#FEAST YOUR EYES UPON HIS VISAGE

[the-gayest-sky-kid]

look at him.... if you even care...

[eelnoise]

seraphim

roronoa zoro x afab!reader c/w: bloodlust, consensual bloodplay, zoro bites, you scratch, religious themes, body worship, slight breeding kink, piv sex, creampie, manhandling, praise, post-murder sex (reader and zoro just killed a bunch of marines), public sex a/n: ? idk what even to say. i like my men bloody and i like when they bloody me. this is a rewrite of a previous fic which you can find here so if ur like "ive read this b4..." its because you kinda have banner by the lovely @buggyandthebartoclub!

Zoro isn’t a religious man.

No, he finds the very notion of reverence visceral.

Though as he turns back toward you, he’s dumbstruck. You face away from him, pulling the blade of your sword deep from the torso of a fallen naval officer and watching as the light fades from his eyes. Both of you had emerged victorious after a merciless and surprise assault from a group of marines in the middle of an open town square on some island that neither of you can remember the name of, where a large statue stands tall in honor of some long-forgotten hero at its center.

The scene is heavenly, you there - surrounded by the wages of spilled blood that pools beneath your feet, the remnants of singing steel permeating the now hallowed ground upon which you stand. There’s a certain beauty in chaos, and never has Zoro felt it quite as clearly as when he watches you tear into your foes with reckless abandon. The image makes him shiver - not in fear or revulsion, but something far more primal, deep within his gut.

He’s speechless as he observes you wiping the excess carnage from your blade, a sensation akin to delight igniting in his veins and fixated on you like a hawk. It’s beautiful, truly, a stunning vision that he couldn’t even dream up. 

“Well, we took care of that little rat problem, hm?” Your words are heavy with pride and exertion, but the sound of your voice only spurs him from a daze that he didn’t even realize he was in.

Then you turn to him, visage tattered and torn and stained with crimson. Zoro’s mouth goes dry, and words fail him, tongue tied tightly in a knot that he can’t seem to unravel. You’re immaculate, and for the first time in his life he’s fighting the urge to exalt, to sing your praise, to deify you.

He mutters something that’s beyond your field of hearing as he continues to stare at you like a starved man would a feast. Zoro’s seen you wield that blade countless times, watched on as you cut down enemy by enemy without effort or ailment, but never have you looked as angelic as you do now. Standing amid a symphony of battle and gore, covered from head to toe in splattered blood that’s both yours and that of the deceased around you, the look of delight and self-satisfaction twinkling in your eyes as you grin at him from across the square, fuck, it’s all too much. 

You’re right, of course, the two of you can and did handle these sin and sinew wrapped rats with ease, but the more pressing matter is the effect that you’re currently having on his heart. Zoro takes a step forward, taking in the beauty of your face, bloodied and bruised but not conquered.

Curiously, you leer at him, head tilted in question as you sheath your sword along your back, taking note of the lack of the usual snarky remark from the swordsman. “Zoro?”

His eye flickers to yours, lips parted in what could only be described as awe. He looks at you as if you’re a muse, descended from on high to grace him with your presence, one that’s stunned him into near silence. “Yeah?” Zoro manages to reply quietly, tone raspy and voice a barely audible whisper against the breeze - a timbre you only hear from him when he’s injured or exhausted, a weak and feeble inflection that almost has you questioning if the man was actually hurt.

Zoro’s jaw visibly tightens, his one open eye alight with the same burn that he eyes an opponent with, expression twisting into one that you know all too well. The face he only makes when -

He wants you.

Your war-torn, bloodthirsty appearance has overwhelmed Zoro, the innate desire etched on his expression like a fool in a daze. Lips twisting into a devious smirk, you’re keen on taking advantage of this rare opportunity of power that you’ve been given over him, and you know exactly how to proceed. With a step toward him, you do something he doesn’t expect, something that has his nails digging into his palms.

You lick blood from your lips.

Zoro’s blood blazes, a carnal, raw emotion swells in his throat with urges he cannot fight - will not fight. Ever a man of action, he’s upon you faster than you can react. Large, calloused fingers envelop your waist, pulling you close in an instant and slamming his lips onto yours in a starved, feverish, messy kiss. The metallic tang of blood on his tongue mixed with the taste of you drives him increasingly wilder each second you stay locked together in the embrace, hastening him further into devoted bliss.

You writhe as he leaves your lips to trail down your neck, lapping up the viscous liquid that coats your flesh in his wake. Zoro is fully prepared to kneel at your altar, to partake of and rejoice in each beautiful proverb that befalls from your sweet tongue, to bathe in every hymn you bestow.

Zoro's hands roam over your body, feeling the contours of your curves beneath the fabric of your torn clothing, tracing the delicate lines of your collarbone and shoulders before coming to rest on the small of your back, holding you firm against him. He feels like he could drown in this moment, in the warmth and passion that courses through his entire being.

Zoro grins wildly, a feral expression on his face as he feels the warmth of your skin beneath his fingertips, the heat of your breath against his neck, and the sound of your voice washing over in melodic harmony. He wants nothing more than to revel in this moment, to lose himself completely in the intensity of the connection that you share.

“You wouldn’t believe how good ya look like this,” He growls into your skin, his chapped lips dancing across your collarbone and up to your shoulder. “I feel like I shouldn’t even be allowed to see ya. Feels…” words wane into a series of open-mouthed kisses along your shoulder and into the crook of your neck, deeply inhaling the intoxicating scent of blood, sweat, and battle on your flesh, “...wrong.”

“Doesn’t seem to be stopping you,” You purr, allowing a soft, pleased sigh to slide from your throat when he adds his teeth to the wet assault upon your skin, gently nibbling and grazing at you in a manner that grows hungrier and more sporadic with every passing moment. 

“We both know I ain’t much of a rule follower.” Zoro’s husky voice is hot on your ear, his warm breath sending a jolt of longing right through your nervous system. The hand low on your back begins to wriggle its way through tattered tendrils of threads that once made up your shirt, fingers spread wide as it skims up your pliant softness, tracing along your waist and up between your shoulder blades.

Zoro's touch isn’t quite tender, a clear indication of his burgeoning lust you suspect, but there's honesty, sincerity in his newfound charge. He knows that you aren't fragile, the evidence fresh and red around you speaking well enough on its own, so why stay the hand that plys the sword? 

Men fall to their hands and knees in prayer to gods they’ve never seen, begging for mercy and crying out for deliverance that will not come.

But you - he can see you, he can hear you. 

He can touch you.

Taste you.

You're divine. A paragon of a twisted and bloodied form of justice. It's you that's stupefied him, luring him into a deistic high that has Zoro practically foaming at the mouth with innate desire.

His painfully hard cock strains against his thigh with means to worship you wholly, to partake in his own ideals of perverse, distorted devotion. He breathes in your salty-sweet scent once more and groans in longing, the taste of your crimson essence on his lips makes him feel like an offering to an idol., and every drop that drips down his chin only serves to heighten his senses even more.

He looks up at you through an eye glazed over with depraved adoration, and all he can think of is how good you look, how delicious you are on his tongue, how much he wants to please you, be consumed in your immaculate presence, and to offer himself up as a sacrifice to the darker and more nefarious desire within him.

The urge to claim, to take what he wants from you and find salvation surrounded by your benevolent hold. To act upon the impure aspiration that pulsates in his mind in ways that would make even the most vileindividuals gawk. He yearns to clean the blood from your sacred, championed skin, a lust filled ritual to send you both into sacramental euphoria. 

He’s in a frenzy, feeling and touching each curve and crevice across your body while pulling you impossibly closer to him. Before Zoro can even think, he’s sinking his teeth into your shoulder, overcome with enlightened debauchery and biting down until that deathly addictive taste of your blood is fresh on his tongue once more - a testament to the depth of his obsession and the power of your shared experience.

The pain burns hot, but brief - quickly dissipating away into a cry of raw pleasure, a moan so salacious and so absolute that Zoro feels the very last of his will slipping through his fingers. He laps over the decently deep mark, his saliva mixing into the cuts like kindle to flame and earning him another woefully delightful wail of exasperation.

He thinks himself safe for the interim, that he’s pulled some sense back from the brink - until you say the one thing that shatters him to pieces.

“Do that again.”

He doesn’t deny you, and without hesitation he obliges by drowning his teeth back into your shoulder, pressing deeper into the wound and savoring the way your blood flows across his lips and into his mouth, painting his face red in the process. He grinds his hips against yours in a primitive display of dominance, while his fingers dig into your flesh with bruising force as you dig your nails into his back through his sweat and blood damped shirt.

Despite the danger posed by your actions amidst the threat of more marines, there is something undeniably beautiful about this dance of life and death. In this fleeting moment, Zoro and you find a kind of transcendence - a place where boundaries blur and limits vanish, leaving only pure, unadulterated passion in its wake.

His lips return to yours, and soon enough you feel yourself being whisked off your feet. The open air of the square leaves little room for privacy, but you know he doesn't care. Zoro walks with you in his arms, lips locked together in a messy, bloody, passionate kiss, your legs tight around his waist before he eases you down onto the lip of nameless hero's memorial upon which he plans to ravish you.

Zoro releases his hungry attack on your lips and rips the remnants of your shirt in two, leaving you bare to him as if an offering of communion. To feast upon your body, to drink upon your wine.

You gasp, wincing just a little from the shock of the fresh air upon your chest. “Zoro-” you begin, his name emanating from your breathless lungs as you watch the fabric fall to the ground around you. 

“Y’can have mine,” He replies, leaning forward to pull one of your nipples into his mouth. “After I’m done with ya.” Zoro’s mouth suckles greedily, teasing your sensitive nub with his tongue before biting down hard enough to make you squeal and arch your back, but not draw blood.

His free hand traces down your side, finding respite upon your inner thigh and squeezing tightly onto it, growling as the fresh wound on your shoulder trickles down your chest and right onto his lips and eliciting an absolutely lewd groan from Zoro as he laps it up.

He gazes up at you with an intensity that borders on madness, his eyes burning with an unbridled lust that has you keening. “Ya taste so fuckin’ good,” he growls between his assault on your chest, “God, I can’t get enough.”

“Then take as much as you want.”

And fuck, he does. In an instant does he pop his lips from you to slide your pants away, somehow careful enough to not rip them to shreds - something you’d have to thank him for later. Without even removing his swords from his hip, let alone his own pants - Zoro simply rushes to undo the clasps and push the waistband down enough to free his length, thick and leaking, to bounce out against your pelvis. 

You can feel it even through your underwear, warm heat radiating from what you desire most in this world at this moment. Zoro looks at you, gaze lingering on yours as he slides the fabric shielding your sex to the side and grips your hip with one hand and his cock in the other. He teases it over your slickness tantalizingly while sliding it between your folds and inch by inch are you filled so wonderfully, stretched and stuffed so marvelously full that each tense or twitch of him inside you makes the edges of your vision blur and has you wailing in pleasure.

As soon as your hips are flushed against one another, he gives you but a moment of adjustment before rutting his hips into you quickly, a rhythm so ruthless and wild that leaves you able to do little more aside from gasp out breathlessly and brave his savage ruin. You’re not even sure when your nails crept up his shirt, or when they burrow sharply into his shoulder blades until they’re etching down his back, the crescent shaped lines running his skin raw and bloody, scathing scores fueled by ferocious, crude passion.

He folds you then, one of his hands coming to grip over both of your wrists to pin them above your head as an arm forces your thigh downward. Zoro leans over you, your ankle now bouncing wildly next to his ear while he plows into you at a newer, deeper, more luscious angle. 

Skin slaps against skin in company with brazen indulgence, a foul yet righteous lament for the fallen mere feet from you. From this more cramped position, you’re all but forced to keep eye contact with him - and he’s looking nowhere else but at your face, enraptured by every sound and move you make as you squirm in his hold.

Your desperate pants mix, leaving patches of sweat to pool between your chests. Zoro’s increasing gasps and snarls of ecstasy ring loud in your ear, the sounds echoing through you like a quake and causing you to flutter around his cock. He hisses, harsh and shrill in your ear and with a throaty grunt he pulls out of you, letting your legs fall to the stone pavement and releasing his grasp on your wrists to firmly twist you by the shoulders, spinning you around and sprawling his hand on your lower back to shift you forward into an arch.

He’s sinking into you again, fingers tight and stinging at your waist and burying himself fully inside of you once more. There isn’t even a moment given for reprieve, the man continuing to fuck you as if he hadn’t even left your dripping heat and making you cry out in hypnotizing delight. 

Zoro smacks your ass, relishing in the ripple effect in your pliable flesh left in the wake of his blow. “Shit,” he exhales, adjusting his machinations of impurity to wrap his arms around your waist and lifting you from the ground, holding you in place mid-air and thrusting into you with less and less fluidity by the second. “Feel so fuckin’ amazin’, always do but god damn do you feel so fuckin’ incredible right now.”

You reach back to lock an arm around his neck seeking any leverage to keep yourself upright amidst his onslaught. You’re moaning something incoherent, words neither of you recognize due to the lust-filled haze that fills your minds, feeling the pull of release pit low in your belly as his balls slap against your clit at a rapid pace. 

Delirium bids its toll upon you, tears prickling at your eyes as the climb to your closely approaching high reaches its limit. Drool slides down your chin and onto your neck, and in an instant Zoro catches it with his mouth, once again dissenting on your flesh and gnawing his incisors into your neck - sucking and biting with brutal obsession and marking your angelic skin in devout defiance. The growing familiarity of the warm flow of blood trickling from the bruised indents in your skin makes you crack, flying over the edge with a scream of his name.

He doesn’t slow as you ride out the waves of pleasure coursing through your body, still slamming into you a breakneck speed. You twitch and twist in his arms, the hard beating of his cock keeping a state of hyperstimulation over you, the whimpers and cries of weak will and breathless joy beginning to tip him over the edge. 

The only thing in Zoro’s fogged head is his need to flood you with his spend, to pack you to the brim with his cum until it drips out of you and onto the stone below. He doesn’t even care if you’re bred full of his brats after this - if anything it would show just how he reveres you, claiming you as his own personal magnificence. 

His jaw tenses, still attached securely on your neck, as he cums. Loud groans and grunts and sighs of relief vibrate against your skin, Zoro’s dick leaking and draining into you as your walls milk him for all that you can manage. 

A few final, slow motions and he slides out of you, gently placing you on the ground and instantly rolling his shirt from his shoulders to hand it to you. “As promised,” Zoro says, a deviously weak grin on his face, moving to wipe his brow after you’ve taken the clothing from his outstretched hand. “Want me to patch ya up when we get back?”

“If you don’t mind, yeah.” You reply as you toss the shirt over yourself gently, minding the wounds that line your body as you do so.” Would rather not be asked any questions I don’t want to answer.” Zoro nods, chuckling softly before helping you clean up, using scraps of your ruined shirt as makeshift bandages and rags before he lifts you into his arms for a third time, though this one with the intention of carrying you safely back to the others - a soft apology for his brutality on your flesh, but one he knows he doesn’t need to say.

[nymphiria]

KAVEH NSFW HEADCANONS — GENSHIN IMPACT

♱ ∿ fem!reader, big dick kaveh, size kink, public sex, faux sympathy dom, facials, pussy eating, cockwarming, deepthroating

༉ a/n — why is kaveh so gorgeous (*>﹏<*)

it’s a miracle how kaveh always manages to fit completely inside of your snug walls. it seems that no matter how many times he fucks you, your pussy never gets used to his size. even hours of long foreplay never prepare you for the initial push of his length inside. as much as he coos and strokes your teary cheeks as you shake under him, you know that secretly he enjoys watching you writhe in pain. the mischievous and sadistic glint in his eyes always betrays his true feelings.

kaveh is known throughout sumeru for his architectural genius and lavish creations. naturally, he takes great pride in every palace and building he designs as any artist would. though mapping every room and area in exquisite detail is fun, he prefers the moment in time when it’s almost ready to be unveiled to the public. during this period, he takes in upon himself to fuck you witless in every spot inside of the area. the extravagant windowsills will keep you steady for him as he feasts between your legs and the breathtaking garden is the second best view compared to you on your knees swallowing him to the base. what’s the point of all work and no play? besides, it wouldn’t truly be a kaveh design if he didn’t christen all the rooms with your juices.

everything you do in kaveh’s eyes is beautiful from your face to your soft snoring as you sleep. he could write an epic on your beauty in less than a day if his schedule allowed it. the one thing in teyvat that multiplies your beauty by tenfold is when your visage is covered in his seed. the way that the ropes of white intricately drip down your cheeks and wrap into your hair drives him wild. the strings of cum only serve to make your fucked out face even more ethereal — a painting of fine art that just needed a touch up. most of the time when he’s about to reach his peak, he’ll pull out of you just to shoot his load all over your eager face.

late nights for kaveh are often filled with sleep-riddled eyes and piles of paper that have yet to be finished. usually he doesn’t allow himself to crawl into bed with you until three or four o’clock in the early morning. stress is no stranger to him as he is used to the amount of work his career demands from him. that doesn’t mean he doesn’t long for your company in the evening — you’re his only stress relief. once your ears catch the frustrated sighs and yawns of your lover, you’ll tiptoe into his office and nestle yourself onto his lap. he doesn’t need to tell you what to do, you already know. the first sigh of relief comes when you’re releasing him from the confines of his pants, the second when you slip his half-hard dick inside of you. it’s not inherently sexual. most of the time you’ll both end up falling asleep with him buried to the hilt in your pussy. when you’re waking up, however, it’s a different story.

[mrsshabana]

“𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐢𝐭 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐈 𝐡𝐮𝐫𝐭 𝐲𝐨𝐮? 𝐖𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐚 𝐟𝐮𝐧 𝐡𝐮𝐦𝐚𝐧 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐚𝐫𝐞 ~”

𝐃𝐚𝐲 𝟐𝟖: 𝐒&𝐌

꒦꒷‧₊ Summary At first, you were just another meal to him. But when he hurt you, you didn't beg for him to stop, you actually liked it. Maybe he could have some fun with you before he makes you his next meal. If you can handle it. ꒦꒷‧₊ Content Gyutaro x female!reader, 18+ MDNI, Sadist!Gyutaro, Masochist!Reader, violence, blood, gore, rough sex, vaginal sex, creampie. ꒦꒷‧₊ Note 1.3k words

✧:･ﾟ→ Kinktober Masterlist

The only reason he chose you was because you were pretty. Jealousy filled his veins when he laid his eyes upon your beautiful visage. He would make you pay, make you suffer by his hands.

He swiftly plucked you from the crowd and took you back to his underground lair where he and his sister eat their prey. Stripping you of your clothes so he can feast on your flesh. You kicked and screamed just like the others, you weren’t special. At least not until he sunk his teeth into your skin. He wanted to make it slow and painful, slowly sinking his teeth into your neck as he holds you down. 

A soft, pleasured whimper escapes your lips when his fangs tear into your skin. Never has he seen a human react that way. It makes his eyes go wide and he has to pull away to look at you. Is this really happening right now? You should be crying and begging for your life. But here you are, deriving pleasure from the pain he inflicts upon you. 

He looks down at your flustered face. You quickly turn your head to the side to avoid his gaze, ashamed that he just heard you moan. 

A devilish smirk appears on his face as he roughly grabs you by the hair and pulls your head up, “You like this don’t you?” 

You can’t muster the courage to respond to him, only moaning and blushing more from his rough treatment of you. 

“How disgraceful,” he growls, “You should be begging for your life. But here you are, enjoying being tossed around by a demon of all things!”

Out of nowhere, he cups your pussy in his other hand, “And already wet too. Don’t think I couldn’t smell your arousal when I bit you, sweetheart.” He collects your slick on his fingers and brings it up to his mouth. Groaning as he savors your taste. 

“Guess I could have a bit of fun with you,” he rasps, “Then get rid of you when I’m done.”

You know you should be afraid right now, your life is literally in this man's hands and he hasn’t shown any intention of letting you walk away alive. But yet you still can’t help but feel some kind of twisted attraction towards the demon. His sadistic personality makes your knees weak, and not to mention his appearance. He looks like a monster, but that only turns you on more. Especially when he glares at you with those yellow eyes and smirks with those sharp teeth. 

“F-feels good,” you stutter, speaking quietly. Too ashamed to admit to him that you do indeed like what he’s doing to you. 

“You like it when I hurt you?” he grabs your thigh, slowly sinking his nails into your flesh, “What a fun human you are ~” 

“ Ahhh ,” you whimper in satisfaction as blood rolls down your thigh. 

He leans down and licks the blood from your leg, “Mm… taste so sweet too. Might lose control and devour you while I’m fucking you. I bet you’d like that huh?”

You nod shyly and open your legs, a clear invitation. If you’re going to get eaten alive, then you might as well go out with a bang. 

His erection is already straining at the front of his pants, you can clearly see that he’s big too. But that only makes you more excited. 

His eyebrow twitches as he looks down at your soaking cunt, it looks so inviting. “ Fuck ,” he mutters under his breath as he pulls down his pants. His hefty cock springing free, the length and girth of it will be sure to hurt you in more ways than one.

He grabs you by the hips and flips you onto your stomach, “Get on your hands and knees. Now,” he commands. 

Your legs shake with anticipation as you get into the position for him, exposing everything to his predatory gaze. 

“That’s it.” He grabs your ass with his left hand, and forcefully slaps it with his right. 

You squeal at the sudden pain, and the sting of his hand is left on your skin. A red mark immediately forming, bringing a smile to his face.

And without warning he shoves his cock into your entrance, sending a surge of pain through you as he forces himself inside. Literally tearing you to accommodate him. It makes his immediate thrusts even more painful, but that is the whole reason he’s doing it after all. 

“ Fuuuuck you’re so tight,” he groans, slapping your ass again as he continues at a rough pace.

“ Ah-aaahh! S-slow down please,” you beg. Partly because it really does hurt, but also because you know your begging will only make him go harder. 

He leans forward, grabbing you by the hair and lifting your face. He lowers his face beside yours and looks at you from the corner of his eyes. “Gyutaro,” he grunts, “Scream it. Now."

He punctuates his command with a violent thrust, ramming into your cervix. 

“ G-Gyutaro! ” you scream.

“ Ngh - That’s it. Good girl,” he coos. Letting go of your hair and moving his hands to cup your breasts. His nails dig into the fat of your chest while he holds you against him, thrusting deep inside of you.

The pain is overwhelming and your vision is blurred by the tears flooding your eyes. Every part of you hurts. Your neck where he bit you, your thighs, your ass, your scalp, your now bleeding breasts, and worst of all your cunt. 

His hands are covered in blood and so are yours. You don’t know where it all came from, but there is a pool of blood beneath you, soaking your palms as you hold yourself up.

The pain feels so good. And he loves administering it. 

You don’t know if it’s from the overwhelming pain or from the blood loss, but you’re starting to feel light headed. And it doesn’t help that he keeps hitting your sweet spot with every thrust of his hips. Not to mention how hard his bony pelvis slams into the flesh of your ass, surely to leave a bruise. But that’s the least of your worries. 

“ G-Gyu… ta-tarooo ,” you moan desperately, as you begin to lose your balance and everything starts to blur. 

“Stop whining, you pathetic girl,” he growls, his thrusts becoming animalistic. 

Looking down at you, he can see that you’re struggling to hold yourself up. So with a sadistic chuckle, he grabs your wrists and pulls them behind you, keeping you held up. 

“Can’t even hold yourself up? You’ll be punished for that.” His lips curl into a twisted smile, showing off his bloody teeth. He moves your right hand up to his mouth, and bites off your index finger. Promptly chewing through the bone and swallowing it. 

The combination of pleasure and pain is far too much for you. “ Gyutaro! ” You scream his name at the top of your lungs and cum all over him. Your tight walls squeezing him as your body shakes. The combined sensations are too much for you to handle and everything goes black.

Your body goes completely limp and Gyutaro continues fucking you at a rough pace. Until he finally spills inside of you, groaning as he’s filled with ecstasy. Painting your insides white as he shoots thick ropes of his semen. 

Finally, when his orgasm has subsided he lets go of your arms and you collapse on the ground. 

“Human?” he asks as he pulls out of you and lifts your head to get a look at your face. “Oh… she’s passed out.” 

Blood drips down his chin as he grins sadistically, getting an idea.

“I could just let you bleed out,” he chuckles, “ Or , I could turn you into a demon and we could have more fun. Then I could be as rough as I like.”

He looks down at your blood covered body as he thinks about it. 

Gyutaro brings out his sickles and cuts his wrist, hovering it over your face and letting his blood drip into your mouth.

“This is going to be so much fun.”

[darlingofvalyria]

❝The story where your rage nearly tore Winterfell to ashes?❞

[ You talk your daughter down from her cold feet. ]

[ 1,405 ] [ series masterlist ] | king!jacaerys velaryon x aunt targ!reader (aegon's twin)

contains— canon divergence - fluff, smidge of angst - allusions to warfare, character death(s), infidelity, revenge, manipulative targ!reader - children, arranged marriage, mentions of pregnancy and childbirth - sort of fluff?? bits of angst, toxic as shit hhshs - no kings, no martyrs, no betas.

a/n— a little blurb before the third proper instalment of 'in hightower green' (yes, we now have a masterlist and a series title!!). this is post-the series, & contains a hint on what happens to the third part, which will be a two-parter, cos its heavy and reader goes full gone girl shdjshdhs can't wait to share it!! but for now have a glimpse of the future lol + comment, reblog & like at will, my loves!!

"I was told that you were on the verge of fainting, but I see you are upright as a horse." A faint smile glimmers on your playful lips as your daughter turns, smiling in an exact replica of how Helaena smiles.

It bursts wildflowers and warmth in your chest as you approach, standing behind her as you take the earrings from her fingers that have been turning them around and around, Nila, the spider whose web you placed by your daughter's, said.

You balance the heavy accessory, before you say, "Let me."

A quiet settles the pair of mother and daughter, the chaos of the feast unable to taint the tranquility provided in her chambers. As you take care in placing the baubles for her ears you press a gentle smile on your face as you gaze upon her on the mirror. Maegella Velaryon is a patchwork creation of your most beloved people, despite being the fourth born daughter and the second triplet, she bore Helaena's smile and Aemond's dusky laughter.

Though there is the Strong features in her jaw and face shape, her eyes and hair are your mother's. The Hightower features you have adored since childhood, the auburn hair and the gentle, round brown eyes.

Your seventh child bears the most resemblance to your Hightower roots, as she is the only one with her grandmother's auburn locks. Sweet orange red, a shimmer of a dying flame.

"I do not know if I am making the right decision, your grace." She breaks the silence, meeting your violet gaze with her gentle brown. She is young, on the verge of her womanhood, while you have aged, a mirror of what visage will soon become. "I understand that the Lord Stark is an honourable man, most auspicious is our arrangement thus far, but..."

"But?"

"I am fearful," she whispers.

There is Aegon in her chin, in her purse lips. It tugs at your heartstrings further at the reminder of your beloved twin.

Your children have always been Aegon's favourite to spoil, but much more your triplet daughters.

"They all look so much like you, sweet sister, even if their colouring is not fully Valyrian," he had said when they were born, snuggled against each other in their sleep much like the two of you when you were newborn babes.

"So they look like you, since we are twins," you teased. He nudged you with an elbow, giggling.

"Yes, exactly." He turned to Maegella, newborn as she is, her hair had been a lighter shade of red orange back then. He runs a finger down her hair and forehead before booping her button nose. "This one has mother's hair."

"And brown eyed. I thought of naming her Alicent, but I digressed. Much too on the nose."

He laughed. "Maybe the next one then, as for sure you will be round with the Strong bastard's babe once more."

Though there was no heat to his tone, you still slapped his arm. It wasn't like he was wrong. You promised Jace you will bring him heirs.

You promised yourself strong babes. Their blood is yours, and they breathe with you.

"Oh, my sweet, darling girl," you say now, smiling gently as you place a coifed, auburn lock back behind strings of pearl that swept up her hair in elegant coils, not unlike fully bloomed roses cinched together. "You are about to make a new life for yourself, there is much to fear. But you are the blood of the dragons. And of the oldest, greatest House in Westeros. And the sea. Which is ancient, and has drowned men in vigour despite her age."

"Just like Vhagar?"

You laugh. "Much like Vhagar when she lived, yes, that old, ferocious girl."

She giggles then sighs as you hold her close to you. Gentle as you are to her wedding attire, a faint, seafoam blue laced white dress. A gift from her father.

You stand straight, something in your expression triggers her own posture to straighten. The visage and orderly manner of a princess coming back to her spine and face.

"No true marriage is a fairytale. Most oft, you have to strangle fate by the throat and conquer your future."

Her eyes widen. "Mother! That sounds ghastly."

"It is." Your laugh isn't what she's used to. It's a breathless, mirthless exhale. A memory so entangled in your mind it weaves about in silvery threads between you. "But my marriage to your father had not always been such a gladdened time."

"I would expect so..." she says hesitantly, wary of every minute change of your expression. "It has been a long marriage, with a heft of babes of your own." Her hand finds yours and squeezes, trying for a jest with a pinch of honesty. "Do not expect the same amount of children from me, your grace. Though the birthing bed is a war all women must face, I have five other sisters to continue your lineage."

You exchange a laugh, pinching her cheek whilst she yelps.

"I cannot fathom birthing the same amount as you have. You are the strongest of us all."

"Your great-great grandmother, The Good Queen Alysanne, named after your sister, bore much more than I, I will remind you so."

She shivers. "Madness it is."

"It is," you agree. "The realm had asked for only two, but I had love your father so. But our marriage... it had almost cost me everything."

"Everything?"

Your smile is flaccid. "My crown, my birthright, my position in your father's life. Everything."

She stands, thoroughly alarmed, spinning to you and holding your arms. "Mother? I have not heard of this before."

"Oh, how can you? You were yet to be born." You run your fingers over her sweet face. Your seventh child. To think you almost lost them all. To think such bastards nearly took everything from you. "Only Daenera and Aemma had been, and I am not sure they can remember it all. They were quite young. And I am furious to tell further, but... but for you, I can. So you might understand that marriage is too, a battle to be won. A prize you must covet. As a dragon, your hoard is your own. Any who dare touch it must pay with fire and blood."

Your chin tips. "Even if sometimes, your enemy is your own spouse."

"Father?" A faint gasps leave her lips. "You are scaring me mother. What story is this?"

A smirk plays on your lips. "The story of how Winterfell almost burnt to the ground."

"What?"

"Rage, my sweet girl, especially born out of a dragon's flame, can raze armies to the ground. We were called conquerors for a reason." You cup her face with your hands. "Though I have not made a promise to your father, I had kept this piece of history deep within the wells of my heart. But for you I shall. To guide you into your marriage, and to comfort you that no matter what happens, no matter what tragedy curses your vows, you are able to control your future. You are no mere wife. Your blood sings above the sheep alike, and with it, a reminder to all that you are a dragon and nothing less."

You release her face, smiling gently, before you tug her to the bed. "We have time for a story, I'm sure. They cannot start it without a queen nor the bride."

"The story where your rage nearly tore Winterfell to ashes?" She frowns. "How does father fare in this?"

"Oh, he had lied to me."

"Father?! Lied?"

You tap her lips. "You must take this story to your bosom. And you must not look at your father any differently. He is changed now. He has kept his vows with much sincerity." Though a certain bitter triumph echoes in your heart at the idea that his own daughter might look at him with hatred.

The years had been kind to you, yes. But by no means have you met it with ease. The crown you bear on your head bore witness to every battle you had won, every war you had forged, and only those who understood its stench know of the blood you had spilled to get it.

And though you have forgiven him long before, the memory sings old embers anew.

"Her name was Sara Snow, and your father had dared..."

TAGGED: @inkareds @marihoneywk @caterina-caterina @ahristata @xxvelvetxxxx @but-i-write-so-i-must-count @bunbunbl0gs @yazzzmints @bellstwd @hiraethrhapsody

[nightswatchdisbandmentera]

Question for Jon stans: so I think a lot of us expect Jon to leave the watch at some point in his story, whether in Winds or sometime in Dream. I tend to think he’s going to straight up desert the Watch, like going ‘fuck it I’m done here’ much like Bloodraven and Mance, instead of leaving on a technicality (i.e., a ‘he’s dead so he’s technically done his service’ type of thing). 

BUT the question is, does he go north or does he go south? I think it’s reasonable to assume either direction works narratively.

We have this:

Lannister studied his face. “Yes,” he said. “I can see it. You have more of the north in you than your brothers.”

Plus he’s been set up to parallel Bloodraven and Mance both of whom go north, and there’s this quote from AGOT that could be foreshadowing:

Far off to the north, a wolf began to howl. Another voice picked up the call, then another. Ghost cocked his head and listened. “If he doesn’t come back,” Jon Snow promised, “Ghost and I will go find him.” He put his hand on the direwolf’s head.

“I believe you,” Tyrion said, but what he thought was, And who will go find you? He shivered.

(Tyrion III)

There’s also symbolism in him embracing the name “Snow” and living in the snowy north….

But then we these quotes from AGOT as well that’s essentially about him finding the Wall to be stifling and equating freedom with the south:

“Yes. Cold and hard and mean, that’s the Wall, and the men who walk it. Not like the stories your wet nurse told you. Well, piss on the stories and piss on your wet nurse. This is the way it is, and you’re here for life, same as the rest of us.”

“Life,” Jon repeated bitterly. The armorer could talk about life. He’d had one. He’d only taken the black after he’d lost an arm at the siege of Storm’s End. Before that he’d smithed for Stannis Baratheon, the king’s brother. He’d seen the Seven Kingdoms from one end to the other; he’d feasted and wenched and fought in a hundred battles. They said it was Donal Noye who’d forged King Robert’s warhammer, the one that crushed the life from Rhaegar Targaryen on the Trident. He’d done all the things that Jon would never do, and then when he was old, well past thirty, he’d taken a glancing blow from an axe and the wound had festered until the whole arm had to come off. Only then, crippled, had Donal Noye come to the Wall, when his life was all but over.

(Jon III)

He had no destination in mind. He wanted only to ride. He followed the creek for a time, listening to the icy trickle of water over rock, then cut across the fields to the kingsroad. It stretched out before him, narrow and stony and pocked with weeds, a road of no particular promise, yet the sight of it filled Jon Snow with a vast longing. Winterfell was down that road, and beyond it Riverrun and King’s Landing and the Eyrie and so many other places; Casterly Rock, the Isles of Faces, the red mountains of Dorne, the hundred islands of Braavos in the sea, the smoking ruins of old Valyria. All the places that Jon would never see. The world was down that road … and he was here.

(Jon V)

And if Jon is to live his best wildling/crow-deserter life, it’ll be about finding freedom - just like Mance.

Plus there’s the whole thing with him seeing three different trees which could serve as representing his arc in the series, and the final tree faces south… 

Just north of Mole’s Town they came upon the third watcher, carved into the huge oak that marked the village perimeter, its deep eyes fixed upon the kingsroad. That is not a friendly face, Jon Snow reflected. The faces that the First Men and the children of the forest had carved into the weirwoods in eons past had stern or savage visages more oft than not, but the great oak looked especially angry, as if it were about to tear its roots from the earth and come roaring after them. Its wounds are as fresh as the wounds of the men who carved it.

(Jon V, ADWD) 

So which one is it?

Also if you think he goes south, where does he end up? 👀 

[idkyetxoxo]

Five | Allure | The Last Kingdom

"One way or another, you will be mine,"

"The only way she'll be yours is if you can pry her from the cold grip of death, and even then, you'll find yourself in a fight you won't win,"

<- prev || masterlist || next ->

───☆⋅☾⋅☆───

Returning to Aethelflaed's estate in Mercia, I tended to my horse with the same care Uhtred bestowed upon his own steed. As Aethelflaed entered the stables, I stole a glance at her, then at Uhtred, and sighed before withdrawing to afford them privacy.

The intensity in Aethelflaed's gaze spoke volumes, she had succumbed to my brother's charm.

Seated on the ground, absentmindedly pulling blades of grass while Osferth and Finan honed their skills in the distance, a solitary figure on horseback caught my attention. Brida's silhouette emerged into view.

I rose, moving towards her as Uhtred joined me. Brida's visage was contorted with anger, her eyes ablaze with a raw, unfiltered fury. 

"What's wrong?" I pressed urgently. "Ragnar waited years for you both to return, only for his younger siblings to forsake him days after," she spat, her words laced with venom. "You should have left Aethelflaed to die," she cried out, igniting a pang of apprehension within me.

"What's happened?" Uhtred inquired, and the ensuing revelation sent shivers down my spine. "Ragnar is dead. He does not feast in Valhalla. Instead, he lies beneath a mound of stone. There was no honour in his death," she disclosed.

At first her words didn't quite register, but with each passing moment, the truth dawned on me. The weight of her revelation settled heavily, undeniable in the honesty etched on her face and the anguish in her expression. I knew without a doubt that her words held no deceit.

My body betrayed me, collapsing to the ground as sobs wracked my frame. My heart thundered in my chest, threatening to burst free. Brida's accusations blurred, her blame falling upon us for Ragnar's untimely death.

"He's gone, and it's my fault," I sobbed, my voice trembling. Uhtred knelt beside me, his anguish mirroring my own. "He's gone," I repeated, the words echoing in the desolate recesses of my mind. "He's gone because we abandoned them," I cried out, pushing Uhtred away with a force borne of despair.

"We allowed it to happen," I continued, swiping harshly at my tears. "It's not..." Uhtred began, but I shook my head vehemently, rebuffing his attempts at consolation. I lashed out, striking his chest repeatedly until someone pulled me back.

"Do not blame yourselves" Finan interjected, attempting to console Uhtred, but my anguish refused to be placated. I shoved away the others, refusing to accept their hollow comfort.

"It is our fault" I declared, rising to my feet. "I will ensure every man involved will be held responsible" I vowed, dismissing Finan's suggestion of Skade's involvement with a vehement retort. 

"We march to Alfred, and we gather an army in Aegelsburg. I will not rest until my brother's killer is brought forward," I screamed, my voice raw with anguish, tears streaming down my face like a torrential downpour. 

With every fibre of my being shattered, I pushed past the trio and strode away, consumed by an overwhelming sense of heartbreak and a fierce determination to avenge Ragnar's unjust death.

──☆⋅☾⋅☆──

The journey to Aegelsburg stretched across several agonizing days. Every fibre of my being urged me to press forward, but the relentless march of time forced halts upon us. Reluctantly, we paused, weary souls, seeking respite amidst the trials that beset us.

"Will you bring this to her?" Uhtred's voice cut through the silence, nudging a bowl towards Sihtric. The latter raised his hands in surrender, his countenance reflecting apprehension. "She hates my guts. She won't accept food from me," he confessed, a hint of resignation lacing his words. Uhtred sighed heavily, weariness etched upon his features.

"She hasn't eaten in three days. Everyone has tried. You are my last resort," Uhtred implored, his voice tinged with desperation. With a reluctant nod, Sihtric accepted the bowl, no longer resisting the plea that hung heavy in the air. With measured steps, he ventured towards where I lay amidst the grass, my gaze fixated upon the  darkening sky above.

"Here," Sihtric murmured softly, collapsing beside me and extending the offering. I turned away, unwilling to confront his presence. "Please," his voice pleaded, punctuated by a note of earnest concern. 

I drew a sharp breath, his words piercing through the veil of my anguish. "You haven't eaten, haven't slept, haven't spoken to anyone," he observed, coaxing me gently into awareness.

"I can't, Sihtric. I just can't," I confessed, my voice barely above a whisper. "He's gone. My mother is gone. My father is gone but I remain, tethered to this realm as if the gods themselves delight in my torment," I lamented, the weight of loss bearing down upon my soul. His expression softened, an understanding gaze meeting mine.

"The gods aren't torturing you. They have greater plans for you," he reassured his words a balm to my fractured spirit. I drew my knees close, seeking solace amidst the turmoil that engulfed me. 

"You need to eat. If not for yourself, do it for Uhtred. He is consumed by worry," Sihtric urged, nudging the bowl towards me.

With trembling hands, I accepted the offering, the weight of sustenance a burden I could scarcely bear. "Finish that before Finan scours around for remnants," he jested, a fleeting smile gracing my lips.

"Sihtric," I called out, halting his departure. As he turned towards me, I felt the weight of gratitude pressing on my tongue, but the words remained trapped, unspoken. Instead, I shook my head slightly and murmured, "Never mind." 

A glimmer of appreciation flickered amidst the shadows that engulfed us. With a smirk, he acknowledged the sentiment, though it was left unspoken.

Upon our arrival in Aeglesburg, we were cautiously permitted entry by Aldhelm, Aethelred, and Steapa, albeit without our weapons.

I drew my sword and handed it to Steapa, who positioned himself in front of me, expectant. "I don't have anything else," I fibbed, meeting his scowl with a nonchalant gaze. "We both know that's a lie. You carry at least four different weapons on you at all times," he retorted, his tone stern. I rolled my eyes in response.

Reluctantly, I retrieved the dagger concealed at my waist and extended it to him. However, Steapa remained unmoved. "I don't have anything else. So unless you plan on conducting a thorough body search, this is the best you'll get," I asserted, my patience waning.

"Don't argue with her, big man. We both know who will lose," Finan interjected. Steapa, hesitatingly, allowed me to proceed, acknowledging the futility of further resistance.

"No one wants to experience the wrath of the little devil today," Sihtric remarked, his smirk trailing along as he followed behind us.

The summons to the witan, where Edward stood in lieu of the king, prompted my inquiry. "Has Alfred finally bit the dust?" I asked only to be met with reproachful gazes from Beocca and Pyrlig, to which I merely shrugged, unfazed by their disapproval.

Aethelflaed's report of nearby Danes, accusing Haesten of assault, incited further tension. Aethelred and Aldhelm's interrogation of Uhtred, suspecting his collusion with Haesten, only deepened the animosity in the air.

Alfred's confrontation with Uhtred marked the breaking point. 

"Ragnar is dead," I declared, watching as Alfred's countenance faltered. "My brother is gone, I'm sure it brings you joy," I sneered, my voice laced with bitter conceit. "The Dane army is now halved," I added, the desperation in Uhtred's plea resonating in my own heart.

Despite the raw truth laid bare and Uhtred's desperate plea, Alfred rejected our proposal. He then offered us the ambiguous refuge of outlaws under Aethelflaed's protection, allowing us to depart at will.

With raw, bitter truth and the searing fury of a woman scorned, I unleashed my condemnation upon Alfred. 

"Your dream of a united England will remain just that, a dream," I hissed, each word dripping with the venom of betrayal. "You are a cowardly king, unwilling to take risks and relying on others to pave your path to success." My words cut through the air like a blade, leaving no room for misinterpretation as I stormed away from the witan, knowing no words could assuage the gaping wounds in my heart.

"Well, Alfred surely felt the weight of your fury," Sihtric remarked, settling across from me in the alehouse with Osferth by his side and Finan at mine. 

"Uhtred has offered nothing but his unwavering support, and this is how he's repaid," I spat, my voice laden with disillusionment and resentment.

"I pray the gods grant him no mercy, for his path leads only to death," I confessed, the fervour of my words echoing the depths of my despair. Around the table, silence reigned, and all I could do was bow my head, closing my eyes against the tumult of emotions swirling within.

──☆⋅☾⋅☆──

As the haze of sleep lifted, I found myself roused by the insistent shaking of my shoulder. Blinking groggily, I peered through half-opened lids to see Sihtric standing before me. "What?" I grumbled, my voice thick with drowsiness.

"Edward has pledged his support to Uhtred. Expect an army at Beamfleot," Sihtric announced, his words snapping me to full alertness. With a sense of urgency coursing through my veins, I rose to my feet, brushing aside stray strands of hair that clung to my face.

"Uhtred, Finan, and Osferth have already departed they're convincing Haestan to fight," Sihtric continued, his tone brimming with determination. Without hesitation, I declared, "I won't waste another moment waiting. Let's move" and with that, I set off, Sihtric close on my heels.

As we joined the others, gathered in anticipation of Haestan's arrival, I couldn't help but inquire about the time spent in idle vigil. "How long have you been waiting?" I queried, drawing my horse alongside Uhtred.

"Half a day," came his weary response, prompting a resigned sigh to escape my lips. Dismounting, I allowed Finan to tend to my steed, frustration simmering beneath the surface.

"Why wasn't I woken up for any of this?" I demanded, turning my gaze to Uhtred, who met my inquiry with a knowing look. "You hadn't slept in three days, and I could handle it," he explained, a hint of weariness in his voice.

"Well, then I'm ready to shed some blood let me have at the men whose greed caused my brother to leave this world thinking I betrayed him," I said determination in my eyes. 

"She looks like she's ready to carve up anything in her path," Finan muttered to Osferth, a wry smile playing at his lips. "I'd tread carefully if I were you don't let her mistake you for one of them," Sihtric added, eliciting a nervous glance from Osferth as he clutched the cross around his neck.

The tension hung thick in the air, anticipation mounting as the silhouette of Haestan's approach loomed on the horizon, signalling the imminent clash that awaited us all.

He finally arrived, accompanied by Skade and an imposing army. Uhtred's command was clear. Form two lines, build a shield wall, prepare for the impending clash. Yet, despite our efforts, the odds stood dauntingly against us. Our numbers paled in comparison to the enemy's, and the realization weighed heavy upon us all.

Haesten's offer of surrender hung in the air like a foul stench. "I would sooner face death's embrace and the halls of Valhalla than kneel before you," I retorted, my voice dripping with defiance. My gaze pierced through the ranks, landing squarely on Dagfinn, whose smirk only fueled my ire.

"Don't think I've forgotten about you," I growled, levelling my sword at Dagfinn, whose grin only seemed to widen in response to my challenge.

"I haven't forgotten about you either," he retorted, his voice dripping with sinister intent. "In my dreams, you belong to me, you do everything I desire," he added, his words laced with a twisted fascination. "One way or another, you will be mine," he proclaimed, his tone leaving no room for misunderstanding.

"The only way she'll be yours is if you can pry her from the cold grip of death, and even then, you'll find yourself in a fight you won't win," Sihtric interjected, his voice a low growl that resonated with an undeniable authority. His gaze burned with an intensity that matched the fiery chaos surrounding us.

As the words left his lips, Sihtric found himself grappling with a profound sense of confusion. He couldn't quite comprehend why he felt compelled to make such a promise, especially for someone who, by all accounts, has considered him his enemy. 

Yet, in that fleeting moment, it felt unquestionably right, as if some unseen force had guided his actions and imbued them with a sense of purpose beyond his understanding.

Perhaps it was the shared moments experienced in the face of adversity, or the unspoken bond forging. Whatever the reason, Sihtric knew one thing for certain, despite our differences, he felt a newfound consideration for me and felt a desire to defend me.

With Haestan's command, the battlefield erupted into chaos. Men clashed with the ferocity of beasts, steel meeting steel in a cacophony of violence and death.

Every fibre of my being thrummed with a potent mixture of fury and rage as Haestan's men pressed their assault. The air crackled with the intensity of battle, my breath coming in ragged gasps as I fought.

Amid the frenzy of combat, a grim realization settled upon me like a shroud, our forces were being slaughtered, the men falling before the relentless onslaught of Haestan's. The bitter taste of defeat hung heavy in the air, casting a shadow over our once defiant resolve.

Where was Edward ? Where was the promise he had made? The questions lingered like a bitter refrain, echoing across the blood-soaked battlefield, as I grappled with the harsh reality of our desperate situation. 

───☆⋅☾⋅☆───

it's so hard trying to write his feelings because the whole story is written in the first-person BUT Sihtric realising a little something at last, it obviously isn't love (yet) but at least he knows he wants something😋 

[hollowwrites]

Putting the RIP in Scriptorium

Part 2

Summary - I didn’t think this would have a part 2 but after a few people asked for it and I had a cheeky think I couldn’t stop thinking about it. So thanks to you guys @skarathewitch and @samfoley!!

In my little slow burn Ominis and Eve are already very touchy feely and comfortable with each other. I wanted to explore the origins of that

Warnings - mentions of Crucio, little bit of Angst, mostly comfort

Word Count - 1676

~

Evelyn lowered herself onto the long benches flanking the Slytherins’ Feast Table. She ached to her core. Sleeping usually solved all of her problems. Whether it was a common cold or a headache, most of her ills could be resolved with a simple nap.

So why would Crucio be any different?

She was wrong.

Painfully wrong.

Her bones protested against the slightest movement, though she tried not to show it. The scarf she wrapped around her neck hid it’s own secrets, the huge bruise that spread out from the scar left in the curses’ wake.

Imelda and herself spent their morning talking about nothing. At least that’s what Eve heard. Imelda’s musings, unfortunately, just weren’t sinking in. The only thing Eve contributed to the conversation was an unenthusiastic nod and the occasionally hum of faux interest.

Where was Ominis and Sebastian?

She craned her neck painfully to stare at the big double doors hoping to see them. Either of them.

Well preferably not Ominis.

He had told her to rest but she was already so far behind her peers, just one day seemed like too much to ask. She sighed and shovelled more toast into her mouth, her jaw aching as she chewed on it slowly.

Suddenly, a gentle hand rest upon her shoulder. Her body contorted stiffly to avoid putting unneeded pressure on her side.

It was Ominis.

“A word” he said flatly, eyebrows slammed flat over his eyes. The stare of his sightless eyes sent a shiver up her spine.

“Ominis? I-“ she started

“Now” his hand fell from her shoulder and he strode towards the landing overlooking the Great Hall. He disappeared up the stairs and she sighed, defeated.

“I’ll see you later, Imelda” she mumbled before obediently following after Ominis.

He waited, arms crossed and foot tapping, impatiently at the top of the stairs.

“I told you to rest” his eyes somehow bore into her and she found herself shifting under his gaze

“I’m fine, honestly”

“Oh really?” His snippy little attitude was starting to grate on her. She was already in pain, she didn’t want to deal with this as well. “Where did that curse hit you”

“My chest, towards my shoulder sort of-OW!” She yelped as Ominis’ long digits jabbed into the bruise below her scarf

“I thought you were okay?” He asked sarcastically

“Enough, Ominis. I get that your concerned but I can’t afford to just sit around all day because I have a bit of a bruise” she snapped back, ignoring the dull ache from her shoulder as it screamed it’s objection.

“Are you forgetting who you’re talking to? It’s not just a bruise, Evelyn. It’s-“ all of sudden, he could smell the unforgettable scent of fresh blood. She started sniffing waiting for him to continue his tirade, until he randomly reached out and touched her lip. He drew the pool of red onto his finger, using it to punctuate his rant.

“It’s this too” he continued. She gasped rubbing at her face failing to rid the blood from her visage. She tasted the metallic tinge on her tongue as she licked it from her lips.

“Please…” his anger subsided, his true intentions bubbling forth as he held her arms “Come with me to the Undercroft. We can study all day if you’d like just…don’t spend all day in pain, pretending that you’re not”

“Okay” she said meekly, her voice now raspy “Can you help me study for Herbology? I need to write 20 inches on Mandrakes and their uses” he laughed breathily

“Of course”

~

She heard Ominis before she saw him.

He’d left her, momentarily to gather some supplies for their day in the Undercroft. He promised her that he wouldn’t be long, if she promised not to leave. If he had to sacrifice a day so that she wouldn’t do herself a mischief, then so be it.

The clattering of his arrival rang down the entrance corridor and echoed around the Undercrofts empty walls, followed by a string of mumbled curses.

“Are you okay?” She called to him from the crate she perched on top of. He stumbled though the portcullis, followed by a flock of tomes and books, loyally following behind, flapping like birds.

“I hate this bloody charm” he grumbled, dropping the crate he was carrying to the floor, the telltale jingle of potion vials tinkling against one another. He took out his wand, gesturing to the books. They descended into a neat pile at Eves feet.

“What are these?” She hissed bending to retrieve the book closest to her. They were immaculate textbooks covering each and every topic she was studying at Hogwarts, and a few she hadn’t heard of yet. Each were perfect, albeit a single mark upon the top right corner of each tome. Elegant handwriting marked each with the initials ‘OG’…“Are these yours?”

“Mmmm yes” he hummed “That is every notebook, dossier and textbook from my first year here. I’d have gotten my second, third and fourth years too but…having that many books follow me would’ve drove me mad.”

“Why?” She asked flicking through the pages of ‘Charms: a beginners guide to the basics’

“So you can stop worrying about falling behind. You’re a fast learner and a talented witch…you can use these, anytime, to brush up on things you’re not certain about. Or you can compare your notes to mine and see how exceptionally well you’re doing. You need to remember you’re technically a first year. So stop comparing yourself to fifth years. I’ll leave them here for you.”

“Ominis…” she clutched her chest, touched by his consideration. “That’s very sweet of you, Thank you”

He shrugged, summoning multiple blankets and throw cushions around them. If they were going to study, they were going to study right.

“I thought you couldn’t conjure objects inside of Hogwarts?”

“Ah, something I learnt in my third year. There are always exceptions to the rules, Evelyn”

-

Ominis was more intelligent than he let on, despite his moaning about Professor Garlicks’ lack of care or Sebastians’ distracting behaviour in Defence Against the Dark Arts. He had a theoretical knowledge of every possible subject making completing her assignments easy. His Wiggenweld may be rubbish, but he knew the potions origins and how to properly chop dittany better than even Garreth.

They made light work of their shared essays and assignments, and after several hours they decided they worked enough for one day, opting to just, for once, relax.

They leant against each other on their plush picnic blanket, shoulder to shoulder.

Well, shoulder to bicep. Ominis was tall and gangly, there was no way she was ever reaching that high.

Eventually, the fatigue of their long day caught up to them and they settled against each other, Eves head finding it’s way to his shoulder and his cheek found the top of her head.

For a while they were quiet, lulled to a calm and relaxed state by the steady stillness of each others breathing.

The soft tinkling of an enchanted harp sang away somewhere in the clutter of the room. It’s heavenly harmony was interrupted, momentarily, by the distant chime of the bells signalling it was dinner time.

Eve sighed, heavily. And she noticed that no pain shot up her side.

“How are you feeling?” Ominis asked shifting slightly as though he could look at her. No doubt a habit he had picked up to put people at ease.

“Actually? Much better. Those Wiggenwelds worked a treat”

“Can I see?” He leant back fully now, prompting her to remove her head from him. She groaned needily at the movement and earned a wonky smile from Ominis. “Here” he rotated himself and positioned himself directly in front of her “Now this will look…unnerving. But…trust me”

He took his wand off the blanket where they had discarded them earlier in the evening. Almost instantaneously the red glowing tip flared up. She squinted away from it as he pressed his wand closer to her.

“Er…Ominis?”

“Could you guide me to the scar?”

“Yes?” It didn’t mean to come out as a question. But, in her experience, being on the receiving end of a wand, usually ended badly. She wrapped her fingers around his hand, gently pulling it towards her collarbone.

From here, he seemed to gather the information he needed, on his own. The blunt tip of his wand dragged across her skin, the smallest amount of pressure being applied. It was soft and warming and she couldn’t help but close her eyes.

Why was this tingly? Magic?

“This is how I see colour. I’m checking to see if you’re lying to me, like how you lied this morning” he smirked

“Sorry” she mumbled sheepishly

“We agreed no more apologies” he smiled “I understand why you did it” he pulled his wand away discarding it as he had before, seemingly happy with the results of his interrogation. “I don’t agree with what you and Sebastian get up to. Running around the school solving everyone problems. Galavanting off into the Forest…” she opened her mouth to speak but he continued “but I understand why you do it. You’re kind and thoughtful. And it’s why you need to take care of yourself. I can’t stop you running off playing the hero…but I can be here for you when you get back.”

She thought for a second. Everything he said was true. And she didn’t know why. She just wanted to study and explore this new world after she’d been torn from her old one.

It was all getting a bit much.

“Do you ever feel like you’re being pulled away?” She said abruptly letting her thoughts spill out into the real world

“From what?”

“Everything” she laughed “My life. My friends…you. I feel like I’m being pulled down a path I don’t necessarily agree with”

He toyed with the edges of his shirt, fighting with himself. He reached over to her, tentatively, and took her hand in his.

“You won’t be pulled from me…I won’t allow it”

Masterlist

[myfavouritelunatic]

To Feast Of Her Light

It's day two of Hellbrand and Ghouladriel Week aka Hellghoul Week!

Out of today's prompts, I chose... 'Hunger'.

Any excuse to write Vampire!Sauron 😈 Hope you all enjoy!

Totally thinking about writing an extended version of this at some point.

🖤🩸🗡️🧛🗡️🩸🖤

Sauron had never known such hunger, such ache as when he gazed upon Galadriel. A need he feared could not be sated coursed through every part of him. She consumed his every thought so therefore he should be allowed to consume her.

The elf did not know she was being watched as she sat by her crackling fire, her body illuminated by more than flames. As if she was lit from within, like the very stars were set underneath her skin. Galadriel glowed, beauteous and luminescent.

It was this light Sauron craved most of all, the part of her he wanted to take for his own. What power she held and how it might strengthen him to have her by his side… what greatness they would achieve together. Long had he been watching this elf, his desires ever growing, his obsession all encompassing.

For all the things he feared not in this wide world, Galadriel had become the sole possessor of his dread. He wanted her to come willingly. He wanted her to submit without force. He wanted the choice to be hers. It would make it all the more satisfying to hear her say ‘yes’, but it was likely that to get what he wanted, he would have to use her fear, and his.

Becoming that creature of the night.

Sauron encroached as a shadow towards her, the elf startled at the sensation of his presence. “Who goes there?” She barked, holding a dagger aloft, not seeing him but knowing he was close. “I mean you no harm, Galadriel of the Noldor…” He spoke to her mind first, using a kind voice to allay her panic. “I come to seek an alliance.” “Who are you and why do you need me?”

“I have foreseen the darkness to come… and I know it to be true… you at my side… we shall stop the Shadow that threatens to darken and cover all the world…” “Are you not that Shadow then? For that is all that covers me now.” At these words, the shadow became flesh, appearing to Galadriel in a form so fair, he saw her eyes soften in an instant. “I told you… I mean you no harm.” Sauron pleaded now, still on the route of placating the elf into submission.

“A being that can shift shape is capable of great harm… whether they mean it or not.” Galadriel countered him, causing a smile to shine briefly on his face. He felt her pulse quicken. Sauron crept towards where she sat, needing to be as close as he could. If only to feed on what he could of the light that sprang forth from her. A beacon of power. Much to his pleasure, Galadriel did not move away.

“Can you not feel what lingers in the air between us, Galadriel? Ours is no chance meeting. Surely you see that. Otherwise you would have cast me out by now.” “Only because I want to know one thing.” “Yes?” With a small and bitter smirk, Galadriel raised the dagger to his throat. “Why didn’t you answer my first two questions?”

Sauron felt his fear moving within him, but he betrayed nothing to the elf. “If I am to make an alliance with you… surely I should know in whose bed I shall lay before I step into it?” Her choice of words produced a different desire now within him, one that had latched onto him as a consequence of his fixation upon her.

“I have had many names, but you, Galadriel, can call me Halbrand. It would be an honour for me to hear that name from your lips as we… lay in bed together, as you put it.” He finished his words with a devilish smirk. “I only meant–” “I know what it is you meant, elf.” Sauron spoke with a laugh. “Now that you have my name… perhaps you could lower your weapon?” Galadriel continued to hold the blade against him, unable to to be swayed. “I don’t think I shall, for I still do not have your name. Deceiver.”

Sauron’s charming visage faded like the sun sinking below the horizon. He was still fair but not in a way that would please her. This path was only now going to lead to one thing. “I know what lurks in these woods, the stories that have been told. How a Shadow preys upon unsuspecting elves and seeks to lure them with promises of power and victory but bestows only death. I had wondered if I would ever encounter it myself. And here you are.” Galadriel pressed the dagger lightly into his neck, releasing his blood. “It seems that the lurer can so easily be lured themselves.”

Now his fear could not be hidden any longer, it would be unleashed and cause the elf to be consumed by her own. As he consumed her. A dark smile curved upon his face, a weapon itself, and the panic returned to her eyes. Before the next beating of her ageless heart, Sauron pinned Galadriel underneath him on the forest floor, the dagger fallen out of her hand and out of her reach.

The elf watched, her piercing eyes wide as he shifted again before her, from the form of a man to the form of a beast. A vampire with slitted eyes and pointed fangs bared ready to take her. Sauron laughed low and sinister, already smelling the blood in her veins. His hunger overriding his fear of what he had become. “Tell me your name…” Galadriel uttered, petrified of the answer. “Oh my precious, Galadriel… you already know it.” Sauron’s laugh tickled her neck as his fangs sank deep and her blood pooled in his mouth.

Her light… he would finally have it.

🖤🩸🗡️🧛🗡️🩸🖤

Tagging: @hellghoulweek @pursuitseternal @heronamedhawks @gil-galadhwen @theriverwild @klynnvakarian @scriberated @thrillofhope @youwearfinethingswellwriter @jhalya @rebelrebelwrites @coraleethroughthelookingglass @somebirdortheother @ichabodjane @marimosalad @hazelmaines @tmwillson3 @hikarielizabethbloom

[justshipit]

Is sebaciel canon yet? countdown starts

Day 1

Day 2 (11/18/22)

‘I gaze at you, not out of fear, but out of emotions I can't phantom. You make me feel like I'm about to drown and sour up in the sky.’

Day 3 (11/19/22)

“I'll drag you down to the deepest darkness, until all you could scream was the name you bestowed upon me, young master Ciel.”

“And then I'll hold you tightly and never let you go.”

Day 4: (11/20/2022)

“I'll be your butler until the end, my lord.”

© Yana Toboso

Day 5 (11/21/22)

“I'll exist with you, until the end.”

© Yana Toboso

Edit © Miyuki

Day 6 (11/22/22)

“He ordered me to stay with him until the very end, I'm here to fulfill it” said the demon, capable of devouring the tiny human, yet for some reason unwilling to let go of the years of memories they've formed together.

~~

Day 7 (11/23/22)

“I've never bothered with humans before, but him...” Deep sigh, “He's an exception, he plays games.”

“And I, happen to enjoy the chase.” Sebastian smirked.

~~

Day 8 (11/24/22)

There are days when their dynamic falls short and Ciel needs space from his butler. On the same days, Sebastian looks more humane and confused about why his special human ignores him.

~~

Day 9 (11/25/22)

Inspired by art

“Our love is not perfect, but I wouldn't want it any other way or with anyone else, my heart and soul , you own it, Sebastian.”

~~

Day 10 (11/26/22)

“You and I, bocchan”

Day 11 (11/27/22)

“What I want for us, Sebastian”

~~

Day 12 (11/28/22)

inspired by gif

“I look at you when you're not looking at me in a way that makes my toes curl with desire.”

~~

Day 13 (11/29/22)

Inspired by this

“I like you in a dress.”

“Are you mocking me, Sebastian?”

“It's a compliment, bocchan~”

~~

Day 14 (11/30/22)

Inspired by art and headcanon

“Our love was meant to end in a tragedy, but I wouldn't let that separate me from you, bocchan.”

~~

Day 15 (12/1/22)

“With the winter season rolling in, I get to dress up my young master in the warmest clothes, like a soft sushi roll.” sighs the demon with a flicker of what one could only assume is a fond visage.

~~

Day 16 (12/2/22)

Inspired by Hc

“I will taste you slowly, savouring you.”

~~

Day 17 (12/3/22)

Art

“My little prince!”

~~

Day 18 (12/4/22)

Art

“Young master, I'll follow you everywhere.”

~~

Day 19 (12/5/22)

“There are days when bocchan is out of reach, I cannot understand him, at times like these I feel like someone is pushing their 🤜 through my chest? Strange” - Sebastian when Ciel is upset and sulking.

~~

Day 20 (12/06/22)

Sebastian looks awfully pleased with himself - art

~~

Day 21 (12/07/22)

Sebastian's taste in dessert : official art

~~

Day 22 (12/08/22)

Sebastian finds Ciel's cheeks cute and squeezable (Canon and source is Yana herself)

~~

Day 23 (12/09/22)

Our almost kisses

~~

Day 24 (12/10/22)

Sebastian grieves in his own ways

~~

Day 25 (12/11/22)

Art with obvious sebaciel romantic undertones

~~

Day 26 (12/12/22)

Desires are pellucid in your electric blue eyes, bocchan (art)

~~

Day 27 (12/12/22)

The apathetic demon's eyes shimmer with longing as heavy ruby eyes gently trace the sleeping master's translucent countenance.

art

~~

Day 28 (12/13/22)

I couldn't touch the one I love with the tenderness he deserves

art

~~

Day 29 (12/14/22)

It's young master's birthday, I spent the whole night planning on all of his favorite dishes and prepared a feast and party for him, will he be happy and smile today? - wonders the demon butler

~~

Day 30 (12/15/22)

Bocchan enjoyed the party even if he doesn't want to admit it, I feel something different, exhilarating that I made someone happy? maybe it's the contract - Sebastian wondered

~~

Day 31 (12/16/22)

Young master is having nightmares, I used to enjoy seeing my previous master's in peril agony, but not anymore, why is there a thorn stuck to my non-existing heart when I see him writhe in pain? - Sebastian frowned

[iggydabirdkid]

Almost done! This is my 5th drawing for Pride Month! 

When The Passenger was still just the demo version I must have played it 100 times over. I just love the whole concept of the game, and anything with Eldritch Horror like themes is just my sort of thing.

So here’s a little something I did for my MC Amara Newman and her love Fiama Brandle.

 +++++

I think I could do this forever

You wake up first of course. You always do. You don’t need much sleep, at least that’s what you tell yourself even when you constantly yawn halfway through the day. You open your eyes to the pale ceiling above you only visible thanks to the moonlight coming in through the window opposite the bed. Still dark. Too early. You let out a sigh and slowly sit up, being careful not to wake the sleeping form to your right. She’s facing you and you smile as you look upon her face, so serene when she’s asleep and you quickly slip out without disturbing her. Bare feet hit cold ground and you shiver as you look around for your pair of slippers, finding them finally half-hidden under the bed. You stretch, yawn, and tie your hair half up before you pad from the room.

Your stomach growls at you and so you head into the kitchen to grab something to eat and you spy the clock along the way. Ah. Not too early then. Just up before the sun, which, is not uncommon. If you were at your mom’s you’d probably have gone back to sleep to save yourself from the potential outcome of being asked question you couldn’t, and didn’t want to answer. But here? At Fiama’s? You don’t have to hide anything from her or Bruno. Not anymore. You allow yourself a smile as you open the door to the fridge and bend over to take a gander at its contents. You know for certain that there’s some leftover spaghetti in here, and you’re sure Fiama won’t mind if some of it goes missing…

“Amara?”

The flash of the kitchen light turning on and the tiny voice behind you takes you by surprise and you jump, smacking your head on the fridge and hissing out a quiet curse before pulling back and turning around.

“Kiddo!” you laugh as you rub the back of your head, “Did I wake you?” You ask to which he shakes his head.

“I was already awake. What are you doing?” he asks.

“Getting some food,” you turn back around, grab the bowl of spaghetti, and shut the fridge, “Want some?” you grin as you shake the bowl. You see his eyes light up and you chuckle, “Alright, go sit down and I’ll make you a plate. But be quiet!” you tell him as he scampers off, “We don’t want to wake your mom!”

-----

You sit at the table with only the light from the kitchen to illuminate your night time feast. You watch Bruno stuff his face as you readily enjoy your own meal and the only reason you aren’t actively shoveling it into your mouth as fast as you can was that you promised Fiama you’d try to teach Bruno some manners. Be a respectable role model. Well, as much as you can be anyways. And as you watch Bruno enjoying his meal you think you could just about do this forever, be a part of something like this. It wasn’t something you ever thought you would want but emotions can be fickle (as you have come to find out), and now you can’t see yourself continuing this life any other way.

Bruno must be able to sense you staring because he looks up at you and you wonder if he would be happy with you around for him as he grows. The answer comes to you as transparent visages split left and right of him and as his mouth stretches into a wide, food-filled grin, those to the left of him grin at you also. You shake your head, the images fading and you chuckle.

“Nobody likes see-food,” you tell him and he frowns.

“Sea food?” he questions. You grin and spoon some spaghetti into your mouth before opening and sticking your tongue out.

“See? Food!” He laughs at that, food spraying from his mouth and you have to lean to the side to avoid getting any on yourself. You watch as he claps his hands over his mouth and looks up at you. You swallow your food and snort a laugh but then you realize he’s not looking at you, but past you. You freeze and tense up, your shoulders bunching up to your ears as you slowly turn in your seat to see Fiama standing in the doorway.

“You two enjoying yourselves?” she crosses her arms over her chest and quirks an eyebrow as she looks at Bruno before finally settling her eyes on you.

“We were hungry?” you shrug and give a sheepish smile and she shakes her head as she laughs softly and walks to Bruno’s side.

“C’mon kid, lets get you back to bed. And you,” she turns her head to look at you as Bruno hops down from his seat, “Make sure you get all the spaghetti from the table okay?”

“Yes Ma’am,” you grin as you push your chair back and get to your feet. You lean in to give her a quick kiss on the cheek and then you head back into the kitchen to grab a cloth.

+++++

“Sorry about eating all the spaghetti.” You murmur into Fiama’s hair as you lay together in bed a while later. The sun is up now, its light bathing the room in a soft golden glow. She laughs and snuggles up closer to you. You half sit up to wrap your arms around her and pull her close into your chest.

“That just means you’ll have to help me make more,” she replies and you smile as you lean back and look out the window.

“I’ll be happy to.” You give her a brief squeeze and feel her grab one of your wrists and gently wrap her fingers around your skin.

“I know you would baby.”

You both lapse in a comfortable silence and the warmth of the encroaching day threatens to lull you back to sleep. But a thought is stuck in your head, one that’s been there for a while but stirred more into awareness since you woke up this morning.

“Fiama?” You’re uncharacteristically hesitant and you know she hears it as she tilts her head to look up at you with a slight crease in her brow.

“Amara?”

“I was thinking…” You trail off a little, unsure of how exactly to word what you’re thinking, “I feel like I could do this forever. Being here with you and Bruno, being a part of this small family and I… I want to make it more official. As much as we can do and I know I’m not great with words or feelings but this here? Here and now? It feels good. It feels safe.”

You see her eyes water and for a moment your stomach drops and you think you’ve said something wrong before her mouth splits into a grin and her grip on your arms tightens.

“Amara Newman,” you hear the waver in her voice as she wipes the tears from her eyes, “I would love nothing more.”

“Good.”

You’re smiling now as well as you bend slightly to kiss her on the forehead before you wrap your arms tighter around her and lean back against the headboard.

“Good.”

[eelnoise]

upon crimson wings

zoro x afab reader

cw: blood (slight bloodplay), religious terms, implied body worship, a little steamy at the end but generally SFW

a/n: continuing my current zoro obsession with this fic that i couldn't get out of my head (sorry). also messing with formatting this time instead of being lazy

Zoro was not a religious man. No, he found the very notion of reverence visceral. Though as he turns back toward you, both having emerged victorious after a merciless assault from a group of marines, he's met with a heavenly scene.

You're facing away from him, surrounded by the wages of spilled blood that pooled beneath your feet, the remnants of singing steel permeates the now hallowed ground upon which you both stand. There was a certain beauty in chaos, and never had Zoro felt it quite as clearly as when he watches you tear into your foes with reckless abandon. The image makes him shiver - not in fear or revulsion, but at something far more primal, deep within his gut.

He's speechless as he observes you wiping the excess carnage from your blade and his eyes widen in delight at the sight before him, his attention fixated on your divine form. It was truly beautiful - a stunning vision that he couldn't have even dreamed up.

"I'd say we took care of that little rat problem." Your words are heavy with pride and exertion, and the sound ignites a fire within his veins.

And when you turn to him, visage tattered and torn and splattered in crimson, his mouth goes dry. You're immaculate, and for once in his life, Zoro is fighting the urge to exalt, to sing praise, to deify you.

A low rumble escapes Zoro's lips as he continues to stare like a starved man would stare at a feast. He's seen you wield that blade countless times, but never have you looked as divine as you did right now, standing amid a symphony of steel and blood. You're right, the two of you could handle these rats with ease, but the more pressing matter was the effect you were currently having on his heart. Zoro takes a step forward, taking in the vision of your face, bloodied but not conquered.

You peer curiously at him as you sheath your sword, taking note of the lack of a usual snarky reply to your words. "Zoro?"

His eye flickers to yours, lips slightly parted in awe. You were a muse that had descended to grace him with your presence, and any words he tried to muster died in his throat. "Yeah?" He manages to ask quietly, his voice a raspy, barely audible whisper.

It dawns on you then - exactly what he's thinking.

He wants you.

Your war-torn, bloodthirsty appearance had overwhelmed Zoro, and it was clear in his gaze. Your lips twist into a devious smirk, keen on taking advantage of this rare opportunity of power you've been given over him. You know exactly how to proceed, and you do something he doesn't expect, something that has his nails digging into his palms.

You lick blood from your lips.

Blood runs cold beneath Zoro's skin, a primal, raw emotion fills his mind with urges he cannot fight. Ever a man of action over words, and before you can react, he's upon you. Large, calloused hands envelop your waist his lips were on yours in a starved, feverish kiss. The metallic tang of blood only spurs him further into devoted bliss.

You writhe in his grasp as he leaves your lips to trail his tongue down your cheek and onto your neck. He's fully prepared to kneel at your altar, to partake of and rejoice in each beautiful proverb that falls from your sweet tongue, to bathe in every hymn you bestow.

Zoro was not a religious man, but he was ready to worship you.

[darkchocolatecoffin]

HELLFIRE/HEAVEN'S GATE | Judge Claude Frollo

🕯️˖⁺‧₊ "Claudette" Frollo partially introduced turning to face the man "My daughter."

╔═════☩══ ♱ ══☩═════╗

The City of Paris was bustling about in excitement. Schools were closed for the day, shops closed early, and all cleaning and chores were to be put aside for the day to follow (much to the children's satisfaction). Men and women of all ages accompanied the streets in multicolored garments. Some were amplified with delicate jewels and feathers while others were more modest, meaning to represent a fool or dummy. It was easy to assume that just about everyone was exhilarated by what was to come in the next hour. January Sixth was a day of celebration in Paris, a day where regulations were suspended, and people were granted the freedom to let loose.

It was a day that for once the people of Paris were not divided by their backgrounds but instead were united by the feast. The Feast of Fools was an unofficial day of celebration, but its continued success had made it a permanent fixture on the Parisian calendar, so much so that Public officials were expected to attend, much to the dismay of a certain Judge. 

As you make your way through the quaint streets of Paris, you’ll be met with a shift in the air. The sweet aroma of freshly baked goods gives way to a haunting breeze that sends shivers down your spine. The Sunny embrace that once kept hold of the city is replaced by the chill of an eerie musk that hung heavy in the air. Perfectly placed within the center of this part of town was a gloomy building 'The Palace of Justice' The Gothic architecture stood out promptly creating a devastating display. This was where Judge Claude Frollo resided. A man who was known for his high value of religion, he held himself above the city for he only ever saw sin in everything and everyone, save for himself. He had no tolerance for anything but, excellence, even his own blood was not exempt from his rigorous standards. She accompanied him to the Church Sessions held in The Bell Tower, where he subjected her to his unbending moral principles.

Claudette Frollo

Claudette was often left alone in the confines of the Palace, aside from the ever-watchful guards who patrolled the grounds. Her father, Claude Frollo, would depart daily without a word of explanation, leaving Claudette to ruminate on his mysterious whereabouts. One possibility that lingered was the idea of him having a confidential lover, which, if true, would be a betrayal of everything her father—and by extension, she herself—had stood for.

It was a day like any other, a morning that began with the familiar tolling of the bell. Frollo had made his departure, leaving Claudette with the solemn task of maintaining the building's pristine condition. It was a duty that was bestowed upon her as the woman of the household, and she accepted it willingly. She never complained about the menial tasks that were required of her; the Bible had instructed her that she was to follow her father’s word.

6:1—Children, obey your parents because you belong to the Lord, for this is the right thing to do.

The front door opened allowing a dark and intimidating figure to step inside. The man's visage was stark and angular, with high cheekbones and a sharp jaw. His eye sockets were deeply set and shadowed with dark circles. His nose was long, and hooked at the end, with narrow, downward-turning brows over his equally sharp eyes.

"Father, How was your trip?"

As Frollo crossed the threshold, Claudette welcomed him, stepping forward to gingerly remove his hat and rest it upon a velvet silk sheet placed on a shelf.

"Fine."

Frollo spoke slowly, examining the home from where he stood. His slender fingers, decorated with intricate bands of jewel-encrusted rings, glided along the edge of a wood-furnished bookshelf, pulling them back to inspect momentarily. He finally rested his empty basket on the table as though it were the most precious object in the world. Claudette instinctively bowed her head, feeling small in his presence.

"...May I ask you something?"

Claudette spoke, breaking the tender silence. He gave her a half-sided glance acknowledging her.

"Today is January Sixth..."

"And?”

 Frollo pressed 

"And every year you have me stay here at the Palace while you attend...The Festival"

Getting these words out was a difficult task in itself but to see her Father already so displeased with the conversation at hand made Claudette feel unsure if she should continue, nonetheless, she pushed forward.

"Seeing as I'm no longer a child I feel that I may be able to handle going to something like this."

"Claudette."

His voice was unsmiling and grim

"I attend this-Feast of Fools every year because I am a public official. But I do not enjoy a moment of it. The sinful activities of these Gypsies are being paraded around and everyone sits there and commemorates it."

Frollo’s hand drifted towards Claudette’s face, his long fingers wrapping around her cheek and drawing her closer. Her heart raced with fearful anticipation as his gaze intensified. She swallowed the lump in her throat and tried to speak, but her words were caught in her throat, strangling her like a suffocating noose.

"I don't want to see you be engulfed in that." 

His words seemed as though they were supposed to be charitable but they came out in such a demeaning way it was hard to differ. Ultimately Claudette chose the latter, she knew furthering the conversation would be senseless. 

"Yes Sir"

Frollo clasped his hands together admiring his child. He did this often, though the gesture was rarely accompanied by words, leaving Claudette feeling uneasy. It could be the fact that Claude was fueled by the memories of his deceased wife, who he saw reflected in Claudette’s features.

"We have company arriving...I want you to look presentable, have yourself ready."

As Frollo’s words trailed off, he set off into the dark, his form disappearing into the depths of the dimly lit dungeon. Claudette didn’t hate her father, she couldn’t, but there were moments when she wished things were different, that their relationship wasn’t so strained and distant.

As Claudette gazed out the window of her bedroom, a serene sense of calm washed over her. She admired the bustling city daily, guards on patrol, children making their way to school, bakers and fishermen prepping in the early hours, the way of life going about as it was. Her isolation within her bedroom was her sanctuary. 

But being alone was far from unusual for Claudette, ever since she was a little girl, she was forced to rely on herself. Her memories of her mother were nothing more than hazy recollections, making it impossible to form a clear image of her face. She had to question, how her mother, in all her grace, came to fall in love with Judge Claude Frollo? She couldn’t imagine any romantic gestures coming from him, as cold and distant as he was. Was it possible that, before her birth, he was a different man? Was she the reason for his change?

Her earliest memories with Frollo included being forced to recite Bible verses at the dining table as her father read alongside her, correcting her punctuation. It was instilled in Claudette's mind at such a young age that religion was the singular most important thing in life, and she was made to understand that any deviation, however slight, would result in her spending eternity in the fiery pits of hell.  Hours spent kneeling in the church, hands clasped around her rosary, would sometimes leave Claudette's body weak and trembling, accompanied by whispers of apologies and pleas for forgiveness, The sight of her suffering caused the Archdeacon's heart to ache. Her desperate attempts at salvation never seemed to ease the guilt that gnawed at her, leaving her to lay awake in bed with her mind spiraling into ever-deepening thoughts.

Claudette's dress was a rich ebony shade, its dark and midnight hues forming a contrast to her pale skin, which bore a striking resemblance to her father's bloodless complexion. The decorative lining along the flare complimented the lace undersleeves that neatly hooked over Claudette’s middle finger.  Her raven-black hair was styled into a French roll, with subtle strands falling into her face, softening her sharp features, which shared qualities with her father, including his hooked nose and vampiric skin, yet her eyes were soft and kind, her lips heart-shaped like her mother's had been.

Claudette stepped out of the sanctuary of her room, her arms naturally assumed a position of concealment, tucked away in front of her as she strode down the hall. The dark and foreboding ambiance of the building instantly took her over the moment she left her bedroom. The distant sound of voices moved her focus when she attained the end of the stairwell. Her father ascended from the dusk hallway, and behind him was a soldier. His gleaming armor, the golden hues of which illuminated the room. He was handsome.

“Claudette”

Frollo partially introduced turning to face the man

“My daughter.”

The man nodded his head acknowledging Claudette, and was swiftly followed by a warm and affectionate smile that illuminated his chiseled features. His blonde hair was neatly coiffed, with a small goatee neatly trimmed below his mouth. He had a pair of deep blue eyes that mirrored the hue of the cape that adorned his muscular build.

“It’s nice to meet you, Claudette. My name is Phoebus…means Sun God”

 Phoebus tried to ease the tension he picked up on with playful banner.

 “I hope we will come to get to know each other better during my time here”

Frollo marked the interaction under a dingy gaze. He sighed about to dismiss the interaction between the two but Claudette spoke.

“It’s nice to meet you too…Phoebus”

 She smiled trying out his name

 “I’m sure we will cross paths”

Frollo cast a gaze upon Claudette that only she was able to pick up on. She moved her gaze away and down into her folded hands while Frollo stepped past her. 

“We should leave. I’d hate to arrive while they are scampering around making a mess of-”

“Are you going to the festival?”

There was silence.

Frollo turned to face Claudette his watch hard and unforgiving, as though daring her to offer any sort of explanation for her untimely interruption. Claudette realized her mistake. As she frantically searched for a suitable apology, Phoebus intervened for a rescue. Having spent enough time around her father, he could see that Frollo was a man who possessed little to no compassion for anyone other than himself. He could only imagine how he must have been as a father, with such a lack of empathy towards the world and those around him. 

“We are. Will you be joining us?”

He invited

Claudette’s eyes flickered. While she desperately desired to attend, she had been shut out by her father, who offered little more than a stern refusal and an abrupt dismissal. She couldn't help but feel hopeless, for she realized that there was unlikely any chance that her father would change his mind

“You yourself are a public official no? I’m sure the people would love to see you attend with your father.”

Claudette looked at her father while he held his tongue planning out a response. If looks could murder. 

“I’m sure Claudette wouldn't want to be wrapped up in such defilement. It’s not the place for a woman such as herself.”

“I think it will be a nice experience…even if it is only a one-time attendance.”

Frollo's gaze was dark. If it were just them two alone in the room surely what was to come would have gone very differently. He nodded his body forward, his hands clasped together as he delivered a deceptive smile, willing to make the concession to grant her wish to attend the festival. 

“Very well…if it is the Festival you wish to attend…”

 Claudette found herself both elated and appalled at this prospect, for she was all too aware of the potential repercussions that might follow. Nonetheless, she felt resolved to face any punishment that might come her way, so long as she could attain the opportunity to experience the festival. Frollo turned to depart, trailing behind him the heavy weight of ill will that he held towards Claudette at that moment.

“Come along”

Claudette locked eyes with Phoebus, grateful for how he had stepped in to aid the situation. With her father leading the way, Claudette followed, her heart was filled with a sense of warmth and excitement, knowing that she would be able to attend the festival and experience everything she had dreamed it would be.

[ossiwolf]

Lannister's Lost Love

The grand halls of Casterly Rock resounded with the harmonious symphony of clinking cutlery and the gentle hum of conversations as the illustrious Lannister family gathered for their customary evening repast. Lord Tywin Lannister, his countenance stoic and impenetrable, occupied the seat at the head of the table, his commanding presence a testament to his unwavering authority. Flanking him on either side were his cherished grandchildren, Myrcella and Tommen, now matured into inquisitive young adults, their minds brimming with the captivating tales of their ancestral lineage. Cersei, Jaime, and Tyrion sat further down the table, enamored in their own exchanges. Thankfully, for Myrcella and Tommen, Joffrey had chosen to stay in King's Landing under their father, King Robert's care.

As the opulent feast unfolded, Tommen, his youthful innocence radiating from his emerald eyes, cast a sidelong glance at his grandfather, summoning the courage to delve into uncharted territory. "Grandfather," he began, his voice laced with a tinge of trepidation, "may I inquire about something?"

One elegant eyebrow arched in response, Tywin's penetrating gaze fixating on the young prince. "Certainly, Tommen. Speak your mind."

Drawing in a deep breath, Tommen's words cascaded forth in a torrent. "What befell Princess Visenya, Grandfather? You were there, before and during the Rebellion... Was she slain in the battle for the Red Keep? I saw her name on a tapestry but so much was lost..."

A momentary pause hung in the air, as though time itself stood still. Cersei, seated nearby, exchanged a startled glance with Jaime, their eyes widening in surprise. The subject of Visenya had seldom been broached in their presence, a tacit agreement forged among them to inter the anguish of her absence deep within their souls. In order to protect their father, and their own hearts, nearly all records of the Targaryean Princess had been hidden or destroyed.

Tywin's visage remained unyielding, concealing the tumult that surged within him. Composing himself, he sought an explanation that eluded him. "Visenya... She was compelled to return to her father, King Aerys," he responded, his voice measured. "The circumstances surrounding her departure were... complex."

"But... why was she not with him to begin with? Was she fighting like her ancestor, The Warrior Queen?" Tommen's eyes lit up at the idea of a Warrior Queen. The boy had always been delighted and idealistic about tales of Knights and Dragon Queens. He did not notice his uncle Tyrion wince slightly at the question, his small hands tightening around the cutlery.

"No. She was married to your grandfather, Sweetling." It is Cersei's voice that breaks the tension, her tone holding a modicum of frost as she attempts to control her emotions.

Myrcella, her youthful spirit ablaze with curiosity, pressed onward. "But why, Grandfather? What befell her afterward? Did she ever find her way back to us?"

A flicker of vulnerability danced across Tywin's steely gaze, unveiling the depths of his emotions. He shook his head slightly. "I do not know, Myrcella. After the war, she vanished. I have scoured the realms in search of her, but the winds have borne her secrets far beyond my grasp."

Silence descended upon the table, laden with unspoken sentiments. Jaime and Cersei exchanged glances, their eyes filled with a mixture of grief and astonishment. Their father's admission shattered the facade of invincibility they had woven around him, exposing the unhealed wounds that time had failed to mend.

Tommen's voice broke the stillness, tinged with a profound melancholy. "I yearn to meet her, Grandfather. I yearn to have known her, to have experienced her presence within our family."

Tywin's gaze softened as he beheld his grandchildren, glimpsing the ethereal essence of Visenya flickering within their eyes. A pang of regret flickered across his countenance, lamenting the loss they all shared. "I share your sentiments, dear Tommen. Yet, some things lie beyond our control, and the capricious winds of destiny steer us toward divergent shores."

The weight of unvoiced longing permeated the air, an unspoken tribute to the woman who had touched their lives and left an indelible imprint upon their hearts. In that profound moment, the Lannister family, bound by their shared yearning, found solace in their collective sorrow.

And as the echoes of their conversation dissipated into the expansive halls of Casterly Rock, the memory of Princess Visenya Targaryen, lost but never forgotten, became interwoven into the fabric of their legacy—a poignant reminder of love's fragility and the enduring power of familial bonds.

***

It was late into the night when Tywin stood in front of his fireplace. It burned hot in the Lord of Casterly Rock's chambers every night for almost twenty years. His emerald eyes shine with shades of black and gold reflecting in their pools.

The dragon egg has lain in the flames since his wedding night. Any chance of it hatching died with his love but he keeps it. His secret reminder of his lost love.

[kriz-fics]

The Sword’s Legacy

Series Summary: As the heir of your father's lands, you have grown up knowing that one day you must wed to your House's advantage, and there's no better catch than the younger son of the Magister himself. Meanwhile tensions within the king's court are set to come to a head at any moment - it just needs that spark to send everything ablaze. Now in a court more dangerous than the one you entered, you find distraction and joy in the company of the beautiful boy with the beautiful eyes. You can only hope to weather the storm you can sense brewing in the horizon.

Masterlist

Chapter Twelve: Blood and Knights

Pairing: Eren Jaeger x Female Reader

Genre: Royalty AU, Historical Fantasy AU, Romance, Politics, Warfare, Eventual Smut (future chapters)

Length: 8.5K

CW: Graphic violence, YN being horny (not graphic, unfortunately. Not yet, at least ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°) )

Tut-tut, it looks like rain.

The fact of which does not please the more uppity lords, Eren observes, eyes flickering from one delicate man to the next and trying not to let his disdain bleed into his features. That little mouse of a man, Anton Taran, looks as skittish as the pest he resembles; the Procurator’s small watery eyes dart to the sky above and back to the orating king, hands behind his back and bouncing ever so lightly on his heels, eager to scamper into his nice and dry hole before the sky breaks. Proctor Nick is little better standing next to him. The slight curl of his lip and the way those deep-set eyes sweep out across the grounds and into the gray above gives away his sentiments about the weather. Near the center of the line of councilmen Willy Tybur stands beside Lord Grisha, mouth set in a thin line as he looks upon the proceedings with his best approximation of the courtier’s hollow face stamped upon his highbred visage. Like his fellows, he is showing undue interest in the ether and their environs. It cannot have been any plainer that these men are in a tizzy to make an end of things quickly.

It is not as if they don’t have a bloody canopy above their feeble heads. Even the king and his son seem made of sterner stuff. The Prince of Crownglen Urklyn Reiss is standing upon the covered stage at the center of the newly rebuilt village, grave and regal, as his father Rod Reiss I holds forth at the front of the platform. The royal pair does not give two shits about the weather, which is more than can be said for their prickly underlings. 

What is a little rain upon their noble bodies? It is only water.

Eren shifts a little in his place within the squires’ row, the weight of plate and mail upon his person a familiar load, comforting even. He and his peers are standing below the stage to the right, close enough at hand to their masters should they have the unfortunate need to be squired for that day. The masters, barring the Lord Commander, are standing below the stage to the front, a forbidding barrier between the highborn and the low.

The royal pair, the Conclave, the lords Skaryn and Halkin, and the guards -  the Royal Guard among them - are the only ones of the court in attendance at the royal pardon. The rest of the nobility are at Merrydell, awaiting their coming so they may feast and celebrate the end of the Northern Matter beneath the Skaryns’ roof in the company of those who have been pardoned.

Mossreach is unrecognizable from the desolation it had been half a year ago. The burnt-out husks and the dead buried beneath snow and crows have been cleared away. Banners of a dozen colors flutter everywhere, green and red, maroon and white, purple, purple most of all from the royal standards flying the royal sigil: the head of the Founding Titan, with its purple eyes large and haunting and flaring, upon a purple field. The cottages that litter the sward are freshly-thatched and new-made, the land green and lush and unburnt. Even its people have been restored.

The king’s speech washes over Eren, something about the Mother’s mercy and the Father’s forgiveness and what other diplomatic tripe his Heralds have taught him to say to appease his malcontent masses.

Which is all well and good, for these ones. The cleared-away dead will beg to differ, their living kin more so. But as they have been banished to their true homes in the Midlands, they can hardly raise a hue and cry. Not that they truly can. Whatever hues and cries they may have raised have fallen on deaf ears, as the grievances of their northern foemen had fallen on deaf ears at the start of all of this.

And thus do the tables turn. So much for the Father’s justice. Rows of northmen face the platform, eyes trained on their king. Some are tall, some are short, some young, some old, some slight and some stout, yet somehow, they all look the same in Eren’s eyes. It is the hardness in their bearing, the hardness of the North, the same hardness he sees in Robert the Lawyer, who is standing beside the Crown Prince with that proud mien blazing like his red robes. Even their elderly, their women, and their children have traces of it, Eren can see as he watches them stand at the fringes of it all, every bit as stony as their men. Hard lands breed a hard folk. 

Admiration rises in him, despite all. They may have escaped justice for the lives they took so savagely yet there is something laudable about the way they fought for what is theirs by rights. Had the crown set out to crush them at the very onset of their offensive, Eren knows they would be hard-pressed to smash them down. They are the sort of foe he can enjoy pushing against, a foe strong of will and might.

Willy Tybur turns his head a fraction, to look towards the bordering woods for the hundredth time. Eren follows his gaze and looks upon the fount of his greatest shame. He feels his insides shrivel up at the memory but forces himself to hold and keep his eyes fixed on the green. 

Half a year gone and still it will not leave him no matter how much he thinks he has put it behind him. He wonders if he will ever truly be free of it and feels cold. The prospect of carrying that weight for the rest of his life is not an appealing one. I’ll rid myself of it for good and all no matter what it takes. He will know when to stop moving when needs must. Redemption is not beyond him yet.

A shadow stirs within the trees. Eren narrows his eyes, squinting at the treeline. Shades? But shades shine silver…

Ping!

The sky breaks at last, and Eren inwardly scowls as the fat droplets batter his helm, filling his ears to bursting with the endless clangor of ringing steel. He will be deaf by day’s end, like as not, with a splitting headache to boot. He would have removed the helm yet etiquette demands it stays on. This is not the first he’s worn steel in such weather yet he always removes the headpiece when not in active combat; he’d rather suffer the torrent full-on than go mad from that metallic racket.

Dusk seems to fall early today and the loud crashing of the rain upon them all only adds to the din inside his head. The world shrinks to his helm. Ping, ping, ping, ping, ping. So when the men come boiling out of the woods, their war cries one with the storm, Eren can only stare, uncomprehending.

Screams join the discordant symphony, and then madness besets them all.

Bodies are flying everywhere, men, women, and children all a-flutter like a flock of startled pigeons in some park, seeking to evade the oncoming attackers. They need not have bothered with that very convincing display; the raiders give them no more heed than Eren would an ant beneath his feet and flow right through them as water flows through rock.

Battle is joined moments later and there is no more thought, only the ancient animal wisdom of the flesh that tells him to move.

To be still is to die.

And he is moving, running, running toward his master with his sword in hand. A man looms out of the wet like a leviathan from the deep but Eren bulls forward with nary a pause. The outlaw bellows and swings down his hammer; Eren dodges aside, and his blade punches through leather, steel, and flesh. He pulls his sword free, feeling the steel scrape bone, and is moving once more before the corpse can hit the ground. He dispatches a second and a third man in like manner, and at last he is beside his master, guarding his back as a good squire should.

There is no end to them, these leviathans from the deep. Hardly has he cut down one than another will take his place, and the world tapers down to action and reaction, kill or be killed.

It is sometime later - a minute, an hour, a day - when Eren realizes his master is nowhere to be found. The tide of battle has parted them and there are only enemies. He hacks down across the face of a northman hard, and his head dissolves into bits of brain and bone and blood. Another falls beneath his steel, blood spurting from his open throat. And still they come, again and again and again, until somehow they are not.

The brief respite allows Eren time to take stock of his surroundings properly. He has been driven back to the canopied platform where the king had made his speech. He sweeps his gaze around, hardly sparing the scattered corpses around him a second thought, and watches the chaos of battling men amidst falling rain. He is utterly confounded by it all. They laid down their arms and swore never to take them up again. A faint whimper resounds from somewhere close by, and he turns, eyes widening in shock at the sight of the king huddling beneath the covered stage. Why is he still here? Where are the guards? Eren runs to him at once.

“Your Majesty, you have to get out of here!” he calls over the pouring rain and heaves at the royal arm to get him moving. The king looks up at him with terror in his wide blue eyes, but recognition soon follows and he is moving, meek and unresisting as the son of his Magister guides him away from the horror and the savagery.

They have hardly gone a couple of yards when something rams into them, knocking the king and squire off their feet and sending them sprawling in the mud. Eren rolls onto his back, stunned, the taste of rain and mud heavy on his tongue. The force of the charge had wrenched his sword from his hand and sent his helm flying off his head, though he is hardly given time to mourn the loss.

A man is atop him all of a sudden and silver steel gleams bright and deadly at him out of the murky gloom. There is no time for thought or fear. Eren grabs his foeman’s arm with both hands as it falls toward his face, and their lethal struggle commences. The man claws uselessly at one of his gloved hands, trying to pry his fingers open, but Eren holds on the tighter and pushes, straining with gritted teeth. The blade is all he can see, it is the only thing that exists in the world, the blade and its tip sharp as any needle, any razor… and it is coming ever closer no matter how much he pushes, closer and closer to the center of his forehead…

The northman pulls back an arm, his hand closing into a fist. Eren sees and catches the blow one-handed but near pays for it with an eye. The enemy’s blade slips and slices him clean just above his eyebrow, and the left half of his world goes black as blood drips down his eye. 

There is no pain yet the sensation of steel cutting his flesh sends a shock of clarity through him as though he has been doused with ice-cold water. He manages to get a leg beneath the man’s ribs and knees, hard. That shock of clarity lends strength to his limbs, and the outlaw is tossed aside, wheezing. 

Eren does not wait for him to recover. He scrabbles, half-blind, in the mud for his sword, feels relief - sweet, blessed relief - course through him as his fingers brush against something hard and metallic. Footsteps splash behind him and he does not pause to think. He strikes, his sword swinging out in a perfect arc, and his foeman falls back into the mud to rise no more. Eren leaves him there, with half his entrails spilling out onto the watery ground, to search for his king.

He finds him where he first saw him, beneath the wooden scaffolding of the stage. They had not gone very far before the dead man accosted them. “Your Majesty, it’s all right, I can keep you safe,” Eren avows, reaching for his liege. The smell of fear bears toward him and it smells of piss, faint and dampened by the rain yet wholly recognizable, as the king holds onto him with surprising strength. Eren pays it no heed. Piss, shit, blood, and sweat, the soldier learns to tolerate all, even the foulest of stenches. It is the stink of battle, and delicate men with delicate noses do not long survive in the field. The king is well within his rights to piss in terror. 

His Majesty and his acting guard once again make for safer ground, though where that is Eren does not know. Still the rain pours down in ceaseless buckets, and it welds his left eye close. There is as yet no pain but he knows that is not a good thing; he is not even sure the bleeding has stopped entirely. They have to get to safety and soon. For loathe though he is to admit it, something deep, deep down inside him recognizes that he is in no good state to be fighting much longer, with half his vision compromised such as it is. The king will not be harmed under his watch, gods help him.

Men dart around them, friend and foe both, their footsteps churning the red-brown mud into a frothing boil. Eren surveys the gray village as best he can with only one eye, looking for the royal congregation, or better yet a temple so they may claim the right of sanctuary…

The gods are with him, and he almost sinks to his knees in relief at the sight of a temple at the borders of the village - ruined, crumbled, blackened with fire but still a temple, and still well-placed to grant them safety by all the laws of the land.

Pain, red pain erupts up his right arm, and he drops his sword to the muddy ground. An arrow, he thinks with mild surprise as he stares down at the shaft protruding from his armored limb. It had punched through the plate as though it is nothing more than silk. Now where had he seen that before? And since when did they start using arrows? He does not have the chance to ruminate.

An outlaw is before him and his liege once more, axe raised to cleave one or the both of them in two. They are endless and everywhere, these outlaws, like fucking roaches. Distantly, Eren hears what sounds like the king bleat out, “Oh, gods be good,” as Eren shoves his royal person behind him to protect him, uselessly, with his body.

A foot of red-tipped steel bursts from the northman’s mouth like some grotesque tongue. His eyes widen and turn glassy in quick succession, and the axe tumbles from his hands. His pointed tongue retreats from his bloodied maw and his corpse falls to reveal Sir Levi Ackerman. The cycle of relief giving way to tension and back again is turning Eren’s head around, yet he is pleased to see his master all the same.

Sir Levi’s eyes flash from his face toward his injured arm and his mouth tightens. “Get the king to the temple, most of our men have taken sanctuary there. Me and the rest will throw the outlaws back. Go!”

For one mad moment, Eren wants to argue. He can still fight, still hold his own, yet the way his master’s eyes blaze up at him gives him pause. His arm is worse than useless now and better still he is half-blind, he will only get in the way. And he has the king to protect, a king who is in very real peril of being savaged if he insists on continuing the way he is now. His pigheadedness will spill royal blood in his hands, a much more dire consequence than a Lord Commander’s missing arm.

The king will not be harmed under his watch. 

Eren swallows, bites his tongue, and nods jerkily. He stirs the petrified king onward, favoring his right arm, and lets the others put the outlaws to flight.

“Any luck with Halkin and Skaryn?”

His sire sighs, unendingly weary. “I hardly think this is the right time and place to speak of politics.”

But, Father, the weather and my happy domestic affairs hardly make for scintillating conversation. Zeke turns away from the dark world outside the wrought iron window to glance at Lord Grisha in his seat beside the canopied bed. “Well, since we’ve thoroughly exhausted the topic of our dear youngest here, we had as well talk about matters of import.”

Their dear youngest is lying upon his chartered bed, soused in poppy and utterly dead to the world. Yet he lives to see another day, thank the gods, Zeke thinks, watching his little brother sleep and recover his strength. His fever has broken at last, a very promising sign, assures Healer Dmitriy. The youngest Jaeger is well past danger now, and his wounds are healing cleanly.

There had been a scare of festering and the possible loss of a limb yet the Healers worked their craft and they moved beyond that. Fresh poulticed bandages bind Eren’s arm and cover the left side of his brow, the fall of dark hair over his face stark against the white linen. He looks younger, as innocent as he is like to get at this age, more the boy of six of Zeke’s youth and less the young man of sixteen he has quickly grown to be.

In the end, only the scars should remain. And his knighthood. Scars and near-death for that honor, that is how you come into it. Eren will be well-compensated for his leal service.

He is luckier than some, to be sure. Good men were lost that day. “Any word yet on the new Guardsmen?” Zeke persists when his father keeps his peace. Most times silence comes easy between them; sometimes, Zeke even preferrs it so, yet silence of late is an uncomfortable thing. He has somehow tied it to Eren’s state. If they keep quiet, then surely Eren will weaken and pass away into the Fields. His brother must hear their voices, if only so he can have an anchor to the living. Zeke does not know why he insists when Eren is finally out of the weeds. But it is true what they say about habits.

The quiet snaps and pops of the fire are the only things to be heard as Grisha stares at him a moment through his lenses. The light of the flickering hearthflames reflects off the fine Rhoseine glass, only to give way to the green pools beneath. Eren has inherited those eyes, the Jaeger eyes. Zeke is a Fritz through and through, blue and gold and fair. And yet they insist he is his father in gold.

“Some candidates have been chosen,” Lord Grisha says at length. “The squires of two fallen, Bertolt Hoover and Conrad Springer. They are set to replace their former masters. No word yet for the other two replacements but some names have been put forward.”

“Our younger Eren would have jumped at the chance.” Zeke gazes down fondly at his sleeping brother once more. “I’ve always wondered what made him change his mind.”

His father chuckles, a rare sound these days. “I was surprised he reconsidered at all, not that it was such a terrible thing. There are other ways to win honor for himself and his House. Left him open to the marriage market, at least.”

Speak of the marriage market… His little lady will want to know she can visit him at last. Zeke had caught the poor thing hovering around thereabouts near every day since they brought Eren in. It will enliven the lad to see his betrothed. They seem to be sweeter on each other at present, Zeke is pleased to see.

“As to Skaryn and Halkin…” Lord Grisha sighs and rubs his eyes beneath his spectacles. “I’ll continue to lobby for their families. If execution is in the fates of Valko Skaryn and Yuri Halkin, then so be it, but to extend that punishment to their whole lines?” He rubs at his temples, his horror at the thought well and truly palpable. “To their wives and children and brothers and cousins… it is too much. Too much. I cannot let that stand.”

His Majesty had been sore wroth when he had recovered from the terror of his ordeal. The lords Skaryn and Halkin were arrested, accused of treason and attempted regicide. Both have been attainted, stripped of all lands, titles, and incomes, and sentenced to death by beheading. But that is not to be enough for the king. In his wrath, Rod Reiss has declared, in no uncertain terms, his desire to see both men’s lines ended. Every man, woman, and child who bear the name of Skaryn and Halkin shall be expunged. Even those merely married to the name found no mercy. Rod Reiss wants them gone, gone.

Zheletov, too, felt the flames of royal fury. Hundreds of Zhelevic were arrested, those outlaws who did not manage to flee further North. All have been sentenced to hang. Rumor has it that the king means to hang their families as well, to teach the North a sharp lesson in slaughter. Robert of Feyhill, the head of the northern faction and the mind behind all, is to be hanged, drawn, and quartered - a fate reserved for the vilest of traitors. A charge he still vehemently denies even at the rack.

What should have been a moment of festive reconciliation became naught but dross. The court is silent, reeling in the enormity of it all.

“Eren saved his life, he should grant me a boon, at least,” Lord Grisha murmurs, more to himself than to his eldest, who stares at him then at his brother, who lays oblivious to his burgeoning role as leverage and potential savior of the lines of Skaryn and Halkin.

Zeke supposes it is only fitting for his knightly brother. What are knights for but for the saving of innocent lives?

“His fever broke last night, my lady, you can see him at last.”

You have never heard anything sweeter.

“Oh, thank the gods.” You smooth down your crimson dress, making sure all is in order. He has not laid eyes on you for four days, you had best be presentable. And pretty, you must be pretty, a girlish voice whispers, which you hastily tamp down. As if he’ll care overmuch about such matters, not after his ordeal. A silver shield burnished to a mirror sheen is hanging from the wall opposite you. Surreptitiously, you brush back a stray lock that has escaped from your braids. All in order, you think, pleased, as you stare at your somewhat distorted reflection. Some effort will not be amiss, surely.

Healer Dmitriy knocks upon the wooden door to announce himself before opening it and entering. Aly the Cat slips inside at once; distantly, you hear your betrothed utter a pleased exclamation of the creature’s name. You feel your heart thrum faster. Your fingers twine themselves around each other against your fluttering tummy. He sounds well. That is good. 

“My lord, the Lady Rhyzkova is without and wishes to see you,” you hear the young priest say, his voice partly muffled by the half-closed door. The note of excitement in Eren’s voice as he bids the Healer to let you in makes you smile.

It is comfortably warm inside the chamber. A fire crackles merrily in the stone hearth before the canopied bed, inadvisable for a southron summer but perfectly acceptable for a northern one. Two bone-white velvet armchairs are arrayed before the fireplace. A table laden with what looks like the tools of the Healers’ trade - physic, rolls of bandages, and herbs of the medicinal sort - is sitting between the loungers. The brown linen curtains of the tall wrought iron windows are pulled back, illuminating the room with pale, watery sunshine and giving the place an airy countenance.

A green smell, the smell of herbs and plant life, pervades all. You find yourself breathing in deeply as you enter, your first few footsteps tapping lightly on the polished marble floor, yet all vanish as you lay eyes upon your wounded knight. The white hangings on his bed are tied back, revealing his form. He is sitting up, at least, with a wide grin on his bandaged face, his left eye swollen half-shut beneath the poultice. You would not have known he was ailing and lifeless for the better part of four days by his demeanor. Ginger Aly is curled up on his blanketed lap, eyes closed contently as Eren runs languid fingers over his short fur.

Your knight is awake, and smiling at you, and so wonderfully alive.

“How are you feeling?” you murmur as you sit on his bed by his legs. A flash of dark blue cloth sweeps by from the corner of your vision, but you do not pay it heed. Eren and his well-being come first.

He opens his mouth to answer but frowns almost at once. You mirror his expression and are about to ask what is wrong when he speaks. “Everything’s fine, Healer Dima, you may leave us.”

The straw-haired Healer in question freezes in the act of settling himself down upon one of the armchairs in front of the fireplace. Nerves and uncertainty play across his thin features for half a heartbeat before he reaches some sort of resolution and sits down determinedly. “Oh, no, please do not mind me. Someone must needs stay to keep an eye on… your health. Just because your fever has broken doesn’t mean you’re not susceptible to a relapse.”

“Oh, in that case, your presence is a much welcome one indeed, Healer,” you say rapidly, as Eren makes to say something, something undoubtedly rude to judge by the look on his face. He curls his lip at your interruption but subsides once you shake your head at him a little. Let him be.

Healer Dmitriy smiles, relieved. “Very good, my lady. See, you’ll hardly notice I’m here.” He reaches into one voluminous dark blue sleeve and pulls out a small book - a missal of The Light of the Creed, the new faith’s holiest text, you see, catching a glimpse of the twelve-rayed sun of the Creed on the book’s black leather cover. The priest opens the primer and promptly vanishes within its pages.

Of course a godly, dutiful man like him will insist on playing governess, you realize belatedly. It had not occurred to you until you saw him glance from you to Eren with an expression of abject worry. He can hardly leave a young maid alone with a half-naked young man in his chambers.

For the young man is very much half-naked. You feel your mouth go dry as the realization hits you hard. You cannot understand how that detail eluded you. “I see you’ve made a new friend,” you gesture at little Aly on Eren’s lap, a ditch effort to distract yourself, and fail miserably. That only brings further attention to his hard, incredibly ridged stomach. Oh, gods above.

Eren stares down fondly at the cat, oblivious to your ogling. “We only properly met this morning but we’re fast friends now,” he laughs as the ginger tom rises and stretches, then proceeds to rub up against his Healer’s charge, purring loudly. Never have you wanted to trade places with a cat so badly in your entire life.

Suddenly, looking your betrothed in the eye becomes an endeavor of utmost difficulty, not when you want to look elsewhere. You have seen your fair share of half-naked men. Comely men and homely ones, paragons as sculpted as statues and pigs shuffling along like sacks of suet, you have seen them all. You never lack for those in summery Vascalin, where the sight of them is so common as to be unremarkable. But a half-naked Eren is a veritable god to their mere mortal flesh.

You peer up at him from beneath your lashes as Aly occupies his attention for the nonce. He is beautifully well-made. You have always suspected it to be so; some of his tunics show off his shape well, and he oft wears his daily linens with the laces undone, allowing one to get a glimpse of an expansive, defined chest. To see all of that bared before you to prove the truth of your fancies is astounding.

His shoulders, broad and striking, lead down to strong, sinewy arms. The bandage wrapped around the right limb flaunts the roundness of the muscle and stands stark against his tanned skin. A tiny cluster of leech marks speckles the skin beneath his dressings yet they do nothing to diminish the smooth perfection of his limb. His chest is as wide and well-muscled; verily, his torso is a vision, each muscle as sharply etched as though he is cut from stone.

Some other girl is giggling madly deep down inside. You feel like a bitch in heat. The thought near makes the mad laughter bubble up your throat but you quell it quickly. And then you make the singular error of allowing your eyes to follow the sloping trail of chiseled muscle beneath the blankets and almost choke on air. The expected sight of the waist of his pants is nowhere in evidence.

Gods be good, is he naked under there?! 

You squirm and press your legs together on your seat. You cannot have asked for better fodder for your fantasies. Suddenly, you can hear him, hear the deep, sultry cadence of his voice asking you if you will let him sate his lusts with you, feel the hard, chiseled torso press close against you as he leaned down to kiss you… Poxy Duty had robbed you of that kiss. More’s the pity. You wonder what it will feel like, to be trapped beneath that god-like body as freed of clothing as he is now, feel his heat and his skin bound you as you lay below him helpless but to take his lust and his amorous attentions…

Gods help you, lass, the lad is injured and just escaped death by the skin of his teeth. It does not do to entertain such unbecoming ideas. You’re worse than a dockside slut, you admonish yourself as heat courses through your whole body at the turn of your thoughts. There are better things to occupy yourself with than his magnificent body. His health is what matters most.

“Hey.”

You start at the sound of his voice and do not immediately meet his gaze. You hope to all the gods, both old and new, that your face is not a mirror of your desire. That is a discussion that can keep; your priestly governess will be shocked to his soul should he have the slightest inkling of what had flounced through your head these past few moments.

“Hey,” Eren says again, reaching out to lay a hand on your forearm. The touch comes lightly, so very lightly, yet the way it burns is anything but. You meet his eyes at last. “Are you all right? You look strange.” His concerned frown gives way to a reassuring smile. “I’m fine, see, healthy as a horse.” He wrinkles his nose at the idiom, making you giggle. “I’m well past danger now. The wound’s not going to fester, there’s no poison in my blood, I’m fine and whole. You don’t need to worry so much.”

“Thank the gods,” you breathe, instantly snatching at that sentiment. It is not as if you aren’t worried about him, but best have him construe your conflicted expression as concern instead of lust. This is not the time for lust. “Speak of the gods,” you smile down at Aly, who has padded over to you, seeking affection, “you are blessed indeed. Lady Alyrya has been with you this whole time.” Cats are sacred to the Gardener, but none more so than the ginger tabby.

“It’s a nice thought, that-”

“Oh!”

There is a great tug, and your hand flies to your chest as the laces of your bodice come undone. It will seem that Aly is feeling a little too neglected. Or desirous of yarn. You hold the tom fast as you unhook his claws from the crimson cords, your face smarting a little in mortification.

“Oh, dear.” Healer Dmitriy flaps over to the bed, the tips of his prominent ears pink. “A thousand pardons, my lady, it seems he’s in his excitable mood again. I’ll see him out.” He scoops his ginger attendant into his arms and bustles away, threatening the cat with a salmon-less dinner as he does so.

You sigh and tighten your laces once more. Aly had not pulled down far enough for your breasts to spill out from your bodice, thankfully, but that was a near thing. You are more comfortable baring skin than most women north of the Greatshield are, being from the sweltering South, yet you draw the line at exposure in front of two men. Well, perhaps one of them can get a pass. You bite the inside of your lip as you fumble briefly and have to redo the knot all over again.

“You know what they say about certain animals being able to channel people’s wills?” Eren lifts his gaze from your chest to your face. His eyes have darkened a little. Your fingers tighten on your cords. “Nobody can say for sure if that still holds true but it’s an interesting thought.” His legs shift beneath the blankets.

The return of the Healer saves you from having to form a reply. He gives you an apologetic smile and another apology before returning to his seat and his book once more.

“Your hair’s grown longer,” you remark arbitrarily, not quite knowing what to say to your betrothed’s earlier statement. Besides… Your face tingles a little. With the way he looked at you then, you cannot guarantee that your conversation won’t lead to… bawdier pastures. You had never truly touched upon the subject before but something about his demeanor then gives you pause. Best to nip that in the bud. Your governess will not stand for anything remotely suggestive. He will throw you out and forbid you from seeing Eren again for the rest of his confinement, and you cannot have that.

Eren tugs at the ends of his hair, looking at it thoughtfully. “Do you think I should cut it? I haven’t been up to calling on the barber lately…”

“It’s your hair, you’re free to do as you like.” You give him a small smile. “I like it, though. It makes you look-” comelier, “-older, more mature.”

He settles back into his pillows, appearing gratified. “Well, then, I suppose I’ll keep it as it is for the time being.” He gazes at you for a good long while, before his concern reduces his smile into something softer. “You look tired.”

The chuckle that escapes you echoes the sentiment, as though his bringing attention to the fact has drawn four days’ worth of weariness out. You rub a finger at the skin beneath your eye. “Between you and Father and this whole affair, I have been getting no lick of sleep.” You cannot count the hours you had spent in Merrydell’s sanctum, praying and praying and praying for him and your lord father, beseeching the old gods to bless and keep them. You had even visited the nearest temple of the Gardener to offer incense, a candle, and yet more prayers for your betrothed. He belongs to the Creed, perhaps his Lady will be better inclined to protect him should the old gods dismiss your pleas.

Lady Alyrya heard them, at any rate, her and the old gods. Father’s fever was only the chills brought on by the rains and not from a corrupted wound; he had taken a glancing blow from an outlaw’s knife but managed to come out of that debacle otherwise unscathed. He was right as rain after a day or so.

Eren had given you more grief. What time you had outside of prayer was spent hovering anxiously outside these very chambers, hoping you could visit him or at least learn of his condition. Still, you will visit the sanctum and the temple tonight, to give thanks to the gods for granting him further life.

“Ask Healer Dima to give you essence of valerian, it helps a lot,” Eren urges, fretful. He can be a rather fretful character, you have come to find. It only makes him sweeter in your eyes.

“I will at that. Although I’ll be sleeping more soundly tonight regardless.” Because you’re awake and all right and alive. A bowl of apples is sitting upon his bedside dresser. His mother’s key lays beside it, nestled amidst the coils of its leather cord. “Are you hungry?” you ask, gesturing at the fruit.

“Will you feed me if I am? I can barely lift my arm for the pain.” Eren blinks at you all innocent-like. The teasing tilt to his lips ruins the effect, however. From the distance comes the tiniest of coughs.

Your own mouth twitches up in amusement. “If you wish it.”

“I do wish it,” he says firmly, sitting up straight again. “I’m hungry, so hungry, famished, starving-”

“All right, your hunger has been well and truly noted.” You reach for an apple and the paring knife and proceed to cut the fruit. Needlessly, you know. He is not so injured that he cannot feed himself (despite his claims to the contrary). In this, you indulge him. The patient must have his way until he recovers.

A cough resounds from the distance once more, louder this time, as you reach forward to put a slice of apple in your betrothed’s waiting mouth. You both freeze and glance over at the Healer, who is staring at you beadily from above his holy missal. A prick of annoyance simmers within you, but you flash him a placating smile as you move to put more distance between you and Eren. You slip the piece of fruit into your betrothed’s mouth, careful not to let your fingers brush against his lips, those luscious, alluring, enticing lips…

You bite back a giggle as he chews the morsel, looking distinctly bad-tempered. Your fingertips still tingle from the warmth of his breath. “I see you still haven’t put on your mother’s key,” you observe, eyeing the forenamed pendant on the bedside table. His betrothal necklace looks rather lonely without its staunch companion around his neck.

His bad-tempered expression deepens. “He’s a priest, he’s as superstitious as they come. His precious sensibilities won’t stand for blasphemy.” Scorn drips from his voice as he says the word, further amusing you. “You’ll make a better Healer,” he adds, his expression softening as he gleams at you. “You don’t nag as much.”

That is an interesting thought, that. The past few days certainly lent further fodder to your long-held fancies of being a Healer. It is a flimsy whim, a glib thought born from a night of girlish diversion when asked that absurdly preposterous question: what would you be had you not been born into nobility? Your fledgling pastime in the gardens led you to answer as you had.

But perhaps that fledgling can grow into something more. Seeing people you care for hurt and ailing woke something in you, the desire to ease their pain if only but a little. You hope Healer Darya is willing to take on a new apprentice this autumn.

“Does it hurt so much?”

Eren chews on his apple, looking artless and very much innocent in truth. He does not stay so for long, though (not that you expect him to, the cheeky sod). “I already told you, didn’t I? I wouldn’t ask you to feed me if it didn’t hurt like blazes.” Something in your expression sobers him, and the smile he flashes you is gentle, tender. “I’m a little sore, but nothing you need concern yourself about too much.” He reaches out to take your free hand in his, lightly caressing your skin with his thumb. “And you have been, haven’t you? So concerned that you lost sleep over me, of all people.” He seems to move farther away, going somewhere beyond this room and beyond you.

You pull away from his hold to cup his face in your hand, as though in doing so you can keep him bound to yourself. You touch him as softly as you can yet still he flinches as your palm presses against the injured side of his face. That spasm of pain makes you pull back but he reaches up quickly to keep your hand on him, smiling up at you reassuringly as he does so. The green sparkling at you beneath his poulticed eyebrow is as vibrant as its twin, swollen and puffy though the skin around it is. He is still so beautiful, your battered knight. So beautiful, and warm, and alive.

The loud clearing of a holy throat reminds you of decency and decorum, and you make to pull away from your betrothed once more. He is not having it, though. His grip on your hand tightens, and his face darkens like thunder. “Bloody prissy priests… As if a simple touch to the face equates to… what exactly? A hot little romp?” His laugh comes out exuding derision and mockery. “I didn’t throw you down on the bed and have my way with you, did I? With the way he’s looking at us, you’d think he caught us fucking,” he grouses, in a voice pitched low so only you would hear him.

A lump rises inside your throat that almost chokes you. You cough to rid yourself of it. How he can say such things so baldly confounds you. “That’s… probably what he's thinking. I suppose he’s here to try and preserve my honor. For all he knows, you could be some sort of perverted lech,” you say, in what you hope is an offhand way.

That puts a thoughtful look on Eren’s face. Suddenly, the darkness in his eyes holds a very different sort of sentiment. He glances at you from beneath his lashes before looking down at his lap. Your fingers twitch a little against his face as he continues to keep your hand captive. Heat once again simmers beneath your skin to match the heat you had caught in his gaze before he averted his eyes. In a quiet voice, he murmurs something that sounds suspiciously like, “He’s not far off, then.”

Your heart almost stops at that. “Pardon?”

He lifts his eyes back to yours and blinks slowly. “Have I not been preserving your honor for the better part of a year already? He has nothing to worry about.” One corner of his mouth kinks up roguishly. “Unless my lady does not care for such things. I’d gladly play the perverted lech if you’d let me.”

Gods save me.

Eren’s smile widens as though he has heard you and he releases your hand, allowing you to pick up the paring knife from where it is sitting on your lap. You take a brief recess to settle yourself and cut another wedge off the rapidly browning apple in your grip. Your hand does not shake, to your credit.

“Good apple, that,” Eren notes conversationally, as though he had not been speaking of perversion and fornication mere moments ago.

“The Skaryns brought in a good harvest.” The discomposure leaves you at once as the name of that doomed family leaves your lips. You stare down at the halved fruit in your hand. A good harvest. And their last. Everything seems to dim then, as though a pall has settled upon the world. The Skaryn pall. It is a cruel edict. Your knight had saved the author of that cruel edict. And that is why you can now call him that. Your knight. “You will be a Sir in truth now.”

“I will be, huh…” Eren looks pleased, excited at the thought. As well he might. It is all he ever wanted and lived for, the culmination of years of training and service.

“What’s his name, your squire?” you query as you feed him another slice. The next slice you eat yourself. It is as good as he claims, browned though it is now; the juice is sweet, refreshing on your tongue.

His eyes widen as he munches his own mouthful, as though he has forgotten that knights need squires to squire for them. “Falco Grice.” He swallows. “I have a squire.” The wonder in his face and voice makes you smile. “How do I go about being a master, though?” He screws up his face in thought, then puffs out his chest. “Falco, muck out the stables. I want to be able to eat off the ground once you’re done,” he says in his best approximation of Sir Levi’s flat tone.

There is a pause as the both of you stare at each other silently before descending into fits of giggles. For a while, you cannot stop. He is strong and thriving, and he is to be a knight at long last. Everything seems good in the world again, and the fate of doomed families fades into the ether. But as the light of day gives way to the gloom of night, his cheer slowly gives way to something more staid, dour, even mournful. Eren looks down at his hands, pensive. “Do I even deserve that honor, though? After…”

Sir Erwin’s lost arm hangs heavy between you. Half a year gone and still it haunts him. His gloom seeps into you like some illness, only to feed your determination to see him rise above his guilt and shame. 

“You do,” you state firmly. You will not brook arguments on this matter. “You saved His Majesty, the king’s life, that’s not a small thing. And you learned, didn’t you? You didn’t get those injuries by running pell-mell into danger, did you?” As he shakes his head no, you go on, “Then let it go. Onward and upward and no looking back. It does you no good to dwell on such things. It’ll only eat you up inside.”

“Did I even learn, though? Because I thought about it. Running pell-mell into danger.” He picks at the skin on his forefinger, hunched over and reeking of shame.

Your heart goes out to him, your earnest betrothed. He is a young man, near grown, and yet in many ways he is a boy still. “The only thing that matters is that you didn’t act on it.” You brandish a slice of apple at him. “Sweet to banish the bitter.”

A weight seems to lift off his shoulders as he accepts your proffered piece into his mouth. “You always know what to say.” He gazes at you, soft, contemplative, considering. “And you have to know what to say. In that there is no choice, not for you, my Lady of Rhyzkov.”

You cut yourself a wedge and help yourself to your own sweet. There is nothing to add to the truth that you have always known.

“I grew up wanting to be a Royal Guardsman.”

As most boys do, noble or common.

“But then I served one of them.” Wryness taints Eren’s tone as he continues, “I saw him- them dog every step of this one man every day of their lives and realized that… wasn’t for me. Knights are for serving, yes, but I want the freedom to choose my own liege. If I am to spend a lifetime in thrall to one, I want it to be by my own will and not because tradition says I must.”

And to be a Royal Guardsman is to serve the blood royal for life. “But you didn’t choose me.” As either liege or bride.

Eren looks at you then and subjects you to a long and intense stare. “No, I didn’t.” This intensity is different, something you cannot quite place. 

He is such a forceful personality, you reflect as you hold his deep green gaze. Deep enough to drown in. And you are and will continue to do so, you know now, for the rest of your life. But there is joy in trying to keep up with him, something exhilarating about navigating his tides. He is quite unlike anyone you have ever met, and it intrigues you.

“That doesn’t mean I won’t serve you gladly, willingly, and with everything I have.”

Embers of green fire begin to flare up at you and you avert your eyes lest you be burned. His tides you can navigate. You cannot say the same for his flames. “I look forward to your investiture.” You cut the last bit of apple in half.

The reminder of his investiture banks his flames near instantly. “It seems… inappropriate to have it after the executions.”

So his father has told him all. A certain chill appears to cloak you in its folds. It is almost enough for you to wish for his fires back. “The court needs something to celebrate after such unpleasantness.”

“Unpleasantness…” Eren frowns down at the white linen sheets draped over his lap. “The northmen deserve their sentence for that treachery, but to eradicate whole bloodlines strikes me as being too much. Little Yakob Halkin could hardly conspire against the king. Six-year-olds care more for toys than treason.”

You have never thought to see the end of a line, much less two, in your lifetime. But that is the way of the lords. You yourself are descended from the Shrike, Queen Yelena Rhyzkova, the fourth to bear that name and title, who had rid the world of the Moldovans thousands and thousands of years ago. If your royal forebear had any compunctions about killing the children of her enemies in her bid for power, no one will know now. She had taken her sensibilities with her to the grave.

“The commons will go the way of their masters, if the talk is true.” You hand Eren his last morsel and bite into your own.

Eren eats his apple and reclines back on his pillows. “It’s only talk. He will get his blood price and be paid twice over with highborn blood. He’ll leave the innocent commons alone. They’re not worth that much, at the end of the day.”

Previous Chapter | Next Chapter  

---

A/N:

Horny YN is horny. But, really, who can blame her? Have you seen the guy?

Knight!Eren is here at last, hurrah for him. But the Northern Matter has turned into... another matter entirely.

This’ll be the last update for this year, so it’s my Christmas posting for you, my readers, who I am very thankful to have! I’m glad to be able to share my brainchild to the world and I thank you so much for reading! Always, always <3

This may be my last TSL update but not my last post for the year... at least it depends on how fast I can get around to it. But I’m planning on dabbling in the modern AU and posting a smutty one-shot that will just not leave my brain and so I have no choice but to write it. Hopefully I can get it done before the year ends, if not... I can hail the New Year with good sexy smutty goodness.

Tagging: @princess-okkotsu​​ @lukepattersin​ @aki-and-saltfish​​

[french-toast-enjoyer]

Short story — part two!

this is a continuation of my story from earlier!

the same content warnings for suicidal ideation and gore still stand !

Yusuf realizes now that he should be sobered, humbled, afraid. In the den of the minotaur.

But fear is no object as he turns and takes in the sight of the beast. Any death is sweeter than the bitter winter outside.

The creature hunches tall over him, bestial yet weak; adorned with jagged horns and clawed hands and split hooves— the cautionary visage of a minotaur. He's covered in thick, damp fur and a faded red cloak like a creature of the night, yet he’s too– ill to look predatory. His frame is giant and brutish, yet he strains to hold his wretched head up.

He doesn't seem like the abomination the townsfolk whispered about. Even in this pen of rot, he can't imagine the creature indulging the loving eroticism of death.

But it’s starving.

The beast needs to feed, and the man needs to die. Such is life for animals like them.

If the folktales are true, the creature will taste the man’s flesh and be blessed to never hunger again. If they aren’t, it doesn’t make much difference.

It doesn’t move to claim him, it only stares with lidded black eyes.

Even so the man goes on and places his life in the maw of the minotaur. He clenches his eyes shut, draws in a sharp breath, and submits to his own devouring.

“Please,” the man begs an unmoving Kallus, "end me, make love to me with your fangs. Feast upon me so that you may live– so that I may rest in peace.”

Close your jaws around him. The voice commands, Have your fill. End this.

"No," The beast utters, almost usure which voice he’s denying, "won't.. hurt you,"

His words are blunt and forceful and he no longer looks at the traveler. He’s fighting the scent, fighting to preserve something.

But despite the minotaur's objections, the man’s desire persists.

"I’ve nothing left." He grovels, “Let me offer myself. Let my death have meaning, please. I beg of you.”

“Won't lash out in hunger. Won't.” Kallus says through clenched teeth.

“And what of the slaughtered animals?” the man seethes, casting eyes on the den of rotting creatures, “What barrs my innocence from that of any creature fallen on the blade of your desire?”

The minotaur’s face distorts in grief, eyes all too present for a moment.

“Was not always... like this,” he mourns, languishing over his wretched body, “was… human once, was cursed with this body.”

“Like the faerie tales.” the man whispers, “You’ve not yet devoured a human, have you?”

“No!” he cries, staggering back with disgust, “Can not destroy my kin– can not become such an animal.”

Oh.

Silence consumes them both, yet before another word escapes either man– there comes something more intimate.

A touch.

A freezing hand ghosts across the side of a monstrous face, and holds it with wifely fervor; unafraid.

“Oh, my other,” the man whispers, “I am not kin, I am not prey; I am an oblation. To eat of my flesh would be an act of love– would make you a god,"

His words are pure bullshit. Flattery, but part of him believes.

The minotaur lets his gaze drop to the man’s neck, transfixed. It would taste so sweet, he thought, sweet and forbidden. A rope is still wrapped around his neck, the other end strung up on the branch of an old elm tree. He’s resigned, unwilling to break away.

The man’s words arouse something within Kallus. He fears he can’t stop himself from doing what he's wanted to do since the stranger arrived. But he tries. Again he denies the man.

“Then I must go, and find my death somewhere else.” he resigns, hanging his head and turning to walk away.

“No.” The beast orders.

“... What?”

“Stay here– just for tonight.” the beast says, calmer now.

And with a lasting prayer that morning will not come for him, the man obliges his new master.

Under the dim light above the den Kallus finally sees the wanderer, and in simple terms, he is moth-eaten.

Wrapped in ragged wool is a pale, thin, pestilized body. His face is gaunt and aging, his dark hair is long and unkempt, and his cheeks are scarred, tinged red with the biting cold.

He hungers as well.

To the beast he’s fragile as stained glass.

Just as beautiful too.

“Have you a name?” the man asks, watching the creature pace around the room.

He stops dead. Caught off guard by the thought that anyone cared enough to ask.

“Kallus,” he answers, in a strange, hushed tone, “and you?”

The man falters for a beat, and swiftly pulls something from around his neck.

“I was once called Omega.” He says, presenting a silver pendant with the Greek symbol on its face, “It means end of all things.”

Kallus looks at the rough edges of the relic, and in turn the rough edges of the man himself.

“But that was long ago.” he adds sharply, snapping up the necklace and stashing it away, “my real name is Yusuf.”

The creature turns the name over in his mind, drinking in the very warmth of it.

“‘Yusuf.’” he repeats, and the man shivers at the possessive way he says it.

That’s it, he thinks, call me yours.

Night has all but fallen, and the storm picks up outside. Yusuf shakes beneath his tattered cloak as he sits on the floor of the den. He curls into himself a bit, as if mourning or nursing a wound.

Those worn brown eyes catch Kallus leering, and the body shifts to cover its emaciated nature. It only draws him closer.

The behemoth moves forward on all fours, trying to be light and gentle as he skulks over piles of ravaged bodies. They’re a chorus of voices beneath his claws and hooves, led by that shameless old desire.

Maim him. Hurt him. Kill him.

It’s easier to resist, looking into his eyes.

“Are you hurt?” asks the minotaur, almost closing the distance between them.

“No.” he replies, withdrawing into his cloak.

The beast huffs and raises its towering head.

“Show your arm.”

“No, it’s nothing.” You’re going to devour me anyway, the man thinks, almost resentfully, it’s only another reason to give in.

“Show.” he orders, voice stern yet not unkind.

The man buckles under the weight of the command.

“It’s not important, it's just– my arm. I can’t feel it,” he mutters, revealing the affliction.

The limb at his right is frostbitten, reminiscent of a burned tree branch. Blackened, waxy skin stretches across the tender, withering hand. The darkness creeps up below his elbow where it meets a pale, soft body, like a falconer's glove.

It’s troubling how well Yusuf hides the pain, and how the hand hangs rigid as a body in the gallows.

“It’s dead weight.” he admits, “ but– it’s begun to spread, and it hurts. I can’t hunt, I can’t start a fire, I can’t treat it. It’s always there.”

Kallus reaches out, cautiously. He’s afraid to even touch the man in this state, considering his– ideations.

“You can still survive,”

“No, I can’t. Not like this.”

“Then find a way. Darkness is coming, you must learn to live with the pain.”

“I won’t live. It's unbearable. You could never understand.”

The beast’s ears flatten against his head, and he bites his tongue and seethes, quietly.

“Understand far too well.” Kallus all but confides, “Pain may never fully leave, but you will make it.”

“And what about you? If I survive and leave this place, what happens to you?”

There comes no reply.

The chorus is one voice stronger now.

“Why are you so stubborn?” he lashes out, “You can have me. You’ll starve if you don’t!”

“You are not a body to be offered!” Kallus dercies, violently shaking the thoughts from his head.

“Then why? If you don’t want to kill me, why would you ask me to stay?”

“Alone,” he admits.

“Do not want to be alone. Do not want you to be, either.”

Yusuf stops short at that, breathing in ragged bursts and slumping against the rigid floor. He’s begun to cry, he realizes, sharp and guttural as if his grief is being bled from a drainage wound.

He’s only helpless for a moment as a claw laces beneath his chin, tilting his head to meet a blackened gaze.

“If I am to be your god,” the behemoth says tenderly, “then-- must protect you.”

The images that flash in the man’s mind are conflicting.

Soft winter mornings in the warmth of his leviathan arms.

The spread of decay, the illness, the mourning.

Making it out together, finding hope.

Being a helpless voyeur to his god's demise.

“How?” Yusuf asks, cradling his dying arm, “How could anybody save me from all this?”

Kallus’s breath hitches as a certain hunger returns to him, yet the shame dissipates knowing that the desire is all his own.

“Sever it and offer it to me.” he says, “Let me have my fill.”

And for the first time in what feels like years, the man smiles.