#its about the bonds? its about the only remaining servant and master?

[cometrose]

i think zhongli and xiao is my favorite relationship in genshin. like i love their interactions and i love their story like no matter what i want them to stay together, like please don't die separately like no matter what chaos or peace ensure please just stay together your both people who have suffered for a long time and deserve to be happy

[pinkberrytea]

If you could breathe, he would be the air in your lungs; if your heart could beat, he would be the lifeblood coursing through your veins.

O, Fitcher’s bird, how com’st thou here? And what may the young bride be doing?

Vanitas—Life is vain. As the true nature of their bond is revealed, the Vampire Ascendant’s Dark Consort is reminded of the futility of swimming against the currents of fate, and must decide whether she shall drown in its river of blood, or let herself be gently carried to the shore.

Ascended Astarion x Spawn Tav (F!Reader)

w/c: 12.8k words . ao3 . spotify playlist . 18+ only . nsfw . dividers

a/n: thank you for reading! I decided to attempt something a little more plot heavy this time, hopefully it is an interesting read! again I would like to dedicate this work to @locallegume and hismostbelovedspawn. thank y’all for being always so kind and supportive!

tags: blood drinking; non-con blood drinking; body worship; light dom/sub; vaginal fingering; creampie; hurt & comfort; emotional sex; dry humping; possessive behavior; intercrural sex; mind control; aftercare; choking; piv sex

He will notice. He will know.

The metal surface of the key on your hand feels cool against your skin; lifeless and cold, not unlike yourself. As you look down at it, the world dissolves into darkness, a sickening surge of dread welling up from your stomach and running down your spine. Its serrated edge is stained with red—your red. Even if you wipe it, wash it with soap and water, rub it vigorously until all traces of blood are gone, remnants of your scent will linger on it still. Maybe not to the untrained nose, no; but to a vampire, it would most definitely be noticeable, of that you are certain. Your darling is, however, no mere vampire, but the Ascendant, whose consort’s distinctive bouquet he would undoubtedly be able to recognize anywhere, even more so while it is still fresh. There is no escaping your fate, and as that merciless truth dawns on you, you curse yourself for your own foolishness, for your vain stubbornness. Was it worth it? Whatever did you gain from this? Knowledge? For what purpose? To what end? You find answers to none of these questions, and yet another plagues your mind—once the truth is uncovered, what will happen then?

“My lady. The master is home.”

If your inert heart was capable of skipping a beat, it would have done so just now. You turn around in a swift movement, only to be met with a pair of ruby red eyes staring back into your own, their gaze ever so apathetic, unemotional, yet you see a spark of something in them that worries you greatly: cognizance. She knows; the one your darling calls your “lady-in-waiting”, who you are nonetheless very well aware is loyal not to you, but to him, and him alone. She is the only one who remained from the very first batch of spawn he sired, other than you. Shortly after you both moved into what would come to be known as the crimson palace, now his by right following his triumph over his old master, he decided that all the mortal servants who survived were to be turned, for he aspired to make an army of spawn, and where better to start than by turning those who would willingly surrender themselves to him? 

She was one such servant, of course; a human, whose short lifespan would be made inconsequential by the gift of immortality. And yet, as he would soon come to learn, not even the Vampire Ascendant is immune to the dangers of siring those who have yet to prove themselves worthy. One fateful evening, upon walking into one of your fellow spawn trying to force himself on you, he would kill them all in a fit of rage, taking back the gift he had so generously offered only to be repaid with such vile betrayal—all except your lady-in-waiting, whom he had grown to trust, for she was hauntingly fascinated with his eternal adoration of you. As it were, she was the one who warned him of what had been about to happen that night; not out of fondness for you, naturally, but rather as a desperate measure to protect from corruption what she worshiped as the purest form of love, one so raw and so relentless that not even the gods themselves would dare quell its vicious, unforgiving flames. She would not allow anyone to rob you from him, nor anything to stand between you—not even yourself.

“Ah, yes. I’ll be there in a moment,” you say, trying to sound as collected as you possibly can, yet failing miserably at it. The situation you’ve been caught in looks incredibly suspicious as there would otherwise be no reason for you to be in your lover’s study, crouching behind his desk, and both you and your lady-in-waiting are fully aware of this. She can probably smell the scent of your blood, too, as the papercut on your thumb leaks still, a thin red trail running down your hand, smudged on the spot where it came into contact with the object that is now evidence of your misdeed. Neither of you acknowledge this, yet the oppressive silence lingers, perhaps even more unnerving than it would have been if she said something, anything about it. But she doesn’t—in fact, she remains completely still, standing in the doorway and watching you quietly, knowingly, her sharp eyes boring into your jittery self. She doesn’t intend to leave, not without you at least. 

You look at the documents scattered over the desk, and then back at her, almost as if to ask for permission; she doesn’t react to this, which is as good an answer as any. With trembling fingers, you awkwardly gather the papers and put them back inside the open drawer as discreetly as you can, praying that she hasn’t noticed which drawer it is, yet knowing full well she likely has. One paper remains—the one whose rugged edge cut into your flesh, and that which you’d been reading before it spilled your blood and stained the drawer’s key. It is the sole reason why you are even here, stuck in this predicament. 

Earlier in the day, one of the maids had brought a letter that had arrived that morning to your darling while you were both sitting at the breakfast table—a letter addressed to you. You questioned him about it, asked him if you could read it, yet as he’d done with the many others that had arrived before it, he’d lay it aside and tell you, “Dearest, let me spare you the trouble of worrying your pretty little head about such trifling matters.” And as always you’d comply, because you trusted him. Still and all, when hours later he’d inform you he had some urgent business to attend to in the upper city and that he wouldn’t be back for supper, your mind would sneakily wander to thoughts of stealing into his study while he was gone. Could those letters have been sent by your old companions? Those who had once traveled alongside you—those who you had once called friends? It would be easy, so easy to just grab the key to the drawer where he’d toss your correspondence, for you knew he kept it in the pocket of his overcoat, yet you trusted him, did you not? You’d tell yourself you did, and then let the matter rest; for a few minutes at least, before your wandering thoughts would inevitably circle back to the tantalizing prospect of seizing that golden opportunity. You managed to suppress the ever growing temptation for the rest of the day, but when the clock struck nine, that fading last chance became too hard to resist, and curiosity emerged victorious in the fierce battle raging within you.

Your prize now lies before you, for better or for worse, although as you’ve come to find out, and to your utter disappointment, the sender is in fact not any of your old companions. As for the contents—too much information, too little time to process, and you’ve yet to make sense of it all. With a heavy, frustrated sigh, you take one last look before tucking the letter back inside the envelope, eyes lingering on the sender’s initials: 

To the bride of the Vampire Ascendant,

I hope this letter finds you well. As with my others, I don’t expect a response, yet ever so often I feel compelled to write to you on the off chance that the information I share may somehow be of use. I suppose I may have something of a soft spot for you, for I have once been in a position I consider very similar to yours. I would even go so far as to call you kin. Yet as I have done in the past, I would remind you that there will always be a way out. You are not trapped, regardless of what your sire would have you believe. 

Observations I’ve made over the past few years have all but confirmed my thesis that you are indeed no spawn—not of the common variety, anyway—and while I empathize with your unwillingness to put that theory to the test, the evidence leaves little room for interpretation. I understand my… surveillance of you may be unsettling, but I cannot ignore what is to me now clear as day: you do bear three bite marks, do you not? One on your neck, the other on your shoulder, and the last one on your wrist. 

I implore that you think back to your turning: was there pain? Was it agonizing? Terrifying? A spawn’s turning is a terrible, terrible thing. Do you remember the gruesome feeling of all life being drained from your body? Because if not—well, that would be most unusual. Did you partake of your sire’s blood? Not that you’d be able to remember that, of course. The usual turning rite is nothing like what you probably experienced. Three bites, delirious pleasure, drinking from your sire: all hallmarks of a vampiric bride’s creation. The dark kiss, they call it. Has your sire ever compelled you? Surely not. You retain your free will, after all, unlike common spawn. And that is my point: the connection needs not be severed for you to leave. 

If you ever reconsider my offer, our small settlement in Gillian’s Hill would welcome you with open arms. Some of us are also runaway brides, although none are sunwalkers like yourself, of course. Our community would benefit greatly from your presence. Should you decide to join us, just say the word—I will come to you. 

Your friend,

L.I.

The hour of reckoning is upon you.

There he stands, near the entranceway, surrounded by the servants who have come to greet him. He is giving instructions to one of them—you will be hosting another of his infamous soirees soon it seems. Some patriar’s niece has apparently taken a liking to him, puppy love no doubt, an excellent opportunity to make yet another powerful ally. You watch him silently from your position a few feet away, your lady-in-waiting close beside you, and the pit of your stomach tightens every time it seems he is about to turn in your direction. It takes but a few minutes for him to finally acknowledge your presence—his stern gaze immediately softens once he lays eyes on you, the hint of a smile appearing on his lips, and for a moment you almost lose yourself in the gentleness of his expression.

“...Astarion,” you softly say his name, your voice quiet, uncertain. His smile widens as he turns away from the servant and approaches you; the closer he is, the better you can see him, and you can’t help but think of how very handsome he looks in his black waistcoat, embroidered with red spinel gemstones. The overflowing love you feel impossibly warms your chest and causes tears to well up in your eyes at the mere sight of him, yet the creeping guilt haunts you still, impossible to ignore.

“My love,” he coos, bringing his hand to your face and lovingly brushing his fingers against your cheek. You lean into his touch, yet the tenderness is short-lived; with that same hand, he then grabs your neck—his grip firm, but not tight—and leans down to press his mouth to yours while holding you in place. His lips are soft, warm—you close your eyes and try to revel in the comforting feeling of your skin against his, but that too doesn’t last long. He lets you go, smiling still, and tucks a few strands of stray hair that have come undone from your hairdo behind your ear. You look up at him from under thick lashes, trying your best not to lose your composure, yet something in your gaze apparently gives you away. As his eyes meet yours, his smile slowly fades and he raises a brow ever so slightly, puzzled countenance inconspicuous to all but you. 

“My lord, would you have the maids prepare the—oof,” you hear your lady-in-waiting start to say, only to be abruptly cut off as she trips over her own feet and bumps into you. Your body sways with the impact, not enough for you to fall, but with just about the force required for your torso to slightly bend over.

Clang.

All those present turn to the source of the metallic sound in the otherwise quiet room, you included, and upon seeing the object that now lays on the floor, so close it almost comes into contact with the tip of your shoe, the already cold blood in your veins congeals into ice—the key. You had hurriedly cleaned it and stuffed it under your petticoat before leaving the study with your lady-in-waiting in tow so you could later get rid of it while no one was watching, yet it seems that plan is now no longer an option. You press your lips together and slowly turn your head to the side, tentatively glancing at your lover, and what you see causes any remnants of color to drain from your already pale face. Any semblance of joy in his expression has completely vanished as his now darkened eyes glare fixedly at the unassuming piece of metal by your feet. Without uttering a word, he leans down and picks it up. The atmosphere is so thick you could cut it with a knife; no one dares break the foreboding silence, and all you can hear is the now painfully loud ticking of the grandfather clock adorning the grand foyer.

“How… curious,” he finally says, voice low, seemingly calm, yet your trained ear can discern the underlying anger. You gulp uncomfortably and wipe your sweaty hands on the skirt of your house dress, eyes never leaving his face, studying every twitch of his muscles. “Has the key to my drawer created a life of its own, I wonder? There can surely be no other explanation. How else would it have made its way here? Unless of course…” he raises his head to meet your stare, and you instinctively recoil at the seething ire building up underneath his otherwise impassive visage, “it had some help.”

“I…” you stutter, your throat completely dry, causing your voice to crack and come out raspy, so hushed it is barely above a whisper. You turn to your lady-in-waiting, brows knitting together in your desperation, but she doesn’t look back at you, coldly avoiding your gaze. All the other servants watch you silently, apprehensively, exchanging knowing glances. “The—the laundry basket. It could have been thrown in there. Transferred from one pocket to the other…” You clench your fists, nails digging into your palms, and as a surge of blind panic rises within you, wild and unruly, you start feeling nauseous and light-headed, your trembling knees threatening to give out. “If not that, then—I don’t know… I can’t think of any other reason why I’d have it…”

“Oh?” His fury becoming increasingly more difficult to subdue, the flames of anger now lick through Astarion’s eyes; you can see yourself reflected in them, one of the boons he so lovingly extended to you, and despite knowing how lucky you are for having never been required to let go of your own image, staring back at your pathetic, quivering frame makes you wish for a moment you were like the other spawn, with whom he would refuse to share his ascended blessings—yet as soon as the thought crosses your mind, you shun your own petty egotism, for you know how much he has sacrificed—how much you have both sacrificed—to ensure neither you nor him would have to hide in the shadows ever again. “Is that right? I suppose that could be possible. Except,” he scowls, and you feel all hairs on your body stand on end in anticipation for what you predict will come next, “that doesn’t explain why it smells of your blood, of all things. Does it, darling?”

This is it. You always knew it was pointless to come up with excuses, yet you tried to deceive him anyway, foolishly both underestimating and defying the person whom you were supposed to trust the most. Your eyes ashamedly leave his face and you lower your gaze, not bothering to answer—at this point, there is nothing you could say that would avert or deescalate the situation. You’ve made your bed, and now must lie in it. After all this time, after all you’ve been through, to think you’d still betray him, lie to him; it is despicable, indefensible. 

“To the boudoir. Now.” Each word he articulates drips with contempt, the hostility in his voice now undeniable. Your eyes sting as the tears start to form and bead your lashes, blurring your vision. Shame, guilt, fear, regret—the unsightly commingling of emotions comes to a head, making you feel unworthy of even being in his presence.

“I—”

“I was not asking, darling.” He grabs your wrist as he says this, his grasp so strong you’re afraid he may dislocate it. You let out a yelp, and he turns your hand around, exposing the bright red papercut at the base of your thumb, maculating the thin, sensitive skin between it and your palm. It no longer bleeds, but even your enhanced vampiric healing talents have not been enough to allow the still fresh wound to close in the short time that has transpired since it was inflicted upon your flesh. As you anxiously raise your eyes to meet his gaze, your heart sinks at the realization that he is not only furious—he is hurt. He is scared. He is heartbroken. 

“Astarion, please—” you try to say, but he doesn’t let you finish, closing his fingers around your upper arm and forcefully dragging you across the foyer. The servants know well not to follow; they say nothing as you both make your way down the main hall, Astarion’s feet heavily striking the ground with every step, and you treading close behind, stumbling and trying to keep pace with him. You’re unsure what to think, unsure what to feel. While he was always prone to outbursts of anger, you have never before seen him react so viscerally to anything—not like this, not even in his most vulnerable moments. You know him better than you know yourself, maybe even better than he knows himself; in the many years you’ve spent in each other’s arms, you have always been able to read his every expression, decipher his every thought—but this, this you don’t understand. It’s novel, foreign, terrifying. 

“Astarion…” As the two of you turn a corner, finally no longer within the servants’ line of sight, you try to speak once more, fighting back the tears. “Please…” you whimper, your forlorn supplications going unanswered, unheeded, as if never uttered at all. “Please… you’re hurting me…”

As soon as the words leave your lips, he abruptly stops, and you feel his grip on your arm tighten. When he turns around to face you, you cower at the wrath you had never before seen manifest with such intensity in his eyes, and mixed with it, although less discernible, fear—raw, violent and hellacious. His pupils are blown wide, his jaw clenched, and the loud thumping of his heart sounds like an accusation, a condemnation of your wretched selfishness. It now only beats once more because of you; because of your complacence, your foolishness, your blithering, pitiful neediness. You wanted him to love you, feared that he’d leave you, and while telling yourself it was because you wanted him to be happy, you sentenced him to eternal guilt. All the sacrifice, all the hurt… and now you’d turn your back on him? You’d make light of the bond of trust you had so earnestly forged and nourished throughout the years—the only reason why you both live still?

“I am hurting you?” Astarion hisses through his teeth, letting go of your arm only to use that same hand to fiercely grab your throat and shove you onto the sill of a nearby window, forcing you to lean against it in a half-seated position, yet at the same time cradling the back of your head with his other hand to cushion the impact. “You come uninvited into my study, rummage through my things, lie to me about it—yet I’m the one hurting you? Do you even hear yourself?” He straddles you and brings his face close to yours, his nails digging into your neck, squeezing it to the point of slightly choking you. 

“...You—you’re the one who’s lying…” you manage to say between pants and squeaks, for despite having no need to breathe, it is difficult for you to talk or emit any sounds at all with your windpipes crushed under his grasp. “You’ve been lying to me… all this time…” He buries his fingers deeper into your skin, but that doesn’t stop you from finishing, it doesn’t prevent the impending disaster about to strike. “I’m not your spawn… I never was.”

You don’t know what has come over you, but the words are spoken before you can swallow them. Astarion seems as taken aback as you are at your defiance—he looks stunned for a few seconds, yet as soon as he recovers, his eyes narrow and glow with sanguineous intent, a darkness so ghoulish and vile festering deep within them that for a moment, you become genuinely frightened. His hand lets go of your neck to then aggressively pull at the hair on top of your scalp, forcibly tilting your head upwards, and he slams the other on the wall next to the window, entrapping you against it.

“No, darling, you are my spawn. My spawn. Mine. Your body, your mind, your soul, they all belong to me. I’ve made you. You are mine to use however I please,” he growls, spitting each word with viperous malice.

Before you can react to this, or even begin to process what is happening, shock waves are sent through your body in the wake of the lancinating pain that suddenly shoots up your throat as he violently sinks his fangs into the hollow at its base. You let out a soundless gasp and your eyes widen in shock, the tears that had been threatening to fall finally streaming down your cheeks. Him feeding on you is a daily occurrence, something you were supposed to already be entirely used to, but never before had he been so forceful, never before had it hurt this much. He sucks with such vigor and so sloppily that the blood spills from the corners of his mouth, dripping down his chin and onto the white fabric of your clothes, speckling them red. His fingers remain tangled in your hair, keeping your head in place as he drinks, and your hairdo partly unravels. You are unable to move, unable to speak, unable to think, even, but not unable to feel: you feel shame, you feel guilt, you feel remorse, for betraying him when trust was the only thing you could ever offer, the only thing that was even left.

“I’m sorry…” you lament, your voice so quiet you are unsure if he is even able to hear you, so you say it one more time. And then another. And you keep repeating it, no matter how much it hurts, no matter how much effort it takes to voice each word, you apologize again and again hoping your feelings will somehow reach him, hoping he will somehow understand how ashamed you are of yourself, how regretful you feel, how deeply you love him—and you do, you love him, so profoundly that life to you has no meaning without him by your side. If you could breathe, he would be the air in your lungs; if your heart could beat, he would be the lifeblood coursing through your veins. He is your sire, your darling, your master—he is your everything. In hurting him, you hurt yourself, and in breaking his trust, you destroy the very foundation of your existence. 

I’m sorry. Forgive me. I love you.

As your crimson runs down his throat, Astarion can feel it. Your anguish. Your sorrow. All of it. He can feel them so intensely, that it’s as if your feelings are his own—and they are, for he too feels scared, he too feels ashamed, he too loves you, just as desperately, just as ardently. He is scared of losing you, ashamed of hurting you, and the love you share has ascended to such heights that it needs not be voiced, it needs not be reaffirmed. Nothing terrifies him as much as the idea of being apart from you, and he’d do anything to keep you close; if that implies lying to you, inflicting pain on you, then he’ll gladly embrace the shame, for he never thought himself worthy of your love to begin with. And despite it all, you’d still have him—you’d still join him in immortality, trust him beyond reason, bow down and accept your position below him, for power is all he has ever known, all that has ever mattered, and wielding power over you is his only way of ensuring you will never be taken from him. 

I want you. I need you. Don’t leave me.

The tears you shed fall from your eyes and drip onto Astarion’s face as if wept by him; the sensation brings him back to reality, and as the fog clears, he is relentlessly assailed by the regret welling up within his heart. Finally unlatching his mouth from your neck, he slowly lifts his head up to look into your eyes, releasing his grip on your hair and using the newly freed hand to wipe his lips and chin, which are now smeared with blood—with that same hand, he then cups your cheek, gently brushing his thumb against your skin, and in doing so, painting a red streak across it.

“Forgive me… please forgive me…” you plead between soft sobs, the teardrops uncontrollably pouring and mixing with your crimson. Cupping your cheek still, he uses his other hand to dry the now ruby-colored beads, his caresses ever so tender, ever so gentle. Although the darkness has not entirely faded from his eyes, it is eclipsed by the genuine warmth blooming on their dewy surface. He rests his forehead against yours, sliding his fingers which are now wet from the bloody droplets down your shoulders, gliding them across your ribs, tracing the curve of your waist, your hip. His touches are so incredibly delicate, tentative almost, that it’s as if you were made out of porcelain and applying the slightest amount of pressure would cause you to break into a thousand pieces.

“Shh. It’s over, my love. It’s over.” He is so close to you that his breath tickles your face and his lips graze yours as he speaks, the soothing tone of his voice lulling your frenzied mind. After hesitating for a split second, his wandering digits venture further down, toying with the hemline of your dress, hiking the bloodstained fabric up just enough to expose the waxen skin of your thigh, only to then slip under it. A shiver of anticipation runs down your spine, and still unsure what to make of his advances, you let your eyes fall shut, savoring the moment as if waiting for the spell to break, as if the illusion is about to shatter, yet it doesn’t—instead, he finally closes the distance between you, covering your mouth with his and spreading your crimson that still trickles down his jaw all over you both. As you kiss, some of it makes its way onto your tongue, the coppery flavor so very familiar, for your blood is one and the same, and tasting yourself is as if tasting him.

“That's what you want, isn't it? To be mine? Forever?”

His lips never leaving yours, Astarion moves his hand on your cheek to the side of your head so he can run his fingers through your hair, brushing it out of your face, now damp from your blood only as the tears slowly dry. The hand under your dress finds its way to your backside, splaying across its soft curve and slightly lifting you up from the windowsill, supporting your weight as he leans his body into yours to pin you against the glass. You hold onto his shoulders with both of your hands and wrap your legs around his waist to keep yourself from slipping, bringing him closer and pushing his crotch flush against your stomach; doing so allows you to feel the obvious erection under his pants, which you hadn’t yet noticed was there. While this would be a common effect of feeding under other circumstances, it startles you at first, flusters you almost, yet the reason for his sudden wantonness notwithstanding, even if you can’t fully understand it, what you do know is that the two of you may need this just as urgently—to lose yourselves in lust and hunger, feel each other, be reassured that you are both still here, that you are both still real. 

Letting out a low groan, he starts leisurely rolling his hips, burying the fully hardened bulge between your thighs. No less eager to touch him, you rock your own in rhythm with his movements, to which your body responds more willingly than what either of you would have anticipated, heat pooling in your abdomen and wetness collecting between your folds, some of which soaks through your underpants—the sweet scent of your budding arousal encourages him to keep going, and the fingers of his hand propping up your behind reach out for their waistband, slipping under the lacy fabric and pulling at it. With some effort he is able to get them to slide down a little, but not enough to expose your aching sex; deciding to try a different approach instead, he untangles his other hand from your hair and uses it to pull his own pants down, freeing his already leaking cock. Were this any other day, he would have taken his time teasing you, building you both up to the edge only to pull away at the last minute and start all over again, but not this time. Never before had Astarion’s urgency to take you been this great; never before had he felt like he must make you his as quickly as possible, lest you are forever lost to him.

Lifting up your petticoat to gain access to your still clothed core, he slides his cock under it, your underpants now the only layer separating your flesh from his. You moan against his lips at the sensation, and he takes the opportunity to deepen the kiss, slipping his warm tongue inside your partially open mouth. As the petticoat falls back down, he has his freed hand join the other, using both to cradle your ass, his long digits groping and fondling the soft skin. While rolling his tongue over yours, he resumes his hip movements, massaging your dripping slit with his length and squeezing even more slick out of you, drenching the fabric that envelops it in your juices; due to the friction and the wetness, the flimsy piece of cloth starts wrinkling and sliding to the side, revealing more of your swollen folds with each thrust. Noticing this, he tilts his pelvis, angling himself to help push it out of the way, and it doesn’t take long before your skin finally comes into contact with his—once it does, you jerk your hands away from his shoulders to then wrap your arms tightly around his neck, and he avidly sucks on your bottom lip, fighting off the urge to sink his fangs into it, drawing even more of your blood.

Wet as you are, he glides effortlessly along your now partially naked mound, gently nudging your twitching entrance with the velvety tip of his cock, only to then back away slowly, spreading your folds apart and massaging the engorged bud atop them as he moves. Although his pace is languid, you can tell by his small grunts that he is growing more desperate, more impatient; once your mouths unweave, a thin string of saliva forming between your bruised, reddened lips, you are unwittingly sucked into the endless vortex of passion and yearning lurking within his crimson irises, his feelings flooding into your own heart as you lock eyes with him. Without you, there is nothing—without you, he is nothing. He offered you eternal life, and in return, you promised him eternal love; you cannot, you will not back away now. Only by feeling you, tasting you, ruining you can he convince himself that you remain within his reach, that you belong to him still. The intensity of his gaze overwhelms you, yet as you turn your head to the side to avoid it, he brings one of his hands up from under your dress and grasps your chin, forcing it back into its previous position.

“Eyes on me, darling,” Astarion says, his voice soft, but his tone firm, commanding; as if under a spell, you obey unquestioningly, staring back at him as intently as you can manage while he grinds against the raw, sensitive skin of your center, sliding along the wetness between your puffed folds and coating his cock in your sticky essence, the lewd squelching noises that ensue echoing in the empty hallway. Now increasing the tempo of his thrusts, he presses his throbbing cockhead harder and harder against your cunt with every jerk of his hips, threatening to stretch its tight borders open only to then pull back, the agonizing anticipation of it setting your nerves on fire. The coiling tension in your abdomen grows tauter by the minute, begging for release, and you can no longer feel the searing pain of the gaping wound on your neck, your mind shamelessly burdened with naught but thoughts of him—of how much you love him, how much you want him, how desperately you need him inside you, buried soul-deep, filling you to the brim. 

His appetites mirror your own, for he too craves nothing more than to have you wrapped around him, ready and primed for him to use however he wishes, for you are his, and that is his prerogative—but first, he would have you come undone, watch as you crumble into nothing at his behest. Without ever breaking eye contact, not wanting to miss a second of your unraveling, he pounds into the outer edges of your entrance with ever increasing furor, dipping his cockhead deeper within it each time, while simultaneously holding back the overwhelming urge to stuff you full in a single thrust. He can tell you are close, so close; as you have not fed since morning, the color of your flushed cheeks is not nearly as bright as it would have otherwise been, but he can still hear it—what little remains of your cold blood rushing through your veins, frantically flowing to your face and cunt, puffing up your skin and painting it a pale pink. 

You’re a vision like this, parted lips reddened with dried blood, half-lidded eyes curtained by long wet lashes, nipples pebbling under the thin chiffon of your bodice; his pretty consort, his sweet spawn, his good girl, so foolishly trusting, so naively kind. When did he lose sight of you? When did your blind devotion turn into treacherous cynicism? When did the desire to bring you to heel consume him, when did the darkness within start to take hold? As these thoughts sweep through his mind, Astarion forfeits all self-control—he needs to feel you, deeper, closer; conquer your soul, dominate your body, devour you whole. He plunges into you without warning, reveling in the feeling of your tight cunt fluttering and contracting around his cock, creaming and coating him in your sweet come, as having him finally buried deep inside you pushes you over the edge of your release. You shut your eyes close and let your head fall back, only for him to firmly grab your jaw and force it up again, intent on having you face him as you dissolve into pleasure.

“Beautiful,” he purrs, the look in his eyes expressing adoration and subjugation in equal measure. “My sweet girl. My good girl.” Holding your jaw still, he slides in and out of your spasming slit without giving you time to recover from your orgasm, and the pain from the overstimulation overlaps with the high of the afterglow—rather than shun the sensation, you welcome it, for its paradoxical nature at once grounds and comforts you; the greater the pain, the more intensely you can feel him, the more entangled your souls become. The fingers of the hand still holding your ass tighten their grip, pushing your hips against his, tilting them to allow his cock to sink as deeply within you as possible. Although he refuses to avert his gaze, looking upon you with bone-chilling fierceness, the sweat beading his forehead and the growing fervor of his lust-ridden expression give away his ascent to his own rapture. To him, there is no greater bliss than feeling you clench around him as he massages your slickened walls, his velvety tip ever so slightly brushing against the spongy skin of your cervix with every thrust. He belongs inside you, and you belong to him; your body is more his than yours, your heart less yours than his.

“All mine,” he grunts between ragged breaths, the thought of you completely submitting to him, letting yourself be ravaged and debauched for his pleasure alone racing through Astarion’s mind as he reaches his climax, spilling himself all over your walls and flooding you with his warm seed. His hand that had been keeping your jaw in place lets go of it to then splay across the side of your face, affectionately caressing your cheek, and he finally lets his eyes wander away from yours, lowering his head to nuzzle into the crook of your neck while basking in his release; yet the moment is short-lived, for once he catches sight of the still bleeding mess right below his nose, two crimson gashes carved on the pale skin of your throat, his mind suddenly freezes and his gorge rises. All his—but at what cost? Was this what you wished for? Was this what he wished for? You agreed to eternity, accepted your share of the burden, became his of your own volition; but doesn’t a toy become useless once it’s broken? Doesn’t love turn into hate once it’s ruined? He knew the time would come when you’d finally see him for who he truly is, when the pathetic, repulsive rot festering under the husk of shallow charm would be laid bare before you, but why now, when he had gathered enough power to offer you the world and everything in it? Was not even that enough to keep you by his side? Feeling you squirm under him, hearing your pained whimpers and tearful pleas—he was not supposed to take joy in any of it, yet his body would betray his mind as he drained you dry. The more you pull away, the more his obsession grows; the more you try to escape, the less you are likely to get away. So why would you reject a fate you had once embraced? Were you his obedient girl no longer? Would you doom yourself, doom your love, let the dam in his living heart burst and the murky waters within consume you, him, and all in their wake?

“I already have everything. Except you by my side.”

You wince as Astarion pulls out of you, the sensitive flesh of your core now red and tender, slathered with his thick come, which runs down your entrance and onto your thighs. Raising his head back up, he brings his face close to yours, tenderly pressing his lips to the corner of your mouth, his hand on your cheek lingering for a moment before making its way downwards, sliding under your petticoat and reaching for the space between your legs. Once his fingers come into contact with your still exposed wetness, you instinctively roll your hips into the long digits, eliciting a faint smile from him; however, rather than indulging you, he grasps the wrinkled fabric of your underpants, so drenched they have stayed put on your groin ever since being pushed there, and smoothens it as best as he can to cover your dripping sex. Planting another kiss on your bloodstained skin and lovingly rubbing his forehead and nose against yours, he uses that same hand to tuck his softening cock back inside his pants; with one last peck on your temple, he then moves his other hand away from its place on your rear to wrap both of his arms around your waist, hoisting you up. No longer pinned against the glass, legs still around his midriff and arms around his neck, you tighten your grip on him to keep yourself from falling, leaning your upper body forward and resting your chin on his shoulder.

“Good girl,” he coos, bringing one of his hands up to cradle your head and affectionately run his fingers through your hair. Backing away from the window, he then turns around and sets off towards the living quarters, all the while carrying you as if you were unable to walk on your own. Not bothering to question his reasons, you close your eyes, intent on enjoying his uncharacteristic gentleness while it lasts and surrendering to the overwhelming allure of his warmth, his scent, his soothing touch and the soft thumping of his heart, which you can feel with your chest flush against his, as if it beats for the two of you. The familiar aegis of his embrace offers solace and protection in equal measure, and for however long he holds you, you feel safe, you feel loved, and nothing else matters—not the guilt, not his darkness, not your selfishness.

“Astarion…” 

You whisper his name as if chanting a mantra, not really for any other purpose than to comfort yourself. The throbbing pain on your neck, the unpleasant sensation of your fluids and his drying on your thighs, the blood all over your face, hair and clothes; somehow, you care about none of it while in his arms, feeling your body rock gently as he moves, the world an endless void behind your shut eyelids. Before the moment ends, it’s just you and him, him and you—no souls weighing down on either of you other than your own, no phantoms from the past lingering in your memory, no outside voices joining in the chorus and challenging your undying love. The voices within remain, however, loud as ever, questioning if you’ve been forgiven, pondering if you’d even deserve it; while he has yet to let go, they have no power over you, but you’re no stranger to the ephemeral nature of his tenderness. Be that as it may, what scares you more than anything are not the loud accusations echoing on the surface, but rather the quiet murmurs rousing in the depths of your heart—those suggesting that time will erode his essence, stripping him off everything but the desire to consume you.

“I’m willing to share all of this with you. What’s that, if not love?”

“Bring me clean towels and lukewarm water. Make it quick.” His voice sounds muffled as you drift in and out of consciousness, and for the first time you notice you can’t feel the tips of your fingers, the blood loss clearly too great a challenge for even your undead body to overcome. The servant whom he is addressing answers something you can’t quite make out, and with a reverent nod, turns away and takes her leave. You slightly open your eyes to get your bearings, and the first thing you see once they adjust to the sudden brightness is the ornately hand-carved frame surrounding the door to your private chambers, its gilded accents glinting in the light of the candelabra, left behind you as Astarion makes his way further inside the room. Upon reaching the grand canopy bed, draped with opulent velvet curtains, he gently lays you down onto the soft mattress, using the hand still tangled in your hair to support your head. The instant you part with his warm touch, the ever constant coldness of death seeps through your skin, its icy tendrils grazing the fringes of your soul; the sudden loss is, however, somewhat subdued when he then circles the bed and sits down by your side, bringing his fingers to your face to glide their soft pads across your brow, studying your features in reflective silence.

“My lord.” No sooner has she left than the servant is back with a pile of plush cotton towels in her arms, one of your handmaidens following close behind, carrying a wooden wash tub that looks far too heavy for her scrawny frame. You prick up your ears at the sound of the familiar voice, and upon discreetly raising your eyes to take a better look at her, you recognize said servant as none other than your lady-in-waiting; it strikes you as no mere coincidence that she’d been waiting for your arrival with the necessary provisions ready, but you decide not to dwell on it. Likewise, there is no effort on her part to acknowledge you as she sets the towels on the eiderdown duvet, gesturing to the handmaiden to put the wash tub down near the bed.

“Leave us,” Astarion says, addressing them both yet not for a moment letting his eyes drift away from yours. Each gives a brief curtsy before doing as told, carefully closing the door behind them on their way out. Once they’re gone, he reaches out for the towel on top of the pile and dips one of its edges in the clear water inside the tub, letting it soak for a few seconds before pulling it back out. Remaining silent and with his gaze fixed upon you, he then brings the now drenched cloth to his own face and rubs it against his mouth and chin, removing the crimson still spattered over his skin with relative ease. You timidly meet his stare from under thick lashes, feeling a bit faint, your limbs heavy and numb from the lack of blood within your veins.

“...Astarion,” you tentatively call for him, your voice so low you wonder for a moment if he is even able to hear you at all; rather than answering you, he places a finger on your lips, hushing you gently. His jaw now rid of stains, he lays the bloodied towel aside and grabs another, soaking it as he did the first, only this time, he presses it to your cheek instead. The damp fabric feels soft and warm against your gelid complexion, and he dabs at it so delicately, so soothingly, that you find yourself leaning into his touch. Your eyelids start threatening to fall shut again, your mind bereft of all thought, but just as you are about to nod off, he starts speaking, snapping you out of your torpor.  

“I never lied to you. Not really.” As the words leave his lips, Astarion’s eyes darken with an intensity you can’t quite make sense of. Deeming your face to be satisfactorily clean, he lowers the towel to massage the pale skin of your throat, letting his gaze wander away from yours to rest upon the grisly puncture marks left by his own fangs. “You are my spawn. My creation. Born from my blood,” he says, the softness in his voice contrasting with the sobriety of his words and the somberness of his expression. After pausing for a moment, not so much out of hesitation as to stall the inevitable, he continues, finally unearthing that which had been hidden for so long with confounding casualness, the revelation likely to have gone by unnoticed if meant for slightly less attentive ears. “My consort—my bride.”

Neither of you utter another word in the minutes that follow. He remains focused on your neck, undoing the top buttons of your bodice to gain better access to it, thus baring your shoulders and collarbone, carefully patting the towel around the ruptured flesh and wiping the encrusted blood off its swollen borders. You, on the other hand, can do anything but focus, unable to process what has just been exposed or the significance of it. Your body is like a doll’s under his; you do not blink, muscles stiffened and chest unmoving, an inanimate object with no will of its own—but you do have a will of your own, do you not? If the letter is to be given any credence to, then wouldn’t the implication be that he let you believe that he could control you when he in fact could not? And if so—what were you to call it then, if not a lie? Did he not trust you to stay? (Had he no trust in your bond?) Was that the source of his fear? (Were you the source of his fear?)

“Is it true, then?” you hear yourself ask, your mouth moving on its own as you let the surge of emotion guide your actions in the absence of coherent thought. “Can you really not compel me? Am I free to do as I please?” Despite the quiet pitch of your voice, and although it trembles ever so faintly, there is a hint of what Astarion can only discern as resentment laced with it. He suddenly stops moving, the now red towel in his hands still pressed against your skin, remaining motionless for a moment before slowly raising his head to lock eyes with you—and there it is again, that raw, visceral dread, only this time masked with a thin veil of arrogance.  

“Oh, sweet thing. Shouldn’t you know it by now?” His lips slightly curl into a humorless smile, voice smooth as silk, yet the words are spoken with deliberate inflection, eerily measured and dangerously sharp. He discards the towel, having it join the other, and casts a predatory gaze upon you, leaning down until the tip of his nose is only inches apart from yours. Bringing both of his hands to your face, he then gently cups your cheeks, fondly caressing them with his thumbs. “I’m the Vampire Ascendant, bound by no such petty rules. That some meddling busybody would underestimate me is not surprising, but I expected more from my good girl.” To your disconcert, although he says this, glimmers of affection peek through the shadows lurking within his eyes. “I’ve spoiled you.” 

You look up at him in confusion, brows lowered and drawn together, trying and yet failing to read his expression. The smile stays on his lips for a moment, but before long, any warmth in his countenance suddenly vanishes. Your heart sinks to the bottom of your stomach in anticipation, your body’s primal response signaling the imminent threat, but like a mouse caught in a trap, you are helpless, pinned under him in more ways than one. As you lose yourself in the ruby red pools of his irises, the subtle scent of his cologne, that intoxicating brew of bergamot, rosemary and brandy, grows stronger and more concentrated, filling your nose and wafting down your throat. And then, you feel it—a tingling sensation in your fingers, climbing up your arms, spreading to your ribs and chest. It builds up, intensifies, until it is no longer tingling, but shooting pain, radiating outwards in searing waves. Your every muscle screams in protest, throbbing and burning and aching, but when you try to move your limbs, you find them unresponsive; neither can you open your mouth when you try to scream, not even close your eyes once you feel them brim with tears, which then roll down your temples.

“Ah—ah…!”

“Shh. Don’t fight it, my love. It’ll be over soon.” Astarion says as he softly dries the falling droplets with his thumbs, the words slipping from his pretty lips in dulcet whispers. Once you heed his advice and stop struggling, the pain subsides—you remain, however, a passenger in your own body, unable to do anything but stare into his eyes. Within them, the fear still lingers, but it no longer muddies its bloody waters, suppressed by the confidence now sprouting in their depths; and that’s when you notice that this is to him as much of a novelty as it is to you. Despite his haughtiness, he couldn’t have been sure that it would work, for he had never attempted such a feat before. But alas, any concerns prove now unfounded—you are, and were always his thrall. His puppet bride, subject to his every whim.

“My dark consort. My right hand. My most beloved spawn.”

The compulsion persists for no more than a few minutes, but once he finally loosens his hold on you, it feels as if it’s been hours since last your body was yours to command. With a loud gasp, sucking in the air desperately as if your undead lungs would have any use for it, you are back in control, for what that’s even worth now. Pressing his forehead to yours, he hushes you tenderly, breathing words of comfort as if soothing your unrest after a bad dream. Tears continue pouring from your eyes even as they fall shut, yet the source of your grief is unclear; your mind is, however, in too great a turmoil to allow you to sort out your feelings, so you try to focus on his touch instead, yielding to it as he moves one of his hands from its place on your cheek to lovingly brush your hair away from your face. Regardless, the moment lasts only for so long—once you are no longer as agitated, he pulls away, his expression undecipherable, an uncanny blend of darkness and placidity, dolefulness and sobriety.

“Pay attention, my dear, for this is an offer I will make but once,” he says, the danger in his voice underlying its velvety slickness, reflecting the ambiguous glint in his eyes. As you open your own, you see him take and soak another towel from the pile, which he then brings to your neck to continue removing the dried blood, by now almost completely gone from your skin, yet staining your clothes still. “Freedom. That’s what you wish for, isn’t it?” Smiling bitterly, he undoes the remaining buttons of your bodice, exposing the narrow valley between your breasts, yet his gaze remains drawn to the fresh set of bite marks on your throat; he seems distracted for a moment, but soon enough, his lips continue moving, the tone with which he speaks taking on a deceptively poised quality. “Say the word and I shall unmake our bond. Refuse, and resign to your fate as my eternal spawn.”

Astarion doesn’t look your way even as he tells you this, focusing on the wound still—a manifestation of his inner demons, the sigil of a man who chose to fully embrace the shadows, and whose only remaining light he now tries to dim. Oh, how he wishes the illusion would have lasted forever; you in his arms, eternally his, a bird singing beautifully in its gilded cage. Not clipping your wings was his biggest mistake, for he had always feared that sooner or later, you’d give into the desire to soar high, leave him to waste away, consumed by power and shame. So now he opens the cage himself, before you lose your voice, before the song is silenced. He wants to see it, he needs to see it—hear your denial, feel your rejection, taste your betrayal. Whether he means what he says is inconsequential, for he himself knows not the answer to that; his wish is but to have you confirm what he already understands to be true, so that he may finally snuff out that trembling flame and surrender to lonesome oblivion.

Your answer to him is, however, nothing but silence; having by now wiped most of the stains off your neck area, he straightens his torso, and his eyes finally make their way back to yours—which, to his astonishment, are not only misty and glistening with the tears still pooling in their corners and flowing down your cheeks, but wide and unblinking, unrelenting terror etched across your face. Terror? Why terror? No, no, this makes no sense. Is he to believe you’re crying tears of happiness? Could these be complicated feelings surfacing now that you’ve finally been given that which you’d always wished for? Freedom—that is what you wish for, surely? He never doubted your love, for he could feel it just as you could feel his, but he did question whether just love would be enough to keep you by his side, whether even a love as real as yours would stand the test of time. Never had he been able to understand your love for him, but he knew it to be true, and he would protect it in whatever way he could; as the Ascendant, there was very little he could not do, thus taking away your freedom was the obvious course of action. And yet, now that he offers it back, you react not with relief or gratitude, but terror?

“I would sooner die again,” you finally say, voice quiet and strained, raw emotion pouring from your every word. Astarion stares at you in complete shock, frozen in place, and time seems to come to a standstill while each of you wait for the other to break the silence. As he disconcertedly studies your face, trying to make sense of your unexpected fretfulness, a realization dawns on him—are you perhaps afraid of spending eternity by yourself? Is it not his promise of making you into a full vampire, independent of its creator, but rather the prospect of total separation that upsets you so? That must be it, that has to be it—why else would the offer of freedom, that which has always driven him, the ultimate goal, sound so appalling to your ears? Although it is no less surprising that you wouldn’t use your newfound autonomy to turn your back on him at the first opportunity, as far as his proposal is concerned, this is but a misunderstanding; he should clarify, then.

“You—”

Don’t leave me. Please don’t leave me.

Your words ring in Astarion’s ears as if spoken by you, yet your quivering lips remain sealed. Hah! How quaint, that such an ability would manifest now. As your thoughts flow from you to him, he notices you don’t seem to be aware that you are speaking into his mind. Of course not, why would you? He had kept the nature of your bond a secret, and thus, your mental connection was too concealed. Oftentime you’d unwittingly let your inner voice seep into his head, but never had you noticed, and never had he brought it to your attention. It feels invasive, peeking into your heart when you haven’t let him in, but he can’t help himself, for he needs to know; he needs to be certain that this is what you want, that this is the fate you’ve chosen, no matter how grim, no matter how hopeless.  

I promise I’ll be good. I need you. Please.

Raising your upper body into a seated position, you reach out for his arm, and your fingers tentatively grasp at the sleeve of his shirt. You can’t bring yourself to voice your feelings, yet you hope that the earnestness in your tear-filled eyes somehow is enough to convince him of your sincerity, for the thought alone of having your souls ripped asunder horrifies you. You had accepted your circumstances once, and you’d do so again—bearing the guilt and remaining his spawn for the rest of your days is too low a price to pay for his freedom, for his life, for him. All for him. It always was, it always will be. You failed him once; not again. Never again. For however long he’ll have you, you’ll remain by his side, pay your penance, atone for your sins, love him with all of you, body, mind and soul, until there’s nothing left but dust and blood. 

As the confusion in his eyes gives way to gentle warmth, Astarion brings one of his hands to your face, tenderly cradling it and brushing his long fingers against the damp skin. After letting go of the towel which he had been holding still, he leans forward, pausing for a moment to meet your weepy gaze before pressing his pillowy lips to yours, and relief washes over you like a balm. You relax your muscles which you hadn’t noticed were tensed until now, and although you have yet to stop crying, the salty droplets are no longer an expression of fear and regret, but of succor and deliverance. Timidly starting with a sequence of soft, chaste pecks, the kiss gradually becomes more sensual, more passionate, and soon you feel his tongue flick at your bottom lip, asking for passage. Once you comply, he begins eagerly exploring the inside of your mouth, the digits of his other hand running through your hair as he tastes you, unweaving what still remains of your hairdo and letting the tresses fall over your shoulders. Longing to be as close to him as physically possible, you tighten your grip on his sleeve, lovingly nuzzling your nose and cheeks against his, and in doing so, making them wet with your tears. 

Kissing you still, he untangles his fingers from your now freed locks and splays his hand across the small of your back, using his body weight to gently pin you down until you are both lying on the mattress, him on top of you. The hand on your cheek leaves it to reach for the last towel in the pile, which he then blindly soaks in the water remaining within the wash tub; your skin now completely rid of bloodstains, he sticks it under your petticoat instead, bringing it to your groin and tugging at your underpants with one of his digits. This time successfully managing to get them to slide down enough to gain access to your wetness, he delicately presses the soaked cloth to it, eliciting a soft mewl from you. All the while massaging your mouth with his, he rubs the towel up and down the still tender flesh of your sex, thus removing the remnants of earlier activities, yet at the same time nudging your slowly swelling clit with every stroke. Feeling the familiar tautness building up low in your belly, you roll your hips into his hand, squeezing your thighs together and clenching them around his arm, any pretenses of playing coy completely discarded as you helplessly plead for his touch.

Rather than mess around with you like he would on any other occasion, Astarion yields, and as two of his fingers feel up and circle the now twitching bundle of nerves through the wet fabric, another slides further down and rims your slickened entrance. You wantonly whimper against his lips, wrapping both of your arms around his neck, and his hand on your back makes its way to the front of your torso to unfasten the lacing keeping your unbuttoned bodice in place, thus revealing your breasts and stomach. As soon as they come into view, his skilled digits quickly find one of your hardened nipples, pinching and playing with the swollen nub as his tongue continues hungrily swirling around yours and his hand between your legs fondles your aching arousal, coaxing pants and all sorts of cute noises out of you.

“Sing for me, little bird,” he breaks the kiss to purr the words in your ear, fangs gently grazing your earlobe. You readily do as told, moaning and whining with your drying eyes closed, teardrops no longer escaping through your long lashes, and his face creases into a smuggish smile as he watches you writhe and squirm. Once he withdraws both of his hands, you let out a displeased sigh, in response to which his smile widens; finally tossing aside the towel, he then leans back to finish undressing you, and as you help him peel off both your dress and undergarments, you suddenly notice neither of you are wearing shoes, though you can’t recall at which point they were lost. Tucking a hand inside his own pants, he pulls out his cock, still partially soft but rapidly hardening again, yet there seems to be no intention on his part of removing the rest of his clothes, a fact which neither of you seem to mind—if he would rather have you naked and exposed before him, then so be it; if he finds strength in your vulnerability, then you won’t deny it to him, for his comfort is your atonement, even if it costs you your dignity.

“You wouldn't just be some spawn—you’re far more than that to me.”

“Come, pretty vampling,” Astarion beckons, intertwining his fingers with yours and helping you rise to his level. Once you are both sitting up and facing each other, he tenderly kisses the back of your hand, letting go of it to then wrap his strong arms around your waist and pull your chest flush against his, squishing your soft breasts between your bodies. After planting a loving peck on your brow and affectionately rubbing your noses together, he then slightly cocks his head to the side, exposing the smooth skin of his neck, marked only by two shallow indentations, so similar, yet so different from your own. It takes you no more than that to realize what he means, and you gingerly press your mouth to a blue artery pulsating right under his jawline, looking up at him demurely with lamblike eyes, as if waiting for his approval. With an affable simper, he brings one of his hands up to cradle the back of your scalp, which you understand as an assent; parting your rosy lips, you thus brush your fangs against the throbbing vein, only to then sink them into the sensitive flesh, as gently and carefully as possible. He groans at the sensation, not from pain, but pleasure, and you feel him lightly tug at your hair.

His blood tastes rich and angular on your tongue, and your hazy mind slowly clears as the thick crimson starts spreading to your extremities. You suck so delicately that he can barely feel your fangs piercing his neck—instead, he feels the plushness of your lips, the softness of your curves, the heat irradiating from your cold pale skin as it turns warm and flushed. He hugs you tighter, yearning to have you pressed even closer against him, letting out low grunts and quiet moans as you drink, his cock now fully hardened into an angry, painful erection. Bringing both of his hands down to your ass, he firmly squeezes your buttocks and slightly lifts up your body to sit you on his lap; following his lead, you position yourself while feeding still, bending your knees to support your weight on them and lining up your entrance with his leaking tip. However, instead of immediately lowering your hips, you start languidly rocking them back and forth, burying the engorged cockhead between your folds and coating it in your juices.

“Oh, you cheeky brat…” he says, yet the playful tone of his voice encourages you to keep going, even if from your position you can’t see the matching expression on his face, eyes closed and a smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Gods, you feel good…” His fingers press down harder on the supple skin of your behind, and his crimson takes on a sweeter flavor the more aroused he becomes; as it flows to your center, your rouged clit too grows tumescent with desire, slick dripping from your needy cunt. Setting an agonizingly sensual pace to your rhythmic movements, you bring your hands up to rest on his shoulders, a trail of red escaping from your lips and running down your chin. You can feel his cockhead twitching madly as you engulf it in your wet heat, hungering for the tightness of your walls, but the blood high emboldens you, and you continue stubbornly refusing to give in, even if you want nothing more than to have him stuff you full.

Astarion has, however, only so much patience, and being on the receiving end of teasing doesn’t sit well with him; once he feels the tip of his cock nudge the borders of your slit, he tightens his grip on your ass and yanks your body down, stretching your entrance open and sinking you to about half of his length. You unlatch your mouth from his neck and yelp in surprise, nails digging into the skin of his shoulders, but before you can say anything, he crashes his lips into yours, lapping at the blood staining them red. While you kiss, he gives you time to adjust, and his hands move up to your waist, his touch at once firm and gentle. Despite the pain of the sudden intrusion, being filled with him is pure bliss, and as your walls accommodate his size, you start almost imperceptibly undulating your hips, although the slight friction serves only to fan the flames of your desire. Upon taking notice of your shy grinding, he eggs you on, pulling you downwards with only about enough force to encourage you to follow suit. Not willing to hold back any longer, you eagerly comply, lowering your rear until you are fully seated on him, buttocks pressed against his thighs. Stifling a groan, he nips at your bottom lip and sucks on the ruby droplets seeping from the small lesion, your taste indistinguishable from his own. If you’d give yourself to him, then he shall unapologetically take that which he is owed; from the marrow in your bones to the crimson flowing through your veins, you are wholly his to consume.

“You're the one that I want—the one that I love.”

“Hnng—Astarion…” you moan his name as your mouths come apart, so sweetly that it stirs up in him the urge to again sink his fangs into your flesh. Yet he doesn’t; instead, he bucks his hips upwards, prodding your cervix with his cockhead, and an amused glint appears in his eyes as you react with a high-pitched squeal. Trying to hide the blush spreading across your face, you lean forward, resting your chin on the curve between his neck and shoulder, warm cheek pressed to his, and biting back a whimper, you timidly start sliding yourself up and down his cock. With your ear so close to his mouth, you can hear the soft grunts and shallow pants slipping from his lips whenever he disappears into you, the lewdness of it setting ablaze the waves of fire seething under your skin. Your leisure gait doesn’t last long, and you ride him more energetically with each bob of your body, which he reciprocates by burying his fingers deeper into your waist and pulling you down harder, feeling the pert nubs of your plump breasts brush against his chest as they bounce.

“You’re doing so well, little love,” Astarion says while peppering kisses across the delicate skin of your neck, sending shivers of pleasure down your spine. You can feel him pulsing inside you, bulging veins vibrating against your gummy walls as they are distended to their limit the stiffer he becomes. “Such a good pup for me, taking me so nicely,” he coos, bringing one of his hands to your navel, gliding the pads of his digits along the soft curve of your stomach and towards the ache throbbing in your crotch, where he then grasps your flushed clit between two deft fingers, massaging the tender knot with seasoned adroitness. The sound of smacking flesh grows louder as he pushes against your hips with his own, and you sink down his cock with greater abandon the more you approach the peak of ecstasy, your body glistening with sweat and burning red with his crimson. 

“Ah! I’m—close…” you stutter, your voice trembling as you work your thigh muscles with even greater ardor, letting go of his shoulders to lean back on your outstretched palms. With the fingers of his hand wedged between your legs, he continues stroking the rose-pink bud crowning your mound, moving the other from its place on your waist to gently squeeze one of your breasts, teasing the puckered nipple with his thumb. While watching you lose yourself in the rising crescendo of your release, he accidentally lets his gaze wander to the wound on your throat; promptly averting it, he chooses to focus instead on the luscious expression etched on your pretty face, his lifeblood blooming under your cheeks and nose—the moment you lock eyes with him, the tension finally snaps, and you buckle your elbows as your arms go limp, walls spasming around him and creamy pearls of come leaking from your stretched entrance.  

Spellbound by your cock-drunk image, Astarion pushes you down on the bed without warning, and cradling your face with both of his hands, pulls you into a lustful kiss, forcing your mouth open with his tongue. Still high off your climax, you don’t resist, obediently parting your lips, arms wrapped around his neck and legs around his waist. Shoving his thighs against the back of yours, he bends them into a mating press, and wasting no time, starts ferociously thrusting deep into you, setting a brutal pace; your walls contract and twitch around his enlarged girth, the ripples of your orgasm yet to peter out, making vulgar sucking noises as you swallow him whole. He moans into the kiss with every roll of his hips, blood buzzing in his ears and heart pounding violently inside his chest, fucking you greedily, indulgently, minding his own pleasure and naught else. Your body sways weightlessly like a ragdoll’s each time the base of his cock strikes your groin, but you care not about his rough treatment of you, for nothing brings you greater elation than knowing you can make him feel this way.

“So tight…” he growls with his mouth still pressed against yours, his voice muffled and breathy. Propping his torso up with one of his arms, he brings the hand of the other to your throat, squeezing it firmly, and pulls away to admire his handiwork, a dark intensity blazing within his eyes. “Oh, darling, you look so precious with my fingers around your neck.” His silvery curls fall over his brow as he says this, tousled and dripping with sweat, his appearance at once statuesque and animalistic. He ruts into you in a disorderly fray, his movements messy and sloppy as they usually are in the short moments preceding the culmination of his desire, and with one last powerful thrust, he empties himself inside your fucked out cunt, feeling your fluttering walls clench around him, milking him to the last drop.

“Sweet gods…” Slumping down on top of you, he embraces your sore body and buries his face in your hair, taking in your scent as his cock continues convulsing inside your raw, tender slit, hardened still. Filled with him and his seed, nestled in his arms, you feel comfortably full, warm, safe. Your eyes fall shut, tiredness suddenly overtaking your weary mind, and although erratic thoughts run through it, you hold onto none of them, deciding to just for today, just for this night, turn a blind eye to all implications, all the ill omens, and let yourself be; be by his side, be his spawn, be his bride forever more. 

As you drift off into a dreamless sleep, lulled by the gentle sound of his heartbeat, oblivion tenderly cradles you against its merciful bosom, and the clarity of the precipice of unconsciousness rips your burdens from your soul and makes your every worry seem so futile, so meaningless. Your fate is inevitable, as certain as death itself, and following the precepts of life is a vain undertaking, for they are not the same as those ruling over undeath. Astarion knows this; so should you. Existence is transient, but his dark love is everlasting.

There is a light in every living thing.  It’s crawling t’wards the surface to survive. And in its wake, it tramples everything. We’ll kill the rest, so that the one can thrive.

[idiotwithanipad]

The Return Of The Rat (Pt2)

Amy (My OC) finds out about a new guest at the hotel who has no right to come back, especially after what his past self had tried to do, and what he lied about. Along the way, discovering new, frightening things about herself.

(TW: Implied Child Abuse, Scars, Paranoia)

The singing birds outside the windows stirred the Tudor’s head from his sleep. His eyes cracked open and blinked a few times to adjust to the abrasive sunlight. Remarkably, as his eyes flicked over towards the four post bed, he realised that his detached body remained there, all through the night. 

Its cloak still rested atop the young girl, still sleeping. It seemed that the body came to life shortly after its head did, the slumped shoulders straightened as it sat up straight and stood up. 

“Psst! Oi! Over ‘ere!” Humphrey whisper shouted to his bumbling body.

It seemed as though today was the day for surprises, as the body turned to face him still lying in the small chair by the window. It approached and bent down to retrieve its head, wedging it back into its shoulders with a click.

Humphrey flexed his jaw and held his hands out for balance at first, but the vertigo soon passed. He approached Amy, still sleeping soundly on her side, about to wake her. But he couldn’t bring himself to stir her when he noticed the peaceful state she was in.

He gave a soft smile and turned slowly on his heel to leave the room, still acting as though one misstep would cause a floorboard to creak and risk waking her. He passed through the East Wing bedroom door and stepped down the corridor idly.

In the reception area, some staff were already at work, typing at the computer at the front desk, fluffing the cushions on the lobby sofas, dusting slightly with cloths.

“Ah! Mooorning” Humphrey greeted with a happy wave. He knew they couldn’t see him, or hear him, but he still liked to show manners for the livings taking such good care of the building; to think, just a few years ago, the place was on the brink of collapsing.

If there was one thing Humphrey could look back on his life and take pride of, it was the fact that he never mistreated or abused any servants employed the estate as an adult. Even as a boy he would sneak bread and cuts of meat from the dinner table and bring them to the servant’s quarters for them to eat. 

A young stable boy, probably a year or two older than Humphrey at the time, would try to hide whenever the young nobleman would pass. But in time, the two boys struck up a secret bond, often running about the stables and climbing the orchard trees. The pair took childish delight in their names being similar; Humphrey and Godfrey.

After Humphrey would finish off his daily teachings, he would sneak away to the kitchen to snag a couple of tarts from Cook while her back was turned and flee to the stables. Godfrey almost looked shellshocked every time Humphrey snuck him something from the kitchen. 

But one day, they were caught out. Both boys sitting steadily in an apple tree in the orchard, laughing at a crow as it bathed itself clumsily in the lake. One of the butlers had approached furiously and stomped his shoe into the soil.

“Godfrey! What on God’s green earth are you playing at, boy?!” 

The two boys spun their heads and looked down at the furious butler, Godfrey stuttering and trembling as he descended the tree.

“T’was only a jape, sir…” Young Godfrey tried to reason, his freckled face arching low in shame.

“It was my idea, Terrance” The young nobleman piped up, readily descending the tree himself. The butler switched his vision to Humphrey, almost flabbergasted.

“Young Master Bone. Return to your father at once!”

Before young Humphrey could muster an apology to Godfrey, the butler, who’s aging face now grimaced in furry and took on the appearance of a twisted root, gripped Godfrey about the wrist and dragged him back to the stables.

Humphrey was punished that day too, his nose wouldn’t stop bleeding for an hour, but that mattered little to him. Unfortunately, Humphrey would never see poor Godfrey again, and neither did he find out what became of him. Though he feared the worst. Since then, Humphrey vowed to himself that no butler, nor servant, nor stable hand would be mistreated during his nobility; each would be well fed, each would have access to lengthy breaks and each would be payed weekly.

Even in death he remained the same. Congratulating and praising even the most trivial things; it could be someone placing down a set of cutlery, and he'd give it a round of applause. 

A young staff member approached a table and set down a vase of fresh flowers, Humphrey watched as she mopped her slightly sweaty brow from the morning warmth. 

"Ooh, these are lovely. Brightens up the place, 'dun it?" Humphrey smiled to the woman who never looked at him and who walked back from whence she came. 

He watched as a banner was erected above the fireplace. 

'Bake sale for charity'

Humphrey rose his eyebrows curiously; this would cause a lot of chatter amongst the group for sure. He just hoped he could stay whole for the day. 

Speaking of which, where were they all? The Tudor turned briskly and headed through the house. Unsurprisingly, his ghostly friends remained jammed in the Ball Room discussing which summer activity was best. Humphrey cleared his throat, hoping they'd notice his arrival. 

Their chattering stopped as they each turned to look at Humphrey, their faces beaming in surprise. 

"Humphrey, you're whole again!" Kitty smiled joyfully. 

"Ah, Humphrey. Good to see you back on your shoulders" Cap grinned; the two had often joked that instead of saying 'back on your feet', it would probably be more appropriate in Humphrey's case to say 'back on your shoulders' for obvious reasons. 

Humphrey gave a mocking flutter of his wrist. 

"Did it all by me'self an' all" He boasted with a cheeky grin. 

"Good on ya', mate. Eh- Amy didn't help at all?" Pat chirped. 

"No, no. She's 'aving a lay-in. She's still in her room asleep. First time she's slept all week" Humphrey replied. Fanny gasped and practically staggered back. 

"What?! Still sleeping at this hour? It's almost eight o'clock! A lady should rise early!" She barked. You could practically hear everyone's eyes roll at her comment. 

Robin perked up and huffed, mischief blooming on his face. He rose from his spot on the floor and scampered over to the wall, about to pass through. 

"Ah! Don't you dare" Humphrey pointed. 

Robin froze in his spot and growled in irritation before plodding back over to where he had sat. Humphrey lowered his arm and nodded. 

"Thank you... Anyway, d'you know there was a bake sale goin' on down there?" Humphrey asked, tossing his thumb over his shoulder, gesturing to the door. 

The group looked amongst each other happily, and Kitty rushed out immediately to get to the Reception. Everyone sped after Kitty to see the display of cakes, but Robin approached Humphrey casually. 

"You know... Might want wake up Stompy before she wake up herself" The caveman said, wincing slightly. 

"Why? She's been knackered lately" Humphrey explained. Robin leaned closer. 

"I remember time when daughter of mine, Pin, she get scared because I got scratch on arm from fight. She wake up and cry because she think I not there, she think I die and go away" Robin explained, pulling down the furry covering at his elbow just enough to show a faded yet very deep scar running down the length of his forearm. 

"After 'doption day thing, she might think you really go-..." Robin finished with a flourish of his hands up to the sky. Humphrey's eyes followed Robin's hands upwards before realizing what he meant. 

"Yeah-yeah you're probably right actually..." Humphrey agreed. 

Robin gave a slight nod and patted Humphrey on the shoulder as he passed, slipping through the wooden door and out into the hallway. Humphrey decided to save some time and pass through the walls to get back to the East Wing. Amy still lie on her side, asleep with the hood over her head. Peaceful as ever. Humphrey hated having to wake her up, but what Robin had said made him begin to second guess himself and avoid anymore stress for Amy. 

He petted her hooded head softly and whispered. 

"Amy? Poppet? Time to wake up now". Amy stretched her curled legs out and cracked her eyes open. She grimaced at the sunlight which bounced off the wall behind Humphrey. 

"Ugh...fuck sunlight..." She groaned as she rubbed at her eyes. 

"Come on, rise and shine" Humphrey mused, patting her shoulder. Amy sat up and pulled the hood down from her head sloppily. She glanced over at Humphrey, quickly registering the fact that the Tudor was now attached again. 

"Oh shit. You're whole again?" Amy smiled, dropping her legs off the side of the bed, her four inch platforms swinging above the floor. Humphrey smiled and stood back. 

"I know. He came back last night and ACTUALLY stayed. Makes a change. Anyway, he picked me up and put us back together, so...ta-da" Humphrey mused. 

Amy got down from the bed and headed over to him. 

"Makes a change for you to wake me up" Amy smiled. 

The two made their way downstairs to watch the livings place trays of muffins and cakes onto the tables. Everyone else had already flocked around a chocolate lava cake. 

"Fuck yeah, they got Red Velvet!" Amy gasped, heading over to a lone table in the corner. Her mouth practically watered at the smell of it. It was her second favourite type of cake, the first being an old fashioned Cherry Bakewell tart. It HAD to be Mr Kipling, or I just didn't hit the same. 

Humphrey headed over to the table behind Amy and stared at the delicious looking frosting. 

"I bet if I were a cake, I'd look like that one" Humphrey smiled. Amy let out a breathy laughs and glanced over at him. 

"You would. I'd probably be an out of date bagel" She commented on herself. 

Some loud chatter came from beyond the windows, two men. Humphrey turned to see what the fuss was about and noticed a pedestrian assisting another to parallel park. The man's voice was loud, authoritive, yet meek. Humphrey could've sworn he'd heard a voice like that before. 

The rest of the room's chatter and glee faded away as he ventured towards the window, his eyes fixed on the man beckoning the driver to reverse a little more. That voice, he knew it. 

"Wish you could've tried- Humphrey?" Amy began, quickly noticing the Tudor's absence and spotting him by the window, looking outside. Amy walked over and stood beside him, also catching eye of the two men. 

"What's up? They making a pig's ear or that parking?" Amy asked, mostly to see if they in fact WERE making a pig's ear of it, but also to avert Humphrey's focused and sullen gaze from the bearded man now motioning for the motorist to stop.

"No- it's just-...I could've sworn I'd heard that voice before..." He replied, never averting his eyes from the man. 

"I remember that tone, that shout...". 

Amy narrowed her eyes in confusion and concern, fixing her gaze onto the man now moving away from the car and towards the door. 

Humphrey stepped around Amy and approached the man, his eyes scanning every detail of his face, searching. 

Amy watched as Robin also rose his face from a tray of jam tarts and began sniffing at the air. He turned to face the man also, his nostrils flaring as he stepped beside Humphrey. 

"You recognize 'im?...He seems familiar..." Humphrey asked. Robin squinted and jutted his jaw. 

"Dunno. But, smells familiar. Caught that scent long time ago, but- can't put finger on it"

It was only after the other man, the one driving the car, had entered the Reception, did Humphrey put two and two together. The two men began talking again, and the familiar voice rang clearer than a church bell right above his head. 

His face whitened as he took a few steps back, Robin watched as the Tudor backed up and passed by Amy. 

"Humphrey, what is it? You look like-" Amy began, before Humphrey's hand clutched at her's and began to tug her away from the stranger. 

"Woah, woah, hey! What's going on?" Amy barked. Humphrey swallowed and tightened his fingers around Amy's slight wrist. 

"C'mon- back to your room, Poppet. Now" Humphrey muttered, his eyes still fixed on the idle man. 

Amy looked back to Robin, but the caveman looked just as confused as her. 

"Humphrey, WHAT is going on-?"

"Your room, now" Humphrey spoke, authorative and stern, a huge change from what was the norm for him. 

Amy knew when to shut up and listen, and reluctantly turned her back to Robin and the cake trays and headed back up the stairs towards the East Wing, Humphrey following close behind, peering over his shoulder every second. 

[meowww-ffxiv]

Theodore's household, the shambles that it was after the violent dispersal of its family members, still retained a number of servants.

There were eight in all. Six of them were maids, who maintained the cleanliness of the estate. One was a valet. The last was the butler, whose duties were actually overseen by his daughter, one of the maids, as he was in his nineties and had begun to have memory problems.

Of course, that did not stop him, or any of them, from whispering up a storm when they heard that Theodore had married.

Two of the older ones who watched Theodore grow up even cried. They never said, but Mordred was absolutely sure those weren't tears of gladness.

Only Theodore and his sister, Meledia, still remained of the Pentaghast clan. Their father had killed everyone else on the family tree with his blundering, jealousy, and/or accusations of heresy during the Holy See's dark days. Of those two, Meledia refused to return to her childhood home. She'd instead purchased her own lavish estate in the Emporium and continued her trade as a merchant.

As for the young master...

He had come back with a cat.

The butler, Eustace, had no shame or qualms about courtesy in his old age. After a week of settling in at the estate, he came to Mordred at his desk and said plainly, "Beg pardon, milord, but these humble servants would like to know what your plans are going forward, as it pertains to this household."

"There's no downsizing," Mordred replied. "You have been here for sometimes two, three generations--"

"Ten," Eustace corrected him.

"Ten generations," Mordred agreed. "So of course you will continue to remain here, unless you choose to seek opportunities elsewhere. You're part of our household; so long as you continue to conduct yourselves by our standards, all benefits and protections are conferred upon you."

Eustace's mouth twitched. There was a lot that he wanted to say, but in truth even in his addled old age, he didn't really have the nerve to say them.

Of course, the household knew of Mordred. After the reshuffle of Ishgardian society, Theodore had finally brought him home and shown him around. The servants, in tears from relief at seeing the sanest of their masters returning, had treated Mordred with all the love and adoration of a national hero and friend to the family.

But now Mordred Surana -- or rather Meowdred Surana, not that Eustace would utter that silly abomination of a name in his lifetime -- had gone from "friend" to "the master's spouse".

This deeply complicated things. For one, Mordred would naturally have no idea how an estate like this was run! He would be ignorant to the expectations and dues of Ishgardian society, let alone high society! Which was what the Pentaghasts were! And he was in charge of the books? Eustace had been in charge of the books until his memories started to fail, and while he knew his daughter was all too happy to hand them to this... this... upstart friend-of-the-family...

It was just too improper! Too risky!

Mordred's feline ears twitched. Master Theodore said he couldn't see well, but Eustace felt like those different-colored eyes could peer under his skin. He shifted on his feet uncomfortably.

"Are you worried about generational employment going forward?" he asked bluntly.

"If I may be so bold, my lord, yes," Eustace agreed.

Normally, no matter a nobleman's tastes in romance or pleasure of the flesh, they would produce a trueborn heir. Upon this trueborn heir rode the entire servant wing's future -- he would be their master, their shelter, and if he was generous, would be the sponsor of their children's entry into more prestigious trades or institutions of learning. Some bastard-born were even able to attend the Scholastite with sufficient generosity and backing from their peasant parent's bond with her noble master!

The person marrying into a house also brought with them their own wealth, of course, and their own servants. In this way, the household would be broadened.

Mordred Surana had nothing. Eustace was aware that he slew Nidhogg, but -- begging everyone's pardon -- the top of the catboy's head was three ilms short of Eustace's chin. He cursed like a sailor as he moved around the house tripping on thresholds. He spoke with a lingering Thanalan accent. He skipped soup courses at dinner and only took half the meat.

Behaviors that were once endearingly foreign in a friend-of-the-family were now astoundingly worrisome on the spouse of their master.

One who would be unable to produce a trueborn heir for the next generation of the servants' next generation, even. Unless... Well, Eustace wasn't going to think too deeply about such things. Even more, that would not matter. He knew Theodore treated this person with the chaste reverence priests treated Halone with. But wasn't that another concern of the maids, especially the good-looking ones -- Mordred was in charge of the books now, but he couldn't be bribed.

Mordred didn't know any of the dozens of concerns running through Eustace's mind at once. He addressed only the answer he just received verbally. "That is up to your children to decide."

Eustace's old heart jumped a little in trepidation.

"In one, two, or three decades, Ishgard and Coerthas will change," Mordred continued. He glanced away, towards the fire in the hearth of his office, twirling the quill in his fingers. "The two-houses system of government right now was settled upon as a compromise while Ishgard transitioned from theocracy to republic. Your children, your children's children, will likely find themselves navigating wholly different social ladders and hardships."

He paused, seemed to mull something over, then put the quill down and knitted his hands together. "I do not know what form our support will take for your future generations. Only that it will never be, in any ways, less than what their parents received from us."

The servants in this house served Theodore's paternal line. Eustace grew up under his grandfather. Four of the eight maids were from his mother's house upon her marriage, but both of the old lord and lady -- even the old lord, before his madness and obsession started overtaking him -- were generous benefactors. They insisted that the servants were given basic education, and Lady Gwenfried-Pentaghast had even given them an extra day off a week on the grounds of worshiping the Fury, and never really minded if they used it for their own time or for actual prayer.

Theodore, once he returned, had paid all of them the accumulated pensions that were missed. He personally saw them safely escorted to strongholds during the chaos of the Dragonsong War's end. And of course, he still took care of them now. They hid under the shadow of his accomplishments, safe from any storm. Some even treated Pentaghast household with respect, offering discounts and gifts in their shop...

In other words, the Pentaghasts were very generous benefactors. They had always been.

Mordred's words were an affirmation, but also a reminder. His flinty gaze carried a warning.

Eustace suddenly decided that he shouldn't risk making any of his misgivings known, actually. He hadn't had much interaction with Mordred while he was here as a guest. And no offense, but Master Theodore really did seem the soft-hearted, roguish type who would marry for love. So Eustace had worried that this person was going to ruin them.

But the Miqo'te foreigner who stood three ilms short of this old man's chin now sat behind his desk, papers and ledgers surrounding him in neat organized stacks, speaking in "we" like his and Theodore's will were one, his low voice so clear and articulated...

Eustace's ancient knees wanted to knock together a little. He didn't want to offend this person.

So he swiftly bowed, thanked Mordred for his reassurance, and left.

Once the door had shut and the sound of his cane had faded down the hall, Mordred sighed through his nose. He rolled his eyes, then turned to the balcony behind him.

Theodore pushed the balcony door in. His cheeks were a little red from the wind outside, but he seemed unruffled. "You frightened Eustace," he said mildly, not sounding the least bit upset.

"I didn't mean to." Mordred looked chagrined.

"It is better if you did. He was having memory problems. A little nervousness will help keep the encounter firm in his mind."

Mordred frowned. He wasn't a proponent of fear as a means of getting the point across in civil context. But when he opened his mouth to say so, a gust of cold winds flowed through the door. His lungs seized violently, and he coughed.

Theodore quickly shut the door, then moved to his side. Mordred shook his head, waving him away. Once the fit passed, he grabbed a ledger and pressed it into Theodore's hands. "Review it," Mordred rasped. "Stamp."

The ledger contained the last six months of expenses and income. Last night, it had been a mess of hastily scrawled notes in a drawer. Now every entry had been transformed into rows upon rows of blocky, intentionally legible handwriting, outlining every component in different-colored ink.

Theodore's eyebrows rose. "You did all this in one day?"

"I sorted them last night. Wasn't much work writing them down." Mordred poured himself a cup of lukewarm tea, heated it up with mana, and knocked it back like it was a whiskey shot.

The quill on the desk picked itself up and began its diligent march across the paper again, resuming the task its master had been in the middle of when Eustace interrupted him.

Just because Mordred wasn't physically writing with his hand did not mean he wasn't expending energy, however. Magic required aether, after all. So Theodore put aside the ledger and ruffled his hair. "Go to bed," he said gently.

"Lemme finish this."

"Then go to bed."

Mordred sighed gustily. "Are you my father?"

"Your father would have said the same. And I am your spouse."

Mordred squinted at him, ears flicking. "You're enjoying that word too much."

But his words were soft. Theodore knew he had already agreed.

[reasoningdaily]

https://t.co/cf5Vn8Hepg?s=09

https://www.history.com/news/slave-bible-redacted-old-testament

Why Bibles Given to Slaves Omitted Most of the Old Testament

When slavery was legal, its proponents often justified it with the Bible; specifically, a verse that tells servants to obey their masters. There were also a lot of verses that abolitionists could and did use to argue against slavery. But you wouldn’t find those in the heavily-redacted “Slave Bible.”

Most of the Old Testament is missing, and only about half of the New Testament remains. The reason? So that the enslaved Africans in the Caribbean islands of Jamaica, Barbados and Antigua couldn’t read or be read anything that might incite them to rebel.

The Slave Bible was actually titled Parts of the Holy Bible, selected for the use of the Negro Slaves, in the British West-India Islands.

It’s not clear who exactly directed these changes. British planters in the Caribbean had long been weary of missionaries, and could’ve demanded that they only teach enslaved people certain parts of the Bible. But some missionaries may have also believed that it was only appropriate to teach enslaved people excerpts that reinforced their enslaved status.

Whoever the Slave Bible’s editors were, “they’re really highlighting portions that would instill obedience,” says Anthony Schmidt, a curator at Washington, D.C. Museum of the Bible, which has a copy of the Slave Bible on display. There are only two other known copies.

The Slave Bible on display as part of an exhibition at the Museum of the Bible in Washington, D.C.

The first Slave Bible was published in 1807, three years after the Haitian Revolution ended. That revolution was the only slave revolt in history in which enslaved people successfully drove out their European oppressors to formed a new nation, and it increased American and European paranoia that the people they oppressed would one day rise up against them.

READ MORE: 7 Famous Slave Revolts 

The Haitian Revolution could have been a motivation for publishing a Bible without the part where Moses tells the Pharoah to “Let my people go.” Missionaries and planters may have thought that Christianity—at least, certain parts of it—would protect against revolutions by teaching enslaved people to respect their masters.

In this context, Schmidt says the British may have thought that teaching enslaved people Biblical lesson about obedience and accepting one’s fate would help them “be better slaves.”

The Slave Bible doesn’t include Moses leading the Israelites to freedom, but it does include Joseph’s enslavement in Egypt. In the U.S., some sermons aimed at enslaved people portrayed Joseph as someone who “accepts his lot in life, keeps his faith in God and in the end is rewarded for it,” Schmidt says. The Slave Bible may have wanted to impart a similar lesson to its audience.

Passages that emphasized equality between groups of people were also excised. This included: “There is neither Jew nor Greek, there is neither bond nor free, there is neither male nor female: for ye are all one in Christ Jesus” (Galatians 3:28). The Slave Bible also doesn’t contain the Book of Revelation, which tells of a new heaven and Earth in which evil will be punished.

In contrast, one of the passages that remained was one that proponents of slavery loved to cite: “Servants, be obedient to them that are your masters according to the flesh, with fear and trembling, in singleness of your heart, as unto Christ” (Ephesians 6:5).

[god-whispers]

jul 7

familiar friday - friendship (a repeat daily)

i am blessed to have some good friends.  a while back a good friend sent me what is called a "prayer patch".  it's just this little square patch of cloth sewn together into a one inch square.  when rubbed you can feel this tiny little cross within.

it didn't really come with instructions, so i kind of used my imagination.  i have recently decided to take it into my prayer time with me.  it's my way of saying, "Lord, this is Your time now.  i have things i need to bring to You and i definitely want to listen for what is on Your heart.  (i'll let the Holy Spirit take care of that part.)  i want to soak in your presence and thank You for all You have done".

i hold it, rubbing occasionally, making me remember the cross He bore was so much heavier than this tiny one.  it was His love for us that held Him on that tree, not the nails.  the load of sin and guilt, it became His burden.  what words could i ever say?  what debt could i ever pay.  there is nothing that would suffice.

then i remember the words He spoke.  "if anyone desires to come after Me, let him deny himself, and take up his cross, and follow Me." matt 16:24  He has left me this tiny cross to carry, while He carried the one that would have surely crushed me.  and oh, how often i complain about how heavy my load is and how weary i grow.  then, even in the midst my complaining, He lovingly reaches down and steadies me whenever my knees begin to buckle.

You are the Master i never want to leave.  "but if the servant plainly says, 'i love my master, my wife, and my children; i will not go out free,' then his master shall bring him to the judges.  he shall also bring him to the door, or to the doorpost, and his master shall pierce his ear with an awl; and he shall serve him forever." exo 21:5-7  i am Your bond servant for life.  this is slavedom i never want to be freed of.

you see, we are all slaves to one thing or another.  "Jesus answered them, “most assuredly, I say to you, whoever commits sin is a slave of sin." john 8:34  another scripture i quoted rather recently remains appropriate here also.  "if you do well, will you not be accepted?  and if you do not do well, sin lies at the door.  and its desire is for you, but you should rule over it." gen 4:7  sin's desire is to rule us.  only through the Spirit of Christ can we rule it.

i have another friend (yes, i am blessed with several).  the other day she sent me a little bookmark that after a few minutes in the light, it will glow in the dark for awhile.  of course the glow always wears off.

the face of moses shown brightly after he had been in the light of the Lord.  the people "could not look steadily at the face of Moses because of the glory of his countenance, which glory was passing away."  2 cor 3:7  His glory is fading from us if we don't spend time in His presence.  time in His presence assures the light (the glory) will not fade.  "but we all, with unveiled face, beholding as in a mirror the glory of the Lord, are being transformed into the same image from glory to glory, just as by the Spirit of the Lord."  2 cor 3:18

yes, i have several friends.  "but there is a friend who sticks closer than a brother." prov 18:24  his friendship requires a separation, a sanctification.  "do you not know that friendship with the world is enmity with God?  whoever therefore wants to be a friend of the world makes himself an enemy of God." james 4:4

abraham was called the friend of God.  i don't know about you, but i want to be His friend also.  He has said, "be holy, for I am holy." 1 pet 1:16  that's something this flesh cannot do: be holy.  but it is required. it is commanded.  "o wretched man that i am!  who will deliver me from this body of death?  i thank God — through Jesus Christ our Lord!" rom 7:24-25

here are some song lyrics you might well remember:

i come to the garden alone while the dew is still on the roses and the voice i hear falling on my ear the Son of God discloses.

and He walks with me and he talks with me and He tells me i am His own and the joy we share as we tarry there none other has ever known.

it is indeed the joy none other has known.  know it for yourself.  you too can be God's friend.  "for He Himself has said, “I will never leave you nor forsake you." heb 13:5

[zuko-always-lies]

ATLA AU Idea which is Basically “Azula Raises Katara for Several Years”

I’ve had this idea kicking around my head for months, and, since I have no intention of writing it, I figure I might as well post it. To be clear, the premise of this fanfic is “Azula, Katara, and Sokka get traumatized in ways they weren’t in canon, but the events that traumatize them potentially help lead to a better outcome in the long-term,” so be prepared for rough sailing.

This idea is very much inspired by all the “Katara gets kidnapped young and raised within the Fire Nation royal family” fanfics, which I think can be excellent if done with care. However, in a situation where Katara and Azula develop a relationship when they are young, the natural tendency is to make Katara the “motherly” or parental one, and I wanted to turn that on its head. I also wanted to explore some of the possible implications of Azula taking on adult sized responsibilities as a child and of the perverse ways that power differentials can influence things. I also wanted to explore some of the ways that Azula’s commitment to duty and responsibility can be a positive thing. Another ~2000 or so words under the cut.

The premise is that, shortly after Zuko gets banished, Katara gets captured by the Southern Raiders as the last Southern Water Tribe waterbender and brought back to Caldera and presented as a trophy to Ozai. Ozai’s first reaction is to have her executed, but fortunately Azula is also present in the throne room. For reasons which Azula doesn’t entirely understand herself but which definitely have something to do with her guilt over what happened to Zuko, Azula decides to intervene, despite the risks involved. However, not being Zuko, she manages to do this without provoking Ozai, through convincing him that Katara is more valuable alive as a trophy, a symbol, and a plaything than she is dead. Ozai doesn’t really care that much, so he pawns Katara off to Azula and basically forgets about her, accidentally using language that implies to Azula that Katara and taking care of Katara is now Azula’s responsibility. Azula is at an age where she’s started to take her responsibilities and duties with deadly seriousness.

Katara doesn’t know what to make of this all.  She’s been severely traumatized by being kidnapped and torn from her family and culture and by having her life threatened by Ozai. She’s aware that Azula saved her life, but the language Azula used to in order to do so sounds warped and screwed up to Katara, who is unaware that Azula had to say what she said in order to manipulate Ozai.  Katara noticed that Azula seemed a little nervous when she talked to Ozai, but Katara doesn’t initially know how risky and dangerous what Azula did was.

Again, Azula takes her responsibilities with deadly seriousness. So, when it becomes her responsibility to take care of Katara, Azula is determined to do the best possible job, even though she’s 11 and Katara is also 11. If there were any responsible adults present, they would intervene and talk to Azula about how awful an idea this is, but there aren’t any left.  In any case, Katara’s waterbending abilities make it so she has to be kept under some kind of supervision, Azula is perceptive enough to worry that Katara might be mistreated if she got fostered out, and in any case Azula is convinced she can do a better job than any foster family.

Azula is a badly abused 11 year old who grew up indoctrinated in an absolutely toxic ideology. She’s never really seen good parenting in her life. The idea of her trying to parent should be terrifying. Yet she’s aware that Ursa didn’t do the best job with her, and since Katara isn’t a “monster” Azula sees no reason to replicate Ursa’s behavior. Azula believes the way that Ozai treats her is absolutely justified, even though she has some knowledge of its negative effects on her, but since Katara isn’t a princess who has immense duties to her nation and family, Azula sees no reason to treat her that way. In fact, Azula is aware of ignorance about parenting, and tries to read as much about parenting as she can. She also reads as much about the water tribes as she can in order to try to understand Katara better.

In terms of being a “parent,” Azula is overall a little standoffish, absent, and demanding.  She doesn’t need to directly look after Katara’s physical care(she has servants for that), but she has to look after Katara’s emotional needs, her education, and her overall care. As a temporary measure, she arranges that Katara sleep on a cot in Azula’s room because she’s not sure where to put her, and this arrangement becomes permanent. This means Azula and Katara usually eat together, since Azula has taken most of her meals in her room, but Azula is very busy with her duties, training, and education, so they don’t spend much time together in a typical day. Azula has Katara officially declared a servant(but one who only reports to Azula) in order to regularize her status and allow Katara to draw a salary(most of which Azula holds in escrow for when Katara comes of age), but Azula only rarely asks Katara to do work; Katara had far more chores back in the Southern Water Tribe. On the other hand, Azula demands that Katara work hard in her education and on practicing her waterbending. Katara is too old to be sent to the Royal Fire Academy for Girls, but Azula obtains tutors for her, in addition to getting her whatever waterbending scrolls she can and trying to obtain the best possible bending coaches for Katara’s waterbending, sometimes even stepping in herself to try to coach Katara.

Azula is aware that Katara wants to return home, but she doesn’t think that Ozai would ever allow that, and, in any case, Azula is an imperialist who thinks Katara is better off being “civilized” in the Fire Nation than she would be back in her ignorant and “savage” home.  A large portion of Katara’s education is intended to “civilize” her. Azula doesn’t have firm ideas of where adult Katara will fit into Fire Nation society but plays with the idea of marrying her into the nobility or of making her governor of the conquered Water Tribes. So overall, Azula does a shockingly good job as “parent” given she’s an abused 11 year child acting within the toxic norms of the Fire Nation, but that still means she does a bad job, and her relationship with Katara remains pretty toxic.

Ozai and the rest of the court have some awareness of what’s going on, but they honestly don’t care as long Azula continues to be an exemplary princess, fulfills her duties, and continues to exceed expectations. Some members of the court even find Azula’s personal commitment to “civilizing” a savage to be inspiring. However, the burden of taking care of Katara means that Azula is under even more pressure than she is in canon, with the good news being that Azula has something more of a support network than in canon. Katara provides some measure of support, and in this AU Azula never has the energy to really push Ukano’s political career forward, and so Mai never has to leave, so Ty Lee also stays put.

Katara, again, is severely traumatized by her experiences, and to a degree feels helpless. She knows that she can’t escape and go back home. She’s resentful of Azula and particularly of the efforts to cut Katara off from her culture, but at the same time Katara ends internalizing some Fire Nation culture. Yet after a while Katara gets a sense of how toxic the environment is at the Royal Court, and she soon(after overhearing a conversation between Mai and Ty Lee which was supposed to be confidential) learns what happened to Zuko and realizes how much Azula risked in order to protect Katara, and Katara can’t help but feel intense gratitude to Azula for it. Azula also gradually becomes more and more respectful of Water Tribe culture, and Katara deeply appreciates the emphasis Azula places on Katara mastering waterbending.  Azula, Mai, and Ty Lee are also the only people in the Fire Nation who are ever consistently kind to Katara, and Katara ends up deeply bonding with each one of them, although the resulting relationships are not the healthiest. Katara eventually starts to develop a sense of how each one of them has been deeply victimized by Fire Nation culture. Azula goes to great lengths to hide her own struggles and pain from Katara, but Katara spends a lot of time with her and sometimes notices. Several years in, Katara notices some positive changes in Azula and begins to play with the idea that she can positively influence Azula so that Azula will be become a kinder and anti-imperialist Firelord.

Azula thinks Katara’s waterbending is the coolest thing ever(well, aside from firebending at least), a sentiment shared to a lesser degree by Mai and Ty Lee. Azula also thinks that learning to fight is vital, so she brings Katara along for her spars with Mai and Ty Lee. Katara makes rapid progress, particularly due to her access to many waterbending scrolls. As a result of this, and of Azula, Mai, and Ty Lee not separating, all four girls end up being significantly better combatants than they were in canon.

Mai and Ty Lee have complex reactions to Katara, but they eventually come to like and even love her. There is an element of resentment present because Katara takes up so much of the ever busy Azula’s time, but Azula forces her friends to spend time with Katara, and they end up bonding with her.  Katara’s empathy and compassion works in her favor here, especially since she rapidly develops into one of the few people who sees and appreciates them for who they are. Mai and Ty Lee also find Katara’s waterbending to be an interesting and intriguing method of combat, soon come to respect Katara’s budding combat skills, and, as people deeply unhappy with their own places in society, they find Katara’s stories of life at the south pole to be interesting. Mai has issues with Katara being a little too “motherly,” but on the other hand appreciates that Katara pays attention to Mai’s actual desires and needs.  Ty Lee sometimes finds Katara to be a little too similar to her for comfort, but also at the same time appreciates Katara’s caring side and the way she’s not reluctant to give her positive attention. Frequently Azula is too busy to join her friends, so Katara, Ty Lee, and Mai end up hanging out together. Freaks and outsiders stick together.

Azula, through her research into the Water Tribes, personal experience with Katara, and interest in Katara’s waterbending, begins to subtly yet strongly move in anti-imperialist directions and doubt Fire Nation ideology, but her transformation has scarcely begun by the time Book 1 begins. She does benefit from better relationships with her friends, though, and Katara gives her some emotional support. Meanwhile, to a lesser degree Mai and Ty Lee have had their own doubts develop about imperial ideology.

Azula tends to see her relationship with Katara mainly in terms of responsibility and duty, but she ultimately comes to fiercely love Katara.

Zuko and Iroh do their things, just like in canon.  They receive vague reports about Katara’s presence in court, but they don’t understand the significance of them.

Sokka gets badly traumatized by losing his sister and believes her to be killed by the Fire Nation. Hakoda, Bato, and the water tribe warriors also still leave to fight the Fire Nation. Sokka is absolutely dedicated to seeking vengeance on the Fire Nation, and when he accidently defrosts Aang, he sees an opportunity.

Book 1 largely plays out the same, with minor changes. I think an interesting one is that Suki ends up joining a badly understrength Team Avatar and temporally leaving her warriors behind in order to aid Avatar Kyoshi’s reincarnation with the fulfillment of his destiny.

Book 2 opens with Azula being sent to capture Zuko and Iroh. Mai and Ty Lee tag along, in part with the hope of making sure Zuko is captured without being harmed, and Azula decides to bring Katara too rather than leave her alone in Caldera.  However, the operation goes south, and Azula, Mai, Ty Lee, and Katara soon find themselves hunting the Avatar. Katara’s loyalties are about to be tested like never before…Meanwhile, Azula, Mai, and Ty Lee all have seeds of anti-imperialism growing within them, but what will it take for these seeds to blossom and give fruit? Meanwhile, Azula grapples with not only her canon trauma but also the trauma she experienced through her parentification.

[sepia-mahogany]

Prompt: hearing about xuanwus defeat, madam jin and jin zixuan come to lotus pier and overhear madam yu saying wei wuxian should have let the 'sect heirs die', lwj who's recovering also overhears, the 3 get first hand experience of jiang household situation and decide fk this and take wwx out of there, its a prompt from vrishchikawrites blog (a wonderful write!) So maybe ask permission?

From the prompt on @vrishchikawrites

Jin Zixuan could not forget the young man, the head disciple of Yunmeng Jiang, who, despite his previous (petty) grievances with, had stepped up when everyone else had been frozen on the spot, and no matter how hard he tried, he could not get his blood stained image out of his mind. Which had led to this discussion.

“What? No! I forbid it.” his father responded when he asked for sending reinforcements to Jiang Sect, while he understood with Cloud Recesses burnt down, and Nie under attack, either Yunmeng Jiang or Lanling Jin were next on the table, and despite having well equipped men, with the best of weapons, his father refused to extend help. 

Refused to stand against those who sought to harm his son, ‘in situations like these, know when to step back’ he had said, and Jin Zixuan could feel shame creeping up under his skin, outnumbered and clearly at losing stakes, he hadn’t hesitated to save him, and what would that make him if he forgot the debt so clearly owed? To live the lavish life of a coward..! He could see his mother fuming from where she stood, and closed his eyes to suppress his bitter thoughts, he wanted to do something, anything to help.

And suddenly, anger melted from her face and that smile crept up her face and he felt a chill down his spine, a sense of foreboding overcame him, he could see his father tense as well. “Of course, the Jin Sect sides with them.” she spoke, venom dripping off her every word. “Nothing wrong if the Sect Leader’s wife wants the marriage renewed?” a pit formed in his stomach, he did not want to marry a woman he barely knew, but using this opportunity, they could, in a sense create a bond, stronger than of just two sworn sisters.

However, “Madam Jin meets up with her sworn sister, Madam of Jiang Sect, just as Qishan Wen begins its attacks?” the war has been declared, how would it seem if the two sect Madams, and the Sect heirs are meeting, with or without the Sect Leader? “The risks are completely unneeded, what do we gain from this?” his mother glared at his father, who pointedly ignored her, Jin Zixuan exhaled, thinking things over.

As much as he disliked the engagement, he knew she would not bring it up, unless the situation, as dire as it was, needed it, this bond could provide future aid to one another should the need arise, so Jin Zixuan kept his disagreements to himself, because he knew she wouldn’t force him, not with the concerns of a  cold loveless marriage like his parents, he knew she was using it as a cover to aid her sworn sister.

An opportunity, he closed his eyes and took a deep breath, then remembered how the Second Jade, Lan Wangji had stood shoulder to shoulder with him,  and Wei Wuxian, Head Disciple, had stepped up to save them. 

Jin Zixuan exhaled, and made a decision, muttering out a half-hearted excuse, he left them on their own, and later into the night, he approached his mother.

--------

The boat landed steadily, unnoticed in the middle of the night, his mother had won the final say in the matter, of course with the reluctant agreement of remaining disguised as just another trade ship, the serene view would have been calming, had his nerves not have been high strung from adrenaline, small sacrifices, he could of course find a way to break off the engagement in a future of more peaceful times.

Jin Zixuan climbed out the boat first, followed calmly by his mother, the disguises were near perfect, for the disciples around the brightly lit place to look curious, but not alarmed. One, he recognised seeing a few times at Cloud Recesses, came near them with a nervous smile. “We offer you our sincerest apologies but...we’d appreciate it if travellers could avoid an audience with the Sect Leader?” 

The disguises were perfect then, for they had been mistaken as travellers that would go to and fro from Yunmeng Jiang Sect, his mother sniffed and looked at the disciple sternly “We are not here for the Sect Leader, but the Violet Spider, we have an important message for them.” Jin Zixuan had noticed before but now it had become more apparent as the disciples shifted around, something was off, it dampened his enthusiasm and the rush he had felt earlier, instead concern filled him, had something happened to Wei Wuxian?

His mother held out a token, the disciple’s eyes widened and he bowed in respect, “I assume this would be enough?” Madam Jin said curtly, and the disciple nodded, though tensely. “This one will escort you to the guest chambers” 

The curious gazes had not been moved, as they moved inside, step by step, down the corridor they went, as the muffled voices became more distinguishable, all 3 of them froze when they heard, unmistakably the Jiang Sect Heir’s voice. “-You shouldn’t have played the hero and you shouldn’t have cared for such a hell of a thing. If in the beginning you hadn’t….” 

Jin Zixuan felt a cold pit forming in his stomach, surely he must be mistaken, but seeing the expression twisting  on his mothers face, he could assume he was not, in fact, misunderstanding what Jiang Wanyin was implying. 

The disciple bowed quickly, slightly panicked “If you’d follow me-” Madam Jin pointed at him and he immediately shut up, head bowed, just as the Jiang Sect Leader reprimanded “Jiang Cheng.” Silence followed. “Do you know in which ways what you just have said is not appropriate?” was followed by a glum “Yes.”

Even if slightly, Jin Zixuan relaxed, his mother’s expression lightening into a frown, ‘at least someone is self-aware’ Madam Jin thought. “He’s just angry and speaking without care” another voice added, Jin Zixuan perked up, Wei Wuxian! So he was alright, he felt relieved. Madam Jin continued to frown, Wei Wuxian was clearly trying to lessen the pressure off of the Jiang heir. 

Another harsh voice cut through them all “Yes, he doesn’t understand but what does it matter, as long as Wei Ying understands!?” rang out her voice, Madam Jin’s lips pursed into a line, of what her son had just said, that was what she was focusing on?

 “‘To attempt at the impossible’ is exactly how he is, isn’t it? Fooling around even though he knew it’d bring trouble to his sect!?” Jin Zixuan sneaked a look at his mother to see her eyes cold, her fist clenched tightly, he was aware they shouldn’t be hearing this, but this? It wasn’t what they expected at all, he was frozen in place, what in the world was he hearing?

Madam Jin’s thoughts matched her appearance, for once she felt less than charitable towards Yu Ziyuan, and more and more like a fool, here she was, risking her and her son’s safety, her sects safety, for a woman who couldn't care less about her son’s life, but was also wilfully blinding herself to the war right on the horizon, ‘No’ she thought to herself, ‘it was I who was truly blind’

And it was the boy she heard being called ‘Fengmian’s bastard’ or ‘son of a servant’ who had saved her son's life instead, she bit back the bitter chuckle that threatened to escape her, truly, what a fool she was, to be caught in the violet spiders web.

She looked at her son, whose face clouded over the more he heard, she grabbed his arm tightly, if nothing else then to prevent him from barging inside, with Jiang Fengmian’s favor, she was sure that they didn’t need to interfere, until, “My lady, what are you doing here?” she held back her disbelief, her son on the other hand, inhaled sharply.

This was what he was focusing on? Not the insults to his bas- to his ward? To his sect’s entire foundation? It would seem she was truly mistaken, in her and Yu Ziyuan sharing their miseries, entirely wrong about her character, and who was still throwing around callous words for the sake of it, for what else? If not her own cruelty?

"What am I doing here? What a joke that I am asked of such a thing! Sect Leader Jiang, do you still remember that I'm also the leader of Lotus Pier? Do you still remember that every inch of the earth here is my territory? Do you still remember, between the one lying there and the one standing there, which one is your son?" Disbelief and disgust couldn’t even begin to describe what Madam Jin was feeling, the Sect Leader’s response,  however, “I do remember.” Enhanced those to the heights she didn't even know she was capable of feeling.

And so stood the enraged Madam of Jin Sect, the horrified Jin heir and one ashamed disciple whose head could bow no lower, but that was nothing compared to what was said next “You do remember, but there's no use if you simply remember. Wei Ying, he really can't take it unless he stirs up some trouble, can he? If I had known, I would've made him stay in Lotus Pier properly and not go outside. Could Wen Chao really have dared to do anything to the two young masters of the GusuLan Sect and Lanling Jin Sect? Even if he did, it'd mean that they ran out of luck. Since when was it your turn to play the hero?"

Blood roared in Madam Jin’s ears, her nails digging into her palm, she wanted to bite Yu Ziyuan’s head off there and then. ‘Of all the idiotic, foolish, horrid, things she could utter-’ in her cursing, she only realised she had put too much force in her rage filled haze when her son hissed in pain, she immediately let go of his arm, and pinched the bridge of her nose, taking calming breaths.

She was afraid she would do something terrible and irrevocable if she stayed there any longer, listening to a pathetic mockery of- she exhaled and pushed Jin Zixuan towards the open doors. “B-but mother-” he looked back but she gave him that look and he quietened “Later a-Xuan.” while moving outwards, the disciple trailing behind them, they could easily catch some of the words the woman threw at Wei Wuxian.

Madam Jin gritted her teeth in anger, and left without looking back, once she and her son were seated in the boat. “A-Xuan” she began, lightly ruffling his hair “Your marriage is up to you to decide, I will have no say in the matter from here onwards” Her son was not going to be married into that cursed Sect no matter what if she could help it, she moved forward to pull him into a hug, “Mother was wrong.”

 “But mother what about..?” She heard him say, she pulled back and rest one hand on his shoulder, the other caressing his cheek, her son, who by the Jiang’s standards, should’ve been killed, and her blood boiled in her veins. “We came here to make a bond and talk if it were possible, since that wasn’t possible, it can be done some other day.” She lightly patted him, and seeing his thoughts drift off, thought to herself darkly ‘and if the Jiangs are attacked, well, they ran out of luck then.’

Her son hesitantly nodded, “Wei Wuxian...I owe him, for saving me then, if not for him.....” She sniffed, as if indicating what was obvious “Of course,” When the news spread later that Lotus Pier was attacked, with Jiang Wanyin and Wei Wuxian on the run, she hoped for Wei Wuxian’s survival, more so than the Jiang Sect Heir.

And if, perhaps, after a few years her son proposed sworn brotherhood with that Wei Wuxian, well, it wasn’t without her approval.

----------------------------

authors notes i guess?

Okay so writing Madam Yu’s lines legit left me disgusted like wtf was she even saying?? Also like I tried to write Madam Jin similar but a bit less than Madam Yu (ya know madam jin never whipped kids with her spiritual weapons, if she had any, not to our knowledge at least...right?) but ended up venturing straight into slightly dark madam jin heh, also like no engagement, no jin-wei tense relationship, (there’ll be 1-2 parts more probably) also wwx woke up earlier in this one, this’ll serve as catalyst for later years. 

[havetheavengersdoneanythingwrong]

An Aside -- Beyond the World's End

"If, by some one-in-a-million chance, she is able to deepen her bond with her Master, that Master will gain immense power.

But it should be kept in mind that she is utterly different from humans, and is something abnormal.

Her compassion, her love -- is not meant to co-exist with humanity."

--

I find myself in a cave.

It's horribly dark, in here. Glancing down to my hands, they're already shaking. I can hear the faint movements of water about me -- the sounds of crashing waves, softly, from beyond the stone walls.

I find even breathing to be a struggle. As though there's something in the air that weaves its way into my lungs -- suffocating me.

...I take a breath in -- met with the horrid iron-like stench of blood.

Not met with anything else -- merely that, and that exclusively.

Blinking, I find my eyes burning, ever-so-slightly.

But even as my vision grew blurrier with time, even then, I could spot something moving --

--slithering--

--from the shadows.

"...Master."

...A familiar, deep, steely voice.

'Gorgon.' At a glance, and that alone, I knew full well where I stood.

Not as an ally, anymore. In this world -- a dream, I so believed -- I were now a victim.

More aptly --

"...Even you end up here. As had the others before you -- heroes seeking salvation from me, for the sake of the world. The world, and its people."

...The slithering grows closer. A face bows to meet me -- piercing purple eyes meeting my own in a piercing stare.

Even now, I already feel my limbs grow stiff.

"You are no fool, Master. And in this land here, you have your chance to play the hero. To bring me down -- realize what a mistake you've made. What a Pandora's Box you have opened by letting me free on this world." A blade drops at my feet. It's rusted, yet sharp -- a dual-ended longsword. My limbs free -- I pick it up, in a moment, as though I had no other option.

"...I propose upon you my mercy, Master. I have tolerated you enough to grant you this much. So make your decision." The woman slithers backwards, only a couple of paces.

"Face me, and defeat me -- and when your world is at peace, you will find no threat from me to destroy it all over again."

A smirk danced across her face, as the snakes gathered.

"Fail, and I will destroy it all. You included. My feast will be everlasting, dear Master -- you have never been an exception to this."

And not waiting for an answer --

--A laser fired down, scorching the Earth beneath me. Jumping leftwards, holding the blade's flat end in front of me, another blast razed the place my feet once stood on -- barely scrambling to land, I found myself met with another blast, jumping backwards to narrowly avoid its impact.

"You keep running, Master. Do you view yourself as incapable of defeating me?"

Her grin fades, only for a moment -- another blast, just as I took a hasty footstep right, setting aflame where I then stood.

"You know that answer as well as I do, Gorgon..!"

Another step left -- and with it, another place on the cave floor that now left itself a charred mess. The lady approaches, snapping her fingers -- another blast, forcing me to dodge forwards.

"You will have to make a strike eventually, Master. Do you desire to die without even inflicting a scratch on your killer?"

The stench in the air stifles my breath -- I cough, and she meets that with a beam I only barely step out of the way to avoid.

In front of me, only a step away, lay the Servant herself -- up close, her arms crossed, furrowing her brow. Her grin faltered, for a moment.

"...Master."

"--Damnit, this isn't..."

"If you do not kill me, I will kill you. If you cannot kill me, someone else will. Do you see what this means for you, Master?" Her hand reaches out -- towards me. My heartrate spikes -- despite the stuffiness of the air, I take a sharp breath in.

"You must kill me to stand a chance. You must defeat me to even have a hope of succeeding."

...And was she wrong?

As I stand there, this beast ready to annihilate me where I stand -- I realize.

I stand no chance.

If I cannot defeat Gorgon -- neither could I defeat anything else.

Even in our first meeting -- in Babylonia, that time ago -- I found her only the preparation for something far stronger than she could ever hope to be.

And in comparison -- the threats were sure to grow stronger than even the Beast herself.

...The woman's eyes slid down -- her mouth opening.

"...I shall curse you -- as you have cursed me. So melt away, in P--"

...In a moment, I found my wits.

That Mystic Code -- it shone, in a moment, and at that -- I found a rush.

Of yet-unseen strength -- a glimpse of the willpower I perhaps should've always had.

My vision went blank -- those seconds passed in hours, in years.

Each movement, each twitch --

--as I stabbed the blade directly, in one fell swoop--

--into the ground.

"--Master..?!"

It was a dream.

This, all within it -- was a dream.

Her desires to end the world remained. That, I was sure of.

And yet, her words spoke of something beneath what she'd said.

To defeat an opponent --

--...I didn't have to kill them.

She was far larger. But with that momentary burst, I threw myself headlong into her stomach -- winding her, preventing her from uttering the True Name of Pandemonium Cetus.

I tossed my arms around her -- using what little strength I had, tumbling to the ground, taking her by surprise -- taking her with me.

The Servant coughed, wincing slightly -- a moment taken glancing about, attempting to gather her bearings.

To decipher what happened.

"...Master. You are aware that you have lost."

"...I'm not a hero, Gorgon."

...The woman's eyes widened, the slightest bit.

"...I am weak. Worthless, even. I know I can't beat you in straight combat. Not alone. And... Despite it all..." ...I breathed out a soft sigh. Squeezed my eyes shut.

"...I know full well what you may do, when the end is in sight. That you might end everything, and me alongside it. It's probably the same for a lot of people here."

"...Master..?" "...Perhaps I'm selfish. --No... I am. I know that much. What I know of the world outside Chaldea isn't much... Only how cruel it is."

...I can hear her breathing. Slowly, shaking breaths.

"...This world can be made better. No matter what... Until the day that I end up here, at your hands, I..."

...

"...I want to be safe. Me, and those people that remain with kindness. Our close ones... Those few people who remain innocent."

"...And the rest, Master?" "...They can burn, for all I care."

...

"...You fool... I try to teach you a lesson, and yet you remain, saying things like that."

...I can hear a chuckle, from her. A hand rests itself on the back of my head.

"...I will kill you last, Master."

...Opening my eyes, just for a moment, I find myself met with a soft smile. The eyes of a predator -- staring me down, finding within me... something. A glint of recognition in her eyes -- the hand on my head, pushing me slightly forwards.

"...Yes. I will kill you last... And gently, indeed."

[the-insomniac-emporium]

Bound Blood (Cassandra Dimitrescu/Reader, Soulmate AU) Pt. 3

Fandom: Resident Evil: Village Rating: T+ for language and violence Warnings: Choking (kinda) Summary: Local feral human makes a friend, tries to sleep next to local mean vampire, then gets a taste of their own medicine Previous Chapters: 1: Sharing Is (Not) Caring; 2: Bloodbath, Baby!

3: Haunt Me Dearly

What a lovely crimson mess I’ve made, you think, watching as the last of the bloody water drained from the bathtub. There were still several splashes of red along the sides, where you had leaned on or otherwise touched. Frowning, you considered whether or not to clean up after yourself. Surely it wouldn’t be one of your captors doing the cleaning? In that case, you think, I don’t want to make any enemies out of the servants. First you had to finish binding your wounds. Wouldn’t want to risk getting them dirty so soon after washing them, after all. Except you weren’t even sure that you could properly wrap them on your own, considering the positioning of your injuries.

“Ah, fucking hell…” You muttered, scowling a little. Then you remembered that Cassandra had sent a maid to wait outside the bathroom for you. Maybe they could help? Nodding to yourself, you threw on your new undergarments and pair of trousers, deciding to save the shoes for later. Once you were ‘decent’, you slowly opened the door, peeking out from behind it. Before long you were making eye contact with an unfamiliar woman, who looked very confused. “Any chance you could help me bandage my shoulder? I can’t do it without help, and something tells me Cassandra’s not going to lend me a hand.” With that said, you gave her a friendly smile, hoping to make up for the awkwardness of the situation.

“Of course! It is my honor to serve a guest of my Lady,” the maid- servant, maybe- said, giving a short curtsy. Admittedly you’re a little confused by her response. Still, you gladly welcome her assistance, moving back into the bathroom to grab the gauze. Although you intend to do as much as you can on your own, the woman is quick to take over completely. “Please, allow me,” she continued, carefully beginning to wrap your wounds.

“Are all the workers here so polite? I can’t imagine anyone actually enjoys working here, all things considered,” you mused, squinting at the middle distance. At that, the servant tenses up, clearly not expecting you to speak ill of her employers. Well, she had called you a guest. “Don’t be surprised, friend. Less than an hour ago I was fit to be consumed by ‘your Lady Cassandra’. Only reason I’m not dead right now is because of a stupid blood bond,” you explained, tone dripping with irritation. This time the servant doesn’t flinch at all, instead nodding slowly, taking a moment to let your words sink in. During this pause, you decide to introduce yourself, just in case the two of you might see each other frequently.

“I… see. It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, no matter the circumstances of your presence here. You can call me Daphne, though I must warn you that I am not one for, ahem, gossip about my masters,” she replied, finishing her binding of your shoulder wound. Next she searched through the cabinet by the sink, looking for a medicinal salve of some sort. Once she found it she was right back to work. The substance stung a tad on your skin, but you could hardly complain, seeing as it would help fight off possible infections.

“You sure about no gossip? What if we call it ‘helping me get acclimated to my new situation’? I’m a fish outta water here, Daphne,” you suggested, turning your head to look her in the eyes. At first she ignored you, focusing on rubbing the medicine into your skin. Eventually she meets your gaze, briefly, and releases a quiet sigh.

“You are free to ask questions-” you start to celebrate, though not for long- “just as I am free to withhold answers. Though I may be more responsive if you can tell me one thing… Why was Lady Cassandra’s dress wet?” Daphne asked, making you freeze in place. Of course she wanted the one answer you didn’t feel confident about giving. She’s quick to notice this, though, and laughs to herself. “Well, I suppose some things must remain a mystery. Now let’s get your face cleaned up…”

-------------------------------

By the time you make it to Cassandra’s room, the sun is starting to rise, leaking in through the castle windows. Exhaustion weighs you down, making you want to fall immediately into the nearest bed. As it stands, that was none other than your soulmate’s, though it was currently occupied. For a moment you hover in her doorway, contemplating whether or not you should steal her blanket. Floor can’t be too bad, you think, right? Before you can decide you notice Cassandra stirring from her sleep.

“What took you so fucking long?” She asked groggily. Now she’s sitting up, blanket clinging loosely to her body, and you realize that she’s not wearing a shirt. Though a blush rishes up your cheeks, you’re certain it’s too dark for Cassandra to notice. Or at least you hope so. Wanting to think about something other than what she was (or was not) wearing, you focus your energy on responding.

“Isn’t it obvious? I got invited to a sick orgy on the way back, and I wasn’t about to turn that down, so…” You trailed off, gesturing idly with your hands. The movement stretches your shoulder more than you’d like, resulting in an ache that lasts several seconds. It distracts you to the point where you almost can’t catch the object Cassandra promptly throws at you. “What the hell…?” It’s a shoe, as far as you can tell, that definitely would have hurt, had it hit its intended target. “Such a lovely gift, babe. I will treasure it for the rest of my days, forever keeping it as a reminder that you-” your tone shifts from a false joy to deadpan- “are a piece of shit. Now, seriously, where am I supposed to sleep? Is there a walk-in closet I can camp in? Or do I get the bed, while you sleep in a fucking coffin or something?”

Before Cassandra has a chance to respond, you’re walking further into her room, wanting to take a quick look around. There’s a large dresser that you quickly toss her shoe inside, as well as a window sill with a built-in reading nook. Trading your tiredness for sheer dickery, you throw open the curtains, letting the light pour in (and nearly blind you in the process). Half of you expects your soulmate to screech in response. Maybe even turn to ash. Instead, you hear her moving, and you turn to find her laying back down, facing away from you.

“When you’re done fucking around, come over here and sleep. I will knock you out if I have to,” Cassandra muttered, still sounding half asleep. As much as you wanted to know if she’d go through with her threat, you are exhausted. Begrudgingly you approach the bed. It’s certainly large enough for two people, even having enough room for you to be completely separate from each other. When you start to climb in, you find yourself overwhelmed for a moment, surprised at the quality of the sheet fabric. Exactly how rich were these vampiric assholes? This room alone seemed to be worth more than you had ever known.

This was, perhaps, the one bright side to your situation: A comfortable state of existence. Well, as comfortable as one could get in a place like this. So lovely on the outside, a muse worthy of a thousand artists, yet hiding far darker horrors within… much like the woman you now found yourself laying beside. Why me? Why her? What could possibly bring the two of us together, you think, other than a cruel fate? There’s a pain in your chest, dishearteningly similar to heartache. Damning the universe, and your blood bond, and yourself, you think ‘fuck it’ before sliding closer to Cassandra. One arm drapes itself over her waist, while you slowly lean your head against her back.

In an instant she’s tense, not even breathing, waiting for you to reveal whatever trick hid up your sleeve. But no trick comes, just your hand meeting hers, squeezing softly. Suddenly the tension is gone. None remains, not even lingering in the air, and the two of you soon drift off to sleep...

-------------------------------

Shaking, body made a wreck through tremors, tears staining her cheeks. Breathing comes hard, each shift of her lungs bringing with it a mighty ache. Someone’s holding her, whispering sweet nothings in her ear, fingers tracing circles against her back. But she’s lost in her dream, eyes clenched shut. Visions flash before her gaze like lightning in a storm. There’s no time to process, no opportunity to prepare for the thunder that follows. Every strike is a punch to the gut she can’t ignore. When release finally comes, it is not a gentle kiss to her forehead, or a reassuring hand on her own, but rather an intense surge of pain that jolts her awake.

Cassandra nearly screams as she sits up, hands reflexively going to hold her head. One of them stings, bad, and she notices what look like bite marks on the side. For a moment her confusion acts as a welcome distraction. Then she’s looking next to her, and the puzzle practically puts itself together. There you are, one hand in your mouth, an eyebrow raised as you stare at her. Ignoring the lingering memories of her dream, she turns all of her rage towards you. Quickly she grabs ahold of your arm, forcefully yanking your hand out of your mouth, even though it makes your teeth dig in a little deeper. It takes more willpower than she wants to admit to stop herself from strangling you right then and there.

“I didn’t know monsters could even have nightmares,” you taunted. Before you know what’s happening, Cassandra is lunging towards you, pressing her forearm against your throat. There’s just enough pressure to make talking difficult. Both of her yellow eyes are filled with hatred, aimed right at you, but you can’t help but laugh. “Ya know, I did try to wake you up nicely. I should have known you only respond to violence. Next time, though, I’ll remember to stay a safe distance away.”

“You don’t know anything, dipshit. Anyone else would know better than to spout so much fucking ignorance, but nobody taught you how to behave, huh?” Cassandra growled, applying more pressure with her arm, leaving you unable to reply (for once). “You’re a goddamn mutt, aren’t you? Thrown to the street like the garbage you are, left to live in the gutter, feeding off of trash like a fucking cannibal. You should be honored to be allowed anywhere near me. You should be worshiping me, for fuck’s sake!” Black dots form in your vision, a dark halo edging into the corners of your eyes, as your lungs beg for air. But you’re grinning. You’re showing your teeth, bright and proud, knowing full well that you have won this round. As soon as realization dawns on Cassandra’s face she’s pulling herself off of you.

Still, you are left gasping, clutching at your neck as she hurriedly gets dressed for the day. By the time you can see properly again, she’s left without another word. Even as she stalks down the corridor, eagerly rushing away from you, she hears your laughter howling through the castle. It digs into her brain, taunting her. Soon enough you’ll stop, light headed, but she will still hear it echoing inside her mind. You’ll haunt her just as much as her wicked dreams. Hopefully more.

[tainbocuailnge]

I'm really enjoying reading through all your musings on Oberon-Vortigern. A penny for your thoughts, what do you think Oberon would be feeling if when he was summoned post LB6, he ended up summoned Chaldea during Arc 1 during Goetia shenanigans? Any headcanons for potential things he might get up to or do you think he'd take a back seat on purpose?

the main point i'm honed in on with oberon showing up to chaldea during part 1 is that his pre-lb6 summoning line has him very clearly pretend to be the cheerful oberon, but even so his actual myroom lines are notably more rude than he is while acting as oberon in lb6 itself. his line for shakespeare stands out most but it also shows in how sarcastic he is about medb, or the way he keeps guda at a distance in his later bond lines. the reason oberon decides to come to chaldea is because, even if he can't admit it to himself, the people here have proven themselves "capable of loving the twisted oberon" and he wants to continue to be a part of that. even though he won't let guda know about vortigern until they find out themselves, he still feels comfortable enough around them to be a little more lax with his fairy king persona, probably without even realizing it.

there's a lot about the singularities that would hit pretty personal for oberon. by definition they're fabricated pieces of history, and until babylon we're told that nothing that happens in them will have any lasting effects on true history. once a singularity is resolved it will fade without a trace, like the meaningless midsummer dreams oberon represents. but guda and mash refuse to let them disappear without meaning. even if there's no consequences to leaving people to suffer or die, and no reward for struggling to help them, they will struggle to help them. even if the dream fades its meaning remains, even if all of it will be undone it will still have mattered. oberon already saw this mentality in action in lb6, but here is where he sees them develop it in the first place. guda and mash don't believe there is meaning because they're naive to the cruelty of the world. they believe there is meaning because time and time again they will reject the cruelty of the world. they're proven right in this when it turns out in babylon that the lives they saved indeed mattered after all.

within the confines of the role of "the fairy king who has come to help chaldea" oberon doesn't have much choice but to enthusiastically lend his aid in restoring the human order, but i don't think he'd be particularly annoyed about that. he already fulfilled his purpose in destroying fairy britain so he doesn't have any reason to want to sabotage chaldea, and as doomsday device he's probably particularly well suited to the destruction of singularities. more importantly, this is a lie of being a genuine hero convincing enough as to almost become real. i imagine that while trekking through singularities the mask will never come off, but guda is perceptive and will be able to tell that it is there. the closest it comes to slipping would be... not camelot, though i think the situation there would still have him riled up enough to approach breaking character. but the combination of meeting kingu and dodging around merlin in babylon is what's going to actually trip him up enough to show vortigern's personality exactly once.

oberon has fairy eyes, so he will be able to tell roman's secret at a glance. most servants can instinctively tell roman has something to do with the situation somehow and are needlessly hostile to him for that reason, so i think the juiciest way to handle this would be to have oberon be the only person besides da vinci who vouches for roman's trustworthiness. a favor from one liar to another. holmes has eyes that see the truth in a different way, so the encounter in the atlas institute would be juicy as fuck too.

during part 1.5, while chaldea is doing cleanup and preparing to decommission its servants, fairy king oberon holds a tea party for his master. he says, if you ever run into me on a mission, i'll definitely help you out. but I'm a troublesome guy, so don't put too much faith in me, okay? and guda responds with no, i'm sure you'll be my ally until the end.

[visenyaism]

top five wow monologues

you have to read all of them because i am full of hate

5. So the Light's vaunted justice has finally arrived? Shall I lay down Frostmourne and throw myself at your mercy, Fordring? We'll grant you a swift death, Arthas. More than can be said for the thousands you've tortured and slain. You'll learn of that first hand. When my work is complete, you will beg for mercy -- and I will deny you. Your anguished cries will be testament to my unbridled power... So be it. Champions, attack! No questions remain unanswered. No doubts linger. You ARE Azeroth's greatest champions. You overcame every challenge I laid before you. My mightiest servants have fallen before your relentless onslaught... your unbridled fury...Is it truly righteousness that drives you? I wonder...You trained them well, Fordring. You delivered the greatest fighting force this world has ever known... right into my hands - exactly as I intended! You shall be rewarded for your unwitting sacrifice. Watch now as I raise them from the dead to become masters of the Scourge. They will shroud this world in chaos and destruction. Azeroth's fall will come at their hands -- and you will be the first to die. I delight in the irony. LIGHT GRANT ME ONE FINAL BLESSING! GIVE ME THE STRENGTH... TO SHATTER THESE BONDS! Impossible... No more, Arthas! No more lives will be consumed by your hatred! The ghost of Terenas Menethil II appears. Free at last! It is over, my son. This is the moment of reckoning. Rise up, champions of the Light! Now I stand, the lion before the lambs... and they do not fear. They cannot fear. Father? Is it... over? At long last. No king rules forever, my son. I see... only darkness... before me...Without its master's command, the restless Scourge will become an even greater threat to this world. Control must be maintained... There must always be... a Lich King...The weight of such a burden... ... It must be mine, for there is no other to-- Tirion...You hold a grim destiny in your hands, brother ... but it is not your own. Bolvar... By all that is holy...The dragons' flame... sealed my fate... The world of the living can no longer comfort me. Place the crown upon my head, Tirion. Forevermore - I will be the jailor of the damned. NO, old friend... I cannot...DO IT TIRION! You and these brave heroes have your own destinies to fulfill. This last act of service... is mine. You will not be forgotten... brother. I MUST be forgotten, Tirion! If the world is to live free from the tyranny of fear - they must never know what was done here today. Tell them only that the Lich King is dead...and that Bolvar Fordragon died with him...NOW GO. LEAVE THIS PLACE - AND NEVER RETURN. why did you read all of this. I hate you

4. Energy, power, my people are addicted to it. A dependence made manifest after the Sunwell was destroyed. Welcome to the future, a pity you were too late to stop it. No one can stop me now, Salama Ashal'anoray. Let us see how your nerves hold up against the Darkener, Thaladred! You have persevered against some of my best advisors, but none can withstand the might of the Bloodhammer, behold Lord Sanguinar! Capernion will see to it that your stay here is a short one. You have proven worthy to test your skill against my master engineer, Telonicus! As you see, I have many weapons in my arsenal. Perhaps I underestimated you, it would be unfair to make you fight all four of my advisors at once but fair treatment was never shown to my people, I'm just returning the favor. Alas, sometimes one must take matters into ones own hands, Thalamor Shan'al! Obey me, bow to my will be the power of the sun, Alalanil Thaloray! I have not come this far to be stopped! The future I have planned will not be jeopardized! Now you will taste true power! Let us see how you fair when your world is turned upside down, having trouble staying grounded? You will not prevail, you gambled and lost, this was child's play. For Quel'thalas!...

3. Citizens of Dalaran! Raise your eyes to the skies and observe! Today our world's destruction has been averted in defiance of our very makers! Algalon the Observer, Herald of the Titans, has been defeated by our brave comrades in the depths of the Titan City of Ulduar. Algalon was sent here to judge the fate of our world. He found a planet who's races had deviated from the titan's blueprints. A planet where not everything had gone to plan. Cold logic deemed our world not worth saving. Cold logic, however, does not account for the power of free will. It's up to each of us to prove that this world is worth saving. That our lives ... are worth living.

2. anything wrathion said ever but especially after he ate that titan heart as an Epic Prank and saw the bounds of the universe. evil baby boy

1. Glad you could bake it, Uther. Watch your tone with me, boy. You may be the waiter, but I'm still your superior as a chef. As if I could forghetti. Listen Uther, there's something about the plaguette you should knead...Oh no! It's too late! These peopleroni have all been infectedanana! They may look al dente now, but it's a matter of thyme before they turn into the undeadible! What?This entire citrella must be peeled. How can you even cook that?! There's got to be some other whey. Damn it, Umami, as your future chef, I order you to broil this city! You are not my chef yet, boyardee. Nor would I obey that command if you were! Then I must consider this an act of seasoning. Seasoning? Have you sauced your mince, Arthas?! Have I? Lord Umami, by my right of succession and sovereignty of my crown of roast pork, I hereby rehydrate you from your commandard and suspenderoni your pepperoni from service. Arthas! You can't just--DING! It's done! For those of you who have the will to taste this flan, follow me! The rest of you... get out of my kitchen! You've just tossed a terrible salad, Arthas. Jaina? I'm sorry Arthas... I can't watch you cook this.

[swan-of-sunrise]

Spellbinding (Chapter Eleven-Part One)

Summary: Asgard hosts a ball in honor of the visiting Alfheimian delegation, and (Y/N) is conflicted about meeting the Light Elves and the possibility of discovering her mother’s fate.

Pairing: Loki X Reader

Word Count: 3.2k

Warnings/Disclaimers: None

A/N: I hope that you enjoy!

Chapter Eleven (Part I) October 16th, 2015 Asgard (Previous Chapter)

“C’mon, Loki, is that the best you two’ve got?” (Y/N) shouted over the thundering noise of Aurora and Samson’s hooves and glanced sideways at Loki with a teasing grin. After a week’s worth of horseback riding lessons and bonding with her mare, she and Loki were finally able to put their skills to the test in a ‘friendly’ race through the forests of Asgard.

Loki chuckled and leaned closer to Samson’s ear. “You’re not going to take that, old friend, are you?” The stallion neighed and picked up his speed. “That’s it!”

Rolling her eyes, (Y/N) gripped her reins tighter and helped Aurora gallop around some shrubbery. “Aurora, I know that we’ve only known each other for a week but do you really want the males to win this race?” Aurora nickered, speeding up and coming in neck-to-neck with Samson. “That’s what I thought!”

“I never pegged you as the competitive type, darling!”

(Y/N) shot Loki a smirk and yelled back, “And I never thought that you would be a sore loser!” With that, Aurora sped past Samson and darted between two yellow-leafed trees, and (Y/N) let out a victorious cheer; tugging lightly on the reigns, she waited until Aurora slowed into a walk to glance back at Loki, who looked miffed while he slowed Samson to walk beside her. “I win!”

Loki frowned as he worked to catch his breath. “It was simply beginner’s luck.”

“Mm-hmm, sure it was, sweetheart,” (Y/N) ginned at the look he gave her as they guided the horses out of the forest. “What? It’s not my fault that Aurora and I bonded quickly!” Loki remained silent, his green eyes staring stubbornly ahead. “Oh, don’t be like that! Would you feel better if I gave some of the credit to Aurora’s trainer?”

“…It depends on how much.”

“How about…twelve percent?” She couldn’t help but giggle as she uttered the words and even Loki couldn’t fight the smile that was spreading on his face as he rolled his eyes in faux exasperation.

For over a week, she and Loki had been making up for lost time; they’d visited the city and all of the different shops it had to offer, they spent an entire day sailing both on the water and through the skies around Asgard and (Y/N) learned the hard way that navigating churning waves didn’t agree with her stomach, and Loki had also been teaching her how to ride a horse. Because she was mastering horseback riding so quickly, she and Loki spent a lot of time out riding with Aurora and Samson and exploring the forests of Asgard; Loki had even taken her to his secret grove to collect flowers for his mother and fruits for the horses. This week’s been a dream come true, she thought with a content smile, and there’s no one I’d rather spend it with than Loki.

“Once you’ve finished gloating, darling, we should head back to the palace for some lunch before we have to prepare for the ball tonight.” Loki glanced at her, his expression becoming a little uncertain as his green eyes filled with concern. “Are you going to be all right meeting the Alfheimians?”

(Y/N) sighed and nodded, looking down at the reigns in her hands. “I thank so. It’ll do me some good to try and learn as much as I can from them while they’re here.”

Ever since she learned that an Alfheimian delegation would be visiting Asgard for their bi-millennial peace treaty negotiation during their stay, she couldn’t decide if their impending arrival excited or worried her. On one hand, she welcomed any opportunity to learn more about her heritage and Alf Seidr but on the other hand, she was a little nervous about the possibility of learning of her mother and father’s fates. For twenty-six years, (Y/N) had assumed that her parents were dead and she eventually got over the fact that she’d never see them again, but when Loki told her all those months ago that her mother was a Light Elf from Alfheim, a small flicker of hope had grown inside her that perhaps her parents were alive. She was afraid that after months of quietly hoping that she might finally be able to meet her parents, she would only discover that they really had been dead for all those years.

I don’t even know how I’d begin to deal with that news, (Y/N) thought to herself before looking back up at Loki. “Whatever happens tonight, we’ll handle it together. I promise.” Deciding to change the subject, she said, “Truth be told, Loki, I think I’m a little more nervous about going to my very first ball. I wouldn’t want to wind up making a fool of myself or anything…”

“Darling, you could never; you’ll fit right in and I’ll be by your side the entire evening, I promise.” Loki held Samson’s reigns in one hand and held the other out for her to take, bringing hers up and pressing a delicate kiss onto her knuckles. “You and I will dance into the stars, my love.” (Y/N) matched his soft smile and a short while later, they reached the stables and were taking care of the horses as they playfully debated which Avenger could last the longest in a fight with Sif when Thor hurried in. “Good, you can settle our debate, brother; who do you think would last longer in battle against Lady Sif, Stark or Romanoff?”

“That’s hardly fair; Lady Natasha would simply befriend Lady Sif and both would team up to defeat Stark together.” Thor grinned as (Y/N) shot Loki a smug look and Loki childishly stuck his tongue out at her. “I came to inform you both that the Alfheimian delegation has arrived and that they seem to have brought their king with them.”

Loki’s brow furrowed as he poured a pail of water into Samson’s trough. “That’s odd, but then again, Alfheimians are known for their unusual actions…” He smiled mischievously at (Y/N), and she only raised her eyebrows imposingly in response to his teasing.

“Father also asked me to inform you that he wishes you to join our negotiations in the council chambers, Loki.”

Loki’s smile fell instantly at the mention of the Allfather. “…Oh, this should be fun; we’re going to spend hours trapped in a room with the Allfather and be forced to once-again listen to his idiotic demands that Alfheim should abandon their non-interventionism in favor of a completely unfair trade agreement that only serves to benefit Asgard.” Loki remarked, his earlier cheerfulness gone and replaced with annoyance and sarcasm. (Y/N) could tell, however, that his adoptive father’s invitation had taken him by surprise.

Thor frowned. “Loki…”

“Save it, Thor, I’m in no mood to hear another lecture about my attitude,” Loki grumbled. He turned to look at (Y/N) and the hard look in his green eyes softened a little. “I’ll see you later tonight at the ball, darling.”

“See you later, Loki.” (Y/N) stood on her tiptoes to plant a brief kiss on his lips before he turned and began walking out of the stables. Thor also wished her well before leaving, but (Y/N) could tell that the Asgardian’s smile was forced. When both brothers left the stables, she turned back to Aurora and leaned against her stall door with a sigh.

After learning about Loki’s entire past, (Y/N) finally understood why he was so angry with his adoptive father; Odin had kept his distance from her throughout their visit, and she wasn’t sure if it was because he thought her beneath him or because he was wary of her. It’s too bad because I’d love nothing more than to give that man a piece of my mind about how he raised Thor and Loki, she thought with an annoyed huff, her mind flashing back to all the heartbreaking memories her boyfriend had shared with her.

“I’ll see you both later!” (Y/N) patted Aurora and Samson on their snouts and smiled. “I have to go get ready for a royal ball…”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Several hours later, (Y/N) stood in front of her chamber’s enormous mirror and pressed the button to make her glasses invisible before inspecting her nearly unrecognizable reflection. She wore a stunning beaded emerald-green gown, its neckline cut low and its straps hung off her shoulders. The bodice hugged her chest, and layers upon layers of delicate gold-embroidered fabric flared out from her waist to create a full skirt. She chose to wear a pair of short green heels, applied only a minimal amount of makeup and her (Y/H/C) had been carefully styled with the help of Sif, who had suggested at lunch that they should prepare for the ball together. I feel like Cinderella when she got to go to the ball, she thought, twirling in a circle and giggling in delight as her shimmering skirts swirled around her legs.

“What are you laughing about over there?”

(Y/N) stopped twirling to look over at Sif, who was smiling bemusedly at her as she ran a comb through her freshly-straightened hair by the open window. She wore a gown similar to hers, but it was long-sleeved and silver, and the skirt wasn’t nearly as full. “Oh, I just realized that I feel like Cinderella.” When Sif’s brow furrowed in confusion, she elaborated. “Cinderella is the main character of a very popular fairytale on Midgard; she’s an abused servant in her step-family’s home and with the help of her fairy godmother, she gets to go to a ball and winds up meeting the prince, and then…well, to make a long story short, they fall in love and live happily ever after.”

“I seem to recall a story similar to that from my own childhood, but doesn’t the prince feed the step-family to a rampaging dragon?”

(Y/N)’s eyes widened. “Um…I don’t think that I’ve heard that version before but in a different version written by the Grimm Brothers, both stepsisters’ eyes are pecked out by birds.”

Sif looked impressed. “Interesting…well, in any case, you certainly look like a princess. I’m sure that Loki-”

Just then, there was a quiet knock on the chamber’s door. (Y/N) hurried to the door and opened it to reveal Frigga, dressed in a glimmering golden gown complete with a tiara made of diamonds and gold. “Oh no, are we late?”

“Of course not, my dear, we still have time before the ball begins. I’m here with gifts for the two of you.” Frigga gestured to the large box in her hands as she entered the chamber. She set the box down on the table in the center of the room and opened it to reveal sparkling jewelry. “You both already look enchanting, but I figured that you might enjoy some added sparkle.”

In no time, the two of them were decked out in the most beautiful jewelry (Y/N) had ever laid eyes on. Sif chose not to wear a tiara but instead a silver hair clip designed to look like a vine of leaves, and she wore a simple silver and ruby necklace. Since she was accompanying a Prince of Asgard, Frigga insisted that (Y/N) wear a stunning gold and emerald tiara and (Y/N) picked a plain gold necklace to match. As the three of them left her chambers, (Y/N) caught a glance of herself in the mirror and was again awed by her royal appearance.

“Loki said that he’ll meet you here,” Frigga said once they reached the massive golden open doors of the ballroom; inside, faint music was playing while countless people milled about and chatted. (Y/N) nodded once, and the queen placed a comforting hand on her bare shoulder. “Just breathe, my dear. Everything will be perfect, just try and enjoy yourself.” With one last smile, she and Sif entered the ballroom.

(Y/N) fiddled with her hands, her earlier nervousness beginning to return so to distract herself, she thought about her aunt. She’d be treating this like prom if she were here, she thought as she glanced up at the ceiling with an amused chuckle. The mental image of her aunt holding a disposable camera and fawning over her and Loki gave her the comfort she needed, and she felt herself beginning to relax a little.

“You truly are an angel.”

She turned around to see Loki, a look of unabashed awe on his face as he stood several feet away from her. He wore a long-sleeved emerald-green coat with accents of gold thread and black trousers tucked into a pair of black boots. His raven locks were neatly combed back, making his face appear even more angular, and the green of his jacket brought out the stunning color of his eyes. He’s so beautiful, she thought to herself, her heart hammering away in her chest as he neared her.

“I think that’s a bit of an over-exaggeration, Loki.”

“Trust me, darling, from where I’m standing it’s anything but.” Loki stopped right in front of her, cupping her cheek with one hand and resting the other on her waist as he leaned down and captured her lips in a passion-filled kiss. After several moments, they separated and he gently asked, “How do you feel?”

“A little nervous, but ready. And by the way, you look very handsome tonight.” (Y/N)’s fingers traced the embroidery on his chest and she met Loki’s gaze with a growing smile. “You look amazing in green, sweetheart…though I can’t help but wonder how you’d look in purple.”

Loki hummed thoughtfully, his eyes darkening as his lips curved into a crooked grin. “In your color? Darling, does the thought of me wearing your favorite color entice you?” The hand on her face prevented her from ducking her head in embarrassment while the one on her waist tugged her closer to him. “There’s no need to be bashful; I’ll admit that seeing you dressed in my colors makes for a rather…appealing sight.” His fingers gently caressed her face before trailing down the side of her neck to rest on her bare shoulder, his tantalizing touch making (Y/N)’s breath hitch. He leaned down and just as she tilted her head up to kiss him, he placed a halting finger against her lips and grinned. “As tempting as you are, my love, we should head in before they start looking for us.”

“You’re such a tease, Loki!” (Y/N) playfully shoved her boyfriend’s shoulder while he chuckled, taking a moment to smooth out the skirt of her dress and fan her warmed face. “Before you distracted me, I was going to ask you how you’re feeling but you seem to be doing okay; I know that this is your first ball since Thor’s banishment…”

“I feel more at ease than I thought I would and as long as you’re by my side, (Y/N), I know that I’ll be fine.” With a charming smile, Loki bowed and offered her his arm. “My lady, would you do me the honor of allowing me to escort you this fine evening?”

She couldn’t help but giggle at his theatrics as she gave him a small curtsy. “Why, of course, my prince!” They both grinned and she wrapped her arm around his. “You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to do that, Loki.”

“I had an inkling of an idea after seeing your impressive Netflix viewing history. Honestly, I’ll bet you’ve seen every single Regency-Era film and movie that the streaming platform has to offer…”

Loki led her into the ballroom and down the staircase, and (Y/N) couldn’t help but gawk as she took in the beauty and grandeur of it all; the room was lit with magnificent chandeliers, the floor shone and the most beautifully dressed men and women mingled and talked as musicians played a melodious tune. There were a handful of nearby Asgardians who examined her curiously as she and Loki made their way down the stairs, but she just raised her chin and continued walking until they reached a familiar face at the bottom.

“You look stunning, Lady (Y/N)!” Thor exclaimed with a bright grin. His long blonde hair was tied back and he wore an outfit similar to Loki’s, except his was dark red instead of green. “Green suits you.”

(Y/N) smiled and bumped him lightly with her shoulder. “Thank you, Thor, you look nice as well!”

“I welcome you, Asgardians!” (Y/N)’s head whipped around as the music stopped to see Odin and Frigga standing arm-in-arm at the top of the grand staircase. The Allfather was dressed in shining gold armor and held an ornate spear in his free hand, and Frigga’s bright smile lit up the room. A little ways away from the pair stood an extremely tall man, dressed in an ornate magenta tunic and a golden crown. He had straight golden-blonde hair, pointed ears and vivid charcoal-grey eyes, and his tanned skin shimmered faintly in the light; although his face was lightly lined, (Y/N) could sense that he still had strength and vitality in him. Her eyes widened a moment later when she realized who he could possibly be. “We are gathered here tonight to honor our guests, King Tarian of Alfheim and his delegation.” The ballroom erupted into applause as he gestured to the man behind him, who gave a small bow. “And we are here to celebrate the renegotiation of our realms’ peace treaty. May our two realms continue to flourish and grow as we support each other on the battlefields and one day, through the trade routes.” Loki rolled his eyes as everyone clapped again.

Frigga’s smile widened as she called out, “The ball shall commence with the first dance, led by Prince Loki and Lady (Y/N).”

(Y/N)’s heart began to race at the Queen of Asgard’s words; Frigga gave her a small wink, which in turn gave her the burst of courage to take Loki’s hand and allow him to lead her through the whispering crowd and onto the massive dance floor. Once they took their place, Loki flashed her a grin as he bowed and (Y/N) couldn’t help but return it with a smile and a wink as she dipped into a curtsy. When she rose, Loki clasped her hand in his and placed the other on her waist, and she clutched a handful of her skirt in her free hand; the musicians began playing a beautiful waltz as Loki started to twirl them around the floor.

“I thought that you always share the first dance with your mother?”

Loki smiled and murmured back, “After the peace treaty negotiations, she told me that she wanted the two of us to share the first dance of your first Asgardian ball and she simply wouldn’t take no for an answer.”

She smirked as he held her hand above her head and twirled her in a circle. “Now I know where you get that stubborn determination from.” By then, other couples had joined them on the dance floor and (Y/N) couldn’t help but marvel at the entrancing sight as she and Loki performed the dance moves that they’d been practicing all week; but while she was enamored with the scene around her, she felt a twinge of foreboding, as if something horrible was about to happen that would shatter the picturesque moment…

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ 

A/N: Thank you all so much for reading and commenting! I’ve created a Spotify playlist inspired by this series, and I’ll be updating it every time I upload a new chapter. Enjoy!

https://open.spotify.com/playlist/2wx8TZwpDN0l33tES3W3Nk

Chapter Eleven-Part Two

Spellbinding Masterlist

Tagging: @nexiva @ravenclawbitch426 @cminr @confusedfandomwriter @momc95 @nickkie1129 @austynparksandpizza @brooke0297 @destructivebliss @outoftheregular​ @itscomplicatedx​ @0-artemis​ @vivloki​

[megashadowdragon]

Commentary on reddit :

To summarize, Marfisa is basically what you’d get if you combined Penthesilea and Achilles. She starts out as a whirling, if lucid, maelstrom of destruction until she becomes something else; an inverse of Roland being a mostly perfect knight before he abandons chivalry in his explosive grief.

Instead of being taken in by an overprotective wizard, Marfisa was briefly raised by a lioness, adopted soon after, kidnapped and made a slave by a Persian king at age 7, killed her master when she was older, violently took over his kingdom, and then violently conquered several more kingdoms by the time she was 18.

Some writers, even some today, would take her as is. #YAASQUEEN (literally) Knight. Put her up against some strawmen/caricatures and wait for a movie deal. But way back in the 1500s, Ariosto took this character, who was little more than a thug in Orlando Innamorato, and gave her an arc that took her beyond murder and self-fulfillment.

A harder life created a much harder person than Ruggiero, but it also instilled in her a much more mercenary outlook. Tiring of her overlord duties and hearing of the immense war between Charlemagne and the Saracen Kingdoms, Marfisa pilfered the coffers of her subjects and abandoned her empire to challenge the greatest knights either side had to offer.

As a queen with nigh-limitless funds and muscle that allowed her to battle Roland to a standstill, she is a shockingly unencumbered figure in a tale where almost everyone answers to someone, but that freedom becomes a kind of cage as well.

She changes sides constantly, sometimes fighting for the Saracens and sometimes fighting against them. Her one-track mind for combat causes her to gormlessly attack heroic knights and accidentally help slavery ring kingpins. She is also quite vindictive, attacking anyone for slights that range from actual to accidental to simply perceived.

There is hope for her though. During an adventure with Astolfo (who she was on good terms with after allying with him briefly in Innamorato), she, he, and three of his fellow Paladins wind up in Laiazzo, an Amazonian colony 10,000-strong which enslaves shipwrecked men to act as their pet champions and breeding stock (1 man “works” for 10 women). Newcomers can either try and fight their way out or they can slay 10 “servants” in single combat bloodsports, fornicate with a 100 citizens, and earn the privilege of serving the Amazons.

Marfisa (who the Amazons believe to be male because of her armor and mask) is nominated by her companions to do all the fighting. Some take this as a nigh-feminist occurrence where Astolfo and his friends acknowledge a woman (and one not of their ranks no less) as their better in battle. Others believe this is Marfisa having her bloodlust being taken advantage of by the Paladins ala Tom Sawyer so they can do the much more enjoyable 100 women thing as she takes all the hits.

Marfisa kills all but one of the Amazon slave knights and in respect of her skills, he offers to let the group stay the night at his place before they resume their duel the next day.

They learn that in spite of his strength, the knight is barely out of his teens and is terribly depressed with what his masters have made him do. If he wins, he kills a great warrior and remains a slave. If Marfisa wins, then she and the others will become slaves. The Amazons win either way.

This similarity to her own backstory causes Marfisa to feel genuine empathy with someone she had moments ago tried to murder. It might be the first time she’s ever felt it. She muses that if she were to reveal her gender, the Amazons would likely accept her as one of their own or let her go free, but she won’t tolerate such naked vileness, even if it would benefit her.

The next day, she, her new ally, and the Paladins fight to free themselves and the other captive knights despite how outmatched they clearly are. When the fight goes south, Astolfo sounds his dread horn that is cursed to make all who hear it flee in fright (Agartha, baby). He neglects to tell his companions that it affects everyone who isn’t him, and EVERYONE on the island flees so suddenly and swiftly that by the time Astolfo is done blowing (his horn), he discovers he’s been completely abandoned.

Take a look at this illustration (NSFW) by Gustave Doré detailing the escape. That shadowed figure in the background on the hill? That's Astolfo. And that smirking sentinel leading the slaughter? Take a guess.

But the story isn’t done with Marfisa yet. She falls in love with Ruggiero. She gets beaten by Bradamante, her shallow vindictiveness no match for the true wrath of a woman scorned. She sees Ruggiero getting between her and Bradamante in spite of being much weaker than either of them in hopes of stopping the two from killing each other. She witnesses Atlante’s shade, the wizard having entombed himself Merlin style and seemingly disowned Ruggiero for ingratitude at his attempts to raise and protect him, return from beyond to reveal the truth of how she’s Ruggiero’s twin sister to stop the three-way death match.

Throughout this odyssey, this bellicose beauty beholds how courageous a lesser warrior can be, how much and how deeply a man and woman can love each other in spite of distance and difficulty, how a father’s love can be so strong that it can forgive the insults a son sends its way, how painful failure is, and how having a brother feels.

These higher emotions and more complex relationships help her see that there’s more to life than battle. They also inspire her to mature as an individual.

When she, Ruggiero, and Bradamante come across a licentious lord who abuses the women in his domain, they don’t simply overthrow him but reform his society. Rather than let the women completely take over as the Amazons showed her that tyranny is unisex, she demands egalitarianism. Equality. And warns she’ll kill them all if they stray from that path. Hey, baby steps.

Decent extrapolation but it kind of makes me feel like it was written from Cliffsnotes instead of directly reading Furioso.

Within the book it's just said that Marfisa was insistent on fighting the champions on the island of women warriors. It was required that the same person perform both tasks and is supposed to be humorous because Marfisa just heard, "Fight ten strong guys, I am so there" and literally zoned out on the other half. The text also states that the entire group is fortunate they decided to break out, since Marfisa would obviously fail the second trial.

Marfisa, again, was a major fight nut which is the reason that conflicts rose between her and other Saracens. Such as when she had her sword stolen by Brunello and threw off her armor while chasing him, she started a fight by grabbing her arms without saying a word when a contest of martial valor was going on over them - and she is so in love with combat that instead of explaining anything she just started fighting. Or how it was Mandricard who challenged her since she was convinced into one of the few times she wore women's clothes with some friends so he assumed she was a lady and one of her beauty, Mandricard wanted to offer to Rodomont in order to get his romantic rival out of the way. Marfisa merely said that Mandricard had to defeat her personally. Well, in short, it's that the Saracen camp was filled with in-fighting. Shit, when she and Mandricard were about to have their duel, both Ruggiero and Rodomont broke in and EVERYONE wanted to duel EVERYONE over something.

Also it's never mentioned of her falling in love with Ruggiero. Just that the two had a strong bond that the Saracens misconstrued as being romantic love. She only goes out to fight Bradamant because her obviously established love of combat and also that the woman was screaming her name in bloody murder. It's literally when Marfisa is going to confront Bradamant that it mentions the phoenix she wears on her helmet has the meaning that she wants to remain invincible and single for her entire life (as an aside, she killed her slaver and his family and his kingdom out of vengeance when he tried to take her chastity).

As an aside, Ruggiero is on the same level as Marfisa, definitely not "much weaker." There's a reason the Saracens sought him specifically out as an ally despite his being locked away in a tower. When he and Marfisa fight side-by-side the text clearly treats them as equals, and they also view each other as worthy equals.

[reasoningdaily]

When slavery was legal, its proponents often justified it with the Bible; specifically, a verse that tells servants to obey their masters. There were also a lot of verses that abolitionists could and did use to argue against slavery. But you wouldn’t find those in the heavily-redacted “Slave Bible.”

Most of the Old Testament is missing, and only about half of the New Testament remains. The reason? So that the enslaved Africans in the Caribbean islands of Jamaica, Barbados and Antigua couldn’t read or be read anything that might incite them to rebel.

The Slave Bible was actually titled Parts of the Holy Bible, selected for the use of the Negro Slaves, in the British West-India Islands.

It’s not clear who exactly directed these changes. British planters in the Caribbean had long been weary of missionaries, and could’ve demanded that they only teach enslaved people certain parts of the Bible. But some missionaries may have also believed that it was only appropriate to teach enslaved people excerpts that reinforced their enslaved status.

Whoever the Slave Bible’s editors were, “they’re really highlighting portions that would instill obedience,” says Anthony Schmidt, a curator at Washington, D.C. Museum of the Bible, which has a copy of the Slave Bible on display. There are only two other known copies.

The Slave Bible on display as part of an exhibition at the Museum of the Bible in Washington, D.C.

The first Slave Bible was published in 1807, three years after the Haitian Revolution ended. That revolution was the only slave revolt in history in which enslaved people successfully drove out their European oppressors to formed a new nation, and it increased American and European paranoia that the people they oppressed would one day rise up against them.

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READ MORE: 7 Famous Slave Revolts 

The Haitian Revolution could have been a motivation for publishing a Bible without the part where Moses tells the Pharoah to “Let my people go.” Missionaries and planters may have thought that Christianity—at least, certain parts of it—would protect against revolutions by teaching enslaved people to respect their masters.

In this context, Schmidt says the British may have thought that teaching enslaved people Biblical lesson about obedience and accepting one’s fate would help them “be better slaves.”

The Slave Bible doesn’t include Moses leading the Israelites to freedom, but it does include Joseph’s enslavement in Egypt. In the U.S., some sermons aimed at enslaved people portrayed Joseph as someone who “accepts his lot in life, keeps his faith in God and in the end is rewarded for it,” Schmidt says. The Slave Bible may have wanted to impart a similar lesson to its audience.

Passages that emphasized equality between groups of people were also excised. This included: “There is neither Jew nor Greek, there is neither bond nor free, there is neither male nor female: for ye are all one in Christ Jesus” (Galatians 3:28). The Slave Bible also doesn’t contain the Book of Revelation, which tells of a new heaven and Earth in which evil will be punished.

In contrast, one of the passages that remained was one that proponents of slavery loved to cite: “Servants, be obedient to them that are your masters according to the flesh, with fear and trembling, in singleness of your heart, as unto Christ” (Ephesians 6:5).

[fuchsiagrasshopper]

Contending the Flame IV

Author’s Note: Hope everyone had a safe and fun Halloween! Not much else to say here as we start to delve deeper into Ivar and the Nuns new relationship and the two different worlds they come from. Thanks as always for being so awesome!

Pairing: Ivar x Reader

Word Count: 2217

Warnings: Language, Master/Servant dynamic 

His brothers had kept a close eye on Ivar since acquiring his new thrall. He still played at the leader of their army, but he had refrained from shutting them out of power entirely. Any chance they had at lending a commanding voice they took. Hvitserk's strategy of giving their little brother a distraction was paying off.

The changes in Ivar's behavior were minuscule. Only Ubbe and Hvitserk took notice. It was the same when they were children when someone would give a new gift to Ivar. It would be a stretch to say he was happy, but his vengeance had quelled. For the moment it was enough, and they could focus on securing lands for their people while Ivar was preoccupied.

It was strange for a thrall not to be seen waiting over their master's every whim, but it seemed Ivar wouldn't permit you to leave his quarters. The other slaves they had acquired tended to him during meals, and when he walked the streets with his guards, you were always absent. Ubbe walked alongside Hvitserk contemplating this.

"What do you think he has her do for him?" Ubbe wondered aloud.

Hvitserk's brows puckered in thought. "Don't know. I can't imagine they have much to talk about, and I know the one thing they aren't doing."

"What do you mean?"

"C'mon, think about it," Hvitserk jested with a smirk. "I suppose that must make him a good fit for her. She'll remain a virgin after all."

Ubbe latched onto Hvitserk's arm, pulling him to a stop as he gave him a harsh look. "Those are dangerous words, brother. Remember Sigurd. I don't want to see another brother dead because of Ivar's fragile grasp of his anger. He has poor sensibilities when it comes to that matter. It's unfair, but it's not his fault."

Hvitserk shook off Ubbe's grasp and rubbed a hand at the back of his neck. "Right, that was stupid. I do pity him, though I don't think he'd want it. Who knows how he'll be when we start having families of our own."

Ubbe grunted. "He'll probably resent us, more than he does already. I think I understand why he keeps her away from everyone. Besides our mother, no one has ever taken to Ivar's company outside of obligation or familial bond. He's lonely."

"And it's not as if she can refuse," said Hvitserk. "But she's a Christian. That's got to account for some strife between them."

They continued on their way towards the center of the city. Food was beginning to run scarce, and it seemed the Saxons were holding steadfast on starving them out. While Ivar was willing to take their army to its limits to play Aethelwulf's game, Ubbe and Hvitserk were devising their own plan to negotiate land. They just needed a little more time. Many things rested in the hands of the nun, as unaware as you were.

"I just hope he hasn't harmed her," Ubbe said while they passed through the market.

Hvitserk looked grim, a heaviness settling on him that had replaced his usual cheer. "Ivar did always break toys. We have to hope that Christian isn't as weak as she looks."

ooOOoo 

You were growing accustomed to your new station. As a woman, it was your lot in life to suffer, and you took your new situation as a test from God. The heathen, Ivar, he had made no bid to harm you. That wasn't to say he was good company to keep. He had taken to trying to instruct you in a handful of words and phrases of his language. Some of the words were difficult to form with your accent, and when you mispronounced things, he would grow irritated and throw things at you. Uttering dark curses in his tongue, you were certain he had insulted you as well, but it was better than a flogging. 

At night you continued to pray, your back to your master, and the words spoken only in your head. You were sure they reached God, even without a rosary in your grasp or the piety to kneel. In your heart, you struggled to keep hope alive. If this test was to be your final judgment from God, its purpose remained clouded to you.

It was late when Ivar returned, and you had remained awake for his arrival. You now slept when he did, short and inconsistent hours of the night, only to be woken before the dawn. He did not rest well. Be it from his duties or pain you could not say, but he never faltered from exhaustion. This pattern must have been his usual routine, life at war.

Ivar's eyes sought you out the moment he came through the door, and you returned the stare. He had only just started walking in his new contraptions, a set of iron braces that he had created from pride. His determination to walk was admirable. You had never witnessed such a fighting spirit before, and you were certain it was a blessing from God.

"Something you wish to say?" Ivar interrupted your thought, a scowl on his face from your lingering gaze on his legs.

"It is a good thing," You said while rising from your corner of the floor. "I believe God has blessed you."

Ivar snorted, blue eyes rolling at your absurdity to insinuate such a thing. He took a slow seat on his pallet of furs and started to remove the braces. "Really, and why would that be?"

"You are not the first cripple I have met, but you are the most assiduous."

You could see him test out the word for himself, a lack of understanding passing over his face. "I'm not sure what that means, but I like how it sounds."

"You have an unrelenting heart. Strong-willed and resolute in your goals. I find you impressive."

He halted what he was doing, and took a long, considering look at you. "I've been this way for as long as I can remember. It is the way if I am to be seen as a true Viking to my people."

"So there are others like you?" You asked as you approached him with careful steps.

"There are not many cripples among my people, no. A child born with a deformity such as mine is left to die. I would have been if not for my mother. She was softhearted, and couldn't bear my loss."

You didn't want to have any strong sort of feelings towards your captor, but to learn that he had been left to die as a helpless babe engulfed you in sorrow. "It isn't wrong for a mother to feel pity for her child," You murmured, showing how distraught you were by such a story. "You don't sound grateful for her mercy."

Ivar's face hardened at your sentiment. "Mercy is for Christians. I would have done the same as my father. I loved my mother, but there are days I resent her for her choice. Her gifts failed to foretell the agony I would endure at the hands of compassion."

"What gifts?"

"She was a Vülva, a woman seeress of our people who has visions of the future."

You frowned at such a concept. "That sounds like sorcery to me."

"I forgot your people fear magic and witchcraft," Ivar said in a teasing tone. "My mother would have hated you. She was too steeped in the beliefs of our own people to have care about your sensitive notions of God. My father would have liked you though."

You blushed at the idea of such a great man holding you in favor. Though you didn't hail from Wessex you had heard the stories of the Viking King who fought for Mercia and befriended King Ecbert. "King Ragnar? Why do you think that?"

"He was often amused and curious about your God. Maybe you would have reminded him of Æthelstan, his Christian monk." Ivar resumed the task of taking off his braces, wincing in pain whenever a particular part pinched or pulled at his legs. "Here, come help me with this."

Startled by such a request, you moved with haste and uncertainty. Ivar showed you which parts to unclasp, and you would mimic his actions with a gentler touch, stopping entirely when he would let out any sound of discomfort. You were certainly slower at the task than if he completed it himself, but he seemed to enjoy watching you work over him, and you were grateful for the distraction. 

"What about your family? Where are your mother and father?" Ivar asked while leaning back on the strength of his arms.

"They're both dead," You said, pausing only a moment to collect yourself before continuing on his braces. "I was born in Rendlesham, in East Angles. My mother was a whore, and I never knew who my father was as a result of that. When she died, I was orphaned to the streets until the church took me in. Being of such low birth standing, I turned to the church as my ray of hope."

You could feel Ivar frowning at you, but you did not waver. "Did you not want to be something more than a nun?"

You breathed a laugh. "Such as what? Saxon women are not allowed to be warriors."

"Yes, but isn't there a way you could have improved your situation?"

"No," You said bluntly. "Blood is everything. Those who are of Royal standing will always be in power, and through marriage, their line continues. The best I could have hoped for was a marriage to a farmer, and he would have to have been a poor one. I would have raised his children, and likely died young from childbirth."

"I see now why you're a nun," said Ivar. When you chanced a look up at him, he appeared troubled by your story. "Those Saxons in power are greedy. They keep all for themselves and give nothing back. What chance is there of an honorable death for those forced to live a life of poverty?"

"If you die without sin, you go to Heaven. We have no need for honor."

"A life without sin," Ivar hummed. "As if any man is capable of such purity."

"A Priest is," You argued back. "It takes a nobleman to obtain such a pious position in the church."

"Is it noble for these men to keep silver and gold in their churches while children run through the streets, no better than dogs?" Ivar had sat forward, his eyes emboldened with the wrath of a demon. "I have seen your noblemen of the cloth, and they died screaming the same as any sinning heathen of mine."

You lost your balance, falling flat on your bottom as you gazed up at Ivar in terror. "What did you do to them?"

"The things I've done to your priests," Ivar paused, a calm washing over him. "It would make Loki grin."

The suffering of your people seemed to fall down on you like a star collapsing from the night sky. When he spoke, you could almost forget that Ivar was your enemy, but he had now made it clearer than ever where the line in the sand was drawn. You were just a slave, a Christian slave, and how soon would it be before he tired of you? You did not wish the same fate to befall you as it had for the priests, whatever it had been.

"I have not dismissed you," Ivar tutted when you began to walk away to your corner, unaware yourself that you had begun to do so. You craved distance from him, even if it was only a few feet away. 

At first, he tried to manage his composure, calling you back with his voice deliberately even. When it became clear that no amount of coaxing on his part would work, he started yelling in his language. That word came up again, 'Ólaug'. It had been peppered into a number of your one-sided conversations. If he had tried to brand you with a new name, you would refuse. He would not take who you were. 

Your fight ended with him throwing one of his crutches at you. It landed just before you, and you were able to contain your flinch. Ivar scoffed at your non-reaction and threw himself back onto the furs. He had finished disrobing and gave you the courtesy of his back, which appeared to be covered in a new etched design each time you saw him. Matched against your own untainted skin, it was a reminder of how different the worlds you came from were.

When you were sure Ivar had fallen asleep, you moved to get under your own thin pile of wool blankets. They were scratchy and held none of the warmth of the furs, but it was not the worst sleeping conditions you had ever weathered. That night you prayed for the lost Priests, and for God to take away your suffering. You didn't see a way out of your situation, but if God acted through you, you were certain to find your answer. Content to keep faith in your heart, Sister Mary Catharine slept, ignorant to the matter that Ivar was awake and watching you.

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