#Perhaps there was a time when Mohg's hands were gentle...?

[luminaryofblood]

A childhood memory of the Lord of Blood...

The jar-warriors found outside the Church of the Forsaken, where Mohg yet resides in the Shunning-Grounds.

Marika forsook Mohg and Morgott when they were born, for bearing the likeness of the people that slaughtered her own. But they were only children. They were innocent.

The jars of Jarburg themselves kept to themselves. Minding their own business and tending to their gardens of flowers. A new generation of jars. They were innocent. Yet still, they were slaughtered. Whether because their was value in their innards. Or perhaps by some lingering decree.

Jars... And Omens... Both reminders of Marika’s past. And both Mohg and the Jars were punishment for crimes they had not committed.

Anyone else thinking about how in Elden Ring the Jars were all hiding away in a secret village because they were being hunted by poachers for their innards and growing rare flowers, and when we meet Jarbairn he says that we can't be a potentate because we don't have smooth silky hands but instead the hands of a warrior and thats no good for becoming a potentate. And then Diallos quest-line happens and it becomes apparent that he isn't a fighter and takes up being the caretaker of the Jars making it very apparent that a potentate is supposed to be someone who has a gentle heart and is akin to a craftsmen/nurturer of the Jars, which ends in Diallos dying in order to protect them?

And now in SotE the potentates are actually naked giant cleaver wielding butchers who chop people up to stuff them inside of the Jars?

Because I sure am.

Edit: Also you would think that considering the heavy trauma associated with the jars and Marika's stellar track record of genociding everything that she doesn't like, that the jars would have been one of the very first things she would've gotten rid of along with the hornsent/omens.

But no, she keeps them around for some reason.... 🤷

[lostgracestories]

Hiii, I Hope you are doing good ! :D

What do you think morgott’s reaction to soft intimacy/gentle love would be ?

This man has never experienced non judgmental interaction, even less any sort of love outside of mohg, so imagine when he finally allows the tarnished to get close to him.

How he would internally berate himself for being so disgusting and fearing that they would finally realize just how horrific he truly is.

But the little tarnished just stares at him with the biggest, softest Lovestruck eyes. His features are just so beautiful, it’s impossible to look away…

And the way he would melt under their touch…

Raaaaahh driving me crazy !! <333

I am doing well! I hope you are as well!! and oh GOD I love this and as such, ENJOY THIS <3333333 (my loyal pookies, always bringing me the best ingredients <333)

wc: 503 tw: a lil angsty but not a lot, fluff so fluffy you might die

Hesitant Touch

Every time you asked to touch him, Morgott had made sure to consistently remind you that he was a vile creature, born cursed, and that you were already giving him too much by loving him. thus, you began doing it without asking, this way he would not have time to deny you.

The first time you tried gentle intimacy, Morgott had been sitting at his desk in his study. You had approached him, as you always did, except this time you ran your hands carefully up his back and to his shoulders (Which was a reach, but you managed) and gently massaged the tense muscles, Morgott was shocked "Beloved-" He let out a shaky sigh as the tension left his shoulders and he sunk deeper into his chair, tail swishing behind him. "Hush, my King. Just enjoy it" You had said, pressing a gentle kiss to the back of his neck as he closed his eye and for once leaned into your touch.

Although Morgott had enjoyed it in the moment, as he climbed into bed with you that night (You had to beg just to share a room with him), his mind had begun to spiral. He didn't deserve all of this, he had tainted your beautiful lips with his neck, your hands were sullied by his skin and cloak- Morgott's eye closed and you... had noticed.

It was always obvious to tell when Morgott was spiraling by the way he closed his eye and seemed to be in pain. You wasted no time as you cupped his cheeks gently in your hands, his eye flying open and mouth parting to tell you to stop, to not sully yourself further by him, and yet, you hushed him before the words could pass his lips, placing your thumb gently over them to prevent him from speaking "I know what you are thinking, Love. With all of the respect and love in my heart, please, do not wish me away"

Morgott had looked at you with shock, and possibly a little guilt for once again ruining your beautiful features by merely coming into contact with you. However, he'd be a fool if he said he didn't want it. He did. Desperately. "Thou art... sullying thy gentle hands with mine accursed form-" You gently grabbed his lips between your fingers and closed them, a quiet chuckle escaping you at the sight of his wide eye "I am doing no such thing... I am simply loving you, my King... Shall I tell you of how much I adore the dull gold horns above your brow, or the beautiful gold in your eye...? Perhaps I should tell you all that I love about you until sleep takes you away from me..."

After that, you ended up spending half of the night petting his tail, tracing the grooves of his horns, and kissing his face until he finally fell asleep. You knew he could not see himself how you saw him and oh, how you wished he did...

[bloodrosebriars]

@draconic-ichor [cont. x]:

Blood started to seep from the cracks in the stone, moving as if pulsing with it’s own life. The tiny omen was frozen. The whispers about his mind humming almost soothingly as the thought of retreat crossed him.

He’d never heard them so clearly since the very first time they pierced his mind. He’d snuck away, finding his mother’s trident…or he supposed now rightfully his Uncle’s trident. Picking it up with eager hands, a thrill surging through him. But the moment his hands wrapped around its, surprisingly hot, pole something spiked into his mind. Something churning and vast; making his blood boil in his veins. He’d dropped it immediately, the metal clattering on the polished floor.

Now the voice sounded strangely comforting. It curled warmly in his ear until a dark shape started to rise from the crimson.

He’d seen some omens here or there, but never one quite so large. Definitely not one that cast such an imposing shadow. Magnus felt a shiver run through him, fur fluffing up a bit.

He gulped, standing his ground, realizing all at once this creature’s eyes were not tinted gold. His fur was close to the same shade of dark, not the pale silver-grey of his father and siblings. That little bit of his heart that craved acceptance, of understanding, kept his stance firm.

He spoke to him, with a kindness he was most unused to from anyone…save his parents.

The innocence of childhood dulled the fear the little omen should of felt in that moment. Could it be possible, a creature of legend himself, that Mohg was not familiar with the great tales? That possibility was baffling to the little omen, not realizing the question was more to bridge a gap of sorts.

“It’s mighty Greyoll!” The boy announced, holding up the stuffed dragon, “Like…from the stories.”

That small burst of boldness suddenly evaporating, Magnus shrank a bit, clutching the plushy close once more. He gulped, eyes unable to meet the other’s. “I’m M-Magnus.” He murmured, tail wrapping around his legs.

His voice wavered a bit, “But Maddox calls me maggots sometimes…and..,” he felt tears threaten, remembering intently what drew him to this place to begin with, “The people, they c-call me ‘Beast’.” The boy felt his eyes sting all over again, looking down at his feet after finally confessing what poisoned him so tenderly.

Mohg finds himself smiling a bit brighter when his idea to bring up the toy ends up working to get the boy’s boldness to show itself, his frail tone energetic and eager, if only for a few seconds. But oh, that wash of sorrow that eked the Lord from his world of blood soon returns, and though it does not wipe the friendly expression from the Lord’s face, the colour of his eye turns bittersweet in understanding of what the boy’s words imply.

Yes, the cruelty of the world above is something he knows well.

But he tries to keep his temper quelled — keep his voice warm, and his body still. His breathing even. His gaze soft. He is not a stranger to working with children, after all, but it has been quite some time. He hums. “Magnus… what a lovely name,” he says, genuine. “‘Tis a word in our Formless Mother’s tongue — didst thou know this? Indeed, it means, ‘the greatest.’”

He can’t imagine his brother ever spoke of the Formless Mother to his son, except perhaps in warnings. Maybe the name was intentional. Maybe it was just a fantastic happenstance.

He wishes he could ask Morgott in person.

Ah, but this is no time to dwell on his own issues; this moment must be dedicated to little Magnus. He sits comfortably on his heels, as close to eye level as he can get with the small boy. “What a terrible name the one called Maddox calls thee, when the true meaning of thy own name certainly must be the reality, for who else could tame such a mighty dragon than one who is the greatest, hm?” A gentle nod; one of understanding. “Art thou hurt by being called a beast? But why? Beast be merely a word given to creatures of great power, is it not? The dragons and rune bears? The crustaceans and wolves? If this be the title thou’rt given, find strength within it, my child. Thou can be as strong as any dragon, as mighty as any bear. A powerful beast in love and glory, in life and law. What a beautiful thing to be! Thou’rt blessed with great strength, and clearly the others can see it! O, to wear such a title, and at such a young age — ‘tis an honour!”

He doesn’t know if his words are helping. He’s just trying to explain what he wishes he’d known as a child: find strength in all you are.

He pauses, his hands lacing primly in his lap — fighting the urge to place a palm upon the young boy’s shoulder. “What brings thee here, to this mausoleum of blood? Certainly thy father warned thee of the dangers of this place, did he not?”

[cursedfortune]

His fingers ghost over the gauze that concealed her eyes from him. "Tell me. What do you see?" How do I appear to you?

@blccdrose

She humored this. His desire to deprive her of sight. Mortem wondered if it was due to an insecurity, for his own amusement or perhaps something he enjoyed in other ways. The two certainly toed the line with flirting well enough. Whatever the case may be, the witch did not shy away from his fingers as they touched upon her. He may have obscured her vision but she could sense him well enough.

Though, she'd be lying if she said she wasn't putting in trust that he would do her no harm. At least, not in the ways she didn't want to be harmed by him. (Not that he could sincerely even maim her in a way that mattered.)

Mortem leaned into his touch just a bit as she inhaled a soft breath, humming in thought at his question. "I taste... blood in the air." She murmured. Not unusual, given that Varre on his cleanest days still smelled of it. But now she was presented with why - even when his clothes were washed that he smelled so uniquely of blood all the time? Perhaps it was due to being bound to Mohg? An unusual trait, if so.

"Red. Like the blood you seek and love. Like roses. Do the details matter beyond that? You are beautiful to me. You are Varre." Her hands reached out, finding his waist and curling into the fabric in order to pull him a step closer. "Your soul is invaluable and the vessel that gives it sanctuary is one that I wish to adore."

Mortem's hands ascended to rest upon his chest, arms raised from where she was seated, as though she were reaching towards her very own version of god. They stopped there, resting over his very heart as her lips quirked into an affectionate smirk. "This would be a good time to let me kiss you." Though her words have a gentle tease to them there is a difference compared to her usual playfulness. A purpose this time. A sincerity in wishing to express to him her fondness despite having never seen him outside his mask and surgical attire. Proof that it mattered not how he looked, she'd kiss the very soul of him all the same.