#He's not a knight or soldier and refuses to be one / but he does sometimes help when Zelda asks him to

[kheprriverse]

New fullbody for Time! + some info.

I'll work on his other outfits as well, especially the one I draw him in the most. Hero chart has also been updated!

Below the cut is some doodles of what FD looks like when Time uses the mask :>

I've had a few people mention FD having Time's braid and it was smth on my mind for a while as well, especially while working on Time's ref. So I decided to indulge on the idea! Also that his appearance differs depending on who uses the mask so I was gonna mess with it eventually anyways lol.

[bi-writes]

an eye for an eye | knight!ghost x f!reader

your husband bends to your will. men must learn from difficult lessons how far that bending goes.

type: a continuation of a hand for a hand, but can be read stand-alone (11.6k)

cw: 1600s au, dark!ghost, reader described as curvier/plus-sized, graphic depictions of war + violence, possessive!ghost, war-criminal!ghost, inaccurate historical settings probably, unprotected piv, cumplay, breeding kink, size kink, simon "i'd do anything for my wife no matter the devasting consequences" riley (18+)

Your husband has an insatiable appetite. Such a big man he is; he towers over you, so much so that you must tip your head back always to look up at him. You had to make many arrangements in your house to accommodate his hunger–a pantry stocked full of eggs and less fabric for your skirts.

Your house isn’t like others. Neither you nor Ghost have ever lived in luxury. When he showed you your home for the first time, you had shaken your head��you didn’t believe that such a large place was supposed to be yours, and even now, sometimes you feel like a stranger, out of place when the maids ask you what you want for supper or where you’d like to take your afternoon tea. You don’t like the fuss, the asking, the women that curtsy when you come near, concentrated over the creases in your skirts or the loose thread of your sleeve or the wispy hairs that fall out of your braids. You are told all the time that you must behave like a duchess, that you must poise yourself with your new title and your new money, and you must do the things that duchesses do–but no one says the same to your husband.

He is still allowed to sleep in the barracks. Lick the blood off his gauntlets. Polish his sword in the dirt. He’s still allowed to be everything that you cannot be anymore, he still lives the life he had before.

He still kills; and he is still very, very good at it.

Your queen told you in a letter that the king is very pleased. Ever since your union, Ghost has been quite the conqueror. Bloodthirsty and very determined, your husband has been taking his men across the water. He is not any less impressive off land. Not even the pirates have tried to negotiate; they bend the knee or taste the salt water. You breathe shakily when you read your queen’s letters—her praise for your husband’s conquests, how blessed your family will be and how valuable you are to the crown, how grateful she is that Ghost is no longer a fiend in court but rather a little more polite and a little quieter.

All for your sake. Ghost’s name is now your own, and he refuses to embarrass you now that you have it.

You won’t lie; the bodies that Ghost has stacked since you’ve been wed do not scare you. He’s doing it for you. He has never said it out loud, never told you so, but you know it. He wants to show you what kind man that he is, what kind of soldier—you know he’s trying to prove himself worthy. If he killed a thousand men to have you, how many will he slaughter to keep you?

He sends you letters of his own. Not many, but he does send letters, and while Ghost seems to be ineloquent and entirely too brutish, he has quite the voice when he writes.

To my wife,

The sun falls quicker here. I’d like to come home. Tell me of your day, and I will tell you of mine. There were a fleet of ships that came to meet us at dawn. When we sank three, they begged for us to spare the rest.

I have you to think about now. So I burned them.

Simon

A poet, your beloved.

He signs his real name in his letters. Your eyes skim over most of it–you don’t even blink when he tells you what he does to them. Sometimes he writes in great detail about the screams of a hundred souls, the way burning flesh smells, the taste of dirt in a new place when you know it is finally yours. He doesn’t like having secrets. He tells you all his thoughts, even if they might scare you, because you are his wife, and he has discovered quite quickly that you have been cut from the same cloth.

Even when he is home, and he tells you these things all over again, he can’t help the way his cock hardens when you merely blink and ask him if he has added any scars to his collection.

Ravenous, naughty little duchess, and you are all his. He knows he picked well–he knows, he knows he wasn’t wrong when he saw you across the throne room hiding behind his queen, he knows now that he was right about what he saw in your eyes.

You do hate when he’s away. You’re not used to the maids helping you dress, and you secretly abhor the help. That is why when you hear the shuffle of your house early in the morning, your heart thuds in your chest knowing he’s home.

The staff get antsy when Simon is around. He is very good at keeping an estate for someone that has never had to or ever been taught to, but he leaves the responsibilities with you and only you every time he goes. He doesn’t trust anyone else to do it, and every time he comes back, he makes you sit on one big thigh as he teaches you something new that you need to remember for when he goes away. He demands much of those he employs, and they are eager to please him. Whether it is because they respect him or are afraid of him, you aren’t sure.

Perhaps it’s both.

You sit up as the bedroom door opens. You smile, big and wide and sleepy as he steps into the room. He shuts the door with his boot, slipping his hood off, and you sigh as he grips the clasp of his mask and unhooks it. He tosses it onto the floor, bare-faced, and as he makes his way towards the bed, he sheds the rest of his clothes until he’s completely naked.

You cannot stop yourself from the shaky breath you take. He is all muscle and fat, strong and entirely too scary, but it’s hard to focus on what he really is when he stands before you like this. He has fat thighs, big shoulders, carved muscle of intense labor around his middle and along his biceps. He has large hands with calloused palms and split knuckles, and your eyes meet his own as he comes closer. He’s so gorgeous, even with a face like that. He has a long scar that stretches from one brow to his lower jaw, another that cuts his nose and splits his lip, but those eyes are dark and lovely, and you can’t help the warmth that comes over you when he catches you staring at him, closer, right to his cock that hangs heavy between his legs.

Just as he begins to lower himself onto the bed, you hold out a hand, giggling.

“Simon, if you think you are getting into this bed without a proper bath, you’re mistaken!” You laugh, and he raises a brow.

“Mmm…” He smacks his lips together. “Tha’ right, my lady?” He clicks his tongue. “This is my bed. ’s oll mine. Every blanket…every pillow…” He grips your ankle from under the covers and yanks you towards him. “And every part of you.”

You giggle again, shaking your head, “Please, Simon!” You push him away with your toes. “They only changed the sheets yesterday. You’ll dirty them…” You flutter your lashes. “Will you bathe if I join you?”

He grins wide, licking over his teeth.

“Can’t refuse an offer like tha’.”

You hold out your hand for him, and he takes it gently. You watch as he brings your knuckles towards his mouth, and you bite back a smile when he decides to kiss each one, slow. He tugs finally, pulling you up, and you wrap your arms around his neck as he hoists you up into his arms. You would worry about your weight normally, but Simon holds you so easily, barely even a grunt as he wraps your legs around his middle. You don’t waste another second, cupping his cheeks in your hands and kissing him softly.

It’s never just a kiss with Simon. He slides one of his hands up your back, into your hair, and you whine as he tips your head back just enough to slip his tongue into your mouth. Simon doesn’t just kiss, he consumes. What he did to get back to you, the things he endured, the places he has seen and the bodies he has buried and burned and scattered across the places he now calls country, it’s always to get back to this place.

To you.

“How’s my boy?” He asks when you pull away. He carries you to another room, to where the tub sits, and he rings a bell by the door to call the maids in. You snatch a robe off a hook and cover him with it as he sits with you, but all he does is put a few fingers under your chin and make you look at him again. “Oi. Asked ya question, luv.”

Your lip wobbles a little, and you look away.

“I…”  You wait until the maids have gone to fetch hot water to tell him. “I bled while you were gone. I…”  You smooth your hands over the robe, distracting yourself. “I’m…I’m sorry, Simon.”

You close your eyes as he leans close, resting his forehead against yours, and you shake a little as he lets out a warm breath against your lips. He moves a warm hand over your soft stomach, cupping you there, and you lean your head back a little at the tender touch.

“It will happen,” he says finally, and your mouth opens to respond, but he sticks his thumb between your lips to shut you up. He doesn’t want to hear you blame yourself. If it’s anyone’s fault, it’s his, for not being here with you, for not be able to take care of you. You give in, suckling on the salt of him, and he grits his teeth as he watches you. “I know. Seen it in m’dreams.”

Simon has dreams. Lots of dreams, but he tells you that they are not dreams, they are glimpses into something that has already happened. When you asked if he was some kind of seer, the kind that the king used to have at parties, Simon doesn’t laugh.

He says the dreams are why he knows he won’t die. Why he is never afraid, because he knows somewhere behind his eyes what’s to come even if he didn’t see the entire painting of it. It is why he knew he would marry you; it is why he paid you so much attention, why he knew he would win his battles, why he always knows whose blood it is in his mouth because he has tasted their death before and relishes in the knowing of it all, in the certainty.

It’s never I think, it is always I know, and Simon is nothing if he is not the most honest man that you know.

So if he says you will have his babe, it is as good as truth. As green as the grass grows beneath his feet, as blue as his sky, and as red as the blood that is caked underneath his nails.

When the tub is filled with water, you let Simon sink into it first. You kneel beside it, picking up a glass of oil, pouring it into your palms before sinking your hands into his hair. It’s gotten longer since he left, in need of a cut, but you smile when he leans his head back into your shoulder. You can feel his content as he relaxes into you, and you admire his physique as you use the warm water and scrub the mud and grime off of him.

“I missed you, husband,” you whisper, and he only lets you massage his hair for a few more moments before he grips you by the wrist and tugs you forward, right into the bath. “Simon!” you laugh, “my night dress—oh!—it’s ruined!”

“Too far away,” he mutters, practically ripping the silk off of you as he tosses it besides the bath. “Mmm…” He cups your breasts with two big hands, smoothing his thumbs over your nipples, and you whine a little as he pulls at them just enough to make them stiffen. “Y’should be naked when I come home,” he says lowly. “I’ll soil y’r bloody gown next time, m’lady.”

You giggle, and he smiles. A real smile. As real as he’ll ever give anyone, maybe the only one that anyone has ever even seen. He has never shown his face in court, and while it angers the women and irks the men, you revel in the fact that all of this is only for you.

Mine. Mine. Mine.

You kiss him softly. The water sloshes, warm and inviting, and sometimes you forget your life used to be anything but joy. A year ago, you would not believe that you would be here, titled, wealthy, in a stone room lit by candles bathing with a blood hungry ghost.

A year ago, you trembled whenever he looked at you. You cowered when you heard his footsteps. What a stupid little girl you had been. What a fool. She had no idea what she could have, the kinds of things she could hold in her hand.

Real power wasn’t being able to command a room with your words. Real power was being able to say anything and have it be believed as truth. Real power was making someone look in one direction and have them see what you see, even if what you see isn’t real.

He lays you down in your bed afterward and eats. Your wet hair soaks the sheets, but you can’t seem to be really bothered as he fits your legs over his shoulders and bends you at the waist, his mouth suctioned to your clit as he eats you slowly. One of his hands is spread out over your tummy, the other you can hear making a squelch as he fists his own cock. It’s slow and methodical, and he slides his tongue between your folds firm, catching what dribbles from you on the tip of his tongue before he swallows it and leans in for more.

He has eaten you in nearly every room in your house. Frightened the cooks tossing you onto the dining table, given a servant a scare as he ducked under your skirts in the library, had the gardeners fleeing as he dropped you onto the grass near the lake and disappeared with a frenzy to eat your cunt during sunrise. It’s maddening, the kind of need that Simon requires, but it’s hard to refuse when you feel so warm and bubbly and happy after he’s finished. A pampered princess you are, never lifting a finger, only awake long enough when he’s home to eat until you’re full and cum until you fall asleep again.

Maybe that’s why you’re not pregnant yet. Simon likes to be here, between your thighs, mouth fixed on your wet pussy until he’s practically exhausted himself with a sore jaw and lax tongue.

He kisses you sloppy after. Licking into your mouth, practically spitting onto your tongue, wanting you to taste—tastes so good, luvvie, don’t ya see, yeah?—wanting you to know why he’s so eager to be on his knees all the time.

You sniffle, a little dizzy, shaking your head.

“’s not what I really want,” is all you whimper, and he nods, because he knows, he always knows.

“I know, luv. I know wot ya really need.”

“I must be broken,” you sob, cradling his face in your hands, and he shakes his head.

“Not broken,” Simon assures you. He speaks so surely that it’s hard not to believe him. “It wasn’t time.”

“You can’t see the future, Simon! You don’t know!” You cry, and he snarls a little, shaking his head again.

“You listen t’me,” he growls. You shake a little as he grabs your face with one hand, fixing your jaw under his grip as he holds onto you firmly. “Wot I say goes. Y’r my wife, so listen t’me, and listen t’me good. Y’r not broken. Not time. Say it back t’me.”

Your lip trembles, and he rattles your head a little.

“Say it,” he snaps, and you hiccup.

“It’s not time,” you whisper, and he plants a fat kiss onto your tear-soaked lips.

“Just need my cock, luv,” he murmurs. “Tha’s oll. Just need me t’fuck it outta ya.”

You nod, pressing your face to his, and he tuts, reaching down and spreading your legs wide to accommodate him between them as he lays over you.

“’s oll y’need,” he repeats, and you nod again.

You have to take another bath in the same morning; and this time, you weren’t able to walk there.

You like when Simon is home because it’s quiet. The only one that dotes on you here is Simon. The maids do not dress you or do your hair or moisturize your skin. It’s always Simon.

You smile at him in the mirror as you sit at your vanity. He has a brush in one hand, and he’s using it delicately to detangle your hair how you like. His hands are practiced and gentle, and when he finishes, he leans over you as he starts to part your hair to braid it. He did not have sisters, but his mother had him always do her hair after she lost the use of her hands with age. You don’t know where his mother is, but you assume she is not here anymore, because he never invites you to meet her.

He oils your skin. He slips the robe off of you, revealing your damp skin from the bath, and he slathers oil in his hands before using it to soften your skin. He takes his time, smoothing those big hands over your shoulders, down your back, along your arms. You tilt your head back when he warms your breasts, squeezing and fondling your tits. He murmurs in your ear the entire time, and he has to fuck you with his fingers to quiet you when he stops because just his hands on your tits has you wet all over again.

He dresses you, too. Helps you slip into your undergarments, fastens the cage for your skirts over your hips. He ties them skillfully, and after he layers your skirts over the farthingale, he gets you into your corset. It’s intimate as he does this. Even with your wide skirt, he comes closer, over your shoulder, and he tugs at the laces at your back, pulling it tight with firm grunts. You sigh when he buries his face into the crook of your neck, his hand skimming over your breasts as they sit nice and perky between stiff fabric and whalebone.

“Fuck,” he mutters. “Fuck, unnerving…the way ya look…”

You close your eyes, “S-Simon, please…I’m already dressed…”

He chuckles, “I know. I know.”

But when he has to leave again, you nearly come with him. You fasten his armor for him, help him slip each piece of leather on and click every piece of metal into place. You tie his cloak and slip his mask on, and you try and duck your head when you flip his hood up, but he catches you, tilting your chin up.

He huffs when he sees your face. Tears sliding down your cheeks, lips wet with them, eyes all glassy and red. He draws you up onto your toes, pressing his mouth to yours through the mask, and you hold onto him tightly, digging your nails into his chest armor and threatening to not let go.

“I want to go.“

“No.”

“Simon, let me go,” You gasp, begging, gripping his hood in firm fists and not caring that his armor is cutting into your front. “Let me go with you, I can’t do this anymore, I want to go, I can do it.”

You aren’t sure if Simon underestimates you. You think it’s more that he does not want you to see him in a place where he is most true. Where he wears the least of a disguise. He does not know he wears it the least with you, and that you have already seen his blood and how it curdles under his skin. You like it that way. You like him angry…and mean…and terrible. You like him when his sword is dirty and his armor needs polishing and his mind thinks of nothing else besides war. He should know this by now. He should know that you see him and see what he is even more than his king, more than his men.

He couldn’t scare you, even if he tried.

“War is not where women go,” Simon snaps. His tone is harsh, even for you, and you stiffen when he grips you by the jaw and rattles your head a little. “Especially not one like you, my love. War would eat ya, eat ya fuckin’ whole. Look at ya…” He huffs, deep, sliding that gloved hand down your throat to slip it beneath the neckline of your dress and fondle your breast with a firm grip. “Beautiful. Meant for my lips…for these dresses…meant to be held in my hands, not bleed from stray arrows, because tha’ is surely the least of wot they would do t’ya if they knew ya were my wife. Now ya will wipe these tears, ‘n see me off, and then ya will come back inside like a good girl, ‘n you will wait for me here until I come back.”

Your bottom lip trembles, and you scowl up at him. Not indifference, but frustration, and Simon doesn’t think it suits you.

“I’m sick of waiting for you, Simon,” you spit. “It’s all I ever do, wait. Wait for you to come back, alive or dead, I never know. And don’t say you do this for country, that is a lie.” You shove him backwards, but he barely budges when your hands touch his chest, a rigid wall that does not give. “You do it because you like it. You’re a bloodthirsty dog, and all you do is bend to our king’s will.”

A lie, but you tell it anyways, because you want something, and he will not give it to you.

“That is my duty.”

“Your duty is to me,” you snap. “Kings come and go, but I will not.” Simon stills. He glares down at you from behind his mask, and perhaps this might terrify his men, but that you are not. You are his wife, and you are protected by that title alone. The only man to ever lay a hand on you would not live to see another second, himself included. “Now you will let me join you, or so help me God, Simon, I will not be here when you return.”

You do not expect the full-bellied laugh that leaves him. His armor shakes with him, and you grind your teeth, narrowing your eyes. He uses his thumb to force his mask up, and then he cups the back of your head and draws you in for a sloppy kiss. You resist at first, but when he feeds you his tongue, you melt. You kiss him back, letting him draw you closer, and you sigh as he tangles his fingers into your hair and cradles you with those big hands.

There is nothing more to say. Simon neither confirms nor denies, but you taste it in his mouth, his devotion. Not wrong, not right, but just so–he has many responsibilities, but you are the only one that will remain the same. One day, his king will die, and he will serve another, but the space you have made beside him will never change. Even when you die, because he knows you will go before him, there will never be someone else to fill it. You and you only, the woman he found and made his, the one he demanded lest he kill his own country for it, it will always be you. Soft and sweet, you are, but the Lord knew Simon could only have one woman, and he made it be you; the one spitfire enough to defy her own king because she trusted his love enough for it.

Would you commit treason to save his life? Would you watch a king die if it meant your beloved lived? 

Would he?

He thinks about what you have said when he takes his fleet across the water. He runs his tongue over his teeth behind his mask, breathing deep when he thinks about your proclamations of duty. Of change. Of what remains when other things move, of the kind of life that waits for him when he comes and goes with a king’s order. He thinks about how easily he is taken away from you, and he knows there is truth in what you feel. It is not really Simon that sacrifices, it is what he leaves behind, and that is you.

It’s never angered him before. He had accepted the fact, as early as your wedding day, that he would leave and come back, then leave again. It has always been the way of his life, come desire or not, so it bothers him that of all the things that surprised him in his life, it would be missing someone that shocked him the most.

Missing his wife. Missing the serene perfection of one woman, and the perfect place between her soft thighs. Every day that he finds himself between them is the best day of his life, he reckons, so now he feels bitter about staring at a freezing ocean amongst his men because he will go weeks without her.

Her. Her. Her.

He is bitter, yes, until he is not.

It comes in a letter from a messenger on horseback. They have been stationed in a foreign land for weeks now, watching slowly as the stone walls of a castle at their front crumples day after day from the stones filled with powder that ignite what is wood and break what is rock. The letter is sealed with wax, with the motif of a snake. It is given directly to Simon, whose name is scribbled in the letter, and when he reads it, he tastes ichor and smoke.

So the great phantom has come to seal my fate. I am not in the business of letting what is mine be taken. Even if you have brought your all, it won’t be taken from me.

I heard you have a beautiful new wife. I heard you paid for her in blood.

I shall do the same. I will hang your sword above our marriage bed.

Ghost is not someone that bends to the threats from foe he cannot look in the eye. Words are so empty. It is nothing like when he stands just a few meters apart from them, eyes fixed against one another, as they decide whether today they want to live or they want to die. The letter means nothing, but he’s surprised by the heat that bubbles under his ribs at the mention of his bride. He meant it when he said you were not meant for war, and that meant in this regard, too–nobody was allowed to talk about you, not like this, not ever.

When his king orders him home, Ghost crumples the note and tosses it into embers. He watches it burn, and then he orders his men to set to flame the ground around the stone walls.

So men like him can be goaded, it seems. His resolve is not as strong as he thought.

The weeks make you anxious. All you do is sit and collect dues and tell the maids which dress you want to wear and which you do not. It is peaceful and boring, and you wish Simon was here to make your days more exciting, but he is not.

His letters are the only things that keep you occupied, truly. He writes to you about war and loneliness, and you write to him about the mundane of domesticity and the ache he leaves behind. Sometimes, his letters come folded with pressed flowers he finds along the way, and you start to collect them, putting them away in small boxes or using them as bookmarks as you go through Simon’s library.

He has many books. His most loved books are those of war, of history, and you smooth your fingers over the pages he has dogeared and find comfort in reading the same words that he once did. You learn, as well. While in your studies as a girl, they made you learn arithmetic and the flowery bits of history and art, here in Simon’s house, you learn of strategy and weaponry and military tactic. Sometimes you disagree, and you write about these disagreements to Simon, and he writes back, pleased with your observations. He told you once that if you were a man, he would want you in that tent with him, beside him, deciding on which formations to take and when to strike. You responded saying that you could be that for him anyway. What did your sex have anything to do with whether you were right or wrong?

Simon agreed.

But I would never invite you here, dear wife. You have to understand that.

When your queen asks for your audience for dinner, you oblige easily; finally, you have something to do rather than add up numbers or sign a document on Simon’s behalf or read another fucking book.

You don’t want to wear all the costume your maids insist on, but you appease them after they repeatedly explain to you what your title means. With a drawn face, you let them tie your corset and layer your skirts, and you watch in the mirror as they braid your hair and drape large, obnoxious jewels over you. You grimace at the tiara they fit into your hair, and your elderly handmaid pinches your cheeks and tells you to put on a fair countenance, Your Grace, lest you make the Duke look ungrateful.

You bite your tongue from snapping at her. She should know that Simon would say nothing about your countenance; all he would do is fix whatever was bothering you until you smiled again.

You arrive early enough to have tea. Your queen is so excited to see you; she gushes when you meet her in the throne room, pulling you up from your curtsy so she can hug you tight, squealing. When you try to address her with a curt “Your Majesty,” she shakes her head, pressing her hands to your cheeks and giggling, “No need for formalities now. Call me Victoria.”

You hide your displeasure with a small smile. Now that you are no longer her lady-in-waiting, she allows you her name. Is it because she sees you more as equals, or because now you’re allowed to be somewhat of friends?

You must be some kind of friend. She sizes you up like you are one. She wears England’s colors this afternoon. A fire red dress adorned with gold accents, a dragon pin holding her shawl. She wears magnificent red and gold jewelry, but she’s looking at your dress, and you can see the slight twitch of her eye. You are wearing French lace, and she doesn’t like it. Or maybe she doesn’t like the color, the accents of navy blue and silver that you wear.

The skull motif that is woven into your tiara and printed on your coat and sewn into your dress. Does it insult her? That all your life, you wore nothing but browns and beiges and grays, were invisible to her, and now you represent your house, visit her as your guest, and bear an honorable name?

You were no one when you served her. Just a girl, no close family, no friends, just a distant uncle who gave you to the crown that hoped you could be of service. That was to be your duty for all your life–to serve the king’s wife until she wanted you no more or until she was gone. To cater to her every need and every wish, no matter the time of day or night.

Now you sit across her, more noble. Refined. Wearing a dress she despises, perhaps because she likes it more than her own.

Over tea, she gossips about the other ladies she has visit. You’ve heard this before, but you’ve never been included in the conversation. She talks to you, and she wants to hear your opinion, and you find yourself uneasy as you try to think of what to say. She is your queen, and you want her to like you. When you worked for her, you earned her favor by always warming up her jewels before she put them on, by making sure she had her tea ready in the morning at her bedside, by always holding the fan she so loved for when she inevitably had a hot flash. Now, as her friend, you weren’t exactly sure what to do. You suck in a soft breath and look at her, and then you purse your lips.

You think it best to agree with her. To be on her side. You might not be her direct servant any longer, but you still must fall under her favor. A queen’s favor can be just as powerful, especially if she occasionally has the ear of her husband.

“Well, that’s not very kind of her,” you say finally, and she laughs.

“No! She’s such a prude. I think her husband doesn’t sleep in her bed enough, if you know what I mean,” she winks at you. You giggle at that. “Speaking of husbands–” She pops another cake in her mouth. “How is yours?”

You reach up and tug at your necklace a bit, smiling nervously.

“Oh, uh…” You clear your throat, “He’s doing very well. I hear his latest campaign is quite the success. His majesty is very smart, heading for the east that way, I’m sure they will be victorious soon enough.”

Victoria smiles at the thought of her husband. His intelligence. She always used to talk to you about how many hours he worked, how she hated when he was away, how she wished he was home more so he could give her a son because she was so, so lonely.

“Wise words from the duchess, aye, my love?”

You jump a bit at the low voice from behind, and when you turn, you gasp, immediately standing and falling into a delicate curtsy. John Price waves his hand, coming further into the room, shaking his head.

“It’s alright,” he tells you. “Please, sit. You’re here as my guest.”

You stand and lift your head, trying to relax. You take a seat, smiling nervously, and Victoria smiles giddily at her husband. When he bends to kiss her cheek, she fawns, reaching for his hand and squeezing it before taking another piece of tart and eating it. John hums before motioning for one of the staff to fill your cup again with tea. He eyes you curiously, taking in your appearance. You sit up at that, performatively brushing off over the skull pattern on your corset. John runs his tongue over his teeth, smoothing a big palm down his wife’s long coils of hair.

“Since you’re here, I’d like a word, if that’s alright,” John says to you. His tone carries a little more authority now, and Victoria sighs, whining a little.

“John, please, she’s my friend. Can’t it wait–”

“That wasn’t a question, Victoria,” John bites. Her face falls a little. She swallows and tucks her hands into her lap. You’re reminded as you look at the slight wobble of her lip that there is no one truly above John Price, not even her. You keep your face neutral, but if you were invisible, you’d pity her.

What a shame her husband sees her as less than. How embarrassing. Your Simon would never. Your Simon waits until you finish speaking before speaking himself. Your husband kneels to take off your shoes, your husband tears your skirts to get a taste of you, your husband used his teeth to sever a man’s throat just to have your hand.

What did John Price do to get his wife? Who did John Price kill to have her hand? How many bruises did he earn around his knees on their wedding night from eating her out? As many as Simon, whose knees were black and blue by morning?

No, you suppose not. How unfortunate. How pathetic.

Victoria picks up her skirt and stands, pasting a big smile on her face. It doesn’t reach her eyes, and you can see the way her hands shake a little as she scurries off. She scowls as soon as she turns away from John, clearly annoyed.

“I’ll go check on dinner,” she says, but it is soft and unenthusiastic.

When she goes, the room falls quiet. At the nod of John’s head, the staff leave, and you keep still in your seat as John sits across from you, picking up one of the cakes in front of him and breaking off a piece to busy himself. He keeps his eyes on his task of cutting up the cake in small pieces, focused on his hands and how they work. You watch him carefully, steeling yourself.

You anticipate a conversation between man and woman, not a king and his lesser.

“Simon’s been away for some time. I bet that’s difficult for you.”

You straighten your posture, realizing what this conversation will be. By his tone, John seems to think you a bored, stupid housewife, perhaps. Uneducated. A woman, no thoughts in her head. You let your face relax, and you fold your hands in your lap. Maybe now is the time John should learn who you are and who you are not.

What you have become and what you no longer are.

“I do just fine, Your Majesty,” you say finally. You pick up a spoon and drop a cube of sugar into your tea, and you stir, picking it up to take a long sip. John is curious by your content. You have a quick tongue. “I could say the same to you, couldn’t I?”

John laughs. He narrows his eyes a bit at your clever response, taking a large bite of the cake and running a cloth over his beard. His eyes sparkle a little.

“So you know.”

“Know what, Your Majesty?”

“You know I gave Simon orders. And you know he didn’t listen to me.”

You purse your lips, but he sees the shine in your eyes. The lack of surprise. His face twitches a bit, and you shake your head. You blink slow, and it irks him to see you so calm. He is your king, and Simon answers to him, and you are his wife, so you must answer, too.

“I’m not sure I know what you’re talking about.”

“I could have your husband’s head cut off for treason for that, you’re aware, aren’t you?”

You tilt your head to the side. What an odd thing for John to say. What an odd thing for John to contemplate, since it would never come to pass. “Don’t be daft, my king. You wouldn’t want to do that.”

John slams his fist on the table, making the plates and cups rattle with his frustration, but you do not even flinch. You blink, stone-faced, and it makes his nostrils flare. He recognizes that glare, he knows it well. He has seen it before, stared it down many times in rooms just like this. Only now, he is not fighting for land, he fights for control of the one man that he has always been able to rely on. Simon has followed him into battles outnumbered by a thousand men, and only now he ignores an order? Only now he chooses something different?

“Now, let’s be civil, Your Majesty,” you say softly. You smile at him, leaning your head in your hand. “Is there something that you need from me? I have a feeling you might have encouraged this dinner just so you could see me in passing, so why don’t you just ask me what you wanted to ask me?”

John lets out a deep breath, leaning his elbows on the table, lowering his voice. He leans towards you, and you admire how blue his eyes are. John is quite a handsome king, but he does not captivate you. It has been a long time since John has tasted blood, and he lacks the edge that you crave dearly.

“I need him back here, is what I need,” John murmurs.

“My king, I couldn’t get him back here any more than you could, even if I wanted to.”

“Now who’s being daft?”

You scoff, leaning back in your chair. John is not a stupid man. He created a beast of a man, and he is trying not to poke it too hard. You shift, brushing down your skirts, and you let out a low breath.

“Why did he refuse?” You ask finally.

“What?”

“Why does he ignore your order to come back?” You ask again. “I can’t think of a lot of reasons why he would stay. So why did he ignore you?”

John clicks his tongue, smoothing a few of his fingers over his beard. He averts his eyes, looking out the tall windows, frowning a little at the grim weather. The weather is always grim here, but it irks him at the moment, makes him scowl a little harder.

“I was…informed that there was some sort of letter,” John explains. “Some threat.”

“I don’t follow. He gets lots of threats. And terrible letters.”

“Was about you this time, Your Grace.”

You close your eyes at that, shaking your head. Simon would never be so foolish as to be baited by baseless threats. He barely bats an eye when someone even in front of him draws his sword. He is so comforted by his ability to win, by his dreams and his visions that have not yet happened.

“That’s absurd,” you breathe. “Simon wouldn’t…”

John chuckles, but there is no humor there. “Wouldn’t he?”

“I still don’t understand what you expect me to do,” you roll your eyes, looking away. “Simon is…he’s not…he doesn’t listen. It’s why he’s good at this, isn’t it? He doesn’t really take orders, he’s…I…”

John has never complained before about the way Simon chooses to lead. Oftentimes, it is an order ignored that has made it so that he delivered another crown at John’s feet. Simon asks for forgiveness, not permission, and John has barely batted at eye at it. He sees Simon as some kind of distant son, but this refusal bothers him so?

John leans forward. “You need to understand something here, Simon is a rabid dog,” he spits. “And sometimes I let him off his lead, but this isn’t like anything I’ve had to deal with. I need you to call him back here.” He scoots closer. “England needs you to call him back here. To me.”

You narrow your eyes a little. England needs you to call him back? What kind of sick sense of patriotism is he trying to instill in you? John is stupider than he looks, to think a woman like you would show loyalty to country. You are loyal to your husband, and nothing else, because what has king and country ever really done for a woman like you except for dispose of you?

You wear Simon’s colors, not John’s, and you will wear them to your deathbed.

“If I do this for you, my king, then you owe me,” you whisper. He laughs again, no humor, and he picks up a goblet and fills it to the brim with wine. He drinks half before slamming it down onto the table, spilling it over his hand.

“Kings do not owe their subjects.”

“Quite right, Your Majesty,” you agree, picking up your napkin and dropping it onto the table. You stand, giving him a polite curtsy. “But I am not doing this as your subject.”

“Everything you do is as my subject.”

“You put your entire right to the throne on the back of one man,” you say softly. You are not accusing him, you’re reminding him of a truth. “Simon is why…he’s why your counsel still listens to you. He’s why your people are free from famine, why…why your taxes get paid on time, why your kingdom is still standing, no thanks to your father who wasted this place’s fortune on women and liquor.” You shake your head. “You have an eye for conquest, Your Majesty, but you lack the execution of any plan you conjure.”

You are not wrong, and John knows this, and it’s why he hasn’t spoken up yet or interrupted you. The man before, his own father, was a drunkard who spent all their money. He drank himself into the grave, and the only reason John stands before you now is because of Simon. A man who he fought beside, who he commanded, who once John’s duty became reality took up the mantle and finished what his father never could.

John would be in the next history book you read because of Simon, and it’s Simon’s name that will never be written. They do not bestow legacy to men who serve other men.

“Where…Where did you learn to speak to men this way?” John scoffs. “I am your king.”

You must have hit a soft spot. John is defensive now, and men only deflect and insult when they are cornered with the truth. They don’t like being held in front of a mirror.

“You are king because my husband made it so,” you correct him gently. “And Simon is a loyal dog, and that is good for your sake, because if he had any desire for your seat, it would be his.” You come closer, your heels sounding, and John glares down at you; but you glare right back because you are protected by your name and what you can do with it. John knows this, and it angers him, but he seems to have difficulty facing the truths of his own making. “But he is not your dog anymore. He’s mine.”

Your pen on paper is aggressive. You can tell because the splotches of ink are deep, bleeding black sinking into white as you put angry word to parchment. Not even a fortnight later, you are playing cards with Victoria, and you see Simon’s silhouette standing in the doorway, hood shadowing his masked face as he observes. When you look over your shoulder where John sits, and you meet his eyes, he looks away from you with a grim understanding.

Simon answers your call. Always.

At dinner, John is in better spirits. He drinks with a big smile, eats more than one plate, and he picks Victoria up by the waist to make her dance with him when he asks for the music to be played louder. Simon sits, fidgety, gloved hands moving in and out of fists as he watches you cut into your food and eat it with a blank face. He huffs beside you, his armor stiffening as he sits up straight, and you let your fork clatter onto your plate as you turn to glare at him.

“You were thinking with your cock, Simon,” you spit. “That is how men like you get killed.”

“You ‘ave no idea how men like me get killed because there are no men like me,” Simon growls. You roll your eyes, standing, and he grips your wrist angrily, tugging you close until you fall into his lap. You sigh, shaking your head, putting your hands on his broad shoulders and making him look at you.

“Maybe,” you whisper. “But I’m not wrong. It is how you’ll lose. You know better than that, Simon. To fight someone because they taunted you in a letter, it’s playing the fool.” You cup his cheeks, keeping his eyes on yours. “You don’t need me to tell you that, and yet here we are.”

He breathes slow, closing his eyes for just a moment. He thinks he came for this, just a little. For clarity. Reason. It comes from you in waves, and it’s comforting to hear. It is something he knew, and yet it only makes sense now that you have said it.

“I know,” Simon mutters. “I know. Y’r right. I’m sorry, luv.”

You ask him to apologize when he undresses you. You ask him to apologize again when he sinks into a hot bath with you. You ask him a third time when he is in your bed, a heavy weight between your thighs as he licks and sucks at the soft skin of your tummy. He begs, lowly, let me ‘ave it, and you will, but he has to say he’s sorry again.

“‘m sorry,” he breathes, sucking on your inner thigh, and you close your thighs around his head, forcing his mouth against your cunt.

“Again, Simon,” you whisper. “I wanna hear it again.”

“‘m sorry,” he slides a rough tongue between your folds, breathing shakily when he tastes the oil that he smoothed over your skin only moments ago. You taste so good, you smell so lovely, coming off of you like fumes blinding his senses so that nothing else but you makes any sense at all. When you open your eyes, you think about where you are, and you nearly come thinking about what you have wrapped around your finger.

Not even your king tells your husband what to do. Not even your king commands his men, they won’t listen, he’s not who they turn to when things go belly-up, it’s your husband, and your husband answers to you.

You weren’t sure about it until today. Seeing him when you asked him to come, it flooded you with something that hurt. You could tell from even so far away that Simon was salivating under that mask. You knew the only thing separating his mouth from your cunt were the other people around him (and they were not privy to seeing you naked).

It is such a thing to observe. John needed a lead on Simon when he was his dog. You need no such mechanism. Simon never strays, not with you. He sits proper when you ask, and he speaks when spoken to. He tears at unwanted flesh, and he comes when you call.

John cannot give him all that he desires. Perhaps he thought what Simon truly wanted was fame and fortune. Legacy. But like most things men do, John does not observe. He takes in only what is right in front of him, and he makes assumptions. Simon is not like other men. Fame and fortune do not matter. He does not care about legacy. What matters to Simon is what he can hold in his hands. The ground under his feet. The steel in his hand. The woman underneath him, spreading her legs, inviting him in.

You love Simon. You love Simon more than anything in the entire world, but it would be a lie to say that you are not at some advantage here. Simon is all-consuming. He is the pinnacle of duty and honor and everything that a man is supposed to be, but Simon is also weak. There is something that he wanted more than anything in the world, and now that he has it, he will do anything to keep it, and that makes him vulnerable. Subject to all kinds of new things. Revenge. Retaliation. Pain.

Manipulation.

Maybe you should feel bad about it. Maybe you should feel guilty, but it’s hard to feel anything like it when there’s a big bear of a man between your thighs slobbering on your pussy like dessert. It’s hard to feel anything but bliss when he’s tracing the letters of his name into your cunt and making you see stars and fucking you into the silk sheets like it’s the last time he’ll ever have you.

It is men who govern your world, and if this is how you must move in it, then so be it. You will not feel bad. You will not be sorry for doing what anyone else would do. John thought he could keep his hand there, muzzle his mutt, but you like him this way, and you’re certain John doesn’t fuck the way you do.

He’s mine.

It isn’t John that commands an army, it’s you; or maybe your cunt, but that belongs to you, too, so it is you, isn’t it? You’re the one that lets him inside, that whispers in his ear, that tells him things you know he wants to hear to make things move in your favor, so it’s you, right?

Not John. Not Victoria. Not their counsel. You. They have stepped on you your entire life. They have made you small and inferior and sad for all of your existence, and they gave you something feral knowing it could eat you alive, and now you are the hand that feeds, and they are forgetting that if they bite too hard, you have something that will surely bite harder.

A collar would suit him, you think. He would look so pretty. He already is, the terrible beast, prettiest thing you’ve ever seen (the necklace your drape over him does just fine, a pendant with his motif that you hope reminds him of you). You don’t care if people would say his face is quite ugly. It is, very much so, but you never see him this way. Whenever that mask falls, your stomach flips. He takes your breath away. His intensity, his raw form of love, the look on his face–there is nothing else in the entire world that will love you the way he loves you.

“You came back for me?” You ask. You have a leg tangled between his, and his fingers are between your thighs, a shadow of a smirk on his face as he feels the mixture of your cum and his. He grunts a little, and you tilt your head to look up at him, your chin on his chest.

“‘f course,” Simon mutters, and you kiss his chest gently, keeping your eyes on his.

“But not for John.”

He turns his head, looking down at you more intently, and he scoffs. You know it’s true, but you want to hear it, anyways. You want to hear Simon admit, unknowingly, that you are the tether.

“John is afraid, and I don’t listen to ‘im when he’s afraid. Makes bad choices.”

It’s almost adorable that this is what Simon tells himself. That he comes back for his own sake, and not for yours, even though they are one and the same, intertwined and inseparable.

“Simon,” you say softly, and he sighs, his eyes closing briefly when you kiss him gently. “You have to listen to your king when he asks you to come back. Making a…rash decision about war strategy is one thing, but…” You cup his cheek gently. “Make things easier for me, husband. If he asks you to come back, you come back.”

This time, at least. Just this time.

Simon snarls a bit, but you swallow it when you kiss him. You maneuver yourself over him, straddling his hips, and he grunts as you sink down on him. He swells hard again very quickly, releasing a deep breath as you give a slow roll of your hips.

“Make things easy for me, my love,” you whisper, and he leans his head back, putting two big hands on your ass and moving you with ease. “Appease your king, yes? For me?”

“Can’t say no when y’r pussy squeezes me like tha’, sweet’eart,” Simon groans, and you giggle, planting your hands on his chest and starting to move a little faster. You lean your head back, your mouth falling open, and you gasp when you sink down completely, your ass touching his thick thighs as you tighten around him. “Fuckin’ Christ–”

“I hate when you go,” you whine, digging your nails into his chest. He hisses, planting his feet on the bed, and he fucks up into you with a renewed fervor. “Hate when you’re not here, Simon, I-I miss you, miss this–”

“Nghh…fuck, I know,” Simon pants. “Can feel it. Feel you.” You squeal when he grips you by the waist and turns you over. He makes it seem so easy, tossing your weight underneath him, and your arms circle around his neck as you draw him closer, hanging onto him. “Y’r so fuckin’ pretty…”

“Simon–”

He kisses to devour. His jaw hinges wide to kiss you sloppy, breathing in the moans that you can’t contain. Simon always fucks so well, stretching your thighs as wide as they will accommodate so he can make room for the goliath of himself that he is. He suffocates, in a good way, and his cock never fails to stretch you for all that you are worth. Simon holds your jaw in place as he grinds into you, relishing in the wet smack of his hips against yours. The fat of you satisfies him. It makes him growl with delight when he grabs onto wide hips, your fat arse, the body that you hold that tells him you are fed and warm and content. It draws his grin wider, and it makes him drool thinking about having you again and again and again, until you beg him for reprieve and his heir sits in your womb.

Simon fucks for sport. He wants to see how stupid he can make you. He wants to know how long you’ll cry for, how fat he can make your tears. He wants to know how loud you will cry, how many times he can make you cum before you’re incoherent, he wants to know the extent to which he can use you that you will still be awake enough to say his name just one more time. Simon is not satisfied until he pushes your limits.

It is what a Riley does. They endure, and they eat, and they consume, and they take pleasure in the all-encompassing indulgement of things they have never been allowed to have. You are a woman, so he knows this will come easy for you. So often, he knows, women are not allowed to indulge at all, so he wants you to. He wants you to cry and moan and eat, and he wants you to do it bearing his name so that no one will ever tell you no.

Simon says no to kings, and they placate, or they die. His wife will be offered the same respect, and he’ll stand behind her with a sword to make it law. When you bear his children, he will expect the same of them–to give their mother utter devotion, lest they answer to his hand. There is no one above you, not God, not country, and certainly not blood. They will know what their father did to have you, and they will spill the same amount of blood to keep it that way. They will do it for you, and then they will do it for their own lovers, and if they don’t have the same sentiments, that love is not true, and Simon will not give his blessing.

Everything else is trivial. He knows this, understands it, because history repeats itself. It is cyclical, and you are right. Kings come and go. Sons die to other sons, fathers make bad decisions, and crowns are passed to bastards and back again, until lineage is merely spectacle and power changes hands often enough to lose generational merit. There is one thing that remains, and it is what you do while you are on earth, while you are standing on the ground you were born on. Even faiths change; when men find it suitable, they change the rules, and then you worship a different God, so Simon sees no point in staying loyal to any of it.

Instead, he is true to what he knows. To what he can see and what he can feel. With John, he remembers being a young man, fighting alongside him. He follows John, to an extent, because he knows what it is like to share blood with him on a muddy hill and take an arrow for him.

With you, time stands still. He saw you in a room, and he had to have you, and he brought nations to ruin to make certain no one would bat an eye when he asked for your hand. He saw you in a dream, too–he saw you laying in his bed of furs, wearing nothing but a tiara of his making, wet between the thighs because that is how it’s meant to be. He recognized you when he saw you that first time, and he doesn’t know how, but saying no to you, really saying no, will change that vision, and he couldn’t bear that.

Your voice echoes. You’re moaning, overstimulated, but he doesn’t stop. The hair around his cock rubs your clit too many times, and when you come around him, you’re a shaking, withering thing, back bowed and nipples pebbled. Your toes curl as you cry from the starry-eyed, hot pleasure, but he keeps moving, chasing something in the distance that he can taste, so close.

Yes, Simon ignored his king. Yes, Simon did not ignore you. Yes, Simon admits, he came when you called, and he doesn’t feel bad about it, he doesn’t care how it seems. He would do it again if he had the chance. John could give him the same answer as you in every timeline, but he will only move if the command comes from you, and yes, Simon knows it makes him a liability, but crowns come with costs, and this is the one John must pay.

Simon will fight any of John’s enemies, but he won’t fight fate. He won’t fight what has already been seen, and he won’t fight what he already knows will happen.

With Simon’s cock in your mouth, you can make him deliver on promises. Sucking on the girth of him, you can make him an honest man. Taking inside of your mouth what you can swallow, you can make Simon do your bidding, and it is a hard lesson that John learns.

“Do this for me,” you slobber against the underside of his cock, and Simon relents.

“Make me happy,” you say, swirling your fingers against your puffy pussy, and Simon kneels with an open mouth.

“Just this once,” you whisper with his cum on your tongue, and Simon seals his choice with his hands on your tits and the taste of himself in his mouth.

When you make eyes with John across the low lights of the throne room, he can’t help the way he admires you. You stand beside Simon, looking the essence of nobility and reverence in another intricate silver and blue dress. The train of your skirt glitters with delicate jewels hand sewn into the fabric, and the headpiece you wear adorns a skull insignia. Your corset has been tied just right, thanks to Simon’s hand, and your own fingers are clasped between his. Your corset and jewels are of exquisite detail–one of the newest designs from Paris, structured and elegant and accentuating every curve of soft skin.

You glow in the room. His wife must be wearing a dress just as expensive, probably more, and yet his eyes (and everyone else’s) cannot help but follow you. Your own eyes won’t leave Simon; you flutter your lashes whenever he looks down at you, big smile on your face, and even when there are people curtsying and bowing to you and giving Simon their gratitude between bites of cake and glugs of wine, your attention never really strays. 

John feels inadequate in his own fortress; suddenly, red and gold sicken him, and England tastes sour in his mouth.

In a few generations, John’s house will likely fall. He will make heirs that will fail him, he knows this. In a few centuries, his family will not sit in the same place, but a Riley will remain right where they are supposed to be. Banners of blue and silver will always fly. If Simon does not make sure of that, then you will.

It’s what happens when you force women like you to their knees. When they grow up invisible, always in the shadows, forgotten and sold to the next man who will pay a higher price, it’s what you learned to do. It’s all you’ve ever known, to make the best out of something terrible.

Simon is the same, in that sense. You understand him in a way his king will never be able to. Simon has nothing, and neither do you, and Simon was stepped on and berated and tortured to the point of no return. It is why blood does not scare him and why death doesn’t come knocking. Time will be the only thing capable of killing him, and everyone that stands up to him learns that when they eat his blade.

In the quiet of the evening, Simon undresses you. He sits behind you on the bed, fingers pinching the bows at your back and unraveling them. He traces your corset, thumb circling over the skull pattern of the belt around the small of your waist, and he tastes something warm in his mouth at the sight of it. You look so beautiful–more beautiful than he’s ever seen you maybe, decorated in his colors and wearing his motif and sitting so pretty.

“You wanna know something…funny?” You ask quietly. Simon finds the ties of your skirts and starts to undo them. He grunts in reply; he might sound standoffish, but you know he’s listening. “John…John made it…he makes it seem like you don’t really listen to him. He implied that…in the face of adversity, you might only listen to me.” You put your hands on the front of your corset to keep it from falling. “Isn’t that funny?”

“Wot’s so funny?”

You swallow, looking down. Your hands fidget, and you take a closer look at the ring you wear, the delicate gold band he gave you not so long ago.

“I…”

“Mmm…might be right, innit?” Simon snickers after a moment. You feel him stand, and you look over your shoulder as he peels his mask off and grins down at you. He tilts his head to the side, and you smile back at him a little. “Do anythin’ for ya. Disobeying a king…” Simon cackles, tearing your corset off, tossing it onto the floor as he walks you backwards. “Ignoring one…” He shrugs, “Oll in a day, love.”

“He can hang you for it,” you whisper. “Cut off your head. Cut off mine.”

Simon lays you back on the bed, spreading you out, climbing over you. You blink up at him, and he leans down, pressing his forehead to yours.

“I would ‘ave seen it. I would know.”

He would have seen it in a dream. It would have come to him in a reflection in a pool of blood on the battlefield. It would have come to him, the voices in his head, he would have heard them amongst screaming, or perhaps in the void that he finds his mind in when he’s between your plush thighs.

You can’t help the smile that graces your face when Simon kisses the curve where your jaw meets your neck. It is fun, you suppose. Fun to control the tides that set the courses of history. It is fun and almost unbelievable that a king bends to the will of one man’s wife just because it solidifies his name.

You wrap your hand around the twine that dangles from Simon’s neck. It twirls around your fingers, easy, solid. Simon’s eyes are dark, and they are yours, and when you smile, so does he, because this is where you are meant to be, forever and always.

“What if I want more?” You ask. Simon hums, low from within his chest, and you run your tongue over your teeth. “Did you see that in your dreams, Simon? Hmm? Do you know what I’m asking for? What it is that I really want?”

Simon smiles. A dark one, with teeth, and you know he hears it. What more means for a duke and his duchess. What more means when you have all the money you could ever want, all the land you could ever need.

What more means when you have climbed your way to the top and still desire more. More, more, more. There are not many steps left to climb. There are not many places left to take, not much more of the world that can really be yours, but Simon looks ravenous, and Simon looks hungry, and if you fuck him now, you’ll have him right where you want him.

When you tug on what hangs around his neck, Simon bends. Simon follows.

[hanafubukki]

Sometimes I think the Knight of Dawn gets criticized for his actions too much as if it’s entirely his fault for what happened. 🤔 (and you know, not Henrik, the other soldiers, the other countries, etc. fault too.)

(Yes, I am saying this knowing what’s coming in part 6 soon. Lol)

Don’t get me wrong, he is the one wielding the blade at the end of the day. But in general, I feel many often overlook his background and his actions.

He was taken in by the king. We don’t know what happened or what led to this. We don’t know why the fairies blessed him nor any info about his parents or even where he was born/taken from. We barely have any info about him as a person.

He was raised as a knight and he felt duty bound to not only the King who took him in but also to Princess Leia.

Which is used against him repeatedly by Henrik. He’s a knight and he has no choice but to obey the commands given to him even when he doesn’t agree with them.

But yet

At the first sign, when he’s free from those obligations/threats, KOD goes against all of that. When no one is watching. He does what he can in those moments. He does what he believes is right.

I think most often forget. We don’t all have the freedom/choice to rebel or go against powers higher in status/stronger than us no matter how much we want to.

Especially when loved ones are being held over our heads. In this way, even General Lilia couldn’t disobey Meleanor’s commands. Not only because he didn’t have the power to go against her but also because it was a command and he had to keep the eggleus safe.

Both of them had duties to fulfill that they could not refuse.

That’s why the little moments counts and did they count and have an everlasting effect even centuries later.

KOD could have taken Malleus away from Lilia. With Lilia’s injuries and even with Baul’s help, they wouldn’t have stood a chance against him.

If he was truly a coward and “evil,” he could have striked them down and used Malleus against Meleanor as well. Then Henrik would have had “two pets” to parade around.

But the Knight of Dawn didn’t allow any of that. He helped Lilia escape the rubble. He even recognized General Lilia for his reputation. He let him go.

He knew what was in store for Malleus if Malleus was taken. He didn’t want that to happen to him.

By letting Lilia go, Malleus was saved and born. Through these actions from KOD, Silver was also saved centuries later by the very faes KOD helped.

This cascaded later into allowing two faes, a human, and a half human-fae to eventually meet and form a deep bond.

Was going to keep these in the tags but then changed my mind because I think it’s true and should be said.

History is full of people who have rebelled loudly and proudly but it’s also filled with people who worked quietly.

This applies to both Lilia and KOD. They were both loud (the war) and quiet (hatching the egg, letting the faes escape) in their actions.

Sometimes, the smallest actions with even the quietest voices have a perpetual effect that’s just as powerful as the loudest voices and actions.

[mothfables]

Snail Ch. 4 W.I.P.

Silence sits heavy over the camp after Legend’s reveal.

Warriors sits frozen on the other side of the fire, his chest heavy with leaden horror at what he’d learned. He’d known Legend held a strong dislike for soldiers of any kind - the other never made an effort to hide it - but he hadn’t expected… this.

He swallows as something in his stomach twists painfully. Legend had been a child when he’d been thrust into his first quest. He knows, intellectually, factually, that many of his brothers were the same. But actually hearing it? Seeing the proof of it before his very eyes? It sits heavy in his soul, molten and dark.

He has no doubt that Legend had had to defend himself against those soldiers, probably even kill some of them just to keep himself alive.

He doesn’t hold it against his brother. He can’t, not when he knows there was likely no other choice. Also, he refuses to be like those knights, putting the blame on a literal child; even if, as Legend said, it was due to magic. Even if it truly wasn’t their fault, it still happened. They still hurt him.

And then it happened again.

Warriors knows the name Yuga: he’d fought against the man in the War. He had been a pain to fight - using that ridiculously gaudy staff of his to summon paintings that in turn summoned things like lightning or spears, sometimes directly overhead of his targets. If one was particularly unluckily they would have that staff turned on them and caught up in one of those very paintings themselves. Wars has to fight a grimace at the memory.

He suppose the only upside was that Yuga hadn’t cared very much about Cia and Ganon’s plans, instead going along for his own gain; at least until he grew bored of playing along. (Wars still isn’t entirely sure of how turning the entire world into a painting would work.)

…The point is, fighting the man with an army at his back and as an adult (or near enough) was hard enough. He can barely imagine doing so entirely alone, at whatever age Legend was when he fought him.

Wars stares sadly at his (now very little) brother, curled up in Wind’s lap with that dead expression on his face.

He doesn’t know what to do about this. He doesn’t know what he can do; he and Legend weren’t particularly close before, though they’d been on their way to becoming friends. Now, though, all of that progress has probably been wiped away, leaving only fear behind.

The captain isn’t blind- he can’t afford to be. He’s seen the way the boy avoids him and Time, keeps a wary eye on those he’s deemed the knights of the group.

And Twilight, too, but not for the same reason. Wars has a sinking feeling that has more to do with the more canine side of their Rancher. Though whether Legend remembers from being older or it’s something he can just sense, Warriors isn’t sure.

Eventually Wind gets up and heads over to their bedrolls, Sky following a moment later. The two of them settle down with Legend between them, and everyone else takes that as their cue to get started on their evening routines.

Warriors sets his own bedroll a fair distance away. He hopes the space will (at least subconsciously) help Legend feel a little safer.

He’s nearly finished getting ready for bed when the sound of soft humming drifts through the camp. He glances over to see Sky propped on one arm, threading his fingers through Legend’s hair as he hums. Wars can’t see his face from where he is but the boy does look more relaxed than before.

He’s glad.

Legend deserves a good night’s sleep after all he went through. Wars gets the feeling such a thing was few and far between long before he started this adventure. He would not be surprised if nightmares continue to be a common occurrence for his brother, if not worse than usual. Young minds simply aren’t equipped to handle such horrific things like what he’s experienced.

[loz-and-lu-fan-blog]

Lu what if au. What if Warriors was raised by Ganon

Everyone in this group was odd, that was pretty much expected, they all held the hero’s spirit, the holders of the Triforce of Courage. If they weren’t a little odd, then there would be alot of room for concern.

They were unsure what really set them on the adventure, but it was becoming apparent that they learned more about each other and their own worlds. Sky seemingly laid back and warm mirror his home of skyloft perfectly, the Traveler was skittish and very resourceful and considering the monster running around his home it was no surprise he was more self reliant then the others.

Then there was the Captain, the one who was lovingly nicknamed War.

Almost all the others thought they had him figured out once they met him and learned of his story. He was one of the faceless soldiers from the hylian army, it was just by pure luck this teen with no family was the holder of the Triforce of Courage. The sudden rise to being captain and finding the Master sword made him a bit egotistic but his quest quickly fixed that.

So to most of Links, War was a pretty boy with a heart of gold underneath. A little prideful at times, sometimes more focused on his looks but overall a good heart and willing to help others at the drop of a hat.

Which is why the more time they spend around him, the more they question their original assessment of their fellow hero.

It just started one day, just another day of travel and fighting monsters. Most were just resting, Sky was trying to practice for a bit to which War, being the captain that he was offered to spar with him. This got the attention of most of the group, as the last time anyone fought Sky it was the Rancher, who ended up with a sword pointed to his throat. Some like the Vet placed bets on how long War would last, Champion got out his sheikah slate and got ready to take some pictures.

However the fight didn’t end up like the Rancher’s, their swords clashed for a few minutes, both moving fast and land hits. However it was over when War ended up behind Sky and jammed the hilt of his sword into the other hero’s spine sending him tumbling to the ground.

“Whoa.” Some of the other heroes muttered as Sky tried to crawl back up to his feet.

“You're taking too long.” War informed, seeing how the other Links looked at him he quickly corrected himself. “Your reaction time after your swings, you take too long to recover, an enemy could easily end you.”

“Geez…” The smith of the group said.

“Spoken like a true knight.” The Vet said.

War ignored the comments and held out his hand for Sky to take and helped him off the ground.

“I didn’t say that to make you feel bad. I just want you to know so you can be prepared.” War offered. “These monsters have shown they will do whatever it takes to win.”

The two dusted off after the spar, still friends of course. Yet this wasn’t the last time this behavior was seen, each time one of them went up to fight War, he would quickly find a way to disarm them and tell them their weak spots. This wasn’t just with sparing, he went up to the eldest of the group, lovingly nicknamed the old man or Time sense he refuses to tell them his age, who never spars with the boys. War quickly made a mention of a weak point in Time’s armor and that he either needed to fix it or change how he fights to cover it.

It wouldn’t have been too off to be fair, after all that what a captain does right? Look after his men, see their weakness and force them to improve. However this was different, both Time and the Sailor could tell, after all they were around him during his war. Time saw how War focused on his teammates, how when others would spar, War would stare and observe.

The way War watched, it reminded Time a lot of his Zelda, the eyes that were constantly three steps ahead, accounting for everything.

The group however quickly realize they may had read the Captain wrong.

It was originally the Veteran, nicknamed Legend by the Sailor, who started the nickname ‘pretty boy’ for War. And it was no shock as to how that nickname came to be.

War was very self conscious about how he looked, early in their adventure he would take Time’s mirror shield and use it in the mornings. He would look over his face, straighten his hair, and general grooming habits. It was not surprising that he always seemed to have a picture perfect uniform, no hint of dirt or anything. He did this all with a carefree smile.

However it slowly started to change, Time noticed it first (of course he did) but soon everyone picked up on it. Suddenly he didn’t have his carefree smile when he looked at himself in the mirror, instead it was replaced with a harsh frown, the one a toddler gives when they have to do something they don’t want to do. The compliment people would pay to him, once War would reply with a flirty compliment, now he replied with a polite smile that would quickly vanish to a frown once the person stopped looking.

Legend was wondering if it was because of his teasing, Time wondered if it was because he wasn’t taken seriously.

It was no surprise War was a strategist of the group, he could seemingly predict behaviors in battle and where an attack would likely take place. However, if he had a map, it was like he could see into the enemies head…..which brought the group to today.

They had been brought to Wild’s world, by a portal. Thankfully unlike pure wildness or in a camp of enemies, this time they appeared by Hyrule castle. They were quickly ushered in by the knights of hyrule and led to a room. They were greeted by a short haired Zelda who gave Wild a giant hug upon seeing him, as well as the four champions Wild had told them about, Riju, Yunoboo, Sidon and Teba. Currently they were all around a map of hyrule, talking about the attacks the traitorous Yigas have been doing.

War wanted to join in on the conversation but a few of the knights stopped the group, making comments on the hero’s appearance before Zelda ordered them aside and allowed the group to see the map.

“We can’t seem to locate the Yiga's hideout. We know they must have been close to the Gerudo desert when they stole the Thunder Helm otherwise they would have been caught.” Zelda explained. “But besides that, we don’t have any leads.”

The champions began to talk amongst themselves while the knights threw out ideas. The links did the same as they looked over the map, most just gave a shrug as they looked at the map, but War's eyes narrowed before he pointed to a spot on the map.

“Here.” War stated matter of factly, causing most everyone’s talking to stop.

“Why there?” Teba asked, confusion edged across his face. “That is nowhere near the major attacks.”

“But it has a major source of trading and access to the roads close by.” War countered as he drifted further down the map hitting the pins. “They wouldn’t place their base so close to their fights. They would pick a trade route they could easily have access to, to slip in and out. It is also close to the Gerudo desert, not unreasonable that a spy with sticky fingers could make it back in a night.”

“His line of reasoning does make sense.” Sidon offered.

Zelda gave a quick look to see Wild sign a ‘he’s right’ to her, causing her to let out a sign of relief before she spoke again. “Well now knowing the whereabouts of the Yiga the next question is what action to take next?”

The group went back to talking over each other, War was silent for a moment before turning over to Riju asking about the crops in her kingdom. It was an odd time for such a question but she informed him they did all their growing at an oasis which was their main way of getting food that wasn’t from trading. War absorbed the information and gave the young gerudo girl a nod showing he understood it all. Eventually the chatter died down and one of the knights spoke up again, saying “Why don’t we ask the Pretty boy his thoughts?” with a snarl.

War glared at the man however before he gave the man a verbal lasing, Zelda spoke up again. “What do you think we should do?”

“I think the answer is very simple, Princess.” War said.

“And what exactly is your simple answer?” One of the knights replied with a sarcastic tone.

“Starve them out.” War said, his tone colder than ice.

The suggestion seemingly froze everyone to the core, either from the tone or just the cruelty of his suggestion.

“What?” Zelda muttered.

“It’s simple.” War said as he picked up a knife from the table and stabbed it on the closest stable. “If you shut down the roads, all transportation leading in and out. Given the environment they will starve if lack of water doesn’t get them first.”

“You can’t do that.” The knight screamed out.

“You can and you should.” War replied. “Their attacking and killing random civilians, if you take away resources, they will become desperate, they will get sloppy, eventually infighting will begin and a surrender will come. It is the best soluti-”

“Absolutely not!” Zelda cut off the hero as he explained.

“But-” War started to say.

“No, even if they are enemies. They are still people, what your suggestion is inhuman, barbaric. Something only a monster like Ganon would think up.” Zelda yelled.

“Zelda, pleas-” Wild started to say.

“You're right.” War voice said softly. “Apologize princess.”

It was the sudden shift, the icey confidence to a soft almost sorrowful tone that got everyone's attention. War had taken a step back, now staring down at his shoes.

“I am used to the way my kingdom functions. During the war it was drilled into us that we couldn’t show mercy to our enemies, not when we were actively fighting, we must do anything to win. I can see now what mindset that brings, apologizes for making you witness it, princess.” War says as he bowed to Zelda. “I’ll remove myself from your sight.”

Just as quick as his shifting tone, War had turned and was quickly out the door, leaving everyone behind in a stunned silence.

“I…i didn’t mean…” Zelda muttered. “..his world, is it that bad…?”

The group looked around, trying to find someone who had the answers before the Sailor, sometimes called Wind, finally spoke up.

“Yeah, it was..” Wind said. “I went to his world by accident during the war….there was never a rest, it was just never ending battles.”

“It’s easy to see why that mindset would form, especially against a dark force like Ganon.” Time added.

“He fought Ganon?” Zelda asked before her words sunk in. “I shouldn’t have made that comparison..I need too-”

“Zelda, it’s ok. You don’t have to apologize for what you feel.” Wild offered and the others nodded in agreement.

“Cub is right.” Twilight offered.

“It is strange, War is no stranger to criticism when it comes to his plans, I wonder what set him off like this.” Time muttered.

“Maybe it’s cause he showed his ass in front of the princess?” Legend offered with a laugh at first before it shifted to worry. “I wonder what’s up with him.”

War marched through the castle like a man on a mission, his eyes glanced over the many doors and hallways, it was so familiar but different. The hero yanked open a door, a quick glance around revealed no one was around, likely just a spare room to hold weapons. War quickly shut the door, locking the door and shoving a barrel full of spear in front of the door, blocking it with its weight.

Now once War realized no one would be walking in on him, he walked over to desk; he bunched up his scarf and stuffed it into his mouth, to muffle his scream. After the scream, he quickly fell to the ground, tears flowing down his face.

‘Something only a monster like Ganon would think up.’ Zelda’s words range in his mind.

Ha, if only she knew…

War thought back to the time of war, how his Zelda, clad in armor, agreed with the strategies he offered, despite how brutal they could be at times. They were at a war with Ganon, there wasn’t room for mercy. He remembers how he first offered the strategy of ‘starving them out’ to a group of traitors that had isolated themselves on a barren plane. How Zelda agreed with a smile and asked him where he got his knowledge on war strategies.

All Link could do was close his eyes, allow the tears to fall as his memories began to run.

“Link, run it again.”

Link lifted his head from the table, glancing up and he saw the deep skin and bright red hair that belonged to the Gerduo king, Ganondorf. The normally messy mane was pulled back, now cleanly in a braid. He glanced down at the boy, where most would expect anger or hatred, his expression held a softness though it was mostly covered by annoyance.

“Do we have to?” War said, his voice matching his young body. “Can’t we do something fun like spar? How is looking at maps supposed to help?”

Ganondorf's expression shifted to amusement before he spoke again. “Power and courage can only get you so far on a battlefield. In time’s of war, where our people’s lives are on the line, you must think ahead. Run it again.”

War flinched at the words, glancing down at his hand, the triforce of Courage sat surrounded by scars. Where the young boy had foolishly tried to burn it off, much to the dismay of his adopted father. The boy let out a sigh before he stood straight up, getting a better view of the desk and map that sits on it.

“Another civilization that lives in the desert has declared war against our sisters? Their main kingdom is here, their bases for weapons are here, and the roads leading out as well as in are here, where would we strike?” Ganondorf asked, as he gestured to the map, showing Link where each important place was.

Link’s face shifted into a frown, causing Ganondorf to chuckle, as the boy stared down at the map, his mind racing through many different possibilities before he spoke up again.

“What about their food? And their water source?” Link asked.

“Their water source is over here.” Ganondorf said as pointed to a source further up the road. “It’s also where they also grow all the food, anything that isn’t traded for gems that is.”

Link thought for a moment before speaking. “We could starve them out, if we cut off their travel, trapping them in their palace they wouldn’t have any way to get food and water. Eventually they would have to surrender for the good of their people…..or their people would rebel..”

“Excellent Link!” Ganondorf said as he reached over and ruffled the boy’s blond hair. “That's what I would do as well. It would make for a quick war with the least amount of deaths.”

“For us…” War added. “No telling how many people will starve and die because of this plan…”

Ganondorf's face shifted to a frown as he grabbed Link’s face making his son look at him. “You have to remember in time’s of war you cannot be merciful, you must hide that heart of you-”

“Yeah, yeah, hide your heart away. You have to make the big decisions to insure your people don’t suffer, you have to do stuff you don’t want to do to make sure others don’t die.” Link said as he pulled his face away. “You say that every time we do these exercises.”

Ganondorf frowned for a second. “One more example, and then we can spar.”

“Really?!” Link turned around, jumping up from his chair in excitement. “You promise?”

Ganondorf let out a few chuckles before nodding a ‘yes’.

“Alright, what’s next?” Link asked with a bright smile.

They went back to the desk, as Ganondorf laid out another map, as he began to explain the key components of the next battle.

However as happy memories began to fade, it began to be replaced by a battlefield. The smell of death and iron clung to the air as Link found himself looking up at a familiar figure. His casual wear was gone, replaced with the ornate armor he wore into battle, his hair now it’s loose mane, only kept out of his face by a crown. The Gerudo stared down at the young boy, a powerful sword rested in a teens hands as a blue scarf fluttered behind him.

“It’s me, remember me!” Link cried out. “Lay down your weapons, we don't have to fight…..Father!”

Ganondorf let out a cruel laugh, causing the young warrior to catch his words.

“Your pleas will do you no good, hero.” Ganondorf spat out.

Link looked up, he stared into the Gerudo warrior’s eyes. He looked for a hint of his father in those golden eyes, even hatred, disappointment, even sadness, just something that hinted that the man was still in there.

All Link saw in those golden eyes, that once held warmth and love from his father, was emptiness…

Just emptiness….

A loud knock on the door startled War out of his thoughts. He looked down, his hands were covered in blood anymore.

“Captain, are you in there?” Wind childlike voice echoed through. “Zelda wants to apologize by bringing out food, we want food!”

War quickly got up, whipping away his tears and moving the barrel. He opened the door and was greeted by Wind, Time as well as Legend standing on the other side.

“Hey,” War said, forcing a smile. “Sorry about that, I needed a quiet place to gather my thoughts.”

“It’s fine if you wanted to pou-” Legend started to say before Time shoved him aside.

“Are you alright, War?” Time asked. “You can talk to us, you know that?”

War glanced into Time’s one blue eye, looking to see the warmth it held.

‘It’s your job to carry that burden just as I must carry mine.�� Ganondorf's voice ranges in his ears. ‘You must make the decisions no one else will make, you must be the one to fight when no one else will, that is your job, as my son.’

“I’m fine.” War lied with ease. “Let’s get something to eat.”

[lisbeth-kk]

December moments

Prompts used in this chapter: stuck at home - season's greetings - baby please come home

If Sherlock ever gets jealous? Oh, yes! Normally he stares down or gives a venomous deduction to anyone who dares letting their eyes linger inappropriately on his John, but when John willingly contacts an old friend, Sherlock knows he needs to control his jealousy.

December 16

My fever has vanished when I wake, but I’m terribly thirsty. Even before I’ve considered calling John, he emerges in the doorway to the bedroom with a large glass of cold water. I try to speak, but he urges me to drink first. 

“Thank you, John,” I say when I’ve emptied half the glass. 

My voice is deeper than normal, and still hoarse. He greets me softly and places a palm on my forehead to check my temperature. 

“Feeling better today?” he asks. 

I nod, take his hand, places it on my cheek and lean into his palm. He bends down and kisses the top of my head. He refuses to bestow me with a kiss to my lips when I’m still ill. I huff my complaint and he pets my hair to make up for it. 

***

I’m obviously stuck at home for another day or two, which is fine, because I’m in no state to do much else than use the bathroom, make tea and doze on the sofa anyway. 

John’s writing his annual season’s greetings to major Sholto, and I can only grit my teeth and soldier on. I hate that John still corresponds with his former superior officer, despite it only happens once a year. It’s of course childish of me to be jealous of a relationship that was nowhere near what John and I have, but I can’t help the gnawing feeling in my gut. 

“Right, I’ll just pop out to post this and then I’m off to Barts to help Mike with a medical report he wanted my opinion on. He’s supposed to deliver it tomorrow. You’ll be alright now, I think. The fever is all but gone,” he says and cups my face, scanning my eyes while stroking my cheekbones. 

I close my eyes and revel in the proximity, humming appreciatively when I feel warm lips on my forehead. 

“Try to get some sleep, yeah,” John murmurs. 

The warmth I felt just now is gone within seconds of his departure. I try to sleep, I really do, but images of Sholto and John in their uniforms kissing in the Afghan desert, makes me nauseous. John is right, I do act like a child sometimes. In my defence, my brain seems to be filled with wool at the moment, and I’m unable to think rational about the matter. 

I turn on the telly, but everything reminds me of John, so I turn it off. After I’ve drunk a cup of tea, I try to enter my mind palace, but to no avail. Music, then. Since I’m too weak to play myself, I find a playlist John’s put together. It contains both classical and pop music. The classical pieces are soothing, and I must’ve dozed off, because when I wake it’s considerably darker outside. 

John’s still out and I feel sorry for myself. It doesn’t get any better when one of this Mariah Carey’s Christmas songs plays from my phone on the table. Baby please come home. What a fitting song for my mood. I reach out to skip it, but then she sings: you should be here with me, and I break down, sobbing like a child.

And that’s the state John finds me in mere minutes later. Normally I would’ve been embarrassed, but I’m beyond that and clings to him when he takes me in his arms and rocks me, whispering soothing words into my hair. 

“Shh. I’m back now. I’ll always come back to you, you know that, right? You’re my sweetheart, my good boy. How about some mulled wine to cheer you up? Would you like that?”

I love it when he does this, even if I shouldn’t. It makes me appear like a big child, but I need it. Desperately. John knows this. Knows how I crave being attended to when I’m in this vulnerable state. And there isn’t another person in the world I would want to see me in such a condition, who I can trust like I can trust John. He’s my rock, and knight in shining armour. My savour and the man I want to share the rest of my life with, whether it’ll be long or short. 

He holds me close when we go to bed, kissing and petting my hair until I fall asleep in his arms. 

Read it on AO3

@totallysilvergirl @keirgreeneyes @calaisreno @a-victorian-girl @phoenix27884 @safedistancefrombeingsmart @helloliriels @gregorovitchworld @sabsi221b @topsyturvy-turtely @peanitbear @raina-at

[catofadifferentcolor]

Terrible Fic Idea #51:  A Maiden Dark and Fair, but make it f!Jon Snow/Edmure Tully

Sometimes I have terrible fic ideas. Sometimes terrible fic ideas take hold of me and refuse to let me go. Such is the case with this one, where I had the passing thought I wonder if there's ever been a fic that has the Riverlands be the force behind the Targaryen Restoration? and it turned into: What if Edmure Tully ended up married to female!Jon Snow?

Aka: The Rhaella the River Queen Fic

Just imagine it:

Edmure is a hot-headed, good-hearted flirt. He's not the smartest fish in the barrel, but his heart is in the right place. So when he comes north with Robert Baratheon's party at the start of canon and overhears some of the Lannister soldiers saying crude things about his goodbrother's bastard daughter, Rhaella Stone, he takes them to task. It's done partly to protect the honor of a maiden, partly to protect the honor of his sister's household, but quickly grows out of hand.

By the time the story reaches the ear of the king, Edmure's defense of a maiden's honor has turned into Edmure's defense of his lover's honor. King Robert, always seeking to get into Ned's good graces, orders the Lannister soldiers sent to the Wall and legitimizes Ned's bastard so she can marry her lordling lover.

And so Edmure returns to Riverrun with a Stark bride.

Rhaella herself is too startled by this turn of events to have much opinion of them at first. In the two interactions she had with him before their marriage, she'd found him well-intentioned but ineffectual - and afterwards quickly comes to the realization that she must always be the strongest voice in his ear lest someone with less pure intentions rule him.

Hoster Tully is far from pleased by his only son marrying a jumped-up bastard, but accepts it as fait accompli - that, and he literally dies a month after their arrival. He doesn't have time to plot when his legacy is on the line.

And so Edmure Tully becomes the next Lord Paramount of the Riverlands. It would probably be a disaster if not for Rhaella gently pushing him in more constructive directions while juggling as many duties as she possibly can.

Luckily, Edmure is just self-aware enough to realize he's being handled and has just enough of an ego to want to better himself for her. This is enough to avoid most of his worst blunders in the War of Five Kings, though most still see him as a henpecked fool.

Canon proceeds apace.

Ned Stark is executed, Robb is declared king, and the Red Wedding is avoided by the fact 1) Jaime is being securely held in Riverrun and 2) Robb has no unmarried kin on hand to marry off in his place.

After the Battle of the Blackwater, the Seven Kingdoms hang in an extended state of stalemate until Dany arrives at Dragonstone, with neither the Lannister or Stark forces able to gain an advantage over their enemies.

With Dany's arrival, a Great Council is called at Harrenhal. Rhaella is among the attendees and finds kinship in Dany - kinship which is proved to be real once she's introduced to Dany's dragons and not immediately turned to charcoal.

The Great Council names Dany Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. She never marries, but takes Rhaella's oldest child to be her heir. Her reign should prove to be short yet influential, with her heir succeeding her in their late teens/early twenties. This heir should very much not be a floppy fish, but the Westerosi equivalent of Edward III - popular, long-reigning, and pragmatic. Very much like their mother.

Bonuses include: 1) A strange sort of courtly love between Edmure and Rhaella, with Edmure casting himself as her white knight after his actions to defend her honor from the Lannister soldiers and Rhaella somewhat bemusedly indulging him. Edmure should be aware she does not love him at first, but wins her over through his earnestness and willingness to listen to her. Theirs surprises the kingdoms by being a remarkably successful marriage, and after Edmure's death Rhaella wears mourning black for the rest of her life; 2) Caitlyn never quite getting over the fact her stepdaughter has become her goodsister has become the mother of the next ruler. There are occasional flair ups of their dislike, but mostly they ignore each other's existence save for subtle jabs at the other's expense; 3) Rhaella never quite coming to terms with being a Targaryen - despite the dragon, - but finding all the meaning and purpose she might ever have wanted from being Lady Paramount of the Riverlands.

...and that is surprisingly more than I thought I would have, but this idea literally leaped into my brain and would not let me go. As always, feel free to adopt this bun, just link back if you do anything with it.

Other Jon Snow Headcanons: Aelor the Accursed | Aegon the Adopted | Aegon the Undying | Aegon the Unyielding | Aemon the Adventurous | Baelor the Brave | Daemon the Destroyer | Daena the Dreamer | Daeron the Desired | Dyanna the Defiant | Jon Whitefyre | King of the Ashes | Lady Arryn | Lady Baratheon | Lady Lannister | Lady Stark | Lord of the Dance | Prince Consort | Prince of Summerhall | Queen Mother | Rhaegar the Righteous | River Queen

More Terrible Fic Ideas

[lorei-writes]

HC: Baker!Chevalier

I've had this chat with @venulus the other day about how the circumstances are partially what makes Chev appear so ruthless... And since then Baker!Chev has been living in my head, so let me shoo him out real quick.

Content Warnings: none

Baker!Chevalier:

Mmm, bread.

The switched out variable in case of this HC is social standing -- Chevalier would not be any less of analytical genius than he is. However, he'd face different challenges than assassins, at least initially.

For one thing, the path for his intellectual growth would be a more treacherous one. Having been born to a family of bakers, Chevalier would not have had access to nearly a fraction of books available to a prince, not to even mention tutors.

However, books are hardly the only source of knowledge. Stories exchanged by townsfolk for generations, gossipy conversations, people just taking care of their lives -- the world around is an endless source of information for as long as one is willing to strain their ears and eyes.

That being said, I do think it would be likely for Chev to get in good graces of the bookshop owner sometime in his early teenage years. I'd expect it to be a mutually beneficial relationship -- and perhaps the beginning of Chevalier straying from the path chosen to him by his parents.

Listen, he'd make some really, really good bread. Wonderful even. But... In the original story, even his own mother feared him. I personally think it would be even worse if he was born a commoner.

Others wouldn't understand him. There would be little direct use for his talents as well. With how arrogant he can be... I'd expect little Chev to be a bright child, although an outcast.

Chevalier would receive no military training at an early age. As such, I don't think it would be unrealistic to say he'd get himself into fights that he'd lose... at least initially. Data is data, however it may be obtained, and he'd be sure to improve with time, eventually being able to hold his own even against those older and stronger than him. (Because, of course, he wouldn't lower his head).

Eventually, he'd earn himself a name for this.

And now we backtrack to the bookshop owner: I think they'd take Chevalier's prowess into consideration, and offer him a job. Given the access to books that came with it, Chevalier would be sure to accept it. It'd start his rapid growth period.

Chevalier would destroy anything that would dare stand in his way. Social classes? So. Be. It.

Now, now, I don't suppose it would be guided by some higher values, or "people like me deserve better". But I can't imagine Chevalier being fine with being restricted in any way.

Chevalier would join military as soon as possible. At this point, he'd probably have little to no contact with his family of origins. >> I think it'd be likely for him to start as an ordinary soldier, to later be knighted, and perhaps even granted some land and title.

I think his strategic mind would be appreciated there. However, his insubordination to noblemen, and open refusal to execute orders he deemed as ridiculous? That, that would earn Chevalier many enemies. (And so, assassination attempts would follow).

Now, the thing is, Chevalier doesn't undertake actions that do not bring him closer to the accomplishment of his goals. However, in the original story he is a prince, the legitimate son of the late king. He stands above others; the law is in his favour. In the original story, Chevalier does not need to be considerate of others in any way, as it is not crucial for anything that he may want to achieve. (Essentially, he's their superior whether they like it or not -- go against him? They're going against the royalty. Given the name he has earned for himself, the benefits that come with his social standing, and his talents? He's able to deal with their insubordination before it fully blooms).

Now, what IF it was crucial for him to obtain the support of others?

Chevalier in this scenario would be at the disadvantage due to his social status. He wouldn't have any benefits that come with being a prince. I am not saying he'd turn into Leon and suddenly value of human life like him, no. But I do think he'd be less inclined to dispose of pawns he still could have a use for. (Partially because of how limited their numbers would be initially).

One of the guidelines for his actions in the original story is the well-being of Rhodolite. I do suppose it'd remain the same. However, to even be in a position to have any influence over the course the country may take, he would first need to deal with those who may oppose him.

Depending on who was a king, I wouldn't completely exclude the possibility of an uprising. I can't imagine Chevalier would care much for the title itself for as long as he had enough power in his hands.

And you know what? Although Chevalier would still be very much Chevalier, I do think the public eye's perception of him could change. I think he would be seen as arrogant, but also as an inspirational figure.

Assuming he'd have to allow for his family of origins to be killed, so that the groups of his supporters would not be harmed -- even that could potentially be framed as a sacrifice for the sake of the country.

Of course, another change could occur once he'd get into power.

--

Tag List: @violettduchess @pathogenic @fang-and-feather @cilokgoang

[denimbex1986]

'Welcome to being a movie fan in the 21st Century, folks. It's not a new phenomenon for the weeks and months leading up to a major blockbuster to be filled with all sorts of hot takes and rampant speculation, but never have we been subjected to that through constant, unfiltered social media reactions. Sometimes, it takes the form of really fun and organic viral sensations (happy #Barbenheimer, one and all!) but, other times, you find yourself staring at a series of ill-informed and wildly off-base tweets making up the wildest claims about a movie — a movie which many of those opinionated individuals haven't even seen yet. "Oppenheimer," for better and worse, has been subject to both extreme ends of the spectrum.

That's not exactly a new development for Christopher Nolan, a director who has inadvertently attracted the most vocal movie fans out there. You'd be hard-pressed to find anyone without strong opinions on his "The Dark Knight" trilogy, but even his various original and non-IP films have given audiences a roadmap to tap into his biggest interests, fears, and fixations. That means the inevitable passage of time, recurring portrayals of dead wives/girlfriends, and the fact that the vast majority of his movies embody a very white perspective and worldview.

This is all present and accounted for in "Oppenheimer," admittedly, but a new wrinkle has been added to the mix. Ahead of Nolan's most overtly political film yet, certain segments of moviegoers have sounded the alarm bells and embraced a narrative that his interpretation of the life of J. Robert Oppenheimer, "Father of the Atomic Bomb," might somehow justify the horrific killings of hundreds of thousands of innocents. Thankfully, those unfounded fears were never even a remote possibility in the first place.

'The power to destroy ourselves'

Somebody once wrote a line of dialogue about how "You either die a hero or live long enough to see yourself become the villain," put it in their breakout superhero movie, and all but predicted how bad-faith detractors would attempt to take him down a peg for years to come. Was Chris Nolan a self-fulfilling prophet? A student of history? Or was he just someone with the common sense to look around him and recognize what was what?

If the past really is our best signifier of the future, then it feels truly misguided to look at the filmmaker's past body of work and jump to conclusions that "Oppenheimer" would take the most didactic approach of them all. Not that anyone as privileged as Nolan needs us to circle the wagons on his behalf, but he's clearly made a career out of taking the moral quandaries inherent within complex, oftentimes contradictory characters and testing these to their breaking point in the most extreme of circumstances. After all, that's how we end up with movies about Bruce Wayne becoming an outlaw to save Gotham City, a pair of dueling magicians losing themselves in their obsessions, and a profoundly broken, guilt-ridden man committing an illegal mind heist to be reunited with his kids. Even "Dunkirk," arguably the most straightforward tale of heroism in Nolan's filmography, ends not on the stirring image of a captured British warplane essentially burning in effigy, but a disconcerting close-up on the soldier who only just barely survived this ordeal realizing he'll soon be shipped out to face even greater dangers to come.

Does any of this suggest a storyteller who'd strip the horror out of the most horrific act in human warfare ... or, instead, interpret it as yet another cautionary tale?

'American Prometheus'

For the moment, forget the fact that "American Prometheus: The Triumph and Tragedy of J. Robert Oppenheimer," the imposing biography written by Kai Bird and Martin J. Sherwin that "Oppenheimer" is based on, refuses to pull any punches about the complicated legacy of its subject matter. Set aside the reams of documented, historical evidence that the United States' pretext for dropping the bombs on Japan was considered flimsy, even at the time. No, there's an even simpler explanation as to why "Oppenheimer" never even entertained the notion of being a "pro-nuclear bomb" movie: Where would any of the conflict or drama be in that?

There's a reason why the film begins with the haunting quote about the Greek god Prometheus stealing the fire of the gods and gifting it to us mere mortals ... only to be subsequently punished for eternity. Naturally, we then open on a young Oppenheimer already feeling tortured by visions of the quantum universe that only he can see — visions that, disturbingly, resemble violent nuclear explosions. Human nature, the film is practically screaming at its audience right from its earliest moments, will always trend towards self-destruction. Not only is this the quintessential archetype of a Nolan protagonist, but it's also the only dramatic interpretation of Oppenheimer's life that would merit devoting three whole hours to diving into his psychology.

There's a hypothetical, made-up version of "Oppenheimer" that would've actually lined up with the one concocted in the minds of the skeptics — one that's nothing but flag-waving jingoism (probably made by the same folks behind "Sound of Freedom") about how great America is at winning wars and proving doubters wrong. But the much richer text we received instead dares to confront horrible truths about our worst instincts. Because why else make this movie?

'Theory will take you only so far'

A little more than halfway through "Oppenheimer," after reports of Hitler's self-inflicted death and the fall of Nazi Germany come trickling in, the script goes out of its way to literalize the main conceit of the film. After Oppenheimer crashes a meeting of colleagues to discuss the effects of their "gadget" on the wider world, Nolan stages an actual debate about the ethics of dropping the atomic bombs on Japan. Informed that Japan's defeat seems "imminent" and that using their invention would inflict untold harm upon the world, Oppenheimer counters that world leaders can only "fear" and "understand" the weapon if they use it. When he offers up his pie-in-the-sky belief that all war will be unthinkable in a post-nuclear bomb world, the tepid applause his speech inspires only underlines his naïveté and denial.

Ever wonder how "Oppy" could convince himself to continue his work while compartmentalizing the devastating effects it would inevitably have on innocents caught in the blast? So does physicist Niels Bohr (Kenneth Branagh), who bestows the "American Prometheus" title on Oppenheimer and calls for international nuclear disarmament. So does the security council, when Roger Robb (Jason Clarke) calls out Oppenheimer's hypocrisy over when exactly he first began to develop "moral qualms" about his work. 

There are approximately dozens of examples like this throughout the mammoth runtime, where "Oppenheimer" doesn't really tip its hand so much as it slaps us in the face with the cold reality of the entire Manhattan Project. Theory will only take you so far, Oppenheimer's friend Ernest Lawrence (Josh Hartnett) puts it early on. If only those who assumed this adaptation would be "pro-nuke" followed that advice, set their prejudgment aside, and just ... watched the movie.'

[marine-indie-gal]

Zmey Gorynych

The Slavic Serpent Dragon of Russian Folklore, he is depicited as a Three-Headed Dragon or a Serpent with Human/Dragon character-like traits (sometimes he is also known for having Twelve Heads instead of Three). The Word "Zmei" is the masculine form of "Zmeya" meaning "Snake". But his full name means "Snake of the Mountains". Dragons in Slavic Mythology were mainly famous known for Being Tricksters, Destorying Lands, Kidnapping Mortal Women, and even fighting off Brave Knights to rescue the Damsel. In the Slavic Myth of Dobrynya Nikitich and the Dragon, Dobrynya's Mother warned her Son to stay off the Mountains (where the Dragon lives), but he disobyed his Mother's warnings as he bathed in the Puchai River after he went up to a Mountain but he encountered the Zmey Gorynych himself. Frightened at first, but he then found a Hat which belonged to the Greek Lands and used it to defeat the Dragon. Zmey begged the Soldier not to kill him as the Two made a Pact towards each other but Zmey later on disrespected his vow and kidnapped the Princess Zabava Putyatishna (the Niece of Prince Vladimir of Kev). Vladimir ordered the Soldier Dobrynya to rescue his Niece from the Dragon as the Soldier went back to the Mountain to rescue the Princess. Dobrynya trampled on Zmey's Dragon Pups but one of the Baby Dragons bit the Horse's Leg which immobilized it. Zmey was angry at the Soldier for the Death of his own Children and refused to let Zabava go without a fight. It took Three Days to slay off Zmey but when Dobrynya heard a voice from Heaven called out to him to slay the Beast, in which the Soldier does so finally. Zmey's blood didn't seep to the ground as the Blood was then swallowed by the Earth and Zabava was rescued.

SBSP Universe

Zmey Gorynych is the Three-Headed Serpent Dragon Prince of the Mountains. He is a sly wisecracker, argoant, as he is filled of mischief and pride. He often does to trick Humanity as he disguises himself as a Human Man to trick manipulate people throughout his entire schemes and even kidnap beautiful maidens (which often leads into Damsel Rescuing by Brave Soldiers who fought and Slay beasts). Zmey's main arch-nemesis was the Soldier, Dobrynya Nikitch (one of the most bravest and cunning soldiers of Russia who wasn't even afraid to fight a Beast).

Throughout the years, Zmey had many affairs with Many Human Women which ended up all getting eaten by Zmey since his Brides weren't really good enough for him as he would often usually get bored of them overtime after when he would first meet one. Upon his attention, his eyes was set on the Lovely Zabava (the Niece of the Russian Prince, Vladimir I Sviatoslavich), but since Zabava was actually in a courtship with her Boyfriend, Alyosha Popovich. To prevent her relationship with his Actual Lover, Zmey took the form of a Human and went over to Kiev to woo his Love for Her. Since Zabava was flattered by the impressions of the Disguised creature, Zmey kidnapped her and took her to the Mountains where he kept her as his Bride which made Zabava weep in tears for she was tricked and was forced to be the Wife of a Monster.

Alyosha knew that there was indeed something wrong with the Strange Man and seeing on how that the Serpent revealed himself, Vladimir ordered both Alyosha and Dobrynya to bring Zabava back. When the Two Heroes arrvived at the land, Zmey had capture her hoostage in her new room after they were wed, just so that the said Dragon could greet his Arch-Enemy and Zabava's Real Boyfriend over a feast at his Dinner Table. Fortunately, that ends up being ruined as Alyosha dumps the Wine into Zmey's eyes as the Dragon and the Two Men end up having a battle through the castle of the Mountains as Alyosha grabbed his Girlfriend to rescue her while Dobrynya and Zmey fought together outside of the Kingdom. Dobrynya eventually defeated Zmey as he managed to slay the Dragon. But after when Zabava finally came back home thanks to Dobrynya, Zabava married Alyosha but back at the Mountains of Zmey, his heads managed to pop back up after having his Heads cut off (turns out, he's a magicial dragon who was given immortaility as he can not ever be defeated and he only has one secret weekness). Whenever his heads are chomped off, it randomly grows back as he still manages to do tricks upon his own slef. Zmey isn't exactly a God despite being an Immortal being but he tends to trick around the Slavic Gods amongst their own Pantheon, he is most certainly netural on Chernabog as he is most definitely afraid of him at times despite being a champion towards the Brother of Belobog. He's not really a fan of Neptune nor Poseidon and finds most of the Roman and Greek Pantheon to be very unoriginal and boring. Needless to say, he's not really a fan of Other Pantheons and their own Gods.

[j-ofspades]

♠♥ for @cassiopeiagarcia ♠♥

…Somewhere in Underland…

Everyone thinks that the Court of Spades is home to warmongering soldiers. The Black Queen, Cassiopeia Queen of Spades, guards her kingdom with great zeal. She is a fair and fearless leader, and she’s smart.

She doesn’t get entangled in the intrigues of the three other courts. More than diplomacy or strategy it’s wisdom. Why would she risk her court, her kingdom, over banalities? So she lets the rumors surrounding her court take hold in the imagination of the denizens of Underland; after all, if they fear her, they won’t attack her.

The Queen is a force of nature, vibrant, impossible to contain, mischievous, creative… and she’s restless in the palace. She would never abandon her court, but she constantly feels she needs something more.

Rumor has it that some nights, under cover of darkness, the Queen slips out of the palace unseen. She roams the streets beyond the royal keep’s walls, and when the fancy strikes her, she enters a tavern and asks for a drink. What is there to fear? If they don’t recognize her, Cass can make herself known. If they do recognize her,  who would dare attack her? 

During these nocturnal escapades, from time to time, she feels as if she’s being followed. She imagines she recognizes a familiar shadow, a cloaked figure, out of the corner of her eye. And a hypnotic voice that calls to her… But as soon as she turns around to make sure, the presence dissolves, it vanishes. There one second and gone the next. Cass dismisses it as a figment of her overactive mind until the next time she “runs away”. 

Things would have remained in much the same way, the Queen’s days passing monotonously between court affairs, tea parties and the occasional joust. Who could have guessed what one such joust would bring?

A visiting Knight from a distant land. 

At first glance maybe not unlike all the others who wanted to prove themselves, to win the favor of the Queen or another of the Ladies of the Court. After paying closer attention, though, Cass can tell he is one of a kind. Familiar in a way. A masked knight was not an uncommon sight, but this one… A commanding presence, befitting a prince more than a knight. Masked and cloaked, does he have something to hide?

The Masked Knight breezes through the initial stage of the tournament as if it’s nothing, as if all the other knights were just children riding ponies, pretending to be experienced knights. He stands in front of the Royal Family and bows to the Queen, promising wordlessly to win in her honor. 

Who is he? Should she know him? Cass thinks she knows but she’s not sure. If only he would say something. If she hears his voice she will be certain.

“For you, my Queen.” Those are the only words he utters when he’s crowned as champion. And Cass knows. He is her shadow, her mysterious companion of lonely nights. 

As promised, he has won the tournament easily, and without either of them foreseeing it, he also wins a piece of the Queen’s heart.

Cass invites him to stay at her court as long as he likes. She half expects him to refuse, to take to the road once more, like the wandering knight he claims he is. But he stays. And something blooms between them. The Queen and the Masked Knight.

Like something out of a fairytale, ah, but this is a fairytale. 

They said he was Unknowable, but she gets to know him. Vessel. And she falls for him without having seen his face. As if their souls touched before their bodies did.

He speaks in riddles that somehow only Cass can understand. And when he speaks… He tells her about him and about the deity. That godlike entity is called Sleep, but sometimes late at night between her arms, he calls it Cass. Whispered words make way for songs and with each lyric it feels as if Vessel peels off a layer, a piece of his mask falls away.

Vessel vows to worship Cass. The Queen tells him that she doesn’t want him to idolize her, that they can just. Be. Together. For as long as they can. 

Lost in each other they also lose track of time. They pray together, to each other, that they never have to part.

[true--north]

Wait, are you also opposed to the idea of Anna with a sword? Gee, I don't like it at all - the idea itself is great, I love Merida and Mulan is one of my childhood heroes, but it doesn't fit Anna. Sometimes I feel like giving her a sword takes away all of her special qualities, she doesn't have to fight and wear pants to be a strong female character, I loved her being strong with her fluffy romantic characteristics!

Yes, Anon. I wouldn't call it "opposition", since it's just a nice headcanon but alas, I don't get why Anna, a romantic, cheerful princess/queen, should be someone like Merida and Mulan. The fact that Anna is brave and strong and capable of a lot to protect her kingdom does not mean that she should put on the image of a Warrior Queen or "Elsa's knight". I don't think she needs masculine attributes, if you know what I mean.

Besides, I think that the original sword idea in F2 was about something else altogether. It was either Revolute, the sword of Aren the Jarl, her ancestor or even Runearad's very sword and was supposed to play as a bright contrast and subtext: yet another ruler of Arendelle comes to the Enchanted Forest with a weapon, but then this ruler (Anna) realizes that her kingdom has been wrong all these years and throws the sword aside, ending the enmity. I see it this way ❄

My(maybe wrong) understanding of the sword history is based on the Forest of Shadows where Revolute turned out to be useless for Anna; on the early F2 poster where the sword breaks the ice of the fjord; on the picture from the book "Exploring the North" where Anna, Kristoff and Mattias find supposedly Runeard's sword on the way back from the Forest; and on the way Yelana was scared when Mattias started threatening to support their Queen in, how he seemed to think, the new war with Northuldra.

From all this, I made up a hedcanon that Anna and Kristoff could take Revolute with them, but then realizing that the Northuldra were good Anna wanted to get rid of it somehow or said some wholesome speech in the spirit of the Forest of Shadows' "Swords and Crowns do not change who we are."

Or the scene of Anna and Kristoff's conversation at the Dam could include a scene of finding Runeard's sword at the very place where he killed the Leader. Then, of course, having learned the truth she would have refused such a weapon.

Even if Anna's sword is not one of these remarkable swords, it could just be the sword of the Arendelle soldiers, since in "Anna, Elsa and the Secret River" book, the girls have already found weapons left after the Battle.

[feartheoldblog]

*knock knock*

I am demanding hcs for your Gilded rot Ocs

!!! (but take your time if you need to!)

HELLO THERE BIM I COME BEARING GIFTS

Headcanons are under the cut 😎

I figured that bullet points is probably the easiest way to do it, so:

Gawain

• He is an impeccable singer, incredibly talented. However, he rarely sings unless he’s had a few tankards of mead and has been peer pressured encouraged to by the other Cleanrots. In a past life, prior to enlisting as a soldier, he was well known as a singer and often asked to lead the hymns at church. However, he avoids them now.

• If you look under his bed, you’ll probably find a romance novel or two that he’s borrowed from the library. No, he wouldn’t sign them out under his name; he’s much too proud for that. He will vehemently deny ownership of them.

• Extremely fond of canines, in particular the patrol hounds. He regularly keeps chunks of dried meat in his pockets to offer them to the dogs. Unfortunately, they aren’t to keep dogs in the barracks for obvious reasons so he often visits the kennels. His favourite is an Irish Wolfhound called Birch.

• Refused to share a room with anyone other than Finlay. He was temporarily housed with Harlan and Aoife for a week and he deliberately annoyed them as much as possible so he could ensure he was placed back with Finlay.

Aoife

• Easily identifiable amongst the Cleanrots due to her being extremely tall. Due to this, she can come across as intimidating despite her amicable, cheery personality. She often hits her head off doorframes but barely acknowledges it (much to the others’ surprise).

• She’s an absolute fiend for fresh fruit. If there’s a delivery to the canteen and you fancy some fruit, you better make sure you can get there faster than her. Her favourite is peaches, though she does enjoy apples too.

• Do not play poker or any other card game that requires deception. You will lose. She is probably the richest Cleanrot because of these drunken nights of betting.

• Cat person. Spends half her time scrounging fish scraps from the fishing boats to feed the well kept cats that live around the Haligtree. Sometimes decides to sunbathe right next to them even if it means she takes up an entire path, much to people’s dismay.

• Seeing Harlan romantically. They often bicker over small things but it’s rare to see one without the other.

Harlan

• An incredible artist. He can use just about anything as a medium, from fancy paints provided by Miquella himself to creating his own dye from plants and berries. There’s many a landscape painting found around the Haligtree, from residents’ houses in the town plaza to the royal residence. He’s often commissioned by Miquella himself.

• The Cleanrot Knight that gets along the most with Miquella. They’re good friends as they shared an interest in the arts, much to Malenia’s dismay as she isn’t too interested in them.

• Extremely interested in how he looks. He wakes up the earliest of all the knights to ensure that his hair is neat, skin fresh and face shaved. He likes trying out different perfumes, both Haligtree concoctions and mainland scents.

• Seeing Aoife romantically. They often bicker as Harlan prefers neatness, whereas Aoife is more of a free spirit that cares not for well combed hair or freshly pressed clothes.

Bastien

• The friendliest person in the Haligtree, he can get along with basically anyone. If he wasn’t a guard, Miquella said he could’ve been an ambassador for the Haligtree. This means that’s he’s a total smooth talker and can talk his way out of basically everything, though mostly tardiness.

• Although he isn’t a Cleanrot Knight and instead serves in the Haligtree guard, he is one of Loretta’s closest friends and allies. He was happily accepted into their group of friends, though how much of this was Loretta’s influence or his own smart talking is unknown.

• Spends most of his time taking naps on the Haligtree’s treacherously high, smaller boughs. He’s extremely agile and can climb with ease, meaning that he’s often used as a scout. It doesn’t make Finlay any less uneasy when she watches him fast asleep, 30 metres above the ground.

• He enjoys playing the flute, and it’s not uncommon to hear the gentle sound in the distance if he’s finding it difficult to sleep.

[disgruntledexplainer]

I once created a character like this. He was a polish exorcist born in the early 11th century who got possessed by a demon. He has managed to keep the thing from taking control of his body for the most part, but because it is a fallen Seraphim he has not been able to exorcise it completely. The demon wants to send him to hell, but the exorcist has proven surprisingly virtuous, so on death he would end up going to heaven instead. Failing it's original goal, the demon instead decided to try the next best thing: perpetually keeping him from going to heaven.

in other words, the demon won't let him die. any time the exorcist loses consciousness for even a second, the demon taken control and immediately repairs any damage inflicted. If a nearby target stands to destroy the exorcist beyond the demons ability to heal, he begins altering the exorcist's body and defends him himself. he figures if he waits long enough, the exorcist will eventually fall into darkness of some sort or another. then he will simply withdraw his "help". the demon also has a passive effect when active, which causes people to hallucinate like a really bad acid trip, which he does mostly to mess with people but it CAN scare some enemies away. looks something like this (credit to Hyun's Dojo):

by the way, he still ages normally, though he will never get cancer or alzheimers or anything else that might result in his death. he does get A LOT of back pain, though, and when his brain is damaged sometimes he loses important memories. also when the demon awakens, a glowing blue eye opens in his forehead.

it's been a bit over 1000 years. over this time, the exorcist has taken up his role as a wandering knight errant, righting wrongs and defending the innocent from both supernatural and all-too-human threats. he of course is an exorcist, and can banish or at least harm most demons easily enough, and he has a sword with a relic of Saint Benedict of Nursia which allows him to strike intangible creatures like ghosts. He joined the knights hospitaller and learned medical techniques from an arab physician during the crusades. He's mastered numerous fighting styles, such as the now-extinct style La Destreza, allowing him to dodge most attacks while barely moving a muscle (and thus preventing situations that would release the demon). looks something like this:

bullets he can usually just tank outright, since as stated before he can't die, but anything which damages his brain or would cause him to go into shock releases the demon, and he tries his best to prevent that even though it makes him more powerful. he's... a very poor shot, so he has to rely on his skill with the blade instead.

the comic series was supposed to take place during World War II. The exorcist was in Berlin in 1938 during Kristallnacht, and a number of his friends in the city were brutally murdered. While he tried to put up a fight, he ended up getting shot in the leg while protecting a child, and the demon refused to heal it until everything had settled and he was left alone, resulting in the child dying before his eyes. now he's on a crusade of vengeance to track down and kill the nazis who killed his friends and liberate concentration camps. an old man with a sword taking on one of the most brutal and evil regimes in history.

of course, the demon has been working to turn this crusade into something much darker and indiscriminate, and if he succeeds in turning his fight for justice into a slaughter driven by revenge, the exorcist will meet an untimely end.

he is joined in his fight by a teenage girl he managed to rescue in a disastrously failed raid on the Birkenau concentration camp, who was experimented on and turned into a prototype super-soldier against her will. everyone else he tried to save in the raid died, so since then they have been trying their best to hit smaller camps like Stuthoff. The girl has super-strength, fast reflexes, enhanced senses, and is a terrific shot with a pistol.

lurking behind the scenes is an ancient sorcerer by the name of Johann Georg Faust, who has been lending mystical support to the reich from behind the scenes in a bid to acquire yet more power. he has an army of demons at his disposal, and uses them so sew hate and terror whenever possible. the two are destined to clash eventually.

I never got around to making the comic, unfortunately.

(edit: the first gif only seems to work if you click it. dunno why)

immortality through not being incapable of death but by coming back to life after you die no matter what is such a cool power like it’s just so fucking metal. you can rip me apart if you want, i’ll rise from my own viscera and all you’ll have done is piss me off

[whatthefishh]

Hunger of the Pine

Marc Spector x F!Reader

Warnings: Smut, 18+, swearing, oral (f receiving), unprotected p in v, idk what else to even say this is my first fic and first time writing smut please don’t read if you don’t like it? But also please read it and enjoy?

Word count: 5k

Summary: basically you fall in love with Marc while casually sleeping together because duh. How could you not. I based the story off this Alt-J song because I absolutely love them, hence the title. Ok thanks byeeee

Sleeplessly embracing

Butterflies and needles

Line my seamed-up join

Encased in case I need it

In my stomach, for my heart

Chain mail

Hunger of the Pine

Sleeplessly embracing (you)

Yawn yearns into me

Plenty more tears in the sea

He left again. Marc left you yesterday after a particularly intense session and it left both your heart and nether regions aching. His chest to your back, cock hitting something brutal inside you, and one hand wrapped around your torso to reach your neck. He kept whispering filthy words into your ear, knowing what would get you closer to finishing. “Let them hear you, let everyone hear what a good girl you are for me. You’re taking me so well, baby.” You shudder and come back to the present. You don’t know where he goes when he disappears on you, sometimes it’s for a couple weeks at a time, but he always messages you when he’s ready for some company. You try not to let it bother you that he refuses to give you any more of himself. You find yourself reaching across the bed anyway, touching the cold pillow as if he left a trace. It aches- but you shove it down and convince yourself you don’t feel it. You can’t. You shouldn’t. 

There’s plenty of potential suitors who would give you every part of themselves, offering you a real relationship. Then WHY are you stuck thinking of Marc? The butterflies you get when you have flashbacks of his hands grazing your thigh the first night you met border on anxiety-inducing somersaults in your gut. How easily he’d won you over then; how naive you were thinking it would be a fun one-off with the too-handsome-to-be-true guy giving you the eyes across the room.

Sighing, you turn on your other side to try and get comfortable, reminding yourself if he doesn’t care to tell you his whereabouts that you shouldn’t care where he bothers to go. Go back to building the walls up around your heart, before Marc Spector wormed his way in with heated glances and calloused hands. God, you’re pining. 

And so you finally use it

Bedding with me you see at night

Your heart wears knight armour 

Hunger of the pine

Sleeplessly, Embracing, You

Closing your eyes, you imagine the few times he has stayed; held you close to him in the afterglow, satisfied humming, arm wrapped around your middle, kissed the skin beneath your ear almost affectionately. You can almost feel it, him sleepily embracing you. Pretend you feel the warmth of his body. You’re pining again. 

Realization grew on me

As quickly as it takes your hand

To warm the cold side of the pillow

I'm there for you, be there for me

I’ll hum the song the soldiers sing

Does he see the sad, pathetic look in your eyes while you watch him get dressed? You think he does, and is just doing you a kindness by not mentioning it. Sometimes you swear it seems like he doesn’t even want to leave the comfort of your arms but he sighs dejectedly and does so anyway. 

You’re lying about being comfortable with your arrangement. Why was it that you were so compatible with the one guy who’s emotionally unavailable? Typical of you. The second time you two fucked in the bathroom of the bar went out together he told you, rather harshly, that he didn’t want a relationship, that he was damaged from his last one, and that he’s sorry. He looked it, too. Or maybe that was wishful thinking on your part. Regardless, when Marc gave you the option of staying casual with him, you said yes- somewhat eagerly, in retrospect. Although your heart dropped at his admission, you wanted to keep any sort of connection to him. The physical chemistry was dizzying and addictive since that first night. 

Fast forward to yesterday, he mumbled something about having a train to catch in the morning, leaving you in bed, trying to imagine the body heat he left behind to catch some semblance of rest before the start of your week. You don’t know how long you’ve been tossing and turning. Time gets weird when you let yourself overthink like this. You think you’re going to have to say something the next time you see him. You can’t look at his pretty face, strong jaw and swollen lips, deep brown eyes staring down at you while he thrusts- 

You’re getting off track.  No, you're definitely going to have to say something. You can’t stay quiet next time. You’re just going to come out and say it, say that the arrangement isn’t working for you, that you want more or it has to end. Your sister keeps trying to set you up with her husband’s friends and you can’t keep blowing her off for… whatever this is. Maybe you’ll actually go on a date. Maybe it’ll go well. Maybe you’ll even go back to his place, where he probably won’t know your body the way Marc does, but maybe it’ll be okay. Maybe-

A knock sounds at the door. Who could possibly be at your door at this hour? Your heart rate jumps at the thought of someone breaking in, overpowering you in your barely there pajamas. As you quickly look around for some sort of makeshift weapon to fight the intruder off with, a second knock follows, this time more urgently. Throwing off your covers, you quickly reach for your umbrella and quietly peer into the peephole to see if you can make out who’s at the door.

Your breathing quickens and heart rate jumps at the sight of Marc on the other side of your door, running his hand through his unruly curls. 

You wrench the door open before he knocks for a third time and wakes up your neighbours and you catch him with his fist midair before he drops it. You stare at each other, waiting for the other to speak first. What the fuck is he doing here, at this time, without texting you first? 

Giving Marc a quick scan and then checking the hallway in case anyone woke up from your unexpected guest, you swiftly pull him inside your apartment and shut the door. 

“What are you doing here?” You ask with more acid in your tone than you probably meant to show. 

“Hello to you, too, sweetheart… Why are you holding an umbrella?” He shoots right back. 

Looking down you realize you’re still holding on to the umbrella like a baseball bat, ready to attack your midnight guest. You quickly put it back behind the door, not missing the way Marc was trying to hold back his snickers. 

“You didn’t answer my question, Marc. What do you want?” His eyebrows shoot up at your tone. You realize you’re being rude but you’re tired and he is entirely too comfortable dropping by your place really late with no heads up. 

“What’s with the attitude?” He spits back at you. “Have I done something? I was in the area and thinking of you so I thought I’d come see you.” Even though you knew that he wasn’t going to be the one to move this situationship to the next level, a small part of you was holding out hope for him to say literally anything that would let you believe that. 

The air grew tense, an uncomfortable feeling settling in the pit of your stomach at the thought of ruining whatever you had going with him. Get your shit together, you said you’d say something the next time you saw him. Well? Now or never!

“That's kind of the problem, Marc.” You sigh exasperatedly, forcing the words to come out. “You haven’t really done anything.” He looks just as annoyed and confused as before you spoke, brows furrowing as he focuses on your words. Evidently not being able to catch on, he motions with his hand for you to elaborate, to which you sigh even heavier. Maybe if you don’t look directly at him it’ll be easier so instead you focus on his socks. 

Socks? This fucker took his shoes off already, ready to stay? 

Squaring your shoulders and looking him in the eye, you muster up your frustrations with this man to finally voice them. Deep breath. You got this, you tell yourself. “I… I know I said I was okay with what we have, I know you told me from the start how it had to be but I don’t think I can handle it anymore. I’ve been trying to ignore it and I can’t keep going on like this. I want more, Marc. Fuck, I-I don’t know anything about your life, I’ve never even been to your apartment, you never tell me where you go, and I want you to want to tell me. I want you to want more with me, too. Don’t pretend you couldn’t tell, and don’t look at me like that!” You were progressively getting louder through your little outburst and by the end you needed to take in a deep breath at the effort it took from you. 

He doesn’t say anything for a minute, just breathing through his nose heavily. His eyes bounced back and forth between your face, your legs, and the mirror hung on the wall behind you. You start getting irritated by his lack of response and huff impatiently. 

“Please just go, Marc, you don’t have to say anything.” With your head down, you attempt to walk by him back to your bedroom but he grabs your arm before you get past him and pulls you to face him. 

Une immense espérance a traversé la terre

Une immense espérance a traversé ma peur

(An immense hope has crossed over the earth

An immense hope has crossed over my fear)

“I’m not…good. At any of this.” he grits out with his hand still wrapped around your forearm. “I told you that at the beginning of this because I’m not good for you, I’m no good at relationships. They never fuckin’ work because I am just not…good enough. I’ll only end up making you unhappy.” Marc has never been this vulnerable in front of you before and by the tension in his jaw and shoulders, and sweaty grip on your arm, you know it wasn’t easy. Your heart breaks a little at his confession, hope still fighting its way up your chest into your throat and before you even realize it, you’re holding his face in your hands, his own landing on your waist. 

“Marc you absolute shit head.” You huff out with a small smile on your lips. His eyes shift to the mirror behind you again before quickly shifting back to you. Does he know he's pouting? “Why on earth would you think you’re not good? I’d like to make that judgment for myself, thanks.” You try to laugh lightly to ease his tension.

“What if it’s terrible? What if I hurt you, what if we fight all the time, what if- listen I can’t have you hating me.” He rushes it all out, concern etching his features, clearly having thought about it before.

“What if it’s good? What if it’s so good, Marc, what if you’re not as terrible as you think?” you throw back at him, challenging his insecurities. The hope that was itching in your throat is out there now, enveloping you both in its clutches like a warm embrace. “Besides, even if we do fight, at least we know the make up sex will be good.” With that being said, his gaze darkens and the heat from his hands on your waist burns through your clothes, fingers squeezing you in their path to your hips. 

“Oh, will it now? You’re sure of it?” He jumps at the opportunity to tease you, and before you have a chance to retort, backs you into the wall behind you to capture your lips in a searing kiss, tongues fighting for dominance. The kiss steals your breath, and maybe you’re imagining it, but you feel reassured by it, like he’s admitting what he can’t say out loud through his tongue. When you pull away breathlessly, you’re both sporting goofy smiles, your foreheads touching; a core memory forming. 

Dragging your hands down to intertwine with his, you slowly walk him backwards to your bedroom. This air feels different, heavy, almost cottony as the both of you stay quiet, for fear of breaking the spell. Never have you both been so emotionally honest with each other and so gentle, it renders you shy. 

Foreheads still near, eyelids sitting heavy, he guides you to sit on the edge of the bed while he stands, looking down at you. You think you know what he wants, he usually wants your mouth on him to start, says you look the prettiest with your lips wrapped around his cock. But no… he drops to his knees for you, hands caging you in on the bed. So things might be going a little differently but you roll with it. 

Taking the sight of him in, he looks entirely too good for such a late hour, skin flawless, a barely there scruff coming in, a couple of stray curls coming down on his forehead and those deep eyes staring at you through his lashes with the bottom whites of his eyes showing.

You look so pretty kneeling for me. 

He sniffs out a laugh and you realize belatedly that you said that last bit out loud, heat rising to your face. 

You lean forward to kiss him again, this time slower, his lips moving expertly on yours. He deepens it, asking permission with his hot tongue to explore your mouth, eliciting a high pitched whimper from you. At the sound you make, Marc pulls back and smirks at you, then moves his mouth to your jaw and continues kissing his way down your neck, biting softly at your collarbone. Your chest is heaving already. The air was already stifling and now? Now you’re burning up from the inside. 

“Why is this still on?” he asks, tugging upwards on your sleeping top to remove it. It gets tossed into the darkness of your bedroom. You shiver at the slight chill in the apartment, and he watches in fascination as your nipples harden right at his eye level. Looking up into your eyes he moves forward, capturing one of the hardened peaks in his warm mouth, groaning with his mouth full as he palmed the other one. 

As much as you wanted to maintain eye contact you couldn’t help but toss your head back at the feeling. He quickly moved on to the other breast and bit down on it to get you to look at him again, pulling a soft moan from you. Looking back down at him, he released you and moved his hands to your hips, fingering the elastic of your underwear, silently asking for permission with his eyes to remove them. This was a completely new side to him, since you only ever knew the Marc who took what he wanted from you and made you beg for it at the same time. 

Pulling your bottoms off of your legs, you sat there completely bare in front of him, both physically and emotionally for the first time. Marc started to kiss up your legs, starting from the crease in your knees moving towards your apex. He shouldered his way in between your knees so that you couldn’t shut them once he was settled in and held you in place with one hand on your hip. You were still a little sore from your activities yesterday, and trembling slightly at his almost reverent touches. 

“You’re shaking, baby. Is this okay?” He squeezes your hip reassuringly. Afraid to open your mouth at the risk of nothing coherent coming out, you just nod your head dumbly with your tongue stuck to the roof of your mouth. “You can tell me when you want me to stop or if it gets too much.” 

Again you’re shocked at the affection in his eyes and touch, but it’s by no means hesitant. Like looking at him through a different filter, with the same burning intensity. Your eyes shut as he lowers his head to your sternum and kisses down the middle of your torso, until he reaches your core, but surprises you by completely bypassing it and moving on to the tops of your thighs. His teasing nature has clearly returned, wanting to push you to beg for him. 

“Marc…” you sigh breathlessly. He looks up at you with a small smirk on his lips. “Please, Marc.” You say again, in the hopes that it’s enough. You don’t even know if you can get the words out, he’s barely touched you and you’re both breathing heavily. There’s a white noise in the back of your mind as your focus pinpoints on both of your sounds. 

While maintaining eye contact, he drags his mouth along your inner thigh until he’s breathing on your slick folds and finally, finally, licks a long stripe up. His hand is still gripping your hip tightly, holding you in place and you’re glad he is because you feel boneless, like you could slip right through his fingers to join him on the floor. 

“Fuck,” you whimper as he licks another stripe into you, slowing to catch your clit between his lips to suck on. You flop onto your back right when Marc brings his other hand to insert two fingers into your entrance, curling them upwards to hit that patch of nerves. Back arching, you grab on to his hair to anchor yourself with one hand and the other bunches the bed sheets by your side. 

He’s too good at this for your sanity. The hand not occupied with his hair slaps over your mouth to try and hide how far gone you already are for him. It won’t take you long it seems, you just need a little more. 

“P-please don’t stop pleasedontstopplease-“ you say, muffled from between your fingers. He continues to lap at your clit while leisurely fingering you and curling his fingers up. 

“Let me hear you then, or I will,” he taunts you, then goes back to flicking his tongue even faster on your clit. Moving your hand off your face, your whines are now loud enough for him to hum into your mound happily. 

“Ohhhh fffuckk, Marc!” Your sounds keep rising in volume as he finally picks up the pace of his fingers and before either of you are ready for it, you’re coming all over his fingers and tongue. Back arched, hand still in his hair, you’re dissolving into the mattress with a broken cry. You can hear his fingers squelching into you as he continues to pleasure you through your release and your hands come up to cover your face as your lungs try to catch up. 

Peeking through your hands you watch as he finally pulls his fingers out and unceremoniously sticks them in his mouth, humming when he tastes you. While you’re still trying to gather your senses, Marc stands up smugly and starts undressing. You take that as your cue to sit up and unbuckle his pants so you can return the favour but his hands catch yours after removing his sweater.

“No, pretty girl, not tonight.” His hand cups your jaw so you’re looking up to him, your hands resting on his hips. “Tonight is about you.” Your heart flutters at his words and you know it’s written all over your face. Keeping your eyes trained on his, you pull his pants off him but he pays it no mind, just pulls on your bottom lip with his thumb and then smiles to himself. 

He leans down to crawl over you and you go with him, both of you shuffling up the bed to get situated in the middle, faces inches apart. Marc kisses you again and you taste yourself on him. He continues kissing his way down your neck, biting and sucking on the tendons flexing there. He lifts his head when you make a sound in the back of your throat and then he’s staring at you expectantly, so you try to slowly turn to your usual position, shifting to your hands and knees but again he stops you, and pulls you back before you move. 

You feel like you’re out of your depth, here with him, the scenario playing out very differently than what you thought. You’ve always had a very expressive face so you know he sees your confusion and kisses you hotly while pushing down on your sternum signaling for you to lay back.

“Tonight I want to look at you, if that’s okay?” He says quietly but still very much in control. You nod with your noses rubbing, never having experienced this type of intimacy before. Marc may not be the most vocal man when it comes to being vulnerable about his feelings but it’s showing through his subtle words and warming your heart. 

His hands come to either side of your head, caging you in and he reaches forward to capture your lips in another deep, toe curling kiss. Your hands are exploring his shoulders, neck and chest freely, caresses full of love this time and not just lust. His smell and weight overwhelm you in the best way possible. All your senses are just picking up Marc, Marc, Marc. Your hand comes to rest on his face, rubbing his cheekbone with your thumb as you part for air, and your legs fall open on either side of his hips. 

Gripping his cock in one hand, he rubs the tip through your heat, moving smoothly through your soaked folds to spread your arousal all over. Moaning his name, you press your face into his bicep and tug on the hair at the nape of his neck. He wordlessly positions himself at your entrance but waits there with the tip lodged right where you need him. 

“I know, baby, I know. I want to hear you say it though, can you ask me nicely?” He purred, nudging your face with his prominent nose. 

“Please, I need you. Please!” You manage to spit out, canting your hips up so as to tempt him to just take you. The feeling of him barely starting to push in was driving you insane with arousal, you felt as though you were dripping on to the sheets. 

“Please what, baby? What do you need?” How he has self restraint right now you don’t know, but you try to appease him anyway even with your brain short circuiting. 

“I need you inside me, I want to feel all of you!”

Finally, Marc pushes in the rest of the way but takes his time with it, making sure to watch your face crumple around a high pitched keen as he does so. 

“That’s my fu-fucking good girl, look at that. Does that feel better?” He asks before dragging himself out to the tip, and on his hard thrust back in, decides to mock you further, “How about now? Better, baby?” 

Marc begins with a slow pace, making sure to pull out slowly only to thrust back in hard and deep, breathing hard against the shell of your ear. You can’t answer him but your noises are involuntary, more pronounced when he grinds into you. He pushes his face into your neck and keeps the mind numbing pace, occasionally whispering sweet but filthy things to you. 

“Pretty baby, letting me take her apart, m-my baby, so wet for me, so good to me.” Your chorus of whimpers kept growing, until he kissed you so tenderly while grabbing your hands from where they were purchased around his back to intertwine them by your head, caging you in. He kept pushing, going impossibly deeper, and the air shifted, became suffocating in the best way possible, oxygen scarce as his eyes locked on yours. 

Something in you snaps, and your back bows into his chest. Marc continues to fuck you through the spasms as you fall off the edge he’s been pushing you towards, crying out with his name on your tongue. 

There’s a flood between your legs, you know it because you can hear it and he’s sliding in your oversensitive pussy so easily now. 

“You look so good coming for me, I wanna watch it again. Please?” He licks from your throat to your ear to sweeten the request, shifts your legs over his forearms planted next to your waist now so you’re fully spread out for him to see. “Can you give me one more? I think you can, you’re so good for me.” 

You don’t even get a chance to come down and he’s building you back up again. His words aren’t helping but he doesn’t seem like he’s in control of them either at this point. Looking down you can see where he’s spearing into you, going faster now but just as deep as before and the sight makes you whine in the back of your throat. 

He groans as he looks at where you’re joined, a pained noise that makes him drive harder into you. You struggle to anchor yourself so you settle for his arms and dig your nails in, too far gone to care if you draw blood. 

“I c-can’t, Marc” you’re stuttering with the words, “it’s too much, I can’t” is all you can manage. He’s eyes become softer while he shakes his head at you. 

“You can take it, take it for me, yes you can, pretty girl” he pleads, eyes imploring. “My girl, right? You’re mine?” He’s asking you for affirmation and you know it’s about more than just this moment. So you nod. Cockdumb or not you’re nodding in agreement so he knows you’re in this with him, trusting him to take care of you in more ways than one. He knows how, he’ll take you there, and he kisses you like a vow.

You’re on fire, veins ignited and something devastating is building inside you again. The concept of time is escaping you. His lips are smoldering against yours, and he swallows your moans while delving his tongue into your mouth. You feel like he’s slowly peeling you apart and piecing you back together at the same time; like the glue he’s using is actually made of lighter fuel and he’s just fueling the fire lit deep within you. You break apart gasping for air as his cock punches mercilessly into your core, hitting the area that makes your vision spotty.

Your eyes roll to the back of your head, moaning uncontrollably and Marc knows you’re close. He lifts your leg to wrap around his hip and settles his hand on your lower stomach and presses, thumb reaching for your clit to pluck at it with no hesitation. 

This is it, you think. This is how you’re gonna go out, screaming around Marc’s cock because he fucked you too hard into your mattress. Your vision whites out, blood rushing past your ears deafening you, and your muscles tense up as you come harder than before. 

You’re clenching too hard around Marc for him to move for a few seconds so he sits there letting you milk him, arousal rushing out of you like a downpour. “God, you’re perfect, such a good girl coming for me so hard, that’s right,” as he brushes your hair out of your face. You’ve stopped convulsing enough for him to start up again, but your whimpers from him thrusting into your overstimulated pussy have him speaking again. “I know, I know, almost there, please baby.”

His pace becomes irregular, sinking deep inside you as you drag your fingernails down his back, tears leaking out of your eyes. How is your orgasm dragging out this long? 

“Ahhh, f-fuck, you’re so- fuuuuuck I’m gonna come, I-” He groans out into your neck, hips smacking loudly against yours and with a final thrust finishes, painting your insides with his release. 

He flops down with his face still buried in your neck, and spent cock still inside you. Both of you are still breathing heavily and your brain feels like it needs a minute to restart, but it does supply you with the motivation to run your hands through his hair and down his back soothingly. You don’t know how long you two stay like that but he eventually starts lazily kissing your neck until he finds himself looking at you from above, and you share small, shy smiles, faces beaming. It feels like the sun has settled in your chest with how giddy you feel and Marc? Marc’s face reflects yours, that same happiness you never thought you’d be the cause of, his eyes cataloging the details of your face to memory. 

You’re sickening, you think. This is the sappiest you’ve ever felt about someone and you don’t know how to act, especially as the last hour catches up to you. After a few more short but sweet kisses, he’s pulling out of you with a hiss and looking at the mess he made of you. You feel both of your spend leak out of you, feeling sweaty and achy all over. Before you can even say anything though, he’s pushing it back in with two fingers and roguishly asking you to keep it in for him. You nod blankly, as if you could deny him anything right now. 

Marc settles in next to you on the bed and you turn to face each other, faces inches apart and limbs tangled together. You’re both sporting the same, goofy, shy smiles and settling in to sleep. 

“Will you stay with me?” You softly ask, still hesitant to ask. 

“‘Course… but I-“ he starts and stops again, and you try hard not to jump to conclusions of him finding an excuse to reject you. 

He looks like he wants to continue, with his brow furrowed and eyes focused on your chin, mouth still open poised to speak. As your hand reaches up to smooth out his forehead, his eyes look back to yours, making him quickly spit out “Ihavesomethingtotellyou”.

“Anything. You can tell me anything, Marc” you reassure him, a tone of worry lacing your voice. His eyes look panicked for a second before rolling back into his head. 

“It’s not his fault, love, he just likes you too much!” He said, a bit too loud for how close you two were, making you jump back a bit out of shock. 

See, the voice came from Marc but it didn’t sound like him at all, with an unusual British accent and higher pitch than his regular voice. 

“Oh s-sorry, love, I didn’t mean to scare you. I’m Steven.” 

Was this all some fucked up dream you were having? 

[feralphoenix]

a thing that i really love about hollow knight is that part of its incredibly strict Show Don’t Tell policy means it works a lot in juxtapositions. comparisons and parallels.

like, rather than Telling us what makes for a good and responsible ruler, we get to know about various different heads of state in the various nations of the crater, and we can observe how they handled international relations, public policy, etc and the consequences/effects of their choices, and draw conclusions by ourselves.

there are lots of different parent-child relationships, and sibling relationships, so that we have many examples to compare ghost and their family to.

there are also a number of higher beings around and you can compare them to each other to understand their different approaches to godhood, how they handled being the center of a culture & the responsibilities that entails (radi, unn, tpk) or the ways they sidestepped those roles (white lady, grimm). in addition to forming our opinions of these characters this also contextualizes what ghost does when they attain godhood in the godseeker endings & after the delicate flower variant, in godseeker mode.

like you can use these points of reference for a lot of different analysis topics!!! but one of the things that always Gets Me In My Emotions is the direct juxtaposition between herrah, radiance, and tpk and how differently these three characters handle the cost of fighting Existential Crisis.

the pale king’s policy is officially No Cost Too Great, but just like the hunter says in hollow’s bestiary entry, for tpk “cost” was a thing for other people to pay, and he was not willing to risk any sort of harm to his own person. his plan to deal with the infection involved sacrificing the dreamers & the hollow knight, and his plan to create a hollow knight involved birthing hundreds of thousands of children who were designed to be expendable - they were there so he could experiment on them, select a candidate, cull the failures, and then sacrifice said candidate.

the worst tpk might have experienced through all this is emotional turmoil, and it’s left ambiguous in-game whether he was actually conflicted about the child sacrifice/felt attachment to hollow or whether his personal low point throughout all this was being butthurt about his wife walking out rather than birth a second batch of vessels for the slaughter. (he must’ve been pretty darn butthurt to have lied to the kingdom that the white lady was dead.)

as soon as his plan failed and he had no other recourse, tpk fled rather than expose himself to any potential harm. he was willing to - perhaps desperate enough to - expend any number of chess pieces if it would save hallownest, but his own life and safety was NEVER on the table.

just like tpk, radiance is trying to protect herself and her people. just like tpk and herrah, she too is willing to go to any lengths necessary to get the settlers to fucking step off, give her children back, and leave her alone.

for her this entails being willing to bend her own principles - i’ve talked about this in depth before so you can find all that in my essay tag if you’re interested, but in-game evidence points to radiance having been a pacifist like the rest of her tribe pre-hallownest. and the infection is a curse that’s only sometimes fatal, but it causes extreme amounts of harm and fear and chaos to inflicted parties. and this level of harm is something she’s willing to do just to threaten/pressure tpk into backing down.

her method also causes a large amount of collateral damage (including lateral harm to other indigenous bugs!), suggesting that she either doesn’t have the emotional wherewithal to worry about who might get hurt, or just plain doesn’t care. if you squint, it’s possible to make the argument that radiance might have warned unn before her counterattack against hallownest, but even then forewarning was the only mitigation she was able and willing to provide. if this is what it takes to protect herself and her tribe, then so be it.

so, compared to tpk, who chose to actively sacrifice the lives of individuals to protect the institution of hallownest, and radiance, who doesn’t care about splash damage to bystanders as long as she can save her tribe... what i find extraordinary about herrah is that when she determined that sacrifice was necessary to protect deepnest, she took all that sacrifice upon herself.

most obviously herrah accepts the role of dreamer in hopes of ending the plague, sacrificing her life. in order to keep tpk from taking advantage of that to conquer deepnest, she also negotiates that he has to provide her with an heir, thus ensuring deepnest’s sovereignty... but this means she has to have sex with the very creature who has been trying to commit genocide against the spiders for generations. she has to let her lifelong worst enemy who she’s been fighting alone since the death of her husband impregnate her. this decision had to have come with some form of emotional distress for her, and yet herrah shoulders it and soldiers through it.

and then even through this, it’s implied in the white lady and midwife’s dialogue (+ posed in the dev notes/style guide) that tpk snatched up hornet when she was a child to raise her in the white palace. it’s unclear whether he did this to keep hornet as a hostage to make sure herrah couldn’t renege on their treaty now she’d got what she wanted out of the bargain, to ensure his offspring would be raised in the culture he created rather than in deepnest, which he clearly believed to be barbaric and uncivilized, or both.

yet instead of calling bullshit and flouncing on the deal or trying to steal hornet back, thereby exposing deepnest to the threat of both the infection And aggression from hallownest once more, herrah stuck with it. midwife says that herrah paid dearly for her involvement with this plan, but herrah valued deepnest’s survival over her own individual life, and saw it through to the end no matter how tpk’s plan caused her to suffer or hurt her dignity.

there’s an incredible amount of nobility and integrity herrah shows here. she refuses to let any harm come to her country, and insists that any and all sacrifice required of her as a leader be her sole responsibility. her courage, her political intelligence, and her strength of character as a leader are all nothing short of awe-inspiring.

at the same time, there is still a downside to herrah’s spirit of self-sacrifice. as anyone who’s ever watched steven universe can tell you, self-sacrifice is actually kind of a shitty solution to one’s problems because self-destruction hurts the people who love you.

we get glimpses of hornet’s intense emotional torment over her mother’s fate and her understanding that it’s necessary to let ghost murder herrah to change the status quo; similarly we can understand the crushing amount of personal responsibility hornet feels towards the whole crater comes from knowing the cost of her own birth, and having front row seats to her parents’ political power struggle.

we hear from herrah herself that everything she does is done for hornet, so hornet’s pain is probably the last thing herrah would have wanted, but ironically what hornet goes through in hollow knight is a direct consequence of herrah choosing to martyr herself.

anyway all of this speaks SO much for herrah and radi and tpk’s individual priorities and problem-solving strategies and also their blind spots... plus, there’s a lot about herrah’s character that goes underappreciated and this is one of those unsung aspects. fandom... fandom blease be SAD about SPIDER MAMA with me