especially,” Brennan smiled. “What was it that first attracted you to it?”

O’septha hesitated. What was she was supposed to say? I am on the run from armed goons in Ul’dah and I have to feed myself somehow? She finally shrugged. “It’s a private matter.”

“Well, if you ain’t inclined to tell, I ain’t about to pry. Might be as ol’ Brennan’s a chatterbox, but he sure as hells ain’t no busybody.”

She arched a skeptical eyebrow at him.

“We all have a secret or three, don’t we?” he said, smiling broadly. “Me? Dozens!”

At the rate he was talking, O’septha rather doubted it.

#FFXIV #writing by me #wol lore #fanfic

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magicalberserk · 1 year

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(())

Miscellaneous facts about Purgatory! Aka, the hubworld dimension Alma Morales lives in! Includes some basic facts about Purgatorian witches.

Purgatorians generally are stronger and have faster metabolisms and bigger appetites than normal humans. However, it's slower for them to heal from wounds and broken bones, so they always use healing spells on them to make them heal instantly.

The healing spells are immensely painful. You have to do something to numb the pain, or go to a hospital instead.

They have a sort of super-sayian style rage mode. No I will not elaborate on whether or not their power is comparable to that of a sayian.

This rage mode makes witches grow large bat-like ears, thicker body hair, tails, and claws, as well as grow in height and cause their eyes to glow orange. Generally this is called going "primal" and only happens under specific and extreme emotional distress, and is somewhat rare.

All witches can beat Goku /j

Any and all supernatural beings are capable of coming from Purgatory, and have their own distinct appearances and logic compared to real life lore/mythology.

This includes gods. Yes there is a multiverse of gods. No we do not have time to unpack that.

There is no official law in Purgatory, but there are strong unwritten rules and vigilantes/gangs are rampant.

The closest thing to a true ruler and set of laws is the Order Of The Void. No one has any idea who runs it exactly or what those people/beings look like. However, if you fuck up big, they'll punish you accordingly. It is generally assumed they are omnipresent due to how fast they act when they wish to.

"Fucking up big" mostly involves murder, soul stealing, and people eating. Sometimes these things can happen out of the perpetrators' control (such as when being turned into a vampire or werewolf), but if that's the case there is usually an immediate response and is fairly rare.

The reason for it being rare is because the Order Of The Void will sense when it happens and step in to give the perpetrator full control of their bodies and minds, so they can stop what they're doing.

They do not step in to punish regular murders unless at least one uninvolved party finds out who the killer is or what they did.

Those who murder on purpose and refuse to stop and/or accept treatment for what caused it will be banished to one of many Dark Woods. They are classic spooky forests, but can be genuinely extremely dangerous and cause both physical and psychological torture to those who venture in.

The deeper you go into a Dark Woods, the more psychological and spiritual the danger becomes. Physical threats are generally littered closer to the perimeter.

People are permitted to go in and hunt down Killer Monsters (group name for those contained in Dark Woods) to collect bounties, but there are always warnings for those who enter.

All immortal supernatural beings have very specific weaknesses. Unless you can completely destroy one down to the last cell, you must use their weakness or else they'll just come back.

Dark Woods have short fences meant to be easy for people to jump and hunt bounties, and magical forcefields that prevent anything that is banished from escaping.

Coffinail City, the city where Alma lives and was born in, has a Dark Woods called Maleviton Forest. It's considered to be the biggest of all Dark Woods, but has a small perimeter. None of the Dark Woods follow the laws of physics completely.

Coffinail City is comparable to most big cities, having various districts and a large and diverse population. The architecture and general aesthetics are inconsistent and follow many different eras and cultures, making most districts and individual buildings look jarringly different.

The existence of old immortals, and rifts leading to places experiencing different time periods, is the cause of this.

Rifts happen seemingly at complete random, and no one in Purgatory understands how they work aside from the Order Of The Void (assumingly). There is much speculation and protest as to why the common people cannot learn more about or attempt to control rifts, aside from being able to lock them in case of danger.

Artifacts, as mentioned in Alma's bio, are what is used to lock them. They also function somewhat as smart phones, being able to be used to communicate via calls, facetime, or texting. The Order will send messages in case of emergency, which in that case would be extremely severe.

All rifts take the form of doors that are invisible until opened, though witches can put marks on them to make them visible. In their culture, witches can tag doors to "claim" them if they appear on or near their property.

This does not make the rift private, rather it gives the one who marked it privilege to lock it.

If you lock a rift without permission from the tagger, you're getting jumped.

#ooc #alma morales #canon alma #worldbuilding: Purgatory

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sunriseinsound · 2 years

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tag dump! the tags are all lines from the books! (except my ooc tag, obviously lol)

#please read knigh.ts of the borrow.ed dark || ooc #i'm never relaxed! || muse: denizen #a particle and a wave || muse: mercy #those doors never close || the opening boy #a paper lantern with the heart of a star || aesthetics & musings: denizen #the color of royalty || aesthetics & musings: mercy #tu ne cede malis; sed contra audentior ito || headcanons: denizen #thousands of plans and a lot of hope || headcanons: mercy #there’s always another sunrise || post-canon verse #we're here; aren't we? || in medias res #I Am Missing Something Important Here; Which Is Unfair Because It Concerns Me || dash commentary #all the grace of a wheelbarrow full of rocks || crack #wait long enough and the sun always rises || memes #you are all this moment has || asks #what could we become in the dark but monsters? || anon #you mind your house; i’ll mind mine || saved #it’s only afterwards that they make us into stories || queue #sunrise || wishlist #there are always those born closer to the dark || lore #there are always those born closer to the light || analysis

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mrpenguinpants · 4 years

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Diluc: Comfort HCs

Oh no worries anon! We’re getting through everything and I can just see the top. I’m not sure if people saw it - probably not - but my entire blog has devolved into “See this genshin character? Animal.” and I refuse to have another cat character so I’m making Diluc a hawk.

Apparently (maybe) Diluc’s bird is a nightingale [voicelines]. But I don’t really see Diluc the kind of guy to serenade you at night in secret because your father doesn’t approve of your marriage.

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Today’s appreciation post goes to fulltimeventisimp. Tumblr throws a goddamn fit when I try to tag people (even though I literally have a tag list but that’s apparently not good enough) so I hope you see this^^ You’ve been so nice and caring to me I feel so soft 😭 and I hope you’re doing alright! I’m remembering to take breaks and rest 💕💕

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Semi Part 1: Relationship HCs [I would read this just for the last point]

Diluc Ver: Jealous HCs

[Masterlist]

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[taglist] <- if you want to be added, please read this first.

@hanniejji @mikeysbike @unionwitch @musekala @twistedsunnshiii @stanzastic @akaasea @xoneaboveallx @adoring-ghost @asheseiler @childelover @dilucsz

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Diluc: Comfort HCs

Diluc has always had either an aloof or professional persona based on who he needed to talk to. In both cases, no matter the subject or how Diluc talked, there would always be some sort of forced distance so no one would mistaken it as familiarity or friendliness. There were only a two cases where he felt comfortable and those were with close friends and his staff. The third case being Kaeya but Diluc prefers to not acknowledge him and stashes that folder away. Even with friend’s such as Jean or Elzer, he could never really relax and let his true feelings slip until you burst into his life. Literally. “An unexpected outcome of an experiment,” is what Albedo had told him but regardless, since you entered his life he’s let himself regress into his younger days and let himself take for once.

Maybe that was why you had gotten so used to Diluc’s touched starved self that, when it was suddenly gone, you were feeling uneasy. Lately Diluc seemed to be spending longer hours at his desk or working at the tavern. You knew that he was just busy and there wasn’t any underhanded reasoning behind it, Diluc wasn’t that kind of guy. But did he seriously have to spend every waking moment, day or night, talking to the same people? When was the last time you saw him for more than two minutes? Diluc isn’t a big fan of idle talking but would it seriously hurt just to catch up? You didn’t even get together to have your weekly chess matches too.

You didn’t consider yourself a very clingy person and you knew what a relationship with Diluc was going to be like so why were you getting so bothered? You decided to take the situation in your hands and go visit him at the tavern only to see him so busy at work. It both made you a bit huffy, you wanted to storm in there and drag the man away from his work so he could stop trying to speed run life - not like that would ever happen because the second hand embarrassment would make you dissolve into the ground and you could never show your face to Diluc if you actually did that - but also making you more upset. Here he was, working and running his business, and you couldn’t go at least a couple weeks without seeing him. You ended up turning around and going home to scream into your pillow and sleep the heavy feeling away.

Your inner turmoil seemed to seep out into the open that Kaeya felt the need to bring it up. As much as Diluc dislikes Kaeya around you, he really does care about you and he still does owe you for the troubles he gave you when you first started going out with Diluc. He catches you while you’re off running errands and manages to coax you into getting some lunch with him. You’ve been bottling up your feelings so much that when Kaeya shows some concern you let it all pour out. At this point you don’t care if it’s Kaeya of all people you’re confessing your feelings to, you just want to get it off your chest because the man you’re in love with doesn’t seem to notice you’re actually there and it’s making you feel insecure about yourself. Kaeya gives you a sympathetic smile and tells you not to worry about it, he’ll personally knock some sense into Diluc.

Diluc’s been hard at work on another possible Fatui plan and business with the winery that he can’t help but feel that he was missing something. Was he overlooking something? He had planned this for a while so everything should be perfect. It wasn’t until Kaeya himself had to walk in, press his hand on the tavern counter, and call him an idiot that he realizes that he had been so wrapped up in his work and personal duties that he completely neglected you. He quickly passes his duties to Charles with a quick apology, throws his coat on, gives Kaeya a very strained thank you, and he’s out the door to find you. He’s already lost so much so he’ll be damned if he looses you. Not right now.

You gave him the key to your home after a few months of being together, in case his he needed to temporarily hide should his night activities get the best of him. He’s already at your door in seconds as he quickly unlocks and steps in.

“Beloved?” he softly calls out to not accidently scare you but he receives no reply. It’s dark inside but he can see your shoes at the door so he knows you’re inside somewhere. He softly closes and locks the door as he hangs his coat up. Carefully running a hand down the fabric and beside your coat as he looks around your small home. He’s always felt it was warm even when you weren’t here. The “home” he has will always be the place he grew up in but after everything that’s happened, he feels a bit alienated in there so he always appreciated that you lent him a key.

He catches the sound of some shuffling and follows the sound to see you under your blankets. He breathes a quick sigh of relief that you weren’t in any danger as he carefully circles around your bed before gently placing a hand on your back. He’s never been good at words or communicating his feelings so he’s at a bit of a standstill. Despite his reputation of being a nobleman of high esteem, you’re his first serious relationship. As far as he’s concerned you’re going to be his only relationship for that matter.

“I...apologize for my recent behaviour. It was never my intention to hurt you. I ended up letting myself get too blinded to see you were in pain and that was my fault. You don’t have to forgive me now but won’t you let me see your face my love?” he asked in all his awkward pose, put him in front of massive event and he’ll perform with flying colours but put him in front of his partner and he stumbles over his worlds like a new born fawn. But it seems to bring a small laugh from you as you peek from under the covers.

He smiles softly as he sees your ears flush pink. No matter how many times he calls you that you always get so shy, he adores it. But he can feel the guilt rise up in his chest, you’ve always been there to support and reassure him that he was doing everything right. That things were going to be okay when he re-took his father’s business and you would be with him every step of the way. So in the best and awkward way that Diluc can manage, he tells you this. By the time he’s done he can feel his own face start to pink but it’s made you feel better so it was worth it.

“Feeling better?” he smiles softly as you nod up at him as he lays down beside you, opening his arms in comfort, “Good, come here.”

You shuffle closer to him as he holds you. It’s been awhile since he’s held you like this and even without realizing it, he’s missed this. Just you and him together, basking in each other’s presence. No work that needed to be attended to. No Fatui trying to cause him any more trouble. It was a safe place and one he didn’t want to let go.

“What if we got married?”

There’s a beat of silence.

Then a thud.

You end up scrambling and falling off your bed face first. It’s a bit silent as you give off a pain groaned and climb back up and he can see your face has exploded red. He can almost see steam coming off as you try and nurse your nose. He blinks a bit at you taken aback as you stutter and scream into your hands as your brain seems to process what he just asked. You lift your face from your hands to look at him, somehow go even redder, and scream louder into your hands. He’s not sure if this is something he should be offended or concerned about but the weight he had been feeling earlier starts to fade away as a new and familiar feeling bubbles up. For the first time in half a month, Diluc let’s out a laugh as he tries to console you as you manage out a yes.

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Gripping my writing hand why is no one stopping me? Diluc you’re literally acting like Childe rn. [if anyone is confused ahem Childe: Fiancé HCs (should be in my masterlist)]

Also, I continue to look away from the lore. Kaeya and Diluc are not on the best of terms but if they can have petty rich lady wine talk then Kaeya can walk in and call Diluc an idiot.

I was serious when I said that I researched hawk behaviours. I have learned the internet is horrible in telling me how hawks behave. But I did find this and I found this hilarious:

In the case of the red-tailed hawk, for example, the pair soar, screaming at each other; then the male dives at the female, who may roll in the air to present her claws to him in mock combat.

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wlw-lovestruck-fiction · 3 years

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I request a fluffy F!MC x Lavinia fic, where Lavinia visits F!MC at night for some reason. F!MC was unable to fall asleep and Lavinia ends up helping her fall asleep and they cuddle. Thank you in advance

Written by: @blue-is-the-coolest-color

Did midnight snacks help her sleep when she was having one of those nights where sleep feels impossible? No. Did Annisa find herself in the kitchen at one in the morning anyway due to lack of sleep? Yes.

Thankfully the rest of the house was asleep, or at least they were quiet enough to hopefully be asleep. She didn’t need a lecture from her brother about how bad late night snacking was. Besides, she grabbed a fruit so that makes up for snagging her secret stash of cookies that Lucas can’t know about.

Annisa grabbed her snacks and stealthily made her way back to her room, making as little noise as possible to not disturb the rest of the house. For a moment, she thought she had succeeded in being noticeable, until she went into her room to see a very familiar devious silver haired witch lounging on her chair, flipping through a book and looking rather at home.

Annisa sighed, closed her door and waited a few moments until Lavinia noticed her presence, looking up and flashing her signature cheshire cat grin.

“You’re up late.”

“Look who’s talking.”

Annisa dropped her snacks onto her side table, opening a box of cookies and walking one over to where Lavinia sat. The Ice Queen accepted the offering and put the book she had been flipping through down. Annisa noticed it was one of her many copies of Rapunzel. A leather bound special edition book her mother had gotten her the birthday before her parents left for California.

“What are you doing here?” Annisa decided to ask first, biting into her own cookie as she waited for Lavinia to answer.

“I saw your light on,” Lavinia explained, “so I thought I’d pay you a visit.”

“Not that I don’t appreciate the visit,” Annisa grinned, “but what were you doing out this late?”

“Taking Ezra for a walk,” Lavinia replied smoothly, her signature grin in place, “He doesn’t like being indoors for long.”

Annisa shook her head, resigning to the fact that she wasn’t getting a straight answer from Lavinia, yet for some reason, she was okay with it. Lavinia’s late night visits were starting to get more frequent, and Annisa couldn’t say she minded. She even started to look forward to them, staying up a little later every night to see if the queen of snow would grace her with a surprise visit, just for her.

“Are you having trouble sleeping?”

Lavinia’s voice is more concerned, her grin faded into a more serious expression as soft blue eyes took in Annisa’s appearance. Annisa smiled at the change in tone from Lavinia.

“Yeah, I’ve got a lot on my mind, with the curse and school and all kinds of boring things.”

“Tell me about all the boring things.”

Annisa couldn’t help but giggle at the dorky tone. Lavinia flashed her a fond smile at the sound before getting up and moving to sit at the foot of Annisa’s bed, patting the space next to her. Annisa rolled her eyes a bit before clicking off the light and moving to sit beside her.

“Something Lucas patrols, if he sees the light on he might come in,” Annisa explained as she sat beside Lavinia, “then we’ll both be in a lot of trouble.”

“I’m always in trouble.”

“More trouble than usual,” Annisa clarified as she nudged Lavinia with her shoulder, “now I thought you wanted to hear about all my boring thoughts.”

“Think away,” Lavinia offered as she turned a bit to face her, “what’s on your mind?”

Annisa hesitated, suddenly a bit shy under Lavinia’s steady gentle gaze. She wanted to avoid talking about the curse, or about fairies, or about any other serious topic that stunned her sleep. She had the opportunity to just talk to Lavinia without some threat hanging over them, for now. Lavinia patiently waited for her, soft against the moonlight that now filled the room.

“Do you ever think about what would happen if your world didn’t exist?” Annisa blurted out without thinking, quickly going into a rant at Lavinia’s confused face, “like if you and everyone else had been born here instead and lived normal lives here instead of in a world of magic?”

“I’m… not sure what you mean.”

“Yeah, sorry, it was a weird question,” Annisa looked away, face growing a little warm in embarrassment. She felt Lavinia shift a little next to her.

“I’m not sure that would work. We may not have been born at the same time, since…”

“Since you’re kinda old.”

It was meant to be more of a joke, but the flash of hurt and shame that passed through Lavinia’s eyes made Annisa feel worse about saying it.

“Yeah.”

“I’m sorry, that was uncalled for,” Annisa sighed and covered her face with her hands, “I’m being dumb, you talk for a while. What’s your favorite thing about this world?”

“You.”

Annisa’s face burned at the quickness of Lavinia’s answer. Her hands pulled away from her face so she could look at Lavinia, seeing the witch had opted not to look directly at her, but more towards the opposite wall of the room.

“I’m really glad I got to meet you.”

There felt like a million other things she wanted to say, held captive by dark lips and icy tongue. The comfortable silence that followed blanketed over them like freshly fallen snow. The newfound calm held a unique warmth that only Lavinia seemed to carry. Annisa let herself soak in the moment, to just be and enjoy the presence of the usually icy woman next to her.

The newfound peace pulled a small yawn from Annisa, she leaned a bit more toward Lavinia, resting her head on the girl’s shoulder. She felt the other woman chuckle, arm brushing against Annisa’s back as her hand traveled upward, playing with the ends of Annisa’s curly hair.

“Have I bored you already?”

“Shut up, my head’s just heavy.”

“I’ll try to compliment you less then.”

Annisa pulled away for a moment, swatting Lavinia in the arm before leaning back up against her. She could feel the lingering laughter as Lavinia’s body shook a bit with the suppressed giggles leaving her lips. Annisa smiled at the sound. Her eyes closed as she felt Lavinia’s fingers play with the ends of her hair.

“What’s that?”

Annisa looked over at Lavinia, noticing her head tilted upward before following her line of sight to the ceiling.

“Oh, that was one of my lonely projects. I recreated the night sky on the ceiling with glow in the dark star stickers,” Annisa explained as she caught the dull glow of the faded stickers. “I tried to recreate all the constellations, starting with the bears above the bead and circling around them. It kept me busy when it was just me here.”

“Bears?”

“Yeah, right there. That’s ursa major and minor.”

Annisa started explaining the various constellations and lore of the skies. Somehow the two ended up on their backs next to each other, Lavinia’s arm trapped under Annisa’s head. After a few seconds, Lavinia raised her free hand, creating a little bear out of light to float about the room. Annisa chuckled as she watched the little ball of light for a moment before it faded.

Annisa couldn’t figure out when, but her eyelids had gotten heavier between her vast tales of the sky and Lavinia’s light shows of creatures running through the air. She felt Lavinia shift next to her and next thing she knew, she was being lifted into the Ice Queen’s arms. She wavered in that space of half sleep as she felt Lavinia place her in bed and drag the blankets up to her shoulders. In her half-dazed state she willed herself to move, catching Lavinia’s sleeve before she could pull away.

“Stay, please?”

“I don’t want to get you in trouble,” Lavinia’s voice is soft, but her eyes seem to completely give in when Annisa tugged her sleeve, flashing her sad puppy dog eyes until Lavinia sighed dramatically. She stood up straighter to shrug off her black cardigan before laying on the bed next to Annisa, over the covers rather than under them.

“Fine, but only because I hate when you give me that look.”

Annisa curled herself as close to Lavinia as she could, arms wrapping around her torso and head resting against her shoulder, breathing in her peppermint scent. She felt Lavinia’s arms wrap around her in kind, one resting across her waist while the other wrapped around Annisa’s shoulders, fingers resuming their dance through her hair. Annisa let out a low hum, smiling at the feeling as it pulled her closer to sleep. She listened as Lavinia’s breathing slowed, the hand in her hair slowing as sleep seemed to be close to claiming her as well. She let herself enjoy the steady feeling of Lavinia’s breathing, pretending for a moment that she’ll be able to wake up with the girl still there.

She imagined a morning where she could wake up next to her. Have breakfast together. Without the illusive woman having to slip away in the dead of night or early in the morning just to avoid her friends' backlash at finding her there.

Annisa pushed the thoughts aside, settling against the body next to her willing sleep to swallow her whole.

But only after she’s memorized this feeling.

#answered #anonymous #lovestruck #women of lovestruck #lavinia le guin #ever after academy mc #lavinia x mc #ever after academy #fluff #fluffy #miscellaneous monday

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ficsilike-reblogged · 4 years

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Sweetest of Exiles - Three

A/N: We have reached the end, my loves. As always, all my love to anyone and anyone who read/liked/reblogged and commented on previous chapters. I love you all very much. I allude to a few things that actually happen in ASoIaF lore, so if you have any questions, please just ask!

Pairing: Oberyn Martell x F!Reader (no Y/N), Oberyn Martell x Pero Tovar, Pero Tovar x F!Reader, Ellaria Sand x Oberyn Martell

Warnings for this Chapter: Too much backstory, angst, a threesome, oral (male receiving, female receiving), my uncontrollable need for a happy ending.

Word Count: 6.3k (I need to be stopped)

(banner by my darling @starlight-starwrites)

Or read on Ao3 here!

CHAPTER THREE: The Blessed

The sight of Qohor on the horizon almost put tears in her eyes.

She rested her head on her folded arms in the window of the carriage, and watched it grow closer and closer. Home. She was finally home.

But her eyes drifted to the prince and her mercenary as they led the small group toward the city gates. They were quite the pair. And, at least for a few stolen moments, they were all hers.

Most of Oberyn’s company had stayed in Myr, now newly employed by Orestes who had been catapulted to near-royalty status with his wild tales of how his household put down a foreign threat. If his ego had been bruised by her refusing his last-minute proposal, hastily given at the gates of the city and just as easily rejected, he did not show it as he waved them off with a small smile.

Orestes would be fine—she knew it. But his life no longer involved her, no matter his attempts to keep her at his side. No, her future remained unclear. To her, anyway. Her god had not permitted her visions of her own life—perhaps that was for the best.

Again, her eyes drifted to the pair of Oberyn and Pero. And what a pair they were—handsome and startlingly similar in so many ways but different in so many others. While she had been blessed by her god, she considered herself doubly blessed simply for having this pair of men in her life.

The large gates opened and she pulled in a hearty lungful of air, tasting the familiar spices and letting the hint of burnt and cut wood tickle her nose. Nothing compared. And now she had smelt different cities, seen and tasted what they had to offer—she knew nothing could compare. And while she could travel again, she knew that no other place would replace her home.

She called for the carriage to slow to a stop in front of a familiar stone-sided bazaar stall. It was hardly the most eye-catching stall on the cobbled road but it was her favorite. She opened the door before the carriage was completely stopped and she leapt out, pushing by a few possible buyers, and found her father waiting for her with open arms.

His familiar and wonderful arms wrapped around her and he murmured her name into her ear, the word tinged with relief and love. “I shall not have you leave my sight for as long as there is breath in my lungs, my darling.”

“And I shall agree to that, papa.” She pulled back just enough to press a kiss to his grizzled cheek. She turned at the sound of two more people entering the stall and smiled. “Lord Ollo, may I present Prince Oberyn Nymeros Martell—and, of course, you remember Pero Tovar.”

She felt her father stiffen, just for a moment, before he stepped in front of her and greeted the two men. Interesting.

She tried to tell herself that it did not hurt when Pero turned away from her after supper, telling her father he wanted to retrace his childhood footsteps with Oberyn. She tried to tell herself that it did not hurt when he was not in the room her father provided for him when she went to speak to him in the middle of the night. She tried to tell herself that it did not hurt when he did not even blink when she presented him with a blue rose and asked if he remembered that day in the forest.

She told herself it did not hurt. But it did.

At least Oberyn was still able to make her smile. He always kissed her goodnight (whether he visited her bedchambers or not) and pulled her into a dance in the cobbled streets when a handful of bards broke into song on a crowded street when she had been showing the prince around the expansive city. “He does not know what he does, Petal. Give him time.”

And perhaps she was being childish, hoping that Pero seeing his old home would bring back his smiles and his affinity for her company, too. But she only nodded at Oberyn’s suggestion and let him lead her in another dance before they set off toward another part of the city, promising him the best spiced hippocras this side of the Narrow Sea. The threat of the zealots had been dealt with—she should be happy. She survived. Her father’s secrets were safe, too.

But when it was quiet on her fifth night back in her own rooms, she knew she could not wait any longer. After pulling on her dressing gown, she sought out her father in his chambers—unsurprised to see him whittling at a chunk of wood instead of sleeping with the late hour. He had not kept regular sleeping hours since her mother had disappeared.

“You should be sleeping, my darling.”

“As should you, papa.” She settled into the cushioned chair beside his working table with a sigh. “Has Pero spoken with you?”

Her father looked at her for a moment before setting down his tools and the bit of wood that was starting to look like a serpent. “He has been cordial, as he always has been. Possibly a bit more unpolished than he had been as a boy—but that was to be expected. It is not often that one meets a well-mannered sellsword.” He almost smiled but it did not last. “I know he has been…different.”

“Has he told you why he left?” She asked, needing to know. Surely her father knew. Right?

But Ollo’s mouth set in a familiar, hard line and he looked away from her. “I had to do it, darling.”

She felt her face crumple at his words. “What do you mean? You were the reason-”

“I sent him away. It was for the best.”

“But…why? Why did you send him away?”

Her father stared at her, lips still set in a firm line before a long breath. “Do you not remember… the day your mother left. You, my darling, hurt Pero. Nearly took his eye.”

“No! No, I…” the words died on her tongue as she tried, tried so hard to remember the day her mother left. Her lady mother had pressed the blue rose petals to her skin and then she had escaped to the forest with Pero, not knowing that would be the last time she would look upon her mother’s face. He had been so sweet. So full of smiles. So different from the hardened man who still held her heart.

She watched the petals float away with the wind and felt something warm slide down her spine—it reminded her of her mother’s calming touch, soothing her when night terrors would keep her awake.

“Petal,” Pero whispered. And she knew it was for her, a name just for her.

But then the gentle warmth turned to a scorching heat and her vision turned dark.

The next thing she remembered was waking on the forest floor, a gentle sprinkling of dew on her cheeks and Pero nowhere to be found.

“I doubt he remembers anything,” her father said as he shook his head. “He stumbled in, face covered in blood. He muttered something about petals and then slumped over on the floor.” He paused. “Just before he completely lost consciousness, he murmured your name and how your eyes had gone white.” Her father paused again. “I knew then what had happened. It had happened with your mother, too.”

“What do you mean?”

“Your mother’s gift, like yours, needed control. She needed to control it or it would control her. Her control slipped. Just once.”

“What happened?” She sat forward in her chair, needing to know what he had seen.

“It looked like someone, something else had inhabited her skin. Only for a moment. She held out a hand and then I felt the room shake. Like the world was trying to break itself open. And then she took a breath and the shaking stopped.”

“Is that all?”

Her father’s mouth once again set in a familiar firm line. “My darling girl, she leveled two dozen trees—cracked them from the trunks without leaving the room. And after she came back to herself, she told me that she had no idea what had transpired. All she remembered was darkness and a sensation akin to sticking her hand in my forge’s fire. And while she had sworn she had not ever done that before, I remembered it happening. It was the night you were born. The entire city shook—I know it—screaming with you as you entered the world.”

She felt her face fall.

“You toppled part of the city with your first breaths, my darling.” Ollo reached out to gently grasp his daughter’s hands and squeezed. “Your mother was always very careful with teaching you about control.”

“Yes, I remember that.” And she did. Her mother had been adamant to sit her down every day to teach her when to realize something was spiraling, her control was slipping—anything like that. And she had always thought she had learned those lessons. But apparently not.

“Something within you, reached out grabbed at whatever living thing was closest to you—needing blood to flourish. It just happened to be Pero.”

Tears stung her eyes and she looked away from her father, not wanting him to see anymore of her shame. “So you sent him away. To protect him.”

“To protect you both. I knew you would never forgive yourself if you had hurt him again—or taken his life. And I knew he would have willingly given anything to you without thought. I had to separate you to keep you both alive—at least until I was sure you could protect yourself.” He shook his head. “I considered it another small blessing that neither one of you remembered what had transpired. Your memories would not be tainted.” Ollo looked like he wanted to say more but was trying to read her face before he continued. He must have seen her heartbreak, because with a final, defeated sigh, he spoke again. “Your mother left because your power was growing—evolving far faster than she had ever seen or heard, even within her own bloodline. She needed to know why. She wanted to do everything in her power to make sure her daughter, her most prized creation, was safe and protected. Even if it was from yourself.”

“But she never returned,” she said. “She never came back.”

Ollo nodded. “But you are old enough now—you have been old enough for quite some time, actually, but I did not want to admit that to myself—to know what happened to her.” He stood and left the room, returning a few moments later with a roll of parchment. A broken golden seal was stamped on it, curled horns and crossed swords. It was her family’s crest. The parchment felt brittle under her fingers as she took it from her father and she carefully unfurled it.

Within the first handful of words, she had to press the back of her hand to her mouth to keep the cry at bay. Her mother—her fierce, beautiful, powerful mother—had set off toward Asshai in search of answers. Answers as to why her little daughter could do such unimaginable things with ease. Why her magic was growing at a rate not thought of in centuries. But she did not find answers. What she found instead, were a group of zealots, also demanding answers from their bloodthirsty god. And their god had required blood, magical blood, and Valyrian Steel. While Daeryssa had evaded them for a moment, she wrote in her missive that she knew her time was limited. After all, she had seen it.

My dear Ollo, I only wish to have been able to look upon your sweet face again and watch our daughter grow strong and beautiful. I am sorry, my love. I know I will see you again in the next life.

With a shaking hand, she handed the parchment back to her father and he quietly slipped away to hide the bit of paper again. She stared out the window, watching the trees sway in the breeze. “I have ruined your life. Pero’s life. Mother’s life. What good is this gift if it only breeds heartbreak?”

Her father’s roughened hands suddenly reached out to grab hers, the familiar scratchy warmth of his hold nearly made tears come to her eyes. “You, my darling, are powerful. Never forget that—and what you are capable of is not a burden or only capable of destruction. You are the heir to your mother’s blood. To her power—the power her family has carried for centuries. Before the Doom. Before the Dragons—and after. And your mother loved you—loves you still, as I do. What she did for you, I know she would have done a thousand times over if it meant you lived, if it meant you smiled.”

She shook her head, feeling the first tears slip down her cheeks. “But I-”

“No, darling. No. You are powerful. You are blessed. Never think to forsake it. He leads us down a path we must follow. I am just sorry that this road has been so cruel to you and Pero. You deserve kindness. Both of you.” He leaned forward and kissed her forehead, like he used to do when she was little and had crawled into his lap to watch him work. “I will speak with Pero. But I believe you should as well.” He patted her cheek and gently wiped her tears away. “But first, you must sleep, darling.”

“Keep your eyes closed, Petal,” Oberyn hummed into her ear.

She could only laugh and do as she was told, letting Oberyn tug her forward with a gentle grip on her hands.

Oberyn had taken to Qohor easily—and he was fond of almost everything he could find within the city and its famed forest. But she knew the prince missed home, missed Dorne, and his family fiercely. So, she let him do whatever he wanted, let him show her whatever treasure he had discovered and would delight in it with him—even if she had grown up with those little treats, trinkets, and experiences he found so amusing. She would deny him nothing. She only cared to have him smile.

But today, she could not discern what path he was leading her on—and that was a feat in and of itself. A root catching her foot made her stumble but Oberyn quickly righted her footing and kissed her hands with a laugh. “Careful, Petal. I will not have you hurting yourself.”

She only held his hands tighter and let him continue to lead her forward to some unknown destination. But, soon enough, he pulled her to a stop with a laugh.

“Open your eyes, Petal. We are here.”

She did as she was told and had to blink against the sunlight as it streamed through the thick canopy of the forest. Moss-covered stone and soft grass gave way to large, ancient trunks of trees. Truly, it could have been anywhere in the forest—a forest she had grown up in and loved since she could walk on her own—but this place, this one place of sunshine, was magical.

But maybe it was the fact that Pero was nervously pacing on the edge of a finely women blanket that was stacked with a bit of food and an abundance of wine. Pero had shed his usual armor and was left in his worn, gray tunic and linen breeches. He looked…soft and nervous.

“I almost thought you would have left us with crumbs, Tovar. I am surprised there is still food left.”

Tovar’s pacing ceased and he frowned but his dark eyes quickly flitted to her before his shoulders dropped. “You’re here.”

She felt herself smiling at that, the thought that he did not think she would come if he was present was funny. But she bit back her laugh. “Of course I’m here. I don’t believe either one of us can tell our prince ‘no’ under any circumstances.”

“It is part of my charm,” Oberyn said with a wink in her direction before gently pushing her toward the blanket. “Come now, Petal. Our Pero has managed to raid the best taverns and alehouse to bring us the best feast imaginable.”

As she settled on the blanket, she held out a hand toward Pero who still stood stock-still at the edge. Perhaps she could have brushed aside another rejection, but she hoped she would not have to—after all, he had been the one to set this fete up. For her. For them.

And all her worries were washed away when he placed his calloused hand in hers and let her tug him onto the blanket at her side. “What would you suggest first, Pero? It all looks delicious.”

And so, the three of them settled in, partaking in the admittedly delicious foods and wines Pero had procured and soon they were laughing and speaking and smiling as if there had never been any hurt or confusion between them. And perhaps, one day it could always be like that. But the alcohol continued to flow and each of them, she knew, were starting to feel it and their tongues loosened with each new sip. Inhibitions slipped. Laughs grew louder. And she let herself fall against Pero’s side as Oberyn regaled them with a tale about evading Yronwood’s guards on his way to visit his lady-wife’s chambers. Pero easily adjusted her, letting her rest against his muscular thigh and his fingers trailed, almost absentmindedly, down and across the exposed skin of her collarbone as he would snicker at Oberyn’s stories. “You are a braggart, princeling.”

And perhaps she would have also poked fun at Oberyn if she hadn’t been so transfixed with Pero’s gentle touch. Her eyes fluttered close in a wine-fueled haze, letting herself truly enjoy the easy touch of the man she had loved for most of her life.

“I am a Prince of Dorne!” Oberyn cheered.

“Did you have me haul this out here like a poor pack mule so you could tell us these ridiculous stories?”

Oberyn hmphed and almost glared at Pero but a teasing smile softened the expression. “I had a plan. You two are impossible. I could not sit idly by while you both sulk and cry like children. I love you both. You love each other. You just need a bit of guidance.” He waved a hand at the blanket and discarded bottles.

She looked up at Pero to see him looking down at her, fingers paused their ministrations on her skin.

“Of course, not everything will be fixed with a bit of wine,” said Oberyn, ever the expert. “But it is good to let yourself feel something.” Oberyn leaned forward, smile growing, and stole the last bit of overpriced but delicious hippocras from the jug she had been clutching to her side. “Love is simply the best thing to feel. And if anyone in this world deserves to feel it, it is you two.”

“We love you too, Oberyn,” she said, knowing it was true. And Pero hummed his agreement.

“Of course,” he replied with a smirk. “I am easy to love.”

With that strange admission, they continued to drink and eat. But now, touches started to linger. Gazes grew heated. And then Oberyn kissed her as she sat nearly in Pero’s lap. She felt him smile against her mouth before he stole another kiss and sat back on his heels with a wink. But his heated gaze quickly turned to Pero. “Kiss her, Pero. Kiss her as if your life depends on it. And perhaps it does.”

Pero’s hands were warm and calloused as they gently framed her face. She could have sworn his fingers were shaking before she pushed forward to press her lips against his. And he tasted…like paradise.

it would be impossible to know when the laces were starting to be undone, or who slipped their tunic off first. But soon they were bare and hands were grasping and touching and groping.

The haze of the wine and the euphoria of their touch had her gasping and moaning—even before Oberyn’s talented fingers found their way between her thighs. And then Pero’s hand was joining as his mouth dragged down the column of her throat. She bucked up into their touch, only earning a hand pressing down against her stomach and a familiar chuckle in her ear. “Patience, Petal. We will take care of you.”

“But I…” her breath stuttered. “I want to take care you, too.”

Pero carefully pulled his hand back and swatted at Oberyn until he could press her down into the blanket, warm hands pushing her legs apart before leaning down to lick against her pussy and Oberyn devoured the moan she let out.

It did not take long for her to scream in ecstasy against the prince’s mouth—she had never come so fast.

In a daze, she turned her head and took Oberyn’s cock into her mouth, bobbing her head down as much as she was able, and his answering groans were near music to her ears. But soon—too soon—his hands were gently pulling her off of him and licked into her mouth as Pero finally stopped licking at her, and trailed a line of kisses up her stomach to lathe attention at her breasts.

“Can you take us both, Petal?”

She could only nod against Oberyn’s mouth at his question—she would do anything either of them asked.

And carefully, with a bit of reverence in each of their touches, the pair positioned her between them on her knees. Pero was at her front, Oberyn at her back. And she shuttered as something cool was dripped down her back.

It was all in a haze, how they moved to keep her comfortable but still rob the air from her lungs. And she was so full—so deliciously full. Four hands cradled her softly as she adjusted and words of encouragement were whispered against her neck or kisses pressed to her cheeks. It was all so…beautifully stimulating. So wonderfully filled.

And then they began to move.

They were everywhere at once, devouring every sense she had. All of it, all of her, belonged to them in that moment. And she loved it. Loved the slow and harsh thrusts they gave. Loved the slide of their tongues against hers or the sting of their teeth against her skin.

She felt a tightness in her core that she had never before experienced, and she gasped into Pero’s mouth as his hips continued to thrust and Oberyn matched his tempo.

“You’re doing so well, Petal.” Oberyn bit out a curse against her throat. “You feel like heaven.”

“Oh please,” she breathed out, “please-please-please.” She did not know what she was begging for, but the pair readily gave it. Moving their hips in tandem, they dragged her higher and higher until tears were pricking at her eyes and she screamed with her release, feeling the coil snap and bite. It was soon followed by a beautiful, heady warmth and her men groaning into her skin and biting at her neck.

“You’re so beautiful,” Pero whispered against her sweat-slick skin. “So beautiful.”

“And so are you, Pero. You’re beautiful,” she hummed in return. She turned her head and managed to steal a kiss against Oberyn’s panting mouth. “And you are, too, my prince.”

And again, carefully and with veneration, they pulled away from her and let her rest against the rumpled blanket. A cold cloth was pressed between her thighs, cleaning her up as kisses upon kisses were pressed against her heated skin and her slick, smiling lips.

“Beautiful, beautiful, beautiful,” Pero chanted. “My beautiful Petal.”

Oberyn was quiet. That in and of itself was strange—but the rigidity of his posture was even stranger. A small strip of parchment was crumpled in his hand. Something was wrong.

Carefully, slowly, she approached him and slipped her fingers around his, taking the parchment from his grasp. The horror she read in such few lines had her cupping a hand over her mouth to hide her gasp. His sister, her babies, his uncle—all of them gone in brutal ways. And now the men responsible were ruling the Seven Kingdoms.

“I must go back to Westeros,” was all Oberyn said.

She only nodded. She would never deny him his wrath.

And so, their time together came to a close. She had known it was coming, and Pero seemed to know it, too. When he learned of Oberyn’s decision to leave, he only nodded and held her as she cried. He was fond of holding her, it seemed. Even when he did not speak. And she did wish for him to speak—she still had questions that needed answers—but she had to be content with this for now.

He continued to hold her, arms wrapped around her waist, as they met Oberyn at the city gates to see him off. The gift she had brought was heavy in her arms as she watched Oberyn tie his packs to the horse. Tears gathered in her eyes as she held the gift up toward her prince and he took the wrapped package with a nod and untied it carefully. The spear glinted in the sunlight and the wooden handle was carved with a snake, its open maw biting at the metal. It was Valyrian Steel, forged and constructed only for him. “A gift for you. A token of my and my father’s thanks for all you have done.”

She smiled as Oberyn took the spear and twirled it just once, before nodding, the barest trace of a smile on his lips. She considered it a small victory, seeing him smile once more. Just before he left, she pressed a kiss to Oberyn’s lips and then Pero did the same.

“Be safe, my prince.”

The Prince of Dorne only nodded. “I will see you again, my friends. I promise you that.” And then…he was gone.

It took some time for her to find Pero in the bazaar. He had taken to working with her father, learning the trade and secret art behind Valyrian Steel. While he still scared some of the Qohorik people, he was gentle with the little ones who wandered away from their mothers and into her father’s stall. His sword had been retired in all but oath. And he seemed to become even more pensive and quiet after Oberyn’s departure. And it almost broke her heart all over again. But she was tired of being hurt. And she wanted answers. So, on the third night after Oberyn left, she slipped into his chambers.

She kneeled on his featherbed and smiled when he startled awake and reached for a blade she knew was hiding beneath his pillow. She pulled it from his grasp and set it aside as he blinked against the dim candlelight of his room.

“Tell me, Pero. Tell me why you left me all those years ago. I cannot bear it any longer. If you must leave me again, leave me as Oberyn did, please give me a reason. That is all I ask. You know you have my heart, I only wish to know yours.”

Pero frowned. “You’ve chosen quite the hour for this question, Petal. Could it not have waited until morning?” But he continued on without waiting for her answer, but his dark eyes fell to the blankets across his waist. “My family’s name had been tarnished by my father’s deeds. What more would having a woodcutter as a son do? It was not as if I could marry and help my family’s prospects. The least I could do was give them a bit of coin to survive. So, I came here and found work with your family. And then…” his dark eyes finally raised to meet hers. “My priorities changed. I only ever wanted to prove myself to you, to your father, to know I was worthy to be at your side. But then I was sent away. Like a little beggar. I knew then that I had been deceiving myself in thinking that I could ever call you mine.”

“But I am. I am yours. I always have been and always will be—even if you send me away and curse my name. I am yours. It was my fault you were sent away. You did nothing wrong. My father adores you. Mother loved you. This was my doing. I…hurt you, Pero. My father sent you away to keep you alive. I did not have control.” She reached up and placed her hand against his cheek, thumb catching the end of the scar below his eye. “Your blood—it called to me. I did not, could not control it. And I hurt you. Father suspects you do not remember it.”

Pero shook his head but she did not remove her hand from his face, unable to part from his warmth again.

“I have only the faintest memory of it and, truthfully, it may be only shaped by my father’s account of the incident. But it was my fault. It was me. If anything had been different, if I had been better, you could have stayed.” Tears once again stung at her eyes. “Can you ever forgive me?”

He was quiet for a moment before, ever so quietly, he said, “there is nothing to forgive. We have both wasted enough time, wouldn’t you agree?”

She could only nod before a happy sob wrenched its way out of her throat and she threw her arms around him, pressing her lips against his over and over again, uncaring of his rumbling laughter. His grip tightened, nearly to the point of pain, before she was lifted off her feet and spun around.

They were suddenly ten years younger and without a care in the world.

“I love you, Petal,” he whispered against her mouth.

“I love you, too.”

She had Pero in her hands again. And she would never let him go.

Years passed. And while the pair did take a handful of travels outside Qohor, they always returned to Qohor and the city’s comforting forest and dark stone. When the smallest Tovar came screaming into the world exactly a year after they said their quiet vows in the familiar shadow of the forest, they all decided that their travels would not take them from their home until they knew that their child, a precocious little boy who loved to sit on his grandfather’s lap and watch him work when he was not tugging on his mother’s skirts for attention, could fend for himself.

Another two years passed and another babe was born. This time, they had a little girl. Pero—just as he had been with their son—was smitten the moment he set eyes on their dark hair and gentle eyes. Like her mother, the little one inherited the gift.

She felt tears coming to her eyes when Pero rolled toward her in their overstuffed featherbed and grasped her hands. “I swear to you, our little girl will not suffer as we did. Our boy will know only happiness. On my life, on my blood, I swear it.”

She leaned forward and kissed him, knowing his words to be true.

Her gift flourished with Pero at her side and her children’s laughter ringing in her ears. There was peace in her life, for the most part.

Ravens from Dorne came often. Oberyn was keen on retaining his friendship with the pair and they were always happy to receive his missives and send a lengthy letter back in return. There was a certain anger in most of his letters now, or sadness. Even when he spoke of his love, Ellaria, or announced the birth of his daughter Elia, she and Pero knew he was still grieving. He would always grieve. The prince’s heart was too big to truly heal.

The latest raven arrived on a cold morning, its wings dotted with dew. She stroked under the bird’s neck and it flapped its wings in thanks before flying off after she untied the small bit of parchment from around its leg.

She unfurled it with a sigh, recognizing the handwriting instantly. As soon as she was finished reading it, she found Pero in the small forge outside their home and handed it over. She watched him read it before throwing the paper into the fire, its contents meant to be a secret.

Pero held the sword he was forging into a tub of water and looked at her over the rising steam. “We must go to Braavos.”

The children were happy to spend time alone with their grandfather but did cling to their mother’s skirts and father’s trousers before they left and Pero kept turning back on his horse to look at them as they waved at their parents.

“They will be fine, my love,” she said with a smile, blowing a final kiss toward her precious children.

“I know,” Pero grumbled. “But I still do not like it.”

She reached out and grasped her husband’s hand and squeezed. “We will return before they can even start to miss us. But our prince needs us. He would do the same if it were us asking.”

And thankfully, the trip from Qohor to Braavos was less than exciting and they arrived the day Oberyn’s boat was set to appear, too. They knew that Oberyn had come to Braavos on business he spoke of in code in the missive. Meetings with a Pentoshi Magistrate by the name of Illyrio Mopatis. A marriage pact. A secret alliance. It was all so clandestine. She only hoped Oberyn would not suffer any more than he already had.

But they settled into their rooms and then dashed toward the port. The orange and golden sails of a foreign ship were a delight to see—as was Oberyn walking down a gangplank, dressed in a fine golden robe. His dark eyes spotted them and he raised a hand in greeting, smile splitting his face as he walked toward them.

She smiled as she noticed the beautiful woman on Oberyn’s arm, her belly gently swelling with child. The woman she had seen—she was even more beautiful than her mind could have conjured.

“My friends, this is my paramour, Ellaria Sand. My love,” Oberyn started, stretching out his arm toward her and Pero, “these are my two dear friends. Pero Tovar and his lady-wife-”

“You must call me Petal,” she said, stepping forward to grasp Ellaria’s hands. “I feel as if we are friends already.”

Ellaria smiled and squeezed her hands. “I feel the same. Oberyn has told me much about his adventures at your side.”

Pero let Oberyn pull him into a hug in greeting before the four of them walked further into the city, knowing they had time before Oberyn was to meet with the magistrate. They spoke of their time apart, telling each other what they had missed. Ellaria easily proved herself to be a fierce friend and she found herself whispering into Ellaria’s ear like they were just girls again while Pero and Oberyn challenged each other to a drinking game.

It was all so…easy. It almost made her forget the reason behind Oberyn’s presence in the city.

A sudden hiss of pain caught her attention and she turned to see Oberyn shaking his hand, a broken chalice on the table in front of him. Without thought, she reached out and grasped his bloodied hand, staunching the blood with her fingers.

“Petal…” Ellaria’s words faded as she pulled back to see Oberyn’s hand already starting to heal.

Oberyn huffed out a laugh and kissed her bloodied fingers in thanks. “You are still to kind and talented for your own good, Petal.”

She glanced at the Ellaria and winked, “I know your prince told you about me. Don’t be scared.” Almost unconsciously, she wiped her hands clear of his blood on the strip of linen she had been using as a napkin during their meal. Almost clear. As she took a bite of her food and licked her finger clean.

She froze.

“Petal?” Pero whispered, his hand finding hers under the table.

“Beware the fallen mountain. It will rise again,” she said, hearing her voice but not recognizing it. And as soon as it started, the gift released its grip on her and she felt something cold slide down her spine.

Oberyn and Ellaria were staring at her, eyes wide, from across the table and Pero’s hand was gripping hers tightly. “What does that mean?” Ellaria asked.

She could only shake her head. “I do not know. Only time will tell.”

Oberyn seemed hopeful when he told them goodbye. And Ellaria was smiling, still cradling her growing bump as she held both of them close and told them she would send a raven when the newest Sand Snake was welcomed into the world.

They were good people. She knew it.

She leaned against Pero with a sigh, smiling when his arm wrapped around her waist as they watched the boat disappear on the horizon.

“Will we see them again?”

“I know we will,” she answered as she turned to press a kiss against her husband’s cheek. “The world is not done with Oberyn Martell nor Ellaria Sand. I can feel it.”

She felt his smile as he turned his face against hers, pressing his lips to her temple. “Let us go home, then, Petal.” And he kissed her again.

A/N: thanks for taking this adventure with me. I love you all.

beautiful people who asked to be tagged: @huliabitch @heatherbel @corrupt-fvcker @justanotherblonde23 @din-damn-djarin @mikariell95

#oberyn martell x reader #oberyn martell imagine #pero tovar x reader #pero tovar imagine #game of thrones imagine #asoiaf #game of thrones #the great wall

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