#Late submission | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

jjkeremika · 7 months ago

Text

in sin, we delight

description: Mikasa’s a Reverend’s daughter. Eren's a doctor’s son who doesn't believe in God.

"Mikasa," he repeated in a whisper, a new name sounding so familiar on his tongue. A tone so hushed lest the angels hear a demon's child say her name. The light in a perpetual darkness. The hope in an eternal damnation. The bliss in a life lost. The freedom in an unwilling confinement.

She stayed in front of the altar, staring up at the man. The resemblance was there, of course it was. He would always bear the same face of that young boy she desperately prayed to forgive and forget.

And in that moment, Eren realized that God does exist--because she stood before him, in all her effervescent glory. Because he just said her name.

tag/disclaimer: very late submission for eremika smut week 2024 (kind of a mix of day 3 and day 5); religious motifs; God or Goddess; overstimulation; oral sex/cunnilingus; first time; penetration; wondering how to get eren on his knees? be mikasa; worship and idolatry; ao3

To love another is to see the face of God.

Reverend Ackerman wasn’t strict about attendance. He understood the turmoils and stresses of life. He accepted that some days were harsher than others, and a tumultuous trek to the church was rougher on weary, exhausted bones. He praised those who could make it, hoped for those who skipped to come another day, prayed for those who lost hope, who disappeared.

Reverend Ackerman never enforced attendance. He reminded his clergy of the kindest tenants, spoke highly of those who were likely tired and frustrated within their lives, recited relevant scripture to persevere. To hope. To believe once again.

Reverend Ackerman never mandated attendance, yet he remembered all those who appeared. Memorized who arrived for what session and when. Kept space in his heart and mind for those who may return. Reserved seats in pews at the back for those who never did.

Reverend Ackerman remembered them dearly, prayed for them daily. For the one family that routinely stopped coming on Sundays. For the one family whose father disliked the preaching, took his son by his hand, and exited through the arch doors, golden with rays of God’s light. Disappeared and never returned. He hoped for their safety, their sanity, their resiliency, their forgiveness.

And so, Reverend Ackerman prayed every night for the Jaeger’s sanctity, for their eventual return.

His daughter matched these prayers. For the happiness of the boy she never saw smile. For the safety of the boy who always shifted in the pew. For the return of the boy she never saw again. For the salvation of the boy she never saw pray.

--------

20 years ago, the Reverend delivered a notable Sunday sermon. About forgiveness for the Eldians for century-old sins, about a history intentionally forgotten by its people, about how devils are born from rejecting God's love. How these sins carry with the living, find a peaceful retribution in the souls of those who remember. How it lives on achingly in the spirits of the dead.

It is important to remember. Not for punishment, but wisdom. It is important to remember. Not in terror, but respect. It is important to remember. Not for revenge, but forgiveness. It is important to remember. For salvation, not condemnation. It is important to remember. For our ancestry, for our lives. Lest we forget.

The attending crowd murmured approval, hummed their joint hymns of appreciation and solidarity. Praised their Reverend for a truth thoughtfully spoken, with words delicately weaved and threaded together.

Reverend Ackerman could never forget the one man who quietly stood at the back of the pews. Would never forget a face forged of a quiet indignity, with a fist tightly grasping at the hand of a boy the Reverend could only presume to be his son. A hardened version of the face he witnessed sit silently at the back every Sunday.

Clearly the man had heard enough. He carefully led his son to the entrance. The young boy--couldn't have been much older than his daughter--his head turned over his shoulder to look out at the Reverend for what would be the last time. The boy extended his free arm, reached out down the aisle, palm open. Expressionless, yet painfully expressive.

His daughter bore witness. Stood carefully next to the Reverend and observed the premature, gallant exit. Her head tilted. She flexed her hand.

This moment wrote itself into their brains. Hardwired into their memories. The sermon would be forgotten. Their actions would live on forever.

Lest we forget.

--------

Mikasa was older now. She'd grown into her existence as a confident soul. She knew more, could remember more.

What God decided which memories were retained? With the evolution of the brain, its multiple networks and high capacity--how were some events unforgettable? How were some events on permanent recall?

What God decided what was worth the precious storage? Why was his face always a part of that?

The young boy who would have grown into a man. The last day of his in their church. Decades passed, yet she remembered his face so vividly. The last rays of noon highlighting a confusion that she didn't quite understand at the time. An emotion that, as she reflected back, she still didn't quite comprehend.

A sense of boredom from the sermon. A sense of excitement from the abrupt actions of his father. A sense of betrayal from the exit. A sense of longing towards the altar. A sense of loyalty. Of dread. Relief.

Mikasa was older now. She'd watched many families leave the church after long days of prayer. Many of their lives blurred between the lines. Whose grandfather was on life support, whose lives experienced particular hardship, whose families needed extra prayer to set them free from their actions, or from the actions of those they'd never met. All of it bled into an indiscriminate mesh, an impossibly coiled weave of strings and wires she could never untangle.

Yet she'd never been able to forget him as he was dragged down the aisle, one foot after another. The feeling in her chest, constricted and chafing. An epitome of something more, something she couldn't quite name, something that never made sense. Never fit right.

Mikasa was older now. Full of love and forgiveness and belief. To believe in love, because she is full of it. To know of its existence, because she spreads it. To witness its effects in her community blossom into a fruitful meadow, intertwined with kindness and blessings that she felt honored to provide. To be selfish with it, by all the while searching for a face she couldn't be certain she'd recognize.

That is, until she stood before him. Preparing the altar for another day of service, in early morning, when footsteps approached the gallivant entrance, echoed through the hallow hall.

She turned around, set the basket of unlit candles on the table. She met the barely taller man by eye, smiled gently. Her eyes scanned his face and body, kindly assessed him.

“Good morning,” she greeted softly, the nerves in her brain firing as they processed the sight of the man. “The service doesn’t start for another hour or so, but please feel free to make yourself comfortable here.”

He stared at her silently for a moment—a moment that likely lasted a few seconds, but felt like slow minutes, passing like coarse sand in a fixed hourglass.

Her eyebrow knit closer to her eye as she considered his features. He looked oddly familiar, yet she was certain he had not attended any recent services. She had half a mind to ask, yet she knew better—service was not mandatory, people could come and go as they pleased. Her family served a large community. The doors were open to all those who passed by, travelers and inhabitants and settlers alike. Was it possible to remember everyone who had graced these pews?

His green eyes filtered to the candles, gestured out with a large palm towards the basket. “Can I help at all?”

Her eyebrows raised, in surprise by the gesture or the sound of his voice, she couldn’t be sure. The thought briefly crossed her mind: if she left him unanswered, if he’d ask again, she’d hear the sound once more. In that moment she could surmise definitively, she had never heard this voice before. Never would it be lost in the symphony of a crowd’s prayers and hums and amens.

He took a daring step forward. She took a sudden step back, bumped into the table and knocked a loose candle from the holder. It snapped as it hit the decorated floor, rolled towards him.

He knelt down on one knee and grabbed both ends easily, held them up to her with an outstretched palm.

“I didn’t mean to startle you,” he started, still on one knee, staring up at her like something holy, like she were an angel in her own right. He spoke slowly, like each word was formed with an intentional breath, like he was speaking to someone revered. He watched her carefully, listened even when she had nothing to say. “Just wanted to offer my service before the prose.”

Like she were hit with a flash of lightning, she knew who she was speaking to. Felt the memory run through her bones, fought the urge to welcome him back to salvation.

“My name is Eren.” She carefully took the broken candle from his palm. He carefully rose to his feet, kept his hand out to take hers. “I don’t believe we’ve met.”

A boy she hardly knew, now a man she’d never met. There was an unfamiliar warmth and ache sent through her body at his words. Did it hurt to be unremarkable? Unmemorable? By someone she could never forget?

"Mikasa," she introduced, allowed him to take her hand in his palm.

"Mikasa," he repeated in a whisper, a new name sounding so familiar on his tongue. A tone so hushed lest the angels hear a demon say her name. The light in a perpetual darkness. The hope in an eternal damnation. The bliss in a life lost. The freedom in an unwilling confinement.

And in that moment, Eren realized that God does exist, because she stood before him, in all her effervescent glory. Because he just said her name.

“We’ve met before actually,” she spoke without forethought. Did it need to be known? Did it palliate the ache? “A long time ago.”

He seemed unphased. Like a lapse in memory was commonplace for him. Like he’d had this very conversation before. “Ah, I’m sorry, I don’t recall. Though I suppose that makes sense. My family did attend this church when I was young.”

“You remember coming here?” Mikasa picked up the basket again, replaced the candle that had broken.

“No,” he answered with a curt shake of his head. Quickly glanced around, but settled back on her. His gaze was intense, yet she didn’t feel observed or scrutinized. More—admired. Revered. “But I’ve been told. It feels awfully familiar.”

“It's common to forget as we grow old." It was a passing comment-- a caption merely meant to pass between phrase. To go unnoticed, unneeded. Unmemorable, like most.

“You remember.” It wasn’t intended as a question, nor was it really addressed to her. More of a confirmation for himself, that such a God would permit his residence in her brain for such a long time. He wondered what he had done to deserve such. "You remember me." He wished he remembered.

There was no need to continue. There was no need to speak at all, yet she couldn’t help but reaffirm. “I do.” Did she add that she’s been looking for him since the day he left? That she searches the crowd of people for the boy who disappeared? That she spent cumulative years out in the community, hunting for that familiar face? That she always felt drawn to him for reasons unknown?

“What did I do to deserve such a grace?” He maintained eye contact, considered reaching out his hand for her to hold. He’s been looking—searching for connection, a semblance of something real. Untouched. Holy.

She smiled smally. To have found what she’d been looking for. To know with certainty, it exists. “Will you be staying for the service?”

He nodded. "I will." He returned her smile. “For as long as it takes.”

--------

Eren's seen her before, in the town. Twice, to be exact.

The first was at the final worship for the passing of the old Duke. The clergy in the district had been assembled to speak to God on the peoples behalf, to assist in the town's processing of the Duke's eventual passing. To help the Duke cross over into heaven.

Eren didn't care. He was only present because his father was the Duke's doctor (which, in Grisha's own words, "was a sentence worse than the death the Duke will face, because who else would the town blame for his demise, if not the doctor meant to save him?").

Eren spent his time watching the crowd, eying the hungry, the cold. Those the Duke had forgotten who had still come to his bedside. The people surmised the Duke akin to God. Eren called them fools.

There was one member of the church, dressed yet not at the stageside. She was dishing out soup with others he didn't recognize. With hair black as a demon's eyes, eyes charcoal like remnants of a wood fire, she stood out amongst the rest. Her demeanor was warm and inviting. Her smile was soothing and healing. In white, like an angel sent to grace the Duke, she graced his people instead.

He watched her from the back of a large crowd, hidden from view in the creeping shadows. He fixated on her smile, on the flashes of teeth as she spoke to the hungry. Her hands appeared dainty and smooth, yet she worked them with the ineffective spoons and bowls. Something stirred within him, deep inside. Something untouched for ages.

The second time was at a patient's home. The patient had called for the local doctor and a priest. While Grisha and Eren fixed remedies and medicines at the patient's bedside, Reverend Ackerman and his daughter spoke to the family, blessed the room and assisted the patient's comfort.

Eren watched his father ignore the Reverend as they worked independently; one to help the man in bed reach heaven, one to keep him from its pearly gates. Eren recalled vividly the Reverend speaking to his father, interrupting the medicinal concoction. He remembered his father's poignant response, "Reverend, you ask his God for forgiveness and entry. Allow me to keep them from meeting." The Reverend forced a smile. His response was strained, "Continue with your honest work."

The girl outside the room heard, turned her head enough that Eren recognized hair as dark as the devil's, a face as pale as snow. She was the same woman, he was certain of it. Within his proximity, this time, he could she was as pristine up close, as she was from a distance. Truly an angel in image, a goddess in honor.

Never did he speak a word. Never did they interact. Yet she took up permanent residence in his mind.

--------

Eren didn’t worship.

His family never said grace at the dinner table. His father never encouraged him to pray. He watched his mother kneel at the foot of the bed every night, mumbling incoherent sentiments that he could never quite understand. Forgiveness for what? For being alive? For having a heart? For being human?

Eren didn’t worship.

His father spent every day healing sick people. Drafting and creating remedies to ease the mind and soul, concocting spirits to quench the ill. His father documented everything, watched the good die young and the evil live forever. Witnessed the good die with nothing, the devils survive with pride. His father healed who he could, and solemnly packed up his things and alerted the family when it was too late. His father was no god.

Eren didn’t worship.

His friend lived in poverty. Starved for mere bread and water. Had pennies to his name. His friend was kind. Yet adults paid his family no heed, gave him no help. His friend became weak. His friend stopped praying. You can’t eat prayers. The two of them watched the town council eat meals prepped for the gods. But they can.

Eren didn’t worship.

Eren watched countless people die. People he knew, people he didn’t. People his father tried to help, people he didn’t. Eren watched people starve, watched them succumb to illness, watched them fall to their own greed, or to their own demise. Eren didn’t understand who was chosen to live or die, who was allowed to eat and who wasn’t.

Eren didn’t worship.

He remembered learning about their ancestry. The sins they’ve committed, the atrocities from which they’d long since moved on. He remembered hearing folks blaming the history for their status, for their hunger. He remembered listening to the woes and prayers of the hungry, of the poor. Who is but more deserving of love than those who have nothing?

Eren didn’t worship.

He watched their hymns go answered. Watched their songs go ignored. He didn’t believe. His father didn’t believe. He hoped an afterlife existed for their souls peace, but he doubted its existence. He hoped for one who heard their cries, their stomachs be full in another world, but he couldn’t bring himself to believe.

He had a heart before he had a mind. He had seen suffering before he’d seen joy. He never saw God walking the streets. He never saw God healing the sick.

Eren didn’t worship.

Yet now he found himself on his knees, hands clasped for a woman he hardly knows. A woman who remembered, a woman who heard, a woman who was kind.

Yet he found who would save him. Yet he prayed to her to save him. He’d found a goddess who walked among them. He’d found a saving grace.

--------

Eren attended church every Sunday afterwards. Sat in the back and paid exclusive attention to the woman who stood by the side of the altar. He watched her carefully, imprinted each movement into his memory. He noted her confidence. He noted her humility. He noted the softness in her tone as she spoke, the honor in her throat as she breathed.

His prayers were simple, for the goddess she was. May she be impressed. May she be inspired. May she be taken by a simple man with little to offer. May she be happy. May she be healthy. May she be proud.

He approached her last every time, once the pews had cleared and the only people left were them and the Reverend. He spoke about the service, about her role. He asked about her life, her interests, her dreams.

Eren was taken with the way her eyes lit like constellations, the way her smile extended with each conversation, the way she didn't shy away from his presence, the way she inquired about him as he did her.

--------

Today, they were alone at the altar. The pews had emptied out. The Reverend had a house call, an ill person. The Goddess stayed behind, with him.

The natural light was beginning to wane. Their shadows flickered with the candles still lit from the service. She smiled as he approached her, the pleasant expected end to her day.

Today she asked. A question that had been burning into her mind since after the first service he'd stayed to chat. A question built by bricks of intuition and feelings burning deep in her chest. A question scarred by the flames of emotions she felt boiling inside when she was with him.

They had been in conversation. She changed the subject. "Do you believe in fate, Eren?"

His head tilted, the confusion read clearly in his expression. "What?" She didn't blame him, of course. She'd just changed the subject with no relation, no explanation.

Despite all their conversations, not many were about Eren's beliefs and convictions. She knew awfully little about his senses and his thoughts. "Do you believe in soulmates? In fate?" But she'd been burning to know. "That we were destined to meet?"

Candle after candle, wax melted into an answer. "No, we are not soulmates," he answered simply. A slow response that holstered into her heart--Did it stop beating? Perhaps, momentarily. The burning turned twisted and sour, allowing early scars to form.

Yet he took a step forward, used his hands to block her in at her sides. Her back to the altar. He arched his neck, so he was looking directly into her eyes. His face only centimeters apart.

"This--" He gestured between their chests with a thumb and a pointer, left the pointer to rest on her sternum. He could feel the rise and fall of her chest with each stunted breath. "--is not divine intervention." He leaned closer. "And this is most certainly not chance."

She leaned against the altar, and his other hand rose to her thigh. A gentle gesture, a cool hand barely touching hot skin. The corner of his mouth twitched into a smile.

"I prayed for this." Each word was intentional, direct. And his attention split between her eyes and lips. The breath stilled in her chest, the air stagnant in her lungs as she slowed to process. "I willed this."

His hand rose to the apex of her thigh. The bright red blush easily took over her pale cheeks, her lips agape as she desperately inhaled. "Eren," she gasped, her voice almost unrecognizable.

His face remained serious, his tone steady. Both hands fell to her thighs, and he slowly bent down to his knees. His hands wrapped around the circumference of her extremities, grasping at the flesh and raising the fabric.

Eren looked up at her from his knees, kept his hold on her legs. "I knit the red threads myself until they spelled out your name."

She whined, uncharacteristic and primal and deep. An unsettling itch resided deep in her pelvis, pulsating with each heavy heart beat under his intense, undivided attention.

Her legs tingled under his touch. Goosebumps formed. Nerves fired and fizzled, sent shivers up her spine and back down to culminate at the apex of her pelvis, right above the most sensitive, seldom explored bud of her body.

Hot blood pulsed through her arteries, warmed her skin and muscles until her bones were burning, until her skin was flushed and pink all over. She felt hotter with each passing second, with each subsequent blink and breath under his adoration.

Mikasa couldn’t bear the intensity anymore, put her hand over his eyes and pushed his head slightly lower. Eren closed his eyes, felt blessed by an angel, prompted by a queen, as her unspoken approval washed over him, felt a smile overtake his face.

One hand fluttered down her leg, grasped at her ankle underneath her dark skirt fabric. He looked up at her anyway, stared at the palm of her hand and saw her flushed embarrassment through cracks of her fingers.

“May I?” the pads of his fingers played at the thin skin of her ankle. She covered her mouth with her free hand, loosely hid the gasp and closed her eyes at the touch. The shiver ran up her spine like a sprint, and her whole body reacted.

“E-Eren,” she whined quietly. She shuddered again.

“Mikasa,” he returned, with a gentle stroke on her skin, rose his hand to brace her calf. “Please, my love, allow me to worship you.”

She squealed and swooned, found herself leaning heavily into the altar table. She nodded frantically, forgetting her hand covered his sight and he desperately needed her verbal command. But he watched through the cracks between her fingers, felt each shiver as his hand slid farther up her calf under the skirt fabric.

Goosebumps followed his trail. His second hand followed the first, glided down her thigh to her calf and slipped under her skirt.

He raised the fabric, slipped his head underneath. His hands caressed the inside of her thighs, his thumbs pressing lightly in circles into the flesh. Mikasa whined softly, gasped untouched as she glanced down and saw the bump of his head under fabric.

Her vision tunneled, focused solely on the feeling of his hands on her. The hot blood pulsed between her legs, right where she could feel Eren’s warm breath against spots she couldn’t name.

She whined at the sound of Eren’s muffled mumbling, felt each word and between breath press against the sponge of her thighs. “Oh, my Goddess who art before me…”

Her heart raced. Her vessels dilated. She felt her chest heaving for desperate breaths as his lips touched to her upper thigh, pressed lingering kisses between every chant.

Her hips bucked sharply at the foreign feeling of lips at her crotch. His tongue lapped out, tentatively at first, as he listened to the myriad of sounds falling from an angel’s lips. He developed into an intoxicating rhythm, where one of her hands clawed at his arm under the fabric and the other covered her mouth.

Mikasa’s face was bright red, flushed with a needy embarrassment unlike anything she’d ever experienced. Her body felt hot. Warm blood pulsed to her fingers and toes, travelled back to her spine with millions of firing nerves that numbed her brain in waves. Beads of sweat formed along her hairline. She couldn’t form words, only incoherent noises and moans that were indecipherable by the gods who overlooked.

Each formidable lick and taunting kiss and teasing love bite to the sensitive skin summed to an acute overwhelming sensation that caused hers legs to tremble and her vision to blur. Her hands collapsed behind her, kept her supported on the altar while Eren buried deeper between her shaking legs.

He was searching for something. Untouched. Holy.

“Oh, m-my—E-Eren!” Her legs cinched together, collapsed in on his head and inadvertently pulled him closer.

Eren mumbled something in response, she knew he did. She couldn’t hear him over the roaring in her ears—no, she could feel each movement of his mouth against the licked-raw nerves, feel it culminate in hardened hearing, blurred vision, shivers down her spine.

The feeling was building, unbearable. She felt weak, occupied, trying to inch away but his hands kept her in position. Her legs cinched tighter, the pressure was building against his head. He smiled wide, biting softly into her thigh to give her a false sense of relief before continuing to lick her senseless.

The acute sensation overwhelming. She was overstimulated. Eren replaced his lips with two fingers, rubbed and touched at her wet clit as he stood upright and pressed his nose on her neck, just under her ear.

He spoke to her calmly, not that she could really process what he was saying, as he coaxed her to climax. Pressed soft kisses and breaths that were cooler than her skin to her neck until she was shaking and shivering and tugging him closer and calling his name.

Her hand swiped down, swatted his hand away as she panted heavily. Her chest was heaving to catch her breath. Eren fixated on her, his eyes scanning over her red face. His smirk was genuine. She was an angel. Sweaty with a halo, breathing life into the world. Yet he gave her heaven. He gave her euphoria.

He left his hand on her inner thigh, still wet from sweat and pleasure. Her skirt fanned over his hand’s position while the other clasped around her neck. Eren leaned forward, until his bulging crotch was pushed into her wet thighs and she hissed pleasantly from the pressure.

Eren kept his nose pressed to her neck, smiling. The relief washed over her as the normalcy set back in, mixed with tinges of sorrow and regret. Sorrow because it was over—she wanted more, so much more. The pleasurable heat and tingling up her spine was more addictive than God. Regret because she wanted more, so, so much more. She shouldn’t want more.

Greed was the sin in her father’s sermons. Greed and pride were all consuming, filled you with unending desire and unfulfilling need. She’s felt it all now, all the greedy pleasure in the world at the cause of a lover. How will it ever be enough?

“I can make you feel God again,” Eren murmured against her skin, littered with light kisses, reminiscent of those that lingered on her thighs and clit. His hand rose to her clit again, something newly familiar that he already loved, tickled the skin gently. She shivered, held a momentary breath. “Or at least call out his name.”

Mikasa shivered and whimpered. The desire was devolving into need—a haughty desperate need. The devil was calling her name. She was answering.

“Oh, Eren,” she moaned breathlessly, wrapped her arms around his neck and tugged him ever so closer.

Eren kissed up her jaw, stopped above her lips. “Oh, my love, I’m no God,” he cooed with another lingering kiss to her cheek. “But with one word, I will help you feel heaven.”

She bent her head back, bared her neck with a light moan as she considered his words carefully. He kissed along her neck, let one hand fall along her spine and pressed into her lower back. He nipped lightly at the skin, relished in her light moans.

Her hands clasped on his cheeks, forced him to stare into her eyes, clouded with an intensity and a fog he’s never seen. Her eyes scanned his face, looked deeper than his eyes—his soul. “You say ‘my love,’ do you mean it?”

She was searching for something. Remarkable. Real.

He nodded repeatedly despite her grip. “Yes,” he answered simply, “You saved me.” His voice was quiet, like if he spoke too loud, someone would hear, and it wouldn’t be real. “I love you, Mikasa. I love you with every bit of consciousness I was born with.”

Her next question was rapid, still searching. “Do you believe in God?” She forgot her place on the altar, the blasphemy between her legs as her pulse heightened, as she felt the hot waves of blood pool between her thighs.

“I believe in angels.” He paused, maintaining eye contact. “I believe in a Goddess.” He started to lean forward, but pulled back, like he was denying the magnetic and supernatural forces between their mouths. He whispered the rest, like it were reserved for only her ears, “I believe in you.”

She glanced into his eyes briefly, found what she was searching for, then pulled him in. Let his lips collide against hers. She was hesitant, unsure and unsuspecting, and she let him hold her neck tighter as he kissed her deeper.

One hand slid from her back to her thigh, slowly felt every vertebra to the bump of her bum to the flesh of her thigh. He squeezed her thigh and she hummed into his mouth. She felt his fingers near her crotch, the excitement and adrenaline reared in her gut at the notion of repeating events prior.

He removed his hand from her neck but kept his mouth to hers, repeatedly kissing her lips as he multitasked: one hand tickling up her thigh, the other unbuttoning his pants.

Eren’s fingers found her vagina, slipped into the opening and released a sudden gasp at the unexpected move. He felt around, gently slid two fingers in and out and poked around at her warm insides as she tightened her hold on his cheeks and kept their lips interlocked.

He shuffled his trousers lower until his cock was freed from the confines, moaned into her mouth at the friction. He kept his fingers inside of her, exploring her soft insides as his tongue slipped into her mouth, kissing and fingering her simultaneously, relentlessly.

Mikasa moaned into his mouth as the pleasure started building, her legs spread and already reliving the muscle tremble in her thighs as his fingers picked up pace. The blood was pounding through her veins, pulsating through her arteries, roaring in her ears.

She whined as he removed his fingers and brought them to her thighs, tugged her even closer until his hard cock was touching her wet cunt. He used one hand to slick it in her fluid, moaning into her neck as the motion triggered waves of pleasure through his body.

Mikasa was already panting from the fingering, already pink and flushed with eyes struggling to focus on the man she’d been dreaming of. “Pl-Please, Eren,” she begged, desperate to relive the pleasure, desperate for him.

“I will never deny my Goddess,” he responded, followed with a long kiss as he pressed his cock between her labia. He pushed deeper, breathed in each gasp she released as his hard cock filled the gap inside.

His hands slipped to her hips as the shaft disappeared inside. He held her tightly, breathing shallowly as the contraction of her walls around him overwhelmed his nerves, stimulated every nerve ending and set fire to his spine.

Eren needed a minute, to process the firing and catch his breath. He leaned his forehead against her clavicle, breathed heavily and moaned when she shifted her hips. Initially she shifted for comfort, to adjust to the pressing weight inside, but the sensation was too pleasurable to ignore as it sent up her spine and her brainstem reacted by reflexively shifting her hips again, wiggling against him.

The altar table shifted unstable, the candle holders shuddered as she rubbed her hips against his. Eren stood in awe at her bold maneuvers, closed his eyes and let her continue to unknowingly pleasure herself on him.

“Eren… Move,” she whined, clawing into his arms, giving into the greed and desire for more, developing beyond a simple want—morphing into a need for more. A lifeline.

But who was Eren to deny a Goddess’ demands?

He shifted back slightly, then pushed inwards. The drag of his cock evoking a light moan from them both, a hymn more harmonious than that during service.

He rocked his hips, dug his fingers into her hipbones as he sped up, thrusted harder and deeper with each movement. Mikasa’s mouth was agape, sharp breaths pushed out from her lungs with each shove of his cock inside.

Eren’s eyes squeezed shut, but the image of her was imprinted beyond his eyes, embedded into his memory. The visual, combined with the instantaneous rush of fiery pleasure from each drag was sending him to his edge, and he was fighting, fighting, fighting to stay together when he was coming undone.

His mind was blank, nothing more than the undeniable, innate need to keep shoving in and out of the woman he loved, to please her beyond himself. But her pleasure wasn’t enough, he needed more from her, needed her to beg and pant for relief. His finger crept back to her naval, slid down to her clit—she gasped loudly, inhaled sharply.

He played with her clit as he thrusted in and out, watched as her eyes clouded over and slipped closed, watched her mouth part open and heard loud ahh’s and moans slip out. Wanting. Needy.

Her blood was boiling more with each thrust, pulsating harder against the walls of her vessels like they must burst with each flick of his finger. Bundles of nerves fired simultaneously, spread to the rest of her body rapidly like a wildfire in dry brush, like a flash of lightning in a wet storm.

Eren’s movements were sloppier, becoming messier and more deluded with each incoming motion. His arms were stinging from where her nails dug in, but he couldn’t feel it yet—too fixed on where their bodies joined in blissful union, on where his base was starting to achingly throb and risked release into her warm and inviting body.

Their mouths rejoiced and rejoined in a last kiss as their bodies trembled in unison, spines shivered with bolts of pleasure never felt so intensely until now.

The acute stimulation was overwhelming. The onset was rapid and severe. A tsunami wave of overstimulation goosebumped and sweated into her skin. She wanted to call out for him to halt and yet keep going, but her voice was shot with endless rasps and moans as the unholy feeling erupted within her soul.

This—was familiar. This rapid buildup, this immense emotion turmoiling within, this indecipherable and indescribable and indiscernible pleasure beyond the word of God. She’d felt it before—only moments ago. It was familiar. It was all she wanted.

Her toes curled, his fingers clenched into his skin. She kissed him hard, pulled him closer until there was no space between their bodies. Her mind wasn’t blank this time—no, it was reeling. With millions of thoughts felt for merely microseconds before the next one began, about their fleeting time together, about his ability to make her feel so, about the happiness felt from climax and the budding desire to feel it again after despite it not even being over. About the unrelenting, unforgettable, unregretable event that she would inevitably think back on, look forward to the next one. A joyous union between two bare souls, two craving bodies.

She couldn’t hear his moans over the deathly fuzz in her ears. She couldn’t see with how her eyes cinched shut. She wrapped her shaking thighs around his hips and collapsed him closer. She climaxed, shaky and wet and moaning, pulling him tighter and pushing him away. She called to him, like he were far away and couldn’t hear her, like she were summoning him infinitely closer.

And Eren caved—he came, embedded deep inside her. Filling her with his seed and collapsing into her body.

He kissed her intently, with every fiber of his being and every emotion swelling in his heart. “I love you,” he whispered between intentional kisses, her face collected in his hands, “I will worship you forever.” She whined, high-pitched and heady and nigh.

“I believe you,” she returned softly, voice hoarse and used and fulfilled. Satiated, in a way she never knew. Satisfied, because she’d found what she’d been searching for. To know he exists—with utmost certainty. “I’ve been looking for you.”

“You will have me forever.” He smiled gently, kissed her softly. Addicted to the taste of her skin, salty with a halo of sweat. They stayed in place, unmoving like time was frozen, like if they hadn’t moved, they’d stay together forever, preserved in pleasurable, everlasting peace. “Lest we forget.”

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ejkreader · 29 days ago

Text

My work for day six of @azrisweek , Safe for work

I was not prepared for this one because I didn't know where I was going 😭 so I speedran this today and ended up with this 7k pile of words called Autumn's Blood ;)

My first ~kinda~ attempt at writing smut. But it's at the end because the lore and backstory took over. Hope you like that!

Also idk if I should put a mild warning for gore, but I did write the scene where Az's hands get burnt. So might as well ^^

The entire thing below the cut if you're not a registered user on Ao3 (warning- it took off all the italics though, because Tumblr hates my soul)

The shadows loved to listen.

Laying in the corners of alleys, hiding under the hair of Others, and swishing through the ramparts of houses- there were so many places they could go. Everywhere, really.

Ever since the world came ablaze with its horrible, striking beauty, endowed with boundless traits from the metal bowl that had given it life, they could sense.

Of course, they knew they had been somewhere before that, they thought- perhaps in a state where they had simply Been. That was how most of them still were, after all. Always there, as long as the light wasn’t reaching them.

But we can go in the light!

Yes, yes we can!

So fun!

The light is so nice and warm!

But the dark is nice too-

Yes! So quiet and cool!

We love the dark!

Especially when he meets the light.

So pretty… so nice…

It interested them: How different the light was from their usual quiet habitude in the night, how it warmed them and acted like the half of themselves that they’d been split from long ago.

They always carried a gem of curiosity with them that drove all their actions, no matter what happened. The shadows were a mite like children in that way, always wanting more information with unabated curiosity, never tiring or growing weary of learning.

So, ever since the world had been Made, the shadows had took, and took, and took. Every noise that had hit them, every vibrato and shift in the air that could make sound, they took into themselves, to have at their beck and call. And slowly, as the centuries went by, they learned how to move the air too. They could make a voice for themselves, speak words they hadn’t heard their other speak.

Still, they never really had a voice they could call their own. No ripple in time could capture all that they had seen without eyes, felt without nerves, heard without ears. When they had tried, so excited in the way that only a being not meant to have emotions could be, to have their first Other hear them at last, she had screamed for a long time, then laid still on the ground she had fallen onto.

Dead, they observed, gone. Sad. Why? Did we do it? Was it us? Why did she leave?

They discovered, through trial and error, that it was easier— no, safer, to capture the voice of the one they preferred, the Other they stayed with. They understood. She had left them because they had talked to her. The countless other bodies littering the path to that conclusion led them to never try doing it again.

In their own way, they felt the deaths they’d caused, formed morals that led them to form a pact. It was simple: they wouldn’t try it again, and they would help the Others so they wouldn’t have to feel like they did. The shadows took another step towards becoming ‘alive’.

Then again, they could never truly be alive as all others were or weren’t. Shadows had no concept of death, never having experienced it themselves.

But then, they started to disappear. Slowly, some of their voices grew weaker, the vibrations they created fading, no longer able to solidify or touch. Then they left. Not completely, their empty husks still laid scattered around the planet, but now they did not talk, move, nor hear. They were. Not as they once had been, now they just were. Unable to touch the light, to reach for their redemption. Soon, almost all shadows became shells of the one that had once scattered Prythian, the magic from their soulless husks enriching the land and giving powers to the Others. Through the years, they grew to understand death in their own way; when a being changed so much, there was no way of going back.

Before, the world had only been filled with light. Pure, flawless, undiluted light. Now, no matter where you turn, there will be darkness. You can even find it inside yourself. The shadows wished they had been able to keep their darkness from everyone for, though it gave powers to some, to others it only gave suffering.

They missed their dead friends. Though they could not cry, they grieved every body they found, the echoes of wails reaching villages and towns, who turned their mournful misery into folktales to be passed down the ages. As millenia passed, the shadows that were left banded together, no longer able to lament their fallen kin at every passing, for if they did, they would do nothing else. The bodies piled the streets, forests, all corners of the world. There was no sound left to express their sorrow.

And so they collected, hoping that one day, they’d be able to find the sound to represent their ache.

… ... ... ... … …

Can you hear it?

Pretty sounds

Sad sounds

Over there

Should we go?

Maybe…

He hurts

Our hurt?

—no, —

He wants to fly, to be warm

We want to help

Help him—

We will help

They went, and it didn’t take any time at all, because they were already there, even though they hadn’t been. A small boy lay curled into the floor, surrounded by the darkness. He was shaking. Sobs, almost silent but forcing themselves through his mouth, pulled themselves from his lungs into the bleak, desolate room. Leathery wings, weak and malnourished, curled around him. Bones showed through, ridges sharp and pointy. His ribs could easily be counted. His curly black hair was thin and long, left to grow unevenly. He was encased by cold brick and metal on all sides; a bird caged by the world.

The shadows curled close to his ears, not fully corporeal so he wouldn’t be scared off by their touch. Their voices overlapped, as they always did, when they tried to talk to this Other.

Shivering

Cold

Awake—

Alone

Help?

Yes

Hello!

Hi!

Nice to meet you

How are you doing?

— you okay?

Do you — help?

Why are you crying?

— alone?

Shush, we don’t know his name

Yes! What is—

What is your name?

The boy’s noises stopped with a last hiccup when the wave of chatter finally filtered into his brain, the singultus louder than any of his muffled cries had been.

“Who… who’s here?” His voice was raspy, deep, pulled from the darkest reaches of the planet. It was the voice of someone who had been deprived of all the good the world had to offer, who had lived through horrors which had caused many a man to die. He was a boy born and raised among the carcasses of the fallen umbras. Even though he had a mere eight years to his life’s name, he had scars and still-open wounds littering his body like graffiti. And yet, he still retained the will to live so he could see the one source of hope in his life. His mother.

The shadows saw. This Other hurt, not like them, but in a way different than many other fae they’d seen. The world had been nothing but cruel to him. It had sunk into his marrow, tainted his soul, and he would never be fully purged. It was a sort of death, the one where he could heal but never fully come into the sun, because he’d burn alive. They adopted a voice he didn’t know, one of another boy they’d met a while ago, and had left them not long after.

We’re here!

Us!

All of us

To help—

We came for you

We’re here ——

You were crying

Hurt

You’re hurting

We can help!

Yes — help!

“You still haven’t told me who you are… and how many of you there are?”

We’re us!

Of course we’re us, he’s asking what we are, stupid

Oh, yes!

Some call us shadows

Magic

Odd—

We don’t know

You can call us shadows, because ———— we turn into

But we’re just… us

Existing

Here

Oh, how many?

… Do you know?

No, I —. You?

Less

Yes, we are less —– before

— more than one

We are many

We are—

“Okay, stop, I can’t understand when you all speak like that, all at once,” he muttered. They stilled around him, shushing each other in their excitement to hear him speak. “You say that you’re shadows?” The child had managed to find the strength in him to sit up against the wall as he listened to the foreign entity.

Yes! Shadows!

Shadows—

From darkness! Like you!

—— your name?

He harnessed the question before their bantering got out of hand again. “My name? My mom calls me Azriel. My father and brothers say I’m not worth enough to have a last name… so I’m just Azriel.” He frowned slightly, thinking if there was more to say, then decided the topic wasn’t worth expounding on.

The shadows tittered, swirling excitedly around him, creating slight breezes that he could feel, though he couldn’t see them. Azriel tried to smile as he batted at the forms he was blind to, but his lips cracked and bled, so he stopped.

Ooooh

Pretty

Very pretty

Azriel

Az-ri-el

They tasted the name, vibrating with vim. It was beautiful, one of their favorites, they decided. Two letters so far apart, brung together, a word to capture the death that hung over him.

Some of the shadows plunged on with the conversation.

What were you doing?

She ——— strong name

–– from crying

Pretty sound

We liked

But you were sad

Why —— here?

Brothers?

Father?

Family?

“I was praying to the Mother. Do you know who she is?” He was open, unflinching at the new disruption in his life. Azriel and the shadows shared a primal nature: curiosity. And a deep, longing need for someone who understood them, was the same as them. Still a child, no matter what he’d endured, wanting someone to talk to. Needing it, more like. If these shadows would talk to him, who was he to complain? Azriel was happy, now, here in his dungeon cell.

It was a fickle feeling; happiness.

“Do you want to be my friends?”

The shadows stilled, and Azriel thought he’d done something wrong. He started shrinking into himself, until;

Friend?

Yes, we know who the Mother is—

We want to be your—

Why pray when you are an angel?

He is not –angel, ———– Azrael

The Mother is nice

—– he has wings!

Friend

We like ––

We––— friends!

Your friends

Our frie—

Azriel

Azriel let out a sound that might’ve been considered a laugh in a mental facility. It echoed in the chamber, reverberating and multiplying. “Woah, that’s a lot of stuff. Who’s Azrael— Don’t answer that, actually. I’m happy you want to be friends. You’re my first ones!” And though red, salty blood trickled down his chin while he did it, he smiled wide.

Yay!

Your first friends?

Nobody — asked to be friends before

You’re bleeding—

It’s cold

Others usually ———–– spy

Can we help you?

––——– our first friends too

We’re friends, so we can help!

Yes, we want to ——–

What — you want?

Do you want to leave?

“I’m your first friend too?” More liquid trickled from his mouth as he continued beaming. It didn’t seem like Azriel noticed the pain, or perhaps he was so joyful that he chose to ignore it. “That’s nice! I don’t know how you can help, because my brothers will—”

Thud. Thudthud. “This’ll be fun.” Thud. Bang, “Ow! Fucking hell, Halond…” Thud. thud.

Azriel froze, a cat caught with its paws in the treats. “Oh fuck,” he stammered, scrambling back into a fetal position, voice dropping into a low, thin warble, “They’re here. They must’ve heard me, somehow.” His voice was raising, warbling, shrinking. “Shadows, you should go, now, they might hurt you—”

“Hey! Bastard child! Who’re you talking to down here? Finally lost your mind?” Azriel didn’t answer, trying to pretend that he’d been asleep, hoping that his new friends had gone away so his brothers wouldn’t get them. He clenched his teeth tightly so not a sound could take flight. Even though they were shadows, he knew that his kin’s cruelty stretched far beyond what he could even imagine. Perhaps they’d find a way to capture darkness itself to take away yet another of Azriel’s comforts.

One of the brothers, Krain, if Azriel went off the sound of his voice, shouted into his coop. “Hey! I know you’re not asleep, we ‘eard you laughing. Now answer me if you know what’s good for you!” He stayed still, trying not to provoke him. Azriel knew from experience that if he raised his head, or even uttered a sound, anything they were planning on putting him through would be ten times worse than it already was.

Keys jangled in the lock, and the small door to his room opened with a bang. His half-brothers came in, one carrying a sack on his back full of Cauldron knew what. Shutting his eyes, Azriel decided to keep them closed. Maybe he’d be able to convince them that he actually was asleep. They didn’t seem to like playing with him as much when he didn’t respond.

“Didn’t you hear him? Unless you wanna get your wings ripped off, get the fuck up and do what he says!” Never mind. Azriel sat up instantly, containing the groan of pain that nearly escaped at the sudden use of his muscles. The threat was well-placed, one he instinctively responded to. However, he kept his eyes closed, deciding that he might as well, because it was so dark that the two siblings wouldn’t be able to tell, their eyes unadjusted to the absolute inky blackness.

He took precious seconds to respond, trying to formulate an answer that would appease them. They watched, waiting, deciding his fate. “I— I was talking to myself. Nobody’s here apart from me.” His heart thrummed at the lie, but he hoped that reassuring them had assuaged their reason for coming down to visit him. Maybe, just maybe, if he was good enough, they’d go back up and leave him alone.

He was rarely that lucky.

A step step step and a small woosh of air was the only portent of the kick to Azriel’s chest, which sent him flying back two feet into the slab wall with a miniscule oof.

Azriel wasn’t crying yet. He didn’t cry. He wasn’t going to.

That didn’t stop it hurting. It never did.

At least his friends had left. They probably wouldn’t come back, either. That was usually what happened with anything that gave him hope. His family came in just as he spread his wings, and they showed him the steel bars all around him. He was happy for the shadows. They could leave. He couldn’t.

“So he has gone crazy, Halond. Do you still think he’ll be a good… subject?”

“He should be. Doesn’t matter if you’re crazy or not, you can still burn.”

Azriel shook at the words, at what they implied, but didn’t open his eyes— until, through his eyelids, he glimpsed a yellow light. Then, he simply had to crack open his lids, the need to know what they were planning to do to him winning over. A sliver of brightness tugged at his pupils, his eyes hurting as he stared straight at the flickering flame. His back hurt where he had hit the wall, stomach caving in from hunger, and yet this natural element placed more terror and hopelessness into him than anything else had as he continued watching it tremble and flicker.

Perhaps something in him knew what was about to happen.

“Dear brother,” Harlond spit the word out as if it were a vile curse, taking a step towards Azriel, as the light provided by the torch Harlod held irradiated his brother putting the satchel on the cold floor. “Today, Krain and I thought of something… fun. We made up another of the games we like to play with you. Do you want to play?”

Azriel knew what they were doing. They were giving him a choice-not-choice, where there was only one good answer and all else let to moot. He hated it. Why didn’t they just tell him what they wanted? It would be so much simpler to just get it over with. What should he say?

But Azriel took too long to respond.

With another huge stride, Harlond got right in front of Azriel and grabbed his throat, picking him up with the one hand, raising them until they were eye to eye. Azriel was so thin that it took the healthy Illyrian no effort at all. The blood that covered his chin from the time he had held that foxy emotion, joy, the amber liquid had dried all over his face, cracking.

When the first slap to his face came, Azriel was comforted by the thought that he was protecting his mother by being here, protecting his new shadows.

“Let's give him something to laugh about, Krain.”

His screams finally registered when both his hands were alight. First it had been cool, the liquid both dousing his mind and sparking his fear. When they had taken the burning stick of wood to his fingers and they had caught, that was when Azriel had well and truly gone.

It hadn’t hurt at first. Even as he saw the colors dancing across his palms, Azriel relaxed. Later, he figured out that the real pain came after the initial stab. It came when they kept the torch to his hands, his arm, trying to egg him on, to elicit a response. They got one soon enough.

The searing heat stabbed into him, a cattle prong to his axons, first sparking in his hands, then seemingly pushing in through every crack in his skin. The pain puppeteered him, making a mockery of his body as it flung him side to side, squeezing his throat until his vocal chords quavered. It went on and on, forging itself deeper into him, coming from all angles and sides until it wasn’t just his hands burning, but his arms, his lungs, his legs, everywhere. His throat felt as if it would give out, the strings in it splintering and snapping as he kept on screaming, shrieking, shouting. It wasn’t comprehensible; it was an intrinsic response to the call of the fire, the screeching, tearing sound in his ear that was merely another step in his fracturing.

A horrid smell filled the room, rancid eggs and bile and sourness and moldy meat, but Azriel didn’t know. He couldn’t register any of his senses, apart from touch. Yet the pain dulled quickly, surely snuffing out the nerves in his hands. The blood, more than had been on his skin previously, began to bubble out of the places where the heat had sunk deep enough. Azriel’s strings snapped, and the marionette fell.

The only reason it stopped was a guard had heard his wailing, took his time ambling down, and made the brothers put out their fire.

He did it because the smell was terrible.

By this point, any normal child might’ve been unconscious. Begging to be let out. Sobbing because of how unfair the situation was.

Azriel cried silently on the floor as a pail of freezing water was placed in his cell, pieces of snow still floating around in it, and a few mismatched bandages were thrown in. It was much kinder than they usually were after Harlond and Krain subjected Azriel to their experiments. But he didn’t have the energy, or the will, to move to get them, to help himself.

We’re back

His head snapped up, but he couldn’t stop the tears from running down his cheeks, the small sobs that escaped as he tried to get enough air in his lungs to warn them, tell them to stay away like they’d done just now—

We’re staying

We will help

Help you

Sad sounds so pretty

We’re friends

Friends help

No more crying

No more hurt

Sad sounds hurt you

We’ll help you

We shouldn’t have gone

Won’t leave

Ours

You are ours

Shadowsinger

… … … … … …

It was unnerving, to be comforted by the sight of nothing on all sides, being shackled up to one of those invisible walls while being denied any sustenance. The cruel lashings of the whip he could deal with, for this, he knew; this was a blade he had spent years learning the sharp edges of, and could no longer fear. His large wings were trapped behind him, flared out and pinned to holes in the wall with miniscule pinpricks. Any shift, any move he attempted to make jostled the needles in him, sending electric shocks into him.

Deep in the High Lord’s mountain, Azriel hung from metal chains that bit at his wrists, no longer able to hear the quiet whisperings of his friends in his ear. The cause of this, he had deduced, was the faebane in the scant, paltry offerings they sometimes threw into his cell. Even though it killed him to be seperated from them, he ate the rations anyways. Before, he might’ve tried to starve himself just for a chance to talk to a friendly voice.

Now… he had Rhys to get back to. Cassian. His family. For them, he could survive. He would survive, alone, as he was so used to doing. He would wonder, every day and night (though he couldn’t distinguish the two) why they gave him enough vittles so he might’ve been able to use his muscles, if they'd then make every move a punishment from the Cauldron.

Thump, thump, thump.

Another person coming down to toss him a crumb and think themselves generous, perhaps, for feeding the shadowsinger of the High Lord, his poor prisoner. Or, perhaps, to flog him. They didn’t distinguish themselves in Azriel’s mind anymore.

Creeeeak. The door right in front of him opened, and Azriel made no effort to upturn his eyes to this new figure. He merely dangled there, static.

“Shadowsinger. Are you ready to do your first job from your High Lord?”

That was how it began. They unchained him, took the honed arrows from his wings, and led him from his oubliette to another, just as bleak, cubicle. They gave him a knife, one directly from the High Lord. Didn’t tell him exactly what they wanted, but Azriel understood when they showed him the half-dead prisoner on the floor.

By the time the nameless face was covered in their own blood, soaking through their clothes and pooling around them, Azriel had three names which meant nothing to him. He wasn’t let out of the room until he killed the fae, knife through the heart. Then he was led back to his cage, but when he went back, they didn’t hook him up again.

Azriel understood. From that day on, he didn’t fight back outwardly. He wielded Truth-teller with sharpening precision, becoming the blade that had once been turned on him. By the time he got his shadows back, he knew what was at stake if he tried to run. Was reminded of it constantly by the nightmares, even if the High Lord no longer hung it over him.

… … … … … …

“Throw him in with the brat.”

Yet again, Azriel was thrown into a dungeon cell, stripped of everything but his shorts. It was becoming boring at this point. After the guard affixed his trammel, he took off Azriel’s blindfold, promptly leaving him in darkness again as he closed the cell door. Azriel was sitting on a thin petticoat, but he didn’t have the energy to put it on him. He sat there after the man left, contemplating life choices. Something shifted beside him.

“An Illyrian? Pray tell, how did you get caught up in my father’s clutches?” Azriel’s head jerked up suddenly to the waves of red hair, tattered garments, and flaming-hot eyes of Eris Vanserra.

“Az— Shadowsinger? Out of all of the bats, I thought you would've been able to fly away from my father the fastest.” Azriel, who had been gaping at Eris whilst he spoke, did not process Eris's words nor answer them. He blurted out the question which was at the forefront of his mind, before he succumbed to the rage which seethed behind it.

“Eris, why the hell are you locked up in Beron's dungeons?” At this, Eris raised a single brow, as if offended by the question.

“I knew you were a brute, but I assumed the infamous Shadowsinger knew all about the enemies of Night’s High Lord. Oh well, you can’t expect much from bast—”

“You’re not answering my question, Eris. Why did Beron put you in the Forest House’s prison?” Azriel wanted an answer, and he’d be damned if he didn’t get one while chained up next to Eris.

The Vanserra stilled, trying to find an optimal solution to his situation. In the end, he decided it was pointless. If the Shadowsinger hadn’t gotten out yet, he had either wanted to be caught, or wasn’t going to be leaving. Since he didn’t see any reasonable motive for getting locked up when it was rumored he could simply lurk in his shadows, it was probably the second. So… why not, honestly?

“My father has had me in his penitentiary because I ‘dared’ to secret my brother out of Autumn, when he and his lover, Jesminda, were caught. Do you know how they fare?” He turned to Azriel, hoping he might have some news on his brother’s status, but found Azriel staring at him with even more horror than had been in his eyes previously, and something akin to pity.

“Your brother is fine, Eris, but if what you're saying is true—” “which it was, obviously,” “— you've been locked in here for three days.” Azriel's mind whirled at the thought, but Eris kept looking straight at him, as if he was unfazed by the revelation. What was going on?

“Yes, and?” Eris was waiting for an answer, as though he hadn't just tipped Azriel's perception of him entirely around.

Currently, in Azriel’s mind, the two images of Eris he’d formed went to war. The one that’d left Mor bleeding and dying on the Autumn Court leaves, that was cruel and cunning and cold, and the new Eris— the one that spent days in Beron’s prisons because he saved his brother from the same fate as his paramour, the Eris that was used to the sanguinary touch of a knife on his skin, days spent alone and fettered.

Azriel was spooked by the latter, scared of how much of himself he saw in that face.

“Why am I here?” He asked the shadows by his ear, the two that had insisted on bringing him here. Beron had put a faebane shackle on his ankle, but the shadows could simply hover over his head, where no faebane reached it. If he wanted to get out, however, he’d need the chains off.

He is hurting. His back is bleeding. He needs food, water. Help.

His voice is pretty. He is pretty. Warm. But his fire is out.

“Why do I need to help? Beron won’t kill the brat, anyways.”

Eris, who seemed to have actually been waiting for an answer, sighed in annoyance and flopped down to lay on the floor peacefully, minding his limbs to make sure they came nowhere near Azriel. He hadn’t seemed to notice the shadows, which peeled themselves off Azriel and fled off to Cauldron-knew-where. Azriel was, yet again, alone.

But he wasn’t completely by himself here, was he?

The time passed, uncounted and unnoticed, and neither Azriel nor Eris made another attempt to initiate conversation. By the time what must’ve been night came, the weather had chilled considerably. It wasn’t nearly as gelid as it’d been in Illyria, but it was still considerably arctic for Autumn. In the barren cell, where small bits of snow fell through the barred window high above. Even Autumn got chillier around wintertime, though never reaching the temperatures of Winter.

Azriel started trembling slightly. He hadn’t felt this cold since the beginning of the war, before he’d accepted the gracious hand of his High Lord. At least Beron hadn’t ordered his wings to be torn off when he’d shown himself to the guards. At least Cassian and Rhysand were out there somewhere, their faces now wisps of memory in his mind. At least—

“Are you shivering, Shadowsinger?” Azriel shook his head slightly. No use using more energy than that, and he stubbornly didn’t want to reply to him. He still didn’t know how to feel about Eris.

A shift, a shuffling approaching being him. Eris scooted the two feet over to him. “Bat, I don’t know how long you plan on staying here, but I do not plan on dying of cold, as I nearly have the past few days. And, as you have taken residence on my coat, you’ll have to excuse me for this.”

Azriel felt Eris’s arms slide around his neck, one hand coming to hold his head and the other gripping his left upper arm. He stayed perfectly still, legs brought up to his chest and head resting on his biceps, as Eris’s head also leaned down to rest on their interconnected arms.

“There.” Eris spoke quieter, yet, because he was closer, it seemed to echo in Azriel’s head. “Now we’ll both be warm.”

At some point, when a light buzz settled around his head and he felt his shadows return to hover in his hair, Azriel wrapped a wing around Eris. To help keep him warm, too.

When both were deeply asleep, the shadows danced around the purest light, from the days when they’d been born, which connected the two males.

Yet another ‘death’.

… … … … … …

“... and then Thesan said that I shouldn’t even be High Lord if I can’t control the Illyrians and stop them from clipping the women’s wings. The audacity! No, it’s not like we spent the entire meeting talking about how I cannot…” His brother’s voice faded in and out of his ears, and Azriel ground his teeth together.

Quiet, Shadowsinger, quiet

Soon we get to hear him again

So soon… so soon

Azriel had already heard about most of what had happened in the meeting through his spies. This gathering with his brother had been established to make plans about their rebuttal to Dawn, but so far, it had mostly been filled with Rhysand spewing about how much he abhorred Thesan, how he was a disgrace to all Fae, et cetera, continuing on. Mindless ramblings. He should’ve called Cassian, Azriel pondered. He’d probably agree with Rhys, at the very least.

He was completely done with Rhys right now. The bond, which of course Rhysand didn’t know about, tugged at his chest, pulling him towards Eris. About halfway through his brother’s soliloquy, a few shadows had detached from his personage, racing off to — he assumed— his mate. He wished he could join them.

Suddenly, the fireling opened his side of the bond.

“What are your shadows doing here? I’m in the middle of a meeting with Kier.”

“Oof, poor princess. I have to deal with Rhys’ tirade about not wanting to actually do his duties as High Lord.”

His voice is so pretty

Can we go yet?

We want to see our pretty

Our light

Fireling

Firebug

We want to go

Another shadow peeled off him and rushed to Eris, and Azriel came to the conclusion that he’d had just about enough of Rhys’s prattling.

“Rhys, feel free to continue this conversation with Cass, but if we’re not going to discuss strategy, I have somewhere I need to be.” He started fading back into his shadows, preparing to leave, but Rhysand stopped short, his eyes seeming to pop out of his head as he swiveled around to glare at Azriel.

“Azriel, do you have a date?” They stared at each other, Azriel’s shadows spitting him back out at his shock. However, he recovered his wits remarkably quickly, he would say, but that was only because he was absolutely sure Rhys didn’t know about Eris.

Speaking of Eris, he needed to stop sending his emotions down the bond. Why on Earth would he be feeling horny whilst talking to the Steward? He tried to slam down his side, but Eris had seemingly propped the bond open. Was that supposed to be possible? Wait, he had to respond to his Rhysand.

“Pray tell, brother, what in the depths of the Cauldron gave you that idea?” Rhysand snorted in reply.

“Brother, in all my years of knowing you, you’ve never had anything urgent outside of the jobs I’ve given you. The only reason I could think of as to why you’re leaving a quite urgent political meeting would be that…” Rhysand's face shifted, reasoning, and Azriel shifted from side to side, his leathers growing uncomfortable. He snatched at the opportunity; Rhys thinking about anything happened once in a blue moon, and while it lasted, Azriel shot down the bond:

“Fireling, what the hell is going on over there?”

… … … … … …

So warm

Burning —

Searing fire

—– won’t see us

Bright fire

See yo– flame

Warm us

Pretty voice

We want

The shadows in Eris’s left ear spoke to him, and he tried to tune them out to hear what someone was asking him. When he finished with them, slipping a scathing remark under the innocent answer, Eris turned his attention back to them.

“Little shadows, I’m in a meeting. I don’t know exactly what you mean, but you’re already not helping by—”

We just want to help

Please?

Let us

Let us help

Burning up

Indeed, Eris did feel much hotter than usual as the shadows spoke to him using Azriel’s voice. It was in a much lower register than usual, indeed, it almost sounded like a low purr in his ear, the voice he only put on when he and Eris were together. What did the infernal beasts think would happen when they spoke to him like that?

We know

We only want to help

Bring the Shadowsinger

Our Singer

Want him here

Together

What you want

A stray shadow twined down, from his ear to the back of his neck, into the collar of his vest. As Atlas began lecturing the council about why Eris couldn’t be trusted, the shadow began running across his front. The touch felt real, though it wasn’t solid enough to ruffle his clothing as it slid around.

Please? For us, Eris

A single shadow’s voice shone through the others, and Eris gave in.

“Fine, do whatever you want.”

Yay!

Thank you

So happy

We will bring him

Now

“Wait, I need to finish my meeting first—”

But the shadows had already set off, a few whooshing off to their master, however, most of the others joined the lone shade in his clothes.

A question called for his attention, and as he grappled for an answer to the query he hadn’t heard, the shadows began their torture.

Two shadows plastered themselves on his chest, mimicking Azriel’s tongue, of all wicked things, laving his pink nipples with their cool, damp exterior. They twisted the nubs, intermittently pressing down then quickly turning themselves back into haze. They ghosted themselves over his muscles, seeming to lick all over, leaving what might’ve been love bites if a living being did it. Another group went down to the sides of his torso, Azriel’s hands appearing there to squeeze his waist. His back arched into it slightly, then he shuddered when the grip tightened. Just like Azriel. They didn’t want him to move.

The rest moved even lower, wrapping his lover’s hand around his length, moving up and down, squeezing at the tip. They worked him all over, crashing over him all at once, just as pleasure began to zing itself throughout him. Some wisps went along the base, twisting and pulling up. Others slipped lower, pressing themselves on his balls, even more slipping innocuously into his hole. Oxygen-rich blood which was normally used in his brain now rushed downwards, pulled by the attention to his dick.

Eris finished answering the ask, quickly throwing up a glamour to shield his scent. As the jabbering resumed, Eris made sure to outwardly look the same as always. His mind was racing, anxious, but he’s coming up empty on what to do. He’d already tried calling for Azriel, but even if he came, he needed to finish this meeting. He could ask the shadows to stop, but,

“Shadows, please, wait until this is over, it won’t be that long.” But nobody answered him. The shadows that had been in his ear, listening to him and replying, had deserted their post, and they either could no longer hear him or did not want to listen. Hell if he knew which, he wasn’t a shadowsinger.

So, what to do, what to do.

There couldn’t be that much more to go over. The main points had already been covered, mostly, and now the fae were simply discussing the formalities. Perhaps he could simply… let them.

He opens his legs, tries to make it look like an action he’d perform under normal circumstances as even more shadows go into him, pushing and rubbing along his walls, sending sparks through him. Eris needed to restrain a moan as they worked him open slowly. The closest Hewn City representatives to his left and right sharply glanced at him, then turned away, dismissing what they’d heard.

And they were still talking, blethering on, as the shades took the liquid that was now leaking from the tip, spreading it and making their glide infinitesimally smoother. His mind was a haze, and if anyone asked him a question now, Eris wasn’t sure he’d be able to think of an answer. The flickering of the umbras on his abused nipples, wet and hot now that they had stolen the heat from his body, and the incessant, rhythmic slurping on his length, it was all too much to try to focus through. When had it gotten so bad?

“Azriel,” he thought, needing to see him, needing him. And as if he summoned the devil by saying his name, he felt a looming presence behind him, the bond coming alive with joy as they came closer than they’d been in days.

“This meeting is over. Your High Lord has sent me with an urgent message for the Prince of Autumn.” The committee of old men jumped at the Shadowsingers voice, heads pivoting wildly to lay eyes on him. When they at last verified who was there, they hastily averted their faces and leapt up, giving nonsensical apologies to thin air. Only Kier stayed exactly where he sat, scrutinizing the Spymaster with a critical eye.

“Shadowsinger,” he spoke in his high quaver, “If the High Lord had information more important than this meeting to impart, then he would’ve come here himself—”

��Neither you nor I know the High Lord’s motives, Kier, and you would do well not to guess at them. Now, if you don’t actually want for him to grace you with his presence, I would suggest leaving.” The Steward slowly stood, never breaking eye contact, then turned abruptly on his heel and swished off, the door creaking closed behind him.

Bang.

“Now, Eris,” Azriel bent down and muttered in his ear as Eris threw up a shield around the room and finally, finally moaned out loud, “Want to tell me why you let my shadows start fucking you in the middle of my conclave with Rhysand?”

Eris panted, taking short breaths as the shadows continued their torment, lapping and tasting and tounging at him from all angles. “I didn’t know what… they would do…” A few of the shadows pushed at his thighs, and Eris gave way easily, letting them have their way with him now that it was only the three of them in the room.

“We’ll talk about this later, then,” Azriel decreed, grabbing an arm of Eris’s steel chair and whipping it around until they were face to face at last.

They grabbed for each other, Azriel stooping slightly to reach Eris’s lips. It was a different battle than the one Cassian was so used to, with a different battlefield and soldiers entirely. Their hearts beat together with their shared arousal as tongues crashed together, messy and wild and unrestrained. Eris allowed his fire to roam freely beneath his skin, warming him until he had to break away from the kiss to pant like a rabid dog, spittle foaming at the edges of his mouth.

They kept going, the voices of the shadows fading to the backs of their minds as Azriel quickly rid Eris of his clothes, and did the same for himself afterwards. Eris and Azriel came together again and again, deep in the mountain, in the darkness, in a room where nothing else lay. It was as inevitable and stunning as an eclipse, as the flow of time passing day after day. And when both lay there afterwards, untroubled for the moment by any difficulties of sorrows as the embrace of the other’s arms kept all else out, the shadows murmured joyfully to each other.

So warm

We did it!

Happy

Our Shadowsinger

Our Prince

Our songbird

Our phoenix

So beautiful

Perfect

Finally

So long

Flawlessly fractured